[A/N:
An Omake is at the last, don't miss it.]
...
The floating restaurant rocked gently beneath Krishna's boots as he stepped onto the Baratie's dock, seabreeze weaving through his hair, warm and briny.
The sea whispered below the floating deck of Baratie, but Krishna wasn't listening to the waves.
He was listening to the hunger.
Not in his stomach — that could wait. Not in the crowd — that was noise. But in the walls, in the tension behind every slammed pan and shouted name from the kitchen, he heard it: the rhythm of a restaurant that didn't run on oil or fire, but on need.
He paused, hand resting against the entry post. For once, he wasn't here to change anything.
He just wanted to eat.
...
In his old world, Baratie was legend. One of the most iconic restaurants in anime lore. Fans worshipped Zeff's infamous kitchen discipline, debated Sanji's French technique, drooled over dishes that only existed in ink. Blogs called it the "Floating Michelin." Reddit threads ranked its butter-seared seabass above Ghibli's breakfast eggs. The anime forums used to argue endlessly about its status: "Top 10 fictional restaurants I would die to eat at." "Would you eat your left leg if it meant you could eat at Baratie?" "Does the butter-seared seabass live up to the hype?"
Here, in this world, Baratie's legend held just as strong. Not because of fanservice or nostalgia, but because the food was that good. From the Grand Line to East Blue, pirates and nobles alike dropped coin and pride to sit at Zeff's tables.
He remembered those posts. Remembered laughing at them, skimming them with one hand while finishing equations with the other.
Now? Now he was standing in it.
The real Baratie.
Krishna stepped through the front doors quietly, like a man who belonged but wouldn't say it aloud. No mask. No cloak of divinity. His coat was ordinary today — soft beige linen, stained faintly at the hem by seawater and time. His hair was loose. His face unreadable.
And the smell?
Gods.
It hit him the moment he walked in — like stepping into a memory that never belonged to him. Sea breeze tangled with caramelized onions. Garlic, fresh basil, citrus zest. Spices both bold and buried. And behind it all, the sharp heat of hot oil and bad tempers clashing over a stove.
Krishna took a slow breath and smiled under it.
This, he thought, was worth walking through fire for.
The dining room was bright and loud. Circular booths lined the edges like fortress towers, open tables in the middle brimming with late-lunch traffic. Every table had something steaming — grilled shellfish, baked squid rice, seared fish topped with dancing bonito. Servers wove between patrons with impossible balance and short tempers.
The kitchen was wide open in the back. A raised galley-style line with metal countertops, exposed flames, and at least six chefs yelling over one another.
Krishna ducked his head slightly and made for an empty booth near the corner window, where he could watch both sea and fire. He removed his cloak, folded it beside him, and sat.
Medha's voice stirred in his mind. Soft, amused.
"You're going to eat? Here? After what you made last night?"
"I didn't cross an ocean to judge," Krishna said under his breath. "Just hungry."
"You say that, but I can hear your brain mapping their kitchen already."
He didn't deny it. His Observation Haki brushed faintly through the room — not fully extended, just listening. The waiters were tired. The sous-chef on the far left was hungover. The fishmonger hadn't delivered today's octopus. And the main line cook—ah.
Someone threw a ladle at someone else near the prep station, followed by a yell.
"I swear to god, Sanji, this squid smells like shit!"
Krishna turned slightly, tracking the voice.
A young blond boy, maybe a year younger than him, stood at the prep counter, apron half-stained, arms flung out in frustration. A toothpick flicked between his lips like punctuation as he glared at a bowl of sliced seafood.
"That's because it is shit, Pierre! You left it out overnight again, didn't you? I told you to refrigerate seafood like it's your damn girlfriend — clingy and cold!"
Krishna couldn't help it — his lip twitched into the ghost of a smile.
The other chefs ignored him, too busy dodging Zeff's wrath to care.
From the far end of the kitchen, the chef-king himself roared,
"If anyone even thinks about serving that, I'll staple your lungs shut and make you eat it!"
Zeff. The old man's voice was unmistakable — that gravel-and-fire rasp of a war-hardened chef god.
The whole staff went still for a moment.
Krishna smiled faintly and glanced out at the waves. It wasn't reverence. Just… appreciation.
The energy here was different. Not divine. Not polished. But real.
A server arrived.
"What'll it be?" the man asked briskly, notebook ready but not particularly interested.
"Butter-seared seabass," Krishna said. "House style. And if you have jasmine rice, that too."
The man scribbled. "No substitutions. If you complain, Zeff kicks you."
"Understood."
...
Ten minutes later, the plate arrived — still steaming, beautifully plated, the fish browned on one side, resting in a shallow pool of citrus-and-herb sauce. The rice was simple. No theatrics. No smoke trails. But the aroma carried effort.
Medha's voice ticked in gently through the link as he adjusted the plate once it arrived.
"Crossed two kingdoms, a pirate blockade, and a lightning storm… just to eat seabass."
Krishna didn't respond right away. He took the first bite. Let it sit.
Soft. Balanced. Subtle.
And…
Too subtle.
He frowned slightly. The fish was cooked perfectly, but the sauce lacked a finish. It started bright — lemon, mint, a bit of butter — but left the mouth hollow. No fire. No lift. It didn't fail. It is the kind of profile that tried to please everyone — and ended up saying nothing.
Still, he ate. Respectfully. Slowly. No one around him paid much attention.
Until the blond boy passed by.
He moved fast, head down, still muttering about squid. The toothpick bobbed like punctuation in his cheek. Krishna looked up and raised a hand calmly.
The boy stopped.
"Yeah?" he said, arms crossed.
Krishna gestured toward the plate.
"It's good," he said. "But the sauce is missing something. It's not spicy enough. Not enough warmth."
The blond blinked. "You got a problem with our food?"
Krishna held his gaze. Calm, but direct.
"Not a problem. Just a suggestion. Toasted cumin. A sharper pepper. Maybe cinnamon — in small amounts."
The blond's expression shifted — defensiveness to mild surprise to… interest? Nobody ever offered suggestions here.
"You a chef or something?"
Krishna shrugged. "Sometimes."
A pause. The boy snorted and scratched his head.
"Zeff's gonna murder me for even asking, but... wait here."
He turned and walked off.
Medha sighed softly in Krishna's ear.
"You couldn't help yourself, could you?"
"I didn't correct him."
"You absolutely corrected him."
Five minutes passed.
Then a voice bellowed from the kitchen like war drums made of cast iron.
"WHO TOUCHED MY BASE SAUCE?!"
Krishna took another bite of rice and sipped water calmly.
The blond reappeared at his table, a bit breathless.
"Alright, mystery man," he said. "Zeff says you get one chance. Come to the back. Show us what you mean."
Krishna stood. His face gave nothing. But inside, something bloomed.
It wasn't ego. It wasn't pride.
It was memory. Of old world recipes. Of his mother's kitchen. Of ancient hands teaching him how to mix flavor and silence until they became one.
He followed Sanji into the back.
The kitchen parted just enough for them to walk in.
Flame met him first.
And Krishna walked straight toward it.
...
The heat hit him first.
Not just from the stoves, but from the energy — raw, frantic, alive. It wasn't elegant. It wasn't holy. But it moved. The kitchen was a battlefield where chefs fought not for glory but to keep up with the orders slapped on the ticket line every thirty seconds.
The kitchen of Baratie wasn't sacred. It was chaos with a rhythm. Pans clanged. Oil hissed. Blades moved faster than thought. And yet somehow, it worked — like a song no one wrote down but everyone knew.
Krishna stepped inside like he'd done it a hundred times before.
He hadn't.
But fire spoke a language he understood.
...
Zeff stood at the far end, arms folded, wooden peg tapping the tile. He was lean, worn with age, but nothing about him looked soft. One eyebrow arched beneath his chef's hat as he sized Krishna up like undercooked meat. One leg propped back, arms folded, mouth set in a firm scowl. His presence was unmistakable — like a man who didn't teach, only tested.
"So. The critic."
Sanji nodded once. "The one who told me the sauce needed heat."
Krishna inclined his head slightly. Not submissive. Just respectful.
"I just made a suggestion."
Zeff didn't even blink. "Good. You'll own it, then. Sauce station. Now."
No introductions. No permission.
Krishna moved without hesitation.
Hegave a brief nod and stepped forward. Sanji handed over the base lemon-butter sauce. Krishna tasted it, as he had before, but now with intent. It was warm — lemony, butter-heavy, very lightly spiced.
"I didn't mess with it," Sanji muttered. "This is the original. Whatever you add, you do it now. If it sucks, I'm not taking the blame."
Krishna didn't answer. He dipped his finger. Tasted again. Thought.
The problem wasn't the quality. It was the character.
It had no confidence.
He opened the spice drawer without asking. The other chefs stiffened slightly, but no one stopped him. He moved like he'd done this before. Like kitchens belonged to everyone who respected fire.
The kitchen fell into a hush that was somehow louder than the shouting earlier.
Toasted cumin first. Crushed gently under his palm. Black pepper, coarse. A bit of cinnamon, just a hint. He took one dried curry leaf, pressed it between his fingers, and added it. Finally, a whisper of chili flakes — not to burn, but to wake.
The scent changed immediately.
It deepened. Thickened. The butter stopped floating and started binding. The lemon stopped dominating and started dancing.
He stirred slowly. Let it settle. Let it speak.
Zeff leaned slightly. Didn't speak.
Sanji hovered behind him, arms crossed.
Krishna ladled a spoonful into a new dish and handed it to Sanji first.
The moment the sauce hit Sanji's tongue, his eyebrows twitched.
The lemon wasn't gone. But now it danced. The butter didn't coat; it led. The warmth built slowly — not overpowering, but comforting. Like the end of a long day.
Sanji didn't speak. Just gave a low exhale.
Zeff took it next. The old man didn't make a sound. Just nodded once.
The room didn't cheer. No one clapped.
But nobody said anything sarcastic either. And in Baratie's kitchen, silence was its own kind of applause.
Zeff gestured to a cutting board. "Get gloves. You're helping with dinner rush."
Sanji blinked. "Wait, seriously?"
"You think I've got time to babysit you idiots and this sauce whisperer? If he's gonna critique, he's gonna sweat."
An apron was tossed his way. Gloves followed. The prep station cleared half a meter of space like the Red Sea parting for someone no one understood but everyone suddenly respected.
Krishna didn't argue. He tied on an apron, adjusted the gloves, and took his place at the prep station like he'd always been there.
...
The next hour moved like a blur of steam and fire.
Krishna diced, peeled, tasted, corrected. He didn't take over. He didn't speak unless asked. But every time someone passed him a plate, it came back cleaner, tighter, more precise.
He wasn't flashy. He didn't do tricks. He didn't toss pans in the air or make the oil flare for show.
He just listened to the food.
Even the ingredients seemed to behave for him.
Sanji slid over beside him eventually, still working, still chewing his toothpick, curiosity overpowering his pride.
"You're good," he said, watching Krishna slide perfect tomato slices into a vinaigrette. "Like… really good."
Krishna didn't glance over. "So are you."
Sanji rolled the toothpick in his mouth.
"You didn't train here, obviously. What… you pick all this up traveling?"
Krishna didn't answer directly.
"Some from home. Some from strangers. Some from hunger."
Sanji rolled the toothpick with his tongue.
"That's not ominous or anything."
Krishna turned. Met his gaze.
"I was taught by people who burned the world into their food. And one who made grief taste like safety."
Sanji didn't know what to say to that. So he grabbed a second cutting board and started helping.
...
At one point, the prep line got backed up. A sauce reduction broke. Sanji cursed, flustered.
Krishna stepped in silently. Lowered the flame. Whisked in starch water. Rebalanced acidity with honey and chili. Passed it back.
Sanji stared at him. "Do you have a book of this stuff in your head?"
"Sort of," Krishna murmured. "Except it writes itself. Every time someone needs food at the table."
Sanji didn't ask what that meant. But he remembered it.
...
Dinner service continued. They fell into a rhythm. Krishna corrected small things: too much salt, missing acidity, inconsistent slicing. Not with words. With actions.
And Sanji watched. He hated how much he was learning.
Not because Krishna showed off.
Because he didn't.
...
They worked side by side.
Zeff called out, "Sea beast tail curry — two portions, one with rice."
"On it," Sanji said, already grabbing the ingredients.
Krishna, without being asked, stepped next to him and began prepping a separate dish — a familiar one.
Chicken. Yogurt marinade. Tomato base. Cardamom, kasuri methi, garam masala. The scent rose like an old prayer — not loud, but lingering.
Sanji paused beside him.
"What are you making?"
"Something from another home."
Krishna didn't say more. He sliced ginger and garlic so fine they melted into the pan before they browned. The scent hit Sanji like a hook.
"That smells…"
"Comfort," Krishna said simply.
Sanji didn't interrupt again.
They cooked in silence.
Two boys.
Two fires.
One sharing a legacy.
The other trying to understand it.
Krishna plated his butter chicken in silence. A swirl of sauce. No decoration. No garnish.
Only warmth.
...
When the plates were finally finished — Zeff's sea beast curry, and Krishna's butter chicken — they plated them on opposite ends of the pass.
Zeff walked over. Tasted both. Didn't say a word.
Then nodded once.
To Krishna, he said:
"You'll serve table 6. Yourself."
Sanji blinked. "That's a VIP table—"
Zeff raised a brow.
Sanji shut up.
Krishna didn't smile, didn't swell. He just took the tray, plated it calmly — crisped skin up, herbs beneath — and walked it out himself, slowly, carefully.
The guests barely noticed. Said thank you. Ate. One of them paused after the first bite and simply said, "That's... warm. Like home."
Krishna bowed slightly, but there was a hint of a smile on his face, and returned to the kitchen.
Not once did he say who made it.
...
When he returned, Sanji was waiting.
"You're not here to show off," he said. "You're not even proud of what you just did."
Krishna wiped his hands. "I'm not here to be remembered."
"That's... kinda sad."
"No," Krishna said. "It's clean."
Sanji didn't get it. Not fully. But he respected it.
"You don't care about credit, do you?"
"No."
"Why?"
Krishna thought about it. Then said,
"Because the food's not mine. It belongs to whoever needs it."
Sanji exhaled. Long. Quiet.
"Man," he muttered. "You're weird."
Krishna smiled — just a little.
"You're not wrong."
They didn't speak much after that. No need.
...
They finished the shift together.
And for the first time since he'd stepped into Baratie, Krishna felt like he hadn't left anything behind to be here.
He had simply arrived. And the kitchen had let him stay.
He worked the rest of his station in silence.
And for the first time in a while, he didn't feel like he was wandering.
He just felt… present..
...
The kitchen had started to breathe again.
Dinner rush was over. Pans soaked in suds. Steam clung to the ceiling like a ghost too tired to haunt. Most of the chefs sat slumped against walls or wiped down their stations with the blank-eyed look of men who had diced too many onions and cared just enough to keep doing it tomorrow.
Krishna stood at the prep counter, sleeves rolled up, forearms flecked with sauce and turmeric. He moved with quiet grace, rinsing his blade under the cold tap and drying it with the edge of a clean rag. He moved like someone who believed everything deserved one last gesture of care.
Next to him, Sanji leaned on a crate of onions, toothpick in mouth, mop tucked beneath one arm like a sword he didn't want to use yet.
"So," Sanji started, eyes flicking toward the dining hall where two waitresses laughed near the front window, "you didn't even look at her."
Krishna didn't pause.
Sanji gave it a beat, then added, "Come on. Don't tell me you didn't notice the one with the green earrings. Absolute goddess. Legs like sails. She winked at you, man."
Krishna rinsed the board. "I noticed."
Sanji frowned. "That's it?"
Krishna handed the board to the drying rack. "Do you need more?"
Sanji dropped the mop and crossed his arms.
"What are you, a monk?"
"No."
"Then you got eyes. Use 'em."
Krishna turned, leaned against the counter beside him. Calm. Not defensive — just thoughtful.
"I see. I just don't stare."
Sanji clicked his tongue. "Damn, you're no fun."
Krishna allowed a tiny smile to touch the corner of his mouth. "Says the guy who just tried to flirt with someone while chopping ginger."
"That's called multi-tasking."
Krishna let out a short breath of amusement. "Dangerous skill."
"Man," Sanji said, tapping the wood between his teeth, "you ever look at one of those goddesses and just… forget how to think?"
Krishna didn't look up.
"I can still think."
"Liar."
Sanji smirked and tilted his head toward the dining room. A few of the female customers were laughing together outside, backlit by the sunset through the window. The youngest one leaned into a chair with a soft giggle that made the room shift colors for a second.
"She's like… dangerous," Sanji muttered.
Krishna wiped his blade, inspected it for watermarks.
"You fall in love every ten minutes?"
"I don't fall," Sanji said. "I hover romantically in their direction until someone kicks me."
Krishna actually laughed — a rare, quiet sound that didn't rise above the simmer of the pots.
"Fair."
Sanji turned slightly toward him, teasing grin sharpening.
"What about you, huh? You got someone? A girl waiting in another port? Or are you one of those mysterious types who doesn't 'believe in attachment' or whatever?"
Krishna set the knife down, folded the cloth over it.
"Belief has nothing to do with it."
Sanji blinked. "So… you do like women, right?"
Krishna looked at him.
"I do."
Sanji nodded like he'd just confirmed the sky was blue. He would have run away if it wasn't blue, and probably kicked him too.
"Then why don't you look at them the way I do?"
Krishna raised an eyebrow. "Because I'd rather remember their names than their waistlines."
Sanji leaned back, letting that one hit. It didn't sound smug. It sounded like the kind of sentence you didn't want to agree with — but couldn't argue against.
Krishna leaned on his elbows, voice quieter now. Not serious. Just real.
"I was taught that a woman isn't a mystery to solve. She's a mirror. The better you see yourself, the better you treat her."
Sanji blinked again. Slower this time.
Krishna added, "Men and women — we're not separate. We're one and whole. Halves of each other. Mind and fire. Rest and direction. You lose one, the house falls."
He paused.
This time, Krishna's answer was slower.
"My mother once told me—'Where a woman isn't happy, no house can ever be truly peaceful. Even the gods turn away.'"
Sanji swallowed his reply. The line hit somewhere deep. Too deep to joke about.
Krishna continued.
"She said that if a woman's heart is hurting, everything falls apart. Even the strongest man forgets who he is. So you don't build a home by taking. You build it by understanding her first."
Sanji didn't speak. His arms slowly dropped back to his sides.
...
"That line," Medha's voice stirred lightly in Krishna's thoughts, "You haven't said it out loud in a long time."
"I never forgot her," Krishna thought back.
Sheshika hummed faintly. "You never let yourself remember her either."
...
Krishna glanced at Sanji. The boy didn't look like a romantic fool anymore. He looked like a son. A cook. A kid who'd been holding onto something and didn't know why it hurt to hear that line.
"My mom was like that too," Sanji muttered. "She was the only one who ever… you know. Gave a damn."
He didn't finish the sentence.
Krishna didn't ask for the story. He just listened.
Sanji looked down at his fingers. At the faint cuts and burns and calluses. Signs of a boy who never let pain stop him from making something worth serving.
"My sister too," He added. "She… didn't stay. But when she was around, she protected me. Always."
Krishna's voice softened. "And that shaped you. You protect people now. Even the ones who insult you."
Sanji tilted his head. "What, did I tell you that?"
"You don't need to," Krishna said. "I've seen it. In how you feed the drunk who can't pay. The way you talk like a flirt but serve like a brother."
Sanji leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
"Still doesn't stop the thoughts, though. I mean—beautiful woman walks past? What am I supposed to do? Just look at the floor?"
"No," Krishna said gently. "You're not supposed to lie to yourself. Desire isn't wrong. It's natural."
Sanji raised an eyebrow.
"But," Krishna continued, "letting it control you — that makes you forget what else she is."
Krishna placed a hand gently on the counter between them.
"Lust isn't shameful," he said. "But if it runs wild, it'll shape how they see you. And worse — how it makes you see yourself."
Sanji's throat worked once. He didn't say anything — not because he didn't want to.
But because the image of his mother smiling through pain had grabbed him by the ribs.
And just like that — every flirt, every wink, every loud promise — felt like a mask he'd forgotten he was wearing.
Sanji didn't respond for a long time. Then finally, "So… don't flirt?"
"Flirt," Krishna said softly, amused. "Just don't forget that she's not there to make you feel clever. She's there because she chose to be."
Krishna leaned back against the counter, voice low but even.
"It's easy to turn women into dreams or decoration. Harder to see them as their own storm."
Sanji laughed, but not mockingly. "Storm? That's poetic."
Krishna shrugged. "Reality tends to be."
...
Medha murmured again, her tone playfully dry. "I should log this conversation. Frame it. Sanji might actually take notes."
"He'll remember," Sheshika replied. "He doesn't forget the meals that feed him."
...
There was a pause. The kind that wasn't awkward — just full.
Then Sanji asked, more quietly now, "So… when do you know? Like… when it's real?"
Krishna looked at him.
"When you don't want her to fix you. You just want to see her laugh."
Sanji went quiet. A slow smile broke across his face — not flirty. Not cocky. Just… real.
"Damn," he muttered. "You're good at this."
"I've made a lot of mistakes," Krishna replied.
"Doesn't show."
"That's because I keep walking."
A long pause passed between them.
Then Sanji muttered, "You talk like someone three times your age."
Krishna smiled faintly. "I've burned enough food to learn how not to burn people."
...
They started cleaning again. Nothing urgent. Just the slow rhythm of boys winding down after a long shift.
A few moments passed in comfortable silence before Sanji asked, "You ever feed someone who didn't deserve it?"
Krishna nodded once. "Many times."
"Why?"
"Because hunger doesn't ask if you're good. It just asks if you're empty."
Sanji didn't have a comeback.
He just looked down at his hands again, then slowly started to scrub the cutting board clean.
"Feed even the ones who spit on you?" he asked.
Krishna's voice was gentle.
"Especially them."
"Why?"
"Because it makes them remember they were fed."
Sanji considered that.
"Even if they don't thank you?"
Krishna looked up toward the low ceiling, eyes soft.
"Gratitude is loud. But shame? That's quieter — and it stays longer."
Sheshika's voice, like silver silk, entered calmly.
"You carry their hate like ash. You feed them anyway. That's your ritual."
Krishna didn't answer her.
He just returned to scrubbing the knife edge, slow and even.
Sanji finally leaned back and sighed.
"You're weird, man."
Krishna nodded. "I've been called worse."
Then — a moment of lightness.
Sanji nudged him with an elbow.
"Well. If I stop hitting on every women, and they start hitting on you instead, I'm gonna have words."
"I'm sure they'll be poetic."
Sanji grinned. "Damn right."
...
The boys stood side by side for a while longer.
No rush.
No fire left to feed.
Just the silence of two people digesting something more than food.
Then Sanji nudged him gently with a shoulder.
"You're not as weird as you act, you know."
Krishna looked ahead. "I'm not acting."
Sanji grinned. "That's what makes it weirder."
...
Outside, a seabird cried and flapped past the window.
Inside, two boys leaned into the afterglow of a long day.
Nothing divine. Nothing legendary.
Just fire, and humility, and the kind of conversation that stayed long after the grease was gone.
Hands that knew how to cook, and hearts learning how to speak.
...
The heat had long faded from the Baratie's kitchen. Pans hung from their hooks like weapons at rest. The air smelled faintly of lemon, old steel, and the kind of silence that came only after purpose had been served.
The sun had barely touched the water when Krishna folded his apron for the last time, and stepped away from the counter.
He moved quietly, deliberately — not in a hurry, but without lingering. He wiped down his station, checked the hinges of the spice drawers, rinsed the last knife he used, and placed it on the rack with the others. A final nod. Nothing left behind.
The rush was over. The energy that had pulsed through the kitchen was gone, replaced with the quiet aftertaste of a good service. No shouting. No fire. Just the sound of steel clinking against drying racks and the low rhythm of brooms brushing the tiled floor.
He wiped his hands with the last clean towel and set it gently beside the board.
Then, he reached for his folded coat — not the divine kind, just simple travel-worn linen — and draped it over his shoulder.
Sanji leaned against the wall near the back door, arms crossed, toothpick bobbing in his mouth. He watched Krishna like one might watch someone pack before a long trip — not ready to say goodbye, but knowing it wasn't their choice.
"You leavin' already?" he asked.
Krishna nodded. "I only came for a meal."
Sanji smirked. "You cooked more than you ate."
Krishna turned toward the kitchen doors, "Wasn't planned."
Sanji smirked. "You say that like the kitchen wasn't better with you in it."
Krishna didn't argue.
"You don't want to stay till morning? Zeff sometimes makes morning broth if he's not in a bad mood. It's... actually fire." Sanji said, hesitant, not knowing what his choice will be.
Krishna shook his head. "The food's not why I came anymore."
Sanji narrowed his eyes slightly. "Then why did you?"
Krishna didn't answer.
Not immediately.
...
Zeff emerged from the back just then, carrying a battered old spice pouch. It was faded and cinched at the top with a cracked leather tie. He didn't say anything — just walked over and tossed it across the air at Krishna's chest.
Krishna caught it one-handed, without flinching. The weight was light — but the scent hit him instantly: crushed tamarind bark, dried oceanroot, hints of masala he didn't recognize.
"House spice," Zeff said simply. "Hand-milled. Dried oceanroot. Crushed tamarind skin. One of the first blends I ever made when I was still learning how not to burn rice."
Krishna examined the pouch with respect. "What do I do with it?"
Zeff shrugged. "You'll know when it matters."
He started to turn away, then stopped.
"If you ever open a place — don't let it be quiet."
Krishna looked up. "Why?"
Zeff's eyes met his for the first time all evening.
"Because too many people already eat in silence. Food like yours shouldn't serve people trying to forget they're alive."
Krishna nodded once and tucked the pouch into his coat.
...
Sanji shoved his hands into his pockets.
"You're not even gonna tell us your name, are you?"
Krishna gave a small, unreadable smile. "No."
Sanji tilted his head. "Why the hell not? You think you're some mysterious traveler or something?"
Krishna turned toward the open kitchen doors, toward the moonlight on the sea.
"No," He replied. "The name is just not important."
Sanji muttered, "Right. Mysterious feather guy shows up, makes butter chicken that tastes like comfort, fixes our sauce, then dips like a monk."
Krishna gave the faintest smile.
"I'm not a monk."
"You sure act like one."
Sanji kicked the crate aside and stood up.
"Then I'm gonna name you myself."
Krishna raised an eyebrow. "You're going to what?"
"I'm calling you 'Feather Boy.' Until I find out what your real name is."
Krishna blinked. "That's worse than no name."
"Too late."
Zeff grunted in what might have been amusement.
"Feather Boy, huh?" He waved his peg leg toward the spice rack. "Cleaned that station better than my sous chef last week. Might be the best name you get."
Krishna chuckled under his breath and turned to leave.
He walked toward the door. Sanji followed a step behind.
At the edge of the prep counter, Krishna stopped.
From the inside of his coat, he pulled a single feather — not decorative, not colorful. Just deep, iridescent blue and gold.
He laid it down. Not in the middle. Not for display.
Tucked behind the cutting board, like a forgotten bookmark.
Sanji frowned at it. "You carry those around or something?"
Krishna didn't answer.
...
Outside, the dock lights flickered. The sea rolled softly under moonlight. Krishna stepped through the restaurant doors without looking back, his coat rustling faintly in the wind.
The sea was quiet. The dock creaked beneath his steps. A breeze rolled in, cool and tasting faintly of salt and burnt oil from the exhaust vents.
Behind him, the kitchen hummed faintly with the voices of staff finishing up. Nothing loud. Just tired people being people.
Sanji looked at the feather again.
He walked to the feather, picked it up, and held it to the light.
"It's not dyed," he muttered. "Real."
He glanced at the counter again — and found a sealed container tucked near the seasoning shelf.
He picked it up. Still warm.
He opened the lid.
Butter chicken. Rich, fragrant. Perfectly packed. The same one Krishna made earlier. Just enough for one — to eat when no one was watching.
Zeff appeared at his side without warning.
"That's for you," the old man said.
"I figured."
Zeff crossed his arms. "Eat it before it gets cold."
"I will."
"You'd better. I'm not serving your lovesick ass sympathy food if you whine later."
Sanji didn't respond. He just held the container in both hands like it was heavier than it looked.
...
He took it out back — not to the dining room, not to his bunk — but to the back step, where the air moved without asking questions.
He sat down, container in his lap, legs stretched out in front of him.
He didn't rush.
One bite, and he stopped chewing.
He couldn't explain it. It wasn't just the flavor. It was the way it lingered — not on the tongue, but in the chest. Like something unfinished inside him had just been wrapped in something warm.
He didn't cry.
But something inside him went still.
Just one bite.
And then another.
Each one slower than the last.
The spices didn't scream. They whispered. The chicken melted without fanfare. The warmth didn't burn — it spread. Not just in the mouth, but in the chest.
Sanji didn't cry.
But he didn't look up either.
...
Outside the Baratie, Krishna walked silently along the dock, the stars barely reflecting off the water.
Medha stirred in the neural space gently.
"You left a part of yourself back there."
"No," Krishna replied. "Just a dish."
Sheshika's voice followed — warm and coiled like the night air.
"Not everything needs a name to be remembered."
Medha's voice reached Krishna as he walked the docks alone.
"He'll never forget that meal."
"I didn't cook it to be remembered."
"No. But he will remember anyway."
Krishna stopped at the end of the dock, looking out toward the open sea.
He didn't feel pride. Or loss.
Just peace.
Like something small and necessary had been planted.
The feather? He didn't leave it to be poetic.
He left it so the boy would ask why it mattered.
Sometimes, that was enough.
...
Sanji sat alone behind Baratie, legs stretched out, elbows on his knees, container of butter chicken resting against his thigh. The air was colder now. The night rolled in quietly, the sea rocking beneath them like it was too tired to be loud.
He didn't eat quickly.
But his pace slowed with each bite.
He just… ate.
The sauce was warm but didn't bite. The chicken fell apart like it wanted to rest. The spices weren't loud — they weren't there to impress. It was food designed to remember something that didn't have words.
He didn't know what that thing was.
Only that it made him slow down.
Every bite asked him not to rush.
...
He took the last bite.
And sat there for a long time after, staring at the container like it might explain something if he waited long enough.
Behind him, the kitchen door opened.
Zeff stepped out, arms crossed under his apron.
"So," the old man said. "Was it good?"
Sanji didn't answer immediately. He held the container in both hands and said, "Yeah."
"That's it?"
"Yeah."
Zeff squinted at him. "You look like someone just gave you a hug and then stabbed you."
Sanji scoffed. "Shut up."
"You gonna cry now, or later?"
Sanji ground his teeth. "Shut. Up."
"You gonna write a poem about him now?"
"I said SHUT UP."
Zeff let the door close behind him, then leaned against the rail next to Sanji. The sea breeze kicked up, carrying the faint scent of burnt oil and chili paste from inside.
Zeff chuckled. "Good. Because if you start talking like him, I'm kicking you off my line."
Sanji gave a small, tired smile.
"You think he was a pirate?"
Zeff shook his head. "Pirates talk too much."
"A mercenary?"
"Too clean."
"A monk?"
Zeff glanced at the empty container beside Sanji.
"He wasn't trying to prove anything. Not to me. Not to you."
Sanji looked down at the feather resting on the edge of the step. Still whole. Still blue.
"I don't get it," he muttered. "He didn't take anything. He barely talked. He didn't flirt. Didn't show off. Didn't even want a free meal."
Zeff didn't answer.
...
Sanji gave a small, tired smile.
"You think he was a pirate?"
Zeff shook his head. "Pirates talk too much."
"A mercenary?"
"Too clean."
"A monk?"
Zeff glanced at the empty container beside Sanji.
"He wasn't trying to prove anything. Not to me. Not to you."
Sanji looked down at the feather resting on the edge of the step. Still whole. Still blue.
"I don't get it," he muttered. "He didn't take anything. He barely talked. He didn't flirt. Didn't show off. Didn't even want a free meal."
Zeff didn't answer.
Sanji stared out over the water. His voice dropped to something near a whisper.
"I've never had food like that."
Zeff raised an eyebrow. "What, from me?"
Sanji smirked. "You burn toast."
Zeff kicked his boot lightly. "And you burn pasta."
"Only once."
"It was rice."
"Shut up."
...
They sat together for a while in that stretch of silence that only happens between people who've already argued enough times to know when not to speak.
Sanji held the empty container for another minute.
Then set it gently beside him and said, "What do I do with this?"
"Eat something worse tomorrow," Zeff said. "And remember why you're still learning."
Sanji glanced up. "That wasn't just food."
Zeff shrugged. "Good food never is."
A long pause passed.
Then Sanji asked, "Do you think he'll come back?"
Zeff didn't hesitate.
"No."
"Why?"
"Because he didn't leave to be missed. He left to be remembered."
Sanji sat still for a long time.
Then whispered, "I didn't even get his name."
Zeff looked out at the horizon. "Doesn't mean you won't carry it."
...
Inside the kitchen, the last lights dimmed. Dishes dried. Staff left. But out here, time had no reason to keep moving.
The feather stayed on the step beside him.
Untouched.
...
Miles away, under a sky stretched with stars, Krishna stirred a low flame beneath a blackened steel pot.
The fire crackled softly. Just enough to heat water for tea. The flames danced without pressure — unforced, alive only because it chose to be.
Sheshika lay coiled beside the log he sat on, her body glowing faintly in the dark. Her head rested against the earth, tongue flicking once every few moments like punctuation to thoughts she didn't speak.
Medha's voice came from the small orb-like projection near his shoulder — not physical, but real enough for him to look at when he answered.
"Sanji will change," she said.
Krishna nodded. "I know."
"He listened."
"He always did," Krishna replied. "Even when he talked over himself."
Sheshika shifted slightly. "You think you'll ever tell him your name?"
"No," Krishna said. "That's not what he needs."
"What does he need?" Medha asked.
"To remember that someone didn't ask anything from him — and still gave."
Sheshika's voice drifted like silk from the dark.
"He'll remember the flavor. Not the name."
Krishna stared into the fire for a moment.
Then said, "That's enough."
Medha added softly, "You taught him without saying a word."
Krishna looked at the small pouch on his lap — the one Zeff gave him. Still sealed.
"I said enough."
...
The pot hissed gently as it reached a low boil.
Krishna dropped in a few tea leaves. Mint. Fennel. Two cardamom pods.
No sugar.
He didn't speak for a while after that.
Then: "He reminds me of someone."
Sheshika raised an eye. "Who?"
Krishna didn't say.
Medha, softly, "Not your brother."
Krishna shook his head.
"No. Sanji doesn't run from pain. He just hides it behind flavor."
"And you?" Medha asked.
"I hide it behind silence."
They let that sit.
No one needed to press it.
The tea steamed in the quiet. The wind moved between branches above.
Krishna stirred the cup with a wooden twig, then glanced up toward the stars.
"I don't think he needs me to return."
"He doesn't," Medha agreed. "But he might still look for you."
"That's okay."
"You'll never explain it?"
Krishna shook his head. "You don't explain a memory. You leave it."
...
The wind stirred again. Sheshika lowered herself from the branch and curled beside him, her head resting near his thigh.
"You used to want everyone to know who you were," she murmured. "Now you don't even introduce yourself."
"I used to think being known would fix something."
"And now?"
Krishna looked at the flame.
"Now I just want to cook something that matters,"
"It's the only time I forget I'm not normal." he added after a pause.
Sheshika murmured, "You're more normal than you think."
He glanced at her. "That's not always a comfort."
...
They sat like that for a long while.
No myths.
No declarations.
Just tea, and silence, and something in the smoke that felt like peace.
...
Back at Baratie, Sanji lay on the kitchen bench, one hand behind his head, the feather placed carefully on the shelf beside him. He didn't tell the others about it. Didn't talk about the food. Didn't explain why he refused dessert that night.
He just stared at the ceiling.
And for the first time in a long time, he didn't think about flirting.
Or running.
Or earning anyone's approval.
He just thought about flavor.
The kind that stayed.
...
The sea rolled slow and lazy beneath the half-risen sun.
Krishna stood at the edge of a narrow trail overlooking the water. His coat was folded neatly under one arm. His boots were still damp from last night's tide. He hadn't slept, but he hadn't needed to.
There was something clean about the silence. Like a kitchen right after the last plate has been scrubbed. All heat gone. All noise settled. Just space—left behind on purpose.
He looked once toward the distant shape of Baratie, a floating speck on a silver sheet.
Then turned.
And walked.
The wind brushed his face — soft, salty, not demanding anything. A few gulls cried faintly overhead, restless in their sleep. Behind him, the lights of Baratie flickered in the kitchen windows like distant fireflies.
Medha's voice ticked gently in his ear.
"You don't want to see how he handles the morning?"
"He doesn't need me there for that."
"You're sure?"
Krishna stepped lightly onto the stone path that led to the small boat tied near the rocks.
"I'm sure."
Sheshika, coiled loosely around his shoulders in her smallest form, shifted slightly, tongue flicking out.
"Sanji has a spark now. He just didn't know how to hold it."
Krishna untied the rope without answering.
Then he pushed the boat into the tide.
The water accepted it like a question answered too long ago.
...
At the same time, back inside the Baratie kitchen, the crew stumbled through prep like they always did after a long service. Eggs cracked. Fryers hissed. The floor still hadn't been fully mopped from the night before.
Zeff came in with his usual limp, barking orders that barely needed saying.
"Move faster! You cook like your pants are glued to the floor!"
"Where's the garlic for table three?!"
"Don't you dare hand me that dull-ass blade—go sharpen it or stab yourself with it!"
...
Sanji wasn't in the fray.
He stood at the far end of the prep counter, hands resting quietly on the edge of the wood.
In front of him sat the spice pouch.
He was staring at the spice pouch.
Not the one Krishna left. The one Zeff handed him the night before — Krishna's own, left behind on the prep shelf under the spice rack.
It had no label.
No message. No explanation. No instructions.
Just the faint, sharp scent of roasted cumin, pepper, something vaguely citrus.
Just that scent.
Something between warmth and memory—like the flavor of a dream you couldn't retell, but kept chasing every time you smelled cinnamon or cumin in a pan.
...
Zeff stomped into the kitchen a minute later, grumbling.
"What, you think you get a day off because mystery boy made you a meal?"
Sanji held up the pouch. "He left this."
Zeff stopped.
Then walked over, took the pouch, sniffed once — and grunted.
"He didn't take it?"
"Nope."
Zeff tossed it back. "Then use it."
Sanji caught it on instinct.
"I don't even know what's in it."
"You think I label my best blends?"
Sanji stared at the pouch.
Then sighed. "Fine."
A pause.
Then Zeff added, "He left it for you. Not to honor him. To cook with."
Sanji didn't answer right away.
Then quietly, "I know."
...
The lunch crowd was smaller that day. No big orders. No pirates shouting. Just a few travelers, a merchant couple, and a sea priest who insisted on extra turmeric for "divine alignment."
Sanji worked calmly. Didn't talk much. No flirting, no footwork, no jokes about wine pairings. He was watching his hands closely—like he wanted them to speak before his mouth did.
At one point, he opened the pouch.
Measured a small pinch.
Stirred it into a lemon-butter reduction, same as Krishna had adjusted his first day.
He tasted.
Stopped.
Looked at the pan for a long time.
Then added a little more, and smiled — not because it tasted better. But because it felt right.
He served it.
...
The guest at table five asked what the glaze was.
"House spice," the waiter replied.
The guest nodded. "It tastes... full. Like it finishes before I even know it started."
"Yeah," the waiter said. "That's the point."
...
After service, Sanji sat on the back steps, same spot as last night. The container was gone. So was the feather. But the feeling hadn't left.
He still didn't know Krishna's name.
But something in him had shifted—like a door had opened somewhere deep in his chest, and the air inside had changed.
...
Inside, Zeff was cleaning the prep board himself, muttering.
He glanced out the small round porthole toward the sea, where the horizon curled just slightly over the edge of the world.
He didn't say anything.
But the look in his eye wasn't confusion.
It was recognition.
...
Miles away, Krishna's boat moved through the water without sound. No oars. No sail. Just drift—steady and slow. The kind of pace you didn't notice until you were already far from shore.
Sheshika lay coiled at the foot of the boat, flicking her tongue at the scent of the breeze.
Medha hovered near Krishna's shoulder as a pale blue light—flickering faintly like a hologram low on energy, though her voice was sharp as ever.
"You always leave right before they say thank you."
Krishna didn't open his eyes.
"Gratitude isn't always meant to be caught."
"You think he'll forget?"
"No."
Sheshika stretched lazily.
"He needed the meal. Not the myth."
Krishna nodded.
"He got it."
Sheshika uncurled slightly from under the tarp near the back.
"He won't say it out loud," she said. "But he'll remember it every time he feeds someone else."
Krishna nodded. "That's the point."
...
The wind picked up.
Krishna leaned back slightly against the edge of the boat, arms crossed.
"He'll cook different now," he said. "Not with new technique. With new intent."
Medha replied, "Is that what this is for you? Intent?"
Krishna shook his head.
"It's not about the food. It's about the hand that holds the ladle."
Sheshika murmured, "And the heart that stirs the pot."
Krishna didn't respond.
"Baratie's not mine to change," he said finally. "Only to touch."
"And what about you?" Medha asked. "Are you changing?"
Krishna stared forward, voice low.
"I don't know."
The boat drifted on.
Not toward anything.
Not away from anything either.
Just forward.
Carried by something older than names.
...
On the far side of Baratie, Sanji returned to the kitchen long after closing. The other chefs had already gone to their bunks or to the bar down the wharf. Zeff had turned in with a threat about anyone touching his black pepper tin.
Sanji lit a low burner.
Didn't say why.
He just wanted to cook.
He reached for the pouch.
Measured a pinch.
Then he stopped.
Closed his eyes.
Let his hand hover above the flame for a moment—not close enough to burn, just close enough to feel the heat. It reminded him of something unspoken. Like standing near someone who doesn't need to talk to be heard.
He started chopping onions.
...
When the glaze was ready, he tasted it once.
Then placed it on a small piece of toast, ate it standing.
Didn't moan.
Didn't praise it.
Just nodded.
And whispered,
"Yeah. This one's mine now."
...
Time passed, and the last of the lunch crowd filtered out.
Sanji leaned on the counter near the kitchen door, sipping tea, still chewing a toothpick.
His hands smelled like pepper and butter.
He didn't say anything for a long time.
Then, without looking at anyone, he said:
"That guy?"
"Yeah?" said one of the waiters.
Sanji tilted his head.
"He didn't cook like someone trying to prove anything."
"No?"
"He cooked like someone who'd already proven it to himself."
The other waiter blinked.
"Poetic today, huh?"
Sanji shrugged.
"Must be the spices."
...
Later that night, after the dinner shift, after the oil cooled, and the fire dimmed, Sanji pulled out a folded cloth from his locker.
Inside it, wrapped like treasure, was the feather.
He didn't show anyone.
Didn't label it.
Didn't hide it either.
He just placed it in a tin box and slid it into the drawer where he kept old recipes, unused garnishes, and the notebook he didn't tell anyone he was writing in.
Then he closed it.
Quietly.
Not like goodbye.
But like something sacred that didn't need explaining.
...
Krishna lay on his back in the boat, staring at the sky.
The stars were just beginning to peek through.
Medha flickered off for the night, dimming with a small yawn in his system. "Don't forget, you still have a few months left on this leg."
Krishna didn't answer.
Sheshika asked, "Do you think you'll be remembered?"
Krishna looked up.
"The food will."
"That enough for you?"
He paused.
Then said softly:
"It has to be."
...
Back in Baratie's kitchen, Sanji slipped Krishna's spice pouch into a sealed container and stashed it inside the second drawer near the cutting board—the one no one used, the one only he reached for when trying something new.
He wrote nothing on the label.
Just a single blue feather, drawn in ink.
And beside it, a tiny line:
"Use only when it matters."
Krishna never returned to Baratie.
But the dish did.
Sanji served it every few months, without fanfare.
He called it The Feather's Glaze.
No one asked why.
And those who did?
He just said, "You'll understand when you taste it."
And they did.
...
Author's Note
Yo, divine degenerates and dharmic believers—
This chapter was different.
No divine blades, no haki storms — just fire, food, and two boys learning what it means to feed someone with intent.
I know some of you noticed the contrast between Krishna's visit to Zoro in Chapter 20 and this long, detailed arc with Sanji here in Chapter 21. That was very intentional.
Zoro is grieving. He's mourning Kuina — the kind of grief that doesn't want words. That's why Krishna's presence was short, quiet, and respectful. Sometimes, just standing beside someone is enough.
But Sanji?
Sanji carries a different kind of pain — deeper, messier. Abandonment, duty, a warped sense of worth, and a love for women that comes with confusion instead of clarity. So Krishna stayed longer. Gave him food. Gave him silence. Gave him advice without sounding like a preacher. That's how this story moves — through human repair.
Also, don't get it twisted — I still like Zoro more than Sanji. Always have. But this chapter wasn't about favorites. It was about who needed what. And Sanji needed this.
And yeah, from now on, I'll be adding Omake scenes after chapters — for fun, for chaos, for sanity. Because gods deserve awkward moments too. (Especially when being hit on by older women.)
Next up, we return to Foosha — and Luffy and Ace are already being menaces.
Until then — cook slow. Laugh hard. Remember the flavor.
– Author out.
...
Omake: "I-I'm a Minor"
Baratie, two days ago.
Late afternoon sun slanted across the dock, turning the ocean gold and the air heavy with salt and citrus. Krishna stood near the back railing of the floating restaurant, cup of spiced tea in hand, watching waves roll toward nowhere.
He looked still. Quiet. Effortless.
But he didn't look fifteen.
Not with skin the color of dark bronze, polished smooth by sun and silence. Not with that quiet posture — the way he stood like a shadow that refused to leave. His midnight-black eyes, almond-shaped and depthless, caught light like obsidian, unreadable and strange. His hair, thick and ink-dark, fell perfectly across his forehead — not styled, not arranged, just there, like the wind worked for him.
He wasn't trying to look older.
He just did.
Which, apparently, was exactly someone's type.
"Wow," came a voice — mature, smooth, sultry — from the side. "Didn't think angels visited floating restaurants."
Tall. Confident. Early thirties. Dress cinched, heels clicking softly against wood. Wine in her hand, sunglasses perched in her hair. A woman who knew what she wanted — and thought she saw it standing by the ocean.
She stopped beside him.
Krishna turned, politely.
He blinked. "Pardon?"
She smiled. "Sorry. Was that too direct?"
Krishna tilted his head slightly. "Were you... referring to me?"
She stepped closer, hips swaying slightly.
"Did it hurt?"
Krishna turned. "I'm sorry?"
"When you fell from whatever sky where brooding gods come from."
Krishna just stood there.
He didn't breathe.
He didn't blink.
He didn't move.
His body was still functioning — but his brain?
Absolutely nothing was happening in there.
...
From above, Sheshika lowered her head, coiled in the shade of the overhang.
"Oh no," she hissed. "She wants to eat him."
Inside Krishna's brain, Medha's HUD blinked red.
"FLIRTATION LOCKED. THREAT LEVEL: MAN-EATER. EMERGENCY PROTOCOL ENGAGED."
His brain, which had processed death squads, marine battle maps, and live haki-feedback logs — went completely blank.
She smiled wider. "God, those eyes… you're not even fair."
Krishna's voice finally rebooted. "I—was just drinking tea."
"You do that like a prophet," she said, leaning closer. "Are you always this composed?"
Krishna stepped back a fraction. "Usually. But I… um. I have a few things to—"
She cut him off gently with a finger to his chest — not touching, just gesturing. "No need to run, feather boy. I'm just saying hi."
Krishna opened his mouth.
But no sound came out.
...
Back in the kitchen, Sanji watched through the round window.
He saw the way the woman leaned in.
He saw the way Krishna looked like someone had pressed DELETE on his soul.
Sanji slowly put down the ladle.
"Oh, this is gonna be good," he muttered.
...
Krishna kept his posture still, but his pupils actually dilated.
"I don't think—"
"You're not from around here, are you?" she purred.
"I—no."
"Of course not," she said, stepping dangerously close now. "No one here looks like you."
She smiled again, eyes dropping meaningfully.
"Tall. Built. That voice. Those hands."
Krishna's hands instinctively went behind his back like he was in trouble at school.
"This isn't happening," Krishna thought, on the verge of having a panic attack from having someone flirt with him so... dangerously. This was the first time it happened, so yes, he will hyperventilate if this does not stop.
...
Outside, the woman tilted her head, one brow raised. "You shy? That's cute."
Krishna finally managed, "I... I should probably... return inside."
She smiled. "That's fine. But first, maybe a name?"
Krishna took a step back.
Medha's voice hissed into his brain like static, her form materializing at the side, eerily familiar to a certain mass genocide committing protagonist with titan powers. "Say it. Say you're a minor. Say it right now."
Krishna turned robotically, eyes locking with the woman's.
Then, voice cracked like old stone, "I—uh—I'm... fifteen."
She blinked.
"What?"
Krishna said it again, "I… I'm a minor."
There was a pause.
Her wineglass stopped mid-sway.
Her expression shifted instantly — from curiosity, to confusion… to absolute horror.
"Excuse me?" she said.
"I-I'm fifteen," Krishna said, completely deadpan, not even blinking.
She took two steps back like he had suddenly grown antlers. "You're a child?!"
Krishna just bowed awkwardly. "I apologize for... existing."
The woman stepped back three full paces, knocking into a post. "Oh my god—I flirted with a child?!"
Krishna tried to bow.
It came out as a spasmodic nod.
"I hope you recover emotionally."
She spun around, flustered, muttering something about jail time and judgmental seagulls, and stormed off, nearly tripping on the deck stairs.
...
The silence shattered as Medha collapsed, glitching, fading in and out, and wheezing in his neural feed.
"AHAHAHAA—OH MY GOD," she cackled, glitching, laughing, flickering. "HE SAID 'I APOLOGIZE FOR EXISTING'—I CAN'T—I'M DYING—AHAHAHAA."
Sheshika, high above, lost all control. She hiss-laughed so hard she nearly fell off the beam, tail flailing.
Sanji, standing in the kitchen doorway, watched the whole thing with a look like he'd just witnessed a god lose to a frying pan.
He didn't know whether to laugh.
Or weep.
The lady all but sprinted back to her table, knocking over a chair.
Krishna stood perfectly still, tea still in hand.
"…Was that necessary?" he muttered to Medha.
Medha, still glitch-chuckling, wheezed, "I saved your life. And her therapy bills."
Sheshika added in dry amusement, "Your face when you said it. I almost shed from secondhand awkwardness."
Sanji finally sat down in the doorway.
Face in his hands.
"Mental damage," he whispered. "Permanent mental damage."
...
Sanji walked out twenty seconds later, just as the woman disappeared into the crowd.
He stood next to Krishna, looked at the empty cup, then at his face.
Krishna didn't meet his eyes.
"I said I was fifteen."
"You are fifteen."
"I know."
Sanji sighed.
"You could've just said you were taken."
"I panicked."
...
Sanji didn't speak for a while.
Then finally,
"I don't know whether to respect you or report you to therapy."
Krishna looked out at the water.
"Please do both."
Sanji took one long look.
And said, "I... I'm going back inside."
Krishna didn't move.
He just stared out at the sea again.
And whispered to no one, "That was worse than death."
...