I don't quite recall how I ended up in this peculiar place, but it seems I have inadvertently stumbled into a section that is clearly marked as off-limits within the Rain Dinners establishment. The dim light flickering overhead cast eerie shadows, making everything feel more surreal. In front of me stood a man who appeared to be exceptionally agitated; an unsettling line of stitched scars marred his face, each one almost becoming my curiosity. As I blinked and tried to gather my bearings, it dawned on me that I must have drifted into this uncomfortable situation in a stupor. My body felt as if it were merely a marionette, moving without purpose while my mind floated far away, detached from the reality unfolding before me. The air was thick with tension, and I could sense that something was very wrong.
"Hello?" I managed to utter, my voice coming out in a tentative lilt, almost as if I were asking a question rather than making a statement.
"It seems like a rat managed to slip in," the man before me replied, his tone laced with palpable disgust and irritation. He stood there with slicked-back hair and a fur-trimmed coat. As he spoke, a thick, acrid cigar bobbed rhythmically between his lips, the smoke curling languidly into the dim light of the room. My gaze was inevitably drawn to his right hand—or rather, where it should have been. In its place was a gigantic golden hook, gleaming ominously like a trophy of some past conquest.
"Lost…" I attempted to articulate the word, feeling foreign on my tongue as it tumbled out. A powerful wave of déjà vu crashed over me, the sensation rather haunting. There was something unsettlingly familiar about this man, yet simultaneously so alien. His expression shifted, a blend of disdain and annoyance etched across his sharp features, as he regarded me with an intensity that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.
"Nevertheless, I must express my concern that you've ventured far too close to information that requires a higher level of discretion," Crocodile huffed, his gaze narrowing as he assessed me with a mixture of caution and authority.
I couldn't help but furrow my brow in response. The notion of being barred from leaving was far from appealing, especially considering the high likelihood that I would be forced to confront a particularly irate redhead. The thought of that outcome sent a shiver down my spine; I could already envision the fiery expression on his face if he discovered I was missing.
"No." I firmly rejected the terrified expression on Crocodile's face, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and disbelief. "Sleep." As I uttered that single command, the air around us shifted, charged with a potent energy that belonged to my devil fruit abilities. It was a power I had harnessed, with Crocodile being only the second individual to experience its effects, the first being Shanks, who I had used as a test subject a couple of years prior when trying to figure out what my devil fruit ability even was.
Instantly, I observed the transformation in Crocodile. His eyelids began to flutter like fragile leaves caught in an autumn breeze, slowly succumbing to an overwhelming heaviness. In an almost surreal moment, his body went slack as he fell into a deep slumber, standing upright yet utterly still, as if a puppet had its strings cut. The tension in the air dissipated, leaving an eerie calm, as I watched over him, confident in the control I held over the situation.
With one of the many problems in this bizarre scenario finally resolved, I chose to push aside the unsettling déjà vu that had washed over me earlier. My focus shifted to finding my way back to the crew, who were probably worried about my prolonged absence. As I floated through the labyrinthine basement, I glanced through several doors along the dimly lit corridor, each one revealing shadows and forgotten memories. It was then that I stumbled upon a haunting sight: a disturbing amount of vibrant green powder scattered carelessly across the floor. The sight sent a chill down my spine, and an uneasy suspicion crept in.
Suddenly, a realization crashed into me like a tidal wave, overwhelming my senses. I recalled the moment when I had instinctively tugged at my hair, triggered by a graphic vision of death and despair haunting this arid land. I had felt an urgent need to find a way to intervene and protect those I cared about. Yet, as I racked my brain, I realized that I had completely blocked out the unsettling incident that transpired in the market while I was shopping with Uta. It was as if my memories had been punctured, each gap resembling a hole in Swiss cheese, leaving me with a disjointed recollection that lacked any semblance of coherence.
The experience was disorienting, echoing my chaotic mental state and the corresponding frustration I felt at my own obliterated memory. I found myself staring intently at the green powder, attempting to unearth its significance, convinced that it held crucial information. But try as I might, the details eluded me, slipping further into the depths of my mind like wisps of smoke.
I had grappled with frustration countless times throughout my life, but nothing compared to the acute sense of agitation that gripped me now. The weight of the unknown and the disjointedness of my thoughts left me feeling both mentally drained and deeply perturbed.
What had I been overlooking all this time? It suddenly struck me—rain. Yes, that was it! The significance of rain illuminated the reality of Crocodile's influence over the land, a territory characterized by its arid climate with little to no water supply. As the realization washed over me, I felt an overwhelming surge of emotion; tears of joy threatened to spill from my eyes. I had finally managed to piece together the fragmented memories that had long eluded me. This revelation was practically irrefutable evidence—a strong testament to the fact that Crocodile was anything but a hero. In fact, he was a cunning manipulator, a malevolent force behind the chaos and destruction that unfolded in the anime.
Now, the pressing question remained: what was I supposed to do with this newfound evidence? Should I storm the palace and confront the king directly, unveiling the truth? Or perhaps I could compose an anonymous letter, stealthily slipping it under the king's door in hopes that he would take heed of my warning? Maybe I could even take a more dramatic approach, climbing to the rooftop and shouting the truth for all to hear. But as I weighed these options, it became painfully clear that none of them were particularly viable. Each plan seemed fraught with complications, and the practicalities of action weighed heavily on my conscience. Moreover, shouting was an entirely different realm that I felt I couldn't navigate. The very act of raising my voice seemed to elude me, as if it required a strength I simply lacked. It was as though a barrier existed between my thoughts and the volume they needed to convey, leaving me to wonder if some emotions were destined to remain unexpressed within the confines of my silence.