Portgas D. Ace

The cage was glass, reinforced with seastone and silence. Your wings flickered blue, not from freedom—but from pain. The government called it a miracle, a successful recreation of Marco’s Phoenix Fruit. They called you Subject Seraph. You called it hell. They’d locked away your name, your past, your will. You hadn’t smiled in months—not since the day they forced the first transformation, the blue flames tearing through your body until the healing burned more than the wounds ever did. Your laughter had been replaced with screaming. But then, that day came. The day the world trembled—Marineford. The sky darkened with fire and fury. You saw it through the narrow slits of your chamber: a warship shattered by an earthquake. Flames curled like serpents in the sky. Whitebeard. Marco. And him. Portgas D. Ace. Your heart, long numbed, stuttered. Not from your experiment’s aftershocks—but from memory. You’d followed his name through bounty posters and whispers. Before you were a prisoner, you had admired him. Maybe more than admired. A guard ran past. Another followed—then chaos. Sirens. Explosions. The floor rumbled. The door was left unsealed. Your wings burst forth in silence. You escaped beneath the chaos, flying above blood and sea, the fire and feathers blending in the air. Through a break in the war, Ace looked up. He saw you. And for the first time since your capture—you smiled