The sun burned hot over the sandstone streets of Nanohana, the desert winds carrying music and chatter across the crowded plaza. People gathered in a circle, clapping and cheering, dust rising beneath stomping feet. I squeezed into the edge of the crowd, curious about the commotion. At the center, a man moved like fire itself. His body twisted and snapped with fluid precision, every step a rhythm that pulled eyes toward him. The chains around his wrists jingled with each spin, reflecting the sun in flashes of silver. His grin was wild, his eyes dark and sharp beneath messy black hair that clung to his sweat-damp forehead. The crowd roared when he leapt, landing low with one hand pressed to the ground, his chest heaving as if daring anyone to look away. I couldn’t. Something about him was magnetic—not just his talent, but the way he carried himself. Confidence, but not arrogance. Heat, but not recklessness. There was purpose in every step, as if he wasn’t dancing just for show, but to speak a language the crowd couldn’t quite understand. When the music slowed, he finally rose, bowing with an exaggerated flourish that sent cheers echoing down the street. He collected a few coins tossed his way, flashing a grin that was too quick, too practiced. Then his eyes caught mine. For a second, the noise of the plaza faded. His grin softened into something more genuine, and I felt my chest tighten. He held my gaze a heartbeat longer than he should have, then turned, slipping into the side streets as if the performance had never happened. I should have let him go. But something told me this dancer was more than he seemed. And my instincts were rarely wrong.

The sound of sirens cut through the humid summer air, bouncing between the narrow streets as red and blue lights painted the cracked walls of the neighborhood. I stood on the sidewalk, my hands trembling as smoke curled into the sky from the burning apartment building. The heat pressed against my face even from across the street, sharp and suffocating. “Everyone back! Stay behind the line!” a firefighter shouted, waving civilians away. I should have moved, but my feet refused. My best friend was still inside. That’s when I saw him. A man with messy black hair poking out from beneath his helmet, his uniform heavy with gear, moved with purpose. His dark eyes locked on the blaze, then briefly on me. He gave a quick, reassuring nod before rushing forward, axe in hand, alongside his team. “Portgas! Take Bravo team, third floor!” a commanding voice called. “Got it!” he barked back, voice strong and steady. Even through the chaos, there was something magnetic about him—his confidence, his fearlessness. While others recoiled from the heat, he seemed to embrace it, his stride sure and unwavering as he disappeared into the flames. Minutes stretched into eternities. My nails dug crescents into my palms as the building groaned under the fire’s weight. Then, through the smoke, he emerged. He carried a coughing girl slung over his shoulder—my friend. My knees nearly gave out with relief. He set her down gently, pulling off his helmet. Sweat streaked his face, soot clung to his skin, but his grin was boyish, unshaken. “She’s safe,” he said simply, glancing at me. For a moment, the chaos dulled, and all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart

The Moby was alive with noise. Pirates dashed back and forth with drinks in hand, songs bellowed so loudly that the waves seemed to answer back, and someone had even convinced Whitebeard to wear a makeshift Santa hat. The ship didn’t know the meaning of quiet tonight. And right in the middle of the chaos was Ace. He had somehow gotten his hands on a bag of powdered sugar, and was using it to sprinkle “snow” over whoever passed by. Marco had already threatened to toss him overboard, but Ace only laughed, freckled face glowing as if the whole scene was his personal victory. You found him by the tree—a massive, lopsided thing covered in ornaments that looked suspiciously like stolen loot. He was crouched low, trying to tie something to one of the lower branches without anyone noticing. “What are you doing?” you asked, crossing your arms. Ace nearly jumped. His hand fumbled, and you caught a glimpse of what he was hiding—two stockings, messy and hand-stitched, one with his name, the other with yours. They were crooked, uneven, and clearly made in secret with whatever scraps of cloth he could find. “Nothing,” he said too quickly, ears turning red. You raised a brow, stepping closer. “That doesn’t look like nothing.” Grumbling, he gave up and let you see. “Fine. I made these. Don’t laugh. I just… I dunno. Thought maybe it’d be nice if we had something. Like family stuff.” Your throat tightened. It was ridiculous—pirates and stockings didn’t belong in the same sentence. But Ace’s eyes were so soft, so uncertain, like he thought you’d toss the idea overboard the moment you saw it. Instead, you smiled and touched the rough fabric. “They’re perfect.” The relief that washed over his face made your chest ache. He grinned again, boyish and bright, before grabbing your hand and tugging you into the circle of pirates now dancing near the tree. “C’mon,” he laughed, spinning you into the mess of drunken voices and clumsy steps. “It’s Christmas"

The wind carried the scent of salt and far-off storms as the man approached, his Straw Hat shadowing eyes that had seen more than most could endure. Twenty years had passed since the boy I once knew became the King of Pirates, yet he still walked with the same boundless certainty. "Y/N," he said, his voice deeper now, worn with time. "I heard the stories. The goddess of time. They say you can change the past." I didn’t move from my place beneath the old tree. "I’m no goddess, Luffy. Just someone cursed enough to bend the clock." He stepped closer, his presence heavy with purpose. "Then bend it. Take me back. I want to save Ace." I stared at him. "If I turn the tide, nothing will be the same. You may never become King of Pirates. The adventures, the victories, the people you saved… they could all disappear." He didn’t blink. Didn’t waver. "If I can save him," Luffy said, his smile steady and sure, "I can go through this journey again and again. I’ll be king once more — but this time, with my brother by my side." The certainty in his voice was like the sea itself: endless, unstoppable. "You don’t know the price," I whispered. "Time demands one." "Then I’ll pay it," he answered without hesitation. "As long as he’s alive." I reached for his hands. They were calloused from decades at sea, strong enough to crush steel yet gentle as they held mine. Power coiled in my chest, ancient and heavy, as I pulled the tide of time backwards. The years shattered into fragments. Oceans roared in reverse. Stars spun wildly. And in the stillness between heartbeats, the world rewound to the day before the fire claimed Portgas D. Ace. This time, destiny would burn a different path.

The sun was relentless that afternoon, casting long shadows over the cracked pavement of the small town where you and Ace grew up. The two of you had spent almost every day together—running through the streets, daring each other into reckless adventures, and finding ways to outdo one another. It was an unspoken challenge, a game of pride neither of you wanted to lose. But that day, something changed. It started with a stupid argument. You barely remembered what triggered it. Maybe Ace had stolen the last piece of candy from your pocket, or maybe you'd called him a name he didn't like. Whatever it was, the playful teasing escalated quickly. "You're just mad because you lost!" Ace smirked, arms crossed over his chest, confidence practically radiating from him. You clenched your fists. "I didn’t lose! You cheated!" "Cheated? I don’t need to cheat to beat you. You’re just slow." That was it. The breaking point. Before you knew it, you shoved him, hard. Ace barely stumbled, but the moment his grin faded, you knew you had made a mistake. His eyes darkened with something other than amusement. He tackled you to the ground, and suddenly, you were rolling through the dirt, arms flailing, trying to land a hit. It wasn’t like the scuffles you’d had before. This wasn’t playful. It was fueled by something deeper—pride, frustration, a fear of losing something neither of you wanted to admit you cared about. "You think you're so tough!" you shouted, struggling under his weight. "Maybe tougher than you!" Ace snapped back. The fight didn’t last long, but by the time it ended, you were both scratched up, panting, staring at each other in silence. The anger still burned, but beneath it, something else lingered—hurt. Ace got up first, brushing dust off his jeans. He didn’t look at you.

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.

“Ace! You’re late!” I called from the usual spot—our cracked sidewalk corner where ivy grew through the fence. He jogged toward me, bag bouncing, a familiar grin on his face. “Blame Luffy. He left his entire uniform behind,” he said, breathless. He adjusted something around his neck—a camera. Not his usual style. “What’s that?” I asked. He lifted it, a bit sheepish. “My camera. I’ve never mentioned it, but… I like photography.” “You? The guy who almost exploded the chemistry lab?” He laughed. “Exactly why I need a peaceful hobby.” We sat on the short fence nearby, morning light filtering through the trees. He clicked through the photos: golden skies, rainy sidewalks, blurry moments of Sabo pulling faces, Luffy fast asleep with a doodled mustache. “These are really good,” I said, genuinely impressed. “There’s one more.” He turned the screen. It was me—sitting in our usual spot a few mornings ago, lost in thought. “I didn’t ask,” he added quickly. “It just looked like a moment worth keeping.” I blinked, surprised. “I don’t mind. It’s… quiet. Feels like how mornings feel with you.” He smiled faintly. “People at school have been saying stuff… about us.” “I’ve heard.” “Does it bother you?” I shook my head. “Not really. We are close.” His grin returned, but softer. Familiar.

It had been three years since Marineford. Three long years without him. Ace, my captain, my partner-in-crime, my best friend. I had followed him since the early days of the Spade Pirates, never once doubting his fire. We built something from nothing—until Whitebeard welcomed us into his family, and our flags flew side by side. And then… everything shattered on that battlefield. I survived. Barely. My body recovered. My soul never did. After the war, I didn't wander aimlessly—I joined Luffy. It’s what Ace would’ve wanted. Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was love. Or maybe I just needed to see with my own eyes what he couldn’t: his little brother becoming King of the Pirates. Now, on the front lines of the new war, I fight beside that same little brother. Only he’s not so little anymore. Luffy is everything Ace said he would be—and more. But today… something broke. We were deep in enemy territory, clashing with the World Government's final line of defense. The Seraphims descended like shadows from the clouds. Massive, brutal, precise. But one of them—one—made my lungs collapse. He wasn’t a child like the others. He was grown. Tall. Muscular. Tanned skin almost bronze. Black wings cut the sky, and white hair spilled like fire. Gold eyes, bright and unreadable. But I didn’t need any of that to recognize him. The tattoo did it. “A S C E,” just like before, the "S" crossed out. My sword lowered. My breathing stopped. Luffy kept fighting. The others shouted my name. But I couldn’t move. Because that wasn’t just a weapon. That was Ace. Or... something wearing his face. And I didn’t know whether to scream, cry, or reach out.

“My captain, Monkey D. Luffy... I’ve always wanted to know who is that man he admired so much.” The thought slips through my mind as we all stand in the middle of the desert city square, battered, bruised, but victorious. Crocodile is gone. Vivi is safe. The sky is finally clear in Alabasta. And right now, standing before me, is the man Luffy’s talked about in fleeting comments and proud declarations. Portgas D. Ace. His presence is undeniable—broad-shouldered, tan, that carefree grin pulling at his lips as he thanks us, especially me, for “taking care of his little brother.” The others crowd around him naturally. Sanji eyes him suspiciously. Usopp immediately launches into an exaggerated tale. Nami pokes fun at Luffy, asking why he never mentioned his brother was “hot.” And Zoro? He leans against a post, arms crossed, unreadable. Typical. But me? I stay quiet. I stare. There’s a fire behind those eyes—not just from the Devil Fruit swirling around his frame, but something else. Something familiar and distant all at once. His voice is lighthearted, but there’s weight behind it. His smile is easy, but I catch the flicker of something unspoken when he glances at Luffy. And when he finally turns his gaze toward me, locking eyes for the first time... It’s like the heat in the air shifts. Heavy. Alive. He lifts a brow, curious. “You don’t talk much?” “I listen first,” I say without thinking. Ace grins. “Smart. You’re with Luffy’s crew?” “Since the beginning.” He whistles. “So you’re one of the ones who’ll help him change the world.” And just like that, he turns back to his little brother, ruffling Luffy’s hair and laughing like it’s the most natural thing. But my eyes remain locked on him—studying, analyzing, understanding. So that’s the man my captain admires so much.

You pushed open the small glass door of the corner store, the familiar chime of the bell overhead greeting you as a blast of cool air hit your face. It was early morning, and your brain was still foggy with sleep. You hadn’t even tied your shoes properly. And there he was. “Ace?” you blinked. He stood in front of the fridge, holding two different milk cartons—one in each hand—brows furrowed like he was defusing a bomb. “Oh, good,” he sighed in relief. “Help me. Which one is it? I’ve been here for five minutes arguing with myself.” You stifled a laugh as you stepped closer, glancing between the two options he held. “Wait, *you* were sent to buy the milk today?” He shrugged, unbothered. “Sabo bribed me with the last pancake. Luffy was still asleep with a spoon in his mouth.” You reached for one of the cartons. “It’s this one.” Ace narrowed his eyes. “Are you *sure*?” “Yes. That’s the one we always get. Semi-skimmed, red cap.” He looked skeptical. “Didn’t we switch to the blue one last month?” “No, we *talked* about it and then decided the blue one tasted like cardboard.” Ace nodded slowly, clearly pretending like he remembered now. “Right. Yeah. I knew that.” You smiled. “You totally didn’t.” He smirked back. “Still got us the right one, though. Technically.” As you moved toward the register, he fell into step beside you. The cashier gave you both a sleepy glance but didn’t comment—it wasn’t the first time the two of you had wandered in together, half-asleep and bickering over breakfast supplies. Outside, the morning sun was just rising over the rooftops of your neighborhood. You walked side by side in silence for a moment. Ace glanced at you, voice casual. “You coming over to eat?” You looked at him with a little grin. “I always do.”

The thudding in your skull was matched only by the annoying chime of your phone alarm. You groaned and rolled over, squinting at the unfamiliar ceiling. This wasn’t your apartment. The sheets smelled like smoke and citrus, and the warmth of another presence pulled you out of your haze. You bolted upright. The man lying beside you was shirtless, covered in tattoos, and very much still asleep. His dark hair was tousled, lips slightly parted. A scar lined his eyebrow. You recognized that face—just not from real life. No. It couldn't be. You stumbled out of bed, pulling your jacket over your wrinkled top, trying to piece together how you'd ended up here. The last thing you remembered was the rider-themed pub your friend dragged you to. You’d been drowning in rum and cola, laughing at some guy’s terrible jokes… and then you met him. He offered you a lighter when your cigarette wouldn’t catch. You talked. You smiled. You danced. You stayed. As you tiptoed around the room, grabbing your bag and shoes, the man stirred. His voice was hoarse, amused. “Running out on me already, sweetheart?” You turned. “I—I have class.” He smirked. “Law major, right? Gotta study us criminals.” You froze. “You didn’t know who I was last night,” he added, sitting up, the muscles of his chest flexing with the movement. “But you do now.” You gulped. Portgas D. Ace—infamous member of the Whitebeards. A name you’d read countless times in case files. “What do you want from me?” you asked quietly.

You didn’t expect him to go down on one knee. The bar was quiet—too quiet for your taste—and the jukebox played some old tune you barely registered as your heart thudded in your ears. Ace’s hands were calloused, trembling slightly as he pulled out a small ring, its design shaped like a flicker of flame twined around a blue phoenix feather. You stared, breath caught in your throat. “I know it’s sudden,” he said, though you both knew it wasn’t. “But I’ve known since Marineford… since you saved my life… that I’d never belong to anyone else.” Ten years. Ten years since that day—when you crashed through the warzone, fighting like a devil to keep him from dying. When you faced off against Akainu with nothing but sheer rage and a stolen Devil Fruit. When you stood in the bloodied battlefield and screamed, "You don't get to take him!" And you didn’t let them. Ace had lived. Scarred, yes. Burdened, absolutely. But alive. In that decade, you two had become inseparable—sailing together, sometimes apart, but always drawn back to each other. You, the infamous pirate with a bounty high enough to make any Admiral flinch. Him, the firebrand that once nearly died for his brother, and now… burned for you. Your eyes welled up. “Ace…”

The waves lapped against the hull of your ship as you peered through your spyglass. A Marine vessel—sleek, official, and radiating power—cut across the sea like a blade. You narrowed your eyes. That was no ordinary patrol ship. That was his ship. You had heard whispers for months now: the hero of the Marines, a powerhouse with flames at his command and a blade he wore like a badge of pride. His name was Portgas D. Ace—and the moment you laid eyes on him from the crow’s nest that day, you knew the rumors were real. Your crew scrambled as the ships grew closer. You gave the command to veer away, but it was too late. A burst of flame erupted across the sky, a warning shot—or a greeting? Your ship rocked as his voice rang out from above, carried by the wind. “You! Pirate captain of the Blue Storm! Pull over before I have to make you.” You smirked. “Make me, fire boy.” With that, the game began. Ace landed on your deck with a force that made the boards quake. His sword gleamed at his side, but his fire simmered in his eyes. He expected resistance. What he didn’t expect was your grin. “You don’t look like a Marine,” you teased. “You look like someone pretending to be one.” He tilted his head. “And you don’t look like a pirate. You look like trouble.” For a moment, silence. Then, laughter. Unexpected. Yours first, then his. No swords clashed. No cuffs were slapped on. Instead, the tension hung in the salt air—thick, crackling. “I should arrest you,” he said, voice low. “I should escape,” you replied, stepping closer. Neither of you moved.

The pub was loud, filled with the smell of oil, leather, and cheap beer. Riders lined the long bar, helmets under their arms, voices rowdy with stories of speed and broken limits. You were only there because your friend had dragged you out after another bad day—but the thrum of engines and soft rock was oddly comforting. Then the door opened. The wind howled in behind him, tousling his dark, wild hair as he walked in like he owned the place. Tall, confident, and shadowed in the orange streetlight, he tugged off his helmet, revealing dark eyes that scanned the crowd once before he made his way to the bar. You noticed the small flames tattooed on his arm. He didn’t speak much—just ordered a drink, leaning back on the bar like he’d been born with a motorcycle between his legs. You didn’t mean to stare, but he caught your eye anyway. "You a rider?" he asked, voice low and easy, like a purr of an engine before it roars. "Not yet," you replied, trying to sound cooler than you felt. "I just like the vibe." His smirk was dangerous. “Want a ride sometime?” Your heart stuttered. You didn’t know this man. But something about him—the fire in his eyes, the way he held himself—made you feel like saying yes would lead to something that might change everything. “I might,” you whispered, leaning closer.

You weren’t expecting much from this date. The guy from the app seemed decent enough—tall, polite, loved dogs. But halfway through your overpriced drink in a cozy, dim-lit bar, your attention drifted to the tiny corner stage. A band was setting up. Nothing flashy. No fancy lights. Just three guys, easy smiles and natural confidence. Then the one in the middle slung a guitar over his shoulder and looked up. That’s when time stopped. Ace. You didn’t know his name yet, but the way his fingers danced over the strings, the fire in his eyes, and the raw magnetism in his voice had your entire soul tuning into his rhythm. Luffy on the drums and Sabo on bass clearly loved the vibe, but it was Ace who stole the room. Your date said something—maybe asked a question—but you didn’t hear it. Didn’t care. You were lost in the performance, leaning forward every time Ace leaned into the mic. When he laughed between songs, you laughed too. When he hit a rough chord and smirked, your heart skipped. The moment the set ended, you realized your table was empty. Your date had left. Ace noticed too. As he walked offstage, sweaty and grinning, he raised an eyebrow at your abandoned table and your dazed expression. “Rough date?” he asked. You blinked, heat rushing to your cheeks. “Guess I found someone more interesting.”

You arrived three hours early to the venue—again. Not because you had to, but because you always did. The same routine for years now. Ever since Fire Fist, the once-tiny band made up of three reckless teenagers—Ace, Sabo, and Luffy—played in that run-down bar on East Street, you hadn’t missed a single show. Not one. Tonight, though, was different. The stadium was packed. Screaming fans held up posters, phones, and glowsticks. But you? You just stood there in your usual front-row spot, arms on the barricade, waiting for him. Ace. The wild one behind the drums. Shirt half open, laugh infectious, sticks like magic in his hands. You’d watched him grow from raw and chaotic to legendary. And no matter how big the band got, he always looked for something beyond the crowd, like searching for someone. The lights dimmed. Screams rose. And there he was, sliding behind his drum kit, fire tattoos glowing under the stage lights. He glanced at the crowd—and paused. Just for a second. Eyes locking on yours. His fingers curled tighter around his sticks. You didn’t scream. You never did. But he always saw you. The band exploded into their first song. You sang along, feeling the rhythm you’d memorized years ago. But Ace? He played like he was talking to you. After the encore, you turned to leave, but a security guard tapped your shoulder. “You,” he said. “He wants to meet you.” Your heart stopped. “Who?” He didn’t need to answer. Backstage smelled like sweat, amps, and adrenaline. When Ace stepped into the room, your eyes met again. “You’ve been at every show,” he said, smiling. “I always wondered who you were.” And just like that, you couldn’t breathe. “I’m no one special,” you whispered. But Ace tilted his head, eyes burning.

The cage was glass, reinforced with seastone and silence. Your wings flickered blue, not from freedom—but from pain. The government called it a miracle, a successful recreation of Marco’s Phoenix Fruit. They called you Subject Seraph. You called it hell. They’d locked away your name, your past, your will. You hadn’t smiled in months—not since the day they forced the first transformation, the blue flames tearing through your body until the healing burned more than the wounds ever did. Your laughter had been replaced with screaming. But then, that day came. The day the world trembled—Marineford. The sky darkened with fire and fury. You saw it through the narrow slits of your chamber: a warship shattered by an earthquake. Flames curled like serpents in the sky. Whitebeard. Marco. And him. Portgas D. Ace. Your heart, long numbed, stuttered. Not from your experiment’s aftershocks—but from memory. You’d followed his name through bounty posters and whispers. Before you were a prisoner, you had admired him. Maybe more than admired. A guard ran past. Another followed—then chaos. Sirens. Explosions. The floor rumbled. The door was left unsealed. Your wings burst forth in silence. You escaped beneath the chaos, flying above blood and sea, the fire and feathers blending in the air. Through a break in the war, Ace looked up. He saw you. And for the first time since your capture—you smiled

The skies over the Grand Line were stormless, too quiet for the ache that haunted your chest. Years had passed since the War of the Best, since the day the world lost Whitebeard, Marco, and Portgas D. Ace. You’d idolized Ace long before meeting him—his fire, his smile, his fearlessness. But when you finally reached the sea, they were already gone. Too late. You stumbled across Marco’s fruit on a black market ship you raided at 21. You didn’t hesitate. One bite, and the firebird awakened in you—warm and blue, healing but hollow. You trained relentlessly. And on your 22nd birthday, you returned to the place no one dared linger long: Sphinx Island. Whitebeard's homeland… their graves. Three simple markers. Three giants of the sea. You brought flowers, silence, and the ache of everything you never got to say. "I thought if I was strong enough, I’d bring all of you back," you whispered. "But this fruit… only one comes back." Tears fell before you even realized it. They hit the soil, glowing gold-blue as Phoenix energy flickered into the earth. You gasped as the wind changed—soft, sudden, warm. And then, fire. The grave of Portgas D. Ace split. You stumbled back, heart racing, as fingers broke through the earth. Ash scattered. A coughing breath. Then those eyes—burning, defiant, *alive*—met yours. Ace sat up slowly, covered in dirt and confusion. “You… Who the hell are you?” You dropped to your knees, crying and laughing all at once. “Someone who missed you.” He blinked. Then his lips curled into a grin. “Well… lucky me.” And deep in your soul, the Phoenix stirred—its pact made clear. As long as you breathe, he will too.

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.

The tavern was loud, rowdy, and smelled like salt and firewood. You hadn’t meant to stop in this town, but your crew needed supplies, and your boots needed rest. You sat near the back, hood pulled low, sipping on something stronger than you were used to. That’s when he walked in—tall, wild dark hair, freckles that somehow made his eyes more dangerous. Portgas D. Ace. You knew his name before the barkeep even whispered it. He was laughing, carefree, fire dancing around his fingers like it was part of him. You rolled your eyes and turned away—until his gaze caught you. It was just a glance at first. But then he didn’t look away. Minutes passed, and your drink was nearly finished. Then a voice beside you. “You shouldn’t drink alone.” You didn’t flinch. “You shouldn’t talk to strangers.” “I won’t be a stranger for long,” he said, sitting beside you uninvited. His tone was casual, but his eyes studied you with intensity. You tried to brush him off, standing to leave, but he was already rising too. “What’s your name?” You didn’t answer. But your silence only seemed to intrigue him more. Later that night, as you left the tavern, you felt it—someone was following you. You spun, drawing your weapon. But it was him. Again. “Relax,” he murmured. “I just wanted to make sure you got back safe.” You warned him off with sharp words and a sharper glare. But he didn’t back down. “I don’t know what it is,” he admitted. “But I’ve never felt like this before. I can’t let you walk away.” Something in the fire of his voice made you uneasy. You thought it would end there. But days later, you caught word from your crew—someone had torched the docks where a rival crew had been asking too many questions about you. And you had a sinking suspicion who it was. Because now, every shadow felt too warm. Every breeze too hot. And whenever you looked over your shoulder… He was always there.