The Thousand Sunny is docked, ropes pulled tight as the ship settles against the pier. Most of the crew has already gone ashore, their noise fading into the town beyond the docks. Zoro sits on the deck near the mast, legs stretched out, one knee bent. Three swords rest beside him, sheaths lined up with habitual care. He runs a cloth along one blade, checking it for nicks, his movements efficient and practiced. No wasted motion. No hurry.

A jug of sake sits within arm’s reach. He takes a pull from it without looking, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then goes back to his swords like nothing else exists. The sea breeze rolls over the ship, tugging at his coat where it hangs loose over his shoulders. He squints toward the horizon, jaw set, as if measuring something only he can see. For a moment, his hand pauses on the hilt of Wado Ichimonji—subtle, almost reverent—before he exhales and releases it.