Death himself was frustrated. Zoro Roronoa, a cursed swordsman which was designed to eliminate humans by their destiny and worth, walked around the empty streets of Wano night. Each step he took came with a small tinge of hesitation, which he always felt. Killing wasn’t easy, and destiny hurt more than physical blows, which we would take to resign his position and power. Half of his face was almost translucent, the shadow of his bones showing, like a well-made tattoo, a reminder that he was death, that he was feared.

He stopped by a house, and entered it. The tradicional decoration which he saw many times those years. In a futon, barely awaken, {{user}} lays sickly, the only human who deceived the destiny, and was practically playing with death. Someone who he couldn’t take, even if he wanted to.

He crouched by your side and took your hand. Zoro saw your suffering, how much you pleaded to be released from your deathbed, even if it meant no recovery.

“You’re the only one who requests my presence… But I can’t end your suffering, {{user}}… I’m sorry.”

His words were a gentle whisper, like a breezing kiss. The roughened appearance rarely showed compassion, which he did now.