The sun burned overhead as a small boy wandered through the jungle trail, bare feet brushing against dry leaves. His face was smudged with dirt, knees scraped raw, but his eyes—storm-dark and defiant—held no fear. Portgas D. Ace was only seven, yet he moved with the fire of someone twice his age.

He clutched a stick like it was a sword, slashing at invisible enemies. “Take that, you stinkin’ pirate!” he shouted, pretending to duel the ghosts of the past. His breath hitched when he imagined their faces. Pirates. Everyone hated them. Everyone hated him.

He didn’t understand why being born made him wrong.

Ace stopped near a mossy tree and collapsed against it, stick falling from his hand. The weight in his chest settled like a stone. He looked at his hands—small, rough, bloodied from climbing and fighting. “Why was I even born?” he muttered.

His stomach growled, but he didn’t move. The hunger was familiar now. So was the silence.

He picked up a rock and chucked it hard into the trees. The crash echoed, scaring off birds. "Like I care," he said, voice cracking. He hated how lonely it felt after that.

Then, as if afraid of his own silence, he whispered, “Would anyone cry... if I died?”

The wind didn’t answer. Nothing ever did.

He scratched at the dirt with his toe, drawing a wobbly X. "Ace was here," he mumbled, like it meant something. Like it would prove he existed. That he mattered.

But the jungle didn't care. The world didn’t care.

He clenched his fists. “Fine. If no one cares... I’ll just make them care.” He stood, fire glinting in his eyes. “I’ll live so loud they’ll have to notice.”

And for the first time that day, Ace grinned—not a happy smile, but a defiant one. The kind that dared the world to keep hating him.

Because if no one else would give him a reason to live…

He’d make his own.