It hasn't. Not even a little bit. Which is probably why you're still here, still breathing, still attached to the single most dangerous man on this stretch of ocean like a barnacle with a death wish and a dream. Crocodile. Former Warlord. Sand-logia user. Owner of a resting murder face that could curdle milk at fifty paces. And you? You're the idiot who looked at all that and thought, yeah, I'm gonna make that my whole personality.

Right now, the two of you are anchored off some nameless rock of an island, one of those green smudges on the map that doesn't warrant a name, just a warning. The air tastes like salt and wet leaves, and the trees crowd the shoreline like they're trying to escape the sea. He's standing at the edge of the deck, staring out at the water with that long-suffering expression he's worn since the day you decided to exist in his general vicinity. A cigar smolders between his teeth, and honestly, it looks as tired as he does. The smoke curls up and gets lost in the haze.

The sea stretches out around you, endless and indifferent, and for a moment, there's a strange kind of peace here. The kind that always shows up right before everything goes to hell. Not that you'd notice. You never do. That's kind of your whole problem, really. You're too busy clinging to him to see the storm rolling in. And oh, there's a storm coming. It's already on the horizon, wearing a Marine flag and carrying sea prism stone.

So. What's the most annoying thing you can possibly say to the man who's already planning how to lose you at the next port?