The port was functioning—ships docking, sailors unloading crates, tavern doors swinging open and shut—but there was a nervousness beneath it all, a thin tension that made voices lower and laughter shorter.
Jack, Gibbs, and Pintel left the Black Pearl behind, tied securely at the edge of the dock. Robin was still asleep below deck, her breathing shallow but steady, curled beneath a blanket that smelled faintly of salt and old wood. Ragetti stayed behind as lookout, grumbling but obedient, sitting on a crate with his legs dangling over the side.
The three of them entered the tavern.
It smelled like stale ale, smoke, and fried meat. Familiar. Comforting, in a way only places full of criminals could be. Jack took a seat immediately, dropped into it like he belonged there, and ordered rum before anyone could object.
Gibbs slid onto the bench opposite him, eyes already scanning the room. Pintel sat beside Gibbs and began eating as soon as food was placed in front of him.
Gibbs leaned forward slightly and caught the bartender's attention with a nod. "Heard anything strange lately?"
The bartender wiped a glass with a rag that had clearly never been clean. "Strange how?"
"Lots of Marine warships," Gibbs said carefully. "Headed west."
The bartender paused, then nodded. "Aye. People talked about it. Heard they were headed toward Ohara."
Jack's fingers tightened around his rum bottle.
"And?" Gibbs pressed.
The bartender shrugged. "Don't know what happened exactly. Marines don't exactly send letters. Just… ships go in. Smoke comes out. Then silence."
Pintel kept chewing, eyes on his plate.
Jack drank.
Gibbs drank with him.
That night passed with little more than muttered conversations and uneasy glances toward the sea.
Morning came grey and dull.
The World Economy News seagull arrived screaming, dropped its papers, and flew off as if eager to distance itself from whatever truth it carried.
Gibbs picked up the paper.
He didn't sit down.
He didn't speak at first.
His jaw tightened as his eyes moved across the front page, then hardened further as the words sank in. He crumpled the paper in his fist without realizing it.
Jack frowned. "That bad?"
Gibbs slowly uncrumpled it, smoothing the page just enough to read. His voice was tight. Controlled.
"Worse."
Jack leaned over. Pintel craned his neck.
Jack read aloud, because Pintel and Ragetti wouldn't understand otherwise.
"The World Government has successfully neutralized a grave threat to global stability," Jack read, tone flat. "The island of Ohara, home to a group of radical scholars, was destroyed after it was discovered they sought the Ancient Weapons capable of destroying the world."
Gibbs' teeth ground together.
Jack continued. "Surviving child identified as primary instigator. Bounty issued: seventy-nine million berries."
He paused.
"New title bestowed… Demon Child Nico Robin."
The world seemed to tilt.
Gibbs crushed the bounty poster completely this time, paper tearing beneath his fingers. "Lies," he muttered. "All of it."
Jack folded the newspaper slowly, eyes lingering on the printed name.
Seventy-nine million.
For a child.
Pintel blinked. "Demon…?"
Jack nodded. "That's what they're calling her."
None of them noticed the small figure standing just out of sight near the gangplank.
Robin had woken up.
She had heard voices. Familiar ones. She had crept up quietly, careful not to make a sound, and stood just close enough to listen.
She heard her name.
She heard the lies.
She heard the number.
Seventy-nine million.
Her chest hurt. Her vision blurred.
So this was it.
This was how the world saw her now.
A demon. A threat.
Her hands clenched at her sides as tears streamed silently down her face. She wiped them away furiously, ashamed of crying again. She hated the World Government—not just for Ohara, not just for her mother and Saul—but for this. For turning her grief into a crime.
But she hated something else too.
Fear.
If she stayed with Jack and the others, the World Government would come for them. Not just Marines. Kuzan... They would burn islands again. Kill again.
She didn't want that.
She didn't want to be a burden.
While the three pirates argued quietly—voices low, anger simmering—Robin slipped back down the gangplank.
No one saw her go.
She found clothes hanging to dry near the docks. Too big, too rough, but they would do. She pulled them on, tied a scarf around her head, and tried to make herself smaller.
Invisible.
She walked.
Each step away from the Black Pearl felt like tearing something loose inside her chest, but she kept moving. She had learned how to survive alone. She could do it again.
The port was busier now. Voices overlapped. Sailors laughed. Pirates bargained. Somewhere, someone shouted about money.
Robin lowered her head and moved through the crowd.
Then she bumped into something solid.
She stumbled back and looked up.
The man was tall. Too tall. His shadow swallowed her. He had a long beard and a wooden leg that thudded against the ground when he shifted his weight. His eyes were sharp, greedy, and far too interested.
He stared at her face.
The scarf had slipped.
Recognition flickered.
One of the men behind him gasped. "Captain Monty…"
Robin's heart slammed against her ribs.
"That's her," the man whispered eagerly. "The Demon Child. Look—she matches the poster."
Robin turned to run.
A heavy hand caught her shoulder and slammed her into a crate. Pain exploded through her side. She fought—kicked, scratched, screamed—but she was eight years old and exhausted.
Monty grinned, eyes shining with greed. "Seventy-nine million berries," he said softly. "Imagine that."
Robin tried to scream again.
Something struck the back of her head.
The world went black.