Crying was an even more terrifying ordeal. The more your sobs convulsed your small frame, the more your throat constricted, and the faster the suffocating panic would set in. One memory remains particularly vivid: a heated argument with your father that left your face a streambed of tears. But the tears soon gave way to gasps and frantic sputters, until your mother’s arms enveloped you, her voice a frantic whisper begging you to slow down, to just breathe. Yet the harder you tried, the tighter your lungs squeezed, a horrifying sensation of drowning in the open air.

But no foe was more absolute than smoke. It was your sworn enemy, an insidious poison. You remember walking through town as a child, mesmerized by the thick plumes of smoke exhaled by factory chimneys. At first, you found their lazy, curling shapes beautiful, like strange, ethereal clouds. Then, the burning sensation would hit your throat, searing and sharp, your breaths becoming shallow, fast, and raspy. You'd instinctively cling to your mother’s skirt, a coughing fit shaking your body until your chest ached, feeling the pitying glances of strangers as if their stares could shatter your fragile glass-like frame.

The worst, however, was fire. Not the consuming infernos of forests or houses—though the mere thought of those sent a shiver down your spine—but the smaller, more intimate blazes. The kind that began in a forgotten pan on a kitchen stove. You were only seven. The black smoke coiled against the ceiling, the shriek of the smoke alarm an assault on your ears, and your lungs seemed to collapse in on themselves. As others frantically rushed to open windows and wave the smoke away, you were already on your knees, dizzy, your chest screaming for the air that simply would not come.

This has always been your reality. Your body has no mercy for smoke, or running too hard, or crying too long. You’ve come of age with the constant, exhausting knowledge that every breath is a battle, as though the world itself is perpetually trying to rob you of the very air you need to survive. As you grew older, a fragile peace settled over some parts of your life. The act of running, which once felt like an act of self-betrayal, lost some of its immediate danger. You began to understand the language of your body's rebellion, learning exactly when to stop before the fire began to burn in your chest, when to slow your pace before that dreaded wheeze crept in like a ghost. Crying, though still a treacherous landscape, became something you could navigate. You mastered the art of pressing your lips together, of swallowing your sobs before they could spiral into a torrent of gasping coughs. It was a flimsy shield, but it was better than the abject terror you felt as a child.

But smoke... smoke only became more of a monster.

Your father was a heavy smoker. He always insisted his habit stayed outdoors, never in the house, but you knew better. The scent was a constant presence, a phantom that clung to his jackets, seeped into the couch cushions, and stained the curtains with an eternal, dull gray. Even when he sat on the porch, a silent thief, the smoke would worm its way inside, slipping under doors and through the smallest cracks in windows. The first hint of it would make your chest seize, your throat clamp shut, as if your lungs had a premonition of the attack to come.

You remember him coming home from work, the bitter smell following him like a shadow. He'd place a hand on your shoulder and insist he'd smoked outside, as if the physical distance could erase the damage. But by the time he sat down, you were already fighting back a cough, burying your face in your sleeve, desperately pretending you were fine so he wouldn't sigh and dismiss you as dramatic.

The worst was always family gatherings. Your aunts, your uncles—they all shared the same habit. A line of them on the back porch, cigarettes glowing like a constellation of angry red eyes in the dark, their clouds of laughter rising alongside the smoke that made your chest ache from across the yard. You'd retreat inside, shutting the windows and clutching your inhaler, a small, cold comfort in your palm. No matter how far away they were, you swore you could feel the smoke seeking you out, finding its way into your very bones.

It wasn't just the suffocating smell. It was the weight of it, the way it hung in the air long after the cigarette was gone, settling into everything it touched. Your pillows, your clothes, even your hair. It followed you everywhere—to school, to friends' houses—and sometimes, another child would wrinkle their nose and ask why you smelled like ash. You never had the courage to tell them the truth: that your home was a place where your lungs were always, always losing.

The fight only intensified with each passing year. By the time you were a teenager, your body had given up on patience. You didn't even need to see the source anymore; the faintest, most imperceptible trace of smoke was enough. Your throat would close, your chest would begin to rattle, as if your very body had abandoned the fight and was simply waiting to lose. It happened when you were fifteen. The memory is seared into your mind, a cruel twist of fate on a late summer evening. Your father was on the porch with his brother, their voices loud with laughter that was swallowed up by curls of cigarette smoke. You were in your room, the windows cracked just slightly to let in a hint of cooler, fresher air. It didn't matter. The smoke was a living thing, a determined entity that clung to the humid air and slipped under your door.

At first, it was just a faint tickle in your throat. You tried to ignore it, burying your face in homework, convincing yourself that if you didn't think about it, it would just pass. But the tickle grew sharper, more insistent, until it became a single, rattling cough. Then another. And another. Soon, it was an uncontrollable chain reaction that convulsed your entire body. Your chest tightened into an iron vise, and each breath grew thinner than the last, like you were trying to breathe through a straw that had been pinched shut.

You stumbled to your feet, trying to make it to the window to slam it shut, but your knees buckled beneath you. The coughing wracked your whole body, forcing hot tears from your eyes until your vision swam and blurred. A cold, stark panic set in. Your hands, shaking violently, fumbled for the inhaler on your nightstand. You finally got it to your lips, but the relief didn't come. Not fast enough.

You stumbled into the hallway, your ragged wheezing a desperate sound that startled your mother from the kitchen. She dropped the dish she was drying and ran to you, her voice sharp with a fear that mirrored your own as she called your name. You couldn't answer. You could only clutch at your chest, a desperate, silent plea as you choked on air that refused to reach your lungs.

The world began to tilt, colors blurring and sounds echoing. Suddenly, there were arms around you—your mother, pulling you forward, and your father, finally understanding the gravity of the situation, shouting for the car keys. You only remember flashes: the surreal blur of porch lights as you were half-carried, half-dragged to the car; the frantic slam of the door; your mother’s trembling hands pressing against your back as she whispered, "Stay with me, stay with me," a desperate prayer repeated over and over again.

The ride to the hospital was a chaotic, terrifying blur. Your father drove too fast, cursing at the world, while your mother tried to keep your body from collapsing entirely. Every cough rattled through your bones, a violent tremor. Every second stretched into an agonizing eternity.

When the harsh hospital lights hit your eyes, you were already fading, the screaming of your chest for air a silent, unbearable ache. Nurses swarmed you the moment the doors opened, their voices urgent but their movements a practiced blur as they pressed an oxygen mask to your face and wheeled you into a room.

The memory stops there. You only recall the cold, glorious rush of air finally flooding your lungs again, the way the world slowly, blessedly, tilted back into focus. You woke up hours later, your throat raw and aching, to the sight of your mother asleep in a chair beside you, her face streaked with dried tears.

That night left a mark that was deeper than a scar. It wasn't just the memory of choking, of feeling your body give out under the merciless weight of the smoke. It was the chilling, absolute realization that no matter how careful you were, no matter how hard you tried to avoid it, your lungs could betray you in an instant, and the life you fought so hard for could slip away in a single, silent gasp. You woke up in the stark, sterile embrace of the hospital room. The hiss of machines was a constant, low murmur in the heavy quiet. Your mother was still slumped in her chair, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying, her hand still tangled in yours even in sleep. But it was your father's back you saw first. He was standing by the window, his shoulders tight with tension, one hand pressed hard against his mouth.

When he finally turned, you saw it—a flash of raw emotion that was gone as quickly as it came. His eyes were red and damp in a way you'd never witnessed before. He wiped at them too quickly, a frantic gesture as though he could erase the evidence, but you saw it. It was the only time you had ever seen him cry, even if it was just for a moment.

"I almost lost you," he said, his voice rougher than usual, breaking around the edges like shattered glass. He came closer, dropping to his knees by the bed, and for once, he made no attempt to hide the profound shake in his hands. "I promise you, kiddo… I'll quit. I swear. For you."

And you believed him. For a while, at least.

The first weeks of his attempt were a brutal, agonizing ordeal. You watched him sweat through the nights, pacing the halls with a cigarette clutched between his fingers but never lit. It was a desperate, almost pathetic gesture, as though he couldn't bear to let go of the habit entirely. He chewed gum until his jaw ached, and tried to keep his hands busy with card games or by tapping rhythmically on the table, but the craving was an overwhelming, palpable force. His temper grew shorter, his patience thinner. He snapped at your mother over nothing and slammed doors when he thought no one was looking. More than once, you heard him outside, a deep, rattling cough shaking the very walls of the house, followed by the sound of him spitting into the grass with a groan that sounded half-human, half-broken.

And still, he tried. For months, he tried. You remember him sitting on the porch steps, his fists clenched in his hair, whispering curses to himself as if he could somehow bargain with his own body. But the shakes always returned, the coughs never stopped, and the ever-present, acrid smell of smoke never truly left the house. Eventually, late one evening, you caught him again—a cigarette glowing between his fingers, and a look of profound shame in his eyes as he exhaled the smoke he had sworn you would never have to breathe again.

He promised after that, and he promised again after that, but each new promise felt hollower than the last. Every relapse was a new, deeper wound in the trust you wanted so desperately to give him.

You hated smoke because it was a thing that was slowly killing your father, because it had nearly taken your own life, because it was the monster that lived inside your house and clung to every person and thing you loved. And you hated it most of all because no matter how many times he said he would quit, no matter how much it broke him down, it was a battle he could never win.

When you finally left home, stepping onto that ship bound for the Grand Line, you truly believed you were leaving the smoke behind. The air tasted sharp with salt and the cold promise of seafoam, and for the first time in your life, your lungs felt truly free—each breath clean, crisp, and untainted. You convinced yourself that out here, on the boundless open water, you could finally breathe without fear.

For the most part, it was a beautiful truth. That first year, you became a master of evasion. You learned to read the signs and react before anyone else even noticed. You'd instinctively avoid taverns where the lanterns burned too hot, and skip crowded docks where sailors leaned against crates, a constant trail of smoke rising from their cigarettes. You always chose the seat farthest from the kitchen, as far away from the smoldering embers of the cooking fires as you could get. You trained yourself to detect the faintest curl of smoke on the breeze, the subtle sting in your throat—and you would quietly, almost invisibly, slip away before anyone could ask why.

But the Grand Line was not a place that allowed you to live without danger. There were moments you simply couldn’t escape it. A fight breaking out in a bar, bottles shattering and a fire catching in the chaos. A careless cook on board a neighboring ship, a pan left too long on the flame until thick, black smoke coiled against the ceiling. Once, when pirates attacked your crew, they set part of your ship ablaze, and the smoke rose faster than you could escape. Your chest seized almost instantly, the familiar wheeze ripping through your ribs as you stumbled onto the deck, forcing yourself to stay calm even as your lungs betrayed you.

You discovered ways to help yourself. Little tricks you had picked up over the years. Holding a damp cloth over your mouth and nose when you couldn't get away, the moisture cooling the air just enough to buy you precious seconds. You would breathe slowly, steadily, counting each inhale and exhale no matter how much you wanted to panic, no matter how much your throat screamed for more. Sometimes it worked, easing the sharp, terrifying edge of the attack. Sometimes it didn’t.

On nights when sleep refused to come, you would practice. You'd sit cross-legged in your bunk with a bowl of hot water steaming in front of you, a towel over your head to trap the warm vapor. The heat would open your chest, soothe the raw, aching feel of it, tricking your lungs into believing they could handle more than they could. You’d cough, sometimes until your body shook with the effort, but afterward, you always breathed just a little easier.

For the most part, those little things got you through. For the most part, you kept the smoke at bay. But the Grand Line was a wild and unpredictable sea, and you knew—deep down, in the quiet places—that you could never escape it forever. You could only prepare yourself for the moment it found you again.

It was in a bustling port town at the edge of the Grand Line, a place where the air carried the sharp tang of salt and the rich scent of sizzling street food. The streets themselves were a symphony of sound, a chaotic blend of music and drunken laughter. You hadn’t intended to stay long, just a brief stop to restock on supplies and maybe find a quieter ship to crew on for a while. But fate, as it so often does, had a different plan.

The trouble ignited in the town square. A fire, born from a vendor's stall, began to lick at the fabric awnings overhead, and thick, black smoke began to billow upward, swallowing the sky in its choking embrace. People shrieked and scattered in every direction, but you found yourself frozen at the edge of the chaos. Not by the fear of the fire itself, but by the sight of the smoke—a suffocating, living thing. The air burned your throat the moment you inhaled, and you knew, with a sickening certainty, that you wouldn't last long.

But then you saw him. An old man, a local with a peg-leg, caught in the middle of the thickening haze. He was coughing, stumbling, unable to drag himself free of the flames that were now licking the ground around his feet. Your chest was already tight, your eyes watering from the acrid air, but you couldn't just leave him. You grabbed the nearest cloth, drenched it in a bucket of water, and pressed it over your mouth. Then you ran into the haze.

Each step was an act of pure agony. The smoke clawed at your lungs, a raw, scraping burn down your throat, but you kept moving forward, whispering to the old man to keep breathing, keep going. By the time you burst into clear air, you were barely standing. The man collapsed into the arms of his waiting family, but you doubled over, coughing so violently you thought your ribs might crack.

That's when you heard it—a voice, bright and carefree, so out of place in the grim aftermath of the fire. "Oi! Are you okay?!"

You looked up through a curtain of tears, and there he was: Monkey D. Luffy, with that wide, infectious grin and his iconic straw hat tilted back on his head. Behind him, the rest of the crew stood in the square: Zoro with his swords already drawn, Nami herding civilians to safety, Sanji kicking flaming debris away, and Robin directing people with a calm, practiced precision. Usopp and Chopper darted through the panicked townsfolk, while Franky and Brook towered in the background.

Luffy crouched in front of you, his head tilted. "You saved that guy, even though you can't breathe, huh?"

You tried to answer, but another violent coughing fit wracked your chest. It was Chopper who rushed forward next, his tiny hooves fumbling with his doctor’s bag. He pressed a stethoscope to your chest, his face etched with pure worry. "She's got asthma—and it's a bad attack! She needs clean air, now!"

Without a moment's hesitation, Sanji scooped you up into his arms, ignoring your protests. He carried you toward the ship, the lingering scent of smoke on his jacket, muttering curses under his breath about careless towns and the lack of proper fire safety.

By the time you reached the Sunny, Chopper had you set up with a steam inhaler and a blanket, and was already delivering a sharp lecture about running into fires without thinking. Luffy never stopped grinning, sitting cross-legged on the deck right in front of you.

"You're strong," he said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Join my crew."

You blinked at him, still trying to catch your breath. "What—?"

"I want you on my crew!" he repeated, leaning forward, his eyes shining with an unshakable certainty. "Anyone who throws themselves into a fire to save someone belongs with us!"

The rest of the crew had their own reactions: Zoro gave a noncommittal shrug, Nami folded her arms with a skeptical frown, and Sanji's eyes immediately transformed into heart shapes as he declared he would personally ensure your safety. Robin’s smile was faint but genuine, Usopp nervously muttered something about another person to worry about, and Brook... well, he politely asked if he could see your panties, earning a sharp smack from Nami.

It didn’t take long for you to make your decision. The warmth of their laughter, the way they fussed over you without question, the way they didn't look at you like you were made of fragile glass—it felt like something you had been searching for your entire life.

And so, that day, you said yes. That day, you became a Straw Hat.

With the Straw Hats, you found yourself in a strange kind of family—loud, chaotic, and endlessly warm. But like all families, they cast shadows of their own.

Luffy was a strange and wonderful kind of easy. He never treated you like you were fragile, never slowed down for you unless you told him to. He'd drag you into adventures with a wild, unrestrained energy, laughing and yelling until you could almost forget—just for a while—that your lungs were not like everyone else's. He didn't pity you, and that in itself was a profound gift.

Zoro was harder to read, a closed book you often found yourself trying to decipher. You'd catch him watching you sometimes when you were out of breath after training or running. He never said a word, but you'd see the brief, almost imperceptible flicker of concern in his eyes before he looked away. If anyone tried to push you too far, he would step in with a quiet, blunt word—never dramatic, just a steady, unshakable wall at your back.

Nami treated you like a sister, a bond forged with a sharp but loving edge. She was quick to scold you if she thought you were being reckless, and even quicker to shove a handkerchief at you when smoke or dust made you cough. But she also held your hand when you needed to be grounded, squeezing your fingers until the panic passed. You leaned on her more than you would ever admit.

Usopp was the one you could laugh with about it all. He'd make ridiculous inventions—little contraptions meant to "filter smoke" or "carry fresh air in a bottle"—none of which ever worked the way he claimed. The sheer, absurd effort of his attempts made you smile, even through a coughing fit. He was always the first to run for a cup of water, the first to crack a joke to get you to breathe slower.

Chopper was your quiet, unwavering lifeline. He was strict in a way no one else was—keeping careful track of your inhaler, insisting on regular check-ups, and scolding you fiercely if you ever downplayed your symptoms. But his small hands were so gentle, and his voice never failed to cut through the fear when your chest locked up. You knew you owed him more than you could ever say.

Robin understood you in a way that was entirely unspoken. She didn't hover, didn't lecture, but she'd quietly position herself so you always had a clear exit when smoke or fire was nearby. She would bring you tea with herbs to help your lungs, setting it down with that serene smile that told you she had already noticed your struggle before you even had a chance to ask for help.

Franky was the loudest of them all—"SUPER!" this, "NO WORRIES!" that—but he protected you in his own way, too. He built things for you: extra ventilation in your room, a small mechanism on the Sunny that could push fresh air through when the smoke from the galley spread too far. His way of protecting you was loud, but it was profoundly real.

Brook was gentle in his own unique way. He would play soft songs on his violin when you were recovering from an attack, the kind of music that slowed your racing heart and steadied your breathing. Sometimes he would joke too much, but the music always spoke louder than his words.

And then there was Sanji.

At first, you didn't even notice. On the day you met him, the square had been so choked with smoke from the fire that you couldn't pick out any other scent. But once you were on the Sunny, it hit you immediately: the faint trail of smoke curling from his lips, the constant, glowing tip of a cigarette between his fingers.

He was a heavy smoker. Just like your father.

You tried to ignore it at first. You kept your distance, making excuses not to linger in the galley when he was there, slipping out to eat on deck when the smell grew too thick to bear. But sometimes the scent clung to him, to the food, to the very air around him, and no matter how kind he was, no matter how quickly he would cook something special for you, your chest would tighten just from being near him.

He reminded you of home in the worst possible way. The same smoke that clung to your father’s jacket, the same habit he promised he would quit but never could. Sanji wasn’t cruel like your father had been, but the smoke was the same. It was the same painful weight in your lungs, the same shadow you couldn’t escape.

You avoided him—not out of hate, but out of a deep-seated fear. The fear of what the smoke might do to you, and the fear of how much he mirrored the man you had tried so hard to leave behind.

And Sanji... he noticed. He never pushed, never asked why you kept your distance, but his eyes would linger sometimes, softer than you expected. He didn’t know the whole story. Not yet. But you could feel it pressing at the edges of your chest every time the smell of tobacco drifted near—that heavy, painful reminder that no matter how far you had sailed, smoke had followed you even here.

The galley was a symphony of life that night—voices overlapping, laughter echoing off the walls, the cheerful clinking of plates as Sanji laid out a feast so large it covered the table. You were wedged happily between Nami and Robin, savoring a piece of roasted fish while Luffy stuffed his cheeks like a squirrel and Brook strummed a playful tune in the corner. It felt… safe. Normal. Warm.

Then Sanji lit a cigarette.

The familiar, sharp snick of the lighter, followed by the tiny, cruel flare of orange. You froze for a split second, a piece of food still in your mouth, before forcing yourself to keep chewing. It’s fine, you told yourself. You’d sat near him before. The room was big, the windows were open; the smoke would drift away long before it ever reached you.

But it didn’t.

The smell curled into your nose first, sharp and bitter, clinging to the back of your throat. You tried to breathe shallowly, taking in less air, less of him. But the more you fought to ignore it, the more it pressed down on your lungs, hot and heavy, as if the air itself was thickening into something solid.

You swallowed quickly, trying to chase away the tightness with food, but the bite caught in your throat as your chest cinched. You gasped to clear it, and that was when the smoke hit full force.

Your body betrayed you instantly.

It began with a small, sharp cough, as if your lungs were trying to expel the poison. But one cough became another, and another, and soon you were bent forward, choking on air that had suddenly become hostile. The laughter around the table died. Your chest seized as though invisible hands were squeezing it shut, your ribs clamping down until no breath could pass.

You clawed at your shirt, desperate for space, desperate for oxygen that wouldn’t come. The coughing shook you, wracking your entire body so hard your vision blurred and swam. Each inhale scraped raw, a high, whistling sound like trying to pull air through a straw that had been pressed flat. You tried to calm down, tried to slow it, but a cold, suffocating panic took over—the more you thought of the smoke in your lungs, the more your throat closed.

Hot tears spilled from your eyes, blinding you as you heaved for breath. Your head spun, and the world shrank to the sound of your own wheezing. High, thin, and desperate. No air. No air. No air.

Through the chaos, you heard your name—Nami’s voice, a high note of panic, and Chopper shouting for your inhaler. Chairs scraped against the floor as the crew leapt to their feet.

A hand grabbed your shoulder—Robin’s voice low, calm, and steady in your ear. Another hand pressed something into yours—Chopper, shoving your inhaler against your palm with a trembling urgency. Your fingers fumbled, slick with fear, but Robin’s hand steadied them, guiding it to your mouth.

You pressed down. The medicine hit the back of your throat, a chemical and bitter taste, but blessed relief trickled in. Not instantly—never instantly—but enough. Enough to ease the vise just a fraction, enough to let one real breath slide in, ragged and shaky. Then another.

You collapsed forward onto the table, coughing until your whole body shook, until your ribs screamed with pain. The inhaler clattered from your hand. You barely noticed when Nami’s arm wrapped around you, or when Luffy barked at Sanji to put the cigarette out.

It took long minutes before your lungs began to unclench, before each breath stopped sounding like it was fighting to escape your own chest. The world came back to you slowly—the clatter of dishes being pushed aside, Chopper’s stethoscope pressed to your back, Sanji’s silence hanging heavy in the room like ash.

When you finally lifted your head, your face damp with tears and your body trembling, the entire crew was watching you. Their fear hung in the air almost as heavy as the smoke had been. And Sanji—he was still frozen by the stove, the cigarette crushed in the ashtray, his eyes wide with a profound and terrible guilt you’d never seen before.

For you, the attack had felt like drowning in the middle of a dinner table. For him, it was the first time he realized just how much his smoke could kill you.

Later that night, the Sunny was blanketed in a heavy silence. Most of the crew had drifted off to their bunks after making sure you were okay, though you could still hear Brook’s violin playing a faint, melancholic tune from the other side of the ship. You sat on the deck with a blanket wrapped around your shoulders, the salt air washing through your lungs—clean, easy, and safe.

You heard the galley door creak open, followed by the slow, familiar steps of boots across the wood. You didn’t need to look to know who it was.

Sanji stopped a few feet away, and even before he spoke, you caught it: the faint trace of smoke clinging to him, soaked into his jacket and hair. You fought not to wrinkle your nose, not to let your lungs seize up again, and instead focused on the simple, steady rhythm of your breathing.

“…I’m sorry,” he said quietly, the charm gone from his voice, replaced with a raw, unvarnished apology. “I didn’t think. I should’ve.”

You pulled the blanket tighter around yourself, your gaze fixed on the moon’s reflection shimmering on the waves. “It’s not your fault. You didn’t light it to hurt me.”

His lighter clicked in his hand—open, shut, open, shut—but he didn’t spark it. Not this time. “Still. I should’ve known better. I watch over all of you, and I didn’t notice something that could…” His voice trailed off, thick with the weight he always carried. “…that could’ve killed you.”

You turned your head to look at him. His eyes weren't on you but on the sea, his jaw tight, his smoke-stained fingers twitching as if they longed for the comfort of a cigarette he couldn't bring himself to light in front of you again.

“You don’t have to quit,” you said softly.

That got his attention. His head snapped toward you, his eyes wide with a disbelief that was almost heartbreaking. “What?”

“I don’t want you to quit,” you repeated. The words felt strange in your mouth, but they were true. “I’ve seen what it does to someone. My dad tried—over and over—and it tore him apart. He was miserable, angry, sick. He wasn’t himself anymore. I don’t want to see you like that. I don’t want you to suffer because of me.”

His lips parted, the cigarette dangling between his fingers, but no words came out.

“I know why you smoke,” you continued. “It’s not just a habit. It’s how you… calm down. How you deal with everything you keep bottled up. I’ve watched you.” You smiled faintly, even though your chest still ached from earlier. “When you’re anxious, when you’re overthinking, when you’re carrying too much—you light up. And it helps you breathe.”

Sanji’s eyes softened, shadows flickering across his face. He let out a slow exhale, empty of smoke, just breath. “…You notice too much.”

You shrugged, pulling your knees up under the blanket. “I pay attention.”

For a long while, neither of you spoke. The waves lapped gently against the Sunny’s hull, and the night air filled the silence where his smoke might have been. Finally, he crouched down in front of you, his elbows resting on his knees, looking at you with a complicated mix of guilt and gratitude.

“I can’t quit,” he admitted, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Even if I wanted to. I’ve tried before, but…” He shook his head. “The stress, the nightmares—it all comes crawling back, and I need something to…” He cut himself off, his jaw tightening once more.

“I know,” you said. “That’s why I don’t want you to.”

His eyes searched yours, as if he was waiting for you to flinch away, waiting for the disgust or anger. But you held his gaze steady.

“I’ll keep my distance when I need to,” you said. “I’ll take care of myself. Just… don’t promise me things you can’t keep. Don’t lie to me about it. Smoke if you need to. I’ll handle it.”

The lighter clicked once more in his hand, then stilled. He nodded slowly, almost reverently, as though your words had lifted a great weight from his chest.

“Deal,” he murmured.

And though the scent of tobacco still clung faintly to him, for the first time, it didn’t feel like it was suffocating you. It just felt like Sanji—flawed, stubborn, human—and somehow, that made it easier to breathe.

The island was a living watercolor painting—soft, rolling hills that faded into a coastline of pale, gentle sand, with neat rows of cottages stacked along cobblestone streets and a flotilla of white sails fluttering in the harbor. The Straw Hats hadn't planned on staying long; it was supposed to be a simple supply run. A quick stop for food, fresh water, maybe some fabric or spare parts for the Sunny. Nothing more.

The moment your foot touched the dock, you felt it. The air.

It was clean in a way that was so profound it almost startled you. It wasn't just free of smoke, but light, almost weightless—a salty breeze that wove its way through every street and alley, carrying the subtle scents of fresh-baked bread, bright citrus, and clean seafoam. You inhaled deeply, cautiously at first, bracing yourself for the familiar sting in your throat, the expected heaviness in your chest. But it never came. Each breath slid into your lungs smooth and easy, like cool water pouring down.

The streets hummed with a vibrant, welcoming life. Merchants' voices called out from wooden stalls draped in bright, colorful fabrics, their shouts mingling with the steady hum of chatter. Children darted playfully through the crowds, their fingers sticky with fruit candy, their laughter ringing out as brightly as the bells strung over the bakery doors. Even the chimneys on this island felt different—made of white stone, thin plumes of smoke rising so faintly that you barely noticed them against the vast sky.

Beside you, Nami tucked a list into her pocket. “Alright—half of us for food, half for tools and ship parts. We’ll meet back at the docks before sundown.”

As if on cue, Luffy immediately bolted toward the nearest fruit stand, yelling about meat. Zoro sighed, already looking lost within two steps. Usopp and Chopper began arguing over who should carry the baskets, while Robin walked calmly in the opposite direction, a bookshop already in her sights.

You lingered for a moment, tilting your head back as the breeze threaded through your hair, your chest rising and falling without the slightest hint of resistance. It felt almost foreign to breathe so easily, a sensation you had forgotten was possible. This was the kind of air you didn't have to fight for.

Sanji brushed past, his hands in his pockets, a cigarette balanced between his lips but unlit. He caught your eye for half a second, then glanced up at the sky, as though even he knew this town’s air was far too clean to ruin with smoke.

For the first time in weeks, you let your shoulders drop, allowing yourself to fully relax into the simple, beautiful miracle of just… breathing. The town seemed to breathe with you, its rhythm easy, effortless, almost promising that—for today, at least—you wouldn’t have to run from anything at all.

You were laughing—truly, wholeheartedly laughing—your shoulder pressed against Usopp's as he tried and failed miserably to haggle with a fruit seller. His voice cracked with frustration when the merchant shut him down, and you couldn't help but giggle. Chopper was tugging at your sleeve, his eyes sparkling with delight over a display of sweets, and for a fleeting moment, it felt almost like an ordinary day in a perfectly ordinary town.

Then you saw him.

He stood at the far end of the square, a looming figure towering above the crowd. You recognized the immaculate white of the Marine coat, the word "Justice" stamped bold and black across his broad back. Unlike other coats you'd seen, his wasn’t draped loosely; it hung heavy, weighted down by authority and the kind of fierce battles that left their marks on a man's very being. The G-5 insignia stitched along the sleeve was sharp and stark, announcing exactly who he was and who he belonged to.

Even from a distance, you caught it—the way the smoke curled around him, thick and endless, spilling from his chest like a storm that had learned how to breathe. It wrapped his figure in a constant haze, making him look half-man, half-furnace, with faint embers still glowing at the edges of his form.

Your throat tightened instantly, a familiar vise. Every instinct in your body screamed at you to turn and run, to find cleaner air before your lungs had a chance to betray you. But before you could move, a voice boomed across the square.

"Smokey!"

Luffy's voice, unbothered and cheerful, cut through the clamor like he was calling out to an old friend instead of a Vice Admiral of the Marines. People stopped in their tracks, their heads whipping around at the sound.

The man—Smoker—lifted his head at once, his eyes narrowing beneath the shadow of his cap. His jaw worked around the two cigars clenched between his teeth, smoke pouring from him in two twin streams as he exhaled. A flash of sharp recognition flickered across his face, and his hand instinctively fell to the handle of the jitte at his hip.

The crowd thinned in seconds, civilians retreating to the edges of the square, whispering nervously at the sudden, sharp tension that had filled the air.

And you stood frozen in the middle of it all, your lungs already prickling at the smoke that was now curling closer, while Luffy grinned wide and waved like this was the best surprise of his entire day.

Smoker’s eyes swept over the crew in a single, assessing drag—Luffy waving like an idiot; Zoro's hand twitching near his swords; Usopp and Chopper frozen like deer in a torchlight. Then his gaze landed on you. The newest face. The one who didn't quite fit into the bounty posters he’d memorized. His eyes narrowed.

“Another one?” he muttered, his voice low and gruff, smoke curling with each word. “The Straw Hats keep collecting strays.”

Before you could even process what he was saying, he barked an order. “G-5! Move in!”

From the alleys and shadows of the square, half a dozen Marines in G-5 coats stepped out, weapons drawn, their sneers sharp. The Straw Hats shifted instantly, their loose, casual air evaporating. Zoro cracked his knuckles. Sanji’s lighter flared in one hand, though his eyes were locked on Smoker instead of his cigarette.

And you—

You ran.

It was pure, simple instinct. The moment the smoke thickened, spilling from Smoker’s body and sweeping low over the cobblestones, your chest seized with that familiar, terrifying tightness. There was no time for thinking or planning. Just movement.

“Oi—Y/N?!” Usopp’s voice cracked, shocked, as you bolted through the crowd.

Smoker noticed immediately. His eyes tracked you like a hawk’s, and smoke surged from his body, spiraling into a great, chasing wave. “Running, huh? That makes you guilty already!” His boots struck hard against the cobblestone as he lunged forward, smoke lashing out like tendrils to cut off your path.

“Cough—shit,” you hissed under your breath, lungs already protesting the faint wisps you’d drawn in. You ducked down an alley, your legs pumping, every breath ragged, every inhale scraping like sandpaper.

Behind you, the fight erupted—Luffy launching himself at Smoker with a yell of, “Smokey!! Fight me!!” Marines clashing steel against Zoro. Robin’s arms sprouting from the walls to disarm and trip them. Sanji kicking through their ranks with fury in every strike. But their eyes weren’t just on their enemies—at least half of them flickered toward you.

“Y/N’s running from him—why?!” Usopp shouted, his slingshot snapping.

“Can’t you see?!” Sanji snarled, fire in his voice. “If she gets too close to him, she’ll choke on that damn smoke!”

Realization spread like lightning across their faces.

“Her asthma,” Robin’s voice cut sharp, even as she restrained two Marines with sprouting limbs. “She won’t last if he corners her.”

But Smoker didn’t know. He thought you were just another Straw Hat trying to slip through his fingers. His smoke whipped down the alley in thick, coiling waves, slamming against the walls, blocking your exit with a wall of gray. You skidded to a stop, your chest heaving, your lungs already begging for relief.

Your hands shook as you clawed at the nearest window ledge, trying to pull yourself up, anything to stay ahead of the smoke curling close.

Smoker’s voice boomed behind you, deep and merciless. “You think you can outrun smoke?”

Your vision blurred at the edges as you staggered forward, every breath a war you weren’t sure you’d win. And far behind, the Straw Hats shouted your name in unison—a chorus of desperation and fury igniting as they realized exactly what kind of battle this had become.

The smoke rolled in too thick, too fast. You tried to hold your breath, tried to press the crook of your arm to your mouth and nose, but it was useless. The haze sank into you with every step, a burning presence at the back of your throat until you gasped without meaning to—pulling in a lungful of smoke that tore through you like fire.

You choked. And then you coughed.

It came fast—one small cough, then another, doubling you over until your knees buckled beneath you. You slapped your hands down onto them, bent forward in the middle of the alley, gasping like the air had been replaced with knives. Your chest squeezed tight, an iron band cinched around your ribs, leaving no room to breathe, no space to draw in even the smallest breath without hacking it straight back out.

Your vision blurred, the cobblestones swimming under your boots as you wheezed desperately for oxygen. Each inhale was a shrill, whistling sound, each exhale ragged and broken. Your body shook with the effort of it all, a trembling that ran all the way down your arms as you braced yourself on your knees.

Smoker loomed at the other end of the alley, smoke still curling lazily from his chest, his jitte dragging against the stones. He slowed when he saw you crumpled like that, a flicker of confusion furrowing his brow. "The hell's the matter with you? You can't handle a little smoke?"

You coughed so hard your whole body jerked, tears stinging your eyes, and then—because it was either laugh or keel over—you forced yourself upright just enough to glare at him through the blur.

“C-can’t handle—?” you wheezed, your voice cracking, still half-doubled over. “—You—hack—you absolute—walking—chimney!!”

The words came out broken and chopped up between violent coughs, but the look on his face—caught somewhere between bafflement and irritation—was almost enough to make you laugh if you'd had the air for it.

Behind you, the voices of your crew carried over the chaos:

"Y/N!!"

"Hang on!"

"Robin, get her out of there!"

But you stayed right there in the smoke, bent over and gasping, yelling at a Vice Admiral with whatever scraps of air your lungs would allow. Because if you didn’t—if you let the fear swallow you whole—then the smoke would've already won.

Your chest was on fire, your breaths shallow and ragged, every inhale fighting to scrape past the terrible tightness crushing your ribs. Smoker stopped mid-step, smoke curling lazily around him, and for once, he didn't immediately press forward. His eyes narrowed, sharp and calculating.

“…That’s not fear,” he muttered under his breath, his cigars glowing. “You’re actually—”

He didn’t finish the thought.

“Smokey!!”

Luffy came crashing in from above, stretching his arm off a rooftop with his usual reckless grin. His fist slammed into Smoker’s smoke-clad body, sending the Vice Admiral skidding back through the haze. The air shifted with the impact, breaking the oppressive wall of smoke long enough for you to stumble sideways, clutching your chest and coughing violently.

Smoker growled, his jitte slamming down against the cobblestones, cracks spiderwebbing beneath it. His glare locked on Luffy, then flicked back to you—still bent over, still trembling on your knees. Something clicked in his eyes.

“Her,” he muttered, his voice low. “It’s the smoke.”

Sanji was there in the next heartbeat, his boot slamming into the ground as he positioned himself between you and Smoker. His expression was darker than you’d ever seen. “Oi, bastard. You get one step closer and you’ll regret it.” His lighter was out, unlit, his hands trembling—not from fear, but from a profound fury.

Robin’s arms sprouted along the wall behind you, gently pulling you backward toward cleaner air. Chopper was already running, rummaging frantically through his bag for your inhaler.

Smoker’s gaze lingered. He wasn’t stupid. He knew weakness when he saw it. But for once, he didn't push forward. His jaw clenched around his cigars as Luffy sprang at him again, fists flying.

“Don’t touch her!” Luffy roared, stretching his arm back for another punch. “If you hurt her, I’ll kick your ass even harder than last time!”

The fight between captain and Vice Admiral exploded down the street, the air thick with the crack of fists and the hiss of smoke. But Smoker’s eyes—just for a flicker—shifted back to you. He'd seen it. He knew now.

Whether he would use it later, whether he would weaponize that truth or tuck it away in the back of his mind for reasons only he understood—you couldn’t tell. But you saw the hesitation. The briefest falter in his smoke when he realized that chasing you could kill you before he ever laid a hand on you.

And for a man like Smoker, who lived in the shades of gray between justice and his own sense of morality, that hesitation was more dangerous than any blow he could've struck.

Before your next cough could tear through you, a strong hand grabbed your arm and yanked you sideways. You barely had time to register the sensation before you were being dragged out of the alley, stumbling over the uneven cobblestones as your lungs screamed for air.

"Get her out!" a voice barked.

It was Zoro. His green coat flared behind him as he hauled you toward a quieter street, his eyes narrowed and scanning for any stray Marines. His grip was firm but not rough, and for once, you didn’t fight him—your chest was too tight, your body too shaky to argue.

"Zoro—wait—I—ugh—" you wheezed, coughing between words, a hand clutching your chest.

"Shut it," he muttered, eyes forward, moving like a blade cutting through the chaos. "Breathe. Slowly."

You pressed your lips together, forcing in small, careful breaths, letting him steady your steps. Already, the tightness in your chest had eased a little now that you were moving out of the densest smoke, though each inhale still scraped raw along your ribs.

Behind you, the alley erupted. Luffy's rubber fists slammed into Smoker over and over, each stretch and strike echoing like a drumbeat. Sanji twisted and kicked with lethal precision, launching the nearest G-5 Marines into the walls. Robin's arms sprouted, grabbing weapons and tossing them away, redirecting blows, keeping the crowd safe. Franky slammed his fists down, sending tremors through the street to scatter more soldiers.

From your vantage point in the quieter street, you watched the chaos unfold in a blur of smoke and fists. Luffy yelled, laughing and shouting in that insane, fearless way he had, while Smoker’s smoke curled furiously around him, trying to defend but faltering at the edges each time Luffy landed a blow.

Zoro slowed once he was certain you were clear, letting you lean against the side of a building, your body trembling from both the asthma and the adrenaline. "You okay?" he asked, his voice clipped but carrying a sharp undercurrent of concern.

You nodded weakly, still bent over slightly, your inhaler pressed to your mouth. "I… think so," you rasped. "Thanks…"

He didn’t answer, just waited while you stabilized your breathing, the distant sounds of the fight echoing down the street. For the first time that day, you felt a flicker of safety—not because the battle had ended, but because someone was there who could keep you alive, keep you out of the smoke long enough for you to breathe again.

Zoro didn’t stay long. Once he was sure you were steady enough, he gave your shoulder a quick, almost imperceptible squeeze, then turned back toward the chaos. His swords were already drawn, eyes locked on the alley where Smoker and the rest of the G-5 Marines were still tangled with Luffy and the others. He didn’t glance back, but you could feel the weight of his presence lingering, even in his absence—a silent, vigilant promise.

You sank down onto the curb, letting your legs stretch out in front of you. The blanket of quiet around the side street was almost unbelievable after the roar and smoke of the alley. For the first time in what felt like hours, you could actually breathe without forcing it, without counting every inhale like it was a race against death.

Your chest rose and fell, slowly, each breath easier than the last. The sting in your throat dulled, and the tightness in your ribs loosened just enough that you could let your hands drop from your knees. You closed your eyes, letting the wind wash through your hair, carrying with it the faint, clean scent of salt and sea.

Thoughts ran through your mind like a lazy tide. The way Smoker had looked at you, the brief, terrible hesitation you’d seen—how he knew what his smoke could do to you. Luffy, Sanji, Robin, Zoro—all of them had fought like the world depended on it, and in a way, it did. Part of it depended on them keeping you safe. You felt a strange, tangled mix of gratitude and guilt, knowing how close you’d come to another attack, another fight where your body could’ve failed you.

You stayed there for a while, watching the sky streak from a pale blue to the soft rose of evening, letting your lungs refill completely, letting your heart slow from the panicked, adrenaline-fueled race. The cool cobblestones pressed against your back, the wind brushed your face, and for the first time since stepping onto this island, you felt the simple, almost miraculous joy of air that didn’t hurt.

Somewhere in the distance, the clash of battle still hummed, a low thrum muffled by the distance and the bend of the streets. You didn’t move. You didn’t speak. You just sat, thinking and breathing, and for now, that was enough.

By the time the sun was dipping low over the rooftops, the fight in the square had quieted. The shouts and clanging of steel had been replaced by the distant hum of footsteps and the low murmur of voices. You took your time, letting your chest recover fully, before slowly making your way back toward the Sunny. The streets were less crowded now, long shadows stretching across the cobblestones, and for the first few blocks, everything felt almost peaceful.

But then, as you turned into a narrow alley to cut across the town, your stomach twisted into a cold knot.

He was there. Smoker. Standing like a statue at the far end, his white coat crisp, two cigars clenched between his teeth, smoke curling lazily around him in the golden evening light. His eyes flicked up to you, sharp and calculating, and for a moment, the alley felt impossibly small and suffocating.

You froze.

His gaze didn't waver either. He wasn't moving, wasn't advancing. He was just standing there, watching, and for a split second, it felt like time itself had stopped.

"...Oh, come on!" you finally blurted out, your voice cracking with a strange mix of panic and utter exasperation. "This isn't—this is not fair!"

He raised an eyebrow at you, silent, letting you stew in your frustration.

"You—you're so smokey!" you yelped, taking a half-step forward and a half-step back, waving your arms as if you could make the smoke vanish. "How do you even breathe in that crap yourself? Your lungs must be—ugh!—terrible! I mean, just terrible!"

He said nothing, just watched, the corners of his mouth twitching almost imperceptibly as he exhaled a new cloud of smoke.

"And what did I do to deserve this?!" you continued, now hopping slightly on the balls of your feet. "I'm—I'm just on a ship with my friends! I'm trying to be normal! I haven't stolen anything! I haven't—haven't—been a pirate yet! And now you're just here, blocking my path with your—your smoke cloud of doom!!"

Smoker blinked, and you swear, just for a heartbeat, he looked slightly... bemused.

You flopped onto the nearest crate, hands over your face, letting out a dramatic groan that was half real, half performance. "This is so unfair! I can't even get back to my ship without nearly dying from smoke! I haven't even had dinner yet! And you—ugh—you're like a walking chimney!"

The air hung between you both, thick with tension and the faint curl of tobacco, until finally Smoker let out a low chuckle, the smoke drifting lazily upward. "You're... very vocal."

You peeked through your fingers at him, your cheeks flushed from both yelling and the lingering panic in your chest. "Vocal?! I'm dying over here! And you're—ugh—smokey!!"

He shook his head slightly, almost amused, almost exasperated, and you groaned again, flopping more dramatically onto the crate. For the first time since joining the Straw Hats, you felt like maybe, just maybe, you'd run into someone who didn't entirely understand the chaos of your lungs—but who also wasn't completely unmoved by it.

And that, somehow, made it just slightly worse... and also a little bit ridiculous.

Smoker's eyes lingered on you for a long moment, the smoke curling around him like a living barrier. You expected him to step forward, to lunge, to grab you and drag you back into the chaos of law and justice. But instead, he exhaled slowly, letting the smoke drift upward, almost lazily, as if he were… thinking.

"You've got guts," he finally said, his voice low, carrying over the quiet of the alley. "Not many people would stand there, yelling at me like that. Most would run screaming."

You blinked, caught off guard. "Uh… thanks?" you offered, your voice still shaky from both the asthma and your indignation. "I guess…?"

He tilted his head, his gaze piercing, smoke curling around his shoulders. "Consider yourself lucky this time. I will let you go. But mark my words—next time I see you, I won't."

You swallowed hard, gripping the edge of the crate like it could anchor you to sanity. "Next time…? Wait—you mean—oh no, oh no—" you flailed, half-standing, half-coughing. "I-I better be ready for that?! You're like—ugh—you're like the ultimate smokey boogeyman!"

Smoker's lips twitched, maybe a hint of a smirk. "Be ready. And don't make me regret letting you slip away today."

You groaned, leaning back onto the crate, your hands thrown up dramatically. "I don't know how to be ready for a Vice Admiral! I can barely handle, you know, normal smoke! This isn't fair! I'm just—just me! Just some girl trying to breathe and, like, not get arrested!"

His eyes softened ever so slightly—not much, but enough for you to notice—and the smoke around him shifted, thinning just a fraction. "You're stronger than most. Just… don't underestimate me next time."

"Yeah, yeah," you muttered, flopping forward with a groan. "I'll… I'll try. But honestly? Not fair. Not fair at all."

He didn't respond further, just straightened, the smoke curling around him like a warning banner, and disappeared down the alley as silently as he had appeared.

You sat there for a long time after, your chest still tight from both the asthma and the sheer ridiculousness of the encounter. You found yourself muttering aloud. "Ultimate smokey boogeyman… ugh. How do you even fight someone like that?!"

Somehow, even as you finally made your way back toward the Sunny, you couldn't help but feel a strange mix of dread—and maybe a little respect—for the Vice Admiral who had just handed you the most bizarre warning of your life.

By the time you staggered back onto the Sunny, the sun was dipping low behind the horizon, painting the ship in hues of gold and orange. The moment your feet hit the deck, the Straw Hats were on you like a wave crashing on the shore, their worry a tangible, rushing force.

"Y/N! Are you okay?!" Luffy shouted, rushing forward with that frantic grin that somehow made you feel simultaneously cared for and completely ridiculous.

Chopper was the first to reach you, leaping onto the deck with his little hooves skittering over the wood. "Your breathing—it's okay now, right? Did he—did he get too close?!" He pulled out his stethoscope and, with wide, worried eyes, pressed it to your back and chest.

"Cough… wheeze… okay… slow your breaths," he muttered, his voice tight with concern. "You're fine now, but that was close! Too close!"

Sanji hovered near the galley entrance, glaring at the horizon where the alley had been, his fists clenched. "That damn Vice Admiral… don't scare me like that again. I can't cook if my heart's in my throat!"

Franky stomped forward, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Don't worry, Y/N! I'll make you something—something SUPER!" He raised one massive mechanical hand and gestured grandly. "A mask! A smoke-deflecting mask! I'll call it…" He paused for dramatic effect, "The 'Breathe-Easy Super Shield 3000!' Yeah! Protects from smoke, ash, bad guys, and—uh—maybe bad vibes too!"

You managed a weak laugh, wiping at the sweat and grime on your face. "Uh… thanks, Franky… I think?"

Robin crossed her arms, her smile faint but genuine. "Just… try to stay out of alleys for a while, alright? It's much easier to survive when smoke isn't chasing you."

Usopp was already clambering over the rail, tugging a small cloth from his bag. "I-I can make something too! Maybe a tiny portable fan that blows smoke away! Or—I dunno—glasses that see smoke before it hits you!"

Brook gave a dramatic bow, tiptoeing closer with a wide grin. "Yohoho! Lucky for me, I don't have lungs! I can stand anywhere and breathe absolutely nothing! But you… my friend… you need protection!" He twirled his cane and laughed, the sound ringing bright despite the tension.

Nami crouched beside you, her fingers brushing against your arm gently. "You scared us half to death, you know? Don't make a habit of running into smoke-filled alleys without backup."

Zoro, who had been leaning against the mast, finally spoke in that clipped, serious tone of his. "Next time, stay close. I don't want to have to drag you out of another fight again."

You let out a shaky laugh, finally letting yourself sink onto a bench on deck, still catching your breath. "Yeah… yeah, I get it… Everyone's worried… and I… I'm fine. Mostly."

The crew's chatter settled around you, a mix of concern, frantic ideas, and the usual chaos that somehow always made you feel safer. For a brief moment, sitting on the deck of the Sunny, you let the weight lift from your shoulders—and even started imagining yourself wearing Franky's ridiculous "Breathe-Easy Super Shield 3000," a little ridiculous but infinitely comforting.

The rest of the evening passed in a blur of chatter, laughter, and small acts of care. The Straw Hats settled into their usual rhythm: Luffy sprawled across the deck, half-dreaming about meat; Zoro sharpening his swords with a faint scowl; Nami and Robin discussing the next port; Usopp tinkering with some ridiculous gadget; Chopper fussing over your inhaler one more time; and Franky pacing with an endless grin, muttering about the mask he was going to build.

You leaned against the railing, watching the horizon swallow the sun. The cool evening breeze filled your lungs with nothing but clean, open air. No smoke, no chaos, no Vice Admirals looming over alleys. Just the sound of the sea, the gentle creak of the Sunny, and the quiet hum of your crew going about their business.

A soft chuckle escaped you when Franky came bounding over again, holding up a contraption that looked equal parts futuristic and… ridiculous. The “Breathe-Easy Super Shield 3000,” as he proudly called it, was a sleek, silver-and-blue mask that covered your nose and mouth. It came complete with tiny vents and a little fan powered by his mini-fuel cells. He had even added a filtering system that could push away smoke, dust, and—according to him—bad vibes.

“It even glows when it’s working!” Franky declared, flicking a switch. Tiny blue lights pulsed along the edges as the fan whirred quietly, creating a faint suction that pulled air in from all sides, filtering it clean before it reached your lungs.

You pressed it against your face carefully, marveling at the gentle hum and the way it made breathing feel almost effortless. “It… actually works,” you murmured, surprised.

“Of course it works! SUPER works!” Franky said, giving a dramatic thumbs-up, sparks flying from his hair in excitement.

Brook leaned over your shoulder, his skeleton grin wide. “Yohoho! Lucky for me, I don’t have lungs! I can stand anywhere and breathe absolutely nothing! But you… my friend… you need protection!” He twirled his cane and laughed, the sound ringing bright despite the tension.

You let out a small, genuine laugh, letting the relief wash over you. The night was calm, the sea was calm, and for the first time in a long while, you felt like you could actually breathe easy—not just because of the mask, but because you were home, surrounded by a crew that had your back, no matter what smoke or chaos might come next.