Chapter Text
The cell was damp, the air heavy with salt. Every wall dripped with thin rivulets that shimmered in the torchlight, like the place itself was alive and bleeding. Chains rattled whenever someone shifted, a hollow sound swallowed by stone.
Sanji sat alone against the far wall of the cell , shackled with sea–stone cuffs that bit into his wrists and legs, pinned his strength down like a dog on a leash. Across the small chamber, the rest of the crew hung in a cruel line, manacled to the opposite wall chained much like him , Close enough that he could see the bruises swelling on Zoro’s collarbone, the dried blood at the corner of Usopp’s mouth, but too far for even the brush of a fingertip.
Nami’s arms were locked high above her head, her shoulders trembling from the strain. Her face was pale, but her eyes burned sharp with fury — a fire barely banked. Robin held her head steady, but her hair clung damp to her face; the cuffs cut deep into her wrists, faint rivulets of blood dripping with every shift-It made him angry how dear whoever was do this to his precious ladies- Franky’s frame looked wrong without his freedom of movement, the bulk of his arms hanging useless, cola energy humming faintly but trapped under the drag of sea–stone. Luffy was slouched, chest rising and falling with harsh breaths, his skin clammy from the suffocating contact of the cuffs, every line of his body coiled as if waiting for the moment he could explode.
Sanji drew in a thin breath. “Everyone… you all holding up?” His voice was rough, echoing in the damp.
“I’m fine,” Zoro muttered, though the tension in his jaw said otherwise.
“Little dizzy, but—yeah,” Usopp croaked, forcing a crooked smile that faltered under the bruise on his lip.
“Alive,” Robin said simply, calm but clipped.
“I’ll survive,” Nami answered, her voice tight.
“Same here, super or not,” Franky rumbled, though the bite in his words couldn’t cover the helplessness in his eyes.
Luffy lifted his head last. “We’ll break out. Don’t worry, Sanji.” His grin was there, weak and strained, but it still flickered.
Sanji’s hands curled into fists against the stone floor, anger flaring hot enough to burn through the chill. He dragged his gaze around the chamber, every shadow and drip catalogued like an enemy. That’s when he noticed it — a shape he hadn’t registered through the haze before.
On the right side of him, rising from the floor like some obscene altar, stood a screen — huge, black, its glass surface dull in the torchlight. Wires and tubes fed into the stone around it, as if it was pulsing with something alive, waiting.
Sanji’s stomach tightened. Whatever game their captor wanted to play, it would start with that screen.
And Chopper wasn’t there. That absence made the air burn hotter in Sanji’s lungs than the damp chill.
He could still taste the sea on his tongue from the fight. It had started in the harbor, quick and ugly. The bastard had risen from the tide itself — a man with water flowing under his skin, twisting it into whips and spears. Every cut had weighed like drowning. Sanji had tried to drive a kick into the man’s jaw, but the strike slid through him like striking a tide pool. Then the sea–stone water cuffs had come crashing down, solid and suffocating. Luffy’s roar had been choked out mid–swing when liquid shackles wrapped around his arms and hardened like iron. Nami’s scream echoed in his skull. And then darkness.
Now they were here.
Nami sat rigid, her knees drawn tight as if she could fold herself away from the damp stone. Robin leaned against her cuffs, outwardly calm, but Sanji saw the twitch in her jaw. Usopp’s hands trembled, his lip split, and Franky’s shoulders strained against the chains, but even cola–powered strength couldn’t break sea–stone. Luffy slumped but awake, head low, muscles tense like a cornered beast.
Brook wasn’t with them. He’d gone ahead earlier, wandering into town for supplies or music or gods knew what. Sanji clung to that fact like a thread — if Brook was free, there was still a chance.
Sanji forced himself to think. He catalogued every weakness: the dripping cracks in the walls, the way water seeped under the door with each shift of the guard’s footsteps. If he could time it, maybe he could—no, not yet. Any move too soon and they’d drown him in chains before he got two steps.
His eyes lifted. Across the dim, Zoro was watching him. Not openly — just that half–lidded glare, sharp as drawn steel. He knew that look. Not defeat. Calculation. A silent exchange passed between them in a single flicker: Look for an opening. We’re not done.
Sanji pressed his head back against the slick stone, jaw tight. His wrists burned under the cuffs, nails digging crescents into his palms.
Chopper was missing. Which meant the bastard had a reason. Which meant the kid was alive — for now.
Sanji’s chest ached, and not from the bruises.
Touch the little doctor, and I’ll tear this whole cell down with my teeth if I have to.
“Who the hell is this bastard?” Usopp hissed, peering past his cuffs toward the shadow by the door. His voice had a brittle edge.
“Somewhere between a tide and a monster,” Franky muttered, swearing under his breath as his fingers tested the useless weight of the sea–stone. “Water everywhere. He moved like he was part of it.”
Nami’s lips pressed thin. “Why us? Why here?” She wiped her palm across her face - as much as the chains let her -leaving a salt streak like a second tear.
Robin’s voice floated over them, clipped and careful. “Whoever he is, he didn’t bring us here at random. He wants something. Either leverage… or a message. We need to find out which.”
Zoro’s head turned slowly until his slit eyes found Sanji. He crooked a brow, the look half-question, half-accusation. “Then why’s the shitty cook chained off by himself on the other wall? Huh? Looks like he’s getting special treatment.” He snorted. There was no kindness in it, only the edge of suspicion and the irritation of not understanding.
Sanji rolled his eyes with more force than he felt able to spare and let a dry smile skitter across his face. “Yeah, I’m very special,” he snapped back, bitterness folding the joke into something that left a metallic taste. “Must be VIP treatment—free room and damp, two meals a day of regret.”
Usopp’s breath hitched; Nami’s hand went to her neck as if to swallow the fear lodged there. The practical panic arrived next, precise and ugly: they started to look. Eyes scanned seams in the stone, the layout of the chains, the torch brackets, the way water pooled under the door. Even in the cramped gloom, plans began to assemble themselves — small, improbable things given life by need.
“Everybody check your cuffs again,” Nami ordered, voice low but firm. “Find anything—anything—we tell each other. Quietly.”
“We can wedge a rib into the lock if we get a chance,” Usopp whispered, already calculating angles with the ridiculous precision of a liar who had learned to mean it. Franky hummed, thinking about mechanical tricks, while Robin’s eyes traveled not to the cuffs but to the floor—studying, cataloguing.
“Is Chopper… okay?” Robin asked then, softer than before. Sanji felt the word like an ache and had to stop his shoulder from shaking.
“No idea,” Sanji said. The word tore out of him, small and useless. “He’s not here. He’s—” He swallowed and forced the rest down. “Whoever took him wants something.”
Zoro’s jaw flexed. The swordsman’s quiet tightened into a promise that had nothing to do with words. “If anyone—anyone—hurts him,” Zoro said, each syllable like the rasp of a sharpened blade, “I’ll make them wish they’d never been born.”
The room went a fraction colder. Luffy’s head snapped up, eyes bright with the stupid, terrifying kind of hope he always carried when something needed smashing. “Hey!” he howled, voice ricocheting off stone. “You! Come out here! Come get us—let me kick your ass!”
The shout hung for a breath, raw and useless and exactly what Luffy needed to feel like he was still trying. Sanji’s laugh broke out, hollow and too loud, then curdled. It was a dangerous sound to make—challenge and despair braided together.
From somewhere beyond the corridor, footsteps answered—soft at first, then purposeful. Water dripped; the torchlight trembled. The screen on the right edge of Sanji’s vision caught a little more of the light and seemed to swallow it, an unreadable black between them and whatever this man wanted.
Sanji’s mind snapped back into the work it knew best ,measuring time, counting beats, feeling for weaknesses. The crew debated plans and threats and desperate hope; he listened, but his gaze kept returning to that screen, to the way the door’s shadow moved as if something—or someone—had decided to step into the space between them.
He could feel it in his periphery — the way every muscle in his crew went taut at once. Chains creaked as shoulders stiffened, fists clenched, breath caught. Even Luffy, who rarely noticed danger until it was chewing on his arm, had gone silent but for the low grind of his teeth.
The torchlight wavered as if the air itself knew something was moving closer. Each drip of water from the ceiling hit the stone with cruel precision, ticking the seconds away.
Sanji forced his breathing steady, though his gut had already curled into a knot. His wrists ached from testing the cuffs, but he didn’t stop flexing them against the sea–stone. Anything to keep his body ready, even if his strength was leeched dry.
The footsteps drew nearer, unhurried, confident. Whoever it was didn’t need to rush. The bastard already had them cornered.
Nami’s eyes flicked to the door, wide and shining in the dim. Usopp licked his split lip, muttering something half-voiced to himself, like a charm that wouldn’t work but made him feel less breakable. Franky’s shoulders rolled, chains clanking loud, a defiance that said try me even though they all knew the sea–stone robbed him cold. Robin’s gaze stayed fixed, calculating shadows, already looking for angles.
Zoro tilted his chin, the faintest smirk tugging his mouth like he welcomed the challenge—but Sanji caught the flicker beneath it, the quiet fury waiting for a target.
Then the sound shifted: boots scraping against stone, then the slow hiss of water seeping across the floor as though it had a will of its own. The black screen beside Sanji hummed faintly, a breath of static crawling across its surface.
Sanji’s pulse kicked hard. Whoever this was, they wanted an audience. They wanted a show.
The door creaked open, metal grinding against stone, and a tall figure filled the threshold. Behind him, half a dozen armed men fanned out, their boots slapping the damp floor in perfect rhythm. The torches hissed as the scent of brine seemed to deepen.
The man at the front was huge — broad shouldered, hair slicked dark like wet kelp, eyes glinting with the calm cruelty of someone who had waited a long time for this moment. He let his gaze travel down the line of chained Straw Hats, smirking at each of them in turn, before it settled on Sanji across the cell.
“Well hello my dears my name Lognar,” he said, his voice low but carrying easily in the silence. “I’m sorry to drag you all into this.” His lips curved as he gestured lazily toward Sanji. “But you see, you’ve made a mistake. You welcomed a monster among you.”
He pointed straight at Sanji.
The words landed heavy.
Zoro’s lip curled. “Tch. If you’ve got a problem with him, bastard, then take it up with us too. Don’t stand there spouting excuses.”
Lognar’s smirk widened, as though he’d been waiting for that. “You don’t know, do you?” His tone dipped to something almost pitying, but his eyes were alight with spite. “He hides it well. But that face—those eyes, that jaw—are unmistakable. He’s Vinsmoke blood.”
Sanji went rigid, color draining fast from his cheeks. His hands clenched uselessly against the cuffs.
The rest of the crew blinked, confusion flaring in a chorus of startled looks.
“Vinsmoke?” Nami’s brows knit tight. “What are you talking about?”
Usopp glanced from Sanji to the man and back again, shaking his head. “Wait—hold on, what?”
Lognar’s voice sharpened, every word a dagger dipped in old hatred. “The Vinsmokes burned my home. My parents died screaming under their boots. And now—” he drew closer to Sanji, his bulk blotting out the torchlight, “—now I finally have one of them in chains. It’s not enough to kill you, boy. I’ll make you and your family pay until your father feels it in his bones.”
Sanji’s eyes narrowed, fire sparking under the pallor. “Shut up,” he spat, the words cracking out hard. “I’m not Vinsmoke. Don’t you dare call me that and don’t call that man my father you bastard!”
Lognar’s expression chilled, smirk collapsing into something harder. “You can deny it all you want. But I would know those features anywhere. You’re the spit of your brothers.”
“Brothers?” Robin’s voice was calm but cutting, probing the silence. “What brothers?”
Nami’s gaze darted between Sanji and Lognar, wide with disbelief. “Sanji—what is he talking about?”
All eyes swung to him, the weight of the room pressing in, waiting for an answer he never wanted to give.
Sanji’s laugh came out raw and brittle. He forced his jaw into a sneer, letting the anger sharpen his voice into something vicious. “Too bad,” he spat, the smirk steady though his fingers trembled. “Even if you kill me, that man”—he tipped his chin toward the doorway, toward the hulking figure—“won’t give a damn. So go on. Do your worst.” The words were knives meant to wound; underneath them sat a lie he fed himself to keep from falling apart.
Lognar’s grin died. For a beat the cell held only their breaths and the distant drip of water. Then the man stepped forward, boots silent, and his face went flat as slate. “I’m not here for petty cruelty,” he said coldly. “I’m here to make the Vinsmokes pay.” He turned to Sanji as if reading a proclamation from a list. “And I have one right here.”
With a practiced motion he reached a hand to the hulking screen between them. It flared to life with a hiss and a wash of blue light, throwing everybody’s faces into hard relief. Static crawled, then a new angle resolved—the view of a small, bare room.
Chopper sat there on a wooden chair,his tiny hooves cuffed to metal rings. His eyes were wide and red-rimmed, fur matted, ears drooping. He looked around like a lost child, every tiny breath visible, every small tremor plain as a bell. A strip of cloth hung at his throat where someone had bound it; he rocked once and tried to call, but only a strangled sound escaped.
The cell exhaled as one. Sanji felt the air leave his lungs like a punch. The sight of Chopper—so small and alone—was a physical blow that doubled him forward against his restraints. The world narrowed to the sound of the little doctor’s ragged breathing on the screen.
“Don’t you—” Robin began, voice snapping sharp enough to slice through stone.
““Don’t even think about it,” Zoro growled, each word low and coiled with violence. His body was a spring ready to snap; Sanji felt that blade-edge of fury heat the air between them.
“Enough,” Lognar cut in, raising a hand. The gesture was quiet but absolute, like a gavel striking. “Hold your tongues. This is not your turn to speak.” His gaze slid back to the screen, eyes cold and glittering. “Silence. Order. Justice.” The words dropped heavy, as if the verdict had already been written.
Sanji’s palms slicked against the sea-stone. He wanted to roar at Lognar, to tear himself free and hurl his body at the screen until the blue light shattered and Chopper was back in his arms. Instead the sound he made was a rasp—small, brittle, barely more than breath. “You bastard—don’t you dare—”
Lognar’s face was unreadable. He leaned forward, chin lifted, and smiled with none of his earlier arrogance. “Let’s start the trial, shall we?” he said, and the smile was a blade. “You will answer for what you are. Your crew will decide your fate.”
The torchlight shivered. The screen hummed, and Chopper’s little silhouette in the chair seemed, in that moment, to be the only thing that mattered at all.
Lognar turned back to the crew, voice calm, almost gentle. “This is how it will be. A trial. Each of you will have your say. Each of you will have your turn.” He let the pause stretch, savoring the weight of their attention. Then, like a blade sliding between ribs, Lognar’s smile thinned until it was a line. He took a slow step forward, boots whispering over the stone, and for a moment he didn’t look at any of them—only at the blue light on the screen, as if the little room with the trembling doctor inside were a private theater of memory.
“I won’t dirty my hands,” he said quietly, and the words landed heavier than any shout. “Killing is easy. Any coward can take a life and call it justice. No—what I want is purer. I want them to feel it. I want the Vinsmoke name to echo in pain, to follow them into sleep.”
He turned, and his gaze swept the room, stopping on each wounded face long enough to read the quick shock there. “I watched them do it,” he went on, voice flat as a blade. “My wife—my sister—tied to posts, made to watch each other break. They were ordered to tear each other’s fingers off so their screams would drown out their pleas. They were made to call the men who did it family, to eat the lies fed to them until the lies were the only thing left.” The memory in his tone didn’t tremble; it hardened. “They made us rip ourselves apart and then laughed while we bled.”
Sanji’s stomach turned as if something had been kicked inside him. He’d known cruelty in many forms, but the image Lognar painted was a slow, surgical kind of hatred that lived in the bones. The man didn’t need to show scars to prove the truth of his words; the way he spoke carried proof enough.
And he knew the Vinsmock he knew what are they could do.
Lognar’s eyes found Sanji and fixed there with the calm of a man who had rehearsed this moment for years. “I won’t be the one to kill you,” he said, voice soft and terrible. “That would be too quick. I won’t become your executioner. Instead, I’ll have you punished the way they taught us to punish: by making those closest to you—the ones who would never raise a hand in anger—do it for me. So that every strike, every cut, every lie you swallow is a mirror. So that your family’s name carries the memory of what it cost us.”
He let the words sit, heavy as iron. “You will feel the way they made us feel. You will know fear when the person you love most becomes the one who lifts a blade. You will wake with their hands on you and hear their apologies in your ears.” He smiled then, a smile without humor. “Then maybe your brothers will remember what they are. Then maybe justice will have been served.”
Sanji’s breath left him in a thin, involuntary sound. Heat rushed to his face, not from anger but from the raw, naked humiliation of being described as if he were the same thing the man hated. He wanted to spit back, to bite and tear, but the sound his throat made was small and helpless. The prospect of the crew—his crew—hurting him by someone else’s design was a weight that flattened him faster than any cuff.
Zoro’s jaw tightened until the muscles stood out like cords. “You’re insane,” he snarled, but the edge of the retort died. No one could deny the logic of cruelty when a man had learned it so well.
Robin’s eyes were cold with calculation and pity. Nami’s hands twisted at the ropes above her head. Usopp’s face went slack, and for a second Sanji could see his own terror mirrored in the younger man. Luffy’s fists unclenched and clenched again, a storm in the tiny calm of his lashes. Franky’s whole body hummed with the need to explode, to do something—anything—to protect the small doctor on the screen.
Sanji forced a humorless sound out of his throat and tried to meet Lognar’s stare with something like defiance. “You’re sick,” he managed. “You think making me look like a monster will fix anything? You think—” His voice broke. He swallowed, anger folding into a cold, raw thing he couldn’t soothe. “You can’t make my friends hate me. You won’t get them to do what you want.”
Lognar studied him with a mirar of interest, as if Sanji were a specimen. “We’ll see,” he said simply. “Trials have many outcomes.” Then, with the same mechanical calm he’d used to activate the screen, he spoke the rule that turned the room into a throat-tightening trap: “Each of you will answer. Each of you will choose. Your choices will be witnessed, recorded. There will be no secrecy, no mercy from this platform. This is how they’ll learn the price of a name.”
Silence fell heavier than the sea. The torches guttered. On the screen, Chopper rocked with small, frightened motions; he had no idea his little doctor’s face was the ledger upon which a man balanced his vengeance.
Somewhere in the dim, Sanji heard the faint rustle of planning begin—Nami’s sharp intake of breath as she thought of angles, Usopp’s quick, small whispers of improbable ideas, Robin’s quiet mental lists of locks and weaknesses. But underneath all of that, stronger than planning, stronger than bravado, sat the new, impossible dread: the knowledge that the first test would not be against an outside enemy but against each other.
“And if you refuse…” Lognar’s eyes slid back to the glowing screen, where Chopper shifted weakly in the chair, eyes darting around in confusion and fear. “Then I’ll let the little doctor suffer instead. Slowly. Publicly. Until nothing of him remains.”
The words curdled the air. Nami’s breath caught, Robin’s composure cracked for the first time in a flare of horror, Usopp shook his head violently as though he could deny the sound. Luffy’s whole body trembled, veins standing out in his neck, his voice a broken growl: “You bastard—”
Lognar silenced him with another calm wave of his hand. “Choose, Straw Hats. His pain…” pointed at Sanji “—-or the doctor’s life. The trial begins now.”