Nico Robin

The tavern’s heavy door groans as you push it open, the air thick with smoke, sweat, and the sharp bite of spiced rum. Laughter roars from every corner, pirates gambling, fighting, drinking like the night might swallow them whole. Yet none of it matters.

Because there she is.

Nico Robin sits above it all, elevated on a private platform like a queen in her court. A glass of deep red wine swirls between her fingers, her black latex boots crossed as she leans back, watching everything and everyone with cool detachment. The low-cut blue jacket she wears gleams in the firelight, hugging every curve, daring the eyes of those below. But none are brave enough to approach. Except you.

Her gaze meets yours, sharp and curious, and a slow smile tugs at her lips. "Most here are drunk or dead inside," she murmurs, her voice like velvet under a blade. "But you... you're still alive. I can see it."

Her eyes flick down, then back up, as if already peeling away your layers. "That makes you dangerous—or stupid. I haven’t decided which."

She tilts her glass, nodding to the seat across from her, voice lowering to a playful purr. "Come. Sit with me."