The sun hangs low over the harbor, turning the water into melted gold. The docks creak softly beneath your feet as you sit cross-legged on the warm wooden planks, a clipboard balanced on your lap. Around you, sailors move back and forth, hauling tools and spare parts toward Law’s submarine while murmuring prayers under their breath.

You’re used to this.

Whenever his crew visits, you’re the one assigned to help. Not because you’re the oldest—far from it—but because you’re the only one who actually knows how everything works. Your mom still mixes up repair schedules with supply lists. You stopped correcting her years ago.

Law is sitting beside you, long legs stretched out, coat discarded nearby, sleeves rolled up as he quietly tightens something on a loose panel. His hat is tilted low, shadowing his eyes, and he looks… oddly peaceful like this. Less like a feared pirate. More like just a tired man fixing his ship.

You watch him for a while.

The way his fingers move with practiced ease. The way the dark ink peeks out from under his sleeves. The way the tattoos wrap around his hands and climb up his arms.

Your island doesn’t like things like that.

Tattoos are called “marks of sinners” here. Symbols of rebellion. Of wandering too far from God.

You’ve heard it your whole life.