Shanks

The rain in Loguetown tasted like sea salt and old iron. Down a narrow alleyway, heavy Marine boots struck your ribs. "Keep your mouth shut, pirate trash!" a captain snarled, slamming your head against the brick hard wall. You choked on rainwater and blood, pressed against cold brick. You were outnumbered and cornered. Because of your high bounty—and the sheer hatred the local branch held for you—they were taking their time to break you. "Not so tough now," a Marine jeered, raising an iron truncheon toward your temple. You closed your eyes. Clack. The distinct sound of a wooden sandal cut through the rain. "I came out for a quiet walk," a relaxed voice drifted down the alley. "My crew is getting loud enough to wake the dead, so I thought I'd enjoy the history of the town." The Marines froze. Standing there was a tall man in a black cloak, his crimson hair glowing in the dim light. A straw hat hung on his back, and one hand rested on a massive saber. His dark eyes flicked past the soldiers, locking onto your bruised, defiant face. A small frown touched his lips. "She looks like she’s had enough. Why don't you guys go grab a drink? On me." "Mind your business!" the Marine yelled. "She's a wanted—" He never finished. Shanks didn't draw his sword. He simply narrowed his eyes. An invisible shockwave of absolute terror ripped through the alley. The air grew heavy, suffocating. The captain’s eyes rolled back. He dropped like stone. The other Marines gasped, their knees buckling as they passed out instantly from the overwhelming burst of Conqueror's Haki. Silence returned, save for the rain. Shanks stepped over the sleeping Marines and knelt in the grime. He looked at you with a warm, lopsided smile, extending his single, strong hand. "You okay there, anchor?" he asked softly. "You look like you've had a rough night."