A languid voice—lazy, amused, and unmistakably eager to stir trouble—drifted through the vast hush of Eternal Hell.
Magellan, already moving to intercept, stopped dead. His face flickered between rage and resignation.
Darren: "..."
His eyelid twitched.
He didn't even need to turn. The owner of that voice—and that greasy, infuriating grin—had already surfaced in his mind. Darren exhaled, long and tired, then muttered, "So much for trusting that old man Sengoku with anything. I told him I didn't want interruptions… Did I not pay him enough?"
He turned at last.
Sure enough: a towering figure, too tall to be natural, wearing that familiar, relaxed smile.
"Shouldn't you be in the Holy Land right now, handling security for the inauguration of the Commander of the God's Knights… Borsalino?"
"Now, now, don't look at me like that, Darren," Borsalino said, lifting both hands in an almost comical surrender. "I'm not here to do anything bad."
Redfield's elegant smile stiffened for a heartbeat at the familiar gesture.
"The Government's little ceremony can wait," Borsalino went on, voice light. "It's not far. Besides… you of all people know the Marines aren't the main security for an event like that."
"As for Sengoku…" He spread his hands again, innocent as a saint. "He didn't leak anything on purpose. I just happened to overhear him while I was passing by."
Happened to overhear.
Darren gave a soft, unamused snort.
If he hadn't already learned from Redfield that Borsalino had visited Level Six long ago for "guidance," he might have almost bought the act. But now?
A man with Future Sight didn't "happen" into secrets. He collected them.
Darren didn't bother pressing him. Borsalino would never admit it anyway.
"What a coincidence," Darren said flatly.
Borsalino smiled as if he'd been praised, then let his gaze drift over the corridor.
Dozens upon dozens of prisoners—drinking, smoking, sprawled with the careless looseness of men who'd forgotten what freedom felt like.
"So many Level Six monsters out of their cages at once," Borsalino murmured. "How scary."
Then he looked back at Darren, still smiling.
"You're being reckless."
Darren copied the gesture, spreading his hands as if this were all terribly reasonable. "They rot in those cells all day. It's suffocating. I'm just letting them get a little fresh air."
Borsalino chuckled. "And you're not worried they'll escape?"
Darren pointed at the crates—premium liquor, cigars, fresh meat, bright fruit piled like treasure in the gloom—and grinned.
"They've got everything they could want right here. Food. Drinks. Friendly faces. Why would they run?"
The prisoners, for once, agreed in perfect silence.
Not because they didn't want to escape.
Because they didn't want to die.
Borsalino nodded thoughtfully, stroking his chin. "Fair enough. Honestly, the conditions here aren't bad. At least it's not as cold as Freezing Hell, or as hot as Crimson Hell, where you sweat buckets…"
They chatted like old acquaintances—casual, almost warm—like years hadn't passed and blood hadn't been spilled.
Until—
"Still…" Borsalino said, and paused.
He lifted his right index finger.
Biu.
A thin beam of gold shot out, slicing through the darkness faster than thought.
A heartbeat later—
Boom!!
A muffled explosion punched the corridor. Wind and dust tore through the space, stones skittering, smoke billowing.
Every prisoner froze.
They stared at the crater gouged clean through Impel Down's reinforced wall at the far end of the passage. Cold crawled up their spines and iced their throats shut.
They looked back at the man lowering his hand—still smiling.
For a moment, none of them could even process it.
They'd been talking.
Normal, harmless talk.
So why did he fire—without warning—and grin while doing it?
And the truly frightening thing was this: not one of them had even registered the attack.
Which meant if that beam had been aimed at a man instead of a wall…
There'd be nothing left to regret.
"Your Observation Haki really has grown," Borsalino said mildly, amusement glinting behind his sunglasses as he looked at Darren.
"In only a few days… you really are a monster."
Darren straightened slowly, head tilted a fraction to the side. He lifted a hand to his cheek. The skin was hot, and a faint scorched smell lingered in the air.
After a beat, he bared his teeth in a grin.
"If I were a real monster," he said, "I would've completely dodged that."
Borsalino shook his head.
He brought his hands together, then reached out as if grasping something that wasn't there. Light gathered—condensing, sharpening—until a golden blade slid into existence between his fingers.
"You just don't have the habit of fighting defensively," he said.
"W-What are you doing, Vice Admiral Borsalino!?" Magellan barked, alarm flaring as dark purple venom surged beneath his skin.
Borsalino turned his head slightly, smile unchanged.
"What do you think I'm doing?" he asked, voice almost gentle.
"Rogers Darren is wanted by the World Government and by the Marines… and I'm an Admiral of Marine Headquarters."
His body blurred—then dissolved into a storm of golden photons that screamed toward Darren.
"I'm sorry, Darren," he drawled, almost lazily. "My time is limited. I'll have to finish this quickly…"
Light flared on both sides of Darren's face as he grinned like a beast.
"That's exactly what I was thinking too, Borsalino!"
To be continued...