One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 55: The girl with red hair(18)

I twisted the handle.

Locked.

Of course it was. A detail, not a surprise. Doors like this don't swing open unless they want to. And this one? It wasn't ready to let go.

So now what?

Do I play polite?

Give it the gentleman's approach—knock three times and ask nicely?

Or do I treat it like the beast it is and try to tear it down? Hack it apart like an animal that won't stop twitching?

Problem is, this isn't some hollow door from a rat-infested slum. This is real wood. Old, thick, expensive. The kind that was made when things were built to keep things in. The kind that takes axes and fire and time.

And me? I'm no lumberjack. I'm no brute. I've got a city boy's body, born from shadow and sharp words, not steel and sawdust. I don't have the strength. I don't have the tools. All I've got is nerve, cruelty, and a very sick sense of patience.

Still... manners, right?

Even in a place like this. Even with scum like this.

Doesn't hurt to try.

So I raised my hand.

Three knocks. Precise. No urgency. No plea.

Just... a man asking for a invite.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Behind me, the air froze.

I didn't have to look. I could feel them—the crew holding their breath like it would buy them safety. As if their silence might trick the thing behind the door into thinking they weren't there. As if I might be enough to satisfy it.

No answer.

Of course not.

You don't train monsters to open doors. You build them rooms to contain the appetite.

I chuckled, low and dry. Not surprised. What did I expect? Etiquette from a roomful of rot?

This crew was a ragpile of cowards and cutthroats. They wouldn't know manners if they were branded on their tongues. They'd piss on the captain's carpet if they weren't so scared of who steps on it.

Still... this door.

I pressed my palm flat against it. It was warm. Breathing. Waiting.

I could shoulder it, maybe. Try to ram it down like some meat-brained hero in a tavern tale. But if it didn't break—and let's be honest, it wouldn't—I'd only break myself.

My arm. My shoulder. My pride.

And worse?

I'd lose the moment. The theater of it all. The fear farming, as I like to call it. All this tension, all these wide eyes and clenched jaws—it would die the second I flung myself at the door and bounced off like a drunk.

No. That wouldn't do.

This has to be earned.

Every second stretched. Every breath caught. Every step forward measured in dread.

Because they know what's behind this door. Or they think they do. And that uncertainty?

That's the real feast.

So I stood there. One hand on the warm wood. One foot half-forward. And I let the decision ferment.

Decisions, decisions.

What to do, what not to do.

Lets do get help.

I raised a hand and pointed.

Not at the door. Not at the thing breathing behind it.

At him.

A middle-aged crewman. Gaunt face, skin slick with sweat, his clothes sticking to his trembling frame like wet rags. His fingers twitched near the gun strapped to his belt, but he made no move to draw it. His legs wobbled like they might give out any second. If I blew air in his direction, I was sure he'd crumple.

Pathetic.

I almost felt offended that this was the kind of man left standing on this ship. That this was the best their so-called tyrant had mustered. But then again, cowards always outlive the brave, don't they?

I made the gesture.

Two fingers to my temple. Bang.

He stared.

Blinking. Confused.

Oh, come on. I could see the gears struggling to turn in his skull, like a rusted machine choked with dust. Was fear slowing his brain, or was he naturally this dim?

I repeated it, slower this time. More deliberate. Pressed the fake gun to my head. Let my tongue click against the roof of my mouth—sharp, crisp, echoing in the dead silence.

"BAM."

Then a beckoning motion. Come here, little rat.

I watched the moment realization dawned. His breath hitched, and his body locked up, his muscles tensing like a hare staring into the mouth of a wolf. But he obeyed.

Step.

By agonizing step.

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He climbed the stairs, looking like each movement cost him a decade of his life. And when he reached me, he did something that almost made me laugh.

He bowed.

Like some pitiful peasant offering tribute to a king.

Oh, he had a spine made of water, but at least he had some semblance of manners.

I took the gun from his shaking hands. Cold metal, damp with the sweat of a man who thought he might die holding it. The weight of it was solid. Familiar. Like an old friend.

I flicked my fingers, shooing him away like a fly buzzing too close.

He hesitated. I felt it—the half-second pause, the breath caught in his throat. He was waiting. Expecting me to cut him down right there.

Not yet.

But the idea was tempting.

I turned the gun over in my hand, pressing the barrel lightly against my forehead.

Do I shoot myself?

The thought slithered in like a whisper, curling around my mind, wrapping around my pulse.

I want to.

Not out of despair. Not out of weakness.

Just to see—to feel—what it's like once more.

Just to hear the crew's breath choke in their throats, to watch their faces twist in sheer, gut-wrenching panic.

To watch their fragile hope splinter like brittle glass.

But not yet.

Not yet.

I lowered the gun, rolling my neck as I let the moment settle. Let them think I might do it. Let them drown in the anticipation.

Then, finally, I turned the barrel away from myself.

And leveled it at the door handle.

No more knocking. No more waiting.

This door was going to open one way or another.

I curled my finger over the trigger.

The crew held their breath.

I smiled.

BANG.

The gunshot shattered the silence.

A flash of fire and smoke. A roar of metal and splintering wood.

The ship—the whole damn ship—seemed to exhale.