Nightingale

The salty, damp sea breeze carried the stink of fish and the scent of returning voyages through the docks in the early morning. Thatch stood among his crew, his towering frame casting a heavy shadow in the morning light.

He surveyed his men as they busily loaded and unloaded cargo, a barely perceptible trace of impatience flickering across his weathered face.

"Hunt!" he called to the first mate directing the porters, his voice like rolling thunder.

Hunt, who wore a buzz cut and had a faint scar on his face, turned at the sound. Showing teeth yellowed slightly by tobacco, he hurried over. "What is it, Captain?"

Thatch clapped a hand on his old friend's shoulder, hard enough to make Hunt stagger slightly. "Old friend, keep an eye on them for me. Watch them closely. I've got something to take care of. I'll be back soon."

Hunt rubbed his bristly short hair, a knowing, faintly teasing smile spreading across his face. He lightly elbowed Thatch's iron-hard chest and lowered his voice.

"Of course, Captain. But... remember to bring plenty of money. Don't fucking forget your emergency funds again this time." He winked and gave a long, suggestive whistle. "Careful someone doesn't lure away that precious little 'songbird' of yours with a few shiny Beli."

Thatch shoved him with a laughing curse and gave no answer. He simply turned and left the noisy docks with firm, slightly hurried strides. His figure passed through several increasingly quiet alleys before finally stopping in front of an old-looking wooden door.

Above the door, a wooden sign carved with a nightingale swayed gently in the breeze-"Nightingale Tavern." At this hour, the tavern was still shut and had yet to open for the day.

Without hesitation, Thatch reached out with a large hand and pushed open the door, which was somewhat narrow for him. Its hinges gave a faint creak, breaking the silence inside.

In the dim light, a young waitress with a few freckles dotting her face was yawning as she sleepily wiped a glass. The enormous figure that suddenly entered blocked almost all the light from the doorway, startling her so badly that the glass nearly slipped from her hand.

"S-sir... w-we aren't open yet." The girl stammered as she looked at Thatch's absurdly burly frame and weather-beaten face, a hint of fear in her voice.

Just then, a languid, slightly husky voice that seemed to hold endless temptation drifted down from the second floor.

"Good heavens... what drunken fool doesn't know his manners, knocking on my door this early?" Her words were accompanied by the crisp, rhythmic tapping of high heels on the wooden stairs.

Thatch's gaze was instantly drawn toward her. A woman in a purple silk nightdress slowly appeared around the bend in the stairs, like a ripe peach quietly falling from its branch. The smooth silk perfectly outlined her breathtaking curves.

A slender strap seemed unable to bear its burden and slipped down, revealing a rounded, delicate shoulder and a tantalizing glimpse of a full curve. She seemed to have just been woken. The instant her slightly narrowed, sleep-clouded eyes met Thatch's, an extraordinarily complicated glimmer flashed through them.

-There was surprise, recognition, and perhaps a trace of something deeply suppressed.

The woman turned her face away with an air of casual allure, reached up, and loosely gathered her long, wavy chestnut hair. She secured it with a hairpin she produced from somewhere, deftly pulling the fallen strap back into place at the same time.

"What brings you here." Her tone was flat, making it impossible to tell whether it was a question or a statement. She did not look at Thatch again, instead walking straight to the counter.

The slit in the hem of her nightdress swayed with her steps, occasionally offering a fleeting glimpse of beautifully shaped, honey-colored thighs. That healthy skin tone and those firm curves were enough to make any normal man's breath catch.

She settled lightly onto a barstool and instructed the freckled girl, "Warm me a glass of milk, Amy." Then, as though she had exhausted all her strength, she stretched languidly, fully revealing her perfect curves beneath the soft silk.

The freckled girl named Amy blushed at the sight. Hastily clutching her tray, she scurried into the back like a startled rabbit. "Y-yes, boss."

Thatch stood where he was, his gaze locked firmly on the woman. His eyes were as tangled as a mass of seaweed, churning with three parts infatuation he could not relinquish, three parts resentment over the past, and three parts nameless anger at the present.

In the end, all those emotions became a whistle that feigned nonchalance but could not conceal its heaviness.

"Camille," he began, his voice lower and huskier than usual. He dragged over a barstool and sat beside her, its wooden legs scraping shrilly across the floor. "I'm going to be somebody."

The woman called Camille kept her head lowered, her long lashes casting small shadows. She busied herself with her slender, painted fingers, as though they held endless fascination. At Thatch's words, she gave an almost inaudible sigh.

"Listen, Thatch," she said with weary admonishment, "you're not some teenage kid anymore. Why are you still chasing these unrealistic dreams?" She drew a deep breath, seemingly trying to calm herself, but when she spoke again, a trace of sharpness crept involuntarily into her voice.

"Ten years ago, you left full of fire, saying you'd make something of yourself at sea. And what came of it? Why have you suddenly come running back here ten years later, pretending to be some big shot?"

Thatch opened his mouth. Something seemed to block his throat, and all the spirited words he had prepared lodged there, leaving him unable to utter a single one.

He looked at the woman before him, so familiar yet so unfamiliar, and saw the slight trembling she could not entirely conceal beneath her feigned composure and indifference.

Suddenly, he moved. Like a silent volcano abruptly erupting, his towering body pitched forward. He reached out with arms as thick as an ordinary person's thighs and swept her into his embrace with an almost savage force, yet an unbelievable tenderness.

Camille stiffened in shock at his sudden action and instinctively put up a token struggle, so feeble that it seemed more invitation than refusal.

"Let go..." Her protest was muffled against his chest.

Thatch held her tightly, as though he wanted to crush her and embed her in his flesh and bones. Camille's face was pressed into his coarse clothes, which smelled of sea wind and sweat, and she could clearly feel the heavy, powerful beat of his heart beneath his chest.

Hot tears rapidly welled in her eyes against her will. She desperately tilted her head up, stubbornly refusing to let them fall.

After a long while, when Thatch's embrace loosened a little, Camille broke the taut silence, her voice carrying a barely perceptible catch and a resigned weariness.

"Tell me, what do you want me to do this time? Dig up information on some poor bastard, or help you get rid of contraband that can't see the light of day?" She knew him too well. Every appearance seemed to bring trouble and exploitation.

Yet Thatch's answer was completely unexpected.

"I want to fuck you."

Those low, heated words were like sparks falling into a barrel of oil. Before he had finished speaking, before Camille could react, Thatch scooped her off the barstool. She gave a brief cry of surprise, her arms instinctively circling his neck.

Holding her as though she were a priceless treasure, Thatch climbed the wooden stairs to the second floor with steady, urgent strides. Her high heels fell to the floor with crisp clacks, ignored.

Upstairs, in the bedroom that was the tavern owner's private domain, the air was thick with the languor peculiar to spent passion, mingled with a faint scent of liquor and the woman's fragrance.

Naked, Camille curled like a languid cat in Thatch's broad embrace, his equally naked body covered in scars of every kind.

Her fingertips, soft with lingering languor, unconsciously and gently stroked the crisscrossing scars on Thatch's chest and arms, which recorded countless battles at sea. A flush still lingered on her cheeks, and her eyes were hazy and complicated.

"This time is different, Millie." Thatch's voice was husky with satisfaction. He held her closer and began to recount what had happened, his eyes brightening with recollection.

"I met someone important... no, perhaps I should say someone little, a boy who looked only sixteen or seventeen. My God, you wouldn't believe it..."

He waved his thick arms, gesturing in the air as he tried to recreate the scene. "My brothers and I had our eyes on a merchant ship that looked like a profitable catch. We were just getting ready to board her and go all out.

"Then, out of nowhere, this fellow covered in iron armor came swooshing into the sky, just hovering there! Yes, fucking flying!"

Thatch's voice was full of disbelief. "We were scared stupid. We fired bullets and cannonballs at him, and none of it did a damn thing! Those strange black grains of sand around him stopped everything. Then he thrashed us as easily as handling a bunch of chicks."

He paused, a trace of lingering fear appearing on his face, though it was outweighed by the excitement of having found somewhere he belonged. "Only after we were all down did he land. He told us he was going to do something earth-shattering and asked if we wanted to join him."

"I thought, Fuck, what else can we do? He's got our lives in his hands. We've got no choice but to agree!" Thatch's voice grew excited. "But guess what? The fellow just casually waved his hand!"

He imitated Boer's gesture. "Whoosh, and a two-handed greatsword appeared out of thin air! I'm not bragging. It was absolutely top quality, the sort of good stuff that would fetch at least five hundred thousand Beli in a weapons shop!"

Camille listened quietly, her gaze gentle as she watched the man boast as excitedly as though he had found a beloved toy. Her fingers continued to trace lightly over his scarred skin.

"He told us he could make two hundred swords like that in a single day! Good God!" Thatch nearly sat up in bed in his excitement. "I wanted to drop to my knees and kiss his toes right then! Do you know what that means?"

His voice suddenly grew low and forceful, carrying an unprecedented seriousness and chill. "Then, to show his power, he just waved his hand at the sea... Boom!!!!" Thatch imitated the explosion, making Camille's ears ring. "A column of water erupted out of the sea, more terrifying than anything from the largest naval gun I'd ever seen! It was like the sea god's fury!"

He abruptly turned his head. His eyes, which had weathered countless storms, were now as sharp as a hawk's as he coldly studied Camille's face close to his own, catching every subtle change in her expression. His gaze swept over her neck, graceful as a swan's yet fragile.

"Tell me... someone like that," Thatch asked, enunciating every word, his voice heavy with pressure, "if he wanted to overthrow the Kent Family and unite Bernia's underworld... could he do it?"

Camille's body trembled almost imperceptibly. She met Thatch's gaze, her beautiful eyes instantly filling with tears, flickering with fear, grievance, and long-suppressed pain.

"Thatch... I'm only a woman," she said with a heartbreaking catch in her voice. "A weak, helpless woman with nothing but a little beauty."

Camille, known as "Nightingale," naturally understood the meaning behind Thatch's words. He was forcing her to choose a side, dragging her into a vortex from which she might never escape. "What can I do? Young Master Daniel of the Kent Family, and that greedy sheriff, Wyman Matt... they come looking for me every so often. Do you know that?"

Her voice suddenly grew shrill, filled with long-pent-up venom. "Ha... of course, there's you too, my love, Mr. Thatch the 'Greatsword'! Every last one of you is only interested in what little use you can make of me, isn't that right?"

Her tears finally broke free and streamed down her smooth cheeks. She suddenly thrust out both hands and, with a self-destructive despair, raked her sharp nails viciously across Thatch's bare, sweat-damp chest, leaving several distinct bloody scratches.

Thatch did not dodge. He did not even frown. He merely raised his huge, rough hand to cup Camille's tear-wet cheek, then pressed his forehead firmly against hers, their noses touching and their breaths mingling.

"Go tell Daniel," Thatch said, his voice low and clear, carrying an unquestionable command. Every word hammered into the depths of Camille's heart.

"Tell that Kent bastard that I, Thatch, picked up a 'child' while I was at sea. He has the power of the Magnet-Magnet Fruit. The blades he makes in a day alone are worth over a hundred million Beli." He paused, a savage murderous intent flashing in his eyes. "And I'm going to send him and his entire Kent Family straight to hell!"

After those earth-shattering words, Thatch drew the trembling Camille back into his arms, gently yet with overwhelming insistence. His arms tightened with enough force to nearly suffocate her, as though he truly meant to crush this conflicted, suffering woman whom he could not let go of, then tuck her safely and wholly into the depths of his violently beating heart.

In the dim room, only the woman's suppressed, broken sobs and the man's heavy, bellows-like breathing remained.