Chapter Text
The sun had barely finished climbing over the horizon when the deck of the Moby Dick fell into a suspicious, collective silence.
Not a peaceful silence.
A what-in-the-Grand-Line-is-that silence.
Because Xenon—chaos incarnate—stood near the figurehead like he was posing for a heroic portrait he didn’t know was being painted. And he looked… different.
Taller.
Six-foot-four with the kind of lean, sculpted muscle the Grand Line carved into young monsters who managed to grow into their bones. A natural powerhouse build—shoulders broadened, waist tapered, limbs long and carved like someone had crossbred agility with fire and given it opinions.
But it was the outfit that carried the show.
A black coat draped from his shoulders like a cloak, long and heavy—until the morning breeze caught it, sending the deep-red lining flaring like embers unfurling from a flame. It floated behind him exactly the way he liked: dramatically, unnecessarily, joyfully.
Under it, a laced, open chest black vest traced his torso, leaving the jut of his collarbones bare and the center of his chest exposed—right where the freshly inked black Whitebeard jolly roger stretched over his sternum. Bold. Centered. Unmistakable.
Two swords hung at his hips:
Toru, massive and heavy, on the left.
Ryu, sleek and coiled, on the right.
Leather-laced slacks fit snugly. Black leather boots grounded him with swagger.
And the accessories—Silver tungsten earrings—two on each ear—glinted above his lobes.
Sharp black eyeliner framed his eyes, making his irises burn brighter.
Medium-length chestnut hair crowned at the front, two braids starting at his temples and trailing back like strands of controlled wildness.
A large leather pouch slung across his shoulder hung on his back.
No beard.
Bare arms.
Chest smooth except for the tattoo.
Two necklaces hung around his neck.
The old one: a familiar golden pendant.
The new one: a slim leather cord with a black den den mushi hanging like a talisman. The snail blinked lazily.
Another—white with navy stripes—peeked from his vest pocket. Backup.
Just in case he lost the first.
Or set it on fire.
Or fed it something explosive.
The crew watched him with a mix of awe, parental concern, and the creeping dread of someone witnessing a toddler confidently carry a cannon.
Xenon bounced once on the balls of his feet, cloak flaring.
Checked Toru.
Checked Ryu.
Patted both necklaces.
Glanced at both den dens.
Then grinned, wings flickering faintly.
“Ka, alright! I’m going grocery shopping alone!”
The declaration echoed across the deck.
Thatch immediately made the sign of the cross in three different religions.
Rakuyo whispered, “Gods help the market.”
Whitebeard, seated on his massive throne-chair, raised a brow—slowly—like continents shifting.
“Marco, you sure you letting the brat leave alone?”
Xenon stepped in front of Marco, puffed up, cloak swishing dramatically.
“I’m responsible now, ka!”
A visible shiver went through at least twelve divisions.
Marco clicked his tongue. “Tch… you say that now-yoi…”
Xenon proudly lifted the den den mushi like a trophy.
The little snail blinked twice, as if sensing its doomed fate.
“See? I brought two den dens! In case I lose one!”
Whitebeard stared.
“…That doesn’t reassure me.”
But Xenon was already stepping onto the rail, wings unfurling—
A quiet voice cut cleanly through the wind.
“Oi. Zenjuro.”
Xenon blinked back over his shoulder.
Izou stood behind him, kimono sleeves stirring with the breeze. Not smiling—but eyes softer than anyone else would ever notice.
He stepped in close, tapping the center of Xenon’s exposed chest—two knuckles knocking gently against the inked jolly roger.
“Before you fly off,” another tap—firmer this time, where heart meets crest,
“remember: Oyaji is watching over you. Right here.”
Xenon froze. Looked down at the tattoo.
At Izou’s flawless lines.
At what the mark meant.
“…ka” he whispered.
Izou hummed, tilting his head as if inspecting the tattoo. “Don’t make me redo it because you tore your chest open doing something stupid. I’m not doing the whole thing again.”
Xenon huffed a tiny, bright laugh.
Izou’s voice softened again—barely.
“Fly fast.
Come back safe.
And don’t embarrass the mark.”
Xenon nodded, earnest. “I won’t.”
Izou smoothed a wrinkle in his cloak, flicked a stray braid into place, and stepped back with a dismissive wave.
“Good. Go. Before Thatch packs you a lunchbox.”
Xenon grinned wide, wings igniting in a flare of vermillion light streaked with blue and teal.
“I’ll be back in a week! Or maybe two! Ka! Don’t worry!”
Every division worried immediately.
Then—with cloak billowing, braids dancing, swords clinking at his hips—
Xenon launched himself into the sky, a streak of fire and confidence.
The deck stayed silent for several long seconds.
Then Marco muttered, tired already:
“…He’s definitely not coming back in one week-yoi.”
Whitebeard’s deep laughter rolled across the waves. “Gurararara—! Let the seas tremble. My son’s gone shopping.”
The port town of Solae was waking slowly, the kind of island where morning sunlight painted the stone streets gold and the breeze carried the scent of citrus and freshly baked bread.
Perfect weather for aimless wandering.
Solae was the kind of island town that looked like it had grown out of sunlight.
The roads were all cobblestone—smooth from generations of footsteps, warm under the morning glow, and lined with tiny cracks where stubborn wildflowers pushed through. The stones weren’t perfect; some were crooked, others uneven, but the way they curved across the plaza made the whole place feel alive, like the streets themselves were gently winding toward some hidden story.
The houses were built in the traditional Solaen style—
wooden walls, straw-thatched roofs, stone floors—
humble materials, the houses looked refined.
Their beams were carved with whorls and feather motifs. Their windows were framed in polished cedar. The eaves were painted in soft colors—apricot, sky-blue, mint—giving each home a humble elegance, like well-kept cottages in a storybook. Smoke curled lazily from clay chimneys, carrying scents of tea and spiced bread across the morning air.
Solae was beautiful not because it was rich,
but because the people cared for every inch of it.
Flower boxes lined nearly every home, spilling over with sundews, vanilla orchids, and bursts of crimson trumpet vines. Handwoven charms fluttered from doorframes—wards of safety, crafted tradition, and a touch of superstition.
The marketplace stretched from the docks inward, and the docks themselves were already a riot of motion.
Solae was a crossroad island—
so every ethnicity in the world seemed to pass through.
Long-limbed Mink traders bartered fish with North Blue merchants.
A tall woman from Kano pulled two barrels with one hand while joking with a Syrup Village shipwright.
Someone played a shamisen while a pirate from West Blue tried to dance along.
It was a swirl of languages, clothing styles, and traditions.
But through the crowd, you could always spot the natives.
They were unmistakable:
Orange hair in every shade—from bright citrus to deep burnt amber.
Dark brown eyes, warm and expressive.
Tanned skin, kissed by sea and sun.
And facial features carved boldly by heritage:
broad, elegant noses; full lips; high cheekbones.
The men wore long-sleeved lace-up shirts, the fabric airy and loose, tucked into baggy slacks tied at the waist with laces. Their movements were relaxed, confident.
Women wore lace-backed blouses—some with puffy sleeves, some without—and long frocks that danced around their ankles when they walked. Most covered their hair with simple handkerchiefs, tied neatly to keep fiery bangs out of their eyes. Their smiles were quick, warm.
And everywhere—
cats.
Cats sprawled on rooftops, curled in baskets, lounged across merchant counters like living decorations. Every food stall had at least one cat sleeping in a corner or perched proudly on a crate like it owned the business. Natives moved around them with practiced grace, never disturbing them.
And if a cat meowed, someone always answered.
That was why the sudden, sharp shout at the far end of the market dropped the air temperature by five degrees.
“HEY!”
Xenon wasn’t there yet, but the whole plaza turned.
A foreign sailor—clearly new to the island—had kicked a small ginger cat away from his cart of fruit, sending it tumbling across the stones with a pitiful yelp.
Everything froze.
The nearest Solaen man—tall, broad-shouldered, with a shirt half-laced—stepped forward so slowly it was terrifying. Women paused mid-step. Shopkeepers slid weapons under the counter. Even the wind seemed to crouch low to watch.
“You,” the Solaen man said, voice calm in the way a rising wave was calm.
“Did you kick that cat?”
The sailor sneered. “It was in my way!”
The entire street inhaled sharply.
The Solaen man cracked his knuckles.
“That,” he said, voice low,
“was your last mistake on this island.”
He lunged.
The sailor screamed.
A crowd formed instantly. Cats repositioned themselves atop barrels for a better view. Someone started taking bets.
And Solae exploded into a flurry of kicks, slaps, puffy sleeves flying, lace shirts whipping dramatically, and a ginger cat watching with smug satisfaction.
As this tiny hurricane of chaos unfolded…
Xenon walked in glowing like the morning star.
Cloak fluttering behind him in red-lined waves.
Pupils glowing like amber mounted on pearl beads.
Swords clinking lightly at his hips.
Tattoo bared proudly by his open vest.
Chestnut braids catching the light.
Necklaces glinting as he turned his head.
And the town noticed.
Even the cats paused to look.
A man built like a sculpted guardian deity didn’t stroll into every market. And certainly not one with Whitebeard’s jolly roger inked directly into his chest.
Xenon didn’t notice.
Well—he noticed the eyes.
But assumed they were friendly.
So, he smiled brightly at every passerby.
“Good morning!”
“Beautiful day, ka!”
He pointed at a pretty lass, the handkerchief adorning her hair, “Love your hat!”
“Nice cat!” The next moment he pointed at a black owl kitten as he strolled through with child-like wonder
“Oh, that’s a baby! HI BABY!”
Mothers blushed.
Fathers blinked.
Grandparents whispered.
Young women paused mid-step, fans half-raised over their mouths.
Vendors straightened their posture. Some men flexed.
One woman dropped her basket of mangoes.
Xenon waved helpfully, warmth radiating instinctively as he knelt to help gather fruit.
“Sorry! Didn’t mean to scare ya! The colors just look really good this morning, ka!”
He didn’t realize his confidence startled people.
Or that his smile was dazzling.
Or that his vest showed too much.
Or that the tattoo broadcasting “Whitebeard’s son” like a siren made people pull their guards up.
He walked with the relaxed cheer of someone who believed the world was already his friend.
“Good morning!” he called to a baker. The baker dropped her spatula.
A group of teenage girls, all orange-haired and wide-eyed, froze mid-step. Their handkerchiefs fluttered as they collectively ducked behind a fruit stand, then peeked out again.
Xenon waved brightly.
They screamed. Quietly. But excitedly.
Xenon blinked.
“…Friendly island, ka!”
He strolled on, humming lightly, trailing several small cats who decided this tall, warm stranger was acceptable.
At a fishmonger’s cart, Xenon leaned in to admire a shimmering bluefin.
“That’s beautiful! Does it glow naturally or is that just Solae’s lighting?” he asked.
The fishmonger, a broad-shouldered native with deep brown eyes and an elegantly large nose, stared for one full second before blurting:
“U-Uh—it’s the fish! I mean the lighting! I mean—THANK YOU, SIR!”
Xenon grinned. “Ka! You’re welcome!”
The vendor stared at him like he’d been struck by lightning.
Then noticed the tattoo. Then noticed the swords.
He swallowed.
Hard.
“You… you’re a Whitebeard pirate, aren’t you?”
Xenon brightened. “Ka! Yup!”
A few nearby citizens gasped.
Children pointed.
One of the young girls shrieked in delight. “Told you! He really is a whitebeard pirate!”
“Is he a commander?”
“Let’s ask him!”
“Are you crazy?”
Xenon blinked. He didn’t hear the whispers, but he saw the eyes lingering on him.
He waved again. “…Really friendly people, ka!”
He didn’t notice the man clutch his chest dramatically after he left.
A cat jumped onto Xenon’s shoulder. He accepted this immediately.
“You like the market too, huh?” he murmured, scratching under its chin.
The cat purred like a vibrating engine.
He paused at a vegetable stand, inspecting a long, purple root.
“What does this do if you boil it?” he asked.
The elderly vendor answered gently, “Turns blue, gets sweet. Good for fevers, young man.”
“Oh! Nice!” Xenon beamed. “Ka! Can I take one?”
The vendor blushed. “Of course, dear” the words simply slipped out of her lips.
Her husband glared protectively.
Three bystanders whispered, “He’s so polite,” “Look at those arms,” “He loves cats too!”
Xenon simply continued walking, bag growing heavier with vegetables, fruits, and a few pastries given to him “on the house” by flustered or intimidated shopkeepers wanting to be in the good graces of a Whitebeard pirate.
At the edge of the plaza, the commotion still raged on.
A foreign sailor was getting pummeled by two native men and three native women after kicking a cat.
Cats perched along barrels and crates like a tribunal.
Xenon stopped, tilting his head.
“Oh! Ka! They’re doing crowd training! This place is neat!”
They were not.
The sailor screamed as a slipper hit him with the force of cultural fury.
Xenon waved at the group as he passed.
“Good form! Keep it up!”
The natives froze mid-attack, stunned by the tattoo on his chest and the easy confidence radiating off him.
One whispered, “He’s… he’s definitely a pirate…”
Another whispered, “One of the stronger sons of Whitebeard, no doubt… the deckhands or crewmen aren’t allowed to get tattoos”
A third whispered, “He waved at us—did you see? DID YOU SEE?”
Xenon, oblivious, wandered on.
Then he found what he truly sought.
A book stand.
Old journals, cracked leather bindings, forgotten field notes from devil fruit researchers, fables scribbled by scholars centuries ago. He touched a spine reverently, eyes sparkling.
“Ka… these look ancient.”
The vendor swallowed, voice reverent.
“Y-Yes… commander?”
“Ka! I’m not a commander.” Xenon smiled. “Just shopping!”
The vendor’s knees buckled.
Xenon carefully picked up a thick, dusty tome. “What’s this one?”
“Rumors… old ones,” the vendor whispered. “Maps, fruit sightings… the kind of stories people don’t tell out loud.”
“Ooooh.” Xenon grinned. “Even better.”
He was about to pay for the book when his hand patted an empty pocket.
Xenon froze.
Then gasped—soft, tragic.
“Ka… I left my gold pouch on the ship.”
The vendor looked shocked, this pirate was planning to buy it??
Xenon gently set the tome back with both hands, like returning a sacred relic.
“Can you hold onto it for me?” he asked. “I don’t have any money with me right now.”
Before the vendor could respond, Xenon began unloading the small pile of market freebies he had been gifted—pastries, a ribbon, two oranges, a cat-shaped charm—and pressed them into the man’s hands.
“Here! Keep these with you too. If I don’t come back in three days, ka, they’re yours for taking care of the book. Oh, right” He noticed the pair of pastries. He grabbed one. “You can have the other one” Xenon he waved cheerfully and trotted off to look for more ‘treasures’, nomming on the pastry.
The vendor stared at the unexpected offering, speechless.
Xenon beamed, oblivious to the man’s soul exiting his body from sheer politeness. He walked away from the bookstall humming, cloak swaying with each step, sunlight catching the edges of his braids.
But beneath that cheerfulness, a quiet pulse tapped against his senses—
six signatures following him at a careful distance.
He didn’t turn.
Didn’t glance back.
Didn’t tense.
He just smiled wider.
Observation Haki flared gently—like warm water rippling over skin.
Their intentions were sharp. Focused.
Unfriendly.
Cipher Pol… Ka?
He pretended not to notice and slipped back into the bustle of the market.
He approached a vegetable seller, holding up a vibrant green pepper.
“Is this spicy?”
The old man puffed proudly. “Only if you insult someone’s grandmother.”
Xenon laughed, bright and disarming. “Ka! Perfect!”
Behind him, the CP7 agents paused at the edge of the stall, forced to slow down as locals blocked their path. A cat wound around one agent’s legs, making him stumble.
Xenon thanked the vendor loudly enough to be heard, slipping away before the agents could close the gap.
He approached a group of Solaen women weaving flower crowns.
“Oooh! Ka! These are beautiful!”
The eldest woman flushed.
“Would you… like one?”
“Yes please!”
They all giggled, flustered, hands moving chaotically as they crafted a crown far too small for someone Xenon’s size. He bent forward anyway, helping them tie it around one braid.
He looked ridiculous.
The women adored him instantly.
Behind them, the CP7 agents groaned quietly—
they had to wait again, concealed behind baskets and cats, because charging through a cluster of middle-aged Solaen aunties was a death wish.
Xenon bowed politely.
“You’re all so talented! Ka! Thank you!”
He strolled off again—perfectly timed so the agents could follow without losing him.
Xenon passed a butcher’s stall, where five cats lounged on crates like mini emperors.
He crouched to pet them all.
“Ka! Who’s a good—oh wow you’re all good—yes yes, I see you—”
One cat climbed onto his shoulder, another wrapped around his boot, a third headbutted his hand.
Xenon stood with a smile and continued walking.
The CP7 agents tried to approach, and the cats hissed at them.
All five. In unison.
The agents froze. One attempted to kick the cats away, the other quickly stopped him. “Don’t. The locals are sensitive about cats.”
The agent gritted his teeth, then exhaled, continuing to tail Xenon.
He drifted toward the quieter part of town, humming again, waving at anyone who met his eyes.
A baker offered him a sample-cake’s piece.
A group of children pointed at his tattoo and cheered.
A fisherman asked if he was a performer because “you walk like you hear music only you can.”
Xenon smiled at every single one of them.
Meanwhile, the CP7 agents tried desperately to look inconspicuous— and kept getting blocked by happy locals greeting Xenon like a visiting celebrity.
Xenon turned a corner into a narrow stone alley.
Less foot traffic.
No stalls.
Just the sound of the sea somewhere beyond.
He sensed the agents speeding up behind him.
Good. Almost there, ka…
He kept walking.
The cobblestones grew older.
The houses more spaced apart.
The cats fewer, though still watching from rooftops.
He rounded one last bend—
straight into a quiet courtyard tucked behind an abandoned storehouse.
Sunlight filtered through broken beams. The air smelled like aged wood and salt.
No bystanders.
No homes.
No witnesses.
Perfect.
Xenon stopped in the center of the courtyard, letting the quiet settle around him.
His hands slid into the pockets of his leather slacks—lazy, unbothered, as if this were just another scenic detour rather than an ambush.
He didn’t reach for his swords.
Didn’t stiffen.
Didn’t even shift his stance.
He simply stood there.
Back turned.
Waiting.
Six shadows stretched long across the cobblestones as the CP7 agents stepped into the clearing.
Their leader—tall, sharp cheekbones, hair slicked back like someone who practiced smirking in the mirror, clicked his tongue and grinned.
“Finally caught you, brat.”
Xenon tilted his head.
Slowly.
Then he turned around, expression perfectly flat.
“Oh no,” he said, voice monotone. “I’m captured. Whatever will I do?”
The sheer lack of fear made three agents flinch.
Xenon blinked at them, friendly as ever.
“What’s your name, anyway? Did you get promoted recently? You have that promoted look—ka!”
The leader bristled. “My name isn’t important.”
Xenon gasped. “Ooooh, classified!”
“It’s not classified—”
“Secret agent stuff,” Xenon nodded sagely. “Got it ka.”
The leader snarled, “Shut up.”
Xenon beamed. “Okay!”
A vein popped. Behind the leader, one agent whispered, “Why isn’t he scared?”
Another whispered back, “Because he’s stupid—he has to be—”
Xenon heard them clearly, then smiled wider.
“Ka! Not stupid—just curious. So! Why are you following me?”
The CP7 leader straightened, confident now.
“Portgas D. Xenon. Under orders of Cipher Pol, you are to be captured for interrogation and brought to—”
“Oh,” Xenon interrupted, “is it because I walked funny earlier?”
“What—? No—”
“Or because I sneezed too loud?”
“No—”
Xenon leaned in, palming the flowers in his braid, “Or did you want to borrow my flower crown?”
The agents stared at the crooked flower crown perched proudly on the braid.
The leader’s eyelid twitched.
“ENOUGH.”
He jerked his chin at his men.
“Take him.”
The agents began to fan out, confident, coordinated, lethal.
Xenon sighed lightly—almost disappointed.
“Ka… I was hoping we could talk books first.”
The temperature shifted.
Barely.
A soft ripple of heat breathed through the courtyard, warm enough to blur the air for a heartbeat.
The agents paused.
Xenon’s posture didn’t change. His hands stayed tucked casually in his pockets.
But behind him, beneath the folds of his cloak, a soft ember pulsed once—
a warm, quiet heartbeat of light.
His voice mellowed.
“You know… I’m really glad you chose to ambush me here instead of in the market.”
The six men stiffened.
“…what?”
Xenon smiled—
serene, bright, almost grateful.
“This is the quietest place on the island. Nobody else will get hurt, ka.”
The leader’s smirk wavered.
“You— you knew?”
He didn’t finish.
A pressure washed through him—
soundless, formless—
like the air itself thickened for a heartbeat.
His vision swam. His head went light.
His knees buckled beneath him.
Around him, his men were dropping like stones.
One sagged against a wall. Another hit the ground face-first.
A third collapsed mid-step, eyes rolling back.
“Wh–what… did you… do…?” the leader choked out, struggling to stay upright as his muscles failed him.
Xenon laughed softly, strolling forward as if the courtyard were a peaceful stroll.
“Ka! Just reminding you…”
He crouched, smile widening as the man finally fell.
“…I am far above your paygrade.”
The agent’s vision blurred, tunneling.
The last thing he saw before darkness claimed him:
Xenon standing over him, cheerfully holding six wallets—
pulling the cash out with one hand and tossing the empty leather back onto the courtyard stones with the other.
“Thanks for the contribution! Books aren’t cheap, ka!”
Then the world went black.
The book vendor nearly tripped over his own counter when Xenon reappeared—alive, bright-eyed, humming like someone who had absolutely not been stalked by government agents hours earlier.
“Oh! Y-You’re back!” the old man blurted, clutching the gifted tokens to his chest as though they’d become family heirlooms in Xenon’s absence.
Xenon lifted a fresh wad of berry notes with both hands, shaking it cheerfully.
“Ka! I told you I’d return. Now my book, please! And those tokens too!” He popped open the leather pouch.
The vendor fumbled the tokens back to him, then set the dusty tome into Xenon’s hands with a reverence normally reserved for relics.
But his eyes kept flicking around the plaza, scanning corners, alleys, rooftops.
“L-Listen… young man…” he whispered, leaning forward.
“When you left earlier, I noticed a few… suspicious-looking foreigners watching you. They weren’t sailors. And they weren’t merchants.”
His throat bobbed. “I thought you should know.”
Xenon blinked once.
Twice.
Slowly.
Then he smiled—soft, bright, almost foolishly warm.
“Oh, them? Ka! Don’t worry.”
The vendor hesitated. “You’re not… concerned?”
Xenon gave him a warm, almost sunny grin.
“They’re already taken care of!”
The vendor froze.
“Wh… what does that mean?”
Xenon waved dismissively. “Ka! Means you don’t have to worry.”
He stuffed the book safely into his cloak and went back into the market, greeting cats, vendors, and tourists like nothing in the world was wrong.
And then she saw him.
She stood near a stall selling spices, framed by drifting sunlight.
A Solaen native, unmistakable—
but older, maybe mid-thirties, carrying herself with the practiced grace of someone who had broken hearts across at least three seas. Her hair, vibrant orange like sunset, was wrapped partly in a deep navy kerchief.
Her eyes, dark brown and confident, swept over Xenon like an appraisal— the muscular lines of his torso revealed by his open vest, the bold tattoo stretched across his chest, the swords at his hips, the glow flickering faintly behind his eyes, the warmth of him, like a furnace disguised as a young man. As if she was choosing which treat to sample first. Her lips curved slowly, knowingly. Full lips gently glossed, catching the light in a soft sheen. A woman who knew her beauty, and enjoyed wielding it, using it in her leverage for indulgence.
“Ara, ara,” she murmured, voice low as caramel.
“Look what the tide brought in…”
Xenon turned, bright as always.
“Ka! Good morning!”
She didn’t flinch at the “ka.”
If anything, her smile deepened—eyes flickering with delight.
“Well, aren’t you a polite one,” she purred, walking closer with a slow, swaying step.
Xenon blinked, his breaths hitching as he took in her form.
She had that unmistakable diva presence about her, tall and poised, long and elegant legs, a small and sculpted waist, full hips. A generous bust shaped by nature and confidence alike.
Her blouse, cream-colored with voluminous sleeves and delicate laces crisscrossing the front was tied together almost precariously. The neckline dipped low, revealing soft, warm cleavage framed by trembling ribbons that looked one breath away from surrender.
Xenon knew, none of it was accidental. His eyes roamed—only slightly, but she caught it. His gaze offered no apologies, and he smirked. “Now what kind of firebrand strolls into a storm on purpose?”
He brushed a hand casually over his chest—over the tattoo—drawing her gaze exactly where he intended. A playful challenge.
Her brows lifted, delighted rather than offended.
“Oh? So, the storm speaks,” she teased. “And it knows how to flirt. How dangerous.”
Xenon’s grin sharpened. “Dangerous only if you wander too close.”
She stepped close enough that her perfume, warm citrus and spice, washed over him.
“Would you look at that...” She trailed a fingernail lightly along the edge of his vest, following the line of his collarbone.
“Most men your age hesitate around me. They trip over their words; pretend they’re not looking. But you…”
She pressed lightly at his sternum, right where the jolly roger rested.
“You look me dead in the eyes and warn me of troubles.”
Xenon’s lips pulled into a slow smirk. “Hard not to, ka…” he said. “Your gaze was scorching through the ink.”
Her laughter slipped out—a low, velvety hum that stirred the warm spices in the air.
“Mmm… guilty. A mark like that doesn’t belong to a boy playing pretend.” Her gaze flicked up to meet his. “It belongs to someone dangerous.”
Xenon exhaled, amused, tempted, very aware of her.
“Should I take responsibility for that?” he murmured, leaning in slightly,
She clicked her tongue softly, heat in her eyes.
“Mmm. Only if you can keep up.”
Xenon’s smile was slow, confident, wicked in the way only a young man certain of his stamina could be. “Ka… lady, that sounds like a challenge.”
“And what if it is?”
“Then I’m game.”
Her fingers brushed his wrist—light, teasing, intentional.
“Good,” she whispered. “There’s a little alley nearby. Quiet. No cats. No crowds.”
Xenon tilted his head, lips lifting. “A shortcut?”
She laughed—a low, velvety sound.
“Yes, sweetheart. A shortcut.”
She slipped her hand through the crook of his elbow, guiding him away from the bustling plaza and into one of Solae’s narrow side streets. Her spice stall stayed open behind them, untouched. Either Solae had no criminals,
or the woman simply made more profit off handsome tourists.
When they stepped back into the sunlight some time later, Xenon’s cloak was slightly crooked.
One braid was undone.
His vest hung off one shoulder.
There was a faint lipstick stain at the corner of his jaw, smudged like it had been caught mid-kiss.
A tiny hickey peeked above the edge of his tattoo.
His hair tousled and resting over his eyebrows.
She emerged behind him, adjusting her blouse ties, cheeks flushed in the prettiest shade of rose. Her kerchief was slightly off-center. Her lipstick slightly smudged at the corners.
She leaned in close to him, her breath brushing his ear as she murmured with a sly, sultry smile
“…Mmm. That was delightful, sweetheart.” A beat.
“But no tourist discount next time.” She smiled almost sheepishly through the labored breaths,
Xenon replied without missing a beat—voice low, steady, completely unaffected by embarrassment:
“How much?”
She blinked in pleasant surprise.
“Oh? Ready to book a return trip already?”
“Return trip?” he shrugged his cloak into place, “I’m calling dibs for seconds, preferably now, ka”
She laughed—a low, delighted sound—tugging lightly at the hem of his vest to fix it.
“You’re bold, you know that? Too bold.” Her eyes softened.
“You’re lucky I like bold. There’s a very private inn two streets down. Old place. Cheap rooms. No questions asked.”
Xenon reached in, eyes on her lips, thumb gently wiping the smudge at the edge.
“Such a big town. A tourist might get lost… ka” voice low and barely a note above whisper, eyes flicked up to meet hers.
Her breath caught, just slightly. Not from surprise.
But from the intimacy of the gesture, the casual confidence of it.
Her lashes lowered, a slow sweep.
“Mmm… then it’s a good thing,” she murmured, voice like silk sliding over warm skin, “that I know the way… and that I don’t plan on letting you wander off.”
She let her fingers curl around his wrist—light, guiding, possessive in a playful way.
“Come on, sweetheart,” Her hand slipped down to hook into the crook of his elbow again, but this time the hold was different, less teasing.
More claiming.
The two disappeared back into Solae’s winding streets—
Her steps fluid and practiced, hips swaying in a rhythm meant to be followed.
His stride easy, cloak swishing behind him, that smudge of lipstick still faintly visible on his jaw.
Cats blinked after them from rooftops.
A vendor paused mid-sale to stare.
Someone whispered “lucky brat” under their breath.
The inn room was small, a little run-down, but perfectly secluded.
A single window.
A creaky bed.
Curtains thick enough to swallow sound.
The smell of sea salt and old wood.
The candlelight flickered in the dim room, casting soft shadows across the worn floorboards and the curve of her hip as she slid her kerchief off and tossed it onto the bedside table.
Their voices—quiet, breathy, intimate—filled the space.
“Careful,” she teased softly, fingers brushing his collarbone. “You’ll set the sheets on fire.”
“Ka,” Xenon murmured with a low laugh, leaning closer. “You started it.”
The mattress creaked gently as weight shifted.
Fabric rustled.
Her laugh—warm and throaty—melted into a soft gasp, the kind pulled from someone immersed into the act.
“Slow down—mm—actually… don’t.”
Xenon’s voice dropped, a quiet rumble against the shell of her ear, “tell me if you want me to stop.”
“…Don’t you dare.”
Candlelight flickered. Shadows moved.
A sharp inhale followed.
“Fine… You asked for it” The timbre of it—heated, confident, dangerous, sent a shiver down her spine.
Her eyes widened for the fraction of a moment “What you mean, what are you-” the panicked whispers mellowed out in a gasp, eyes rolling back into her skull.
Her arms flailed, fingers clawing at his ribs, and the legs tensing under his weight.
“…s-so deep” she hummed like letting out a drowning gasp against his cheek, then her teeth camped in his jaw.
“T-too deep…” the words slipped like a plea. Her head tilted deeper into the pillow. Her voice trembled; half panic, half disbelief— her body reacted faster than her mind could process.
Her legs gave out, toes curling, a tremor rolling up through her spine.
Another desperate inhale.
A stifled moan.
A shudder.
“yes… there…”
A deep exhale of someone losing herself.
Fastening thuds of flesh against wood.
Faint scrape of nails across skin. Her fingers slid from gripping out of fear to gripping out of need.
And Xenon’s low, proud chortle, breath hitching in his throat.
Shadows rippled across the ceiling with every shift, every closeness, every exhale shaping the air between them.
Outside, the innkeeper—who had turned the “Occupied” sign hours ago—glanced at the door, unimpressed.
An older patron carrying laundry muttered as she passed,
“For heaven’s sake… that’s the third hour.”
Another patron watering plants on the balcony sighed dramatically.
“That boy has the whole building shaking. Is he paying by the hour or what?”
A cat sleeping near the door flicked its tail and meowed in complaint.
The innkeeper rolled his eyes. “Florence and her tourists.”
Inside, the candle burned lower, their shadows still entwined,
as the room held the secrets of warmth, closeness, and time slipping by unnoticed.
The inn’s bath water steamed as Xenon rinsed the night from his skin.
Quick, efficient motions; warmth still lingering on his shoulders, faint lipstick still ghosting his jaw until the water washed it away.
He dressed again; black cloak, vest adjusted, braids re-tied, pendant and mini den den mushi resting against his freshly dried chest.
His expression was lighter, softer, an afterglow glow even the cool night air couldn’t dim.
His large leather bag, hung across his back, filled with:
the ancient tome and some other obscure field journals of devil fruit enthusiasts
the freebies he hadn’t eaten
and a packet of rare spices Florence had pressed into his hand with a wink
He stepped into the quiet night streets of Solae, cobblestones still warm from the day.
The market, so alive in daylight, now slept.
Lanterns burned low.
Cats roamed quietly.
Shops were shuttered; stalls covered.
Only the whisper of wind through straw rooftops filled the silence.
Xenon breathed deeply, satisfied.
Until the next corner.
No sound. No warning.
No presence telegraphed.
But his Observation Haki flared like a blade unsheathed.
Not CP7.
He stopped walking.
Ten signatures. Sharper.
Heavier.
Professional.
Assassins.
The air shifted.
Then—
Gunshots.
Not normal.
Silent like a hiss.
Xenon’s eyes flashed.
Ryu was out before the muzzle flares died.
A single, fluid draw, the metal catching moonlight, and the bullets rang away in sparks.
The scent of sea-prism stung his senses. His jaw clenched.
He exhaled once, the afterglow warmth in his chest collapsing into a cold, precise focus.
“…You ruined my night.”
Two figures stepped from the shadows—large, monstrous silhouettes.
Zoan transformations half-complete, jaws distended, claws out.
Behind them, black suits with crisp ties and unreadable eyes.
Not CP7.
CP9.
They didn’t give speeches. Didn’t announce themselves.
Their stance alone told the story:
They were here to kill, not capture.
Xenon’s warm expression faded entirely.
“Tch… you guys seem strong,” he said quietly, realizing he wouldn’t be able to just knock them out with haki.
This area was too populated for his liking.
The spice-scented room, her laughter, her flushed smile
The innkeeper who hadn’t asked questions
Vendors who gave him pastries
Children who smiled at his tattoo.
Everyone was in an ear shot. It was too unfair to treat such kindness with indifference.
His grip tightened on Ryu.
“Couldn’t you wait till I left the market?” Xenon was disappointed.
One CP9 agent stepped forward, voice cold:
“You will flee. They always flee. We account for desper—”
The words never finished.
A whisper.
A flash.
The first head hit the stone with a soft thud.
Clean.
Precise.
Effortless.
Xenon didn’t move like a swordsman. He moved like a shadow, like embers slipping through the cracks of firewoods.
Ryu flicked sideways, a heat shimmer trailing behind the steel.
The Zoan user, morphed into bear-man, lunged.
Ryu sliced through the air once.
The beast form froze. Quietly retracting back to human and
Collapsed.
Three more agents readied in synchronized formation, finger-guns cocked, legs poised in Shigan stances, moonlight reflecting off shiny black gloves.
Xenon vanished again.
A blur. A breath.
A streak of heat.
Three more bodies fell almost simultaneously.
No scream.
No sound but the soft clap of fabric folding over lifeless forms.
Ryu steamed faintly—
the heat rising from its perfect edge vaporizing the blood before it could settle.
Xenon’s chest rose and fell once.
Only once.
The sixth agent staggered back, trembling.
“You monster…”
Xenon appeared behind him. Ryu whispered. Ear to ear, disconnecting the trachea and jugular in a smooth motion from behind.
The rest were stepping away, eyes twitching in horror.
No one had warned them of this instinct, the part of Xenon that wasn’t a loudmouth with a soft spot for civilians.
Xenon bent down and picked up a gun. Thinking he was distracted, the agents tried running.
With the poise of a weapon-enthusiast, Xenon unloaded the gun. It had 4 bullets. He took those in hand.
Ryu still shimmered in his other hand as he followed behind the agents. Steps were little leaps, but the pace, casual. One by one, he threw the bullets at the men. Aiming for the backs of their heads.
Each connected. the first one, a wet, muted crack—occipital bone.
The second, neck.
The third, temporal.
The fourth, finally, parietal.
All four bodies hit the ground before the blood fully vaporized from Ryu’s edge.
Xenon exhaled slowly, letting the silence settle before he moved. His breaths, a steady rhythm of two sharp inhales, one deep exhale.
One by one, he walked to each fallen body, turning them over with the toe of his boot or a light nudge of his hand—checking, confirming. No emotion. No hurry. Just methodical certainty.
Most were already still. But the one who’d taken the bullet to the neck twitched faintly, a thin, wet rasp leaking from the torn airway.
Xenon crouched beside him.
No malice. No theatrics.
Ryu slid once—clean, precise—severing trachea and jugular in a single painless stroke.
The body relaxed.
No witnesses.
No cries.
No disturbance to the homes of those he had shared smiling greetings with earlier.
Xenon stood up, the street lanterns flickering against his cloak.
He lowered Ryu to his side. The blade glowed a gentle cherry red, heat radiating from his fingers through the metal until every trace of blood evaporated into harmless steam.
He sheathed Ryu with a soft click.
Then adjusted his cloak, rolled his shoulders, as if the entire encounter were nothing more than a nuisance.
He looked toward the port, where the sea shimmered in the moonlight.
“Some rum would be nice right now…”
And with that, he walked away, unhurried, disappearing into the night as neatly as he had ended the assassins.
Dawn broke slowly over Solae.
Warm light touched the rooftops first, then spilled down into the empty streets, creeping softly across cobblestone that still held traces of the night before.
Vendors began unlocking stalls.
Cats yawned awake on window ledges.
Fishermen returned from early catches.
It should have been peaceful.
Should have been like any ordinary morning.
But the moment the first stall owner rounded the central corner of the market—
the scream ripped through the air like a blade.
“BY THE SAINTS—!!”
The woman backed away, hand over her mouth, basket falling from her grasp and scattering vegetables across the stones.
Her cry drew others.
Doors opened. Bare feet slapped the ground.
People rushed toward her—then stopped dead in their tracks.
The scene before them didn’t belong in Solae.
Ten bodies lay strewn across the plaza.
Five decapitated cleanly—so cleanly it made the stomach twist.
Five more with limp limbs, glazed eyes, and expressions frozen somewhere between shock and terror.
And the most unsettling part:
There was no blood.
Just faint scorch marks on the stone. Nothing else.
Too quiet. Too exact.
A baker dropped to her knees, crossing herself repeatedly.
“Who… who would do this?”
A fisherman swallowed. “These… these aren’t locals.”
“No,” a seamstress said, voice trembling. “Look at their suits… they’re government.”
“M-Marines?” someone whispered.
“No,” the spice vendor murmured, stepping closer with shaking legs. “These look like Cipher Pol.”
The mood shifted. Fear sharpened into something brittle.
Dangerous.
“What does this mean?”
“Was our town attacked?”
“Was it a pirate?”
“Gods… is it going to happen again?”
“Where were the guards?!”
People pulled their children closer. Cats hissed from the rooftops, fur bristling, tails puffed.
The leader of the town guards arrived moments later, sword half-drawn. He took one look and hissed through his teeth.
“…This is assassination work.”
A hush fell.
He stepped between the bodies, studying the precision, the angles, the faint scorch across one sleeve.
“Not a brawl. Not revenge. Someone cut them down before they could fight back.”
“But why here?” a merchant cried, clutching her apron. “What did we do?”
The vegetable vendor swallowed hard.
“The attack… must have happened sometime after midnight. I was awake. I heard nothing. No shouts. No battle. No gunfire.”
“Exactly,” the guard said.
He tapped his boot against the cobblestone.
“Whoever killed these men… made sure none of us were put in danger. Not one stall damaged. Not one door broken. I mean… look, even the bloodstains are gone!” One of the merchants said.
People exchanged looks—confused, frightened, hopeful.
“But who could do something like that?” a woman whispered.
A pause.
A dozen people involuntarily thought the same thing, but didn’t dare say it.
The young man with the tattoo. The one with the braids.
The one who walked like sunlight and freedom wrapped into a person.
A hush drifted through the crowd.
The guard exhaled.
“Find the mayor. Find the priest. Cover the bodies. Nobody speaks a word of this to visiting ships until we understand what happened.”
A cat jumped down and padded toward one of the corpses, sniffing it before turning away with a hiss and scampering back toward the inn district.
The townspeople watched it run. The guard’s eyes followed.
“…Check the inns,” he said quietly. “See who stayed the night.”
Morning light spilled through the shutters of the discreet, dusty inn room Florence had used for years. She was tying her hair into a loose knot, humming an old Solae folk tune, when the whispers outside began.
“Dead.”
“Ten bodies…”
“Five, gods, five beheaded—”
Her fingers froze mid-twist. For a heartbeat, she felt nothing but cold silence settling into her bones.
Then,
“…the boy with the braids… did you see him last night?”
She stepped to the window just in time to see two guards, paled yellow, were asking around. One guard shot her an eye.
“I spent last night alone, officer. You’re welcome to believe otherwise.”
No one pressed further. The guards hurried past.
The woman’s expression didn’t crumble. It didn’t even flinch. Instead, her lips parted in a soft, thoughtful exhale.
“…So that’s what you were,” she whispered to herself. Not afraid.
Not shaken. If anything, a little impressed.
She leaned against the window frame, eyes drifting toward the part of town where the whispers were louder.
“Should’ve guessed,” she murmured with a faint smirk. “No boy glows like that unless he’s been tempered in hell.”
Her gaze softened not sentimental, but respectful.
“That little sweetheart… turned into a storm the second he left my arms.”
Then her voice dropped. “…Good. Solae needed waking up.”
She buttoned her blouse, adjusted her kerchief, and slipped into the street—calm, composed, every step measured.
By midday sun, the marines set up their temporary post inside Solae’s town hall—
a wide wooden room with high rafters and the faint smell of old sea-salt and cats.
The guard captain of Solae stood rigid, jaw tight, as a Marine Commodore slammed a bounty poster onto the table.
Portgas D. Xenon — 685,000,000.
The picture was visceral:
Xenon standing on the shattered remains of a mast
Toru slung over one shoulder
Ryu catching sunlight at his hip
Hair wild
Wings half-unfurled, burning behind him,
and his grin, nothing about that grin was polite.
A predator’s smile.
A survivor’s smile.
A son-of-the-Grand-Line smile.
The Commodore jabbed a finger at the poster.
“Did you see this man on the day of the attack?”
The guard captain glanced at it, and schooled his expression into complete ignorance.
“…Never seen him.”
The Commodore’s nostrils flared. He turned to the assembled vendors—fruit sellers, spice merchants, bakers, cat-loving seamstresses.
“All of you. Someone here must’ve seen him. We have reports Cipher Pol was tailing a dangerous pirate.”
The vegetable seller raised a hand.
“Oh! Could you describe him again?”
The Commodore shoved the poster closer. “This pirate!”
The elderly man squinted dramatically.
“Ooooooh. No. Haven’t seen anyone with wings.”
“He didn’t have the wings out—” the Commodore snapped.
“Well then how are we supposed to know it’s him?” the seller shot back.
Several townsfolk nodded emphatically.
The Commodore clenched his teeth.
“Did ANYONE see a man with: brown hair, medium length
tattoos on chest
two swords
muscular build
cape
glowing eyes?”
The old fruit seller tilted her head thoughtfully.
“Honey, this is a port town. That describes half the sailors who pass through.”
“Tch—That is not—”
A fisherman chimed in.
“Actually, that describes some of our women too.”
The room erupted into murmurs.
“Yeah, my cousin Irena wears a cape.”
“She’s got better shoulders than the poster, though.”
“Her glow isn’t in her eyes—it’s her temper.”
The Commodore smacked the table.
“That is ENOUGH!”
Eyes dropped. Silence stretched.
Then, “bring in the courtesan,” the Commodore ordered.
Gasps slipped through the room.
Florence entered with unhurried steps, shoulders straight, chin high, expression sophistically bored. Her kerchief was immaculate. Her blouse tied neatly. Her lipstick a precise berry-red.
She took the chair offered, crossed her legs, and smiled sweetly.
“How may I help?”
The Commodore slid the poster across the table.
“Have you seen this pirate?”
She glanced.
Once.
“Oh. Him.”
The Marines leaned forward.
“You have seen him?”
She lifted her eyes, slow and deliberate.
“Yes. In the newspaper.”
A ripple of snickers moved through the townspeople. The Commodore bristled.
“I meant, did you see him in person?”
Her smile curled like a cat stretching in a sunbeam.
“Didn’t I just say I saw him in the paper?”
The Commodore’s jaw locked.
“You were reported as… entertaining a young man last night.”
“Entertaining a young man?” she echoed, amused. “You think young men are interested in me? Sweetheart, you flatter me.”
“Just answer the question! Did you spend the night with this man?”
She leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and velvet-smooth. “Do I look like I’d forget a night with someone worth 685 million berries?”
The Commodore blinked.
“…I— suppose not”
“Well.” She leaned back.
“Then I guess the answer is obvious.”
A beat.
“…no,” she said sweetly.
The townspeople suppressed laughter behind their hands.
The Commodore slammed his fist down.
“YOU ARE ALL OBSTRUCTING JUSTICE!”
The woman tilted her head.
“No, Commodore. We’re correcting assumptions.”
Her tone sharpened just a fraction.
“You came into our town. Demanded we point fingers at someone. And assumed we’d betray whoever you point at.”
A pause.
“But Solae isn’t that kind of place.”
Her voice dropped.
“And if you really want my advice…?”
The Commodore swallowed.
“…What?”
She tapped a manicured finger on the bounty poster.
“Don’t go looking for him.”
Her smile was polite, terrifyingly polite.
“You won’t survive it.”
The Commodore’s face went pale.
Behind him, a Marine whispered:
“Sir… maybe Cipher Pol got into a fight with each other. That happens sometimes.”
“Y-yes,” another nodded quickly. “Internal disputes. I heard it’s a common practice for candidates to take out each other for promotion.”
The prostitute stood, smoothing her skirt, head held high.
“I’m going back to work. If you need help again, please file a request.”
The Commodore blinked.
“A request?”
“Yes,” she said with a wicked smile. “Under ‘fiction,’ because that’s what you’re writing here.”
And she swept out, leaving the Marines confused, humiliated, and very aware they had gotten nothing.
The transponder snail on the Marine ship crackled to life as the Commodore pinched the bridge of his nose, staring at the pile of failed witness statements.
Every page read:
“Did not see anything.”
“Was sleeping.”
“Saw nothing but cats.”
He inhaled sharply and flipped open the communication line.
“Headquarters, this is Commodore Bastille reporting from Solae.”
The Den Den Mushi shifted into the face of a gruff Vice Admiral—wide-jawed, stern-eyed, already annoyed.
“Bastille. Report. Cipher Pol wants an update on their missing agents.”
The Commodore straightened.
“Yes, sir. About that—”
“Start with what you found.”
“…Ten agents dead. Five beheaded.”
Even the Vice Admiral stiffened.
“And your findings?”
“That’s the problem, sir. There are no findings.”
“…Explain.”
The Commodore swallowed.
“The townspeople refuse to talk.”
The Den Den Mushi blinked slowly, then narrowed its eyes—mirroring HQ’s expression.
“Refuse… to talk?”
“All of them, sir. Every single one. They claim they saw nothing.”
“That many people? Impossible. Someone must have seen the culprit.”
“We showed them the suspect’s bounty poster, sir.”
“And?”
“And the townspeople said he looked like…
their cousins. Or local sailors. Or carpenters. Or fishermen.”
The Vice Admiral’s eyebrow twitched.
“Bastille, are you telling me that an 18-year-old, 6’4’’ winged pyrokinetic with a 685 million bounty looks like a fisherman from Solae?”
“Yes, sir.”
The snail’s face flattening into pure disbelief was almost insulting.
“…You’re lying.”
“I wish I was, sir.”
“Read out the witness reports. Word to word”
The Commodore flipped through the witness statements.
“One vendor said he mistook the pirate for his niece.”
The Vice Admiral rubbed his temple.
“His… niece?”
“Yes, sir.”
Another paper.
“A fisherman said his wife looks more dangerous.”
The Vice Admiral’s eye twitched.
“His wife is more dangerous… than this?”
The den den snail flipped as the sound of something breaking floated from the other side.
“Yes, sir.”
Another paper.
“And a seamstress claimed she was ‘too busy grooming her cat to notice any beheadings.’”
The snail’s jaw dropped.
“You’re being stonewalled.”
“Yes, sir.”
“By an entire island.”
“Yes, sir.”
The Vice Admiral’s voice dropped several degrees.
“Did you question the courtesans?”
The Commodore flinched visibly.
“Yes, sir.” He gulped.
“She… intimidated me.”
The Vice Admiral stared.
“…A courtesan intimidated a Marine Commodore?”
“She said she’d remember if she slept with a 685-million-berry man, and that she didn’t.”
“What does that have to do with intimidation!?”
“She… looked at me like I owed her money.”
The Vice Admiral exhaled slowly.
“Bastille… I need you to breathe.”
“I am breathing, sir.”
“Slower.”
The Commodore inhaled.
“Sir, with all respect, Solae residents stick together. If the culprit stayed here, they’re protecting him.”
“Is there evidence he stayed in town?”
“No, sir.”
“Any photographic sightings?”
“No, sir.”
“Any trace at all?”
“…Sir, the cats refuse to cooperate as well.”
Silence.
Long, painful silence.
Finally:
“Bastille.”
“Yes, sir?”
“…write the report.”
The Commodore sighed.
“Yes, sir.”
“And make it sound like Cipher Pol’s agents died due to internal conflict.”
“Sir? That’s—”
“Better than saying one man slaughtered them and then an ENTIRE TOWN COVERED IT UP.”
The Commodore froze.
“…Yes, sir.”
“Next time, Bastille— take a Rear Admiral with you.
Or a priest.”
The Den Den Mushi clicked off.
The Commodore slumped into his chair, staring out at Solae’s quiet port, where townspeople were already sweeping streets, feeding cats, and pretending the previous night never happened.
“Internal conflict,” he muttered.
“Sure. Why not.”
He flipped open his report:
“Cause of Death: Internal Cipher Pol Dispute, Likely Escalated.”
“Witnesses: Uncooperative.”
“Suspect: None Identified.”
“Town Status: Neutral, Quiet, Excessively Fond of Cats.”
He sighed.
“I need a vacation.”