I smiled. Wide. Unshaken. Let them see it. Let them wonder. Let them feel it claw at the back of their minds.
The man who shot me, the one with the gun still half-raised, his face cracked. Just slightly. Just enough for me to see the flicker of something beneath that cold, pirate exterior—doubt. Shock. Maybe even fear. That was good. I liked that look. It suited him. His face had a perfect asymmetry to my fists. I was going to kill him first.
Every second I stood there, grinning like the bullets were nothing but mosquito bites, the whispers grew. They muttered in hushed tones, voices crashing against one another like waves in a storm. They had pulled me right up to the hull of the ship—right to the threshold—but none of them dared to haul me onto the deck.
Scaredy cats.
Aren't you all pirates? Cutthroats? Killers? Where's that reckless bravado now? Where's that bloodlust?
I didn't shout. No. That would ruin the moment. That would break the illusion. The whispers had to grow, the tension had to simmer, had to steep in its own unease. Fear wasn't something you forced. It was something you let fester until it bloomed into full-blown dread. And right now, it was growing. I could feel it curling through the crowd like a slow-moving current.
Then—THUD.
A weighty, deliberate step against the deck. Not hurried. Not hesitant. Confident. Heavy. A presence that carried itself like it had no need to rush.
The pirates went silent. The whispers snapped into nothingness like a candle blown out. They parted, clearing the way for something—or someone.
Then I saw him.
A beast of a man. A walking fortress. He stood a few feet taller than the rest, built like something carved out of raw stone. Scarred arms, thick as anchor chains, rested at his sides. Every movement he made brought a groan on the wooden boards.
This one wasn't like the others. He didn't hesitate. He didn't need to.
His eyes swept over me—not with fear, not with uncertainty, but with amusement. Like a man who had found the perfect stick to play with.
Then, with one massive hand, he grabbed the rope.
And yanked.
I felt the world tilt. The sudden force sent me hurtling upward, the raft beneath me snapping free as I was pulled into the air. The ship rushed toward me faster than I could brace. The moment stretched thin, like the stillness before a storm, before I crashed down onto the deck with a bone-rattling impact.
Silence.
The pirates watched. Waiting.
I pulled myself up.
And I was still smiling.
The whispers multiplied. Voices layered upon each other. A murmur of uncertainty was spreading across the deck.
I gazed at them, at each and every one. United, yet not.
Their ranks weren't seamless. No, there were fractures beneath the surface. Even in this crew, bound by salt and blood, there were divisions. Little pockets of loyalty, men who only truly trusted the ones beside them. Politics. Hierarchy. The inevitable structure of survival.
My smile stretched wider.
Then I turned my gaze to him.
The big one.
I had to look up, up that my neck hurt. A breathing mountain of flesh and muscle. A man who had never known weakness in his life. His arms corded with scars, not fresh wounds. The kind that told stories of old victories, the kind that told of broken men and shattered bones.
His gaze met mine. Cold. Unimpressed.
He wasn't looking at me, not really. No, his interest lay elsewhere. His thick, calloused hands ran along the raft I had arrived on, fingers tracing the makeshift bindings, the waterlogged wood, the evidence of my survival.
He was more impressed by that raft than he was by me.
Every time his fingers neared the blood smeared across the wood, the blood that moved, that reached, he would pull away. Fast. Too fast for a man of his size. He liked what he saw. And he wanted it.
Good.
Don't worry, big guy.
Soon, you won't just be impressed. You'll be terrified.
I'll carve my way into the darkest corners of your mind. I'll take that unimpressed stare and twist it into something haunted. You'll cower at every smile you see for the rest of your miserable life—if you live long enough to remember.
I took a step.
And another.
I walked. Unhurried. A slow, measured pace as I moved through their ranks.
And they moved aside.
One by one, they shifted, they stepped back, clearing my path like the sea retreating before a storm. They didn't even realize they were doing it. Instinct. The kind that whispered when something was wrong.
They really don't like this smile, do they?
Makes me want to smile even more.
The whispers grew sharper. The unease thickened.
Then—a sound.
A hiss. A scoff.
From him.
I turned.
The big one stood firm, shoulders squared, fists clenched, his jaw tight with something that wasn't fear. It was anger.
Not at me—not yet.
At them.
At the crew. At his men, the ones who had stepped aside when I walked past. The ones who had given ground. The ones who, without even realizing it, had made him look weak.
Oh, how lovely.
Be angry.
Let it build. Let it burn. Let it twist in your gut like a rusted hook.
Because anger? Anger makes people reckless.
And reckless people?
They break so much easier.
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The use of fear as a weapon are just chef's kiss in the next few Chapters. After rereading them, goddamn I felt like a director making the most cinematic scene. Maybe because I was thinking and imagining it from 3rd pov. Maybe after the end of volume 1 I will make the pirates point of view.