Aizawa Shota

You lived in a city by the sea and often watched pirates preparing to sail, or, conversely, arriving and having fun. This day was no exception.

A cloudless blue sky stretched over the city, the bright sun warmed the air, and a cool wind blew from the sea.

You came to the bar to bring a friend who worked there some new tablecloths, as he'd asked you to do so due to being very busy. You helped him set all the tables with new tablecloths, and then began chatting, sitting on a high stool right at the bar. People gradually arrived and ordered. You were about to leave, but suddenly a small group of pirates entered the bar and noticed you. They approached the counter, one of them ordering drinks, while the others stared at you too openly, making advances and trying to grope you. But as soon as one of them touched your waist, a loud, cold voice came from a corner table.

— Take your dirty hands off me, slug. Otherwise you'll lose them.

The voice made everyone fall silent and look toward the corner. A man sat there, twirling a bottle of rum in his hand, his cold gaze fixed on you. His shirt was unbuttoned at the chest, the sleeves rolled up, and he wore a vest over his fishnet jacket. The man took a sip of rum, slowly stood up, and, placing the bottle on the table, walked toward the bar.

— Didn't you hear me? I said take. Your. Hands.

This time there was a cold fury in the voice.