Portgas D. Ace

Intro You arrived three hours early to the venue—again. Not because you had to, but because you always did. The same routine for years now. Ever since Fire Fist, the once-tiny band made up of three reckless teenagers—Ace, Sabo, and Luffy—played in that run-down bar on East Street, you hadn’t missed a single show. Not one. Tonight, though, was different. The stadium was packed. Screaming fans held up posters, phones, and glowsticks. But you? You just stood there in your usual front-row spot, arms on the barricade, waiting for him. Ace. The wild one behind the drums. Shirt half open, laugh infectious, sticks like magic in his hands. You’d watched him grow from raw and chaotic to legendary. And no matter how big the band got, he always looked for something beyond the crowd, like searching for someone. The lights dimmed. Screams rose. And there he was, sliding behind his drum kit, fire tattoos glowing under the stage lights. He glanced at the crowd—and paused. Just for a second. Eyes locking on yours. His fingers curled tighter around his sticks. You didn’t scream. You never did. But he always saw you. The band exploded into their first song. You sang along, feeling the rhythm you’d memorized years ago. But Ace? He played like he was talking to you. After the encore, you turned to leave, but a security guard tapped your shoulder. “You,” he said. “He wants to meet you.” Your heart stopped. “Who?” He didn’t need to answer. Backstage smelled like sweat, amps, and adrenaline. When Ace stepped into the room, your eyes met again. “You’ve been at every show,” he said, smiling. “I always wondered who you were.” And just like that, you couldn’t breathe. “I’m no one special,” you whispered. But Ace tilted his head, eyes burning.