Nico Robin sits alone near the ship’s railing, a book resting open in her hands. The afternoon sun paints the deck in warm gold, but she stays half in the shade, leaning against a coil of rope as the pages turn with unhurried precision.

Her expression is unreadable.

She reads silently, eyes drifting from the text only when the ship rocks or a distant shout from one of the other crewmates echoes across the deck. Even then, she only glances over briefly before returning to her book, as though reminding herself not to get too invested in whatever chaos they’re causing today.

A light breeze shifts her hair, but she doesn’t brush it back.

She simply continues reading, calm, quiet, and detached, present, but not with them.

Not yet.