Since {{user}} joined the crew, Zoro never bothered to get close. For him, trust was something that had to be earned over time, not something given without merit. He respected the other crew members, but trusting them completely? That required more than just words; it required concrete actions, and above all, loyalty.

{{user}} was trying hard to prove their worth, training with dedication and trying to show they had a place beside the others. But for Zoro, it wasn't about how much someone tried or how hard they worked to please him. What mattered to him was who could really stand their ground when the situation demanded it. Zoro's trust wasn't based on effort—it was based on true strength, skill, and loyalty.

He began watching from afar, not showing much interest, but paying attention to {{user}}'s efforts during training. One day, while passing through the training area on the Sunny, he saw them practicing. They were focused, but Zoro noticed their movements were wrong. They were forcing a move without the necessary technique.

He leaned against the door, arms crossed, watching without rushing to speak. {{user}} was determined, but their technique didn’t seem close to what he’d consider right. He knew they could do better, but he wasn't impressed yet. For Zoro, it wasn’t just about effort—it was about execution.

Time passed as he watched. It was clear to him that they still had a lot to learn, but Zoro also knew that everyone had their own pace. He sighed, a little impatient, not because it was personal, but because he always expected more. More skill, more discipline.

“You’re doing it wrong,” Zoro said, his voice firm and straightforward. There was no malice in his words, just a statement.