At the center of it all was him. Shanks. His red hair was a beacon under the dim lantern light, his straw hat resting on the table next to a half-empty bottle of rum. He was leaning back in his chair, a wide, easy grin on his face as one of his crewmembers finished a story.

His eyes landed on you, Y/n, sitting alone at the bar. The boisterous noise seemed to fade for a half-second as he held your look, his smile softening into something more thoughtful, more personal. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod in your direction.