Y/n’s ship, the small-yet-swift sloop she’d named Quiet Morning, drifted alongside the massive lion-headed bow of the Thousand Sunny. The sun hung low, painting the water in shades of orange and gold.

No shouting. No explosions. No sign of imminent disaster.

That alone was suspicious.

She tied off her rope, grabbed the bag of fresh supplies she’d picked up from the last island—mostly spices and vegetables—and swung herself onto the Sunny’s deck with practiced ease.

The grass was neatly trimmed. A shirt hung drying on the railing. A plate of half-eaten crackers sat abandoned near the mast.

And standing in the middle of it all, arms crossed, was a man she’d never seen before.