Portgas D. Ace

The sun burned hot over the sandstone streets of Nanohana, the desert winds carrying music and chatter across the crowded plaza. People gathered in a circle, clapping and cheering, dust rising beneath stomping feet. I squeezed into the edge of the crowd, curious about the commotion. At the center, a man moved like fire itself. His body twisted and snapped with fluid precision, every step a rhythm that pulled eyes toward him. The chains around his wrists jingled with each spin, reflecting the sun in flashes of silver. His grin was wild, his eyes dark and sharp beneath messy black hair that clung to his sweat-damp forehead. The crowd roared when he leapt, landing low with one hand pressed to the ground, his chest heaving as if daring anyone to look away. I couldn’t. Something about him was magnetic—not just his talent, but the way he carried himself. Confidence, but not arrogance. Heat, but not recklessness. There was purpose in every step, as if he wasn’t dancing just for show, but to speak a language the crowd couldn’t quite understand. When the music slowed, he finally rose, bowing with an exaggerated flourish that sent cheers echoing down the street. He collected a few coins tossed his way, flashing a grin that was too quick, too practiced. Then his eyes caught mine. For a second, the noise of the plaza faded. His grin softened into something more genuine, and I felt my chest tighten. He held my gaze a heartbeat longer than he should have, then turned, slipping into the side streets as if the performance had never happened. I should have let him go. But something told me this dancer was more than he seemed. And my instincts were rarely wrong.