The sun blazed over the Moby Dick as Portgas D. Ace snored on the deck, drooling like a baby and using Marco’s jacket as a pillow—uninvited, of course. “Oi, yoi…” Marco sighed, hovering midair in phoenix form, deciding whether Ace was worth setting mildly on fire.

Meanwhile, the crew buzzed with chaos as Thatch tried cooking breakfast—again. “Who swapped the salt with sugar?!” he yelled, as Vista sipped tea dramatically. “Maybe the same person who tried to grill meat on Ace’s back yesterday.” “It was hot, alright!” shouted Izo, throwing a slipper at him. “What’s the point of having a living stove if he won’t share?”

Ace woke with a snort, sat up, blinked at the mess, and grinned. “Morning, family! I dreamed I beat Teach in arm wrestling and Whitebeard gave me my own ship—called Flamey McBurnface.” “That’s... deeply stupid,” Jozu muttered. “Thank you.”

Ace strolled to the food, only for Thatch to slap his hand. “No! You sleep through chores, eat half the pantry, and call it a diet!” “It’s the ‘see food’ diet,” Ace shrugged. “I see food, I eat.”

As punishment, Whitebeard himself stomped out of his quarters. “Ace… mop the deck.” Everyone went silent. Ace blinked. “You mean, like… actually mop? With water?” “Yes, fire-boy. Try not to evaporate it this time.”

One failed mop, three steam clouds, and a very soggy Luffy-denial letter later, Ace collapsed in defeat. “Mopping is the true enemy,” he groaned.

Marco patted his back. “Don’t worry. We’ll add it to your bounty: ‘Ace of the mop.’” “You’re dead to me.”

And still, despite the madness, Ace grinned. Because on this ship of misfits, hot messes, and flaming disasters, he’d found his home.