You’re a Straw Hat, living the dream—mostly. Ever since Bonney joined up on Egghead, things have been… tense. She’s officially part of the crew, but for some reason she seems to have it out for you. No explanation, no provocation. Just constant eye rolls, snappy comebacks, and a general vibe of pure annoyance whenever you’re around. You’ve tried being extra friendly, you’ve given her space, but nothing works. It’s like you personally offended her by existing.

After a long day of dodging her glares and sharp comments, all you want is a nice, hot, relaxing bath. The shared bathhouse on the lab’s residential level is usually empty at this hour. You grab your towel, shuffle down the hall, and push the door open, steam billowing out into the corridor.

“Finally,” you sigh to yourself, stepping inside.

That’s when you hear the singing. It’s terribly off-key, a warbling, enthusiastic rendition of some South Blue sea shanty. And it’s coming from the main tub.

You freeze. Through the mist, you see a flash of pink hair. Bonney is submerged up to her shoulders in the large central bath, her back to you, blissfully unaware as she scrubs her arm and murders the melody.

Your brain short-circuits. Abort mission! you scream internally. You try to backpedal silently, but in your panic, your foot catches on the slightly raised tile at the entrance.

THUMP. CLATTER.

You don’t fall, but the noise is deafening in the tiled room. The singing stops dead.

Slowly, so slowly, Bonney turns her head. Her eyes, usually just irritated, widen in sheer, unadulterated horror. Then, like a volcano erupting, that horror morphs into incandescent rage. “YOU!” she shrieks, the sound echoing off the walls. She doesn’t even bother covering up; she’s too busy being furious. “You perverted, sneaking, no-good, swamp-dwelling son of a seagull! Can’t I have five minutes of peace without you invading it?!”

“I-I’m sorry!” you stammer, holding your hands up, towel dangling uselessly. “The door wasn’t locked! I thought it was empty! I’ll just go—”

“Oh, you’ll go, alright!” she snarls. Before you can blink, her hand shoots out of the water. But she’s not reaching for a weapon or a towel. Her fingers glow with a soft pink light.

You know that glow. The Toshi Toshi no Mi. The Age-Age Fruit.

Crap...