One Piece: Madness of Regret-Chapter 50: The girl with red hair(13)

My eye ruptured.

The bullet tore through it like a knife through overripe fruit. A wet, sickening pop.

A splash of hot, gelatinous fluid streaked across his face—thick red and clear ooze, running in slow, glistening rivulets. He flinched. Eyes wide. Lips trembling. But he did not move. Not yet. Shock had paralyzed him. He could feel it—the warmth dripping down his cheek, soaking into his skin.

The rest of my eye sloughed down my face. Chunks of ruined flesh, tattered veins clinging to blackened powder and pulped tissue. It dripped into the yawning crater of my socket, pooling with the heat of gunpowder and burnt marrow—a ghastly stew of fire and meat.

It should have hurt.

Oh, it should have sent me crumbling to my knees, clawing at my ruined face, choking on agony.

But it didn't.

It was ecstasy.

A raw, living euphoria bled into my nerves, scorching every inch of my skin like wildfire beneath my flesh. My body quivered, not in pain, but in something deeper—in pleasure, in reverence. The scent of burnt flesh and gunpowder filled my nostrils, thick and sharp, but it did not reek of death. No.

It smelled of rebirth.

The scent of a world waiting to burn.

I inhaled. Deep. Slow. Letting the smoke settle in my lungs, letting the metallic tang of my own iron-rich blood coat my tongue. The bitter burn of smoke curled inside my throat like a lover's whisper. My breath hitched. My pulse slammed against my ribs. My lips stretched wide, wider.

The high—it was beyond mortal pleasure. It was something deeper. Darker.

A frenzy.

A madness.

A devotion to the very essence of insanity.

My body swayed as the sensation flooded me, drowning out all reason, leaving only the sheer, unrelenting joy of oblivion.

And I laughed.

A sharp, breathless sound, bubbling up from my throat like a hymn to chaos itself. The gunman—oh, poor, trembling fool—stared in horror. His hands shook. His breath hitched. His pupils, blown wide, reflected only disbelief. He had expected me to scream.

He had expected me to die.

Instead, I stood before him, grinning. Bleeding. Thriving.

And oh, I wanted more.

His fear. His life.

Sure, I could kill him with a gun. Or a sword. Or even my own two hands.

But where's the fun in that?

Where's the fear in that?

Weapons were the lifeblood of pirates, their crutch, their safety net. A bullet, a blade—these were things they understood. If I killed him with one, it would be predictable. Manageable. Expected.

And fear? Fear is in the unexpected.

If I killed him like a common murderer, the rest of the crew would breathe easier. They would understand me. They would rationalize me. And once a monster is rationalized, it is no longer a monster.

I couldn't have that.

So, I did the logical thing.

I dug my fingers into the hole in the back of my skull.

I needed blood. Fresh blood.

And what better place to take it from than my own skull?

But there was a problem.

The hole had hardened.

The blood had dried, thick and crusted, sealing the wound in a grotesque scab of marrow and gore. It was stiff beneath my fingers, stubborn, refusing to give way.

I needed to soften it.

I turned to the gunman.

He had not moved, had not breathed. He had become a statue of terror, frozen between life and death, trapped in the unknown. His gun dangled loosely in his grip, his knuckles pale, his veins twitching beneath the skin.

He did not understand.

Not yet.

I reached forward, slow, deliberate, and offered him his gun.

His eyes flickered. Disbelief. Confusion. Terror. His gaze darted between the weapon and my ruined face, his mind fighting for reason.

But reason was dead.

Reason had no place here.

Still, I waited. Patient. Smiling. And then—he understood.

The fear in his face deepened as realization sank into his bones. His lips parted, as if to speak, as if to protest, but no sound escaped. He swallowed instead. Once. Twice. Then, with slow, shaking fingers, he reloaded.

The sound of metal clinking, the shifting of the chamber—it was music. A slow, agonizing melody of defeat.

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And then he did the unthinkable, yet not.

He handed the gun back to me.

His hands no longer trembled.

His shoulders had sagged, the light in his eyes dimming as the last thread of resistance inside him snapped. That look—oh, that beautiful look. A look that spoke without words.

He had given up.

On life.

On death.

On everything in between.

But I had not given up on him.

I took the gun gently, like a lover's touch. Like a gift.

And then, without hesitation, I turned it against myself.

The barrel pressed against the back of my head, right at the crater of torn flesh and shattered bone. My fingers tightened around the trigger, my pulse quaking with anticipation.

And I pulled it.

BANG.

A fresh hole tore through me.

Blood, syrupy and glistening, erupted from my skull in a crimson geyser, drenching my nape, dribbling down my spine in warm, syrupy rivulets. It dripped from my chin, spattered onto the floor in thick, pulsing beads.

And I shuddered.

A pleasure so sharp it was blinding. A high so perfect it was devastating.

The wound wept red rivers. My brain pulsed beneath exposed flesh, nerves tingling, raw and electric, burning with a sensation that transcended pain.

I breathed deep.

The air was thick with iron, gunpowder, and the scent of something primal—something unholy.

I smiled.

And then, slowly, I turned to face him again.

His eyes locked onto me—onto my still-standing, still-smiling, still-breathing form.

His mouth parted in silent horror.

And then, just like that—

He fell to his knees.

Broken.

Completely.

Utterly.

Irrevocably.

Mine.

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