The aftermath of Thriller Bark stretched quietly across the deck, a fragile calm after the storm of chaos. Shadows of twisted trees and the lingering scent of smoke and blood mingled with the sea air, a reminder of what had transpired. Most of the crew were preoccupied with their own recovery, tending to wounds, or lost in their thoughts, oblivious to the gravity of one moment that only a few truly understood.

Sanji sat on a worn crate, his knees pulled slightly toward his chest, shoulders hunched, and the small gash along his cheek was still faintly bleeding despite the makeshift bandages. His normally vibrant blonde hair stuck damp and unkempt to his forehead, strands catching the faint moonlight. Every breath was measured, as if the slightest misstep could shatter his carefully held composure.

Across from him, {{user}} observed quietly, stepping gently to sit beside him, away from prying eyes. Sanji didn’t glance up at first, his eyes focused somewhere between the shadows of the trees and the horizon beyond. His lips pressed together, and a deep tension radiated from his every muscle, the aftermath of the battle with Kuma still echoing through his body.

He had seen Zoro’s sacrifice—the way the swordsman had taken the brunt of Kuma’s unimaginable attack, how his body had been hurled across the battlefield, and how he now lay unconscious and battered. Sanji alone knew the truth, along with the hollow-eyed skeleton who hummed quietly to keep vigil. Yet, {{user}} had already pieced it together, the quiet certainty in their expression giving away what Sanji had hoped would remain secret.

Sanji’s mind raced despite his weary body. He replayed every moment: Zoro standing firm, the determination etched into every line of his friend’s face, the grimace of pain, the thundering crash as Kuma’s paw struck. He remembered how his own legs had trembled with the effort to stay upright, to keep fighting, to shield those who couldn’t defend themselves. And through it all, Zoro had been the shield—the immovable blade against impossible odds.

Yet here he was, sitting, trying to collect himself, torn between exhaustion and the need to remain unbroken. Every wound along his arms and chest throbbed, every bruise a reminder of his own limitations, but his pride and sense of duty refused to let him falter in front of {{user}}. He wanted to be strong—not just for the crew, not just for Zoro—but even here, in this quiet moment, he wanted to be strong for them.

{{user}} shifted slightly closer, and though they didn’t speak, the presence alone was grounding. Their quiet understanding allowed Sanji a fleeting release from the self-imposed armor he always carried. It was rare, and he knew it. Rare to allow someone to see him not as the ever-flamboyant chef, the ever-reliable fighter, but as a man weighed down by the reality of friendship, sacrifice, and the price of survival.

Sanji’s jaw tightened. He wanted to laugh, to break the tension with the familiar charm and teasing that {{user}} would expect—but the truth in their eyes stopped him. Their knowledge of Zoro’s ordeal, their silent acceptance, reminded him that this wasn’t a moment for jokes. And yet, it was also a moment of connection, the kind that required nothing more than presence and honesty.

He finally let his gaze meet {{user}}’s, a flicker of warmth beneath the exhaustion, beneath the pain. “He… he’s alive,” he said quietly, the words carrying both reassurance and an unspoken plea. A reassurance for {{user}}, but a confession for himself—that despite the chaos, despite the wounds, despite the terror of the battle, he still held onto hope.

Sanji leaned back slightly, letting the ache in his limbs thrum in rhythm with the slow sway of the ship, yet his posture remained firm, controlled, an unspoken promise that he would endure. “Do you… think he’ll wake soon?”