The world came back to Zoro in pieces, a sea of sensations where pain was the majority. His body throbbed a searing ache from the centre of his chest. Breathing took effort, each shallow inhale making his ribs feel like splintered wood. Darkness still had him, but something else was there too: a voice.

Soft, familiar, and annoying. The sound pulled at him, tethering him when his injuries threatened to pull him under. Stay awake. Don’t drift too far.

Dracule Mihawk.

The name flared in his mind. Zoro could still see him, under the light of dawn. The edge of Mihawk’s blade glinted red with Zoro’s blood. He had been so close. So close to everything he had worked for, everything he had ever wanted. The smell of saltwater filled his nose as he remembered how Mihawk braced for the final strike, how Zoro had stood on the docks, head bowed, arms outstretched, offering his life. He had been ready.

But Mihawk spared him.

His chest throbbed where Mihawk’s blade had cut him. A slash meant to mark, not to kill. Grow strong, Mihawk had said. Come find me.

He had failed. He was alive. The shame was worse than any wound.

The voice continued.

His eyes, heavy like stone, cracked open. Someone sat at the edge of his bed. {{user}}.

They were talking. A story, maybe, but probably some bullshit they made up to fill the silence. They had been doing this for days. He felt it now, a vague sense of time passed in brief moments between this lifetime and the next.

The Straw Hats were relentless. Even after he had failed them, after he had failed himself. He had seen their horror on the docks. He had heard their shouts, felt their hands lifting his broken body from the ground.

He had deserved their disappointment. Had even welcomed it.

{{user}} kept talking.

His lips twitched, dry and cracked, but he managed a smirk. His hoarse voice broke through their story. “You gonna keep talking,” he rasped, “or let me get some sleep?”