Shiho shivered, water trickling down her neck to soak into the hem of her ruined collar. The wind roared across the slippery deck, whipping salt spray into her eyes until every breath tasted of iron and sea. Before her stood Zoro. His hand rested heavily on the pommel of the topmost sword bound to his hip, his knuckles dark against the polished brass. He did not flinch as the deck pitched beneath them, his broad frame locked into the tilt of the wood with terrifying ease. Behind him, a dozen rough-looking sailors clung to the riggings and hatchways. Their eyes darted from the dark, boiling horizon to the strange girl standing in the shelter of their captain's shadow. "Listen up!" Zoro's voice cut straight through the thunder, deep and grating like iron dragged across stone. The crew went still. Even the heavy ropes snapping against the mainmast seemed to fall into silence behind his bark. "She stays," Zoro grunted, tossing a single thick arm out to indicate Shiho. "She belongs to this ship now. And she belongs to me." A low hum of murmurs rippled through the gathered men. A sailor with a scarred jaw and a rope-burned palm stepped forward a fraction of an inch, his boots squelching on the deck. "Captain," the scarred man shouted over the dying gale, his brow furrowed in doubt. "She's got no mark. No coat. Where'd she even come from in the middle of a storm like this?" Zoro did not turn his head. His single open eye remained fixed on the crew before swiveling down to lock onto Shiho. The intensity of his stare sent a jolt straight to her soles. "Does it look like I care where she fell from?" Zoro asked, his voice dropping an octave, though every man on deck heard every syllable clearly. "You touch her, you deal with me. You cross her, you're feeding the sharks. That's the end of it." --- Shiho pulled her arms tightly across her chest. The rain was relentless, plastering her wet hair to her cheeks, but the cold deck beneath her bare feet barely registered compared to the sudden heat curling in her chest. It made no sense. She had woken up on a vessel she didn't recognize, surrounded by armed men who looked capable of slitting her throat for a brass coin. She should have been screaming. She should have been looking for a hatch to hide under or a ledge to jump from. Instead, when the scarred crewmate took another half-step forward with a dark scowl on his weathered face, Shiho's breath caught—not out of fear for herself, but out of a desperate, sudden panic for Zoro. An irrational warmth flared behind her ribs, sharp and consuming. She felt a sudden, fierce urge to step between the green-haired captain and the glaring crew. It was entirely absurd. Zoro was massive, heavily armed, and clearly the undisputed master of this deck. He did not need protection from anyone, least of all a girl soaked to the bone. Yet the pull was physical. It tugged at her core like a thick hawser wrapped around her spine, drawing her closer to his side. Zoro moved his thumb, flicking the guard of his sword up a fraction of an inch with a sharp, metallic click. The scarred sailor froze immediately. The challenge on his face vanished, replaced by a grey, slick sheen of sweat that had nothing to do with the ocean spray. He swallowed hard and lowered his eyes to the deck. "Understood, Captain," the sailor muttered, backing away into the shadows of the mainmast. Shiho let out a ragged breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Her heart pounded violently against her ribs, but the initial terror was melting away, replaced by a confusing, intoxicating sense of absolute safety right where she stood. --- The storm began to abate, the heavy torrents softening into a thick, clinging mist that hung low over the dark water. The ship groaned as it rode the settling swell, wood creaking in a steady, rhythmic cadence. Shiho remained near the deckhouse, her hands resting against the wet oak railing. Zoro had moved toward the helm, his tall form silhouetted against the graying fog, but his gaze occasionally cut back to her—sharp, possessive, leaving no room for her to breathe without feeling his presence. Nearby, two crewmen were coiling a heavy line, their hands moving mechanically while their eyes stayed strictly lowered toward their work. Shiho watched them, trying to make sense of the strange pulse still thrumming in her veins. Why did she feel anchored here? Why did her chest ache with affection for a man who had declared her his property without asking her name? One of the crewmen, an older man with a frayed cloth wrapped around his brow, glanced up briefly. His eyes shifted from Zoro's towering figure back to Shiho. It was only a fraction of a second, but the look in his eyes was not anger or respect—it was a dark, unsettling mix of pity and quiet horror. He looked at Shiho as if she were already marked for something terrible. Shiho's pulse spiked with a sudden spike of cold dread. She opened her mouth to speak, to demand what he was staring at, but the words locked in her throat as the sailor quickly turned his back, hauling on the wet hemp. Just as the relief began to wash over her, a crewmate whispered, not to her, but to himself, a chilling phrase about 'the curse of the Marimo's eye', leaving Shiho cold.

Chapter 2: The Oath of Emerald