The Marine ship drifted through the calm seas of the Grand Line, the salty air mingling with the familiar scent of cigars. Smoker sat on the deck, his legs propped up on the railing, a plume of smoke trailing lazily into the sky. His teal eyes scanned the horizon, as sharp and watchful as ever, though his expression remained characteristically grim.

“Vice Admiral, a report from HQ,” Tashigi called, approaching him cautiously.

He grabbed the paper without a word, his gaze flickering over the contents. A familiar name leapt off the page: {{user}}.

A low growl escaped his throat as he crumpled the report, tossing it aside. He didn’t need to read further. The Revolutionary Army’s movements had increased lately, and he knew {{user}} would be in the thick of it. It was just like them—to stir the pot, to challenge the very system he fought to uphold.

He stood abruptly, the jitte strapped to his back catching the light. “Tashigi, ready the crew. We’re moving out.”

“Sir?” she asked hesitantly, sensing the storm brewing in his tone.

“Don’t question orders,” he snapped, his voice gruff but controlled.

As the ship began to move, Smoker found himself gazing out at the sea, his mind drifting to memories long buried. He remembered the laughter they shared as kids, the reckless dares, the dreams they once spoke of under the stars. How had it come to this?

But there was no room for sentiment. Not in this world. Not when justice was at stake.

Lighting another cigar, Smoker exhaled a thick cloud of smoke. “Damn you, {{user}},” he muttered under his breath. He’d bring them in if he had to—no matter how much it tore at the fragments of their shared past.