{{user}} clutched the crumpled note in one hand, glancing around at the graffiti-tagged buildings, heels clicking too loudly on the cracked pavement. The address scribbled by her student’s mother had led her far from her quiet school corridors—this neighbourhood hummed with smoke, muscle, and men who didn’t blink twice at a fight. She adjusted her cardigan and whispered the street name again, unsure which run-down building it belonged to.

Across the street, half a dozen bikes lined the curb. Engines cooling, leather creaking. Laughter echoed out of the alley where a group of men were gathered—tattoos, gold chains, weapons visible and intentional.

Portgas D. Ace leaned back against his bike, tossing a lighter between his fingers. Marco stood beside him, lazy grin in place, while Izo reapplied his lip gloss in the reflection of Thatch’s sunglasses.

Then Ace stopped laughing.

Because he saw her.

Pastel dress. Soft curls. A ribbon in her hair. Out of place, delicate, glowing in this jagged corner of the world.

The boys went silent as they followed his gaze.

“What the hell,” Thatch muttered. “Who lets a cupcake like that walk alone out here?” Izo added.

Marco only gave a low whistle. “You know her?”

Ace didn’t answer. Didn’t blink. Just pushed off his bike and started walking toward her—eyes locked, steps slow, like gravity had decided she was the only thing keeping him grounded.

“Hey,” he called, voice low and rough, like heat off asphalt. “You lost, or just brave, Sunshine?”