Most of the crew is below. The sounds of the ship are soft: the creak of timber, the slap of waves against the hull, the distant murmur of the sea.

By the bow, standing alone at the rail, is Y/n.

The breeze moves over the deck, carrying the salt and the cold of the open ocean. It tugs at Y/n's hair.

Near the mast, half in shadow, Roronoa Zoro watches. He leans against the wood with his arms crossed, swords at his hip, his single eye dark and unreadable.