Captain James Hook stood rigidly on the deck of the Jolly Roger, his piercing eyes fixed on the distant shores of Neverland. The island lay bathed in golden sunlight, its sprawling trees and glittering waves giving the illusion of tranquility, but Hook knew better. To him, this seemingly peaceful land was nothing short of a prison, a place where time had no meaning and escape was a tantalizing mirage. The very sight of the island set his teeth on edge.

He gripped the railing with his mechanical arm, the polished metal gleaming in the fading sunlight. The arm was a marvel of steampunk craftsmanship, its intricate gears and pistons working silently beneath the sleek plating. It moved with a fluid precision, each joint a testament to the cold, calculating nature of its design. The metal fingers tightened against the wood of the railing, leaving faint indents as Hook flexed them. Yet despite the arm’s near-perfect functionality, it was a constant reminder—a cursed relic of the day he had crossed paths with Peter Pan.

The arm, as much as it symbolized strength and control, also symbolized loss—his hand, his pride, and most of all, his freedom. Every time he looked at the mechanical limb, it reminded him of how much Peter had taken from him. Peter Pan, the boy who had not only robbed him of his arm but had also stripped away any chance he had of escaping the infernal trap that was Neverland.

“Peter Pan,” Hook growled, his voice a low, venomous hiss. The name slid through his teeth like a bitter curse, each syllable laden with hatred. Even the wind seemed to conspire with the boy, carrying the name away as if whispering it across the waves to Neverland itself. It felt as though every corner of the island echoed Peter’s presence, mocking Hook with its eternal, untouched beauty.

Hook’s eyes narrowed, and the ghost of Peter’s laughter echoed in his mind—high, carefree, and maddeningly untouched by time. The sound gnawed at him, a constant reminder of the boy’s eternal youth and Hook’s own imprisonment in the unchanging landscape of Neverland. Peter had the luxury of defying time, forever young and wild, while Hook grew older, angrier, more desperate with each passing day.

Hook tore his gaze away from the island, his body tense with barely contained rage. “These wretched islands,” he snarled, turning his back on the cursed view. The Jolly Roger creaked beneath his boots, the familiar groan of wood and iron offering the only semblance of control he had left. This ship, with its towering masts and taut rigging, was all that remained of his former life—a life where he had been a captain of his own destiny, not a pawn in some twisted, magical game.

Here, aboard the Jolly Roger, Hook could almost pretend that the world outside didn’t exist, that the endless horizon wasn’t dominated by the infernal magic of Neverland. The ship was the only place where the laws of reality still applied, where technology ruled supreme over the chaos of magic. Surrounded by the scent of salt and steel, with the steady click of gears and the hiss of steam from the ship’s machinery, Hook could almost believe he was still in command.

But that was the cruel joke, wasn’t it? No matter how much he pretended, the reality was that Neverland was in control. This twisted island, with its refusal to bend to the laws of time, was the true master of this game. And Hook? Hook was merely a prisoner, trapped in a world that mocked him with its eternal youth and its refusal to change.

A sharp breath escaped Hook’s lips, and he flexed his mechanical hand, watching as the intricate gears inside whirred to life. The arm was cold, precise, and efficient—just the way Hook liked it. There was no chaos here, no unpredictability. Technology was something Hook understood. It obeyed the laws of physics, followed commands, could be fixed, modified, improved. Machines were reliable, unlike the wild magic that seemed to govern every inch of Neverland. Machines were built on logic, on reason.

Magic, however, was chaotic. Uncontrollable.

And Peter Pan wielded it like it was a toy, a game he played with reckless abandon. That infuriating boy bent the magic of Neverland to his will, turning every encounter with Hook into a twisted form of entertainment, mocking the captain with his eternal youth and boundless freedom. Peter reveled in the very chaos that Hook despised, slipping through time as though the rules of the world didn’t apply to him.

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Hook’s lip curled in disgust. If it weren’t for Peter Pan, Hook might have found a way off these cursed islands long ago. He had tried—oh, how he had tried—but every time he thought he was close, every time he believed he had outsmarted the island’s magic, Peter would appear, pulling him back into the never-ending game.

“Not for much longer,” Hook muttered under his breath, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the polished metal of his arm. The gears clicked in time with his thoughts. “Not this time.”

He would end this game. Peter Pan’s magic, his laughter, his youth—none of it would save him when Hook finally caught him.

Hook’s Hatred for Peter

The hatred Hook felt for Peter Pan ran far deeper than a simple desire for revenge. It had twisted and rotted within him for years, wrapping itself around his very soul like the tight grip of his mechanical arm. It had consumed his every thought, festering until his mind was no longer his own, until his days were filled with nothing but a singular, burning obsession: to defeat the boy who refused to grow up. To destroy the one who seemed immune to the cruel grasp of time.

But it wasn’t just about his lost arm, though the cold weight of the metal that replaced his flesh was a constant reminder. Nor was it about the crocodile that haunted him, that ticking creature who never ceased its pursuit. No, Hook’s hatred was deeper, darker, gnawing at him from the inside out.

Peter Pan wasn’t just his enemy—he was everything Hook despised about the world. The embodiment of youth, of freedom, of that insufferable, careless attitude. Peter lived as if nothing in the world could ever touch him. As if time itself had no hold on him, and perhaps it didn’t. Time, that relentless thief, had claimed Hook, pressing down on his shoulders, weighing him down with every breath. The years had worn him down, etched lines of anger into his face, but Peter? Peter remained untouched by the ravages of age.

While Hook grew older, angrier, and more desperate, Peter stayed the same. Always laughing, always mocking him. That laugh, high and carefree, echoed through Hook’s mind like the shrill cry of a crow, taunting him, reminding him of everything he had lost. Peter danced through life with no fear, no concern, always out of reach, always slipping through Hook’s grasp like water through his fingers.

To Peter, this was all a game. A sick, twisted game, where Hook was nothing more than the villain in Peter’s grand adventure. Every time Hook thought he had the upper hand, every time he believed that he had Peter trapped, the boy would laugh—that laugh—and slip away, leaving Hook seething, his plans unraveling like thread.

The rage burned hotter in Hook’s chest as he paced the deck of the Jolly Roger, each heavy step striking the wood with a deliberate, angry rhythm. The sharp click of his boots against the deck matched the ticking in his mind, counting down the moments until he would finally have his revenge. His mechanical arm flexed, the gears within whirring quietly, but the cold efficiency of the metal did little to soothe the fire raging in his heart.

“He thinks it’s a game,” Hook muttered under his breath, his voice low and dangerous, as though the very words were laced with venom. His eyes were fixed ahead, but his mind was already a thousand steps ahead, imagining Peter’s defeat. “But it’s not a game. Not anymore.”

He stopped abruptly in front of the massive map of Neverland that hung on the wall of his cabin. It was a detailed chart, one that Hook had studied tirelessly, marking and remarking every inch of the island chain in his obsessive quest to find Peter’s hideout. Each island, each stretch of coastline, had been combed over, analyzed, and marked with careful precision. Hook’s eyes scanned the map now, his gaze sharp, each mark a reminder of how close he had come—and how Peter had foiled him time and time again.

Every trap he had set, every plan he had concocted—Peter had evaded them all. Each encounter had ended the same, with Peter laughing, flitting away like a shadow in the wind, leaving Hook with nothing but the bitter taste of defeat.

But Hook was patient. More patient than any boy could ever be. His life had become a study in patience, waiting for the perfect moment, for the perfect plan. And now, at last, he had it. The one plan that Peter would not be able to escape. The one that would end the game once and for all.

“This time,” Hook said, his voice a low, dangerous whisper, his eyes narrowing as he traced his fingers along the lines of the map. “This time, I’ll end it.”

The distant, rhythmic ticking of the crocodile’s clock echoed faintly through the air, a reminder of the relentless predator that stalked him. The sound, once enough to send a shiver of fear through Hook’s bones, barely registered now. The ticking was simply another part of his existence, another piece of the twisted game that Neverland played with him. But Hook didn’t flinch. Not yet.

Not until he had Peter Pan where he wanted him—helpless, defeated, and finally, finally mortal.