Against The Law
Summary: You're Luffy's sister and you've been looking for your older brother when you bumped into his pink haired friend...
Song: Needed Me - Rihanna
Author’s note: I've loved this man ever since Season 1! 😝 Please like, reblog and share this! 🎂🫶
The docks of Loguetown smelled like salt and secrets. You pressed your back against the damp wood of a fishmonger’s stall, fingers digging into the grain as you watched him—pink hair catching the late afternoon sun like a beacon. Koby.
The name flickered in the mind of the drunkard you’d cornered an hour ago, his thoughts sloshing with sake and misplaced bravado.
Luffy’s friend, he’d slurred, before his mind betrayed him with images of the boy trembling before Alvida’s fists. You swallowed the memory like bile.
The bar stank of sweat and spilled liquor, the floorboards sticky beneath your boots as you finally spotted him—Koby, slumped over a chipped countertop, fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass.
His thoughts were a tangle of guilt and longing, sharp as the knife he’d once held to his own throat.
He was in his own clothes—no longer the stiff, ill-fitting uniform of a Marine recruit, but a loose cotton shirt rolled up at the sleeves, the fabric clinging to the sweat at the small of his back.
You could see the tremor in his hands, the way his pulse jumped under his skin when he caught sight of you in the grimy mirror behind the bartender.
Pretty. The word was a startled exhale in his mind, bright and unguarded. It shouldn’t have surprised you—you’d heard worse, filthier things whispered behind your back—but this was different. Soft. Honest.
His fingers twitched against the glass, knuckles whitening—not in fear, but something sharper, sweeter. The realization hit you like a misplaced step on a swaying deck: he didn’t recognize you.
Not your face, not the bounty posters plastered on every Marine outpost from East Blue to the Grand Line. His thoughts were warm honey, slow and thick with drink, and entirely fixated on the curve of your mouth.
You tilted your head, letting the dim lantern light catch the silver hoops in your ears—the ones stolen from a Navy commodore’s private stash last winter. His breath hitched.
The bartender slammed another bottle down between you, but Koby didn’t reach for it. His pulse was a wild thing under his skin, and you could taste the salt of his sweat in the air between you, mingling with the citrus tang of his cheap cologne.
The way he sat too straight, the way his fingers twitched toward a nonexistent sword belt.
His mind flashed with images of a too-small bunk, the ache of fresh bruises from training, the sour taste of shame when the other cadets laughed at his pink hair.
"Sorry for—for staring, Miss," Koby stammered, his voice cracking on the last word. His knuckles whitened around the glass, condensation dripping onto his wrist—cool, then warm, then gone as his skin absorbed it.
His thoughts were a collision of contradictions: the instinctive recoil from your proximity warring with the way his breath quickened when your knee brushed his under the bar.
"It's alright," you murmured, tapping a finger against your own glass—water, untouched. His mind flinched at the lie even before you said it, guilt flaring like a match struck too close to gunpowder.
He was drunk enough to blush but sober enough to hate himself for it, and you could taste the self-loathing curling through his synapses like smoke.
"I—I didn’t mean to—" he started, then stopped, shaking his head as if the motion could dislodge the words stuck in his throat. His fingers twitched toward his glass again, but you caught his wrist before he could retreat, your thumb pressing into the frantic flutter of his pulse.
His thoughts short-circuited—a burst of static, heat, the dizzying scent of your perfume cutting through the bar’s stale air.
My name is Koby, he thought, absurdly formal, as if you hadn’t already plucked it from the drunkard’s memories an hour ago.
His mental voice was clearer than his slurred speech, crisp with military precision despite the alcohol blurring his edges. You smirked, tracing the calluses on his palm—sword calluses, fresh but uneven, the kind earned through desperate practice rather than polished drills.
"You—you’re not from here," he managed, words tripping over each other. His mind supplied the rest: You’re not safe here. The irony curled your lips.
The bartender’s thoughts dripped with recognition, his fingers inching toward the den den mushi under the counter. You let him. Let them all see.
"My name is Koby," he blurted, too loud, like he’d been holding it back. His thoughts screamed at him—idiot, she didn’t ask—but his mouth kept moving. "I’m—I was—"
A sudden flash of memory hit you like a backhand: girls in Marine uniforms whispering pink-haired freak behind their hands, their laughter sharp as cut glass. His hands clenched around nothing, phantom pain radiating from where he’d yanked his own hair in frustration.
"My name is Ria," you lied, watching his pupils dilate—not with suspicion, but with something softer, something stupid. The lie tasted like ashes on your tongue, but his mind lapped it up like fresh water.
Ria, Ria, Ria, his thoughts echoed, syllables clumsy with alcohol and longing.
You reached out, fingers grazing the pink strands at his temple. His breath stopped. His thoughts stopped. The entire bar might as well have collapsed into the sea for all he noticed.
"I like your hair," you murmured, softer than you'd ever spoken to anyone. His mind went blank—not the usual static of drunkenness, but a perfect, stunned silence.
Then, like a tide rushing in: No one's ever—not like that—not without— You pulled back before the ache in his chest could become your own.
You felt a little bad for taking advantage of a drunk guy—but you needed to find Luffy. The guilt tasted like cheap rum in the back of your throat. His thoughts were so open, so easy, spilling between your fingers like sand.
You could've plucked the location of your brother from his mind in seconds, but instead you were tracing the nervous sweat at his collarbone, watching his pulse jump like a hooked fish.
Koby leaned into your touch before he caught himself, jerking back like you'd burned him.
"S-sorry, I—" His fingers tangled in his own shirt, knuckles whitening. The bartender's den den mushi clicked. You didn't flinch. Let them come. Let them try.
"You're looking for someone too," you said, not a question. His pupils blew wide. The realization crashed through his drunken haze—she knows, she knows—but before he could panic, you pressed your palm flat against his chest, right over the frantic rabbit-kick of his heart.
"Tell me about him." His breath hitched. His mind fractured into a dozen half-formed confessions—Luffy, the boy who saved me, the boy who's going to save the world—
"Hey boy! You should give us that girl and run!" a drunk man yelled, his words thick as molasses. The bar erupted into laughter, chairs scraping as patrons turned to leer.
Koby stiffened, his fingers twitching toward his empty hip—where his sword would've been if he hadn't hanged his clothes to seem normal.
Koby cursed himself—his tongue clumsy with liquor, his vision swimming—for drinking too much. How could he protect you when his knees threatened to buckle?
His thoughts sharpened abruptly, slicing through the alcohol haze: Move. Stand. Shield her. But his body betrayed him, swaying like a storm-tossed mast as he tried to push off the stool.
You sighed, rolling your eyes at the drunkard's leer—his mind a slurry of crude fantasies. Koby's breath hitched when you stepped closer to the threat, not away, your shoulder brushing his.
"W-wait—" he slurred, but you were already tilting your head, letting the drunkard's gaze catch on the silver hoops in your ears—the ones stolen from a Navy commodore’s corpse.
The drunkard's grin faltered when you smiled back, slow and venomous. Koby's stomach dropped as your fingers curled around the neck of a broken bottle—no, no, she shouldn't have to——but then his own hand shot out, gripping your wrist.
His palm was sweaty, trembling, but his voice, when it came, was steel: "Don't."
The bar went silent. Even the drunkard froze. Koby didn't know where the word had come from—only that the thought of you hurting for him made his ribs splinter.
His pulse hammered against your skin like a trapped bird. You could see the memory flickering behind his eyes—Alvida's fist, the coppery taste of his own blood, the way he'd once prayed for someone, anyone, to stop her. And now here he was, trying to stop you.
The irony burned your tongue. You'd killed men for less than this drunkard's leer, their thoughts slick with intentions you'd carved out of their skulls before they could act. But Koby didn't know that. Koby thought you were just a girl in a bar.
The drunkard lunged. You moved faster. The bottle shattered against his temple with a wet crack, glass raining onto the sawdust floor. Koby gasped—not at the violence, but at the way your fingers didn't shake.
The drunkard crumpled, blood pooling around his head like a grotesque halo. You stepped over him, kicking aside his limp hand as it twitched toward your ankle.
"Oops," you deadpanned, meeting Koby's horrified stare. His mind was a white-noise scream: She's done this before.
The bartender's den den mushi shrieked. Koby flinched, his training screaming Marines incoming—but you just sighed, wiping your hands on your thighs.
"You should run," you said, softer than the situation warranted. You nudged the unconscious drunk with your boot. "He'll live," you lied. Koby's breath hitched—he didn't know you could do that, either.
The door burst open with a splintering crack. A lanky figure stumbled in, his ridiculous blond undercut haloed by the dying sunlight. Helmeppo.
His thoughts were a shrill cacophony—father's disgrace, Koby's fault, why does everyone always look at him instead of me— before they zeroed in on the bloodied drunk.
His face twisted. "K-Koby?" His voice cracked mid-syllable, sword rattling in its scabbard as he took in the scene—you, glass in hand, Koby swaying like a drunkard between you and the unconscious man.
Koby's mind short-circuited. No no no not him not now— His hands flew up, palms out, as if he could physically push Helmeppo's accusations away. "It's n-not what it—"
His tongue betrayed him, words collapsing under the weight of Helmeppo's sneer. You watched, fascinated, as Helmeppo's gaze darted between Koby's flushed face and your unruffled calm.
His thoughts curdled with jealousy—always getting the pretty ones, always making me look bad—
Koby's breath hitched. His mind was a wildfire—she's toying with him, she's not even scared, she's——and then his body moved before his brain could catch up. He stumbled forward, grabbing your wrist with drunken desperation.
"We have to go," he hissed, his voice raw with something that wasn't just alcohol. Outside, the first Marine shout echoed off the docks. Helmeppo's sword trembled.
You let Koby pull you backward, his fingers burning against your skin, his thoughts screaming please please please like a prayer.
You three ran through the back—past the shattered kegs and the stinking fish guts, past the startled cook who dropped his cleaver mid-chop. Koby's grip was iron-tight, his pulse hammering against your wrist like a caged animal.
Helmeppo tripped over his own boots, cursing, his thoughts a shrill why am I following them why why why— but his feet kept moving, chasing Koby's pink hair through the gloom like a beacon.
The alley narrowed, walls pressing in like ribs, the stench of rotting fruit thick enough to taste.
Koby's knee buckled as you rounded a corner. He caught himself against a rain barrel, gasping, his free hand pressed to his ribs like he could physically hold his guilt inside.
His mind was a carousel of horrors—*court martial, dishonorable discharge—but beneath it all, a single thought burned brighter: *her*.
You watched, fascinated, as Helmeppo skidded to a stop behind you, his polished boots slipping in the muck. His gaze flickered between your clasped hands and Koby's flushed face, his lip curling.
"You—you idiot," Helmeppo spat, but his voice cracked halfway through, the insult landing limp as a dead fish. His thoughts writhed—father will skin me alive, why does Koby always get the pretty criminals——before he jerked his chin toward the harbor.
"M-Marine patrol's circling the docks. We—" He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing.
His fingers twitched toward his sword, but the blade stayed sheathed. Koby's breath came in ragged bursts, his fingers tightening around yours like he'd forgotten how to let go.
You shouldn't let them get in trouble. You let go of his hand, whispered "see you soon" into his ear before leaving—three words, warm as a knife between ribs. Koby's pulse stuttered against your lips.
His fingers flexed around empty air, his thoughts a silent, desperate wait— but you were already stepping back, melting into the shadows between crates. Helmeppo's shout died in his throat as you vanished, his mind skidding to a halt—how'd she do that, where'd she—
The alley stank of brine and rotting lemons. Koby swayed, blinking at the space where you'd stood, his palm still tingling. His thoughts were a shipwreck—Ria, Ria, Ria— but beneath the drunken haze, something sharpened: the realization that he'd never asked which way you'd gone.
Helmeppo grabbed his arm, yanking him toward the harbor lights. "Move, moron," he hissed, but his grip was shaky, his thoughts a frantic loop—don't let her leave.
Koby woke to a headache like a cannonball to the skull and the taste of salt on his lips. The dreams—your dreams—had been relentless: your fingers tracing his jaw, your laughter muffled against his throat.
His shared quarters were empty, the other bunks neatly made. The alarm clock glared 10:03 AM—two hours past muster.
His stomach lurched. The sheets smelled like citrus and gunpowder, a ghost of you clinging to the cotton.
Helmeppo would be furious.
The thought barely registered as Koby pressed his palms to his throbbing temples. Fragments of last night surfaced like debris after a storm—your smirk in the lantern light, the shattered bottle, the way you'd vanished between blinks.
His fingers twitched toward his hip, where his sword should be. The scabbard hung empty on the bedpost.
His stomach dropped. No no no—
Koby was halfway into his uniform—shirt misbuttoned, belt dangling—when the door creaked open. Captain Brannew's silhouette filled the frame, his thoughts a clipped monotone of disciplinary reports and wasted potential.
"Recruit Koby," he said, voice drier than the desert kingdom reports piled on his desk. "You were assigned to patrol with Helmeppo at 0800."
Koby's throat clicked. Brannew's gaze flicked over the wrinkled sheets, the empty scabbard, the way Koby's fingers trembled on his collar. "Helmeppo's already docked. You're with me today."
The unspoken don't embarrass me lingered like gun smoke.
It was him and a few new recruits surveying Loguetown, after the move Luffy pulled at the executioner station—new pirates would feel confident, bold, stupid.
The scaffold's shadow stretched long across the plaza, and Koby's skin prickled with the memory of the Straw Hat laughter. The recruits chattered about increased patrols, their minds buzzing with rookie bravado. Koby kept his eyes on the rooftops, where the sea wind caught laundry lines like surrender flags.
The marketplace stank of overripe fruit and fish guts, the same stench from last night's alley. Koby's boots stuck to the cobblestones—blood or molasses, he couldn't tell.
A vendor's cart overturned with a clatter, and his hand flew to his absent sword hilt. The recruits snickered, their thoughts sharp as cutlasses—look at the pink-haired freak, still jumpy from his bender—
Brannew cleared his throat. Koby's cheeks burned. He could still feel your fingers between his, the way you'd pressed "see you soon" into his skin like a brand.
Then the air split. A cannonball tore through the fruit stands, sending splinters and melon pulp raining down. Koby hit the ground hard, his ribs screaming—where's Brannew, where are the recruits—
Through the smoke, figures swarmed the square: the Saw-Tooth Pirates, their grins glinting with gold-capped teeth. Koby rolled behind a shattered cart as cutlasses bit into wood where his head had been.
His fingers closed around a fallen Marine's sword—the grip slick with sweat or blood—and his muscles remembered before his mind did. The first pirate lunged. Koby's parry rang through the square like a bell tolling.
The sword felt wrong in his hands—too heavy, too blunt—but the pirate's eyes widened anyway. Koby didn't realize he'd slashed until the man staggered back, clutching his thigh.
The scent of iron flooded his sinuses, and for a horrifying second, he was back in Alvida's brig, tasting his own blood.
Then a shadow loomed—a giant with an anchor for a hand—and Koby's knees locked. The recruits were screaming somewhere. Brannew's voice cut through the chaos—fall back!—but Koby's feet stayed rooted.
Koby fought. Not like the polished drills in the yard, but ugly, desperate—elbow to a throat, hilt to a nose, boots slipping in melon pulp. The anchor grazed his ribs, and white-hot pain seared his vision.
He tasted salt and panic, heard Helmeppo's shrill KOBY! from the rooftops. His sword shattered against the giant's shoulder, but the man roared—good enough—and Koby ducked, grabbing a fallen cutlass.
The blade bit deep into the pirate's calf, and the world tilted as the giant crashed down, splintering crates beneath him.
Smoke stung his eyes. Someone was sobbing. Koby's uniform clung to his back, soaked through with sweat and something stickier. He turned—just in time to see the sniper's rifle flash from the clocktower. Time slowed.
The bullet would hit Brannew square between the shoulders. Koby's body moved before his mind could scream no—shoving the captain down, the shot grazing his own bicep.
Brannew's shocked gasp was drowned by the sniper's curse. The recruits' thoughts were a chorus of holy shit holy shit—
Brannew's fingers dug into Koby's wrist, hauling him behind a toppled cart. His nostrils flared at the coppery scent of Koby's blood. "You're dismissed, recruit," he hissed—but his grip was firm, his mind flashing with insubordinate idiot, reckless, brave— Koby blinked.
The captain's sword pressed into his palm, still warm from the fight. Brannew's jaw tightened. "Go."
Koby didn't argue. The docks were chaos—cannon fire splitting the air, smoke swallowing the harbor whole. He ran, boots slipping on fish guts, his ribs screaming with every step. The Marines wouldn't know about the attack yet—not this far from HQ, not with comms jammed by the sniper's interference.
A bomb detonated two streets over, shattering windows. Koby ducked into an alley, his back hitting damp brick as gunfire peppered the wall above his head. The air reeked of gunpowder and brine, his pulse hammering against his teeth.
Footsteps splashed through puddles behind him. Koby spun, sword raised—only to freeze at the glint of silver hoops in the gloom. Your smile was a knife-slash in the shadows.
"Miss me?" you murmured, stepping into the sliver of light between crates. His breath hitched. Your knuckles were split, your shirt streaked with soot—but your eyes were bright, pupils blown wide with adrenaline.
The sniper's bullet lodged in the brick beside your head didn't even make you flinch.
Koby's sword arm wavered. His mind short-circuited—you're here, you're real, you're dangerous—but his body leaned forward anyway, drawn like a compass needle. Your fingers brushed his bleeding bicep, sticky with sweat and gun smoke.
"You're hurt," you said, soft as a secret. His thoughts stuttered. Your thumb smeared his blood across your lower lip, and Koby's knees nearly gave out. "Let me help."
You took the bandana tied from your arm and pressed it to his wound without ceremony. Koby gasped at the sting, his fingers twitching toward yours. The fabric was rough, salt-crusted from the sea, but your hands were steady.
"Hold this," you ordered, guiding his palm over the makeshift bandage. His pulse jumped under your touch, wild and feverish. The sniper's next shot ricocheted off the alley wall, sending chips of brick raining down. You didn't flinch.
"They're after me," you said, ducking as another bullet whizzed overhead. Koby's grip tightened on the sword Brannew had given him, knuckles whitening. "I didn't want to join their crew—remember the guys in the bar?"
His breath hitched. The memory of the drunkard's shattered bottle flashed behind his eyes, the way you'd moved like water over glass. The sniper's laughter echoed from the rooftops, too close.
Koby's mouth went dry. His training screamed retreat, regroup—but his body swayed toward you instead, drawn by the heat of your fingers still laced through his. "Wh-what do you—"
The words died as you yanked him sideways, just as an arrow embedded itself where his shoulder had been. The fletching quivered, painted with Saw-Tooth red.
Your lips curled. "Told you," you murmured, your breath warm against his jaw.
"Let's get you somewhere safe, Koby," you said, dragging him into the maze of crates stacked along the wharf. His pulse rabbited under your grip—half terror, half something he didn't dare name.
Suddenly you turned a corner and pushed against a section of weathered brick that looked no different from the rest. Koby gasped as the wall gave way with a groan, revealing a narrow tunnel slick with algae.
"It's a secret pathway to HQ," you said, flashing him a grin sharp enough to draw blood. His mind short-circuited—how does she know Marine secrets, who IS she——but the sniper's next shot shattered a crate behind you, sending splinters flying.
You shoved him inside, your palm flat between his shoulder blades. The tunnel smelled of damp earth and gunpowder, the air thick with the hum of distant den den mushi chatter.
Koby's boots slipped on the slime-coated stones, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Whose side are you on?" he blurted, voice cracking.
Your laughter echoed off the walls, low and dangerous. "Whose side are you on, Marine?" you countered, stepping so close he could count the flecks of gold in your eyes.
The sniper's curses faded behind you as the false wall clicked shut, plunging you both into near-darkness. Koby's sword trembled in his grip—pointed at your throat, but his thoughts were already surrendering.
"That—that is not of your business, Koby," you murmured, plucking the sword from his slack fingers with a flick of your wrist. His breath hitched as you pressed the blade back into his scabbard, your fingers lingering on the hilt longer than necessary.
The tunnel shuddered with another distant explosion, dust raining from the ceiling. He could feel the warmth of your thigh pressed against his, smell the citrus-and-gunpowder scent clinging to your skin.
Koby's pulse roared in his ears. His training manuals never covered this—the way your teeth flashed in the dim light when you grinned, the way your knee brushed his as you leaned in.
"You wanted to know about Luffy. Why?" he said, the words tumbling out before he could choke them back.
You hesitated—an odd sensation when you'd spent your entire life reading minds like open books. The tunnel's damp air clung to your skin as you studied Koby's face, the way his pupils dilated even in the gloom.
His thoughts were a storm of conflicting impulses—Marine protocol screaming interrogate the pirate while his fingers twitched toward your wrist like a drowning man reaching for driftwood.
"I don't have to tell you anything," you said, shifting sideways—but Koby moved faster, his palm slapping against the moss-slick wall beside your head.
The impact sent a shower of grit onto your shoulders. His breath hitched, as surprised as you were by his own boldness. His sleeve brushed your cheek, the fabric still damp with harbor mist and his own blood. For the first time, he was initiating contact instead of recoiling from it.
"I just want to know if you're a friend or a foe to my friend," Koby said, voice steadier than it had any right to be. His fingers flexed near your temple, not touching but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin.
His pulse jumped in his throat—visible even in the tunnel's gloom. "I don't care for anything more." The lie tasted bitter in his mouth; you could taste it too, metallic as the blood still seeping through his bandage.
"I'm a close friend to him," you murmured, watching Koby's breath hitch at the admission. His thoughts stuttered—she knows Luffy? How? When?—before settling into something softer, almost wounded. "I haven't seen him in years," you added, softer still.
His fingers twitched against the wall, knuckles whitening. The truth of it ached between your ribs—how long had it been since you'd seen your brother's grin, heard his laugh? Too long.
Dawn Island burned—burned—in your memories, the smell of smoke still clinging to your nightmares. Koby's breath hitched. His thoughts flickered—images of Luffy's straw hat bobbing on the waves, his voice shouting promises to the wind—before locking onto your face with sudden, startling clarity.
"Really? He never mentioned anything," he whispered, voice cracking on the last word.
Koby's fingers dug into the damp brick behind you, his knuckles whitening. The scent of gunpowder clung to his sleeves, mixing with the salt-sweat on his skin.
His thoughts were a frantic scramble—she's lying, she can't be, Luffy wouldn't keep secrets—but beneath the panic, something else flickered: recognition.
"He was too young," you said, your voice barely louder than the drip of seawater echoing through the tunnel. Koby's breath hitched. "Too young to remember me properly."
You didn't know why you were telling him this—why you were confessing family wounds to a Marine recruit in a smuggler's tunnel that reeked of algae and desperation.
Yesterday, he'd been a stranger with pink hair and shaking hands; today, his blood stained your fingers. His pulse hammered against your wrist where you still pressed the makeshift bandage to his arm.
"He saved me from Alvida," Koby started, voice cracking like thin ice underfoot. His fingers twitched against the damp brick, tracing phantom bruises along his ribs. "Then we saved the pirate hunter Roronoa Zoro before leaving him."
The words tumbled out—half confession, half plea—as if naming Luffy's deeds could conjure him between you in this dripping tunnel.
You watched the memories flicker behind Koby's eyes: Luffy's grin splitting the dawn, Zoro's blades flashing, the way the sea had smelled that morning—salt and hope and something dangerously like freedom.
"I'm happy he's alright," you murmured, fingers brushing Koby's wrist where his pulse rabbited. His skin was fever-hot under your touch. "Do you know where he went?"
Koby swayed suddenly, his pupils dilating unevenly as his knees buckled.
The bullet—you realized with a jolt—had been poisoned. His thoughts dissolved into hazy fragments, memories of Luffy's laughter blending with the drip of seawater until everything blurred at the edges.
His fingers scrabbled at the mossy wall, nails digging grooves in the slime as his breath came in wet, labored gasps. "I—I think I'm—" His tongue dragged over the words like they weighed a thousand pounds.
You caught him before he could faceplant into the algae-slick stones, his body heavy and limp against yours. His thoughts were dissolving into nonsense—Luffy's face morphing into yours, the taste of seawater mixing with the copper tang of blood.
You pressed two fingers to his jugular; his pulse stuttered under your touch, erratic as a storm-tossed ship. The sniper's arrow must have been laced with something vicious—sea prism dust, maybe, or worse.
The tunnel spun around you as Koby's weight dragged you both downward.
His breath hit your neck in shallow puffs, his fingers twitching against your ribs like he was still trying to hold himself upright even as consciousness slipped away.
"Stay with me, pinkie," you hissed, shaking him harder than necessary. His eyelids fluttered—still fighting, still stubborn—before finally sliding shut.
The poison worked fast. You could see it in the unnatural pallor of his lips, the way his veins darkened beneath his skin like ink spreading in water. The sniper's laughter echoed faintly through the stone passage, closer now.
You pressed your ear to Koby's chest—his heartbeat stuttered like a dying engine—and made a decision.
Koby woke in the infirmary this time, feeling way better. "Ria," he muttered, looking around. No Ria. Just sterile white sheets and the antiseptic sting of iodine in the air.
His bandaged arm throbbed, but his thoughts were startlingly clear—clear enough to remember the press of your fingers against his throat, the exact moment your pupils had dilated with something like panic before the world went black.
Outside the window, smoke curled over Loguetown's rooftops. The sheets beside him were rumpled, still warm, and when he lifted his hand, his fingers came away sticky with something that wasn't blood—citrus and gunpowder.
He couldn't really remember anything that happened after the sewer tunnel. Just flashes: your knee digging into his ribs as you hauled him upright, the taste of your lips against his when you forced some bitter liquid down his throat—medicine or poison, he still wasn't sure.
His head pounded with the ghost of your fingers in his hair, gripping hard enough to hurt as you'd hissed stay awake, damn you.
Koby hoped you were okay. Hoped you'd found Luffy—or at least gotten far enough from Loguetown that the Marines couldn't catch your scent.
The thought of you in chains made his stomach twist worse than the poison had. He flexed his fingers against the stiff infirmary sheets, half-expecting to find your stolen bandana still knotted around his wrist.
Gone. Just like you.
He still didn't know who you were. He hadn't seen any wanted posters of you—had combed through every bounty notice in the infirmary's discarded newspapers—but he knew, with the same certainty he knew the sea's pull, that you weren't some civilian caught in the crossfire.
The way you'd moved—fluid as a blade through water—the way the sniper's arrows hadn't so much as grazed you.
Normal girls didn't smile at bloodshed. Normal girls didn't press their mouths to a dying Marine's just to force-feed him an antidote stolen from God knows where.
The door crashed open with a splintering crack, and Helmeppo stumbled in, his ridiculous undercut slick with sweat. His gaze flicked to Koby's bandages, then away—too quick, like he'd been caught staring.
"K-Koby!" he blurted, voice cracking mid-syllable. "They're saying—they're saying you took down a hundred pirates with Captain Brannew's sword!" His fingers twitched toward his own scabbard, empty now, the blade confiscated after the dockside brawl.
Koby's stomach dropped. The lie tasted like bile—he hadn't even drawn his sword, had barely managed to stay upright after you'd shoved him into that tunnel.
His fingers curled into the sheets, the phantom weight of your hand still burning against his ribs. "I didn't—" he started, but Helmeppo barreled on, his voice rising with each word.
He knew you did it. The realization hit him like a cannonball—the way the infirmary walls still smelled faintly of citrus and gunpowder, the way his bandages were tied in that peculiar knot sailors used.
Your fingers had been here, tightening these very strips of cloth while he'd fought to stay conscious. His pulse jumped at the memory of your breath against his temple, the way you'd growled don't you dare die on me like it was a personal insult.
Helmeppo's mouth kept moving, spewing some nonsense about promotions and commendations, but Koby wasn't listening. His gaze fixed on the window—on the thin strip of harbor visible between the infirmary curtains.
There was then a knock—three sharp raps that made Helmeppo jump—and Koby said to come in. The door swung open with a groan, revealing Marine Vice Admiral Garp's hulking silhouette.
Koby couldn't tell what his expression was; the old man's face was shadowed by his cap, his mouth hidden beneath that ridiculous mustache.
Garp jerked his chin at Helmeppo. "Out," he grunted. No room for argument. Helmeppo fled like a startled crab, his boots squeaking on the polished floor.
Garp sank into the vacated chair with a sigh that made the bedframe creak. For a long moment, he just stared at Koby's bandages, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm against his knee.
"You met her," he said finally, voice rough as gravel. Not a question. Koby's pulse stuttered. Garp's gaze lifted, sharp as a blade, and Koby suddenly understood why the man was legendary—those eyes saw everything.
"My granddaughter."
The words hung between them, heavy as cannonfire. Koby's mouth went dry. Granddaughter.
The truth clicked into place with brutal clarity—the silver hoops stolen from a commodore's corpse, the way you'd moved like water through violence, the same reckless glint Luffy got in his eye before swinging fists.
Garp's chuckle was low, humorless. "She's got her mother's temper," he muttered, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "And her father's damned stubbornness."
Garp raised a crumpled wanted poster between them, the paper stiff with dried seawater.
Monkey D. Y/N - DEAD OR ALIVE - 500,000,000 Berries.
The sketch was outdated—your hair shorter, your smile sharper—but unmistakable. Koby's fingers twitched against the sheets.
Ria had been a lie, but the way you'd whispered it against his collarbone felt more real than his own heartbeat now. Garp's thumb obscured the bounty's alias: "The Insight Devil."
The old man's sigh rattled the medicine bottles on the nightstand. "She ate that damned fruit young," he said, watching Koby's face with unsettling focus. "Sees straight through people. Makes it hard to…" His calloused fingers crumpled the poster's edge. "Trust."
The unspoken truth lingered—you'd seen every filthy thought in Koby's drunken mind, every cowardly tremor, and still took care of him when he was bleeding out.
Garp threw something on Koby's bed—your bandana, the same one from the bounty sketch, still reeking of gunpowder and citrus.
"That was how I knew," Garp muttered, turning toward the window where dawn painted the smoke pink. "Y/N loves that bandana more than anything. And now you have it."
The fabric pooled in Koby's lap like a accusation, the embroidered edge frayed where you'd clearly ripped it free in haste.
Koby's fingers shook as he lifted the cloth. The stains were fresh—blood, his or yours, he couldn't tell—but beneath the copper tang, he caught the ghost of your scent. His pulse jumped. Garp's chuckle was grim.
"She left it wrapped around your shoulder when she dumped you here," he said, thumbing the bandana's torn edge. "Like a damn calling card."
Outside, seagulls screamed over the harbor. The bandana's fabric was still warm, as if you'd only just slipped it from your throat. Koby's breath hitched—he could see it now, you leaning over him in some shadowy corner of Loguetown's underbelly, fingers fumbling with the knot as Marines closed in.
The realization burned: you'd left him your most prized possession knowing Garp would find it. Knowing he'd understand. The old Marine's grin was all teeth. "Welcome to the family, brat."
Koby's pulse hammered against his ribs. Garp's boot tapped an impatient rhythm against the floorboards—three quick raps, just like the knock that had heralded his arrival.
"We'll be leaving to the Marine Headquarters today," Garp said before leaving, his voice rough as gravel. The chair groaned as he stood, his shadow swallowing the infirmary's sterile light.
Koby's fingers clenched around the bandana. Headquarters meant discipline. Debriefing. Distance from the smoky alleyways where your laughter still echoed.
The door clicked shut behind Garp, but the old man's presence lingered like gunpowder residue. Koby pressed the fabric to his nose—citrus, blood, and beneath it all, the salt-sting of the sea.
Your sea. Somewhere out there, you were hunting Luffy with the same single-minded fury that had carved a half-billion berry bounty onto your back. The bandana's edge was frayed where you'd bitten through the threads in haste.
Down the hall, Helmeppo's shrill voice rose in protest. Koby didn't flinch. His fingers moved on their own, knotting the bandana around his wrist with sailor's precision.
The fabric clung to his skin like a second pulse. Outside the window, the Rising Dawn's sails unfurled—Garp's ship, and now his.
Somewhere beyond the horizon, you were running. Koby closed his eyes and let the sea's pull answer the question burning through his veins: which of you was the hunter now?
As soon as he got discharged, he went to his room to pack his belongings, ignoring the jealous stress of the other recruits. Their whispers slithered under the door—Garp's favorite, the Hero of Loguetown.
Koby went to wash your bandana afterward, scrubbing the bloodstains from the fabric with shaking hands until the basin ran pink. He couldn't tell if the stains were his or yours—just that the water smelled like gunpowder and salt when he wrung it out.
Then he left Headquarters without telling anyone, the cloth knotted tight around his wrist like a promise.
The docks were quieter now, the air thick with the aftermath of smoke and spilled liquor. Koby's boots scuffed the same fishmonger's stall where you'd first watched him—back when he was just Luffy's friend and not the boy who'd held your secrets in his bruised hands.
His fingers traced the grain of the wood, still damp from last night's rain, and wondered if your fingertips had lingered here too.
He looked for you for two hours before he was about to give up—scouring every smuggler's tunnel and brothel, every rooftop where the seagulls screamed like bounty hunters.
Then he bumped into you at the mouth of a salt-stained alley, your shoulder knocking his with the same deliberate carelessness as that first night in the bar.
Your breath hitched—just once—before you schooled your face into something neutral, but your pulse jumped under his fingers when he caught your wrist.
"You're alive," he breathed, like he hadn't believed it until this moment.
"You're not dead, thank god," you muttered, more to yourself than him, eyes flicking over the fresh bandages peeking from his collar.
His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist—just once—and you both froze. His thoughts were a mess of half-formed sentences and jagged memories: the infirmary ceiling, Garp's gravelly voice saying granddaughter, the way your bandana had smelled like gunpowder when he woke.
The alley smelled of rotting fish and damp wood, the same as that first night, but now his fingers trembled against your skin for entirely different reasons.
You could see the questions stacking up behind his ribs—why did you leave, why did you save me, who are you really.
"You lied," Koby blurted, voice cracking halfway through. His grip tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel real. The accusation hung between you, raw as the fresh scar under his bandages.
Your pulse stuttered under his fingers. You could taste the citrus-bitter sting of his thoughts—granddaughter, bounty, Insight Devil—but beneath it, something softer, warmer: Ria, Ria, Ria.
The bandana slid from his wrist to yours, the fabric still damp from his scrubbing.
"I had to. You were a Marine," you said, voice ragged as the torn edge of your bandana. His breath hitched—not at the lie, but at the truth beneath it: you'd seen every cowardly tremor in his soul and stayed anyway.
Koby blinked. His fingers hovered near your elbow, hesitant—a Marine recruit touching a pirate was treason, but the way his pulse jumped said he'd already crossed that line.
"You thought I would take you in?" His voice cracked on the last word, the accusation crumbling mid-sentence. His mind flashed with images of Garp's crumpled bounty poster, the way your alias—The Insight Devil—had burned his tongue.
"I knew you wouldn't," you murmured, turning your wrist so the bandana's frayed edge caught the light. His breath hitched as your fingers brushed his palm—a ghost touch, gone before he could lean into it. "Your thoughts never hinted at it."
The lie tasted like seawater—sharp, briny. You'd seen the moment his training warred with his want, the way his fingers had twitched toward his empty scabbard before curling into fists at his sides.
But his thoughts now were all warm honey and broken glass: stay, run, tell her.
Koby's throat worked. The alley's shadows painted his collarbone in stripes where his uniform gaped—fresh blood speckled the bandages beneath. His pulse jumped when you traced the stain with your thumb, the fabric stiff with iodine and salt.
"You—" His voice cracked. "You could've left me there." His fingers twitched toward your ribs, stopping just short of the knife strapped there.
The blade was still crusted with sewer filth from where you'd carved through the Marine cordon to haul him out.
You inhaled sharply—just once—before your palm flattened against his sternum, pushing him back with deliberate gentleness. His pulse hammered beneath your fingertips, frantic as a bird caught in a storm.
"You're one of Luffy's friends," you said, softer now, voice fraying at the edges like your stolen bandana. "I couldn't let you die."
Koby swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing against your knuckles. The alleyway's shadows pooled in the hollow of his throat, turning his skin the same bruised purple as your fading fingerprints.
"But—but I'm a Marine," he stammered, fingers tightening around your wrist—not to restrain, just to feel the jump of your pulse beneath his thumb.
You laughed—sharp, bitter—and the sound made him flinch. "And I'm a pirate," you said, voice dropping low as a knife sliding between ribs.
His thoughts splintered against your consciousness: wrong wrong wrong she's Luffy's sister she's Garp's blood—
"Doesn't change what I saw in your head when you thought you were dying." His breath hitched. You leaned in, close enough to taste the salt on his lips. "You didn't wanted me to leave."
Silence stretched between you, taut as a sniper's bowstring. Somewhere above, a seagull shrieked—a Marine patrol rounding the docks.
Koby's fingers trembled against your ribs where the knife lay sheathed. His voice came out cracked in two: "That was before I knew who you were."
You smirked, slow and dangerous, watching his pupils dilate. "Liar," you whispered, thumb brushing the fresh scar beneath his collar. His pulse leapt against your fingertips like a trapped thing. "I know what you thought when you woke up with my bandana in your hands."
Koby's breath caught—and then he heard the marines moving far towards the docks, their boots crunching gravel in perfect sync.
Your fingers twitched against his wrist, the bandana's damp fabric sticking to his skin. His grip tightened instinctively, pulling you deeper into the alley's shadows just as the patrol rounded the corner.
You tried to leave—shifted your weight onto your back foot, ready to vanish into the maze of Loguetown's underbelly—but he hauled you back with surprising strength.
His palm slammed against the salt-crusted wall beside your head, caging you in. Then his mouth crashed into yours—quick, desperate—his lips tasting of seawater and something bitter, like medicine left too long in the sun.
The kiss was clumsy—too much teeth, not enough breath—but his fingers curled into your shirt like he was drowning and you were the only air left.
You could see his thoughts, fractured and frantic—wrong wrong wrong she's a pirate she's Luffy's sister she's— but beneath the panic, something molten and undeniable. His pulse hammered against your palm where it still pressed against his chest.
You broke away first, breathing hard. His pupils were blown wide, lips swollen from the force of it. The patrol's voices grew louder—close enough to hear Helmeppo's shrill whining—but Koby didn't move.
His fingers trembled where they still gripped your waist. "You saw that," he whispered, voice raw. Not a question. The bandana around your wrist was damp with seawater now—or maybe sweat. You couldn't tell.
Outside the alley, the marines called his name. Koby flinched, but his hands stayed locked around you.
His thoughts were a storm—desertion court-martial treason—but beneath it all, one crystalline truth: not letting go.
You smirked against his jaw, tasting salt and iron where his pulse thundered. "Bad Marine," you murmured, just as Helmeppo's voice cracked around the corner—"K-Koby!"
You could see the moment he made the choice—his shoulders squaring, his breath steadying—before he shoved you deeper into the shadows with unsurprising strength.
"Go," he hissed, but his fingers lingered on your hip for one stolen second too long.
Boots pounded closer. You slipped through the gap in the crates just as Helmeppo burst into the alley, his ridiculous undercut matted with harbor filth.
Koby stood alone, shoulders heaving, the bandana knotted tight around his wrist like a battle standard. Helmeppo's gaze flicked to it—too quick, like he'd been caught staring—before his voice rose in a shrill accusation. "You—you smell like her!"
Koby denied it—too fast, voice cracking mid-sentence—and took Helmeppo away with a rough yank on his sleeve, not before taking a glance where you'd left.
His fingers lingered on the damp brick where your palm had been pressed seconds ago.
You exhaled through your teeth—slow, controlled—from your perch atop the fishmonger's awning. The bandana around your wrist still smelled like him—salt and gunpowder and something painfully earnest.
Below, Koby's thoughts were a riot of contradictions—wrong wrong wrong—but his pulse still hammered your name against his ribs.
The Rising Dawn's sails snapped taut in the harbor wind. Somewhere beyond the docks, Garp waited.
You curled your fingers around the knife at your ribs—still crusted with sewer filth—and let the sea's pull answer the question burning through your veins: how many laws had he already broken by letting you walk away?
Then time blurred—salt-stained alleys giving way to the Thousand Sunny's sun-warmed deck, Luffy's laughter ringing familiar against your ribs as he shoved meat into your hands.
His fingers were sticky with honey when he slung an arm around your shoulders, grinning wide enough to crack his face.
"Remember when—" he started, words tumbling over each other in that breathless way of his, and suddenly you were knee-deep in shared memories—stolen fruit carts, Garp's fist-shaped bruises, the way the two of you had once tied Ace's shoelaces together mid-battle.
Then Luffy paused, his mouth half-full of bread. "Oh! And Koby—" Your fingers twitched around your fork. Luffy's grin faltered.
"You know Koby?" His voice was light, but his gaze sharpened—rare focus cutting through the usual chaos.
The air between you thickened with everything you hadn't said—the bandana's frayed edge, the way Koby's pulse had jumped under your thumb when you'd traced his hair.
You forced your shoulders to relax, stabbing a piece of meat with deliberate nonchalance. "He's a Marine," you said, voice flat. Luffy's grin slipped further. His fingers curled around a fresh loaf of bread, knuckles whitening.
Then Luffy's face split into a shit-eating grin. He leaned in close, bread crumbs dusting your shoulder. "You like him," he sing-songed, voice dripping with glee. Your fork screeched against the plate. Somewhere above, seagulls screamed like they knew too much.
Luffy's knee bumped yours beneath the table—deliberate, insistent. "Koby's cool," he said through a mouthful of meat, suddenly serious.
His fingers drummed an uneven rhythm against the wood—three quick taps, just like Garp's knock. Your pulse stuttered.
"I don't—" Your fingers tightened around your fork. The lie tasted like seawater—sharp, briny.
You'd seen the way your heartbeat had stuttered when Koby's lips brushed yours in that alley, the way your fingers had lingered on his wrist when you'd stolen his breath back.
Luffy blinked at you, slow and knowing. Then he burst out laughing—loud enough to startle the gulls from the rigging—and shoved another piece of meat into your mouth.
"You're a bad liar," he said, grinning wide enough to crack his cheeks.
"It doesn't matter, he's a Marine and I'm a pirate," you said, voice flat as a blade against stone. The fork bent between your fingers—just slightly—before you forced yourself to relax.
Luffy's smile faded. He tilted his head, straw hat shadowing his eyes in that rare moment of quiet intensity. "But you saw him," he murmured softly.
You exhaled through your nose, tasting salt and iron where your teeth had bitten your cheek. Koby's thoughts had been a mess of contradictions—wrong wrong wrong—but his hands had been steady when they pulled you closer.
"Yeah," you admitted finally, voice rough as the bandana still knotted around your wrist. "I saw him."
Luffy's grin softened at the edges, something knowing in the curve of his mouth. "Koby's different," he said through a full mouth, juice dripping down his chin. "He's got that thing—that wanting." His grin turned sharp, sudden as a knife drawn in the dark. "Same as you."
The meat turned to ash in your mouth. You'd seen that wanting—the way Koby's pulse had stuttered when your fingers brushed his hair, the way his thoughts had fractured into stay run tell her like a mantra. Outside, the sea roared against the hull, relentless as the truth twisting in your ribs.
Luffy's laughter startled the gulls from the rigging again. "Imagine his face if I told him Garp was my grandpa," he crowed, slapping his knee. His grin widened as your fingers twitched around your fork. "Bet he'd really freak if he knew you were my sister."
The unspoken truth hung between you like a blade—Koby had kissed Garp's granddaughter in a filthy alley, and his hands hadn't shaken once.
You pushed away from the table, the bench scraping against the deck. "Doesn't matter," you muttered, but the bandana around your wrist suddenly felt tighter—the knot too much like the one Koby had tied with sailor's precision.
The sea stretched endlessly beyond the railing, salt-stung and merciless. Somewhere out there, Koby's ship cut through the waves, his fingers perhaps tracing the same frayed edge of memory.
The galley door banged open behind you. Nami's voice cut through the tension like a knife. "Stop antagonizing her, Luffy." Her gaze flicked to your wrist—to the bandana's telltale fray—before landing on your face with unnerving clarity. "Besides," she added, smirking as she tossed an orange from hand to hand, "we all know Marines make the worst liars."
The fruit's citrus scent sliced through the salt air, sharp as Koby's gasp when you'd bitten his lip.
Luffy's sandals slapped against the deck as he bounded after you. "Hey," he said, suddenly serious, his fingers curling around your elbow with surprising gentleness.
His straw hat cast shadows over his eyes, but his voice was clear—no laughter, no teasing. "Koby's one of the good ones." The unspoken words lingered between you, heavy as the sea's pull: he saw you, and he stayed.
Your breath hitched—just once—before you schooled your face into something neutral.
The bandana around your wrist still smelled like gunpowder and salt, the fabric frayed where Koby's teeth had caught it when he kissed you. Luffy's fingers tightened—not enough to hurt, just enough to feel real.
His grin was gone now, replaced by something sharper, fiercer. "He knows who you are," he said, voice low. "And he still—"
Luffy exhaled sharply through his nose, nostrils flaring. "You saw him," he repeated, softer now, thumb brushing the bandana's edge where it dug into your skin.
Somewhere beyond the railing, the sea roared. The Rising Dawn's sails were a speck on the horizon now—too far to make out the pink-haired boy who might've been staring back.
Luffy's grip slackened, but his gaze didn't waver. "He's waiting," he said finally, voice rough as the bandana's frayed threads.
Then, quieter: "You know he is."
Your reply caught in your throat—half-formed, sharp as the knife at your ribs. "He's a Marine," you spat instead, fingers twisting the fabric around your wrist tighter.
The words tasted like salt and gunpowder, bitter as Koby's mouth had been when you'd forced the antidote past his lips. Luffy's eyes narrowed—not in anger, but in that terrifying way he sometimes looked at you, like he could see straight through to the pulse hammering beneath your skin.
End it. That's what you should've done—left Koby bleeding in that sewer, let the Marines find him before dawn painted the smoke pink over Loguetown. You'd done it before—walked away from allies, lovers, enemies who knew too much. But your fingers still remembered the hitch in his breath when you'd pressed the bandana to his wound, the way his thoughts had fractured into don't go don't go like a prayer.
You touched your lips unconsciously, the ghost of Koby's chapped mouth still burning against yours. The memory hit you like a cannonball—the way his fingers had trembled against your ribs, not in fear but in something worse: recognition.
He'd seen you, really seen you, even after Garp's revelation. Your pulse jumped beneath your fingers, frantic as a trapped bird.
The bandana around your wrist smelled like him now—salt and gunpowder and that stupidly earnest shampoo Helmeppo probably forced on him.
You inhaled sharply, fingers tightening around the frayed edge where Koby's teeth had caught the fabric. Luffy's gaze burned into your back, his silence louder than any accusation.
The unspoken truth coiled between you like live wire: you'd kissed a Marine in a filthy alley and hadn't regretted it once. . . .
