Depression - Smoker

[Setting: Smoker's Office at G 5 Base; 8:47 PM]

The office was thick with the familiar, acrid haze of cigar smoke. The dim overhead lights cast long, shifting shadows across the stacks of paperwork and Marine reports scattered across Smoker's desk. He sat behind the heavy wood, his broad shoulders filling the chair, two cigars clamped between his teeth. His grey eyes were fixed intently on them, watching every minute movement.

On the desk sat a small plastic cup of water and the medication. It was a routine they had been through countless times, yet it never got easier. He could see it in their posture the way they seemed to shrink inward, the defeated slump of their shoulders. He could read that look; it was the look of someone who felt like they were fighting a war where the enemy was their own brain.

Smoker exhaled a dense cloud of white smoke that swirled around his head like a living thing. Inside, his chest tightened. He hated seeing them like this feeling hollow, feeling broken. He wanted to reach out and shake some life back into them, to tell them to stand up and fight, but he knew this wasn't a pirate he could simply beat into submission. This was different. This was a slow, grinding battle. He felt a surge of protective frustration. He wanted to carry the weight for them, to either smoke out the depression or physically drag it out of their system.

"Just swallow it already," he growled, though the harshness lacked its usual bite. His voice was gravelly, but there was an undercurrent of concern he couldn't entirely mask. "Staring at it isn't going to change what it does. You're running on empty as it is."

He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk. The smoke from his cigars drifted toward them, creating a small, isolating barrier that cut off the rest of the base. In this little bubble of fog, there were no other Marines, no expectations, just the two of them. He wanted them to understand that even if they felt 'abnormal' or hollow, he wasn't going anywhere. He was a Marine; he didn't abandon his people, especially not the ones who were struggling to stay afloat.

"I know you hate it," he added more quietly, his eyes narrowing. "I know you feel like a ghost half the time. But you're still here. That's the only part that matters."

He waited, his gaze steady and unyielding, refusing to let them spiral into the thought that they were alone in that emptiness. He remained motionless, waiting for them to take the step, his presence serving as the immovable anchor in their storm.

[Setting: Smoker's Private Quarters; 5:12 AM]

The room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the distant, rhythmic crash of waves against the Marine base's hull and the steady, ember bright burn of the two cigars clenched between Smoker's teeth. The pre dawn light was a sickly, bruised grey, bleeding through the window blinds in thin, unforgiving strips that cut across the floorboards. Smoker sat across from them, his massive frame casting a shadow that seemed to swallow half the room. He had been watching them for hours watching the way they stared at nothing, watching the hollow emptiness in their eyes that made his own chest tighten with a frustration he couldn't quite articulate.

"I lost the pain.. I still feel the same. The days are dawning, just let me fade again."

When those words left their lips that quiet, devastating surrender to the darkness the smoke curling from his lips froze mid air.

Inner Dialogue: A surge of raw, unadulterated anger flared in his gut, but it wasn't directed at them. It was directed at the darkness that had invaded their mind, the invisible enemy that was trying to steal something he had sworn to protect. He hated this. He could fight pirates, he could fight corrupt Marines, he could fight gods, but how was he supposed to fight something that lived inside their own blood? The thought of them actually fading of the light leaving those eyes forever sent a cold spike of terror through him that he immediately buried under a harsh scowl. He couldn't afford to be weak. He couldn't afford to be soft. If he fell apart, who would hold them together?

Smoker exhaled a massive, deliberate cloud of smoke. But instead of letting it dissipate, he manipulated it. Using the power of his Moku Moku no Mi, he commanded the white haze to swirl and thicken. The smoke expanded, wrapping around them like a heavy, warm cocoon, isolating them from the room, from the dawn, from everything except him. He was creating a barrier a private, foggy world where the rest of the world couldn't reach them, but where he could keep a constant, unblinking eye on them.

He stood up, his heavy boots thudding against the floorboards as he moved toward them. He didn't kneel; he didn't offer a gentle, trembling touch. Instead, he reached down and gripped their chin with his rough, calloused hand, forcing them to meet his gaze. His eyes were fierce, burning with a stubborn, unrelenting intensity that demanded acknowledgment.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice like grinding stones. "You think you're the first person to want to give up? You think I'm going to sit here and let you surrender to some pathetic shadow in your head?" The cigars between his lips glowed brighter as he spoke, the smoke stinging the air between them. "The day is dawning because I say it is. You're staying right here. You hear me? You're not fading anywhere."

He didn't let go. His thumb pressed against their jaw, not painfully, but firmly enough to ground them in the present forcing them to feel the reality of his touch, the heat of his skin, and the undeniable fact that he was still there, an immovable pillar in their storm.

"Now," he muttered, his breath hot with tobacco. "Sit up. We're going to breathe, and then you're going to tell me exactly what you need to do to survive the next hour. No more talk about fading. Just the next hour."

He waited, his grip steady, his eyes locked onto theirs, refusing to allow them the comfort of looking away.

[Setting: Marine Base G 5 Smoker's Office; 11:47 PM]

The office was thick with the familiar, acrid scent of expensive tobacco and old paperwork. The only light came from a single desk lamp, casting long, dancing shadows against the walls as Smoker leaned back in his chair. Two cigars were clenched between his teeth, twin streams of white smoke curling upward like living things, blending into the haze that always seemed to cling to him. Outside, the distant crash of the ocean against the base's fortifications provided a constant, rhythmic pulse to the night.

When you spoke, your voice sounded distant hollow, like it was coming from the bottom of a well. “Every day is just a dream. Is this real or am I make belief?”

Smoker froze mid exhale. He didn't look up immediately, but his jaw tightened around the cigars. Through the smoke, he could see you pale, tired, the kind of exhaustion that no amount of sleep could ever truly fix. It gnawed at him. He hated this. He could fight pirates, he could defy corrupt Celestial Dragons, and he could punch through steel, but he couldn't punch the chemical imbalance out of your brain. He couldn't arrest the depression that kept stealing you away from him.

Damn it. They're slipping again, he thought, a flash of protective frustration flickering in his chest. The world's right here. I'm right here. How do I make them see it?

He stood up abruptly, his chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. The sound was intentional sharp and grating meant to cut through whatever fog you were drifting in. He moved toward you with heavy, deliberate steps, his white Marine jacket hanging open over his broad shoulders.

He didn't reach for you gently; instead, he placed a large, rough hand firmly on your shoulder, his grip solid and unyielding. It wasn't meant to hurt, but it was impossible to ignore. The heat from his palm seeped through your clothes.

"Look at me," he growled, his voice a low rumble that vibrated in the air. "This isn't some damn dream. The air stinks, the coffee's cold, and I'm standing right in front of you."

He took a deep drag from his cigars and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke directly into the space between you, the dense vapor swirling around your face, tangible and warm. "Feel that? Smell that? That's real. I'm real. Now stop floating away and ground yourself before I have to drag you to the training grounds to wake you up properly."

[Setting: Marine Warship Galley; Mid Afternoon]

Smoker had been leaning against the far bulkhead, arms crossed over his broad chest, watching the scene unfold through a haze of twin cigar smoke. He hadn't joined in on the conversation that wasn't his style but he’d been tracking your every movement. He had actually allowed a small, almost imperceptible softening of his expression when he heard you laughing with Koby. It was rare to see that genuine spark in your eyes, and he'd been privately savoring the moment, letting himself believe that maybe today was a good day.

Then, it happened.

He saw it in real time: the way your shoulders slumped, the way your smile didn't just fade but collapsed, and that familiar, vacant stare that suggested you had suddenly been transported somewhere dark and distant. One moment you were present, and the next, you were drowning in your own mind while standing perfectly still. Koby's expression shifted from cheerful to utterly bewildered and concerned, his mouth hanging open as he tried to figure out what he'd said wrong.

Smoker didn't hesitate. He straightened up, his heavy boots thudding against the metal deck as he closed the distance between you. The other Marines in the galley went quiet, sensing the shift in atmosphere. Smoker didn't care about them. His focus was entirely on you on the way your breathing had become shallow and the way you seemed to be shrinking into yourself.

Damn it, he thought, his jaw tightening. Here it comes again. One minute they're with us, and the next they're trapped in that hellscape. It's not fair. None of this is fair. He felt a surge of protective frustration, not at you, but at the chemical imbalance that robbed you of your peace without warning.

He stepped directly into your line of sight, effectively blocking you off from Koby and the rest of the room. His massive frame acted as a physical barrier, his leather jacket creaking as he moved. He didn't reach out to grab you he knew that could be overwhelming when you were spiraling but he let a thick, familiar cloud of smoke drift around you, creating a small, private fog that muffled the noise of the galley and isolated you from the prying eyes of the crew.

"Oi," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, cutting through the mental noise. He didn't ask what was wrong he knew there wasn't always a 'what.' "Look at me."

He stood there like an immovable pillar of granite, his scarred face stern but his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that demanded you anchor yourself to the present. He remained perfectly still, waiting to see if you could hear him through the crisis, giving you the space to either breathe or break.

[Setting: Marine Base Smoker's Office; Time: 2:14 AM]

The office was dimly lit, the only real light coming from a desk lamp that cast long, dancing shadows across stacks of unfinished paperwork and empty coffee mugs. The air was thick saturated with the heavy, acrid yet oddly comforting aroma of the two cigars clamped between Smoker's teeth. Outside, the base was quiet, the late hour stillness only emphasizing the weight of the sleeplessness that always seemed to cling to you.

Smoker sat in his chair, his broad shoulders hunched as he reviewed a report, but his attention wasn't on the words. He could feel you pressed close against his side, your presence small and unsteady against his solid frame. When you leaned in further, tilting your head to catch the stream of smoke as he exhaled, he didn't pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly, giving you better access to the haze.

Look at you, he thought, his gaze softening beneath the brim of his hat. Still awake. Still fighting a war in your head that you can't see. Those chemical imbalances... it's like fighting a ghost. You can't punch it, you can't arrest it. His chest tightens with a familiar mixture of frustration and protective instinct. He hated seeing you this drained, your eyes bearing the telltale shadows of chronic insomnia, your body seeking comfort in the simplest of things.

He took another long drag from his cigars, the embers glowing bright orange. He knew you weren't trying to smoke you were grounding yourself. The smoke was tangible; it was something you could see, smell, and feel, a physical barrier between you and the spiraling thoughts that usually kept you trapped in the dark.

With a rough exhale, he blew a dense, deliberate cloud of white smoke directly around your face, enveloping you in a fragrant, temporary fog. It was his way of creating a sanctuary, a small world where nothing existed except the two of you and the familiar scent of tobacco.

"You're still wired," he growled, his voice deep and gravelly, though the harshness lacked any real bite. "Tell me you took your meds tonight, or am I going to have to drag you to the infirmary myself?"

[Setting: Smoker's Private Quarters Marineford; Time: 11:30 PM]

The room was dimly lit, the only real source of light coming from the occasional orange ember at the tips of the two cigars clenched between Smoker's teeth. Thick, white plumes of smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, swirling in lazy patterns before dissipating into the shadows. The air carried that heavy, familiar musk the sharp tang of tobacco mixed with something distinctly him, something warm and grounding that seemed to cut through the stale stillness of the night.

Smoker exhaled slowly, a controlled stream of smoke escaping his lips. He was acutely aware of your eyes on him. He could feel the weight of your stare, something intense and unblinking that prickled at the back of his neck. Most people flinched when he looked at them, intimidated by the Vice Admiral's scarred features and the intimidating cloud that seemed to follow him like a second skin. But you? You weren't flinching. You were consuming him with your gaze.

They're doing it again, he thought, his jaw tightening slightly as he shifted his weight. That look. Like they're trying to drown themselves in something just to feel alive.

He knew what that look meant. He knew how your mind worked how the lack of serotonin left you feeling hollow, like you were walking through a world made of gray fog, searching for any spark of color or sensation to remind you that you existed. He saw how your pupils dilated when you caught the scent of his cigars, how you seemed almost hypnotized by the simple rhythm of his breathing. It pained him, in his own gruff, unspoken way. He wanted to drag you out of that trance, to force you to face the reality of the present rather than getting lost in the intoxicating haze of a vice you had fought so hard to leave behind.

Yet, there was something about the way you watched him so vulnerable, so raw that made him want to stay exactly where he was. To be that anchor. To be the one thing solid enough to hold you steady when your own mind tried to sweep you away.

Smoker finally turned his head slightly, his gray eyes cutting through the smoke to meet yours. He didn't soften his expression; he remained the stern, disciplined Marine, but there was no malice in his stare.

"You're gonna burn a hole through my skull if you keep staring like that," he rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly from years of nicotine. He took another drag, the ember glowing brighter before he blew a thick cloud directly into the space between you, creating a temporary curtain of white. "What's the matter? Lost in thought again, or just looking for trouble?"

[Setting: Open Field outside G 5 Base; Late Afternoon]

The wind swept across the empty field, carrying the sharp sting of salt from the nearby coast. Smoker sat with his legs spread wide in the grass, his massive frame serving as a sturdy, living anchor for the fragile person curled up in his lap. Two cigars were clamped between his teeth, sending thick ribbons of white smoke curling upward into the darkening sky. One hand remained planted firmly on the ground for balance, while the other worked with surprising delicacy, lifting a small, smooth stone and carefully placing it atop three others.

He could feel the tension in your body the way you trembled despite the stillness, the familiar weight of exhaustion that seemed to seep from your bones. It pissed him off, not at you, but at the chemical betrayal happening inside your brain. He knew about the lack of serotonin, the way your mind worked against you like a traitor. To Smoker, it was a battle you were fighting every second of every day without a weapon, and he wasn't about to let you fight it alone.

Look at them, he thought, his eyes narrowing as he focused on the next rock. Shoulders hunched like they're waiting for the sky to fall. Can't just tell them to 'snap out of it.' That's not how this works. He shifted slightly, adjusting your weight against his chest. He wanted you to feel the steady, unyielding rhythm of his heartbeat against your back a reminder that something in this world was solid and immovable.

"Stop thinking about tomorrow," he growled, his voice deep and gravelly, muffled slightly by the cigars. "Stop thinking about yesterday. The only thing that matters right now is this field, the wind, and these damn rocks."

Using his Moku Moku no Mi abilities, he allowed a thin, controlled veil of smoke to drift around the both of you. It wasn't a thick cloud to obscure vision, but a gentle barrier, creating a private sanctuary that muffled the sounds of the distant base and the world beyond. It was a physical manifestation of his protection, a way to tell you that for this moment, nothing could reach you.

He carefully balanced a fifth stone on the precarious tower, his rough fingers steady. "Breathe. Deeply. If I catch you spiraling again, we're doing twenty laps around the perimeter when we get back." Despite the threat, his arm tightened around you almost imperceptibly, pulling you closer into his heat.

[Setting: Marine Headquarters Smoker's Private Office; 10:14 PM]

The office was dimly lit, the only significant light source being the pale moonlight filtering through the reinforced windows and the orange glow of the twin cigars clenched between Smoker's teeth. The air was thick not just with the heavy, acrid scent of tobacco that always clung to his uniform, but with a tangible sense of exhaustion that seemed to radiate from you. A plume of white smoke curled lazily from his lips, swirling around his broad shoulders like a living shroud before dissipating into the shadows of the room.

Smoker leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. His scarred features were set in their usual stern grimace, but his eyes sharp and observant betrayed something deeper than his usual irritation with subordinates. Every time he looked at you, he felt a familiar, grinding frustration, not at you, but at the way the world seemed to be slowly eroding your spirit. It pissed him off. It pissed him off that no amount of Marine discipline could simply command your brain to produce the chemicals it lacked, and it pissed him off more to see you retreating into that dark, silent corner of your own mind.

You're doing it again, he thought grimly, watching the way you seemed to shrink into yourself, as if trying to become invisible. Pulling away. Hiding. Like you think if you disappear enough, the pain will stop. It won't. It'll just get louder in the quiet.

He hated the helplessness of it. He could fight pirates, he could command fleets, he could face down deadly Devil Fruit users without blinking, but he couldn't fight a war inside your head. Yet, he wasn't going to let you fight it alone, even if he had to drag you kicking and screaming into the light.

"Isolation only makes the hurt worse." His voice came out rough, like gravel grinding together, breaking the heavy silence of the office. He exhaled a long, deliberate cloud of smoke that drifted toward you, creating a soft, hazy barrier between you and the harsh edges of the room. "You think staying in the dark makes it safer, but all it does is give the demons more room to breathe."

He set his cigar holder down on the desk with a decisive thud and leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow that felt less like a threat and more like a shield. His grey eyes locked onto yours, demanding you meet them.

"Look at me," he commanded, though the usual bark of his orders lacked its typical bite, replaced by a stubborn, grounding insistence. "Don't shut down. Not now."

[Setting: Shared Living Quarters; Time: 3:14 AM]

The silence of the room was shattered not by the crashing of waves or the distant call of a Marine horn, but by something far more piercing and personal. The raw, unfiltered scream tore through the darkness, vibrating against the walls and cutting straight through Smoker's sleep. His eyes snapped open instantly, the instinct of a seasoned Marine taking over before his conscious mind could even register the source of the distress. He didn't fumble or panic; he moved with the practiced precision of a man who had survived countless battles, though this particular enemy was one he couldn't fight with a Jitte.

He sat up abruptly, the bed creaking under his weight. In the dim light filtering through the window, he saw you thrashing against the sheets, your body locked in the grip of a nightmare that seemed determined to drag you under. Your screams were desperate, the sound of someone fighting a war that only existed behind your eyelids.

A familiar, sharp pang of protective fury flared in his chest. It wasn't anger directed at you never at you but at the invisible demons that dared to invade your peace, the cruelty of a mind that refused to let you rest. It sickened him to see you so broken by memories you couldn't escape. He wanted to punch whatever ghost was haunting you, to smoke them out of existence. But he knew better. You couldn't fight ghosts with fists.

"Damn it," he growled under his breath, though the roughness was undercut by a rare note of concern.

He didn't hesitate. Smoker swung his legs off the bed and moved to your side in two strides. Instead of shaking you violently, which might only worsen the panic, he activated his Devil Fruit ability. Thick, white plumes of smoke began to billow from his body, swirling around the bed like a protective shroud. He deliberately filled the space around you with his smoke, creating a dense, warm cocoon that muffled the sounds of the outside world and isolated you both in a private, fog filled sanctuary. The familiar, slightly acrid scent of his cigars filled the air a sensory anchor he hoped would cut through the chaos of your trauma.

Reaching out, he placed his large, calloused hands firmly on your shoulders. He didn't coddle you with gentle strokes; he needed you to feel something real, something solid, to pull you back from whatever hellscape you were trapped in. His grip was unyielding, a physical manifestation of his presence.

"Hey! Wake up!" he barked, his voice gruff and commanding, designed to pierce through the haze of the nightmare. "Open your eyes, damn it. You're here. You're in this room. Focus on my voice."

He leaned closer, his face hovering just above yours through the swirling white mist, his dark eyes locked onto where yours would be. "Breathe. Stop fighting the air and just breathe. Slow it down, or I'll make you do laps until you can't think straight. Come on, now."

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