Chapter Text
The room was silent, save for the soft rustle of fabric as Sanji folded his clothes and stuffed them into the large duffle bag on his bed. The bag was worn, its dark fabric frayed at the edges, but it was sturdy enough to carry what little he was taking with him. He worked quickly, his movements precise and deliberate, as if speed could outrun the fear gnawing at the edges of his mind.
His hands trembled as he reached for the framed photograph on his desk. It was the only picture he had of his mother, Sora, her gentle smile frozen in time. She had been the only one who ever understood him, the only one who had encouraged his love for cooking. He traced the edge of the frame with his fingers, his throat tightening as he remembered her voice, soft and warm, telling him to follow his heart.
“You’ll be a great chef one day, Sanji,” she had said, her hand resting on his head. The same blue eyes, that he now only sees when he looks in the mirror, looking at him fondly. “Don’t let anyone take that away from you.”
But they had. They had taken so much from him—his dreams, his confidence, his sense of self. The Vinsmoke name had been a prison, its walls closing in around him until he could barely breathe. And now, at long last, he was breaking free.
Sanji placed the photograph carefully into the duffle bag, nestling it between layers of clothing to keep it safe. His chest ached with a mixture of grief and relief. He had spent years hiding who he was, burying his passions under layers of obedience and fear. But no more. Today, he would take the first step toward becoming the person he was meant to be.
The sound of footsteps in the hallway made him freeze, his heart pounding in his chest. He held his breath, waiting for the door to swing open, for his father’s cold voice to demand an explanation. But the footsteps passed, fading into the distance, and Sanji exhaled slowly, his shoulders sagging with relief.
He turned back to the task at hand, his eyes scanning the room for anything else he might need. His knives, of course—his most prized possessions, each one a gift from his mother. He wrapped them carefully in a cloth and tucked them into the duffle bag, his fingers lingering on the handles. These knives were more than tools; they were a part of him, a connection to the life he had always dreamed of.
Then his gaze fell on the small, ornate box tucked away in the corner of his closet. He reached for the box, a shiver running down his spine as the cold, dark wood touched his fingers. The box was engraved with the Vinsmoke family crest—a stark reminder of the life he was leaving behind. Inside was a signet ring, heavy and sturdy, bearing the same crest.
Sanji’s fingers brushed against the cold metal of the signet ring, his stomach churning as he turned it over in his hand. Once again, the Vinsmoke family crest stared back at him, its intricate design a stark reminder of everything he was leaving behind.
The crest was a masterpiece of intimidation, etched in gold and black:
A golden lion roared silently, a sword piercing its mouth—a symbol of dominance through force, of power won through violence.
Above the lion, a crown of thorns loomed, its sharp points digging into the beast’s head. It was a cruel irony, a reminder that power came with suffering—but only for the weak.
At the lion’s feet, a coiled serpent lay in wait, its eyes glinting with malice. It was a symbol of deception, of the cunning and ruthlessness that had kept the Vinsmokes on top for generations.
Beneath the crest, a black banner bore the family motto in bold, gothic lettering:
“Sanguine et Ferro.”
“By Blood and Iron.”
The words felt heavy in Sanji’s chest, their meaning etched into his very being. Blood—the lineage he had been born into, the genetic superiority his father prized above all else, the lives that had been spilled to maintain the family’s power. Iron—the unyielding strength of their military might, the cold, industrial efficiency of their empire, the control they wielded over everything and everyone.
The ring was more than a symbol; it was a chain, a reminder of the life he had been born into and the expectations he had failed to meet. He had never worn it, had never wanted to, but it had been forced upon him when he turned eighteen, a cruel reminder that he would never truly escape.
Sanji hesitated, his hand hovering over the box. Taking it was a risk. If anyone found it, they would know immediately who he was. But leaving it behind felt like surrendering a part of himself, like letting his father win. He couldn’t do that. Not now. Not after everything.
With a shaky breath, he closed the box and slipped the ring into the inner pocket of his duffle bag. It was a dangerous choice, one that could come back to haunt him, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave it behind. It was a piece of his past, a reminder of what he was running from—and what he was fighting for.
Next, he reached under his bed, pulling out a small, locked metal case. His hands trembled as he entered the combination, the click of the lock echoing in the quiet room. Inside were several stacks of cash, neatly bound, and a handwritten letter from his mother. The money was part of her inheritance to him, set aside in a trust fund that his father had tried to keep from him. Sanji had only discovered it recently, hidden in old family documents. It wasn’t much compared to the Vinsmoke fortune, but it was enough to give him a safety net – enough to start over.
He counted the bills quickly, his fingers brushing against the letter, the paper fragile and yellowed with age. He unfolded the letter with shaky hands, the words his mother left for him etched into his heart, a lifeline he had clung to in his darkest moments. His mother’s handwriting was elegant, each stroke of the pen filled with love and hope:
“Sanji, my precious son,
There will be days when the world feels heavy, when the weight of who you’re supposed to be threatens to crush who you are. On those days, remember this: you are not defined by the shadows others cast over you. You are the light that refuses to be dimmed, the spark that refuses to die.
Take this gift and use it to build a life that feels like home—not a place, but a feeling. A feeling of warmth, of safety, of belonging. And if you ever forget your way, listen to your heart. It will always lead you back to yourself.
With all my love, now and always,
Mom.”
Sanji’s hands trembled as he read the words again, his vision blurring with tears. His mother’s voice echoed in his mind, soft and reassuring, and for a moment, he felt her presence beside him, guiding him. He traced the lines of her handwriting, the ink faded but the message as clear as the day she had written it.
“You are the light that refuses to be dimmed, the spark that refuses to die.”
The words had become his anchor, a quiet reminder of his resilience and worth. They had carried him through years of loneliness and despair, and now they would carry him into the unknown. He folded the letter carefully and tucked it into the inner pocket of his duffle bag, right next to the signet ring. One was a chain, the other a key. Both were a part of him, but only one would set him free.
Sanji tucked the money into a hidden compartment in the duffle bag, his heart heavy with the weight of what he was leaving behind—and what he was carrying forward. This wasn’t theft. This was his. His mother had wanted him to have it, and he would honor her wishes. He would use it to build a life she would have been proud of.
As he zipped up the duffle bag, his gaze fell on the window, the moonlight streaming in and casting long shadows across the floor. Beyond the glass lay the world—a world full of possibilities, full of people who wouldn’t know his name or his family’s legacy. Out there, he could be anyone. He could be himself, or the version of himself he wants to be.
But the thought was terrifying. For so long, he had been defined by the Vinsmoke name, by the expectations and demands of his family. Stripping that away left him feeling raw and exposed, like a nerve laid bare. Who was he, really, without the weight of his father’s disapproval, without the constant reminder of his failures?
He didn’t know. But he was determined to find out.
Sanji slung the duffle bag over his shoulder, the weight of it grounding him as he glanced at the door. This was it. The moment he had been waiting for, the moment he had dreamed about for years. But now that it was here, he felt paralyzed, his feet rooted to the spot.
What if he failed? What if he couldn’t make it on his own? What if his father was right, and he was nothing without the Vinsmoke name?
The doubts swirled in his mind, threatening to overwhelm him, but he pushed them aside, his jaw tightening with determination. He couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t spend the rest of his life suffocating under the weight of his family’s expectations. He had to try. He had to believe that there was something more out there for him.
With one last look around the room, Sanji turned and walked out the door, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway. He didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If he did, he might lose his nerve.
The front door loomed ahead, its heavy wood a barrier between him and the life he was leaving behind. He paused, his hand resting on the handle, and took a deep breath. This was it. The first step toward freedom.
As he stepped outside, the cool night air washed over him, carrying with it the faint scent of salt and sea. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the feeling sink in. For the first time in years, he felt alive.
But just as he began to walk away, a soft voice called out from the shadows.
“Sanji.”
He froze, his heart pounding in his chest. Slowly, he turned to see Reiju standing in the doorway, her pink hair shimmering in the moonlight. She was dressed in her usual elegant attire, her expression unreadable. For a moment, they simply stared at each other, the silence between them heavy with unspoken words.
Sanji’s grip tightened on the strap of his duffle bag, his mind racing. Was she going to stop him? Would she call for their father, for their brothers? Would she try and convince him to stay, feeding into his doubts that already haunted his mind? He braced himself for the worst, his body tense and ready to run.
But Reiju didn’t move. She didn’t shout or demand an explanation. Instead, she simply nodded, her eyes filled with a quiet understanding. It was a small gesture, but it spoke volumes. She knew why he was leaving. She knew he had to go.
Sanji’s chest tightened, a lump forming in his throat. He wanted to say something—to thank her, to apologize, to tell her he’d miss her—but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he nodded back, a silent acknowledgment of everything they couldn’t say.
Reiju’s lips curved into the faintest of smiles, her gaze softening for just a moment before she turned and disappeared back into the house, the door closing quietly behind her.
Sanji stood there for a moment, his heart aching with a mixture of grief and gratitude. Reiju had always been different from the rest of them—kinder, gentler, more human. She had never been able to escape their family’s grip, but she had always done what she could to protect him. And now, in her own way, she was setting him free.
With a deep breath, Sanji turned and walked away, the moonlight guiding his path. The road ahead was uncertain, fraught with challenges and obstacles he couldn’t yet imagine. But for the first time, he felt a spark of hope—a flicker of light in the darkness. He didn’t know where he was going or what he would find, but he knew one thing for certain:
He was finally free.
⌁⌁⌁
The underground fight club was a cesspool of sweat, blood, and desperation. The air was thick with the stench of cheap beer and unwashed bodies, the dim lighting casting long shadows across the cracked concrete floor. The crowd roared, a cacophony of shouts and jeers, as Zoro stepped into the cage. His opponent was a mountain of a man, with a shaved head, a sneer that promised pain, and arms thick enough to crush a skull. Zoro cracked his neck, rolling his shoulders as he stared the man down. He clenched his fists before driving them downward in a swift, rhythmic motion—one after the other. It was a pre-fight ritual he’d picked up from years of streetfighting, a habit that made it feel like his hands were charging with energy.
The bell rang, and the fight began.
The brute charged at him like a freight train, his fists swinging wildly. Zoro ducked under the first punch, his body moving on instinct. He countered with a sharp jab to the ribs, followed by a brutal uppercut that snapped the man’s head back. The crowd erupted, their cheers fueling the fire in Zoro’s veins. But the brute didn’t go down. He staggered, shook it off, and came at Zoro again, this time with a roar that echoed through the room.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” the brute taunted, his voice dripping with malice. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Zoro didn’t respond. He never did. Trash talk was just noise, and he had no patience for it. He sidestepped another wild swing, his movements fluid and precise. He’d been fighting since he was a kid, and it showed. Every dodge, every strike, was calculated—a dance he’d perfected through years of blood and bruises. He landed another series of quick jabs, aiming for the ribs, the jaw, anywhere he could find an opening. But the brute was relentless, his sheer size and strength making him a dangerous opponent.
A heavy fist grazed Zoro’s temple, sending a sharp pain shooting through his skull. He stumbled, his vision blurring for a moment, but he shook it off. Pain was nothing new. He’d been through worse. Much worse.
The memory hit him like a punch to the gut. He was fourteen again, standing in the middle of the dojo, his fists raised as he faced Kuina. She was taller than him, her movements sharp and precise, her dark eyes focused and unyielding. They’d been sparring for hours, their bodies drenched in sweat, the sound of their fists and feet hitting the mats echoing through the room.
“What’s the matter, pretty boy?” she taunted, a smirk tugging at her lips. “Is that all you’ve got?”
He lunged at her, his fists flying, but she dodged every strike with ease. She countered with a spinning kick that sent him sprawling to the floor. He groaned, his body aching, but he pushed himself up, his pride refusing to let him stay down.
“Again,” he growled, his voice hoarse.
Kuina laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. “You’re never going to beat me, Zoro. You’re too slow. Too weak.”
Her words stung, but they also fueled him. He charged at her again, his fists clenched, his heart pounding in his chest. He didn’t care how many times she knocked him down. He’d keep getting back up. He’d keep fighting. Because that’s what he did. That’s who he was.
The brute’s fist connected with Zoro’s side, sending a sharp pain shooting through his ribs. Zoro gritted his teeth, his vision, once again, swimming for a moment, but he didn’t go down. He couldn’t. Not here. Not now.
“What’s wrong, kid?” the brute sneered, circling him like a predator. “You look like you’re about to fall over.”
Zoro didn’t respond. He focused on his breathing, on the rhythm of the fight. He waited for the brute to make his move, and when he did, Zoro was ready. He ducked under the punch and drove his elbow into the man’s stomach, followed by a knee to the face that finally sent him crashing to the floor.
The crowd erupted, their cheers deafening as Zoro raised a fist in victory. His chest heaved, his body aching from the blows he’d taken, but he didn’t care. He’d won. Again.
⌁⌁⌁
The night air was cool against Zoro’s skin as he stepped out of the fight club, the adrenaline from the fight slowly ebbing away. The streets were quiet, the occasional car passing by, its headlights cutting through the darkness. Zoro walked with a slight limp, his body protesting every step, but he ignored it. He’d walked home in worse condition before.
As he made his way through the narrow, dimly lit streets, his mind wandered. He thought about the money he’d just earned, the wad of cash tucked safely in his pocket. It would help, but it wouldn’t be enough. Not with the rent due at the end of the week. His former roommate had left in a hurry, leaving Zoro to cover the entire rent himself. The apartment was bigger than he needed, but he could afford it at the time. Now, it felt like a millstone around his neck.
He passed by a small park, the swings creaking in the breeze. He thought about the dojo where he’d grown up, the place that had been more of a home to him than anywhere else. Koshiro had taken him in when he was just a kid, a scrappy street rat with nothing but a chip on his shoulder and a hunger to prove himself. They’d been like family to him, a ragtag group of misfits who’d found solace in the dojo’s walls. But then the rich bastards came, with their suits and their lawyers and their fat wallets. They didn’t care about the kids who lived there, or the man who’d dedicated his life to helping them. All they cared about was the land, and the luxury condos they could build on it. Zoro had watched as the dojo was torn down, brick by brick, until there was nothing left but rubble and memories.
And then there was Kuina.
Zoro’s hands clenched into fists at his sides as her face flashed in his mind—sharp, determined, and always a step ahead of him. She’d been Koshiro’s daughter, his rival, and the only person who’d ever truly challenged him. They’d sparred countless times, each match pushing him to be better, stronger, faster. But it wasn’t enough. He hadn’t been strong enough to save her.
Her death had been ruled an accident, but Zoro knew better. He’d seen the way the rich businessman’s goons had been lurking around the dojo in the days leading up to her death. He’d heard the whispers, the threats. And he couldn’t do anything. The guilt still ate at him, a constant reminder of his failure.
After the dojo was gone, Zoro had been left with nothing. No home, no family, no purpose. He’d spent years on the streets, fighting to survive, taking odd jobs and underground fights just to make ends meet. It was a brutal, unforgiving life, but it had shaped him into the man he was today—hardened, relentless, and determined to never let anyone he cared about suffer again.
He arrived at his place not long after. Zoro’s apartment complex was a weathered, four-story brick building with a faded red exterior and a rusted fire escape zigzagging down one side. The front steps were cracked but functional, and the windows, though smudged with city grime, were intact. Graffiti dotted the walls here and there—some of it artistic, some of it hastily scrawled. Near the entrance, someone had spray-painted “RISE UP” in bold, blocky letters, while further down the wall, a smaller tag read “NO JUSTICE, NO PEACE.”
It wasn’t the worst place in the city, but it wasn’t exactly welcoming either—just the kind of building that blended into the background of a neighborhood that had seen better days.
Zoro heaved himself up the stairs to his apartment, his head pounding with every step and his shoulder throbbing with pain. When he finally got up to the third floor, he fished through his pocket for his keys and opened the door.
Zoro’s apartment was a two-bedroom place in a run-down building on the edge of the city. The walls were bare, the floor littered with empty protein shake bottles and crumpled beer cans. The living room was sparsely furnished, with a worn-out couch and a small TV that barely worked. A set of dumbbells and a punching bag sat in the corner, the only signs of life in the otherwise barren space.
His bedroom was just as bare—a single bed tucked into the corner by the window, a bedside table with a lamp Nami had picked up for him at a yard sale and Usopp had painted black, and a small wardrobe on the opposite side holding all his belongings. Propped carefully against the wardrobe was the katana Koshiro had given him before leaving for Japan—the Wado Ichimonji. It was a family heirloom, one that should have gone to Kuina. But after her death, Koshiro had decided Zoro should have it, a way to honor her memory and keep her spirit alive. The room wasn’t much, but it was his.
He dropped his duffle bag by the door and headed straight for the bathroom, his body screaming in protest with every step. He stripped off his tank top, wincing as the fabric pulled away from the cuts and bruises that littered his torso. His reflection in the cracked mirror was a mess—a split lip, a black eye forming, and a nasty gash on his shoulder that was still bleeding.
He grabbed the first aid kit from under the sink and got to work, cleaning his wounds with the precision of someone who’d done this a hundred times before. The sting of the antiseptic made him hiss, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t. This was his life—fight, patch himself up, repeat. It wasn’t glamorous, but it paid the bills. Barely.
As he bandaged his shoulder, the faint sound of the TV in the living room caught his attention. He hadn’t turned it on, but it must’ve been left on from earlier. He finished wrapping the bandage and walked out of the bathroom, grabbing a beer from the fridge on his way to the couch.
The TV was tuned to a news channel, and Zoro stared at the screen filled with the image of a sleek, modern building with the Vinsmoke Global Enterprises logo emblazoned across the top. The camera panned to a press conference, where Reiju Vinsmoke stood at a podium, her pink hair perfectly styled, her smile polished and professional. She was dressed in a tailored suit, her demeanor calm and confident as she addressed the crowd.
“At Vinsmoke Global Enterprises, we believe in pushing the boundaries of innovation to create a better future for all,” she said, her voice smooth and unwavering. “Our latest advancements in biotechnology and artificial intelligence are not just about profit—they’re about progress. We’re committed to improving lives, one breakthrough at a time.”
Zoro’s grip tightened on the beer bottle, his jaw clenching as he watched. He hated this—the way they dressed up their greed and exploitation as some kind of noble mission. He hated the way the Vinsmoke woman played her part so perfectly, the way she smiled and lied like it was second nature. But most of all, he hated the way it reminded him of everything he’d lost.
The camera cut to a reporter, who began to ask a question. “Ms. Vinsmoke, there have been rumors about VGE’s involvement in unethical practices, including human experimentation and exploitation of underprivileged communities. How do you respond to these allegations?”
Her smile didn’t waver. “At Vinsmoke Global Enterprises, we hold ourselves to the highest ethical standards. These rumors are baseless and unfounded, spread by those who seek to undermine our work. We remain committed to transparency and accountability in all that we do.”
Zoro scoffed, taking a long swig of his beer. “Bullshit,” he muttered under his breath. He’d seen firsthand what people like the Vinsmokes were capable of—the lives they destroyed, the people they exploited. They didn’t care about ethics or accountability. All they cared about was power and profit.
The news segment shifted to a different story, but Zoro’s mind was already elsewhere. He had a dream, the one thing that kept him going. He wanted to open his own dojo, a place where kids like him could learn to defend themselves and find a sense of purpose. He didn’t want them to end up like him—beaten down, jaded, and constantly fighting just to survive. He wanted to give them a chance, the way Koshiro had given him one.
It was a long shot, he knew. He didn’t have the money, or the connections, or the patience to deal with all the bureaucratic bullshit that came with running a business. But he had the skills, and the determination, and maybe that would be enough.
Zoro’s thoughts were interrupted by the sound of his phone buzzing on the floor. He picked it up, squinting at the screen. It was Luffy.
“Hey, Zoro!” Luffy’s voice was loud and cheerful, as always. “You busy? We’re going to Baratie. You in?”
Zoro sighed, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Luffy was the only person who could pull him out of his own head like this. “Yeah, alright. Give me ten minutes.”
He hung up and grabbed a clean shirt, his body still aching but his spirits a little lighter. He didn’t know what the future held, but for now, he had his friends, his dreams, and the strength to keep fighting.
⌁⌁⌁
The Baratie was bustling as usual, its warm, golden light spilling out onto the sidewalk and the faint hum of chatter and clinking dishes filling the air. The restaurant’s iconic ship-like design, complete with a massive fish-shaped figurehead, made it a landmark in the city, and its reputation for incredible food drew crowds every night. Zoro pushed through the doors, his body still aching from the fight, and scanned the room for his friends. He spotted them almost immediately—Luffy, Usopp, and Nami were seated at their usual booth near the back, their table already cluttered with plates of half-eaten food and empty glasses.
Luffy was in the middle of shoving a massive bite of steak into his mouth, his cheeks bulging like a chipmunk’s, while Usopp animatedly recounted some wild story, his hands waving dramatically. Nami, ever the picture of composure, was sipping a glass of wine and scrolling through her phone, though she glanced up as Zoro approached.
“Oh look who’s finally gracing us with his presence! Got lost on the way?,” she said, raising an eyebrow. Then she fully took Zoro in, and a frown formed on her face. “You look like you got hit by a truck.”
“Fight,” Zoro grunted, sliding into the booth beside Luffy. “Won. Got paid. End of story.”
Luffy swallowed his mouthful of food and grinned. “Nice! Did you beat the crap out of some big guy?”
Zoro only nodded and smiled at him, grabbing a menu from the table. He didn’t feel like talking about the fight, but Luffy’s enthusiasm was hard to ignore.
Usopp leaned forward, his eyes wide with curiosity. “Was it one of your underground fights? I heard those are brutal. Did you see anyone get knocked out cold?”
Zoro shrugged. “Yeah, the one I knocked out cold.”
Nami rolled her eyes. “Anyway, did you guys see the news today? Reiju Vinsmoke was on, talking about how VGE is ‘committed to transparency and accountability.’” She made air quotes with her fingers, her voice dripping with sarcasm.
Zoro’s jaw tightened at the mention of Reiju. “Yeah, I saw it. Total bullshit. They don’t care about accountability. All they care about is money.”
Nami nodded, her expression serious. “I know. It’s disgusting, even I say that. Did you hear what she said about the rumors of human experimentation? She just brushed it off like it was nothing.”
Zoro began pulling on a hangnail that formed on his thumb. “She said they were ‘baseless and unfounded.’ Like they’re not out there destroying lives every damn day.”
Luffy looked up from his plate, his brow furrowed. “Who’s Reiju Vinsmoke? And why does everyone hate her?”
Nami sighed. “She’s the face of Vinsmoke Global Enterprises. They’re one of the biggest conglomerates in the world, and they’re involved in everything from biotechnology to private security. But they’re also known for their shady practices—exploiting workers, cutting corners, and basically doing whatever it takes to make a profit.”
Usopp shook his head. “Sounds like a bunch of jerks. Why doesn’t anyone stop them?”
“Because they’re rich,” Zoro said, his voice low and bitter. “And when you’re rich, you can do whatever the hell you want. No one’s going to stop them. No one can.”
The table fell silent for a moment, the weight of Zoro’s words hanging in the air. Then Luffy grinned, breaking the tension. “Well, if they ever mess with us, we’ll just kick their asses, right?”
Zoro couldn’t help but smirk. “Yeah. Something like that.”
As the conversation shifted to lighter topics, Zoro leaned back in his seat, his eyes scanning the restaurant. The Baratie was a place of warmth and life—a sanctuary in their neighborhood, beloved by all. The smell of sizzling garlic and fresh seafood filled the air, and the sound of laughter and clinking glasses was a welcome distraction from the chaos of his life. For a moment, he allowed himself to relax, the tension in his shoulders easing as he took a sip of his beer. The hardships of the day seemed to wash away with every gulp. His life was a rollercoaster of uncertainty and misfortune, but when it came to his friends? Yeah, he’d definitely lucked out on that.