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Summary
“I don’t take orders from criminals, boy,” Sakazuki says.
There’s a wet sound that Ace feels a half-second later– spit on his back, dead-center over Whitebeard’s crest. There are a few chuckles from the guards followed by globs of their saliva pooling with the first, nestled in the dip between his shoulder blades.
He burns. Would that he could burn for real, like he’d become so used to, burn enough to evaporate the filthy spit and the disdainful fucks it came from, this whole room, this whole prison, this whole world.