The third underground level of Rain Dinners was designed to bury secrets.
Thick walls, no windows and limited passages.
It was the kind of place where a man could scream, beg, bargain, or disappear without disturbing the gamblers laughing beneath the golden lights above.
The VIP conference room slled of cigar smoke, stale perfu, and carpet that had never felt the sun.
The air felt old, trapped beneath layers of stone and luxury until it grew heavy with hidden things.
At the outer edge of the round table, in the shadow of a high-backed chair, Zaraki sat with one leg crossed over the other.
A golden casino chip flipped between his fingers.
Click. Click. Click.
The sound was soft, almost aningless, but in the sealed room, it slipped between conversations like a clock counting down to sothing unpleasant.
No one had noticed him enter. It wasn't because Zaraki was good at stealth; he was terrible at it.
Hiding his killing intent was harder than splitting stone.
He had simply walked in during the brief window created while the corridor guards were busy becoming unconscious, lowered his aura as much as possible, and chosen the darkest chair.
He had learned sothing from Sengoku: sotis, prey needed to speak before it was worth cutting.
Several people sat around the table.
To his left was a man with hair shaped like a '3' and a smug expression that made Zaraki's fingers itch. Galdino. Mr. 3. The Wax-Wax Fruit user.
Not especially strong, but cunning enough to be annoying—one of the worst combinations a person could have.
"Heheheh, this operation went ridiculously smoothly." Mr. 3 lifted a cup of black tea with exaggerated elegance and took a self-satisfied sip. "Those escort troops were complete cowards. The mont they saw our people, they ran without firing a shot. The Heavenly Tribute was practically handed to us."
"It was bait."
The words ca from across the table—cold, flat, and hard.
Daz Bones. Mr. 1.
He sat with his arms folded, his monk-like clothing pulled tight over a body that looked forged rather than trained.
His fingers moved slowly across the tattoo on his chest, but his posture didn't relax for a second.
Zaraki looked at him with mild interest.
This one was better than the others. Perhaps not enough to satisfy him personally, but certainly enough for Zoro to enjoy.
"So what if it was bait?" Mr. 3 curled his lip. "The result is the sa. The tribute is in our hands. Mr. 1, don't tell you're jealous because you didn't get a chance to show off."
"Idiot." Mr. 1 didn't even lift his eyelids. "No regular escort withdraws that cleanly while carrying goods of that caliber. And besides..." His fingers stopped moving. "That feeling of being watched followed us all the way back to Rainbase."
The room quieted.
In the shadowed chair, Zaraki's chip stopped.
Then it flipped again.
Click.
A calm female voice drifted through the room. "That may only an the escort was more afraid than trained."
The woman seated near the main chair closed the book in her lap.
Nico Robin. Miss All Sunday.
Her dark eyes swept over Mr. 1, then Mr. 3, and finally—almost casually—across the outer seats lost in shadow.
For the briefest instant, her gaze snagged.
Zaraki's mouth curved faintly.
She had noticed sothing. Not enough to expose him, but enough to be interesting.
Robin's expression remained perfectly neutral. "Whether it was bait or not, once sothing enters the boss's stomach, it rarely cos back out."
Mr. 3 imdiately smiled again. "As expected of Miss All Sunday. You truly understand the situation."
Mr. 1 said nothing.
The door opened.
Not with the push of a hand, but with the dry sound of sand grinding against stone.
A tyrannical dryness flooded the room instantly, as if all moisture had been stolen from the air.
The people around the table unconsciously straightened up. Even Mr. 3's smugness shrank into sothing obedient.
Crocodile entered, wearing his massive black fur coat and clenching a cigar between his teeth.
His golden hook glead beneath the dim light.
He walked directly to the main seat, every step carrying the absolute confidence of a man who had spent years making an entire country worship the very hand choking it.
"Looks like everyone's here." Smoke curled from his mouth.
His hook tapped the tabletop.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
"Mr. 1. I heard you brought back quite a gift."
"Yes, boss." Mr. 1 lowered his head slightly. "The Heavenly Tribute. But I stand by my judgnt. It was too easy. It looked like a trap."
Crocodile smiled. It wasn't pleasant. "Of course it was a trap."
Mr. 3 froze. Even Mr. 1's eyes sharpened.
Crocodile leaned back in his chair, the rising smoke blurring half his face. "The question is not whether it was bait. The question is whether the fishern have hands strong enough to pull the line after I swallow it."
His gaze swept the room. "In this country, there is nothing I cannot take. The royal family is rotting. The rebels are sharpening their knives. The people are thirsty enough to believe any lie that brings them water."
His hook tapped the table again.
"As for the Marines..." The cruel smile deepened. "They are far too afraid of the World Governnt's rules to move against a Warlord without proof."
In the shadowed chair, Zaraki's grin slowly widened. Good. Keep talking.
"The Heavenly Tribute will be useful," Crocodile continued. "If necessary, it can disappear. It can reappear in the hands of rebels. It can beco the ultimate evidence that King Cobra has lost control of his country."
Mr. 3's face lit up with sudden understanding. "Heheheh! So that's it! If the tribute is found in the wrong place, Alabasta will be punished by the Governnt, and the people will bla the king even more!"
Crocodile shot him a glance, and Mr. 3 imdiately shut up.
Robin lowered her eyes.
Her fingers rested on the book in her lap, but the corner of her gaze drifted once more toward the shadowed chair at the edge of the table.
The chip stopped flipping.
Crocodile's voice also stopped.
For a long mont, the only sound in the room was the faint hiss of burning tobacco.
Tap.
The golden chip landed on the table.
Everyone turned.
At the outer edge of the round table, Zaraki leaned forward out of the shadow.
His posture was lazy, but his eyes were feral.
"Not bad." He picked up the chip, rolling it between his fingers. "I was wondering how long I'd have to sit here before you said sothing useful."
The conference room froze.
Mr. 3's teacup slipped from his hand, shattering against the carpet.
Mr. 1 rose almost instantly, his arms shifting with a faint tallic scrape as blades ford beneath his skin. Robin's pupils contracted.
Crocodile didn't move. Only the smoke from his cigar seed to twist slower in the dead air.
"You are..." Crocodile's eyes turned glacial. "The Marine brat from the report."
"Provisional Headquarters Combat Trainee," Zaraki corrected lazily.
"Special observation. Temporary field authority. Annoying title, honestly." He leaned back as if he belonged there.
"You can call Zaraki."
Mr. 3's face twisted in panic. "How did you get in here?! Guards! Guards!"
No one answered.
The corridor outside offered only the peaceful silence of n who wouldn't be waking up anyti soon.
Zaraki lifted one finger, pointing to the table beside him. Beneath an overturned wine cup sat a small Den Den Mushi.
Its eyes were half-open.
Recording.
Mr. 1's expression darkened.
Crocodile finally removed the cigar from his mouth. "A recording Den Den Mushi."
"Evidence," Zaraki said. "Sengoku kept nagging about that word. I figured I should bring him a souvenir."
The air turned bone-dry.
The wine in the glasses around the table began to shrink, evaporating beneath Crocodile's rising irritation.
"Do you understand what you're doing?" Crocodile asked softly.
Zaraki smirked. "I'm doing my job."
"You entered a Warlord's private property without formal accusation."
"You stole the Heavenly Tribute."
"You have no proof it was under my order."
Zaraki tapped the snail. "You just gave so."
For the first ti, Crocodile's expression truly darkened.
The room was no longer a eting space; it was a powder keg waiting for a single wrong breath.
Mr. 1 took one step forward. "Boss."
Crocodile raised his hand, the sand crocodile's gaze never left Zaraki.
"Leave him to ."
Zaraki's grin widened into sothing savage. "That's what I wanted to hear."
Before the tension could snap, the left wall of the conference room split with a sharp tallic scream.
A single sword stroke severed the wax reinforcent, the stone, and the decorative gold in one violent line.
Zoro stepped through the breach, sand dusting his shoulders and profound annoyance on his face.
Behind him, several more Baroque Works agents lay unconscious in the corridor.
"I found the iron guy," Zoro announced.
He looked at Mr. 1, and a sharp grin cut across his face. "Guess I didn't get lost after all."
Mr. 1's eyes snapped from Zaraki to the swordsman.
For a mont, the two blade-like n locked onto each other.
Crocodile's expression grew colder. Robin quietly closed her book.
Mr. 3 swallowed hard.
Zaraki laughed. The sound rolled through the underground room like thunder signaling an incoming storm.
"Good. Everyone found their seat." Zaraki rose slowly, his chair scraping loudly against the floor.
"Now then, Crocodile..."
His hand clamped around Murasa's hilt.
"Let's talk about the storage fee for that tribute."
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