The soft glow of lamplight flickered over polished mahogany, shadows curling against the walls like silent witnesses. The air hung thick with the rich scent of cigar smoke, whiskey, and ink—the unmistakable aroma of power and consequence.
Crocodile sat behind his desk, shoulders squared, golden eyes steady as they tracked the man standing before him. His fingers tapped a slow, deliberate rhythm against the wood, the faint metallic scrape of his hook punctuating the quiet. Smoke coiled lazily from the cigar balanced between his fingers, dissipating into the still air.
Daz Bones stood with his usual rigid composure, posture straight, expression unreadable as ever. Efficient. Calculated. Unshakable. The perfect enforcer. His dark eyes reflected no hesitation as he delivered his report.
"Tezren moves carefully. Keeps his hands clean, never leaves a trail. Doesn't stay in one place for long."
Crocodile exhaled a slow stream of smoke, unimpressed. "None of that is new."
"No. But I have names."
That got his attention.
Crocodile leaned forward slightly, the faint creak of leather breaking the silence as the cigar smoldered between his fingers. His gaze sharpened. "Go on."
Daz withdrew a folded document from his coat and placed it on the desk. The faint rustle of paper seemed louder in the heavy stillness. Crocodile flicked a glance at the pages but waited for Daz to continue.
"Tezren doesn't operate alone. He has three key operators handling business across different territories. Each one specialized, loyal—and dangerous."
He tapped the first name with a gloved finger.
"Ramon Devaro. South Blue. Arms dealing, black-market auctions, and illegal shipbuilding. Keeps his work discreet, but we intercepted word of a recent shipment—five ships, unregistered, sold to an unknown buyer."
Crocodile's eyes narrowed. "A fleet?"
Daz inclined his head. "A small one. High-speed vessels, reinforced hulls. Built for maneuverability over firepower."
Seated beside Crocodile, Sineka stirred, her fingers idly tracing the embroidered edge of his coat. She'd remained silent until now, her golden gaze fixed thoughtfully on the papers.
"Sounds like he's moving something important," she mused, her voice soft but certain. "If he needed strength, he'd commission warships. But if he's sacrificing power for speed—"
"Smuggling," Crocodile finished, taking another drag from his cigar. Smoke curled from his lips as he considered the implications. "Five ships built for speed and stealth... Not a coincidence."
Daz shifted his hand to the next name.
"Sorena Vex. West Blue. Handles Tezren's financial network—money laundering, offshore accounts, and high-profile clientele. Keeps his assets liquid and untouchable."
Crocodile's lips curved in a faint smirk. "A banker with dirty hands. I'm sure she sleeps well at night."
Daz didn't acknowledge the sarcasm. "She moves large sums regularly, but not to the usual strongholds. There's a pattern—funds are routed through third parties, then vanish into unregistered accounts. No paper trail, no ties to Tezren, but the amounts are significant—and consistent."
Sineka tilted her head slightly, tapping a finger against the edge of the document. "Someone's funding something expensive. And they're being careful enough to hide it from both the World Government and rival brokers."
Crocodile flicked ash into the tray beside him, his gaze never leaving the papers. The faint scent of charred tobacco lingered between them. Tezren was moving money, resources, and ships—pieces on a board that hadn't fully revealed itself yet. But Crocodile could see the shape of the game.
Daz tapped the last name.
"Kain Rostov. Former bounty hunter turned executioner. Leaves no bodies, only disappearances. When Tezren has a problem, Rostov makes it vanish."
The air seemed to grow heavier as that name settled between them. Crocodile's fingers stilled, cigar smoldering as recognition flickered in his gaze.
"Rostov works for the Donquixote Family," he said quietly.
"For now." Daz's voice was clipped, precise. "But he's been taking side contracts—off-the-record jobs that don't trace back to Doflamingo. High-risk, high-pay work. Someone's testing the waters—or looking for a way out."
Crocodile leaned back slightly, exhaling another slow breath of smoke. A ghost in the underworld, straddling two allegiances. Dangerous—but also exploitable.
"So he's looking to switch sides," Crocodile mused.
"Or at least secure leverage if things go south with Doflamingo," Daz corrected. "Either way, it means Tezren has access to someone who can eliminate problems without leaving a trace."
Silence settled once more, broken only by the faint crackle of the cigar. The lamplight gleamed against Crocodile's hook as he turned the page, eyes scanning the brief dossiers attached to each name. Three players, each essential to Tezren's operations—logistics, finances, and enforcement. A well-oiled machine running beneath the surface of the underworld.
But even the most well-oiled machines had weaknesses.
Daz straightened. "There's more, but that's what I have for now. Tezren isn't just another broker hiding behind a desk. He's building something—and he's using people who don't fear getting their hands dirty."
Crocodile tapped the ash from his cigar once more, gaze distant as he processed the information. Tezren had resources. Connections. Control. But control was never absolute.
And in the underworld, no one stayed untouchable forever.
"Good work," Crocodile said finally, rising from his chair.
Daz gave a sharp nod, his coat shifting as he turned toward the door. "I'll keep digging."
His footsteps echoed against the marble floor as he left, the heavy door clicking shut behind him.
Silence returned, thick and charged. Smoke still coiled lazily in the air, but the air felt heavier now, the weight of unspoken thoughts pressing between them.
Sineka traced the rim of Crocodile's whiskey glass, her eyes thoughtful as she studied the papers he'd left behind. "Tezren's building something that requires speed, money, and silence," she murmured. "Whatever he's planning... it's not small."
Crocodile stepped closer, the faint brush of his coat against hers as he leaned beside her, gaze heavy with unspoken calculations. "He's careful," he murmured. "But everyone makes mistakes."
Sineka's lips curved faintly. "And when he does?"
Crocodile's smirk returned, slow and deliberate. Smoke curled from his lips as he murmured, "We'll be waiting."
The soft crackle of burning tobacco filled the silence between them, the air thick with smoke and tension. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, drawn close by the flickering lamplight, as if the walls themselves leaned in to listen. Crocodile took a slow, deliberate drag of his cigar, the ember flaring faintly before fading to a smoldering glow. The scent of tobacco mingled with the faint trace of her perfume—warm spice and something faintly sweet, like the memory of autumn clinging to silk.
His mind moved in sharp, calculated strides, the pieces of Tezren's operation aligning within the invisible framework of the underworld. Devaro's ships, Vex's money, Rostov's blade—each a cog in a machine still hidden beneath the surface, but not for long. Tezren was dangerous, but not untouchable.
And Crocodile? He had spent his entire damn life proving that nothing—power, control, even fate itself—lasted forever.
Yet despite the weight of shifting tides, despite the knowledge that war stirred beneath the surface, there was a persistent distraction in the room.
Sineka.
She sat beside him with the illusion of perfect stillness, her posture poised, her expression unreadable beneath the soft golden light. Yet her fingers betrayed her. Idly, absentmindedly, she played with the hem of his coat, twisting the fabric between her fingers, tracing invisible patterns into the expensive material as if she were painting her thoughts against the silk. The touch was light, delicate—almost intimate.
Almost.
But Crocodile knew better.
She wasn't paying attention to the aftermath of the meeting.
No—she was sulking.
Still touchy, still irritated, still fighting that silent war within herself over the fact that she had lost to him yet again.
The corner of his mouth twitched in something that might have been amusement, had it not been laced with something darker.
It was almost adorable.
Almost.
Her breath stirred faintly as she exhaled, her gaze fixed somewhere far off, lost in thoughts she wouldn't voice. Then—her nails traced over the lapel of his coat, a slow, deliberate motion, as if she wasn't even aware she was still touching him.
Crocodile's patience snapped.
With one smooth motion, he caught her wrist and pulled.
Sineka gasped softly, her balance tipping as she was yanked forward without warning. The world tilted as she fell into him, her knees straddling his lap before she could stop it, her palms landing against his chest to brace herself.
Silence.
She stilled, eyes wide, pulse flickering faintly against the inside of his wrist.
Crocodile smirked.
"What exactly are you doing, woman?"
Her breath hitched, but she recovered quickly—of course she did. She always did. Her expression shifted like a brushstroke across canvas—surprise melting into something slow, something deliberate, something that hovered just shy of a challenge. Her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile, her gaze gleaming with the same calculated defiance that had haunted him since the night they first crossed paths.
"Wouldn't you like to know?" she murmured.
Crocodile exhaled sharply, half a breath, half a laugh, smoke curling lazily from his lips as his golden eyes darkened with something unreadable. His grip shifted slightly at her waist, fingers pressing just enough to remind her of the strength beneath the tailored silk of his coat. His hook rested lightly against the bare curve of her thigh where her gown had shifted, cool steel against warm skin—a dangerous contrast of silk and iron.
A warning.
Or a promise.
Sineka didn't flinch.
Instead, she shifted closer, slow enough to feel the tension coil between them, her breath warm against his collar as her nails traced the faint edge of his scar beneath the silk of his shirt. The deliberate scrape of her touch sent a slow ripple through his nerves, measured and maddening.
Crocodile's smirk didn't falter, but the air around them shifted—thicker, heavier, charged with the tension of a game neither of them had yet named.
"Still playing games?" His voice was low, roughened with smoke and something slower, something dangerous. "You haven't won a single round."
Sineka's smirk mirrored his, slow and deliberate as she dragged her fingers down the front of his shirt, nails scraping lightly against the fabric. Her pulse thrummed faintly beneath his grip, quickening just enough to betray her composure.
"Maybe I like losing," she whispered.
Crocodile's eyes darkened, the air between them tightening like the pause before a storm.
He didn't move.
Didn't have to.
Power hummed in the space between them, a silent reminder that control had never once slipped from his grasp. Yet beneath the heat of her gaze, beneath the deliberate brush of her body against his, there was a question unspoken—one she hadn't yet dared to answer.
Crocodile leaned back slowly, the faint creak of leather beneath his shoulders as he exhaled another slow plume of smoke. His golden eyes gleamed through the haze, half-lidded and knowing.
"We'll see about that."
The air between them crackled with something that tasted like a challenge.
Sineka had anticipated many things when Crocodile pulled her into his lap.
A power struggle. A battle of control. Maybe even a slow, drawn-out game where she could still tilt the scales in her favor.
What she had not expected—
Was to be hauled over his shoulder like a damn sack of silk and sin.
"Crocodile—!" She gasped, nails digging into the back of his coat as he rose to his full, imposing height. His broad shoulders shifted with effortless strength, not a hint of strain as he carried her out of his office without a single word.
The audacity.
The nerve.
Theabsolutelack of warning.
Sineka swung a fist against his back, her voice caught somewhere between irritation and disbelief. "Put me down, you brute—"
"Shut up."
Her breath caught.
Not because she was intimidated.
But because she was intrigued.
Crocodile strode through the villa with the slow, unhurried confidence of a man who owned every damn thing his gaze touched. The heavy silence of the corridors seemed to bow in his presence, the faint echo of his footsteps against polished marble the only sound as he carried her deeper into the heart of the estate. His golden hook rested against the back of her thighs, cool steel brushing exposed skin where her gown had shifted, while his free hand kept her firmly in place.
And the worst part?
She could tell—he wasenjoyingthis.
Bastard.
Sineka clenched her teeth, torn between the urge to fight and the faint, traitorous pulse of heat curling low in her stomach. This wasn't how the game was supposed to go. She should have been the one holding the upper hand, teasing him with light touches and unreadable smiles untilhebroke first. But now—
Her thoughts scattered as Crocodile turned down the corridor leading toward his private quarters. The air seemed warmer here, the distant scent of smoke and spiced cedar clinging faintly to the dark wood walls. A golden wall sconce cast faint shadows across heavy oak doors—too many shadows, too much space to think—
And then—
A servant appeared.
The young man, dressed in immaculate black and gold livery, rounded the corner—and froze.
His eyes widened, his gaze locking onto the sight of his employer carrying a fully grown woman draped over his shoulder, her gown hiked just enough to reveal the silk of her stockings and the curve of her thighs. Sineka had just enough time to register the sheerembarrassmentof her position—her legs swaying slightly with Crocodile's stride, her ass perfectly level with the man's line of sight—
Before Crocodile spoke.
Calm. Commanding. Unbothered.
"Have the maids bring her night things to my room. She's staying."
Sineka's mind blanked.
The servant's mouth opened slightly, as if to question what thehellwas happening—but one glance at Crocodile's unamused expression made him snap into action.
"Y-yes, sir!"
Sineka exhaled slowly, her pulse thrumming beneath her skin.
Oh.
Oh, he was good.
Possessive bastard.
She had no idea if this was punishment, amusement, or a deliberate reminder of whoownedthe power in this game—but one thing was certain: He was making agoddamnstatement.
By the time Crocodile reached his bedroom, Sineka had resigned herself to her fate.
At least—
Until he threw her.
The world tilted without warning as Crocodile effortlessly tossed her onto the massive bed. The silk sheets softened her landing, but she still bounced slightly, her breath knocked loose in sheer shock.
She pushed herself onto her elbows, cinnamon hair falling loose around her shoulders as she narrowed her eyes at him. "You—"
But her words died.
Because Crocodile didn't leave.
He didn't turn his back.
He didn't walk away.
No.
Instead—
He started undoing his coat.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
The air in the room shifted, thickening with something heavy and slow.
A single shrug, and the expensive, heavy fabric slid from his shoulders, the faint rustle of silk breaking the silence as it dropped onto a nearby chair. The lamplight caught the faint gold embroidery along the coat's edges before the shadows swallowed it whole.
Sineka stilled, breath caught somewhere between her chest and throat.
Because—
Oh.
Oh.
He was giving her agoddamn strip tease.
Crocodile's gaze never wavered, his golden eyes gleaming faintly through the dim light as he rolled up his sleeves with slow, deliberate movements, baring strong forearms dusted faintly with scars—faint echoes of battles won and enemies broken. The linen shifted as he adjusted the cuffs, movements unhurried, as if fully aware that she waswatching.
The bastard.
Then—
The vest.
Button by button, he undid the fine black silk, slow enough that the anticipation burned beneath her skin. When he shrugged it off, the motion sent a faint ripple through his shoulders, the fabric sliding away to reveal the tailored lines of his shirt beneath.
Sineka's throat went dry.
She clenched her fists into the sheets, fingers twisting the silk as if that might anchor her pulse.
Crocodile didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The air between them pulsed with the unspoken weight of every power struggle, every stolen glance, every moment where control had shifted back and forth like a blade balanced on the edge of a fingertip.
And now—
She was losing.
Again.
And the worst part?
She didn't want to win.
Not this time.
Crocodile's gaze flicked up, catching hers through the haze of half-lit shadows—and she hated how smug he looked. How the faint curve of his mouth sent a slow coil of heat spiraling through her chest, low and dangerous and impossible to ignore.
The bastard knewexactlywhat he was doing.
He reached for his belt.
Sineka's breath hitched as the faint, deliberate sound of leather sliding free from its loops echoed in the stillness. The buckle glinted faintly before falling away with a soft clink of metal, leaving the long length of black leather coiled loosely in his hand.
He paused.
Just long enough to let the anticipationburn.
Her breath stilled, pulse hammering in her chest as her nails pressed harder into the sheets beneath her.
Crocodile tilted his head slightly, gaze heavy with something unreadable, something dark and slow and infinitely patient. As if waiting to see whether she'd break the silence first—
Or surrender to it.
Sineka swallowed hard, every nerve in her body strung taut beneath the heat of his gaze. Sheshouldhave been annoyed. Sheshouldhave been insulted.
But instead—
She was completely. Fucking.Mesmerized.
And the worst part?
She had lost.
Again.
And this time—
She wasn't going to stop him from winning.