Luffy always woke up before the sun.
The orphanage was quiet in those pale moments before dawn, the soft shuffle of early-rising staff the only sounds beyond his breathing. He lay in his bunk for a moment, eyes wide open, staring at the ceiling. The mattress springs creaked lightly as he sat up, careful not to wake the younger boy in the bed across from him.
He pressed his feet to the cold floor and whispered, "Gear Stretch: Routine." With a soft squeak, his arms extended and contracted, slow and controlled. He stretched his legs until they bent like noodles, then snapped back to normal with a bounce. The exercises had become ritual—his way of staying sharp, of preparing for the long game.
His real journey hadn't started yet.
He hadn't heard from the Archivist since the day he reincarnated. No Ava. No dramatic awakening. Just the knowledge of who he was, what he carried, and what he'd promised to become.
And so he trained. And waited.
After warming up, he padded silently to the small desk in the corner and opened his sketchbook. In the dim light, he picked up a pencil and began drawing.
Not scribbles.
Not stick figures.
But real art.
A six-panel sequence: a rubber-limbed boy bouncing off rooftops, flipping over a surprised thief, and striking a dramatic pose against the moonlit sky. Dynamic lines, perfect motion arcs, clean perspective. It was simple—but masterful.
He smiled. "Not bad."
Drawing was the one thing that felt effortless, even more than his Devil Fruit powers. His fingers, guided by the instincts of a master animator, danced over the page without hesitation. No hesitation. No mess. Each pencil stroke had purpose.
It was the one part of his old life that remained untouched, a lifeline between who he was and who he was becoming. Even if the world around him didn't yet understand.
Breakfast passed without event. Luffy didn't talk much; the other kids didn't either. They found him strange. Too quiet. Too smart. Too... off.
But during the morning art period, things changed.
Everyone else was still coloring outside the lines, scribbling with more enthusiasm than skill. Luffy, meanwhile, was hunched over his desk, sketching with sharp focus.
Today's theme was: "What kind of hero do you want to be?"
He filled a page with motion — a character mid-leap, cape fluttering, face determined. He didn't even realize how quiet the room had gotten until someone whispered:
"Whoa... did you trace that?"
He glanced up.
Three kids were peering over his shoulder.
Another said, "That's not even kid art."
A girl with curly pigtails added, "That's weird."
Luffy raised an eyebrow, then turned his head toward a new voice—calm, thoughtful.
"It's not weird," the girl said. "It's awesome."
He looked up.
She had sharp green eyes and platinum blonde hair tied into a low ponytail. Her posture was casual, but there was a spark of curiosity in the way she looked at his sketchpad.
"I'm Gwen," she said, sitting down beside him.
He blinked. "Luffy."
"That guy kinda looks like he's from a DC comic. My dad showed me some old ones with shadows and rooftop guys. Yours has that vibe."
He chuckled lightly. "You like comics?"
She nodded. "Mostly the smart, sneaky types. I dunno—something about people trying to fix things without needing laser beams is cool."
Luffy felt his chest warm a little.
"I used to draw all the time," he said.
Gwen tilted her head. "Used to? You mean, before... what, you forgot?"
He paused. "Something like that."
They sat in silence a while longer. Then Gwen pulled out her sketchpad. It was mostly stick figures, but her ideas were creative—a girl swinging through the city with smoke trails and a cool mask.
"Can you make her look better?" she asked.
He smiled. "Sure."
Within minutes, he had redrawn the girl—sleek pose, masked eyes, wind in her hair.
Gwen's eyes widened. "Dude... we should totally make something together. Like a real story."
"Yeah," he said softly. "We should."
"You know, everyone thinks you're kinda weird," she added, a mischievous grin tugging at her lips.
He grinned. "I am kinda weird."
She laughed, not cruelly, but with an ease that made him relax. For once, it didn't feel like the world was waiting to point fingers at him.
They didn't need to talk much more. The connection had been made—quiet, but strong. Gwen stayed beside him the rest of class, occasionally doodling, occasionally just watching him draw. It was the first time he didn't feel completely alone.
That night, the dorm lights flicked off. Kids snored softly in the nearby beds.
Luffy sat by the window, sketchbook in his lap.
He redrew Gwen's masked girl, then added a panel: Gwen smiling, sunlight catching her eyes, holding their shared sketch.
Every story starts with a meeting, he wrote beneath it.
He flipped to the first page of the sketchbook and carefully numbered this one: Frame 001.
He stared at it for a long while.
Then, as he placed the pencil down, he whispered, "Maybe this is where my crew begins."
A faint click echoed from his nightstand drawer.
Inside, something blinked—faint blue light pulsing.
A box.
Waiting.
He walked over and placed a hand on the drawer's handle but didn't open it. Not yet.
For now, it was enough to know something was coming.
And for the first time since being reborn into this world...
He felt ready.
He didn't know what was inside the box, but deep down, he could feel something awakening. Something important. Something promised.
Tomorrow, maybe. Tomorrow he'd open it.
But tonight, he slept with a smile on his face—and a crew member in his heart.