Chapter (1/2) : Detox Now
Length: 5 K
Rating: 16+
Summary: The most feared Warden alive turns clumsy and tongue-tied whenever you—a respected and calm Marine Commander—visit for inspection. Meanwhile you remain completely unaware that his stern silence hides a crush big enough to shake the entire prison.
Next
Magellan, the terrifying Chief Warden of Impel Down, is known across the seas for his poison, discipline, and iron rule. But none of that prepares him for you, a composed Marine commander he’s seen only in passing during official reports. You barely register his presence, treating him with the same polite professionalism you’d extend to any officer. For Magellan, though, that brief courtesy is life-changing.
The first time Magellan noticed you, it was nothing remarkable. A routine visit from Marine Headquarters, a sharp-eyed commander in crisp whites descending into the bowels of Impel Down to verify security measures. He had stood like a monolith at the entrance, arms folded, the picture of unshakable authority. You had passed by with a polite nod, a glance brief as a sparrow’s wingbeat, and that should have been the end of it.
But it wasn’t.
Magellan, scourge of prisoners, poison-man whose very breath spelled agony, felt something he hadn’t in years. His throat dried. The words he had prepared, formally welcoming you, offering to escort you down to Level One, died before they ever left his lips. You had already gone, striding briskly with your aides, unbothered by him. To you, he was simply another obstacle in the dark stone corridors. To him, you were a spark of light in a prison that devoured all warmth.
He told himself it was nothing. He was a professional. Chief Warden. His duties didn’t allow for distractions, let alone this… fluttering. Yet every time he tried to bury it beneath routine, it grew.
The reports from that inspection still sat in his office, your signature scrawled across the margins. He’d caught himself tracing the ink once, heavy gloves pressing down as though contact through the paper meant something. Disgusted with himself, he shoved the file away. Only to drag it back out a week later under the pretense of “review.”
Hannyabal, of course, noticed. Hannyabal always noticed.
“You look different, Chief,” his deputy snickered one morning. “Less terrifying, more… constipated.”
Magellan fixed him with a glare that would have frozen lesser men, but the damage was done. Hannyabal began inventing excuses to mention your name, just to watch the Warden squirm.
When you next came through, Magellan rehearsed his greeting in the mirror of the lavatory, between bouts of Devil Fruit agony that chained him there for hours. He stood before the cracked glass, muttering, “Commander, welcome. Commander, I trust your journey was safe.” He practiced bowing, even smiling, though the expression felt alien on his severe features.
And when the moment came. When you crossed his path again, pausing just long enough to offer another polite nod, he froze. His bow became a stiff jerk forward, so abrupt that a stack of reports toppled from a nearby table and scattered across the floor.
You didn’t even blink. You stepped around the mess, thanked him for his “vigilance,” and carried on without a second glance.
Magellan stood rooted in place long after, surrounded by fallen papers, heart hammering in a chest that had faced down monsters of the sea without faltering.
How pathetic, he thought. To rule a prison feared across the seas, yet be undone by the brush of a commander’s courtesy.
Still, when he returned to his office that night, the corner of his mouth tugged upward. Just slightly, almost imperceptibly, as he remembered the sound of your voice.
-X-
On the ship ride back from Impel Down, your underlings took their chance.
You were standing at the rail, reviewing the inspection notes you had signed, when one of your lieutenants coughed in that deliberate way that meant trouble.
“What?” you asked without looking up.
“Nothing, Commander,” the man said, far too innocently. The others didn’t bother hiding their smirks.
You lowered the papers. “Out with it.”
The youngest of them grinned, leaning on the rail. “We just didn’t realize the warden had such… admiration for our commander. The way he looked at you? Like a schoolboy.”
You blinked. “Magellan? The poison man who spends half his day locked in the bathroom? Don’t be ridiculous.”
Laughter rippled through the group. Another officer muttered, “Did you see him bow? Nearly snapped himself in half trying to impress you.”
“I thought he was having a seizure,” someone else said.
Your jaw dropped. “He was probably… tired. Or constipated. Or—whatever he always is. He barely even knows who I am.”
“Oh, he knows,” came the sing-song reply. “The Chief Warden doesn’t go dropping files and tripping over himself for just anyone.”
You folded your arms, heat rising to your cheeks, though you refused to acknowledge it. “You all need better hobbies. I am not entertaining rumors about one of the most feared men in the world having a… crush. On me.”
They exchanged glances, grins spreading wider. “Whatever you say, Commander.”
You turned sharply back to your notes, refusing to give them the satisfaction. Yet later, when the sea wind curled around you and the memory of Magellan’s stiff bow resurfaced, you found yourself biting back a laugh.
Absurd. Entirely absurd.
-X-
The next time you set foot in Impel Down, you were all business. Clipboard in hand, checklist already half-completed before you’d even passed the gates. Security measures, prisoner logs, supply inventories, there was no time to waste.
Your crew, of course, had other ideas.
“Commander,” one of them whispered far too loudly as Magellan approached, “don’t look now, but he’s sweating.”
You didn’t even glance up. “He always sweats. He’s literally poisonous.”
“No, no — different sweat,” another muttered, stifling a laugh. “That’s the sweat of a man in love.”
You whipped around and glared at them, sharp enough to silence even the boldest. “We are here for an inspection, not to gossip. Eyes front.”
But when Magellan came to escort you, the truth of it was impossible to ignore; not for you, but for everyone else. Guards stiffened, prisoners craned their necks against their restraints, even the den den mushi seemed to swivel toward the pair of you. The Chief Warden, who usually radiated menace like a storm cloud, moved with nervous care. His bow was too deep, his words too formal, his hands clenching and unclenching behind his back like a recruit in front of an admiral.
Your crew ate it up.
“Chief Warden,” you said briskly, making notes as you walked past him, “I’ll need the updated list of contraband confiscations. And ensure the chains on Level Two are being properly oiled. Last visit, they were rusted.”
“Yes, Commander,” Magellan rumbled, voice low and far too eager.
One of your lieutenants coughed into his fist. Another snorted so hard you shot him a death glare over your shoulder. The poor man instantly pretended to study a wall torch with profound interest.
By the time you reached the end of Level Three, the entire staff of Impel Down was whispering. Even the fearsome beasts in their cages pressed closer, sensing some strange shift in the atmosphere. Magellan trailed at your side, looming and silent, but every step screamed devotion.
You, however, saw only the job.
“Warden, the ventilation system needs an overhaul,” you said, jotting notes. “Assign maintenance immediately.”
“Yes, Commander,” came the grave, obedient reply.
Behind you, your crew dissolved into silent hysteria. They mouthed Commander and the Warden like it was the title of some bawdy play.
You ignored them. Professionals did not indulge in nonsense.
Still, as you left Impel Down hours later, you caught the faintest sound behind you: prisoners rattling their bars and chanting something low, half-mocking, half-gleeful.
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose as your crew tried and failed to contain their laughter.
Gremlins, the lot of them.
-X-
By your fifth inspection, it had become routine at least for you. You had your notes, your schedule, and your deadlines to report back to Marine Headquarters. The only difference was the atmosphere.
Impel Down had changed.
Guards straightened when you passed, snapping to attention in a way you never saw them do for their own Chief Warden. The den den mushi at the front desk now chirped out a cheerful “Welcome, Commander!” before its eyes darted nervously toward Magellan, as if betraying a secret. Even the prisoners muttered with conspiratorial glee when you walked the halls, their sneers replaced with wolfish grins.
“Sweetheart,” someone hissed from behind bars on Level Four. “Chief Warden’s sweetheart.”
Your pen didn’t pause. “Silence in the ranks.”
The prisoner obeyed instantly. Your crew exchanged looks like children watching a schoolteacher accidentally charm a tiger.
Magellan, for his part, was the worst offender of all. His already legendary punctuality had become flawless. His uniform is crisp. His bows deeper. His reports were meticulously detailed with little flourishes that suspiciously mirrored your own style of notation. You’d ask for a ventilation repair order, and it would appear within the hour, stamped and filed with Commander’s Request inked neatly across the top.
The rest of Impel Down noticed.
By the time you reached the dining hall on Level One, someone had actually set aside a seat for you. Not just a chair, but a high-backed, freshly polished monstrosity that looked more suited for a royal court than a prison.
“Absolutely not,” you said flatly. “I am not sitting in that.”
Magellan blinked. “But—it’s clean.”
“It’s ridiculous.”
Your crew snickered behind their hands. One bold lieutenant muttered, “Looks like a throne to me.”
The staff flushed with embarrassment but didn’t dare remove it. You ended up standing, eating your lunch over your notes while Magellan hovered anxiously, asking if the soup was too hot, if the bread was fresh, if the lighting was sufficient.
By the time you left, the whispers had become open declarations.
“Commander’s here,” a guard muttered reverently as you passed.
“She’ll have this place shipshape in no time,” another said, pride swelling in his voice.
A third, emboldened, whispered, “The Commander’s good for him. He smiles more.”
You had never once seen Magellan smile.
On the warship, back to base, your crew collapsed into laughter.
“Don’t you see it?” one demanded. “They treat you like you're already married to him!”
Another snorted, “At this point, Commander, you’re basically the queen of Impel Down. They’d follow your orders faster than the Warden’s.”
You crossed your arms, exasperated. “I don’t have time for this nonsense. I am not anyone’s queen. I am a Marine officer doing my duty.”
The youngest grinned like a fiend. “Sure, Commander. Tell that to the throne.”
You tried not to hurl your clipboard at him.
-X-
It happened on your eighth inspection.
Impel Down was already buzzing when you arrived. Guards polished their boots twice, cells gleamed like new, and every prisoner you passed had that knowing smirk plastered across their faces. Your crew, as usual, whispered like gremlins behind you, taking bets on how long it would take the Warden to embarrass himself this time.
Magellan was waiting in the main hall. For once, he wasn’t sweating, though he looked like a man about to face an execution squad. His massive frame seemed even stiffer than usual, and his fists clenched at his sides.
“Commander,” he began, bowing so low you feared he’d snap his own spine. “There is… something I must say.”
You sighed quietly, shifting your clipboard under one arm. Here it comes, you thought. Another request for improved ventilation, or a dispute with Headquarters over rations. Always some crisis.
“Yes, Warden?”
The guards along the corridor leaned in. Even the den den mushi tilted forward on its little perch, eyes wide.
Magellan swallowed hard. “You… are the light that shines in this place of darkness. Your presence transforms these halls. I—” His voice faltered, but he pressed on. “I would be honored if you would accept… a place here. Beside me.”
The world seemed to hold its breath. Guards froze, prisoners strained against bars, your own crew practically vibrated with unholy glee.
You blinked at him, utterly unfazed. “A place… here?”
He nodded gravely, heart hammering.
You exhaled in relief. “Ah. You’re offering me a transfer.”
There was a beat of stunned silence. Somewhere, a guard choked on his own spit.
You adjusted your notes briskly. “I appreciate the offer, Warden, but my post is with the Marines. I’ll certainly recommend additional oversight staff for Impel Down, but I can’t accept a permanent station here. My duties are elsewhere.”
Behind you, your crew erupted into muffled hysterics. One of them audibly wheezed, clinging to the wall for support.
Magellan’s face twitched, a flush creeping up his neck. He had prepared himself for rejection, for laughter, for humiliation—but this? Being mistaken for a bureaucratic transfer proposal? It was agony. And yet, when he looked at you—so calm, so professional, so utterly oblivious—his heart clenched tighter with a strange, aching fondness.
“…Of course,” he rumbled at last, bowing his head. “Your duty comes first. I… understand.”
You gave a short nod. “Good. Then let’s get back to the prisoner inventory, shall we?”
And just like that, the most feared warden in the world followed at your side like a lovesick schoolboy, while the entire prison buzzed with whispers about their “queen” who didn’t even know she’d been proposed to.
-X-
The moment you stepped back onto your ship, the dam broke.
Your lieutenants practically collapsed on deck, howling like hyenas. One slapped the railing for balance, another wheezed so loudly a passing seagull screeched back in alarm.
“What?” you demanded, snapping your clipboard shut.
“You—” one gasped between fits, “you just turned down a proposal—”
“From the most terrifying man alive—” another cackled, wiping tears from his eyes.
“And you thought it was a job offer!”
You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Because it was a job offer. He said a place beside him. That’s a transfer. Administrative. Nothing more.”
The youngest grinned wickedly. “Sure, Commander. That’s why the entire prison staff was holding their breath like they were watching a wedding. That’s why the Warden nearly fainted when you said no.”
“I don’t have time for this nonsense.” You marched toward your quarters, but their laughter followed you down the hall like a curse. “Gremlins, all of you!”
-X-
Meanwhile, in the prison below, Impel Down was on fire with gossip.
“She turned him down.”
“No—she didn’t understand!”
“She thought it was about paperwork!”
“Paperwork! Our Chief Warden bares his soul, and she calls it a transfer request!”
The guards muttered in the halls. Prisoners whispered gleefully through the bars. Even Sadi-chan, usually too busy whipping subordinates to care, sighed theatrically.
“Poor Magellan,” she purred, cracking her whip. “He finally proposes, and she thinks it’s a staffing issue.”
Magellan, brooding in his office, could hear it all. He sat behind his desk, massive hands clenched tight. The rejection should have crushed him. Instead… it only deepened his resolve.
“She doesn’t see it,” he murmured aloud, staring at the inspection notes you’d left behind. Your signature gleamed at the bottom of the page. He touched it with one gloved finger, gentle as if it might vanish.
Hannyabal leaned against the doorframe, smirking like the devil. “She doesn’t see it because she thinks you were offering her a desk job, Chief. A desk job! You’ve got to spell it out.”
Magellan growled low in his throat. “I don’t… spell out things. I enforce order. I protect this prison.”
“And pine like a schoolboy,” Hannyabal said cheerfully. “Adorable, really. But if you want your queen to notice, you’ll need more than dramatic speeches. Flowers, maybe. Gifts. Something unmistakable.”
Magellan’s jaw tightened. The thought of presenting you with anything frivolous seemed absurd. And yet, the idea of watching you smile—really smile at something he gave you—sent a heat curling in his chest stronger than any poison he could conjure.
He rose to his full, towering height, determination blazing in his eyes. “Fine. If she thinks it was a job offer, then next time… I’ll make myself clear.”
And all of Impel Down shivered, not at the threat of poison or pain, but at the thought of the Chief Warden preparing to woo the one person too busy with her clipboard to notice.
-X-
The air in Level Six was always heavy. The prisoners there, the monsters deemed too dangerous for history itself, had nothing but time and sharpened ears. They caught every tremor in the stone, every whisper through the bars, every rumor carried down the corridors by guards too careless with their tongues.
And lately, all talk was about you.
Even in the pit of Impel Down’s forgotten, gossip had teeth.
Shiryu of the Rain leaned against the bars of his cell, a cigarette burning down to ash between his fingers. His eyes glittered with cruel amusement as voices carried through the shadows.
“You lot notice?” he drawled, voice deep and amused. “The Chief Warden’s got himself twisted up like a boy in love.”
Avalo Pizarro’s laugh rumbled from the dark. “Bahaha! I thought he only sweated because of his fruit. But no… that wasn’t poison leaking out, that was his heart.”
“Pathetic,” sneered San Juan Wolf from where his bulk pressed against the chains, voice booming like distant thunder. “A man like that falling for a Marine pup? He should drown himself in his own venom.”
“Not just any Marine pup,” Catarina Devon crooned, sharp as a knife. Her long nails clinked against the bars as she tapped them idly. “She walks in, and the whole prison bends to her. Didn’t you see it? The guards, the beasts, even the Chief Warden himself. She wears the air of a queen, whether she knows it or not.”
Shiryu exhaled smoke, lips curling. “And she doesn’t even notice. That’s what makes it funnier.”
The convicts chuckled darkly.
“One of the guards said she turned him down,” Pizarro snorted, slamming a fist against the stone. “Thought his proposal was a transfer request! Hah!”
That earned a wave of laughter that echoed through the cavern, cruel and mocking. Even the prisoners who hadn’t spoken in weeks cracked grins at the tale.
“Imagine that,” Devon purred. “The great Magellan, who makes men scream in their chains, reduced to a lovesick fool. His queen says no, and he bows anyway.”
Shiryu’s smile sharpened. “Makes him weak.”
“Or dangerous,” Devon countered, tilting her head. “Wouldn’t you burn a kingdom to keep your queen?”
That silenced the laughter for a beat. They all knew it was true — if anyone so much as threatened you, the Warden would coat the entire level in poison without hesitation.
Pizarro grinned wider. “So what do you think? Should we try our luck? Whisper her name next time she comes down here?”
Shiryu flicked the last of his cigarette to the ground, crushing it beneath his boot heel. “Try it, and you’ll drown before the second syllable. The fool’s heart might be soft, but his poison isn’t.”
For a long moment, silence hung thick. Then Devon’s laugh split the dark, sly and amused.
“Then we’ll just keep watching. Watching our jailer stumble like a schoolboy, while the Commander wears her crown and never even notices it’s there.”
The monsters laughed with her, the sound echoing up through the prison like a sickness.
-X-
Your boots echoed sharply against the stone steps as you descended further than usual — a rare visit to check on the most secure levels yourself. The air was heavy, damp with the taste of iron. Your crew trailed behind, whispering like gremlins as always, though even they seemed uneasy with Level Six yawning open beneath them.
The guards exchanged nervous glances. No commander ever came down here.
You kept your stride brisk, clipboard tucked under one arm, pen poised. “We’ll be quick,” you said. “Just a headcount and a look at the chains.”
Magellan, towering at your side, tried to look composed. But his massive frame seemed even stiffer than usual, his gloved hands curling tight at his sides.
From the shadows, the prisoners stirred. Whispers slithered through the air, carried from mouth to mouth until they rose into a low chorus.
“The Queen!”
“The Commander’s here.”
“Look at him sweat, good job sweetheart.”
You frowned, pen pausing over your notes.
“Did they just say… queen?” you asked under your breath.
Your crew immediately choked on their laughter. One bent double, wheezing. Another coughed violently into his sleeve to disguise the sound.
“They’re criminals, Commander,” one managed between snorts. “Don’t take their words seriously.”
But you couldn’t ignore it when the mutters sharpened.
“Turned him down—hah!”
“Didn’t even see it.”
“Imagine, thinking it was a transfer!”
The laughter that followed was cruel and wild, echoing through the cavern like a pack of hyenas.
You froze mid-step, glancing over your shoulder. “Transfer? What transfer?”
Your crew refused to meet your eye. The youngest was grinning so hard he nearly split his face in half.
“Commander,” Magellan said quickly, his voice booming through the hall as if to drown them out. “The chains are reinforced. You may inspect them here.”
You looked up at him, suspicion flickering, but his face was carved from stone — if stone could blush faintly beneath its surface. You shook your head, deciding not to waste time puzzling over the ramblings of condemned men.
“Fine,” you said briskly, jotting a note. “Let’s finish this.”
But as you turned, the prisoners’ laughter rose again, softer this time, slyer.
“She doesn’t even know. Marines are so boring.”
Your brows knit, but you pressed forward. Work first. Always work first.
Behind you, your crew silently exchanged coins, paying out the latest bet on how long it would take before you finally realized what all of Impel Down already knew.
And then one of the monsters in Level Six called out.
“Oi, Commander!” The voice was Avalo Pizarro’s, loud and rumbling, designed to carry. “Did you bring your wedding dress this time?”
The laughter that followed was immediate and vicious. Catarina Devon cackled, sharp and high, while San Juan Wolf’s thunderous guffaw shook the stone. Even Shiryu smirked from the shadows, smoke curling around his lips.
Your crew froze, wide-eyed, choking on their laughter for once. The guards tensed, hands on their weapons.
You blinked, baffled. “Wedding—what are they talking about?”
Before you could take another step, Magellan moved.
The Chief Warden’s entire body stiffened, then trembled with a fury that seemed to shake the air. Purple venom hissed and bubbled at the corners of his mouth. His massive hand slammed against the bars, and the stone shrieked in protest.
“Silence!” His roar cracked through Level Six like thunder. The walls vibrated. Prisoners flinched, even the fearless ones.
For the first time in years, the laughter died instantly.
He loomed over the bars, venom dripping from his frame in heavy, burning globs. His voice dropped to a dangerous rumble. “You will not speak of her. You will not look at her. If a whisper of her name passes your lips again, I’ll coat this level in poison so thick you’ll choke on it until the end of your miserable lives.”
The silence that followed was absolute.
Even Shiryu’s smirk faltered. He flicked his cigarette aside, studying Magellan with new, sharp interest. “Touchy,” he muttered, but low enough that only Devon heard.
Your crew exchanged frantic glances behind you. One mouthed: queen. Another looked like he might actually faint from suppressed laughter.
You, however, were still clutching your clipboard like a lifeline. “Warden,” you said sharply, breaking the silence. “That outburst was unnecessary. They’re prisoners, of course, they’re going to taunt. Let’s not waste time with theatrics.”
Magellan turned his head, slowly, venom still hissing from his shoulders. His eyes softened when they met yours, though his voice remained gravelly low. “It was not theatrics.”
You frowned, ready to scold further, but the look in his eyes silenced you for reasons you couldn’t name.
“Fine,” you muttered, scribbling something into your notes to cover your unease. “But next time, leave it. We have work to do.”
Magellan bowed his massive head. “Yes, Commander.”
As you strode away toward the stairwell, your crew trailing like a pack of snickering jackals, the prisoners behind the bars whispered again, but this time quieter.
-X-
The next problem began with a memo.
A simple sheet of parchment carried up the chain of command, stamped three times with Impel Down’s seal. At first glance, it was the usual: inspection results, supply logs, prisoner headcounts. But one section had been annotated, hastily and with a heavy hand.
“Warden Magellan displayed uncharacteristic hostility toward inmates during Commander’s visit. Threatened mass poisoning of Level Six after personal taunts. Incident noted by multiple witnesses.”
By the time the report hit Marineford, it had already been copied and whispered about.
Vice Admiral Momonga set the page down with a frown. “So the Chief Warden nearly drowned the lowest level of Impel Down… because someone mocked a mere Commander?”
Around the table, officers exchanged looks.
“Strange loyalty,” said Onigumo, arms crossed. “Magellan is disciplined to a fault. He’s never raised his voice over insults before. Prisoners taunt, that’s their nature.”
“Unless,” Bastille muttered, “it wasn’t about the taunts. It was about who they mocked.”
The room went quiet.
Momonga’s brows knit. “You’re suggesting the Warden has… a personal attachment?”
One of the aides tried to smother a grin. “Sir, the entire staff of Impel Down has been whispering about it for months. The Commander walks in, and suddenly the most feared jailer alive turns into a—” He caught himself under the weight of Momonga’s glare. “…a very attentive escort.”
Onigumo sneered. “Pathetic. A man who bathes in poison felled by a crush? It makes him vulnerable.”
Bastille tapped the report thoughtfully. “Or dangerous. If he’s that protective, anyone who even hints at threatening her could find themselves drowned in acid.”
Silence followed. The implication was clear: Magellan’s loyalty to you wasn’t professional; it was personal. And personal loyalties had a way of bending history.
You remained unaware of this conversation.
You were back at your desk, head down over a mountain of requisition forms, utterly unaware of the storm of speculation brewing above your head. To you, Magellan’s outburst had been nothing but theatrics, overreaction from a man with too much venom in his veins.
Your crew, of course, knew better. They lounged nearby, swapping bets on how long it would take before Marine HQ figured it out, too.
“Commander’s the Queen of Impel Down and Marineford now,” one muttered, grinning.
You sighed, scribbling your signature. “Gremlins.”
But somewhere far below, Magellan was still brooding in his office, venom dripping slowly and steadily into the floor, wondering how he could ever make his intentions unmistakably clear.
-X-
Magellan never liked receiving den-den-mushi calls from Marineford. They always meant extra paperwork, new restrictions, or thinly veiled lectures about “discipline.” But this call was worse.
The snail on his desk twitched, its features morphing into Sengoku’s stern face, complete with that ridiculous afro.
“Chief Warden,” Sengoku said, voice steady as stone. “I’ve been reviewing the reports from Impel Down.”
Magellan straightened instinctively, towering over the desk. “Yes, Fleet Admiral. Discipline remains firm. Prisoners are contained.”
Sengoku adjusted his glasses. “That’s not what I mean.” He glanced down at something off-screen. “Your… outburst on Level Six has reached my attention. Threatening mass poison flooding over a personal insult is… uncharacteristic of you.”
Magellan’s jaw clenched. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but Sengoku raised a hand.
“I’ll be blunt.” The snail’s brows furrowed. “The Commander seems to have a stabilizing effect on you. Reports state your efficiency improves during her inspections. That your paperwork is immaculate when she visits. That your staff, prisoners, and even the beasts behave better in her presence.”
Magellan’s chest tightened. The thought of you steadied him in ways he couldn’t admit aloud.
Sengoku sighed. “So I must ask—do you want her transferred permanently to Impel Down? As oversight liaison.”
For a heartbeat, Magellan nearly said yes. The word clawed up his throat, raw and desperate. To have you here, every day, beside him, not just as a passing light in the darkness but as a constant presence—His hands trembled, poison dripping from his shoulders. He gripped the desk hard enough to splinter wood.
But then, he pictured you. The brisk nods, the clipped orders, the sharp way you ignored every whisper and laugh. You weren’t here to play court in his dungeon. You were here because of your duty.
“…No,” Magellan rumbled finally, voice rough as gravel. “She belongs with the Marines. Her place is not here.”
Sengoku studied him through the snail, eyes narrowing. “Are you certain?”
Magellan’s throat worked. He forced himself to nod. “Positive.”
The call ended. Silence swallowed the office.
Magellan sank back into his chair, venom hissing around him. It felt like he’d just condemned himself to another kind of prison, one where you remained close enough to see, but too far to touch.
And still, he thought bitterly, it was better than chaining you to this pit. Better to guard you from the shadows than risk watching you waste away in the dark with him.
Meanwhile, back at HQ, Sengoku tapped the report and muttered, “Interesting.”
Because if Magellan, of all men, was restraining himself for you… Then you were either the Warden’s fatal weakness or the only thing keeping him from becoming a greater danger than the prisoners he locked away.
I will be late with Lucci, so have this instead XD
Chapter (2/2) : Feelings Later
Length: 5K
Rating: 16+
Summary: The most feared Warden alive turns clumsy and tongue-tied whenever you—a respected and calm Marine Commander—visit for inspection. Meanwhile, you remain completely unaware that his stern silence hides a crush big enough to shake the entire prison.
Previous
It was supposed to be a calm day.
Magellan woke up, ate breakfast, and stared at his framed picture of his favorite Marine commander for ten uninterrupted minutes. It was now part of his morning ritual. The photo was from an official report, taken during a joint inspection, but he treated it with the same reverence others reserved for holy relics. Her expression was polite, professional, utterly unbothered. He found that calming. He told himself it was for motivation, a reminder of the level of composure he should aim for.
His stomach, miraculously, was feeling good. Not perfect, but good enough that he had managed to finish a full meal and even enjoy his tea without immediately regretting his life choices. He sat at his desk, reviewing reports and enjoying the faint, rare peace that came when the lower levels were quiet.
Then Boa Hancock arrived.
That alone would have been fine. He could handle pirates. He could handle Warlords. What he could not handle was the way the guards started whispering and losing focus the moment she stepped into the corridor. Her presence made half of Level One useless. Still, she followed the rules, he told himself. She signed in. She was smug but cooperative. Manageable.
He even thought, as he finally sat down again, that the day might actually stay peaceful. He reached for his snack, a modest plate of crackers and cheese prepared by a terrified kitchen aide.
That was when the alarm began.
It started as a low vibration beneath his feet, a hum that grew until it filled every corridor. The red warning lights flickered on one by one, bleeding across the stone walls until everything looked as if it had been painted in fresh blood.
Magellan rose at once, the unease in his gut returning with cruel precision. “Report,” he ordered, his voice echoing through the intercom system.
Static. Then the panicked voice of a guard. “Chief Warden, Level Two is compromised! Repeat, Level Two breach confirmed!”
The fuck.
The calm he had been clinging to vanished.
He strode out of his office, cape billowing behind him, boots striking the slick floor in measured rhythm. The air was thick with humidity and the sharp tang of poison, his own powers already seeping out in restrained ripples.
Guards ran past him, shouting half-formed updates as they clutched rifles and Den Den mushi receivers. Their faces were pale under the crimson light.
“Chief, it’s bad!” one shouted. “Straw Hat Luffy’s been sighted heading down to the lower levels!”
“Yes, Chief! They’re forcing their way to lower levels!”
“Idiots,” Magellan muttered, more to himself than to them. “They’ll die before they make it halfway.”
“Yes, sir! He’s fighting through Level Three!”
A second guard stumbled forward. “And Chief—reports confirm the Blackbeard Pirates have entered through the main gate. They claim they’re here under the government’s authority!”
The noise of the alarm and the prisoners’ howling merged into a single, unbearable roar. Magellan’s patience finally thinned.
“Seal the corridors. Lock Level Three and Five. I will handle the intruders myself,” he said, voice low and final. He turned sharply, poison beginning to hiss faintly around his feet. The sharp tang filled the air. Guards recoiled instinctively.
Another tremor rippled through the prison as explosions echoed from below. Dust drifted down from the ceiling. The stench of burning oil mixed with seawater.
He moved forward through the storm, eyes sharp, every instinct screaming that this was not just another riot.
And then Hannyabal appeared at the far end of the hall, panting hard, waving his arms like a man trying to flag down divine intervention.
“Chief! Chief! This is a disaster! We’ve got Warlords, pirates, and now the Marines are demanding updates every five minutes!”
“Handle it,” Magellan said, not slowing his stride.
“I would if anyone could,” Hannyabal replied, wringing his hands dramatically. “We’re trying to lock it down but—”
Another explosion thundered through the floor. Dust rained from the ceiling. Someone screamed. Somewhere far below, Blackbeard’s laugh rolled through the stone like thunder.
Magellan took one long, deliberate breath. “Where are the reinforcements?”
“On their way,” one of the guards said quickly. “The Marines stationed nearby have been notified. A Marine commander was already here, sir, coordinating the response. She—”
The guards looked at each other like men realizing they’d stepped on a mine. Hannyabal cleared his throat. “Ah. Well. That’s… slightly awkward.”
Magellan turned his head slowly, the movement terrifyingly calm. “Speak.”
“You remember that request from Marine Headquarters?” Hannyabal began, hands fluttering like nervous birds. “The one you ignored because you said, quote, ‘I have better things to do than entertain pencil-pushers from the surface’? Turns out that was your favorite Commander requesting an emergency visit.”
Magellan’s jaw locked.
“Well,” Hannyabal continued, voice climbing higher with each word, “turns out she arrived this morning. Very punctual. Very polite. She signed in, did the inspection, and filled out all the forms in perfect handwriting. Very professional, really. I was impressed. Anyway, she said she wanted to observe the response drills firsthand, and, uh, went down to Level Four.”
Magellan turned fully toward him. The red light burned across his face. “...my favorite?”
Hannyabal froze. Then, with the grace of a man digging his own grave, he said, “You know. The one you clearly want to marry and give poison babies. Your favorite. The commander with the calm voice and the terrifyingly beautiful glare. That one.”
Magellan almost combusted on the spot. His aura pulsed, violet gas curling from his shoulders.
“In my defense,” Hannyabal squeaked, stepping back so fast he nearly tripped over a guard, “she looked very confident! She told us not to bother you, said she’d just watch from the observation deck! Very calm! Cool-headed! Like she’s survived worse!”
“She’s in Level Four?” Magellan asked, voice low enough to make the guards flinch.
“Possibly!” Hannyabal squealed. “Probably! Maybe she’s already heading up! Who knows! The point is, she’s fine! Definitely fine! Absolutely not currently surrounded by prisoners, no sir!”
Magellan stared at him. The silence that followed was so thick it could have been bottled. Even the alarms seemed quieter.
Then Magellan said, very quietly, “Hannyabal.”
“Yes, Chief?”
“If she dies,” Magellan said, “I will make Level Six your private office.”
Hannyabal swallowed hard.
“Where,” Magellan asked, his voice quiet, “is she now?”
“Last report placed her near Level Four. The guards saw her heading toward the control deck when the prisoners started rioting.”
He did not wait for the rest.
Magellan turned on his heel, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “All units, focus containment on Levels Two and Three. Hannyabal, you will take command of the surface operations.”
“What about you?” Hannyabal asked, startled.
Magellan’s eyes darkened. “I will retrieve the commander.”
Hannyabal blinked. “You’re going down there alone? Chief, you can’t possibly—”
The stairwell shook beneath his boots as Magellan descended, each step ringing through the metal like a countdown. Smoke filled the shaft, thick and sour, choking the air until even the alarms sounded muffled. The deeper he went, the worse it became. The heat was suffocating. The poison in his veins flared in response to the chaos around him.
He ignored it.
He could hear the guards over the intercom, their voices breaking in bursts of panic. “Level Four containment lost! Prisoners flooding toward the kitchen sector! Commander from Marine HQ still unaccounted for—”
Magellan’s stride quickened. “Repeat that. What was her last known position?”
“Observation deck, sir! She was trying to assist the defense team, then the ceiling collapsed!”
The connection cut out in a burst of static.
His stomach twisted. He didn’t think, didn’t plan, didn’t breathe. He moved faster. The poison around him thickened, hissing against the walls as if even his Devil Fruit understood what he was looking for.
-X-
You had been fighting.
Not leading the charge, just trying to hold the line. Prisoners were flooding out of every breach, shrieking, swinging blades, firing weapons made of whatever they could steal. The air burned your lungs, thick with poison and smoke. You’d barely managed to pull two injured guards out of the corridor before the ceiling cracked open above you.
The impact knocked you to the floor. Pain flared white across your side. The world tilted, full of ringing and dust. You tried to move, but a slab of broken metal pinned your leg. Every attempt sent fire up your spine.
You could hear the chaos fading in and out. The sound of boots. Screams. The roar of flames. And then—Footsteps. Slow. Heavy. Deliberate.
You forced your head up, half convinced it was another prisoner coming to finish the job. But the light was strange now. Violet and shifting, like smoke alive.
“Commander.” His voice cut through the roar.
Relief hit you so fast it almost made you dizzy. “Warden—” you started, coughing through the dust. “There are still prisoners—”
He was already there, moving through the wreckage, poison dripping from his hands like ink. The air hissed where it touched the ground. “Do not move.”
You tried anyway, dragging at the twisted beam, pinning your leg. “It’s fine. I can—”
The sound of metal melting shut you up. He had touched the edge of the beam, and it dissolved into steaming black sludge in seconds. His hand hovered dangerously close to you, yet somehow the poison didn’t touch your skin.
He crouched beside you, eyes dark and sharp under the red light. “You are hurt.”
You wanted to say something sarcastic, anything to hide the tremor in your voice, but your throat refused to cooperate. “I’ve been worse.”
Magellan looked like he wanted to believe you. His jaw tightened, the muscles in his arms flexing as he lifted the debris away with both hands. The poison swirled at his feet, obedient, retreating from where you lay.
The ceiling cracked again above you. Dust and stone rained down. You shielded your face. He moved instantly, covering you with his body, wings of venom curling outward to block the falling debris.
For a second, it was quiet except for your heartbeat.
He looked down at you. “You should not have fought. You should have fled.”
You smiled faintly, dizzy. “If I hadn’t, who else would’ve kept your guards from running?”
He exhaled hard through his nose, something like frustration and disbelief mixed together. “They will live. You will not argue.”
You felt yourself lifted, the world tilting again as his arms closed around you. The heat of him was startling, even through the poison mist that followed. You tried to protest, but his hold only tightened.
“Put me down, Warden—”
“No.”
“Your prisoners—”
“Will still be here after I make sure you are alive.”
The walls shook again, flames licking through the corridor. His poison spread across the path ahead, melting through rubble, clearing a way where there had been none. Every step he took burned, every breath was thick with smoke, but he didn’t stop.
From the upper levels, guards called through the intercom. “Chief Warden! Status?”
Magellan’s voice came through, low and steady. “Retrieving the Marine commander. Maintain lockdown.”
His heart thundered in his chest. He could feel your pulse against his arm, faint but there. The sight of blood on your uniform made something inside him twist tighter than fear.
He didn’t let himself think about what it meant. He only knew he had to get you out.
Behind him, Hannyabal’s voice crackled faintly through the speakers. “Well, if that isn’t devotion, I don’t know what is,” he muttered. “Someone prepare flowers. Either for their wedding or their funeral.”
The guards didn’t answer. No one dared.
The elevator doors closed behind him, sealing out the chaos. The light flickered across his face as he looked down at you, still in his arms, barely conscious. The poison around him settled at last, curling softly like mist at your feet.
Magellan swallowed hard, eyes burning red in the dim light.
“You should have stayed where it was safe,” he said quietly.
You smiled faintly. “You should have told me where that was.”
He didn’t answer.
The elevator rose, carrying you both through the smoke and ruin of the prison that was supposed to never fall.
And Magellan knew, with absolute certainty, that this was the day he had failed his duty, but refused to fail you.
-X-
Impel Down survived, barely. The smoke cleared days later, carried out to sea in long, gray ribbons that stained the horizon. The screams faded, the last embers were drowned, and the sea eventually went quiet again. But the silence that followed was not peace. It was exhaustion.
The survivors spoke of it in low voices. The loss of control. The escapees. The wounded. The dead. The reports that followed were merciless.
You read them yourself, page after page, each one worse than the last.
Chief Warden Magellan: Failure to prevent large-scale prisoner escape.Negligence in containing multiple Level Six threats.Unauthorized prioritization of personnel over duty objectives.
The phrasing was precise, sterile, cruel in its restraint. The kind of language only bureaucrats could use when describing a catastrophe.
You stared at his name for a long time. The ink was neat. The judgment was absolute.
By the time you finished your review, it was already done. His title had been struck from the records, his authority reassigned. He remained within Impel Down’s walls, still working, still carrying out orders, but the plaque outside his office now bore another’s name. Deputy Chief Warden Magellan.
He had not been dismissed entirely, which meant they still recognized his strength, just not his choices.
You should have been angry. You weren’t.
You were alive because of him. That was not something any report could quantify.
You had seen it in his eyes that day: the fury, the panic, the impossible restraint as he carried you through smoke and fire. It was not cowardice. It was not a mistake. It was the rarest kind of courage: the choice to save lives instead of preserving an institution.
No report would ever call it that.
When you arrived at Impel Down again, no one quite knew what to do with you. The guards at the checkpoint froze mid-salute, eyes darting from your uniform to the basket in your hands. The word “commander” passed down the line like a warning.
By the time you stepped into the main hall, half the station was pretending not to stare.
The basket was small, wrapped in clean linen. It smelled faintly of spices and something dangerous. You carried it carefully, ignoring the murmured speculation trailing behind you.
“Is she visiting the prisoners?” “No, that’s not the right direction.” “Wait, is she—oh no, she’s going to him.”
You kept walking.
The first level of Impel Down was humid, but familiar. The deeper you went, the worse it became. The elevator groaned as it descended, carrying you through the layers of heat and shadow.
The air thickened with each level; heavy, sour, filled with the faint hiss of Magellan’s poison lingering in the vents. You remembered it well. The sound, the smell, the pressure that made even your heartbeat seem too loud.
It was almost comforting now.
When the doors opened at last, you stepped into the gloom of Level Four. The torches burned low. The echoes of past chaos still clung to the walls, the scorch marks not yet scrubbed clean. The prison that had once shaken under fire and blood now stood in a silence so deep it felt reverent.
You adjusted the basket in your hands, straightened your shoulders, and walked forward.
The corridor stretched long and dim ahead of you, lined with torches that sputtered in the thick, damp air. Every step echoed against the stone, the sound of your boots rolling through the silence like a bell.
The guards saw you coming and immediately stepped aside. No one dared to speak. Their gazes followed you with a mix of awe and confusion, as though they could not decide whether you were brave or simply reckless. You ignored them.
You were not here for justice or politics or duty reports. You were here to thank the man who had given up his title to save your life.
The office door waited at the end of the corridor, heavy and black with age. You knocked once. There was no answer, only the faint scratch of a pen from inside. You opened the door.
He was exactly where you knew he would be.
Behind a desk stacked high with reports, shoulders rigid, head bowed slightly as he worked through some endless sheet of disciplinary paperwork. His hair looked less neat than before, a little uneven at the edges. The uniform still fit perfectly, but something about him seemed smaller. The air that had once vibrated with quiet command now felt still and heavy.
Magellan looked up at the sound of your footsteps. For a brief moment, his expression froze, half disbelief and half shock. Then he stood so quickly the chair behind him scraped across the floor and nearly fell.
"Commander."
You stopped a few steps from the desk. The scent of ink and faint poison lingered in the room. You set the basket between you, neatly and without hesitation. "At ease, Warden."
He blinked once. The title landed harder than any reprimand. His posture faltered slightly, the faintest lowering of his shoulders. "Deputy Warden now," he said, his voice quiet and even.
"I know."
You began to unwrap the basket, peeling back the linen to reveal the covered dish inside. "I brought you lunch."
The silence that followed was uncomfortable but not hostile. His eyes moved between your hands and the dish as if he were watching a weapon being revealed. The faint steam rising from it carried the familiar, sharp scent of poison fish. To anyone else, it would have meant death. To him, it smelled like home.
He stared at it for a long beat. "Why?"
You tilted your head slightly, meeting his eyes. "Because you have not been eating."
He hesitated, the muscles in his jaw shifting. "Who told you that?"
"Your staff," you replied, lowering your hands to the desk. "Apparently, you have been too busy drowning in paperwork to remember basic needs. I thought I would remind you."
Something flickered in his eyes. It could have been shame, surprise, or relief. He looked down again, his gaze fixed on the dish as if uncertain what to do with it or with you.
His fingers twitched once before he folded them neatly behind his back. "You did not have to."
You smiled faintly. "I know. I wanted to."
The words hung between you for a moment. He finally looked up again, and for a heartbeat, the exhaustion in his face lifted. The hard lines around his mouth softened. His eyes, normally so cold and precise, seemed uncertain now, as if unsure whether they were allowed to rest on you.
Something unspoken filled the space between you. It was not the heavy silence of command or the still air of discipline. It was quieter, warmer, almost fragile.
The torches outside hissed softly, the flames bending with the drafts that moved through the hall. Somewhere deep below, water dripped against stone in a slow rhythm that matched the thud of your own pulse. The stillness filled the room completely, but for once it was not the silence of a prison. It felt like the pause that comes before something important, something that would change what came next.
"I… I do not understand," he said at last. His voice was lower than before, hesitant, as if he could not quite believe what you were doing.
"Because you saved my life," you said simply. You opened the basket fully and placed the dish in front of him. "And because I heard this is your favorite."
He hesitated before lifting the lid. The scent of poison-soaked grilled fish filled the air, sharp and unmistakable. Even the guards stationed outside sneezed and shuffled a few steps back, muttering about the smell.
Magellan looked down at the meal for a long time before speaking. "You did not have to do this."
"I wanted to," you said again, your voice even but quiet. "I do not often meet people who choose mercy over orders."
He swallowed, the sound barely audible in the still room. His shoulders tensed, his jaw working before he managed to answer. "It was not mercy. It was weakness."
You met his gaze, steady and calm. "Then I am grateful for your imperfections."
The words caught him off guard. His eyes flickered, uncertain. The silence that followed stretched long enough to feel strange, yet not unpleasant. The air between you seemed to hum. He shifted slightly, his fingers tightening on the His fingers tightened on the edge of the desk as if the solid weight of it could keep him steady. The light from the torches caught faintly on the poison stains that marked his gloves, tiny traces of violet that seemed to pulse in time with his breathing.
"Commander," he said after a long pause. His voice was rough, too quiet for a man his size, the kind of tone that belonged to confession rather than command. "I owe you an apology."
You tilted your head slightly, uncertain where this was going. "For saving me?"
"For the reason I did it." He did not look at you. His eyes stayed fixed on the floor, on the line where shadow met stone. The faint shimmer of poison around him dimmed, as if even his body was trying to shrink away from the moment. "I told myself it was duty. That saving you was the correct choice. But when I saw you there, buried under the debris, I realized I was lying to myself."
The words caught somewhere in his throat. He forced them out slowly, each one sounding heavier than the last. "I realized I could not bear to lose you. Not as a fellow officer. Not as anyone."
You blinked once, startled by the simplicity of it. There was no attempt to soften his words, no charm, no mask. Just the truth, bare and awkward, like a weapon set down between you both.
"You… like me?" you asked at last.
He nodded, stiff and absolutely miserable, as if he had just confessed to a crime. "Yes. Deeply. Disgracefully. I understand if you wish to report me for it."
You stared at him. The idea of filing a report about this man, this enormous, terrifying figure who looked ready to faint from embarrassment, was absurd enough to make your breath catch.
You were not used to being confessed to, least of all by someone taller than the doorframe and capable of killing with a single breath. You could feel your pulse skip, then trip over itself entirely. The warmth that crept up your neck betrayed you before you could compose yourself.
"That is not an offense, Warden," you said at last, trying to sound calm and mostly failing.
"Deputy Warden," he corrected, his tone automatic, as if the habit of precision had survived even humiliation.
"Fine. Deputy Warden," you said, trying to suppress the small smile threatening to rise. "And if you must know…" You hesitated, your gloved fingers brushing the desk. The surface was warm from the torchlight and smooth under your fingertips. "I like you too."
He went perfectly still. "You… what?"
"I said," you repeated, steadier now, "I like you too."
The silence that followed was so absolute that you could hear the faint scrape of parchment shifting under the weight of the air. Somewhere behind you, a single sheet of paper slid from the top of the pile and fluttered to the floor. The sound was absurdly loud.
He stared at you as though the words had been written in a language he had never studied. His mouth parted slightly, his breath uneven. Then, very slowly, as if afraid that any sudden motion would break whatever strange reality he had fallen into, he reached for the dish.
He picked up the fork and said, almost to himself, "This is the most dangerous meal I have ever been given."
You folded your arms and lifted one brow. "Then do not make me regret bringing it."
His mouth twitched, the faintest pull at the corner that could have been amusement or disbelief. "Never," he said softly.
He ate with careful precision, as if the act required ceremony. You watched him in silence, the faint curl of poison mist rising from his shoulders softening in the light. The usual weight in the air, the constant sense of pressure that haunted this place, seemed to lift a little.
For the first time since the riot, the air felt breathable again. The endless heaviness of the prison eased, not by much, but enough for you to notice. The walls no longer pressed inward with their usual suffocating weight. The torches burned steadier. Even the dull hum of poison in the vents seemed to soften, like the whole fortress was exhaling after too long holding its breath.
He set his fork down carefully, as though afraid to disturb the fragile peace that had settled between you. For a moment, neither of you spoke. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic drip of water from the lower corridors and the slow rise and fall of his breathing.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than before, stripped of all the authority that had once made men tremble. “May I… may I take you out sometime?” He hesitated, eyes flicking up to meet yours. “When you are free?”
You blinked, caught between surprise and something dangerously close to laughter. The idea of Magellan—towering, severe, perpetually surrounded by poison—attempting something as ordinary as a date was almost too much for your mind to process.
But the look on his face stopped you from teasing. It was not pride or confidence. It was hope, tentative and raw, like a man testing the edge of something new.
You smiled, letting the warmth rise to your face before you could stop it. “That depends,” you said quietly. “Do you take all your guests somewhere filled with toxic gas, or is that just for me?”
A small, startled sound left him that might have been a laugh. “Only for you,” he said, the corner of his mouth twitching again.
You leaned back slightly, watching him regain some measure of composure. “Then yes,” you said. “When I am free.”
The way he looked at you then made something tighten in your chest. He stood a little straighter, as if rank meant nothing and your words were the only order he would ever follow.
You did not correct him this time when he called you Commander again. The way he said it sounded less like a habit and more like a promise—one he had already begun to keep.
The air in the room stayed quiet, touched by something new. Not duty. Not formality. Just the fragile beginning of something human, rising from the ashes of what had almost been lost.
-X-
Word spread fast in Impel Down, though no one could say exactly how it started. Some blamed the guards on Level Two. Others swore it was Sadi who first whispered it to Domino over morning tea. But by the end of the week, everyone knew.
You and Magellan were dating.
Not officially, of course. The reports called it “frequent cooperative visits between Marine Command and the Deputy Chief Warden.” But the guards had eyes. And Hannyabal had a mouth.
He was the first to bring it up in the staff lounge, arms crossed and tone self-satisfied. “I always knew he had it in him,” he declared to anyone within earshot. “I was merely waiting for him to gather the courage to act on it.”
Sadi laughed so hard her drink nearly spilled. “Please. You spent half the riot crying into your cape.”
“I was strategizing,” Hannyabal said, puffing his chest out. “Besides, you all saw it coming. The way he followed her around like a lovesick beast? Pathetic, really. Admirable, but pathetic.”
Domino looked up from her clipboard, expression flat. “He carried her through an inferno while half the prison was collapsing. That’s not pathetic. That’s commitment.”
Saldeath adjusted his tiny hat and nodded sagely. “It was very romantic. Almost fatal, but romantic.”
Sadi leaned her chin on her hand. “Do you think he ever smiles around her?”
“Constantly,” Domino said. “It’s disturbing. Yesterday, she came down for an inspection, and he smiled before she even spoke. The guards on Level Three nearly fainted.”
Hannyabal grinned. “Good. Let them see what happens when a man of passion finally acts.” He paused, glancing toward the office door. “Though if they ever break up, we’re all doomed.”
From inside his office, Magellan’s voice rumbled faintly through the walls. “I can hear you.”
The room went dead silent.
Domino sighed, closing her clipboard. “You heard the man. Back to work.”
As the others scattered, you stepped into the hall, holding a small lunch basket in your hands. You caught Hannyabal’s horrified expression just before he dropped into a bow that was far too dramatic to be sincere.
You smiled. “Good morning, Warden.”
Hannyabal’s voice cracked. “Commander! How lovely to see you again!”
Magellan appeared in the doorway behind you, calm as ever, a trace of amusement in his eyes. He reached for the basket without looking away from you. “I’ll see to the inspection later,” he said quietly.
You nodded, handing it over. “Lunch first.”
As you walked away together, the faint hiss of poison trailed after you, and the whispers started again the moment the door shut.
Sadi sighed dreamily. “Poison lovebirds. I give it a month before they start sharing an office.”
Domino didn’t look up. “They already do.”
Hannyabal buried his face in his hands. “If they get married, I am never hearing the end of it.”
Saldeath adjusted his hat again. “Still romantic, though.”
And deep in the stone heart of the prison, the Deputy Warden smiled for the second time that week, which was a record.
