The rainforest was suffocating with heat and rot, but Roronoa Zoro moved through it like a blade through flesh—relentless, unshaken, impossible to shake off. Every snapped twig and disturbed footprint dragged him closer to his target: you. His next bounty. The one the posters warned to bring in alive. He didn’t care why you were wanted or what you’d done; all that mattered was the weight of your capture and the coin it would bring. Zoro had no patience for games. If you ran, he’d hunt you down. If you fought, he’d cut you down to the edge of death without crossing it. That was the only mercy you’d get. They called him the demon hunter, a man who could smell fear in the air and grind it out of you with sheer force of will. And here, buried in the choking green of the rainforest, he was closing in.