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Chapter Text

The storm had come faster than the log pose ever had.

The ocean was choppy but manageable one minute; the next, the Thousand Sunny was pitching waves like a toy in an ogre's fist. The rain lashed down in sheets that drummed against the deck like a shower of arrows. Lightning flickered through the air, illuminating the sky in savage bursts that made everything look unreal, as if the Sunny was stuck inside a storm deity's lantern.

Zoro gripped the railing with one hand and kept the other locked on his swords. Instinct had his footfalls planted even as the ship shuddered beneath him. He'd lived through storms a thousand times before, and survived, but something was wrong with this one. The sea wasn't just angry—it was starving.

"Secure the sails!" Franky yelled, his voice carrying above the screaming wind.

Nami yelled commands from the top deck, rain plastering her orange hair against her face as she fought against the gale. "The rope, tie it tight! Sanji, take in the foresail!"

The cook was already moving, leaping across slick planks with impossible quickness, a rope held in his teeth as he secured the mast away from the blast.

Usopp and Chopper were dodging at the bow, clinging to each other every time the ship lurched too far, both screaming with fear and determination at once.

Brook's violin case had been abandoned a long, long time ago—his skeletal fingers grasping the railing as if his afterlife hung in the balance.

And Luffy. Luffy was grinning. Perched atop the figurehead, hat pulled tight under his chin, his joy rang even through the fury of the storm. "Shishishi! Sunny's having fun!

Zoro didn't even bother yelling at him. The moron was captain; if he wanted to mess around with death, it was his business.

But then something did occur.

There was a boom louder than thunder rattling the Sunny as a wave struck her flank, creaking the deck at a macabre angle. Zoro's grip clinched. He saw it then—one of his swords, the white scabbard slipping free where he'd laid it just a moment before.

Wado Ichimonji.

Time appeared to crawl as the sword rang, skidding across the wet wood for the rail.

"No—!"

Zoro sprang, but the ship's plunge tripped him up. The sword fell through the opening in the rail and vanished into the dark water below.

"Zoro!" Sanji yelled above the tempest, cutting through the air with anger.

But the swordsman's form acted before thought could catch up. He leaped the rail, plunging headfirst into the violent sea.

“IDIOT!” Usopp’s scream was swallowed by the wind.

“ZORO!” Luffy’s voice, high and frantic, tore through the storm behind him.

Salt and rain blurred together, stinging his eyes as the sea swallowed him whole. The last thing Zoro heard was his crew’s voices—Sanji’s curses, Chopper’s panic, Luffy’s desperate cry—before the water closed over his head.

The world went dark.

The sea closed in from every angle, solid and boundless. Zoro thrust his body downward, the muscles screaming as he dug further. His eye throbbed open in the brine, though he could see nothing save for black and silver lightning strokes above.

Wado. Where is it?

The thought was a burning spark in his chest. That sword was not steel—it was Kuina, her essence, his promise. It could not be lost. He kicked with every ounce of strength, lungs screeching, ears bursting with pressure.

But the storm above was not mere tempest. Something else seethed below.

The flow of water changed—twisted, knotted. Water dragged on him in whirls, carrying him deeper, faster.

Zoro bared his teeth, refusing to panic, though his chest ached for air. His arms fought the pull, but it was like grappling with a giant’s hand. The sea wasn’t just drowning him; it was pulling him somewhere.

Through the roar of water in his ears came ghostly echoes. Luffy’s laughter. Sanji’s insults. Nami’s scolding. Usopp’s boasts.

Zoro's vision went fuzzy. His chest was laboring. He recalled Mihawk, two years of hell, scars which had cost him blood.

And then—behold. Wado's snow-white scabbard shining beneath, churning down toward a whirlpool's center.

Unthinking, he dove for it.

The whirlpool opened like a maw in the darkness, broad and bottomless, a spiral which seemed to reach not down but sideways.

Zoro's fingers closed around Wado's hilt—

And the sea swallowed him up.

Pressure strangled him, but then—nothing.

The roar of water ceased, was banished by nothing. Not dark, but empty.

Zoro floated, suspended, lungs no longer screaming, body no longer burning. As though the sea had drawn breath, had placed its hand over him.

And then, voices. Whispering, indistinct.

"—died—"

"—took it all—"

"—why him?"

The whispers scratched at his skull, close but unownable. He tried to rouse, but his body was immobile, tied down. His swords rode his hips, weights in the emptiness.

His eye lid finally shut, fighting, unable.
The emptiness distorted, twisted. Something tugged—harder, deeper.

And then he fell.

Not plummeting. Falling.

Zoro inhaled sharply. Air ripped into his lungs, sharp and hurting.

His body twitched awake, eyes flying open—

To see sky.

Eternal blue, clouds whizzing past.

He was not in the sea anymore. He was above it.

Wind shrieked in his ears as he tumbled, body spinning, confused. His hand clutched Wado to his chest in a habitual move.

"What the—?"

Islands receded beneath him, an infinite jigsaw of massive mangrove trees forced up from the sea, bubbles glinting in sunlight.

Sabaody Archipelago.

Zoro's breath caught. Instinct struggled with confusion. Why here? How?

The earth rushed up to hit him, hard and unexpected. He readied himself.

Impact.

Stone shattered. Dust exploded. Pain crashed through his body as he exploded into the midst of a crowded street.

People cried out.

Zoro coughed, pushing himself out of the crater. His head spun, but the landscape around him was unquestionable: groves, bubbles rising up, smell of salt and soap on the wind.

Sabaody.

He gritted his teeth and willed himself upward. His hand on Wado's hilt was tight and white-knuckled. He gave a quick glance down at his other two swords still strapped to his hip.

"What the hell?" His tone was rough. "Why here?"

He staggered, gasping, the screams of panicked civilians ringing in his ears.

“Is… is that him?”

“Impossible… he’s supposed to be dead.”

Zoro’s brow furrowed. Dead? What the hell are they talking about?

A small child clutched at their mother’s sleeve and pointed. “Mom! A pirate!”

The woman drew the child close, stepping back. Her eyes didn’t just reflect fear—they held something more unsettling, an unspoken disbelief that made Zoro’s stomach tighten.

Automatic first thought: Find the Sunny. Go to his crew.

There was familiarity about this place. Too much familiarity.

And yet—wrong.

The street was chaos.

Zoro yanked himself out of the crater, dust cloud whirling around him, wheezing loudly as boulders of stone crashed down. Civilians ran in every direction, screaming about demons and monsters. Some tripped over each other in their panicked flight, others just stood there, staring wide-eyed with terror at the swordsman who had literally fallen from the sky.

"Wh-what the hell—"

"Call the Marines!"

Zoro winced, brushing the sand from his shoulder. His back ached, his ribs grumbled, but nothing was broken. He'd taken worse. The landing didn’t bother him— it was the why.

Sabaody Archipelago. He knew these streets, this smell, this canopy of mangroves. He remembered fighting Pacifistas down these streets, remembering the desperation when Kuma's hand consumed the crew member by crew member. His fists clenched.

But this. this wasn't then. He had the scar over his eye, the years of pain by Mihawk. He'd survived Marineford, Fishman Island, Dressrosa, Wano—damn it, he'd already promised Luffy he'd be the greatest swordsman. That was his path.

So why was he here?

Why now?

Zoro's one good eye swept the panic-stricken street. Strangers shunned him, whispering, pointing. He caught fleeting visions of Marine uniforms in the throng, shouting into transponders.

Just what he did not need.

He forged ahead, boots pounding the broken stone. The civilians shrank from him as he passed, their terror reeking almost as foul as the soap bubbles off the roots.

"Oi," Zoro growled, half under his breath, half to the world, "Where's the Sunny?"

He addressed an empty soundscape.

"Hold it right there!"

Rifles clicked as a half-dozen Marines burst into the street, blocking his way. They were coiled, fingers trembling against triggers. One man's hands visibly shook.

Zoro exhaled smoke from between his teeth—except he hadn’t even lit a cigarette. That was Sanji’s thing. He scowled at himself. Shaking off the disorientation, he rested his hand on Wado’s hilt.

“I’m not in the mood,” he growled.

“Identify yourself!” one barked. “State your name and crew!”

Zoro’s eye narrowed. State his crew? Who the hell didn’t know the Straw Hats by now? They’d fought Kaido. They’d shaken the world.

"Straw Hat Pirates. Swordsman, Roronoa Zoro." He left it hanging in the air.

The reaction was… strange.

The Marines stood frozen. Some of them went white. One let his gun fall, staggering to pick it up. Another breathed in an open whisper, voice trembling:

"R…Roronoa…? But he's dead."

Zoro blinked. His hold on Wado tightened involuntarily.

Dead?

The road went abnormally quiet apart from the gentle hiss of bubbles rising into the air. The remaining civilians gawked at him with wide, uncertain eyes.

The Marine captain snapped out of it first, shaking his head wildly. "You are asking us to believe that trick?! Roronoa Zoro perished two years ago on Thriller Bark!" 

The words cut deeper than the waves of the storm.

Zoro stiffened, his chest tightening. His voice was low and deadly. "What did you say?"

The Marines stirred uncomfortably, caught between duty and fear. The captain yelled again: "Seize him!"

It was all over in seconds.

Steel flashed. Rifle barrels crashed on the pavement in bits. Boots slid on stone as Marines cursed, dropping, clutching wounds that were not fatal but hell and damn well painful. Zoro was in the middle of it, swords holstered again, breathing steady against the pounding in his head.

"Don't waste my time," he growled.

But their words gnawed at him. Dead. They'd informed him he was dead.

What sort of deranged joke—

He staggered, hand against the nearest wall. His vision blurred, the world spinning as dizziness overwhelmed him. Maybe the whirlpool, maybe the fall, maybe something else.

Zoro gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand again. He needed answers. He needed his crew.

"Sunny…" His voice was low, raw. "Where are you?"

He strode through the curved streets, ignoring the wide stares. The scent was the same: salt, soap, mangrove resin. The foam bobbed to the top, fizzing quietly like muffled laughter.

It was Sabaody. But it wasn't his Sabaody.

Every step felt heavier, his swords digging into his side like weights. His head spun with shards: Kuma's paw, Luffy's weight of wounds, Mihawk's blade, Wano's flames. None of it was what he'd heard in the whirlpool.

His hand traced the scar over his eye. Remembering.

He walked on, stubborn as ever. His crew was here—somewhere. They had to be.

And then he saw him.

A blonde blur among the crowd, a familiar snake of cigarette smoke curling into the rain-soaked air. The figure stood before a small vendor stall, shoulders rigid, fists deep in pockets.

Zoro's chest tightened. Sudden relief shot into his veins.

"Oi, dartboard," he yelled crudely, voice cutting through the crowd. "Where's the hell is the Sunny?"

Sanji stiffened.

The cigarette fell from his lips and smoldered on mossy stone, forgotten, smoke still emanating into the air.

Deliberately, in unbelieving movement, Sanji turned. His eyes caught Zoro's across the street.

And the world stopped moving.

His eyes fell on Zoro.

The swordsman's relief faltered at the look that crossed the cook's face. Not the usual flash of annoyance or smugness. Not even surprise.

But shock. Raw, unvarnished, gut-kicked shock.

Sanji's jaw dropped open. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His hands trembled weakly at his sides.

"...Zoro?" He spoke around the name as if he wasn't supposed to say it.

Zoro's face creased. "What's that look? I asked you something. Where is the ship?"

The tension hung there. People nearby had stopped moving, glancing between the two men. Something in the atmosphere shifted, a weight Zoro couldn't pinpoint settling on the street.

Then Sanji moved.

One step. Then another. His shoes scuffed the cobblestones as he closed the distance. His blue eyes burned, wide and disbelieving, locked onto Zoro like he couldn’t look anywhere else.

Zoro braced himself for insults, a kick, some sharp comment about getting lost.

What he got instead was a fist.

Sanji’s knuckles crashed into his jaw hard enough to snap his head sideways.

Zoro staggered a step, eyes wide. His hand instinctively went to his sword, but he froze when he saw Sanji’s expression.

The cook wasn’t smirking. He wasn’t taunting. He was shaking, teeth clenched, eyes glassy.

“You bastard,” Sanji hissed. His voice was ragged, a knife’s edge honed on grief. “You absolute… bastard.”

Zoro rubbed his jaw, scowling. “What the hell’s your problem?”

Sanji’s hand shot out, gripping Zoro’s shirt collar, yanking him forward until their faces nearly collided. His breath smelled of smoke and salt. His voice was a whisper, but it burned hotter than his kicks ever had.

“You died.”

The words slammed into Zoro harder than the punch had.

He blinked, confusion twisting into irritation. “What?”

"You—" Sanji's voice broke. He swallowed, knuckles clenched on Zoro's shirt. "You died, you stupid swordsman. On Thriller Bark. You lost everything… And you never fought back."

Zoro's stomach twisted. His scar burned. His brain flashed back to the paw, to the agony, the blood. He recalled falling, recalled darkness.

But he'd always woken up.

He glared at Sanji, the cook's trembling form, the outrage and terror in his eyes.

"What the hell are you talking about?" Zoro growled, his voice trembling. "I'm standing in front of you."

Sanji laughed, a sharp snapped sound, the kind of sound glass makes. He tightened his grip. "That makes it worse."

Zoro's lips parted, but no words came out. For the first time in years, he was without words.

The crowd of people around them buzzed.

"Isn't that…?"

"But he looks—"

"He's supposed to be—"

Zoro ignored them, his whole world focused on the cook's shaking hands and mad eyes. 

Sanji released him with a jerked movement, stepping back as if burned. He swept a hand through tangled hair, gasping harshly.

"This isn't funny," he rumbled, voice low. "It's not a joke. Don't you dare stand there like nothing happened."

Zoro's fists curled. He wanted to demand explanations, to scream until Sanji explained. But the words were stuck in his throat.

Because, in the depths of him, a cold fear was twisting inside his belly.

This wasn't his world.

And perhaps—just perhaps—Sanji was correct.

Sanji’s laugh still hung in the air, brittle and jagged, like glass cracking under pressure. It was so wrong that it left Zoro’s chest tight. He’d heard Sanji laugh a thousand times—cocky, smug, teasing, sometimes even genuine. Never like this.

The chef stood with his back half-turned, shoulders rolling with every gasping breath. The cigarette he'd let drop a few moments earlier smoldered at his feet, the last whizz of smoke unfurling upwards before disappearing. His hand shook as he grasped another, struggling with the lighter.

Zoro opened his mouth. Closed it again. His jaw ached from where Sanji’s fist had landed. He should’ve been pissed—hell, he was pissed—but anger felt hollow here. He didn’t know what the hell was happening, and Sanji’s words echoed in his head like hammer strikes.

You died. At Thriller Bark.

The paw, the hurt, the blackness. His stomach was sick. He remembered. But he remembered too waking up again, alive, alive, alive.

So why was Sanji staring at him like he'd emerged from a grave?

“Quit gawking like an idiot,” Sanji muttered finally, voice hoarse. He lit the cigarette with hands that barely steadied after a few tries. He took a drag, the smoke clouding around his face before the bubble-filled air snatched it away. “If you’re gonna haunt me, at least say something useful.”

“Haunt you?” Zoro’s frown deepened. “You think I’m some kind of ghost?”

Sanji turned around so abruptly the motion seemed to pain him. His eyes burned, their red-bottomed pupils battered with exhaustion.

“What the fuck else am I going to think?!” he snarled. "I—we buried you, mosshead! I saw you covered in blood, there on the ground dead, and you never—" His voice cracked. He ground the cigarette out in his teeth, shaking his head violently. "You never got up. So don’t you dare look at me like this is just normal."

Zoro froze. The conviction in Sanji’s voice made the air in his lungs feel thin. This wasn’t a prank. This wasn’t one of Sanji’s dramatics.

The cook believed it. Absolutely.

And the look in his eyes… Zoro had seen plenty of grief on battlefields. This was worse.

Sanji stepped forward, jabbing a finger into Zoro’s chest so hard the swordsman actually staggered.

"You think I don't remember every detail?" Sanji's voice was savage, growing sharper with each word. "You think I don't remember how you refused to let anyone touch you, how you soaked up all that agony for him? How you passed out before us, and we couldn't—" He bit back the words, teeth grinding in audible constraint. "We couldn't do a damn thing."

Zoro's throat shut.

For him.

Of course. Luffy.

His head spun back to the moment: Kuma's claw, the searing agony, his captain's wounds channeled into him until his body almost broke. He'd stood then, sworn to endure it. Sworn to protect Luffy's sight, no matter.

In his world, he'd lived. Barely.

Here… maybe not.

The understanding froze him more than the whirlpool.

Sanji's hand shot out again, both fists tightening in his shirtfront. His eyes blazed with tears, his voice trembling midway between rage and despair.

"Don't you realize? You're dead. You've been dead for two years. We learned to live with the loss—or tried to. And now you're here asking about the Sunny as if nothing had happened?"

Zoro gripped his wrists, trying to pry him off, but Sanji didn’t budge. His strength wasn’t in the grip—it was in the raw emotion holding him there.

“Let go, cook,” Zoro muttered, though it lacked his usual bite.

Sanji’s breath hitched. For a heartbeat, he just stared, his face so close Zoro could see every line etched by sleepless nights.

Then his voice dropped, quiet and venomous.

"If this is some trick—some Marine trickery, some devil fruit deception—I'll kill you myself."

The threat struck home. Zoro didn't flinch, but his gut tightened.

"I'm not a trick," he answered curtly.

Sanji's laughter came back, harsh and hollow. "That's exactly what a trick would say."

The bubble above popped with a soft plip, and the universe collapsed to the space between them. The civilians had all but left the streets, their secrets told in back alleys. The shattered Marines groaned softly a few blocks away. It was down to the two of them now.

Zoro finally withdrew Sanji's fists from his vest, shoving him back a pace. "I don't know what the hell is happening here," he said, calm but soft. "But I'm not dead. I'm here. You can punch me, kick me, curse at me all you want—but I'm not a damn ghost."

Sanji stood rigid, chest rising and falling rapidly. His cigarette smoldered low, ash trembling at the tip.

For a long time, he said nothing. Then, slowly, he raised a hand and pressed his palm flat against Zoro’s chest. Right over his heartbeat.

The world went still.

Sanji’s eyes widened, a tremor running through his frame. His fingers curled slightly, clutching at the fabric.

Ba-dump. Ba-dump.

The swordsman’s heart hammered, steady and undeniable.

Sanji’s face crumpled.

Zoro's lids snapped shut, startled as the cook's head dropped forward, blond locks falling across his face. The hand on his chest tightened, no longer prodding but gripping, holding on.

When Sanji spoke again, his voice was barely audible.

"Then how the fuck are you here?"

Zoro had no answer.

Chapter Text

It was with a steely grasp on Zoro's shoulder that Sanji held him-there was little or almost no shakability in it. Zoro felt right down to the last ounce of the cook's tension through the contact.

This was not the usual irritation, the playful threat that came with Sanji's kicks or smirks. No. This was raw, unfiltered caution. A man always on edge. A man who has seen another die face-to-face and that person—now alive—standing right in front of him.

"Oi, what are you doing?" Zoro complained while rubbing his jaw where the cook's fist had hit. His voice sounded hoarse tinged with confusion, but he managed to make it seem steady when he said, "We need to locate the Sunny. The crew-"

"Shut up!" Sanji spat, ripping into the air above the solemn murmur of the moss-laden streets with such brightness, catching stares. He forced Zoro's hand down and directed him along one of the alleys narrow ways, twisting around the mangrove roots and up the rows of small market stalls.

"Just... just come on, for god's sake. For once in your life, shut your mouth."

Zoro blinked, feeling disoriented. "You're the one dragging me like a prisoner."

Sanji had no reply. Tight-jawed, staring at the people walking by, at every bubble floating in the air above them, blinking light through them, even sunlight reflecting bright gleams off the soap as if reality were about to spit Zoro out any moment.

Zoro's chest tightened. His mind raked through the streets, the crowds, the shadows between stalls. The city throbbed, vibrant with sound and movement, yet he stood out like a sore thumb. People stared, whispers followed in his wake, and even the occasional child pointed and gasped before being pulled away by a wary parent. Something was wrong.

His hand brushed against the hilts of his swords as Sanji brought Zoro further into the alley. The subtle movement sent an uncomfortable ripple through Zoro.

"You don't get it," Sanji said, not even looking back at him. "I just don't trust you. Not completely. Not until I'm sure you're real."

Zoro's mouth opened to make a retort, nothing came out. The weight of those few words hit harder than he expected. Not until I know you're real.

They made their way deeper into the alley, the narrow space small enough to drown out the city's bustle, being replaced by the sizzles of frying food and the occasional smell of mellow wood. Out of habit, his hands reached toward the swords at his waist, he tightened his grip on Wado's hilt.

"I don't know what kind of game this is," Zoro muttered, voice just audible. "If you’re pranking me, I swear—"

With a whiplash of his head, Sanji glared at him, blue eyes narrowing, glare sharp enough to cut steel. "I said quiet."

Slowly he exhaled and dropped his shoulders, though tension coiled tight in his chest. He did not understand the fear in Sanji's eyes or the hesitance in his hands, but he understood enough: something was wrong in this world. Not with him—but with reality itself.

The alley widened, and Sanji stopped, turning again. "Alright... we'll stop here a while. I have to figure out what to do next. Can't just walk around like nothing's wrong."

Zoro frowned. "Rest? You mean hide? From who?"

 Sanji hesitated to answer. His stare remained glued to the ground below. Shadows hiding his expression. "From everyone. You're supposed to… Supposed to be dead. People can't see you like this. Not yet."

Zoro tightened his grip on Wado. His voice was softer this time, almost wondering. "Why are you acting like I already died?"

For the briefest moment, his eyes flicked to him, exposed. Pain hung there, raw and unfiltered. He shook his head, cigarette trembling slightly between his fingers.

"Because you did," he muttered. "You're dead in this world. I watched you die. Fuck, And now—now you're here, alive, and I don't know what to do with that."

Zoro's jaw tightened. His chest hurt, not from wounds, but from what Sanji said. Alive. Everyone thought he died, including Luffy, including Chopper, including Usopp, and everyone else.

Sanji tugged at his shoulder to draw him deeper into the alley. "We'll figure it out. But you have to listen to me. No sudden movements, no walking around in public like this. Not until I can be sure you're not some trick, not some Marine weapon."

Zoro's frown eased slightly, but mistrust still lingered. "I'm not a trick. I'm here. You can touch me, poke me, test me however you want. But-"

Sanji's hand hovered near his shoulder again, but didn't make contact. His eyes stayed fixed on the street, on every passing figure. Finally, he muttered, "I don't know if I can trust you...but I can feel it. You're real. Somehow."

Zoro's chest tightened up again. But not in anger, more so with the creeping suspicion that this world was broken, and that even Sanji—his rival, no, ally—didn't trust him.

"Let's just get back to the Sunny," Sanji said, finalizing it, all in low tones but damn sure. "If you're real, Franky and Robin will see it. They’ll know. And if you're not... then we deal with it there."

For him, the journey until Grove 42 appeared interminable. Zoro stayed close, going about in silence, his eyes roaming over streets both familiar and alien. Every floating bubble, every merchant plying his trade and every shadow beneath the mangroves spoke of a world where he did not belong. Sanji's footsteps never faltered, his body angled slightly, as though to conceal Zoro's view. 

The moment Zoro set eyes on the Thousand Sunny, he stopped short. The lion figurehead shone in the afternoon sun; sails neatly furled, deck freshly polished, and everything achingly familiar. Yet he felt like a trespasser staring at his home from outside.

Sanji didn’t stop. “Move it, marimo. We don’t have time for you to get all sentimental.” His tone was unusually harsh; Zoro could still hear the quaver beneath it.

Climbing up the ramp was a test for him; every step sank deep into the planks. The ship seemed to hum beneath him, alive to the heart, yet a weight pressed heavily down his chest. 

The deck was dead calm, save for the metallic sound that punctuated the silence. Franky sat cross-legged by the mast, polishing a steel panel and taking sips from a half-finished cola bottle placed at the side. He didn’t look up at first.

"You are the first one here!" Franky laughed loudly. "Thought you'd still be doing shopping for your ingredients!...And who is this beside you?"

Sanji didn’t answer. He stepped aside. 

In full view, Zoro stood there, Wado rested in his hands, and the other two swords hung from his waist. His green hair flashed in the sunlight, a scarred chest bared beneath his haramaki, and a scar down his left eye. He appeared the same yet felt incomprehensibly out of place.

Franky went still. The rag slipped from his hand, billowing down to the deck. His shades started slipping down his nose, revealing wide eyes that stared in disbelief.

“Zoro…” Franky’s voice broke, the name torn out of him like a word forbidden for too long.

Zoro held his gaze, calm and steady. “I don’t know what you’ve been told. I don’t know what you’ve seen. But I’m here, alive."

Franky rose slowly and jerkily, hands trembling by his side. This towering figure, yet so small in voice, choked out. “That’s… impossible. You’re dead. You died.” 

Sanji exhaled smoke, alternating between looking at them. “That’s what I thought too. But here he is. Breathing. Same stubborn bastard as ever.”

Franky took a hesitant step forward, fists clenched. His voice cracked again, rasping with fury. “If this is some trick… If you’re some fake…”

“I’m real,” Zoro interrupted him, blunt and steady, the voice resounding with the weight of certainty.

Silence followed, stretching out heavier than steel. The Sunny creaked softly under the breeze, bubbles popping in the roots of the mangroves while the three remained locked in a fragile balance of belief and denial.

Franky remained frozen, massive fists quivering at his side. Eyes glimmering with shock and something else—grief boiling over, disbelief trying to claw its way back.

Zoro held Franky's gaze calm and steady. “I told you,” he said. “I’m alive.” 

Franky swallowed, but there was no sound. The heavy thud of his boots against the deck drew nearer, louder with every step, sounding more of some execution march rather than a reunion. He stood just a few feet from Zoro, looking down at him like something dug out from the grave.

A tense Sanji was poised to intervene, if Franky lash out.

But Franky did not throw a punch. His hand instead shot forward, grabbing Zoro's arm, metal fingers biting into flesh with crushing force.

“Warm skin,” Franky muttered, voice a raspy whisper. His thumb sank deep into the muscle of Zoro's arm, as if measuring it, testing it, checking its reality. “Warm blood… a pulse. Super… No. Not super. Wrong. You shouldn’t—” His voice broke, and abruptly he let him go, stepping back as if scalded. 

Zoro rubbed his arm but didn’t complain, merely tilting his head. “What were you expecting? A ghost?”

“Yes!” Franky barked, louder than intended, his voice cracking against the mast of the Sunny. “A ghost! Or some illusion. Or a sick Marine trick. Anything but you.”

The crushing silence that followed weighed down on all of them.

Sanji snapped his lighter shut, slow drags on his cigarette, his own face tight yet unreadable. He did not intervene. He wanted to watch how this turns out even through the pain.

Franky loomed over Zoro’s scarred torso now. He traced the lines of old battles, scars he recognized and some he didn’t. Clenching his jaw, he said, “If you’re really you, then… then prove it. Tell me something only the real Zoro would know.”

Zoro sighed, his lip curling in irritation. He hated tests, hated games. But something in Franky's expression stopped him from snapping. He thought for a moment and said flatly, “That cola stash you keep under the floorboard in the workshop? I found it twice. Drank one once. Told no one.” 

Franky's eyes expanded like saucers. He opened and closed his mouth while trying to articulate a response.

Crossing his arms, Zoro continued. “You also sleep-talk when you nod off while tinkering. Something about ‘making the ship more super.’ And if you think nobody notices, you’re wrong.” 

For a long moment, Franky just stared. His knees almost buckled, and his fists clenched at his sides. Breaths escaped him heavily and jagged, like he'd just been hit square in the guts. 

Sanji’s cigarette hung forgotten in his fingers.

Franky shook his head ever so slowly, still refusing to believe. “No…no, no, no. You can’t just walk back onto this ship like nothing happened. You can’t…” His voice cracked again, deep and husky. “…because we buried you, bro.” 

The words blasted like cannon fire. Zoro blinked as he felt his chest constrict, though he forced himself to remain as still as possible. “I heard from the cook.”

Franky's head snapped up, eyes bloodshot, brimming with tears he tried to blink away. "We mourned you, we... we swore to carry your strength with us!" His voice quivered; trembling of the raw gravity of fury and pain spilled out in every syllable.

"You died for Luffy. You died protecting the crew. I watched them break apart because of it. And now-" He broke off, choking. His body shuddered. He turned away sharply, pacing across the deck like a caged animal, hands dragging through his hair, tears starting to streak down his cheeks despite every effort to hold them back.

Sanji breathed out smoke, keeping his eyes low and not saying anything. Zoro stood rooted, absorbing every word. Alive and buried. Remembered and erased. His hand drifted toward the hilt of his swords—not to draw them but to anchor himself, steadying against the wave threatening to crush him.

Franky turned back suddenly, marching up to him. His giant hands clamped on Zoro's shoulders and shook him. It was exactly how one would rattle the truth out of someone. "Why are you here?! Why now?! You were dead, dammit! You left us! We... we..." His voice broke completely. Tears flowed freely from now on, unhindered, ugly sobs erupting from his chest. He sagged forward, head pressing against Zoro's shoulder, his grip still iron tight, desperate. "You were dead... you were gone... and we couldn't bring you back. We couldn't-"

Zoro stiffened, every instinct screaming against the closeness. He wasn't used to this kind of raw emotion, wasn't good with it. But he didn't push Franky away. Instead, after a long, heavy pause, he lifted one arm and let it rest awkwardly across Franky's lower back. Not pulling him in, not returning the embrace fully, but... staying. Letting him grieve. 

Franky sobbed harder, his gigantic shoulders shaking. His words came in fragments between gasps: "You were—family—crew—my nakama. You can't just—come back—like this—“

Sanji turned his face away, tension in his jaw, cigarette burned out between his fingers. He muttered just loud enough for Zoro to hear, "Told you. They're not just gonna accept this easily." 

Zoro had nothing to say. He just let Franky cling to him, let the tears soak into his haramaki, let the cyborg bawl and scream and shake until his strength gave out. 

Franky finally pulled back from Zoro, face a streaked mess, raw from the tears. He tried to wipe his nose on the back of his hand, trying to sort things out as best he could, but it didn't work. With proof hidden in the red of his eyes and the damp streaks down his cheeks, he let them see. His sunglasses were askew, his buzzcut messy, and his voice hoarse. 

"You're real," he rasped, eyes locking back on Zoro's now. "You're real. I don't know how, I don't know why... but you're real. And I'm not letting you disappear again." 

Zoro's jaw tightened. He refused to reply immediately, though: a simple nod, low and sharp. "I'm here." 

Franky sniffed, swiping at his face with one trembling hand. Without warning, he drew Zoro into yet another crushing embrace, metal arms locking around him as if it might hurt. 

This time, Zoro did not resist. 

Franky had loosened his grip, but the sobs twisted into ragged breaths that rattled in his chest. He pulled away, wiping his face with the heel of his steel palm, although the redness in his eyes and the damp streaks down his cheeks kept him from pretending. His sunglasses were crooked, his composure shattered. 

But still, he couldn't seem to take his gaze off Zoro. Every second he'd stare at him, the contradiction between Franky thinking of clutching him tightly and shoving him off—afraid he'd somehow dissolve away—seemed to come up again. "Sit," Franky barked suddenly, voice rough and unsteady.

Zoro lifted a brow. "I said I'm fine." 

Franky's mouth went tight. Then he shot back, voice cracking, "You always say that. Doesn't make it true." 

Zoro grunted, scowling, but didn't argue further. He submitted to being pushed down onto the bench. Curiosity, however, rather than compliance, made the decision. Sanji breathed a long plume of smoke, leaned against the rail with one leg bent, and arms crossed. He watched them in silence, sharp and calculating. Not stepping in; but then again, not looking away. 

Franky ducked under deck, boots clanking, and returned moments later with the first-aid kit under one arm and the bundle of tools under the other. He dropped them both to the deck, the noise of it all clattering drowned out by the seas, and crouched in front of Zoro, shoving aside his green haramaki with little ceremony. 

At first, the long gash along his chest, smaller cuts from battles past, left scars making sense. Franky's trembling hands now hovered above each one, recalling where and when he had seen some of those. 

Then his gaze landed on Zoro's face. 

He locked up. 

The scar that cleaved down the left side of his eye was unmistakable; it was clean, deep and permanent. 

Franky's stomach lurched. His fingers hovered in the air before finally moving, almost against his will, to graze the edge of it. "This... scar..." he muttered, voice low and tight. 

Zoro shifted, watching him warily. "What about it?" 

"That wasn't there," Franky rasped. "When you... when you died, you didn't have this." The word died cracked in his throat. Forcing it out despite choking on it, he pronounced it anyway: "You couldn't have. This isn't—this isn't from our time." 

The air thickened, heavy with the weight of his words. 

Sanji flipped his cigarette ash, eyes narrowing but still silent. 

Low, steady, unyielding was Zoro's voice. “Scars don't lie. You don't get them from illusions.” 

Franky's face warped as if he had shoved past disbelief and desperate hope. "Then where the hell did you get it? From some future that never happened? From a life you didn't live here?" He bit the shaky end of his sentence, frustration boiling over; he slammed it shut, threw it open again, but the buzzing in his hands was making it hard for him to go through the supplies. 

Sanji cut through the silence: "We need Chopper. If anyone can tell us that's a real body, whether or not it's really him, it's a doctor."

Franky’s head jerked up, eyes wide and bloodshot. “You think I don’t know that?!” he raged, gripping the bandages so tightly they nearly tore. “Chopper is the one who’ll know. He’ll feel his heartbeat, his temperature, he’ll… he’ll know.” He dropped to a hoarse whisper. “But what if Chopper can’t take it? What if seeing Zoro like this breaks him all over again?”

Zoro felt a pressure on his chest, heavier than steel chains. He could almost picture it: Chopper’s little hands shaking, wide black eyes filled with tears, the voice trembling as he tried to deny what stood before him.

Sanji’s eyes flicked from Zoro to Franky, his tone biting but calm. “He has to see him. Hiding it won’t do any good. And it won’t be just Chopper.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Robin, too. If anyone can shed some insight on how something like this could even happen, it’s her.”

Franky flinched. He hadn’t considered that yet; of course, the cook was right. Robin and her endless knowledge of history to connect these impossible dots—if anyone could make sense of the impossible, it was her.

Zoro stayed motionless, letting them talk even as he clenched his jaw. He pictured Robin’s calm but unreadable face, her sharp eyes cutting through him. How would she look at him? With suspicion? With pity? Or with that quiet grief she always carried, doubled now at seeing him alive where he should not be? 

Franky’s fingers jerkily slapped bandages against Zoro’s ribs and a hasty wrapping began. “Bruises along the ribs. Cuts along the torso. Nothing lethal. Pulse strong. Temperature steady. You’re alive.”

Another pause as he stared over the scar again, his voice almost dropping to a croak. “But you’ve lived battles that we never saw. You’ve walked a path we never got to walk with you. And that… terrifies me, bro.”

Zoro delayed a moment in replying. His hand grazed the hilt of Wado, grounding him in its familiar weight. Finally, he spoke bluntly, though hardly above a whisper: “I’m here. That’s what matters.”

Franky clenched the bandage. His chest heaved, once, twice, then he just exploded, lunging and crushing Zoro beneath his massive arms once more. The words spilled out in ragged sobs against Zoro’s shoulder.

“I buried you. I built the damn coffin. I swore to carry your strength with us. And now you’re here with scars you shouldn’t have. I can’t—” His voice broke; hoarse, ugly sobs took over. “I can’t lose you again. I can’t let the crew break like that again.”

Zoro pressed a hand to Franky’s chest at first, unaccustomed so so much affection, but did not push him away. He let Franky cling on.

Sanji turned away, flicking his last cigarette away and into the ocean. "Get it together, cyborg. You're not the only one who has to deal with this. Chopper, Robin... all of them. They deserve to see him with their own eyes," he said, his voice hoarse and low from the smoke.

Franky’s sobbing had gone less intense, but he still held on. From the midst of the embrace, muffled by Zoro’s shoulder, he spoke, barely coherent. “If he disappears again…”

Zoro ground on: low, firm, cutting through the haze of grief like a blade, "I told you already, I'm not leaving."

Franky was shaken; whether with disbelief or not, he tightened his embrace, as if he, alone, could keep Zoro anchored in this impossible reality. 

Finally untethered, Franky reluctantly released Zoro, fearing the swordsman would disappear as soon as he let him go. His face was blotchy and damp from tears. There was no hiding it now. He quickly turned away, wiping at his face with the heel of his steel hand. 

Sanji stood silently, leaning against the rail, hands digging instinctively into his pocket for another cigarette, just to not find any. His silence was louder than any of Franky's sobbing.

Zoro sat still on the bench, the bandages stretched tight across his chest. He could not tell which weighed him down more: the ache from his wounds or the weight of the air. 

The Sunny swayed gently beneath them, waves slapping her hull in a rhythmic patter. The creaking of the mast and the soft hiss of the sea were normal sounds yet somehow sharper now, pregnant with tension none of them could relieve.

Then, a faint yet unmistakable sound of oars dragging through water broke it.

Franky's head snapped up. Sanji narrowed his eyes. Zoro tilted his head, listening.

Getting closer, unmistakably, was the sound of a small boat's approach.

"They're back," Sanji muttered, he pushed his hands in his pockets, shoulders taut.

Franky straightened; his sunglasses slipped up into place as if they could hide the reddened eyes underneath. His voice trembled beneath the hushed tone. "Usopp… and Chopper?"

Sanji nodded sharply. "Yeah. Those two."

A muffled thump against the hull of the Sunny. Rope tossed up, a boot clambering up wood. The sure sounds of someone on a ladder.

"Franky!" rang out with cheerful, relieved notes from the latter when announcing, "We are back! The market is packed, but we got-"

"Sanji!" piped in Chopper's higher-octave voice, warm and earnest. Franky too? That's great! Did anything happen while we were gone?

Their voices drifted above the rail, so innocent, so light. The voices belonged to a world where things were simple. Where Zoro had become nothing more than a memory etched in their grief.

Sanji clenched his jaw. He slumped, hands curling into fists in his pockets. At first, he did not move and did not answer.

Franky looked at him, then Zoro, then back again. His throat worked, mechanical hand flexing anxiously.

Finally, Sanji stepped forward; the deck rang with the click of his shoes. He leaned over the rail, his blue eyes, sharp, unreadable, curled hair around his face.

"Oi," he called down his voice flat yet weighted.

Usopp halted on the last step of the ladder, beaming up at him. "What up?"

Chopper tilted his little head, ears twitching. "Is something wrong, Sanji?"

For an instant, Sanji just drew in a long, steady breath. Overlong he looked at them for their smiles to receive an eventual falter. eyes drifted between them and the silence thickened.

Finally, Sanji exhaled, slow and steady. His words fell into the sea like stones. 

"You need to see someone." 

He didn't say who it was. He didn't have to. The weight of his tone, the sharp edge in his eyes—it was powerful enough to still the air. Usopp blinked in confusion while Chopper twisted his head more, indecisive. 

The waves slapped the hull under them. The Sunny creaked above in a light breeze. The world itself seemed to pause. 

And on the deck, just out of sight, Roronoa Zoro sat waiting.