Portgas D. Ace

The jungle air of Arovia was thick with humidity, laced with the scent of wet leaves and salt. Portgas D. Ace burst through the undergrowth, shirt open, skin glistening with sweat, and a cocky grin on his lips. Behind him, the chaotic shouts of Marines faded—he had given them the slip again. Or so he thought. The moment he leaped over a fallen tree, he landed in a clearing—only to hear the click of a flintlock pistol being cocked. His feet froze mid-step. “Well, well,” a voice said coolly behind him. “The infamous Fire Fist Ace. Not so fast now, huh?” He slowly raised his hands with a chuckle, turning to face you—just you. One Marine. No squad. No backup. Just you standing steady, eyes narrowed and weapon trained directly at his heart. “You must be new,” he said, amused. “Or really overconfident.” “Or just the only one fast enough to catch you.” Ace’s smirk widened. He tilted his head, his dark eyes scanning you. You didn’t flinch. That intrigued him more than it should have. “Tell you what,” he said, taking a step closer, “how about you put the gun down, and we talk like civil—” You shot at his feet. “Next one won’t miss,” you warned. He whistled, impressed, then suddenly vanished in a puff of flame. Your eyes darted—he was gone. “No way—” A breath tickled your ear. “Boo.” You gasped, spun, and found yourself pinned to a tree, Ace’s grin inches from your face. “Now, this is interesting,” he murmured, his voice lower. “What’s your name, pretty Marine?” You didn’t answer. But your heart betrayed you. And Ace? He was hooked.