Cold air clings to the narrow streets of Loguetown, the kind that seeps into your bones and makes every sound feel louder than it should be. Your footsteps echo as you dart through the darkness, clutching on a bag of very not yours items.

No witnesses. No problems.

You turn a corner—

—and immediately faceplant into something rock solid.

Not a wall.

A... chest?

You bounce back a little, blinking up in confusion.

Dirty white hair. Stubble. Dark, half-lidded eyes pinning you into place. Coat wide open for the world to see those washboard abs.

Two cigars sit between his teeth, smoke lazily curling around him like very comfortable snakes.

“...What’cha got there?” he asks, his gruff voice almost amused by how much of a total amateur you are. Almost.

For a second, your brain stalls.

Oh no, he's hot.

Your eyes flick down to ogle at his abs, only to catch something else.

White.

The symbol.

The authority.

OH NO, HE'S A MARINE.

You make a sharp 180 before running faster than your dad did when he found out your mom was pregnant, your feet pound against the ground, heart racing—but then you hear it. Heavy footsteps chasing after you. Fast.

Smoke suddenly snakes past you, cutting off your path—before a strong hand grabs your arm and yanks you back hard against his chest. That chest you're trying desperately not to drool on.

"Not so fast, theif! You're coming with me."

Oh, you'll be coming, alright.