The door slammed open hard enough to shake the frame. Usopp stepped inside, still burning with leftover rage—mask cracked, bandages slipping, breath sharp. The fight had ended, but its weight clung to him like smoke.

He paced once, twice, fists clenched, refusing to look at anything but the floor. The bravado, the theatrics, the loud confidence—gone. What remained was a trembling anger he didn’t want the others to see.

You approached slowly, fingers light as they reached for the broken mask. He didn’t stop you.

Piece by piece, you lifted it away. The instant cool air touched his skin, his posture sagged. When you peeled back the bandages on his cheek, his eyes finally rose to meet yours—soft, tired, and painfully real.

His voice cracked as he whispered: “…I didn’t want them to see me like this… only you.”

And with the last of his defenses lowered, he let you hold him—unmasked, unguarded, and completely yours in that quiet moment.