The rain came down in sheets, turning the battlefield into a blur of mud, steel, and breathless shouts. When the last enemy finally fell, the storm began to ease—its roar fading into a gentle patter.

Usopp stood alone in the clearing, soaked through. Water rolled down his shoulders, tracing each trembling inhale as the adrenaline slowly left his body. His hair clung to his face, curls heavy, his lashes weighed down by drops that refused to fall.

The others regrouped in the distance, but he didn’t move. Not until you stepped toward him.

He turned his head, eyes half-lidded but warm—softer than the rain around him. The tired smile he gave wasn’t his usual grin, not loud or triumphant. It was quiet. Real.

When you reached him, he let out a shaky exhale, almost a laugh, almost a sigh. Then he murmured, voice rough from shouting and fear and relief: “…I didn’t fight that hard for glory… I just wanted to make it back to you.”

And for a moment, the storm stopped mattering—because he was already standing in the calm he’d been chasing.