They brought him food every day. Ironic, wasn't it? Here he was in a cell, his clothes in tatters, his skin greasy and covered in filth, and yet, they brought him meals befit for a prince. The double-facedness of it made him want to scream, but it didn't matter how much he did that; nothing would change for him.

They came in many times a day, sometimes to deliver food, sometimes to simply check in on him. During those brief periods of company, he'd clutch the bars in a white-knuckled grip, begging for mercy, kindness, freedom–the kinds of things he'd read in storybooks.

The guards would gaze at him with blank indifference, as though they couldn't care less what fate befell him so long as they were in the king's good graces.

They'd leave him there, cheeks wet with tears, throat raw.

The world was a cruel place, he was starting to understand that more and more.

However, he wanted to believe there was more to life than this.

That there was beauty to it.

Whenever he reminded himself this, his mother would spring to mind, a soft smile spread across her lips as she praised his cooking, wavy hair pulled loosely behind an ear.

The moonlight gleaming on the surface of the ocean would soon follow, reminding him of all the peaceful nights he'd stare across the horizon from his balcony, wondering how many of the places he'd read about were truly out there.

He'd always used reading as a way to keep his mind off things, and since his imprisonment, he'd been reading more than ever. In a place devoid of kindness, books filled him with hope.

Hope this wouldn't last forever, hope this wouldn't be his forever.

At night, when the light died out, when the noises from above silenced, hope was all he had left.

His father would come for him. Surely, he'd let him out. He hadn't shown up yet, not even for the briefest of visits, but he would change his mind.

After all, they were family.

Yet, the days turned into weeks, the weeks turned into months, and when someone other than Reiju and the guards did come, it wasn't his father.

"Hey, look... it really is him." An all too familiar voice said.

Another, much louder one, exclaimed, "Man, you're right!"

Startled, he jerked back, falling off the crate that'd been substituting as a stool. Before he could think, he'd already scooted far enough away for his back to smack into the wall.

No, no, no, this couldn't be happening! Of all the people–!

When his brothers finally relented, they left him lying there, bloodied and battered. The iciness of the floor he'd hated the first couple of nights soothed his aching body. He closed his eyes, not having the motivation, nor the energy to drag himself to his tiny cot.

Was what they'd said true? Did their father really wish he was dead?

He didn't want to believe it.

Reiju showed up not an hour later, a pouch filled with bandages and ointment slung over her shoulder. He didn't say a word to her; hadn't been for a while now.

Long after she left, long after they'd crossed the Red Line, he mulled over how much of his brother's cruel words actually held substance.

It'd been six months.

What if that was a sign their father really did–no!

He'd be out soon! That's all that meant.

The next night, his brother's returned with metal bats.

'To bring father true happiness,' They said.

Sanji had never been a slow kid. He knew. He'd known from the moment he saw them.

The keys to his cell. His father would've kept them in his room, safely tucked away. The only reason they'd have access to it was if he'd let them.

Here he was, cracked bones, skin covered in so many purple blotches he could almost imagine the patches of pale skin were the oddities, and his father didn't care. His brothers were trying to kill him, and nobody cared.

By the time Reiju showed up to bandage his injuries, he was already leaning against the iron bars.

When he told her he wanted to be a cook, she'd snapped at him. When he'd said he never wanted to see their father's face again, she'd stood stoic, tears threatening to spill over. When she'd said nothing in response, he'd moved away from her, and despite the pain, curled into a ball on his cot.

Another month passed, and despite all his attempts, he still remained in that cell. He knew another month had passed because his brother's made sure to inform him of their shared birthday. Made sure to tell him how much their father had doted on them and all the presents they'd received.

He stopped eating after that.

Didn't have the strength to do much these days, it seemed. He didn't read, didn't cook, only moved from his cot to use the bathroom.

Something in him had gone out.

A gear wasn't turning. A fire wasn't burning.

No matter how many times the guards called him over to eat, he kept his back to them. No matter how many times Reiju would sit with the plate and beg him to eat, he didn't budge.

The pain in his stomach dulled to a constant in life, his arms became far too scrawny, and his ribs far too defined.

The last time his brothers paid a visit, they didn't even hit him. They'd just laughed and said he was going to die anyways, from the look of it.

He was no longer worth wasting their time on.

No longer worth hitting.

No energy left to care, he'd simply wondered what death felt like.

Did it hurt?

What if, it was like that place he'd read about–The All Blue? That would be nice.

He wanted to go there.

His mother must be waiting for him, too. She was probably lonely. She always got lonely easily.

Rolling onto his back, he strained his eyes against the ceiling, hoping against hope he could see through it. That he could catch a glimpse of the midnight sky.

He couldn't.

When he'd first been locked in here, he'd thought the world was cruel. Now, he understood that was wrong. It wasn't the world that had done this to him, wasn't the world that had beaten and rejected him.

No.

The world wasn't cruel, it was the people living in it.

The night dragged on, and he lay motionless with only the pattering of rats to fill the silence.

He was so tired.

Allowing his eyes to flutter shut, he figured, there were worse things than death.

For instance, living the rest of his life without freedom.

His eyelashes brushed his cheeks as a soft breeze rushed over him, sweeping away the weight of his helmet, as well as the pain.

Yeah. There were worse things.

He drifted off to sleep, dreaming of an ocean that sparkled like diamond in the moonlight. An ocean with every fish imaginable mingling beneath the waves.

He never woke up.

A/N: Yeah, so I was wondering what would've happened if Reiju hadn't helped him, and this mess sorta happened. I have no excuses.