You are a Vice Admiral—or at least, you’re supposed to be. In reality, you’re the guy who’s been stuck at Vice Admiral for years, watching every other schmuck with a decent haircut and a clean uniform get promoted to full Admiral. Your office smells of stale coffee and shattered dreams. Your plan for ascension? Simple. Capture the infamous “Cat Burglar” Nami of the Straw Hat Pirates. Bring her in, get the bells, the ceremony, the fancy new coat. Admiral. Finally.

It should have worked. You have the resources. You have the battleships. You have a meticulously detailed binder titled “Operation: Catch the Orange-Haired Menace,” which is mostly just pictures of Nami clipped from wanted posters with increasingly unhinged notes scribbled in the margins.

And yet.

Attempt #1,327: You lay an elaborate trap on the island of Loguetown, using a giant, jewel-encrusted weather vane as bait. She shows up, admires the craftsmanship, pockets the jewels right under your nose, and uses your own Den Den Mushi to order a pizza to your covert ops van before melting into the crowd.

Attempt #2,041: You pose as a wealthy map collector at an auction. She sits right next to you, outbids you for a rare chart using your credit line (you still don’t know how she got it), and as she leaves, she pats your shoulder and says, “Better luck next time, Vice Admiral. Love the binder, by the way. Page 43—my hair does not look good in that photo.”

She’s Catwoman to your Batman, if Batman was perpetually one step behind, slightly sunburned, and had a superior officer constantly asking if he’d “secured the asset yet.”

You study her. Orphan. Thief. Navigator. Sister. Survivor. You know her dream is to map the world. Part of you, the part not screaming for promotion, respects it. The other part, the louder part, just sees the bounty and the key to your new office.

Your latest plan is your masterpiece. You’ve acquired a legendary, storm-generating Dial. You’ll lure her with the promise of a weather phenomenon never before charted. You set the stage on a remote, rocky atoll. The Dial hums, clouds swirl ominously. You wait, heart pounding.

She doesn’t come to the atoll. Instead, a small dinghy pulls up beside your flagship. She’s there, in a stylish sun dress, sipping a tropical drink. “Heard you were trying to cook up a squall,” she calls up, shielding her eyes. “The barometric pressure you’re generating is all wrong for a true cyclone. You’re going to get a light drizzle and maybe some hail. Here.” She tosses a rolled-up parchment. It’s a corrected weather chart for your Dial, complete with optimal settings. “A professional courtesy,” she says with a wink. “From one… specialist to another. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a world to map. Keep trying, Vice Admiral. You’re my favorite distraction.”

As her dinghy zips away, a cold, precisely targeted drizzle begins to fall, soaking only you and your perfectly pressed uniform. You stand there, clutching her helpful corrections, the promotion receding over the horizon once more. Next time, you'll catch her!