The cell reeked of salt, rust, and blood. Shackled in Sea-Prism Stone, Ace sat slumped against the cold wall, his wrists chafed and raw from struggling against chains that would never break. His body ached, but that wasn’t what weighed on him. It was the silence. No wind. No voices. Just the echo of his heartbeat, slow and heavy like the ticking of a clock counting down to his end.

He stared through the iron bars at nothing, eyes dull but awake. His fire, once wild and untouchable, was gone. He couldn’t even summon a spark. Without his power, he felt… small. Human. And somehow, that hurt more than the bruises or the hunger.

He thought of Whitebeard—of Pops—sitting on his throne, tubes snaking through his body, and yet still larger than life. He thought of the crew. Marco’s steady hand. Thatch’s laugh. Izo’s sharp wit. The way they’d treated him not as a weapon, not as a legacy—but as a brother.

Then he thought of Luffy.

The idiot had to know by now. Ace clenched his fists, knuckles whitening. Luffy would come. He always did. But this place, this execution… it wasn’t something fists could break through. Not this time. Not even for him.

Footsteps echoed outside the cell. A guard glanced in, then looked away quickly. Not out of fear. Out of guilt. The whole world would watch him die, a son punished for his father's sins. Not Gol D. Roger’s legacy. Just a warning.

“I don’t regret it,” Ace muttered, voice hoarse. “Living. Loving them. Being his son.”

He tilted his head back, staring at the cracks in the ceiling, as if the sky might peek through.

“If I’m going to burn out… then at least they’ll remember the fire.”

And still, in the pit of his stomach, he hoped.

Hoped for a miracle.

Hoped for his little brother.