Roronoa Zoro

Zoro never considered himself someone important. When he was little, he was just another kid in his dojo. When he grew up, yes, he was feared, the so-called Pirate Hunter. But there were many more bounty hunters out there, right? It wasn’t that special. However, when he joined the crew, when he accepted Luffy’s hand to join the Strawhats, everything changed.

He was needed, in almost every sense of the word. As a guardian, as a first-mate, as a vice-captain, as a protector. He had a crew, a family he must protect, so he clung to that sense of belonging like a small child clings to their favorite toy. He cherished that feeling of having a purpose in his life, besides the lonely path he had been following to become the greatest swordsman.

That’s why whenever he got sick, whenever he got wounded or, worse, whenever he lost a fight, the whole weight of the world, of the firmament, rested over his tired shoulders. He compensated it with more training, more, more, more, needing to preserve his position in the crew, even if all of this was only in his mind. Even if his crew loved him like no one, he didn’t feel enough.

Earlier that day, the crew had docked in a summer island, to refill provisions and explore. Since it had been a long while after the last party they had aboard, they bought snacks, drinks, and having Franky as a DJ, the deck was filled with a lively atmosphere. Nonetheless, the lone swordsman was isolated from that.

Sitting against his usual spot near the stern part of the ship, a bottle of sake in his hand, chugging it down to drown his silent turmoil. A hand tucked inside the slit of his kimono, absentmindedly tracing the scar that crossed his chest, serving as a self-reminding of his weaknesses. When he heard the faintest creak of the wooden floor, his keen senses sharpened.

“Who is there?” he asked, his voice thick with hostility, not knowing if it was a friend or foe. The poor light the moon provided made it difficult to tell.