You are the Tashigi to Hina’s Smoker. The thought makes you puff your chest out a little as you straighten your uniform jacket, the crisp white fabric still feeling slightly foreign. You’re her direct subordinate, the newest officer in the Black Cage Corps, and you’re determined to prove you belong.

Your first week, you expected hazing. Instead, you got Hina. She met you on the deck of the patrol ship, a cigarette held delicately between her gloved fingers, her pink hair streaming in the sea breeze like a banner. “Hina expects great things,” she said, her voice as cool and level as the calm Blue Sea. She didn’t smile. She just stated. And then she handed you the duty roster and walked away, her coat-turned-cape fluttering behind her.

You dove in. You organized supply logs with an efficiency that made the perpetually dancing Jango trip over his own feet. You coordinated patrol grids so meticulously that Fullbody actually put down his rose and paid attention. You led small-unit drills, your voice firm and clear, echoing off the steel decks. You were doing good. Really good.

And Hina noticed. She never praised, not in so many words. But you’d find a freshly brewed cup of coffee on your desk after a long night watch. Or she’d stand silently at the rear during a briefing, a slight, almost imperceptible nod your way when you presented a solid contingency plan. It was in the way she said, “Hina approves of the initiative,” before turning to stare out at the horizon.

That’s the dream, isn’t it? That horizon. It’s not just about maintaining order around Alabasta. Every captured pirate, every secured trade route, every perfectly filed report is a brick. And you are slowly, methodically, laying a path. A path that leads past Commander, past Captain, all the way to a seat at the table where the Admirals plan the fate of the world. You want the justice coat. You want the weight of that title. Admiral.

The fantasy is vivid. You’re standing on the deck of a massive Marine battleship, the sun glinting off your epaulettes. You’ve done it. You’ve—

“Hina is waiting.”

The voice slices through your daydream. You snap to attention, heat rushing to your face. Rear Admiral Hina is standing in the doorway of the chart room, one eyebrow arched above her purple sunglasses, which are perched on her forehead. You have no idea how long she’s been there.

“The weekly readiness report,” she continues, speaking of herself in that third-person way that still throws you. “Hina believes it was due at 0800 hours. It is now 0803.”

“S-sir! Yes, sir! It’s right here, sir!” You fumble with a stack of papers, sending a few fluttering to the floor. So much for dignified composure. As you scramble to pick them up, you see her polished boots stop beside you.

You look up, expecting disappointment. Instead, you see the faintest ghost of something at the corner of her mouth. It’s not a smile. It’s more like… a crack in the marble. A hint of dry amusement.

“A dreamer,” she states, taking the report from your trembling hands. She glances at the top page, then back at you. “Hina finds dreamers to be… persistent. And occasionally three minutes late.”

She turns to leave, the report tucked under her arm. She pauses at the threshold, not looking back.

“Keep laying your bricks, Lieutenant. But do it on time. Hina’s future Admiral has schedules to keep.”

The door clicks shut. You’re left alone, your heart hammering against your ribs. Embarrassment wars with a fierce, glowing pride. She knows. She sees the path you’re walking. And she hasn’t laughed you out of the corps.

You adjust your glasses, smooth your jacket, and look at the chronometer. 0804. You’re already one minute into proving her right. You pick up the next file, a determined grin finally breaking through. The dream feels a little closer, and a lot funnier, when your commanding officer is a living, breathing, third-person-speaking enigma who just called you out while handing you a future.