Chapter Text
Walking into the bar, the first thing I notice is the Marines.
They’re everywhere.
Which makes sense—this is Shells Town. Home to the 153rd branch of the Marines. Easily one of the worst places I could’ve ended up. I do a quick scan of the exits, then the biggest threats in the room.
…Eh. I could take them if I really had to.
I slide onto a barstool anyway and order a beer, far more relaxed than I probably should be.
This was my last resort. Coming here. To a town crawling with Marines who would capture and enslave me the second they learned what I really am. Who I really am.
But it was unavoidable. Shells Town was the closest place with a map back to the Grand Line after I washed ashore—swept halfway across the sea by a freak current during what was supposed to be a harmless midday nap. It carried me all the way to the East Blue. I’ve never been this far from Siren Cove without my human half-brother at my side.
Most sirens never bother with land-dwellers. I’m different. I’m half human. Spend too long in the water and my body starts to shut down—slowly, quietly, like it’s forgetting how to exist. A fun thing to discover as a small fry. My mother nearly went mad trying to find my father, convinced I was sick because of him. She never did find him. Just my brother.
We eventually learned that balance was the key. Sea and land, split evenly. My brother became my teacher and guardian topside, while my mother made sure I had the best instructors Siren Cove could offer below—training my voice, my control, my power.
The barkeep sets my ale down in front of me. I offer her a small, polite smile.
The first time my shadows surfaced, my instructor didn’t know what to make of them. His own power—like most sirens’—had manifested much later than mine. My mother knew immediately what it meant. By the next tide, my ability was registered in the database. No two sirens share the same power beyond the basics—beauty, scales, voice. We’re easy to identify if someone knows what to look for.
Something heavy thumps onto the bar two stools down, snapping me out of my thoughts.
A sack. Rough cloth. The unmistakable shape of what looks like half a body inside it.
A man with three swords sets it down like it’s nothing—then pulls out the stool right next to me and sits.
“A bottle for me and one for my friend here. He’s had a rough day,” Three Swords says as the barkeep hands me my drink.
His voice is even. Unbothered. Like he isn’t sitting in a bar crawling with Marines.
I size him up from the corner of my eye. Broad shoulders. Relaxed posture. Weight settled evenly, boots planted like he belongs exactly where he is. The kind of balance that doesn’t come from luck or bravado, but repetition. Experience. I could take him—if I wanted to announce myself to every Marine I’ve counted in the room. If things went sideways, distance would be my only real advantage.
I down my drink and slide my hand toward my coin pouch. I’ll pay and leave. Simple. Clean.
He glances my way as I set the empty glass down. His gaze doesn’t linger—just a brief, assessing sweep, up and down, like he’s cataloging a weapon rather than a person. Not leering. Not curious. Just… noting. Then his eyes move on, attention drifting back to the room like I was never there at all.
I start to rise.
The left side of his mouth curves upward.
I freeze.
He’s clocked me.
Either he knows I’m as much of a threat to him as he is to me—or he thinks I’m about to bolt. Skittish. Out of place.
No.
I ease back into my seat instead, forcing myself to relax, to breathe.
I’m not leaving.
No one expects a siren to be anywhere near Marines. Let alone on land. Surprise is still on my side if I need it. I let my hand fall away from my coins, fingers loosening as I start cycling through exits again. Angles. Timing. Clean ways out that don’t involve my voice.
A small movement breaks my focus.
A little girl peeks up at him from beneath the bar. She grins, all gap-toothed confidence, like she’s greeting an old friend. Without waiting for a response, she ducks back down and darts through the kitchen door.
…Huh. Weird.
The moment knocks me out of my spiraling thoughts just as the barkeep sets another glass down in front of me.
“Oh, no thank you ma’am, I was fine with jus—” I get cut off.
“It’s on me.” Three Swords states, like he’s commenting on the weather. A simple fact.
I turn my head, ready to refuse—ready to say something—but whatever words I was reaching for vanish when the little girl comes back into the room.
She’s holding a plate with two rice balls on it, both darkened with something I can’t quite place.
“What’s this?” Three Swords asks.
“Rice balls,” the little one says with a bright smile. “For you.”
“You made them yourself?” He lowers his head slightly, eyes meeting hers.
She hums in affirmation, that same innocent smile never leaving her face.
I smile too, even though she isn’t looking at me. She’s cute—brave, maybe a little foolish—to be so open with who I’m fairly certain is the most dangerous man in the room.
I settle in with my new drink, curiosity winning out over caution. I want to see how this plays out.
If I need to, I’ll put myself between them. But his energy doesn’t feel malicious. If anything, it’s almost… soft. His face doesn’t betray that softness—hard lines, sharp angles, expression carefully schooled into indifference.
“What’s the brown stuff?” He scans the room as he asks, eyes seemingly uninterested, though his body stays angled toward her.
“Chocolate, it makes everything taste better.” She’s still smiling that same open, trusting smile.
“Well isn’t that cute,” I mutter under my breath, lifting my bottle for another sip. It’s nearly empty now.
She keeps holding the plate out to him. He still hasn’t taken it, attention split between her and the room.
“Rika?” a woman calls out.
That must be her name. She turns abruptly—just as a man steps up behind her. Marine, from the look of him. Long blond hair. Purple suit. The plate bumps into him and clatters to the floor.
I size him up automatically. Laughably easy to overpower. Which is why I don’t understand the confidence as he opens his mouth and sneers,
“You stupid, stupid girl.”
Three Swords doesn’t flinch. His gaze drops to the floor.
I stand. I’m not sure how this is about to go, but I’ve already decided—I’ll defend her if it comes to that.
Blondie grinds his boot into one of the fallen rice balls. “Why don’t you watch where you’re going?”
“Rika, apologize to our guest,” the barkeep says, voice tight.
“I’m… I’m so sorry.” Rika stammers, fear finally cracking through her composure.
The swordsman is still staring at the floor. At the rice ball under Blondie’s shoe.
Mocking, Blondie parrots her, “I’m s– so sorry,” before his voice sharpens, turning ugly. “Next time I won’t be so nice.”
He turns back toward the barkeep. I’m fuming now, scanning the room to see who else is watching this unfold.
My eyes meet a guy in a straw hat, his blond friend with purple glasses at a nearby table, and a girl at the bar with bright orange hair.
They’re the only ones paying attention. Or maybe they’re just the only ones who care.
“You dropped my food.” Three Swords finally says.
He crouches, picks up a piece of the crushed rice ball, and places it in his palm. He eats it. Hums softly in approval. Then looks up at the girl.
“Delicious.”
He takes the remaining rice ball, sets it back on the plate, and stands. He places the plate in front of Blondie, one hand resting casually on the hilt of his white sword. His eyes drag upward, slow and deliberate, until they meet Blondie’s.
“Now you eat one,” he says—not a suggestion. “And apologize to the girl.”
That’s when people really start to look over. Seems the Marines finally care now that one of their own is being challenged.
I step in behind Rika, catching the barkeep’s eye and giving her a small nod. I want her to know—I’ve got this.
My left hand settles gently on Rika’s shoulder. My right rests on the hilt of one of the daggers hidden in my bodice.
This isn’t going to end well. I’m already preparing to move her the moment Blondie makes his move.
Blondie lets out a harsh laugh and steps closer to Three Swords, humor draining from his face. “Do you know who I am?”
Three Swords looks him up and down. “A shithead Marine with a bad haircut.”
I would laugh—if my stomach wasn’t knotted with worry for the girl behind me.
Three Swords starts to turn away, already moving to take his seat again.
That’s when Blondie draws his sword.
I guide Rika behind me as smoothly and quickly as I can, taking a few steps back with her.
So much for blending in. The whole bar is watching now.
“I wouldn’t do that.” Three Swords says, eyes still closed.
“Oh, come on, tough guy. Three swords?” Blondie laughs, glancing around like he’s performing. The other Marines tense, hands hovering near their own weapons. “I only need one.”
“Okay.” Three Swords says, sounding almost disappointed. “But it’s gonna hurt.”
I take that as my cue. I back up quickly with the girl, drawing my dagger as I go. The motion catches the attention of a few nearby Marines.
Blondie shouts and slashes his sword toward the man still turned away from him.
Three Swords moves.
He grips one of the lower swords at its sheath, pulls it—sheath and all—free in a single smooth motion, and deflects Blondie’s strike without effort. Using the momentum, he brings the hilt around and cracks Blondie across the side of the head. Blondie hits the floor hard.
Three Swords slides the sheathed blade back into place with little more than a shrug.
I guide the little one backward, all the way to the kitchen door.
“Go on in, little one, stay there until someone comes and gets you, yeah?” I wait until she nods before easing my hand from her shoulder and gently nudging her through the doorway.
I turn back just in time to see a Marine closing in behind me.
My dagger meets his sword head-on, the clash catching him off guard. He’d clearly expected to overpower me with ease.
I’m about to start humming when I hesitate.
Do I risk discovery to keep this little girl safe? I don’t even know her.
The decision takes less than a heartbeat. I embed my intent—to protect her—into the melody as I begin to hum, meeting his strikes one for one. I tell myself I won’t, under any circumstances, use my shadows. They’d identify me too quickly. And once they identify me, they’d never let me go.
I’m the best bargaining chip they could ever get their hands on.
I overpower him easily, sending him flying to the side with a well-placed kick.
My humming grows louder. It keeps the girl safe—but now every Marine within earshot is staring at me.
I know how they see me. Hauntingly beautiful, wrapped in an equally unsettling melody, dagger flashing with lethal precision.
They never expected the woman they’d been admiring from across the room all evening to be a threat. That mistake will cost them.
Across the bar, I see Three Swords fending off a handful of Marines on his own. Effortless. I’d thought we’d be evenly matched.
The Marines around me finally shake off their shock. I keep humming as I disable five of them in quick succession—precise, efficient, deliberate.
Then three more step forward together. Swords drawn.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch the orange-haired girl slamming a Marine’s head into the bar.
I tilt my head, dodging two incoming strikes as I glance her way, watching her drag him off.
That moment of distraction is all it takes.
A cuff clicks. My arm is yanked behind my back.
No.
Gods, no.
I’m too sluggish—from too much time in the water, from fighting so soon after—to stop my other hand from being seized.
Another click.
The other one got behind me somehow.
Dread pools low in my stomach even before he speaks.
“You’re a siren, aren’t you? I knew no woman could be so alluring. Your humming might have given you an edge, but it gave you away.” His nasally, slimy voice presses too close to my ear.
I cringe from his hot breath, but he yanks me back by the chain between the cuffs. “You’re under arrest, let’s go.”
He starts dragging me toward the door. If I used my voice, I could get out of this—but my throat burns from the exertion.
I’m really in it now.
My eyes catch on the swordsman as he hauls Blondie up by the lapels and pins him against the bar.
For the first time since the fighting started, his attention truly wavers.
His gaze lifts—and locks with mine.
The noise of the bar dulls around us. Shouting, steel, the scrape of boots against wood—it all fades, leaving only the weight of that look. It isn’t alarm. It isn’t surprise. It’s assessment sharpening into something more deliberate. Like he’s adjusting a measure he thought he’d already taken.
His eyes flick—not to my face, but to the cuffs biting into my wrists. To the tension in my shoulders. To the way my stance is just a fraction off, exhaustion pulling at the edges.
It probably doesn’t make sense. Not with what he’s already seen of me.
His grip on Blondie loosens, just enough to matter.
I stop walking.
For a single suspended breath, neither of us moves. No plans. No exits. Just the quiet understanding that the balance he clocked earlier—clean, even, dangerous—has been disrupted by something external. Something that doesn’t sit right.
I don’t recognize any of that, of course. I only know that if things were different—if I wasn’t restrained, if my throat didn’t burn, if my body wasn’t heavy with the aftermath of the fight—this would not have gone the way it did.
The Marine’s hand tightens painfully around my arm and he shoves me forward, breaking the moment.
The bar slams back into sound.
I stumble, dragged toward the door, and don’t look back again. I don’t need to. The truth settles cold and certain in my chest.
In my current state, he would have overpowered me.
What I don’t see is the way his eyes narrow as I’m pulled away—not in disappointment, not in concern, but in quiet confusion.
Because the woman who stepped in front of a child without hesitation should not have gone down like that.
And he knew it from the moment the corner of his lips first quirked.