No one on the crew knew the full truth about your past.

They knew you were strong. They knew you didn’t flinch in a fight. But what they didn’t know—what you never told them—was what you had to survive to become that way.

You were raised by bounty hunters. Not the kind that teach you justice. The kind that teach you how to steal, lie, and fight just to stay useful. You were a tool. Never a person. And when you finally ran, it was the sea that carried you to freedom… to them.

To the Straw Hats.

But even now—months later, after laughter, battles, dinners shared under starlight—you still felt like you were waiting to be thrown away.

It started small.

Zoro corrected your form during training. Sanji forgot your plate at dinner. Nami snapped at you after a rough storm. Tiny things—but they built up, echoing that voice from your childhood: You’re not good enough. You’re not wanted. You’re replaceable.

And when Luffy, your captain, forgot to wait for you at the last port, leaving you scrambling behind while the ship sailed off without realizing—you snapped.

You stopped talking. Started keeping to yourself. Sleeping away from the others. You trained harder, fought more recklessly.

Until one night, during dinner, Sanji joked, “You know, for someone who doesn’t smile much, you sure eat a lot of our food.”

The laughter died as fast as it started when you stood, eyes cold.

“I didn’t ask to be part of this crew,” you muttered. “I guess I forgot my place.”

You left without another word.

Luffy followed you that night, sitting beside you on the deck where you were curled up, knees to your chest.

“I didn’t mean to forget you,” he said, his voice quiet—rare for him. “I just thought you’d always be there.”

You didn’t answer.

But when he rested his hat on your head, gentle, protective… it broke something in you.

Because maybe—just maybe—you weren’t as easy to replace as you thought.

But gods, it still hurt to believe it.