The tavern hummed with drunken laughter and clattering mugs, its smoky air thick with salt and rum. At the bar, Shanks was already several drinks deep, booming with laughter at every story, while Buggy grumbled beside him, waving his arms as though volume alone could drown out his old crewmate.

Then the door opened. Neither man looked up at first—until the firelight brushed across a heart-shaped mark on the newcomer’s neck. Both froze.

Shanks’ good eye widened, then narrowed with sudden recognition. "...No way. That mark—it’s the same one from back on the Oro Jackson." His voice was low at first, but laughter soon cracked through. "Don’t tell me—it really is! Hah! All those years we thought—"

Buggy nearly fell off his stool, finger stabbing the air. "WHAT?! No! No, that can’t be—don’t you dare tell me I’ve been calling her ‘brother’ for years!" His painted face flushed, caught between outrage and disbelief.

Shanks doubled over, laughing harder than he had all night. "Buggy, you idiot—we all thought she was one of us. Roger, Rayleigh—they never corrected us because they knew this moment would come!"

Buggy slammed both hands on the counter, sputtering. "Are you kidding me?! The whole crew was in on it? You mean to tell me everyone—everyone—watched me make a fool of myself for years?!"

Shanks wiped at his eye, still chuckling. "Looks like the joke aged better than you did, old friend."

And just like that, the bar was buzzing again—one Yonko roaring with laughter, one clown drowning in humiliation, both dragged back into the memory of a childhood they’d never quite escaped.