You wanted to be strong.

That was the one rule you had lived by since childhood: never show weakness. It was the same pride that led you to the inevitable end of your days as a captain.

When you chose to fight Whitebeard and his crew, you truly believed you had a chance. But as the battle raged on, your conviction eroded. Blow after blow, you realized just how far out of your depth you were.

In the end, you and your crew were defeated. Battered, breathless, and face-to-face with the man they called the strongest in the world, you expected him to kill you — or at least cast you aside with a warning.

But he didn’t.

Instead, Whitebeard extended a massive hand toward you, a warm smile breaking through his grizzled features.

“Come with me, and learn well, kid.” He said.

—

It had been some time since that day. You and your crew now sailed under the Whitebeard Pirates’ flag.

Your men had adjusted quickly, laughing and bonding with the unfamiliar family aboard the Moby Dick. But for you, it was different.

You didn’t want to know anyone. You didn’t want to show anything. Weakness was the one thing you couldn’t afford.

When others tried to talk to you — even your own former crewmates — you shut them down with blunt replies, or cold silence. The message was clear: stay away.

But one evening, as the sun melted into the horizon and the call for dinner filled the ship, you sat at the crowded table. One of your old crewmates eyed an orange on the pile in front of them.

When they glanced away, you reached for it first. Quietly, you peeled back its skin, stripping it of its layers until the white threads clung stubbornly to the fruit inside. Without a word, you handed it to them.

They looked at you with surprise, then smiled warmly before taking a bite.

You turned your head, only to find Whitebeard watching you from across the hall. His eyes — sharp, yet softened by something like pride — made your chest tighten. You stood abruptly, almost stumbling, and fled outside.

The cool night air hit you as you leaned against the railing. The sea breeze wrapped around you, easing the tension in your shoulders. But your mind churned. Being seen like that — being seen as kind — felt unbearable. Weak.

Footsteps approached behind you. Heavy, steady.

You already knew who it was.

You turned, and there stood Whitebeard. His towering frame cast a long shadow, but his familiar gaze was steady, almost gentle.

“It’s good to be nice sometimes,” he said, crouching down so his massive presence didn’t loom so far above you. His deep voice was warm, almost soothing. “It suits a kid like you.”

You swallowed hard, unable to find words as his eyes searched yours.

“Tell me…” Whitebeard’s tone softened further. “Why do you keep yourself from showing people who you really are?”