One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 60: The girl with red hair(23)

Warning: Dark stuff ahead. Skip if you don't like it. While I have minimized and outright not mentioned a lot of stuff. IT still is dark if you understand the implication.

So, don't read if you are uncomfortable with it.

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These savages.

Circling her like vultures. Staring at her broken body like it was a prize to be claimed.

Like she was still theirs—even now.

Even after everything.

She wasn't breathing.

She wasn't screaming anymore.

She wasn't there.

But still... they watched.

And that was the part that made me sick.

"You don't deserve this," I whispered to her, kneeling beside her.

She'd already suffered enough. And now they stood there, eyeing her like the violence hadn't ended—like they could add one more thing to the horror before she turned cold.

I clenched my jaw. My breath was tight, my chest locked. Rage like iron in my throat.

"I need to go get the others," I told her quietly. "But I can't leave you like this. Not with them. Not with these fucking animals."

Because even in death, she deserved dignity.

And they would've stripped that from her too—if I let them.

I stood. Turned. Faced the crew.

They were watching her.

But not like mourners.

Not like men who had just witnessed a tragedy.

They were breathing hard. Eyes wide. Some licking their lips, some shifting like they were getting ideas.

Aroused.

By a corpse.

I didn't even speak at first. I just stared. Let the silence hang like a blade in the air.

Then I took a slow breath.

I turned around.

Her dignity—I would save it. Even if it meant forsaking the fear game I was playing. Even if it meant showing them something raw, something real. She deserved that much. She deserved more. But this—this I could give.

I walked toward the nearest scum.

I had to make an example of him. A fucking brutal one. Not a warning. A message. One written in blood and pain. One that would burn itself into the memory of every last bastard watching. I wanted to make an example of every single one of them. Every breathing, leering, grinning face. It hurts, knowing I can't. Knowing justice won't come all at once. But that's fine.

They'll get what's coming.

Every single one of them.

I moved toward the one breathing hardest. The filth vibrating with hunger, like he thought he was entitled to something. Some noticed me and stepped back. A few flinched. Most didn't. But him? The one salivating the most, the one too far gone to mask the sickness in his eyes—I chose him.

He would be the example.

I stood face to face with him. Close enough to smell the rot off his breath. I didn't speak. Just stared. Stared straight into his eye, locking him in place like a beast too dumb to run. The moment he saw me—really saw me—something changed. Recognition hit. Not just of who I was, but what I had done. What I was capable of. I could see it flicker behind his eyes: the memory, the understanding, the rising terror.

I saw him backing down, breath hitching, pupils shrinking, throat working to swallow air that refused to come.

Now you fucking fear me.

Now—when I'm staring into your soul.

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Where was that fear when you were looking at her defiled body? When you were letting your filth spread across her skin like you owned it? When you let your arousal drown out your humanity?

Where was it then?

Where was your fear when I was standing right there, giving her my silence, my presence, my respect?

You had none. You had hunger.

But now?

Now all you have is fear.

And that's not even close to enough.

Fear isn't enough.

It never was.

Not for what they did to her. Not for what they took from her. Her defiled dignity deserves more than trembling lips and widened eyes. Fear is fleeting. It fades. But pain? Pain leaves marks. And your life—your worthless, stinking life—would make a small gift to her memory.

He was faltering. Yes, he was. I could see it. His bravado leaking out with every shaky breath, every unsure step. I moved toward him, unflinching, steady. While he stumbled backwards like a worm desperate to crawl back into the dirt. And then—he fell. Pathetic. Flat on his back, scrambling like a kicked dog, dragging himself in the filth he belonged in.

My steps never stopped.

He looked up. Into the face of death. No laughter. No grin. Just a frozen mask of resolve and rage. I wanted him to see it—the stillness before the storm, the silence that precedes slaughter. I wasn't playing anymore. This wasn't a show. This wasn't a game. I was here to do only one thing.

Make him feel hell.

He fumbled for his gun. Hands shaking like paper caught in wind. Finally got it loaded and aimed, but the barrel danced—no aim, no control, no hope. I walked through it. Didn't flinch. Reached forward and grabbed the barrel like it was a toy in a child's hand.

Before, maybe, I would've toyed with him. Chased him. Let him think he had a chance. Not now. Not after what he did.

Now—it's not a fucking game.

I pulled the gun from him. He let go like it burned him. I didn't shoot. I wouldn't grant him that mercy. A bullet is a quick thing. It ends pain. I wanted the opposite.

I flipped the gun and brought the wooden stock down on his face.

Once. A crack.

Twice. A scream.

Three times. Blood sprayed.

I kept going.

I cobbled him like a man possessed. Strike after strike after strike. His face shattered under the force. Skin tore. Bone gave. His features ceased to exist. I didn't stop. Couldn't stop. His teeth came loose and scattered across the ground like broken glass. His nose collapsed into pulp. His eyes swelled shut.

Still, I kept swinging.

I wasn't looking for vengeance. I wasn't searching for justice. I was delivering something primal. Something pure. Something earned.

I wouldn't stop until my rage was done feasting.

And rage?

It was starving.