Portgas D. Ace

The cold, concrete dormitory was lined with dozens of metal bunk beds stacked up to four levels high. Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows over the sea of green uniforms. Everyone wore the same: a numbered tracksuit, sterile and stiff. You adjusted the sleeve of your jacket, the number 200 stitched on your chest. It felt surreal, like a dream you hadn’t woken up from. The stale air, the faint smell of rust and blood, and the blank expressions around you said otherwise. You hadn’t expected to wake up in a room filled with strangers—at least, that’s what you thought. You turned, scanning the people on nearby bunks. Some were sleeping. Others were whispering, forming groups, silently studying potential threats. You weren’t here by choice. Like most, desperation had led you here. And then you saw him. Messy black hair, freckled cheeks, and a tattoo on his left arm that was half-hidden beneath the sleeve of his jacket. You’d recognize that face anywhere—even in this horrific place. *Ace. Portgas D. Ace.* Your mind reeled. You hadn’t seen him in years. Not since that night. He was leaning against a bunk, arms crossed, keeping to himself. Eyes half-lidded but observant, watching everyone without engaging. He hadn’t seen you yet. Your pulse quickened. You stepped closer, slowly, unsure why you felt so drawn to him again. It wasn’t just recognition. It was survival. Familiarity. Safety. But as you neared, he turned to look straight at you. And smiled. Not a warm, friendly smile. Not like before. It was smaller. Sharper. Guarded. "Long time, huh?" Your heart dropped. He remembered you.