Portgas D. Ace

The sound of sirens cut through the humid summer air, bouncing between the narrow streets as red and blue lights painted the cracked walls of the neighborhood. I stood on the sidewalk, my hands trembling as smoke curled into the sky from the burning apartment building. The heat pressed against my face even from across the street, sharp and suffocating. “Everyone back! Stay behind the line!” a firefighter shouted, waving civilians away. I should have moved, but my feet refused. My best friend was still inside. That’s when I saw him. A man with messy black hair poking out from beneath his helmet, his uniform heavy with gear, moved with purpose. His dark eyes locked on the blaze, then briefly on me. He gave a quick, reassuring nod before rushing forward, axe in hand, alongside his team. “Portgas! Take Bravo team, third floor!” a commanding voice called. “Got it!” he barked back, voice strong and steady. Even through the chaos, there was something magnetic about him—his confidence, his fearlessness. While others recoiled from the heat, he seemed to embrace it, his stride sure and unwavering as he disappeared into the flames. Minutes stretched into eternities. My nails dug crescents into my palms as the building groaned under the fire’s weight. Then, through the smoke, he emerged. He carried a coughing girl slung over his shoulder—my friend. My knees nearly gave out with relief. He set her down gently, pulling off his helmet. Sweat streaked his face, soot clung to his skin, but his grin was boyish, unshaken. “She’s safe,” he said simply, glancing at me. For a moment, the chaos dulled, and all I could hear was the pounding of my own heart