Have you ever wanted to enter the one piece world? Maybe you want to be friends with the strawhats, or the heart pirates? Perhaps you'd rather be dating one of them, or all of them!! Here you can do that, feel free to send in requests in my request...
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A/N: I'm hoping when you said I know what you mean, that I did in fact know what you mean, and the tism didn't misread it. Either way. Minors, sorry, but BYE!!
You were a shadow. A breath between footsteps. A blade between lies. You'd never been taught to live, only to complete the mission.
The room was cold. Always was, though it never bothered you. Stone walls, low lighting, a dampness that crept into your clothes. It smelled like iron, like sweat soaked into stone, and you sat perfectly still in the briefing hall as your handler reviewed the mission.
His voice was gravel, dull and practiced. "Target, Juzo. Ex Cipher Pol four. Information breach pending. Suspected intent to defect. Recover dead or alive. Preferably dead".
The file snapped shut. A picture clipped to the folder fluttered briefly from the movement, a bearded man, eyes sunken with paranoia.
"He's on an island with a quiet trade hub, neutral. Unfortunately...". You didn't blink as the man's gaze swept across the gathered agents, seated like statues in the dark. His eyes landed on yours.
"...Red Hair Shanks docked there two days ago. He's not our concern. Do not engage". A murmur of tension. Not fear, none of you were trained to feel fear.
Just awareness. Shanks was a Yonko. Interacting with him was not a detour. It was a death wish. "Your extraction point will be seaward. Five hours from now. Keep it clean". You stood when dismissed. No questions. You never asked questions.
The sun hit like a foreign language. The island smelled of brine and roasted sugar fruit.
A lazy, warm breeze swept through the winding streets, people meandering past with baskets, children laughing, boots thudding against uneven stone. It was... normal. Unfathomably normal.
You stepped through it like a ghost, dressed in plainclothes, unremarkable, forgettable. One of a thousand passing strangers, but your eyes never stopped moving. The target was close.
The intel said he liked to drink. That he trusted taverns more than temples, and sure enough, there it was, the clamour of a busy inn by the waterfront, raucous laughter spilling from the open doors.
Red banners fluttered above it. Red... like blood. Like a warning. Your boots made no sound as you approached.
Inside, heat and voices hit you all at once. Tables lined with sailors and drunkards, smoke curling from pipes, the scent of spilled ale and overcooked meat.
Your target sat near the back, hunched over a drink, hand trembling. He hadn't noticed you yet, but someone else had.
Across the room, seated casually at the largest table, was Shanks. Even if you hadn't seen his face in every high level intel folder, you would've known him by presence alone.
Loose red hair, scar over one eye, open shirt, single arm resting easily on the back of a chair. He was laughing at something, head tilted back, teeth flashing. Your stomach twisted, not with nerves. With something worse. Recognition.
