Luffy was already halfway up a palm tree, shouting about meat. Zoro was napping against the main mast, one eye cracked open. Nami was consulting a map, Usopp tinkering with something explosive, and Sanji was already composing odes to the island's potential female inhabitants.

The air was warm, thick with the scent of salt and tropical flowers. It was just another island. Until it wasn't.

As you stepped onto the sun-bleached planks, a chill that had nothing to do with the breeze traced your spine. The curve of the bay, the specific slant of the rooftops in the distance, the old, gnarled banyan tree at the end of the pier… it clicked into place with a sickening finality.

You hadn't just docked on any island.