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Chapter Text

This was probably the last phone call Sanji had ever wanted to receive.

Or maybe not. Maybe, if he was honest, there was relief buried somewhere in the mess of it - because now it could never happen again.

What was the proper reaction, anyway, when some lawyer told you your family had been assassinated overseas? Horror? Grief? Laughter? Especially when you haven't seen them since nine years old, hadn’t even heard their voices outside of nightmares.

Was it wrong to be relieved?

Wrong to think they deserved it?

Wrong to remember the cold nights locked in that cellar and feel - finally - untouchable?

If it was wrong, then only he would know. Only he could judge himself for that.

He forced his foot down on the accelerator harder than necessary as he drove his shitbox through the winding country roads. With any luck, he'd get into a crash and die before he ever had the chance to arrive. 

But, as always, the universe was uninterested in giving him what he damn wanted.

The trees blurred past in a flurry of green and gold, the few pedestrians about walking in ignorant bliss that the people who kept him awake at night had been obliterated. Whether it was by gunshot, or stabbing, or defenestration, he had no idea. The lawyer had been intentionally vague, citing 'tragic and unexpected circumstances.' He hadn't given details, and Sanji hadn't bothered to ask. 

In fact, he was in his right mind to get up and leave, telling him to stick his sob story where the sun don't shine. Until he was told that his 'father' - Judge - had left something, one of his estates in the middle of nowhere, to him. 

What a sick joke.

He should've expected the cruel bastard would try to torture him one last time.

How he'd even managed to find him, he dreaded to think. He'd long since discarded the Vinsmoke name, and he'd never so much as uttered a word about his old life to anyone. But Judge had more influence in his damn pinky than Sanji could even dream of, so he shouldn't be too surprised.

But it made him feel no better.

He switched gears and pulled into the long gravel driveway, keeping his eyes firmly planted on the path. If he refused to look at the house as it got closer, perhaps it would just disappear and he could drive right past it.

But he couldn't avoid it forever.

He stopped the car and sat holding the wheel for a long while, his jaw clenched painfully, the house reminding him too much of Judge. Looming. Imposing. He forced himself not to sink back into his seat, the way he always had as a child.

The building was bigger and grander than it had any reason to be - three stories and twelve thousand square feet of pure spectacle. Spectacle that was never even lived in, only built to impress the newest diplomat or VIP he probably didn't even bother to remember the names of.

The mansard roof, large arched windows and elaborate, and unnecessary ornamentation, made the second empire style influences unquestionable. Pretentious, over-designed, and dead inside, just like he was.

Though, the style was ironic. Judge had worshiped every new advancement in technology, but when it came to appearances, he'd chosen something centuries past it's prime - a mausoleum dressed up as a palace. It was unsurprisingly impersonal, and Sanji wasn't sure if that made him feel better or not.

He killed the engine. The silence pressed in, too heavy, too expectant for somewhere so isolated. He shoved the door open, reaching for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket before his feet even hit the gravel. It was his second pack of that day and it was already almost empty. They didn't do much to make that thick feeling in the back of his throat go away. At least they gave his hands something to do.

The porch decking creaked loudly as he climbed the stairs, the keys heavy in his hand. He turned the lock and stared at the door handle, swallowing hard.

He could turn around. He could go home and sell the house and pretend none of this ever happened. Hell, he could save himself the headache of finding a buyer and just disclaim the inheritance. No one would care. He'd never have to see this place again.

But...the thought of his mother kept him from turning back.

That some of her belongings could be inside - stuffed carelessly into a cardboard box. Hidden away like some kind of forbidden history.

He had to look. He needed to check.

Fuck it.

He swung the door open, his heart pounding so hard he could hear it. He exhaled sharply, eyes darting around the halls like he expected his family to be there, ready to ambush him for daring to step foot inside.

But there was no one. No noise at all. 

He took a shaky breath and dropped the keys back into his pocket. He didn't bother to shut the door.

The foyer was cold and stale, thick in his throat, like fresh air hadn't circulated in a while. Bright shafts of sunlight streaming in through the windows revealed nothing but dust floating like ghosts.

Wooden detailing decorated the room, panelling and dado rails littered the walls. Plasterwork highlighted the ceiling around an obnoxious glass chandelier. Normally, he'd have admired the craftsmanship

But it only felt hollow. A stage set missing it's cast.

Even in the entryway of the house, it was unsettling just how empty it was. No coats or shoes by the door. No family photos on the wall. What few pieces of furniture he could see - like golden candle holders polished for show and an antique grandfather clock - made it clear someone had been hired to furnish the place. It almost made him sad, the pathetic display of empty wealth clearly done for the opinion of others.

He stubbed out his spent cigarette into a glass dish on a dresser by the base of the stairs, his tapping footsteps echoing across the wooden floor as he went. Almost immediately, he itched for another.

He could hear a subtle draft coming in from upstairs - the slight whistle carrying through the spacious halls. The thin layer of dust on the banister told him the maid hadn't been around since the assassination. Why Judge even bothered to clean a house he never stayed at - well, that was Judge. Appearances over everything.

He set his foot on the first step - then froze. His hand hovered on the banister, gripping tightly.

No.

No, no, no.

The breath caught sharp in his throat. There it was. Hanging at the top of the staircase like a sentry: gold frame, gaudy as hell, swallowing the wall. And inside it - those eyes.

Judge’s eyes.

They pinned him where he stood. Cold. Small. Drilling right through him, the way they had when he was a child, in every goddamn room the man ever entered. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t even blink. One inch, and the thing would leap down off the wall and have him by the collar, staff raised-

His fists clenched tight. His palms were slick. Sweat itched at his hairline like he’d sprinted a mile, though his body wouldn’t move an inch. The nausea rolled up hard, bitter.

Judge in his stiff robes. The stupid mask, never cracked. That scowl - Christ, that scowl - that said you are nothing, and I own you.

The chandelier ticked faintly as it was swayed by the draught. Or maybe that was the clock. Or maybe it was just his heart, hammering so loud it swallowed the silence whole.

This was a mistake, what the hell was he thinking?

The shrill ring of his phone rang out from his pocket. He flinched so hard it hurt, stumbling back a step.

"Jesus Christ," he muttered, quickly retreating back out onto the porch like the air inside were poison and accepted the call, his hands still trembling. "Hello?" He internally cursed as his voice cracked.

"Finally, man!" Usopp's familiar voice chuckled, warm and careless through the speaker. "I've been tryna text you. You sound like you've just ran a marathon."

Ssnji dragged a hand over his face, trying to steady his breath. His throat still felt raw. He forced a laugh that came out thin. "Yeah. Something like that."

"You free tonight? Thought we could grab a drink. I've been stuck at L's all weekend 'cause of some house repairs, and I am desperate."

Sanji stared out past the porch. The hill fell away into sprawling moorland and woods that went on for miles. "Uh, I would, but I can't. I'm... out of town."

"Out of town?" Usopp's tone shifted suspiciously. "Since when do you go anywhere besides the restaurant?"

"Since today," Sanji muttered. He lit another cigarette with shaky hands before he'd even thought about it, letting the smoke fill the silence.

He heard Usopp hum over the line. "Wait a minute," he said suddenly. "Sanji... are you with someone?"

His suggestive tone almost made Sanji laugh. Almost. He considered lying for a small moment, but he'd definitely end up with more questions if he did. There was no point. "No, it's just me. I've just got... some stuff to deal with."

"Stuff," Usopp repeated flatly. "Mysterious as always. What kind of stuff? Just general secret activity?"

Sanji hesitated. Again, his first instinct was to lie, invent some excuse about a work errand or car trouble. But who was he kidding? It was impossible to lie to Usopp. His sense for that was impeccable. He loosened the collar of his shirt- it felt too tight, strangling. "I've... Inherited a house."

There was a beat of stunned silence, then Usopp let out a laugh. "You? A homeowner? Bet Zeff's glad you won't be stealing his spare room anymore."

The mention of his adoptive father brought a lump to his throat. He hadn't told him about the house. He hadn't told him about Judge. Not yet. Maybe never. "Don't get ahead of yourself - I don't know if I'm gonna keep it."

"Oh, come on, this is huge! You can't get rid of it! Where is it? When do I get a grand tour?"

"You don't," Sanji snapped, more harshly than he'd meant to. He closed his eyes, raking a hand through his hair. "...it's complicated, that's all."

Usopp was quiet for a moment. Then softer, "look, if it's complicated, surely you'll need some help with it, right? And you know me, I'm the world's leading expert in house exploration and emotional support for traumatised homeowners."

Sanji stared through the gaping doorway, the stale air still spilling from inside. He could feel the weight of that portrait pressing down on him, even from here.

He clenched his fist, pressing crescents into his palm. He really shouldn't. But he considered the way Usopp lifted him up, ever a rock when he didn't always feel so strong. Even if Usopp did have the anxiety level of a startled rodent.

"...Yeah. Okay," the words left him on a breath. "But maybe not tonight. Can you make it tomorrow? And- can we keep this between us for now? Just until I've figured a few things out."

Sanji could hear Usopp's smile through the line. "Absolutely! My lips are sealed - just text me the address, and I gotchu. And I'll bring some holy water - Y'know, in case the place is haunted."

He managed a weak smile. "Alright. Thanks, Usopp."

He hung up, arm dropping limp down to his side. He stayed standing on the porch for a while, chewing the filter of his spent cigarette.

Shit that was probably a terrible idea.

He couldn't even make it up the stairs - how the hell was he going to explain that?

But then again...

He flicked his cigarette onto the ground, watching as it fell through a gap in the porch decking, and stepped back through the front door.

He wasn't that weak nine year old. Not anymore.

He stepped back inside.

Chapter Text

Day 80,395

Zoro sat cross-legged beside the large pine tree near the edge of the estate. From here, the entire house was bathed in the midday sunlight that glinted off the large, arched windows. And the moors and woodland from where the hill overlooked the lower grounds was breathtaking. But he wasn't here for the view today. He was hoping to meditate some more - not to clear his mind, like he usually did it for - just to pass the time.

Birdsong interrupted his reverie and he opened his eyes to find a crow perched on a tree root about a metre away. This was relatively new. He had gotten a good look at all kinds of birds - gulls, sparrows, house martins. Even a heron once, down by the river's edge. But he'd somehow never managed to have a crow perched so close to him.

He crawled over, squinting at the bird.

Its feathers were sleek and dense, the light shifting to highlight them as the crow looked around for something to eat. Zoro shuffled forward again. It let out a squawk, and he paused - afraid he could scare it away.

The bird stayed perched where it was, having not noticed him. He took the opportunity to tilt his head and get a better look at the bird's legs. Unlike most birds Zoro had seen, whose pink, bony legs looked grotesque, these were black, matching the rest of its sleek appearance. Its claws were dark too. He figured that must be great for concealing the danger from the woodland prey.

The wind started to pick up, whistling lightly through the branches. It ruffled the bird's feathers slightly. But it didn't fly away. Not yet.

Z glanced up at the bird's eyes - beady and black. It scanned the ground for worms or bugs, its beak shut tight. He took another slight step forward.

The crow turned to face him directly, the two now nose to beak, only inches apart. Zoro stopped. Had it seen him? Sensed him? Should he back away?

It squawked again - lunging at Zoro. It pierced directly through his head, flying out the other side in a flurry of hazy smoke.

His arm came up too late to shield him and he cried out, jolting backwards. He caught his foot on a root. Zoro went down hard, the grass knocking the breath out of him.

Scrambling to get up, he felt around on his face with his hand. Tingling, but in one piece.

He sighed. He was fine.

"Dammit," he muttered.

So much for a day of meditation.

He scratched his head. He wasn't really in the mood for that anymore. Maybe a walk instead?

Getting to his feet, he breathed deep to recover from his fall, and began a stroll round the back of the house. He wondered how long that exchange had taken? Two minutes? Five? Ten? It felt like a while, but then again, so did everything.

He debated going back inside and checking the time again, but the clock was often disappointing. Maybe not.

As he examined a small crack in the East wall that he swore wasn't there before, he heard something. Faint, but building louder and louder. Like gravel crunching under the weight of something coming up the path.

Curious, he turned. He saw something moving steadily behind the bushes that led to the wrought iron gate.

A grey vehicle pulled through the gate, onto the grounds, stopping in front of the house. It was smaller and rounder than the ones he'd seen before. What were they called again? It wasn't a 'carriage,' was it?

He waited, expecting someone to get out. The shadow of a figure in the front seat didn't get up to leave. Maybe something was wrong, Zoro considered as he walked over.

He stopped short when the door opened, and a man stepped out. He was tall, blonde, and dressed differently to the people who used to come around. Less flashy.

The man immediately lit himself a cigarette, looking uncomfortably up at the house like he'd rather be anywhere else.

Zoro followed behind him up the porch steps - the smoke from his cigarette and... weird carriage filled his nose and he grimaced.

It wasn't an unfamiliar smell and he certainly hadn't missed it.

The man was hesitant. He opened the door on guard, as if there was a wild animal inside.

Zoro phased through the wall beside the door, and circled around the man to observe him properly. He'd never been at the house before - Zoro was sure he would've remembered. He was quite handsome, his face slim and pale. Though there was something about him that was vaguely familiar... He couldn't quite place it.

His eyebrows were... kinda odd, though.

His blue eyes darted this way and that, scrutinizing the foyer. Or maybe he was looking for something?

Wanting to avoid being walked through, he went ahead, climbing the stairs halfway. Watching through the wooden railing.

The man stubbed out his cigarette into a glass dish, and grabbed the handrail. Zoro made a move to climb the rest of the stairs, when the man froze, one foot on the first step. He stared wide-eyed up at Zoro as his breathing became heavy and uneven.

What?

He couldn't see him- could he? That was impossible.

Zoro turned around, glancing up at the top of the stairs. The portrait on the wall looked down on them both. Looked down on the man at the bottom.

Zoro faced him again. It wasn't Zoro the man was afraid of.

Out of nowhere, a loud sound came from below - an annoying jingle that made the both of them jump. The man took the opportunity to leave, sparing only a glance back upstairs.

What the hell was that?

He rushed to follow, hanging back in the doorway as the blonde pulled a glowing rectangle from his pocket. Zoro frowned as he swiped a finger across it and held it to his ear. "Hello," he said. His hands still shook as he held the item.

In the silence, he could hear a faint mumbling - like someone talking far away. No way it was coming from that thing?

Zoro leaned forward, his brow raised. He attempted to get his own ear as close to the object as he could. The sound got louder. "You free tonight? Thought we could grab a drink," the voice spoke. Zoro chuckled incredulously. No way...

He knew he shouldn't, but he continued listening as the man and the voice continued their conversation.

"Uh, I would, but I can't. I'm... out of town."

The man's voice was interesting - a subtle hint of a nasally foreign accent Zoro hadn't heard before. He frowned as the man pulled away to light a cigarette, and he leaned in closer.

"Since today," the man muttered. Shit, he missed some.

"Hold still, would you?" Zoro snapped, into the man's ear.

"Wait a minute," he heard. "Sanji... are you with someone?"

So his name is Sanji?

"No, it's just me," Sanji laughed.

"Oi," Zoro interjected, backing up to scowl at him, not caring that he couldn't see it.

Sanji played with the collar of his shirt. "I've just got... some stuff to deal with."

Zoro turned back towards the house, his eyes gliding back the stairs, the presence of the portrait looming over them. What could he possibly have to deal with? It's clear he doesn't want to here.

"I've... Inherited a house."

What?

Zoro's head snapped back to Sanji, and he watched him as he continued talking to his friend, only half paying attention.

Sanji was antsy, still smoking and playing with his hair and shirt.

Zoro lingered in the foyer after the strange glowing rectangle fell silent.

Inherited the house.

The words gnawed at him.

So this man - this trembling, cigarette-reeking stranger - was supposed to own all of this now? The gates, the land, the rooms Zoro had wandered through for… well, for 80,395 days?

His jaw tightened. It didn’t make sense. The others who came before never stayed, not really. He saw them a few times a year, at best. And he didn't particularly enjoy lingering around when they were here. But if Sanji had inherited the place, then... they'd passed away? All of them?

Zoro looked up again at the portrait. He couldn't remember the name of the previous owner, and his cold eyes bore down from the gilded frame as though he knew it. It was clear to him now why Sanji had seemed familiar. He shared his face with his siblings - this man's inhuman children.

He heard echoing footsteps enter the house again, Sanji finally stepping back inside. His gaze crept up the stairwell, locking once more on the portrait.

Sanji approached, one step, then another. His hand clenched the railing as if steadying himself against a tide only he could feel. For a long moment he simply stared, face pale, jaw working. Then - abruptly - he reached up, seized the heavy frame, and tore it from the wall.

The thud as it hit the landing made Zoro flinch. Dust plumed across the landing. His painted eyes lay flat now, no longer watching from on high.

Sanji crouched, his breath ragged. He touched the gilded edge, fingers hovering near the painted face. For a heartbeat, Zoro thought he would rip through the canvas, or punch a hole right through.

But Sanji froze. His hand fell back. With a muttered curse, he hauled the portrait up, and dragged it down the hall. The scrape along the floorboards reverberated through house, and Sanji strained with the effort as he shouldered open a door. Zoro followed silently, curiosity prickling.

Inside was just another unused room - empty walls, hollow air. Sanji shoved the portrait against the farthest corner, turning it to face the plaster.

He stood there a while, staring at the back of the canvas, shoulders trembling as though expecting the painted man to step out of it at any moment.

Zoro watched from the doorway. Sanji combed his hair back with his hand and straightened his shirt. He looked over his shoulder, through the doorway, his eyes flickering with something brief.

He had no time to move when Sanji rushed for the door, passing directly through him, out into the hallway.

Stumbling back, he clutched his chest with a yell. For a second, he felt unstable. Tingling all over. It passed quickly. "Not again," he hissed through gritted teeth.

He turned and stuck his head out into the corridor, watching as Sanji opened and checked each bedroom one by one, and ran down the stairs.

"Hey, what is your problem? Watch where you're going!" He shouted pointlessly. Livings really are careless sometimes.

Frustrated, he walked over to the stairwell and leaned on the rail overlooking the foyer, listening to Sanji scurry around like a rodent below. The echo travelled up, along with the smell of cigarettes, and the window's shadows as the sun began to set.

He laid his head down on his arms. Turning his head to the side, something caught his attention glinting on the floor at the top of the stairs. He frowned, wandering over, and crouched down.

Beside a scrape where the painting had been dragged, was a small, slightly rusty hanging bracket. It must've fallen off the picture when Sanji moved it.

He started as he heard loud footsteps thumping up the stairs - it was Sanji, carrying two paintings this time. Just as ornate and extravagant as the other, but much smaller. Enough to fit under both arms.

Zoro stepped out of his way, holding out a hand as Sanji made it to the top. "Watch out for that, you might-" Zoro huffed, throwing his arms up. "...trip," he mumbled.

Why did he even bother?

Of course, he went ignored by Sanji, as he crossed the hall once again and entered the room that concealed the large portrait.

He placed the two other pictures against the wall, this time shoving them behind a large wooden armoire. Breathing deeply, he left the room again, shutting the door firmly behind him.

Chapter Text

Day 80,396

Zoro woke in confusion, the world pulling into focus with a slow drag.

Something was different. For the first time in - how many months? - the house was carrying something other than its usual state of stillness, but the smell of food.

Real food, thick and rich, curling through the halls from the kitchen below.

If the scent was anything to go by, it was good food, too.

He climbed out of bed and padded over, phasing through the closed bedroom door. Then he remembered - oh right. The new owner.

Zoro shuffled down the corridor, half-asleep, following the clang of pans and the sizzle of oil. Music met his ears too: a light humming, slightly raspy in the way that Sanji spoke.

To be honest, he half expected the stranger to have left in the night, considering he'd insisted on sleeping in the carriage outside. But no - the man was still here.

In the kitchen, Sanji hovered over the stove, a cigarette hanging limply in his mouth, smoke curling up towards the high ceiling. His movements were steady and practiced, but the tension that lingered in his shoulders suggested he was still put off by the house's presence.

The back door had been wedged open with one of the wooden barstools, letting in a draught that stirred the heavy curtains, and circulated the aroma of food around the house.

Zoro drifted closer, like a moth to a flame. Eggs hissed beside rashers of bacon and dark sausages, their oil popping against the pan. Something else joined them too - something earthy, spicy, and slightly sweet, a food Zoro couldn't recall having tasted before.

His hands twitched by his sides, useless things. He hadn't eaten anything at all for- well, 80,396 days, since his death. Not that it mattered. He couldn't physically get hungry.

Though that didn't stop the desire to eat from twisting in his gut until it soured into nausea.

He almost laughed at himself. What business did he have wanting eggs and bacon when he couldn't even hold a fork?

He stood back, arms folded, attempting to swallow the ache down. "Bit much, isn't it? You planning to eat all that by yourself?" He asked Sanji - or the empty air.

Sanji didn't answer - of course he didn't - just continued, every now and then, tapping the ash of his cigarette into a tin tray on the counter. The sleeves of his blue button up had been rolled up to the elbows, and Zoro couldn't help but notice faint goosebumps decorating his skin.

Sighing, he crossed to the opposite side of the counter and took a seat on the barstool. His first company in how long? Six months? Maybe more? And he didn't even want to be here. Story of his life. Or, Y'know, death.

The breeze flowed in through the open back door, the scent of pine mingling with breakfast. It made the house feel more alive in a way Zoro hadn't felt in a long time.

He let his eyes close, just listening: the clink of pans, the shuffle of feet, the soft humming and muttering, like Sanji was talking to the food as he cooked it. There was a tenderness in it, small and ordinary.

He almost let himself enjoy it - until he heard that sound again, coming from outside. Gravel crunching as something approached. Another one of those carriages, sounded like.

Zoro frowned, glancing over at Sanji, but he didn't seem to have noticed. He got up and ambled over to the front room, searching out the window. Another metal vehicle slowly crept into the courtyard, stopping beside Sanji's.

Zoro jolted as the carriage made a sudden noise, like an alarm or signal. Sanji seemed undisturbed by it as he jogged over to the front door and stepped out onto the porch.

"Is that your friend from the rectangle?" Zoro asked, conspiratorially.

Another man stepped out of the car, his wide eyes never leaving the house.

"Hey, Usopp," Sanji waved, walking over to him. "How was the drive up? Hope the roads weren't too rough."

The man - Usopp - spluttered for a second, grabbing Sanji's shoulder. "Uh, no, no, no don't ignore-" he cut himself off, laughing incredulously. "You told me you inherited a house. This is like- this is a mansion. You have a castle, Sanji!"

"I knew you'd make a big deal of it," he groaned, swatting at Usopp's hand.

"Of course I am! Look at the place!"

He held up both hands, as if heralding the building like an angel that had come to earth. Zoro studied the building too. He supposed Usopp was right - it definitely was impressive. Though, over the years, it had become nothing but an eyesore he'd grown used to.

"Alright, alright, I see your point," Sanji laughed.

The smell of food still drifted out from the kitchen, and Usopp’s stomach gave an audible growl.

Sanji raised a brow. “Don’t tell me you didn’t eat before driving up here?”

“In my defence,” he said, looking around the grounds, "I didn't think I'd be visiting Dracula's mansion in the middle of nowhere. Thought I could pick something up at a shop nearby."

Sanji sighed. "Well, lucky for you, I made enough for both of us."

"Such a gentleman," Usopp teased, following Sanji to the front door.

Though, he stopped short suddenly, his head snapping to the window of Sanji's carriage. He rushed over, cupping his hands to look inside, long nose pushed against the glass.

"What are you doing?" Sanji asked.

"Sanji... Please tell me you didn't sleep in your goddamn car," he pleaded.

Zoro peered in too - a nest of blankets and pillows littered the backseat of the car - not a carriage, a car.

Sanji folded his arms, with a shrug. "It was too hot inside." His eyes never made it to Usopp's.

Usopp considered this for a moment and sighed, pushing off of the car door. "If you say so," he resigned, throwing an arm around Sanji's shoulders.

“C’mon, feed me, Lord of the Manor.”

Zoro trailed after them, amused as Sanji rolled his eyes. They settled at the counter, Sanji dividing up the food onto chipped plates. Usopp didn’t wait for permission - he grabbed a fork and dug in like he hadn’t eaten in days. Zoro leaned against the fridge, watching wistfully as the bacon crunched under Usopp’s teeth.

“Unbelievable,” Zoro muttered. “Not even a thank you to the chef. Some friend.”

Sanji ate slower, but Zoro noticed his hands still shook a little when he lifted the fork.

They chatted between bites - nothing important, just the kind of casual conversation Zoro hadn’t heard in years. Work, the drive, someone named Luffy who was apparently “still being a pain.” It was mundane and human and, in a way, excruciating to listen to when he couldn’t join.

For a moment, Usopp asked who on Earth Sanji inherited such a place from. He merely received a shrug in return, and a mumbled "distant relative," before he continued on as though it were nothing, their chatter curling about the house.

Then Usopp dropped his fork with a clatter.

“Alright,” he said dramatically, patting his pockets. “Before we get into your inheritance escapade, there’s a ritual we need to perform.”

Sanji frowned. “What are you talking about?”

He produced a small glass vial from his jacket. The liquid inside glimmered faintly.

“Holy water.” He whispered, as though it were contraband. “Just like I promised.”

Zoro straightened. His brows furrowed. Holy water?

Sanji groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“Better safe than sorry!” Usopp stood, uncorked the vial, and began flicking drops around the kitchen with exaggerated flourish. “Begone, foul spirits!” he tried for playfulness, though his voice wavered just enough to betray his edge of belief.

Zoro instinctively stepped back as droplets pattered onto the counters and floor. His skin pricked at the sight of each drop, and he backed out of the room, keeping an eye on Usopp as he circled the kitchen and dining room, flicking water everywhere.

In life, he'd never been religious, really. Somehow even in death, he never believed in a higher power, or holy water and the like. But the stories... oh, he'd heard plenty. Whispers from fearful believers thinking it was liquid fire that could burn a soul clean away. Surely they stemmed from somewhere?

For a heartbeat, he considered it. Considered the sting, the burn, the release. If that's what it took to finally push him to the other side, maybe it wouldn't be so bad. Maybe it would be mercy.

But if it didn't send him anywhere - only left him, shredded, raw, still stuck?

He backed against the wall. One more step back, and he'd be outside. Secure.

But he stayed, and Usopp came in closer, shouting out random Latin gibberish. He tensed. The water flung at him-

… and right through his arm.

He blinked. Nothing. No sting, no burn. Just… water. 

“Huh.” Zoro stared at his arm, flexing his fingers. “Guess I’m not foul enough.”

Sanji buried his face in his hands while Usopp marched into the hallway, splashing doorframes and muttering random clichés.

“Usopp, stop-”

“Nope! Not until the power of Christ compels whatever’s in here.”

Zoro trailed after them, lips pressed in a thin line. He didn’t know whether to laugh or be offended.

When Usopp finally circled back to the kitchen, declaring the house purified, Sanji crossed his arms. “You’re an idiot.”

“An idiot who just saved your immortal soul,” Usopp corrected, sliding back into his seat. “Now, what's our first order of business with the place?"

Sanji gathered the plates and cutlery, dumping them into the sink. "Well, I need to have a sort through of all the shit in here. See if there's anything, y'know, important." He went quiet as he finished, his eyes fogging over the mention it.

"Like what?" Usopp asked, with a gleam in his eye, "a briefcase with fat stacks of cash in it?"

Sanji snorted. "Sure."

"Alrighty! What are we waiting for, then?" He grinned, jumping out of his seat. "Where do we start?"

Smirking, Sanji laughed. "I can tell you, but I don't think you're gonna like it."

Usopp's face paled. "Basement or attic?"

"It's the attic."

Frowning, Zoro went ahead upstairs. The attic? He'd never been up there, being unable to pull the string for the hatch. After all this time, he still didn't know what lingered in that room.

The other two came giggling down the hall, Sanji pushing Usopp up the stairs. "Come on, Ghostbuster, what are you scared of?"

"I dunno, maybe ghost possession, vampires, creepy dolls, moving rocking chairs, dust!" He insisted, but his face was still plastered with a smile. "All of which are associated with scary mansion attics, need I go on?"

"Yup! Go on, up the stairs," Sanji said. He pulled down the hatch, the stairs falling slowly below. They groaned and creaked until they met the floor. He tested the sturdiness with a shake, deeming it acceptable. "After you," he smiled.

Usopp sighed, but climbed the narrow staircase without protest. "If I get possessed, I'm suing you!"

"You're the one with the holy water."

The scent of the attic drifted through the door, a choking blend of old timber and years of dust hanging thick in the air.

From below, Zoro watched Usopp tentatively stick his head up into the attic, twisting and turning to get a full look.

"It's so dark in here! I can't- oh wait, I think I see a lamp over there." He reached into his pocket and brought out another one of those funny communication rectangles, tapping a few times til a bright light shone from it.

How many uses did that thing have?

Usopp fully entered the room. Cobwebs hung like ropes from wooden beams, catching his curly hair as he ducked inside. His slow footsteps tapped across the ceiling, the rafters creaking like the house was breathing.

"Christ," he muttered. "It's like every horror prop in existence crawled up here to die."

Sanji made to follow him, with much less hesitation, and turned on his own pocket lantern. "It's bigger in here than I expected," he said after a quick look around.

"This lamp doesn't work! Is there a light switch anywhere? I'm gettin' the creeps," Usopp said faintly.

Zoro tailed them, entering the room for the first time. He felt the air thick in the back of his throat, and he glanced around the darkness. The room was barely illuminated by a small, circular window on the far wall. The shaft of light only illuminated the floating dust particles swirling all over.

The two light beams shook over uneven piles; warped crates, old furniture and debris scattered haphazardly around the hatch like it had been thrown in without much thought. The outer walls were piled high with boxes and trunks, shadows pooling around the corners.

Sanji wandered over to the middle, his light locked onto a lightbulb hanging from the ceiling. He pulled the small chain beside it several times, but it didn't glow. "Typical," he tutted.

The shuffling of cardboard and bumping of furniture filled the room. Usopp's rectangle light shook all over as he attempted to clamber over things.

"-oh shit!" Sanji gasped, swiping at his arm and torso.

"What?!" Usopp shouted. "What is it?"

Sanji clutched his chest, his breathing heavy. "A spider on my arm."

"Oh, you bastard!" Usopp complained. "You scared the shit outta me."

"I'm so terribly sorry," Sanji retorted sarcastically. He continued poking around, creaking open an old wardrobe. Inside, only a row of empty hangers swung gently, clinking against one another in the dark.

Sanji sighed. "I think most of this stuff might be junk."

"You don't say," Usopp replied holding aloft an old porcelain doll, scrutinizing it under the light.

"Well- there has to be something," Sanji said quickly, as though he were trying to convince himself. "It's too dark to properly sort through it in here. Let's take some of it downstairs."

"Yes, please, I'm gonna need an inhaler if I stay in here much longer."

___________

Zoro stood at the top of the stairs, observing as the pair carried box after box down from the attic to the living room. Somehow, they had both failed to notice the metal hanging bracket that was still lying on the ground - a jagged snare waiting to catch them.

Zoro couldn't help it, he cringed every time they walked near it with a heavy load, but he stayed. As if he'd be able to catch them if they tripped.

He rambled to himself, shouting into the void about how careless they were being. His complaints fell on deaf ears.

When the path was clear, he'd swipe at it, trying desperately to move it further towards the wall.

Thing is, he could move it if he really tried, he'd done it before - interacted with physical objects. But he needed focus.

A lot of focus.

Pretty difficult when Sanji and Usopp kept running up and down the stairs.

He just- he needed to wait for the right moment. Easy.

At last, they crossed midway - Sanji climbing up, Usopp going down. Perfect.

As soon as Sanji had walked by, Zoro breathed deep, crouching down beside the bracket. He held his finger up to it and focused. All of his attention transferred to the contact between his hand and the object.

He strained hard, brows furrowing, and tried with everything he had to force his hand to be solid enough. He closed his eyes. Come on- work! Move!

He grunted with the effort, his arm aching with tension, until-

He heard a scrape.

It moved. Only about an inch. But it worked.

Zoro let out a shaky breath, grinning despite the fiery ache in his arm. He'd done it. An inch wasn't much but it was proof. Proof he could still do something.

But when he looked again, he realised the bracket was still jutting out across the floorboards. Too close to the walkway. Too much of a risk. His relief soured into irritation. One inch wasn't enough.

"Come on," he muttered, crouching down again. He placed his palm flat against the cold metal, narrowing every ounce of focus into the tiny connection point. His vision tunnelled, his form buzzing with effort. He could feel it, just on the edge of giving way-

A faint tap-tap echoed as the bracket scraped across the floor.

So focused was he on the movement that he didn't hear footfalls coming until it was too late.

Sanji was coming back down the hall, box cradled in his arms. He paused mid-step, frowning at the sound. His eyes darted towards the floor just as the bracket twitched again, an unnatural stutter of motion.

"What the-?"

Distracted, his foot caught the edge of the metal.

The box lurched forward.

Sanji's body followed.

Zoro's head snapped up just in time to see him stumble.

A cry tore out of him, useless. He reached instinctively, desperately - but his hands slipped right through, momentum dragging Sanji towards the stairs.

The thundering crash of tumbling filled the house, each impact like a hammer blow. Zoro could only watch, horrified where he crouched by the bracket.

"Sanji, what was that?!" Usopp's shrieks emanated from the living room, before he came rushing in. He paused for the briefest of moments, just feet away.

"Shit! Sanji are you alright?!"

Zoro didn't move. He couldn't. The world around him seemed to splinter, sounds muffled, like he'd had a blanket thrown over his head. Usopp's voice carried through - sharp and panicked - words spilling out too fast to follow. He yelled into his pocket rectangle, shifting and checking Sanji's unconscious body. Footsteps darted. Doors slammed.

Zoro only caught bits and pieces. Broken syllables. None of it landed.

The next thing he knew, a large car veered into the courtyard. Red lights seeped in through the windows, sputtering across the walls in violet flashes. A loud, cutting alarm filled his ears, making them ring painfully.

What was that?

It produced a group of people - strangers who burst inside, moving with brisk, unhesitating urgency. They weren't afraid of the fallen body. They didn't freeze. They swarmed him, pulling, lifting, speaking a clipped language that made no sense to Zoro's ears. Words like knives: clear airway, stabilise, fracture.

When they rolled Sanji onto a strange wheeled bed, Zoro's chest lurched. The metal legs snapped into place with a clatter that echoed in his skull. Sanji disappeared beneath straps and hands and a mask pressed to his face.

And then they were gone.

The strangers carried Sanji away, swallowed up by the pulsing red light. Usopp stumbled after them, his face streaked with tears.

Zoro staggered forward instinctively - only to find the room empty, the echo of that siren already fading into the distance.

Suddenly, he came to, rushing out to the edge of the property. He itched to run after them. He knew it was impossible.

Turning back to face the house, he felt sick. It looked ordinary. Untouched. But Zoro's chest filled with a hollow ache, like he'd been scraped out from the inside. Sanji's car still sat dormant in the courtyard.

Chapter Text

Usopp slumped miserably in a chair outside the hospital room, his head hanging low, the sterile corridor pressing in with its fluorescent hum. A doctor sat beside him, his expression tired, but sympathetic.

"These things happen," the medic offered gently. "Sometimes it's all down to chance."

"I know," Usopp exhaled, long and weary. "It just sucks. I just believed in them so much."

The doctor nodded. Silence hung like stale air between them.

Then their heads snapped up as the door to the room opened. Sanji stepped out into the hall, awkwardly tugging on a coat over the stiff weight of a neck brace. "Alright, I'm good. You ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah," Usopp sighed, grabbing his backpack as though it weighed twice as much.

"What's up?" Sanji asked as they headed down the hall, waving goodbye to the doctors who'd treated him.

Usopp shook his head. "The Beasts beat the Reds ten to one! How is that even possible?"

"Sorry, man," he gave Usopp's shoulder a light pat. "They'll win next time?"

"But this was the championship," Usopp groaned, ranting all the way to the car. The cool air outside felt like freedom after three days of antiseptic walls and endlessly beeping machines.

"And you should've seen what Kanjuro did. That was a dirty trick. He should've gotten a penalty." They clambered into the small Beetle, the hospital shrinking in the rearview as they drove the widening stretch of the country.

"Thank God we're outta there. I hate hospitals," Usopp shivered. "You feeling any better, by the way?" he asked, his hands tense on the wheel.

Sanji nodded, rifling through the collection of CDs in the door pocket. "I'm a little achy, but surprisingly not terrible."

"I'm not surprised," Usopp laughed. "You've been out cold for two days."

A long silence stretched out as Sanji picked out a case and placed a disc into the player. The Cranberries played lightly from the stereo.

Usopp's jaw worked as he drove, consistently glancing over at his recovering passenger. "I'm- uh, I'm sorry. About what happened," he said tightly, like something were caught in his throat.

"What are you sorry for?" Sanji frowned. "I'd be dead if it weren't for you."

Usopp's mouth opened and closed, trying to find the right words. "I mean... you did die." His misty eyes stayed locked on the road.

"Usopp, don't do that to yourself," Sanji muttered. "It wasn't your fault. It was just an accident."

"It's just- are you sure you wanna go back so soon? You should be resting."

"I dunno," Sanji hummed. "Two days of sleep seems like enough rest to me."

"Well, that wasn't really sleep, it was a coma, but sure, I see your point." Usopp mumbled quickly.

"And anyway," Sanji continued, "I can't exactly go home like this." He gestured towards his neck brace, still tight and itchy on his skin. "My dad would put me under house arrest if he knew what happened."

Usopp chuckled. "He just cares about you."

"I know, but that's the problem. He cares too much - I don't wanna worry him." Sanji leaned his elbow on the window, fiddling with his hair. "He's got enough on his plate."

Usopp hummed with a nod, but didn't argue. His teeth worried his lip instead.

The moorland rolled by outside, bleak and endless, the sun sinking low. Shadows reached long across the heather as Sanji leaned his elbow on the window. "Y'know, you're apologising to me and everything, but I should really be thanking you."

"Don't bother, it was nothing," Usopp said with a flick of his hand.

"No really," Sanji insisted. "For not letting me die and everything - and for... not telling my dad."

"Okay, yeah, I'll take credit for that. Do you have any idea how hard that was?"

Sanji smiled faintly. "I know. I'm sorry I told you to not to."

"It was kinda impressive - you're literally dying and you still beg me not to tell your dad." Usopp shook his head, softer now. "But, since it was life or death... I think I can forgive you just this once."

"Although... again, you technically did die, so-"

"Okay, yeah, but only for like thirty seconds!"

Usopp laughed incredulously. "Well, that's thirty seconds too long!"

The air between them finally eased, their voices joining in clumsy song as the CD queue continued. The clean country breeze carried their laughter out the windows, away into the darkening fields.

Eventually, the slanted roof of the house became visible over the bushes, illuminated from behind by the afternoon sun.

"Y'know," Usopp began as they drove up the path, "you've been wanting to open your own restaurant for years. Right?"

"Yeah, why?" Sanji expected the answer, and he wasn't sure if he liked it.

"Well, now you have this crazy house. You said you didn't know if you'd keep it, but maybe you could, I dunno... Convert it. Make it yours."

Sanji chewed the inside of his mouth as he looked up at it, looming and silent. "I don't know, Usopp..."

They parked and Usopp killed the engine. He shrugged lightly, "just something to think about, y'know? It's your dream..."

Sanji swallowed. Could he really do that? This tainted house? The house glared down at him, its windows dark and unblinking.

"Maybe..." he muttered. "I'll think about it."

"Good," Usopp beamed.

They climbed out of the car, Sanji collecting all of the 'Get Well Soon' cards and cookies he'd been sent by his friends from the backseat.

"Hey, Sanji, you know what I realised?"

"What?" he said, pushing the door shut with his hip.

"If you tell Nami about your new inherited mega-wealth," Usopp continued, "she might actually turn straight for you."

Sanji guffawed. "Usopp! Nami would never be so shallow!" he shrieked over the top of the car.

"You sure?" Usopp laughed, as they made the walk to the front door.

"Absolutely! Need I remind you, she and Vivi are very hap- !" he stopped mid sentence, his smile faltering. Something flickered in the window - a quick shadow, gone so fast, he might've imagined it.

"What?" Usopp followed Sanji's eyes, squinting at the window.

Sanji shook his head. "No, nothing. Just- thought I saw something."

"Uh oh," Usopp teased, "hope that bump on the head didn't make you crazy."

Sanji rolled his eyes, swatting him on the arm, though an uneasy twist clenched his stomach.

Usopp unlocked the door, and they stepped inside, the air smelling slightly less stale inside than it used to.

"Let me take care of those," Usopp said, taking the cookies and cards from Sanji's hands and disappearing into the kitchen.

Sanji shrugged off his coat at the door, as a voice came from behind him, low and unfamiliar.

"You survived..."

Sanji frowned, head snapping around towards the living room doorway, where a man stood, his brows high and face pale as though he'd seen a ghost.

"Who are you?" Sanji demanded. The man's face distorted immediately, his eyes widening like he'd been caught trespassing in his own grave. "How did you get in here?"

The five stages of grief looked to pass over him, mouth opening and closing, searching for words. He stepped further out into the foyer, giving Sanji a better look at his state.

A horrific injury decorated his torso - a clean, deep slice running from his left shoulder to right hip. It stained his torn, dirty white shirt a deep crimson.

"What did you say, sorry?" Usopp shouted faintly from down the hall. Sanji barely noticed, jaw hanging limply at the sight of the man, who seemed completely unfazed by his own condition.

The man took a slow step forward, leaning closer and whispering like he were sharing a secret. "Can- you can see me?"

What?

Usopp ambled over to Sanji, oblivious. "What did you say, I didn't hear," he said.

Sanji pivoted his head back and forth between the two, spluttering 'uhs,' and incomplete words like a child who'd been caught rifling through the headmaster's office.

Usopp placed a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, are you alright?" His eyes softened with concern.

"Uh- yeah, it's just..." Sanji finally said. "You don't see..?" He pointed vaguely across the room with a shaky hand.

Usopp shook his head lightly. He scanned the foyer, searching for something that, to him, clearly wasn't there. "See what?"

For a heartbeat, Sanji thought Usopp might be joking around with him - a poor taste prank that he'd start laughing about any moment. But one look at Usopp's face told him he was serious. Usopp couldn't see him.

Sanji didn't know what to say. How could he tell him the truth - there was a crazy-looking, heavily bleeding, injured, invisible man?

"Sanji," Usopp started slowly, "the doctor said you might have 'visual disturbances' for a while. Whatever it is, don't worry about it. It's probably just the meds," he offered.

"Uh, right..." Sanji nodded reluctantly.

"'Visual disturbance?'" The invisible man scoffed. "I'm not a 'disturbance.'"

"Anyway, let's get you sorted. Can't have you sleeping in your car again, can we?" Usopp said, patting him playfully on the back. He took Sanji's car keys and ventured outside, rummaging around for the blankets and belongings Sanji had left in there the first night.

The pair took everything up to one of the spare rooms, Usopp chatting obliviously about something he and Nami had gotten up to while Sanji was in the hospital. All the while, the Medication-Induced-Man desperately, and very annoyingly, tried to get Sanji to speak to him.

His final straw came when it followed them into the bedroom, passing through a solid wall, to do so.

How the hell was he supposed to ignore that?

Sanji checked his watch abruptly. "It's getting late, Usopp. You better get back."

"I know, but-" he sighed, "you sure you're gonna be okay? I could stay if you wanted?"

"No, no," Sanji said, waving his hand. "I'll be fine. You know how Heracles gets when you miss work."

Usopp laughed, "yeah, I suppose. But you better be careful on the stairs."

"I will be, Dad, now go on. And thank Kaya for the cookies for me." He ushered Usopp down the porch, watching as he approached his car.

"Remember, if you see anything, it's just the meds! Try and ignore it!" He shouted, climbing in and starting the engine.

Sanji waved, his jaw tense as the green Beetle pulled out. The crunching of gravel faded out as he drove further down the path until he was gone.

He turned around, and headed back inside. The man stood waiting at the top of the stairwell, looking down over the foyer. Sanji breathed shakily, traversing the stairs. In that moment, he decided to keep his head down, and silently passed into the bedroom.

Ignore it. No problem.

________________

This was starting to become a really big fucking problem.

Sanji lay flat on his back rigidly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. Sleep wasn't coming. Not with that voice still going.

"... fifty-nine bottles of beer on the wall, fifty-nine bottles of beer-"

The voice droned on, thin and endless, scraping away at Sanji's sanity. It had been droning on for hours, never missing a beat, as though it never got tired, and had all the time in the world.

If this was a hallucination, it was a damn annoying one.

How it hadn't gotten bored yet, he didn't understand - if hallucinations even could get bored. Which he supposed didn't really make any sense, being invented by the brain and all. Unless they got bored when the brain was bored. Though, that couldn't be right either, because Sanji's brain had mentally checked out hours ago and was now busy spiralling into bullshit philosophy... While the guy was still singing.

Eventually he wondered if there was any point in trying to sleep at all - morning would be here in just a few hours.

He decided to try and get a better look at the invisible man that was currently sat on the floor at his bedside. Rolling onto his side, he shuffled his head towards the mattress edge.

At this point, the man wasn't even looking at him. He'd been at it so long, he too was staring at the ceiling, presumably wondering why he was even bothering.

The blue moonlight through the window cast just enough glow to outline the sharp lines of an East Asian face. He was much more built than Sanji was, his arms muscular and defined.

He registered the wound again - the slash was clean, as if it had been done by a sharp blade. The moonlight gleamed the wet blood on his chest, but it never seemed to spread, as though it were frozen in time. Was he attacked?

Glancing lower, his eyes fell onto three different scabbards attached to his waist. Two of which were empty - the third containing an intricate white katana. Sanji frowned at the detail of it all.

He couldn't help but wonder, of all the people his brain could've cooked up, why someone like this?

And why was his hair green?

Sanji had stopped registering his singing a while ago, but when he paid attention, he couldn't place the guy's accent. It was a weird mix of something new and old, with a hint of something East Asian, like it had been slightly forgotten over time.

As he neared the end of the song, he pulled his eyes away from the ceiling and turned his head to face the bed.

Sanji didn't have any time to move. He was now staring him directly in the eyes. Now that his head had turned, Sanji could see the three teardrop-shaped golden earrings dangling from his left ear. The moonlight created a small glint that reflected onto the walls.

He wasn't sure if he should move, feeling like a deer caught in headlights.

The man similarly seemed unsure of what to do. He stopped singing, just a few bottles of beer away from finishing the song once again. A long stretch of silence swallowed the room, oppressive after the nonstop singing.

Instead of speaking, he slowly raised his hand and waved it lightly back and forth. The gesture was small, like a child desperate for acknowledgement.

Shit. Should he have closed his eyes and pretended to fall asleep? Flipped back over? Said something?

He was too damn tired.

Even if it was a hallucination, it clearly wanted to be heard. If he could at least get it to be quiet until tomorrow, maybe it would be gone by then.

Sanji sighed heavily and resigned to actually address him. "Please. Stop singing," he muttered, muffled against the side of the pillow.

He looked relieved to have actually been spoken to, until he registered what had been said, and he frowned. "I will if you stop ignoring me."

Sanji pulled the quilt over his face, his voice coming muffled, brittle. "Fine. But just let me sleep."

He stayed put for a while afterwards, until Sanji heard a low shuffling and quiet footsteps away from his bed. Perhaps the imaginary man was satisfied with that. At least he hoped so.

And he sure hoped he was gone in the morning.

Chapter Text

Sanji woke with a jolt, the early morning light spilling over the room. For a breathless moment, everything was calm. Then he heard it - a faint shuffling, just outside the bedroom door.

He froze.

No. Not again.

That better just be the wind.

Rubbing his face with his hand, he glanced down at the spot beside his bed, where his new roommate sat the night before. Empty now.

He was probably just being paranoid. Surely it was unlikely he'd see that... 'ghost' again. His head felt better than yesterday, his migraine having settled somewhat, and his vision was clear as it always had been. Though, he supposed it was fine last night too...

He slid out of bed, stiff from the night's rest, and got dressed. Usually, he considered wearing shoes in the house blasphemous, but today, he put them on before he left the room. Just in case.

The stairs moaned under his weight, creaking like percussion in a horror movie. Halfway down, he stalled. His brain ran through every possible scenario: invisible man jumps out, heart attack, I die in a totally embarrassing way. Again.

The foyer being clear of any movement eased some of the tension in his shoulders, and he made a beeline for the kitchen.

But he halted in the doorway, as if the air had been sucked out of the room.

There he was. Sitting at the kitchen counter, arms folded like he belonged there, his fingers tapping a sound far too ordinary for someone so critically injured. The morning light slanted across him in pale bars, illuminating the blood-dark wound on his chest, as though it were merely another place-setting at the table. He looked comfortable, domestic. Like a husband waiting for breakfast.

Sanji's heart practically stopped. He braced for the metallic smell of blood, not knowing whether to scream, laugh or vomit. But all that came was the scent of coffee grounds and dust.

His brain desperately scrabbled for excuses - hallucination, severe concussion, side effects, literally anything - while his eyes screamed the opposite: he looked real. Too real.

The man looked up, with all the casualness of a neighbour borrowing sugar, tilting his head in greeting. "Morning."

Absolutely not.

Sanji's body decided before his brain could catch up - a violent lurch backwards, feet skidding against the tile. His skin went cold, mouth filling with copper panic.

He bolted down the hall, grabbing his keys, yanking the door shut hard enough the frame rattled. His muttering started before he'd even hit the gravel drive.

He slammed the car door with one hand, fumbling with the keys in the other with fingers that felt like they'd been replaced with someone else's. The engine roared to life, merciful and loud. Doctor. Now.

Someone rational could tell him what brand of insanity this was.

The tyres crunched over the gravel and Sanji finally let himself take a shaky breath, disregarding the fact he wasn't legally allowed to be driving in his condition. "I am not crazy. I'm not."

But in the rearview mirror the man was there again - sprinting down the drive with helpless urgency after the car as he left the house behind.

_________________

The exam room was too bright, too clean. White walls, metal counters, jars of tongue depressors lined up like soldiers. He sat in front of the paper covered desk, reminding him of every time he'd been patched up after doing something stupid. Or saying something wrong to his brothers.

He sank into the chair as if it could swallow him whole, gripping the edge so hard his knuckles whitened. The room smelled faintly of antiseptic and old coffee, and the hum of the fluorescent lights overhead made his head buzz.

He had rehearsed his words in the car. It sounded less insane in his head.

"An invisible man, you say?" The doctor repeated, an interested gleam in his eye as he leaned forward in his seat. His hair stuck up in three different directions, his coat creased and sagging - the very image of someone you'd cross the street to avoid.

Quack, Sanji thought bitterly.

He hung his head low, his voice a mumbling concession to madness. "Yeah, uh- he was there when I got home. He had this big injury, and he kept talking and singing and-" he stopped, waving his own thoughts away. "Is it the meds I was given? Should I change them?"

The doctor rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully. "And he's not here with you right now?" He asked, "this invisible man?"

S shook his head. "No, no, I only saw him at the house. Why? Is that bad?" His leg bounced, hoping beyond hope he didn't come across as a liar. But the doctor folded his arms, his voice sincere.

"This might be difficult for you, sonny," he said slowly, "but- you're seeing ghosts."

S blinked. Then blinked again.

"Uh-" he laughed uncomfortably, though it came out more as a strangled cough. "Yeah.. that's a good one."

"Oh, I'm not joking." The doctor produced a pen from his coat pocket and fiddled with it, his face curious like he'd made a new scientific theory. "It seems to me that your accident left you so close to death, that you can now perceive those on the other side."

What?

"I- what?" Sanji stammered out. "I don't unde-"

“Listen, kid,” he interrupted.

Sanji blinked. “What?”

“I’m dead.” The doctor stood, walked towards the wall, and with all the casualness of someone fetching a glass of water - strolled straight through it.

Sanji choked on air. He barely had time to be horrified before another voice came from behind him.

"Sorry for the long wait, Mr. Black - you know how it is," said a raspy voice, as a nurse with long white hair entered the room. He started, almost falling out of the seat, his head spinning back and forth between the two.

"Don't worry," the doctor said, only his head and torso peeking out from the plaster, "she's very good."

______________

Sanji stepped out of the clinic, the door clicking softly behind him. He crossed the parking lot and leaned against the car, taking a shaky breath, fumbling for his cigarettes. His chest heaved, but for the first time since last night, he felt a strange clarity. The doctor - as eccentric as he was - had confirmed what Sanji had only considered for a fleeting second.

Ghosts were real. And he could see them.

He took a long drag, the thought playing like a broken record. Ghosts are real. The bedtime, sit-around-a-campfire, cautionary tale ghosts... are real. And they're everywhere.

As if things couldn't get any more fucking complicated.

Sliding into the driver's seat, he started the car, deciding he needed something to eat. Breakfast had been a casualty of his morning panic. Maybe if he had a coffee and a sandwich, he could begin to process... stuff.

The roads wound away from the hospital, through to the town's outskirts - and now he noticed it - just how many people there were wearing old, historical garb on the sidewalks.

A variety of decades and eras - some clearly more modern like yuppies, and greasers, wearing tweed and trilbies or leather jackets. He spotted the colourful polished neatness of mods - flares, shoulder pads and furs from decades passed. And beyond them - a woman in lace gloves and a gown straight out of Austen, parasol open against a sun that couldn't burn her anymore.

They passed one another, blurred into crowds, none of them seen by the living who brushed right through.

He had spotted some of them on the drive from the hospital the day before and assumed - falsely, he now realised - that there was some kind of historical parade or vintage market event in the city. Now, his stomach knotted with the truth: these people were dead. All of them.

He drove until the road peeled away to reveal a small diner crouched by the outskirts of the city. 'Conis' Diner,' it's sign announced in a carefree pink script - a quaint place he'd noticed on his last drive through the moors.

The air was cool when he stepped out, a damp moorland breeze that felt misty against his cheeks. For a heartbeat, he lingered by the car, worrying his lip over the thought of the living and the dead sitting side by side.

Then, the smell reached him, coffee, sweet pastry, fried eggs. The everyday weight of it tugged him forward.

Inside, the place was small, but cute, adorned with pink and white tile highlighted by overhead lights decorated like clouds. From the corner came music - a pink dome top jukebox playing not the usual rock or charts pop, but the soft, unexpected sound of harp strings.

He paid for a cappuccino and bagel from a cheerful blonde cashier with twin braids, her laughter ringing like silver bells. He savoured the mundane interaction like a warm drink.

Opting to sit at one of the tables outside, he did just that - carrying the warm cup in one hand and the paper bag in the other, scanning for a place to sit.

And he froze.

At one of the far tables sat a man who didn't seem to belong - a man none of the other patrons seemed to notice. He wore a yellow and brown robe style outfit, the sleeves frayed and burnt. Angel wings adorned his back, the feathers singed at their synthetic ends.

It looked like a Halloween costume, despite it being the middle of August. And the black and red burn marks that contrast against his pale skin definitely looked too elaborate for Halloween makeup - aggressive fissures branching out like veins on a leaf. Or rather - like lightning.

And yet, he smiled. A warm, untroubled smile behind his beard, as though death were nothing more than an inconvenience. He watched the other customers come and go, content.

Sanji's throat tightened. His instincts screamed don't engage. Sit down, eat your bagel, pretend you can't see him. Pretend you're normal. But he'd already made eye contact - or thought he had.

Those calm eyes locked on him. And Hell, if he really was seeing ghosts, was he supposed to do? He had to figure them out sooner or later.

So against every rational cell in his body, and the sickness in his stomach over what 'later' entailed, he wandered over and sat down.

Tentatively, he gave the man a curt nod. "Morning," he said quietly.

The man's brow rose for a moment, before he smiled again, eyes crinkling at the edges. "Good morning, young man," he replied gently.

Relief flickered through Sanji so sharp it almost hurt. He supposed this was proof - that he wasn't just seeing things. The ghosts were different. Everywhere he went, different faces, none of them ever followed him. Why would his brain do that?

Though, his mind wouldn't let go of the thought: he was actually speaking to a dead person. Maybe he was mad.

He took a sip of coffee to ease his dry throat, the metal chair digging into his back uncomfortably. So what, he was a psychic? Sort of?

Either way, he was undeniably curious. About both his new ability, and the man sitting across from him. For a moment, he hesitated, nervous to address the giant elephant in the room. Is death a sensitive topic for a ghost? The absurd thought almost made him laugh into the foam of his cappuccino.

"Um..." Sanji started. "If you don't mind me asking- what happened to you?" He asked, leaning forward, his brows drawn up at the ends.

"Oh, I'm sorry. I know I don't look my best." The man looked down at his scarred body, with a sheepish scratch of his head. "I was struck by lightning. Just over there."

He pointed a pale hand over to the roadside, where willow tree branches reached down like mourning hands to touch the concrete. Sanji traced with his eyes, scars that swirled down and around his arm - jagged, red and frost-like.

His chest clenched, his shoulders sinking at the weight of it. There was nothing in particular about the spot to suggest that someone had met such a tragic end there. Only a few bouquets tied with yarn at the base of the willow gave any indication.

"It was Valentines Day," the man continued softly. "My little girl owns the diner - I thought I'd surprise her, dress up a bit, bring her a little present. Nothing fancy, just a necklace she'd been eyeing." His smile was faint, but warm, his eyes going glassy with the memory. "I wanted to make her laugh."

Sanji’s breath hitched. He looked through the window where the blonde cashier worked the counter, laughing with a customer. A silver angel wing pendant swung around her neck.

He chuckled then, but it lacked any humour. "I didn't even make it across the road. A storm hit the moors hard that day. And me, I suppose. It was quite a shock, no pun intended."

A startled laugh tore from Sanji's mouth before he could stop it. It scraped against his throat, and left him shaking his head. Good to know people's sense of humour doesn't die along with them.

"I don't mind it, though," the man continued after a beat, his smile returning with quiet dignity. "My daughter - she doesn't know I'm here, but I can see her smile, hear her laugh. That's enough for me."

The man's eyes faltered just slightly. "Though... it is a shame I'll never have the chance to eat her food again. Now that's the real tragedy."

Sanji laughed, short and incredulous, but the sound caught in his throat. Something twisted low in his stomach, sharp and familiar.

He knew what it meant to want food and not have it. To ache for it so badly it hollowed you out from the inside. He stared at his untouched bagel, suddenly too flimsy in his grip, his jaw tight.

“…Yeah,” he said finally, his voice rougher than he meant. “I get that.”

The man's gaze shifted to him then, settling on the brace around his neck. "And you? What happened to you, young man?"

Sanji stiffened, instinctively scratching his neck where the plastic met his shoulders. "Oh this? Nothing. Just... an accident." He forced a crooked grin, trying to shake off the question. "I'm fine."

Silence stretched between them as the jukebox trilled its soft harp music. Sanji sipped his coffee just to have something to do, even though it had gone lukewarm.

Finally, he rose. He was aware that a couple on the next table were watching him, whispering about the weirdo talking to himself. He ignored the burn if their stares.

"Thank you," he said earnestly, "for telling me that."

"No, thank you," the man smiled. "It's been a while since anybody listened."

Sanji gave him a final polite nod and walked over to the roadside, food in hand. The willow branches dipped low, brushing his shoulders as he approached the memorial. A few fresh bouquets of lilies and pansies lay at the base of the tree, bright against the damp soil. Peeling back the wrapping of a bouquet, he found a small card written on in looping cursive.

For Pagaya.

Rubbing his face with his hands, he let out a shaky breath. He set the paper bag containing his uneaten bagel down beside the flowers and got to his feet. "Breakfast is on me, Pagaya."

He wandered absently back to his car, sitting for a long while before he started the engine.

________________

The car finally pulled back into the drive of the house. Sanji spotted him immediately - the green-haired ghost sitting silently on the porch steps, his head bowed as though he were listening out for the sound of crunching gravel. His head snapped up when the car drew in, the gash on his chest catching the light.

Sanji shut the car off and for a long moment, simply sat with his forehead against the wheel. The silence of the car pressed in tight, broken only by the ticking of the cooling engine. He couldn't avoid it any more - no amount of running, or muttering, or cigarettes could erase the fact that a dead guy was still there. Waiting.

With a sigh, he stepped out, the chill of the air prickling his skin.

"Okay, message received," he said flatly, trudging up the path. "I admit that you exist. Congratulations."

The ghost only stared for a moment, then huffed a laugh - low, almost to himself. "Took you long enough," he stood, brushing phantom dust from his trousers as though the motion were habit rather than necessity. It was a weirdly human motion, and Sanji bristled at it slightly.

He scoffed, throwing up his hands. "Just- what do you want? Can't you just go haunt someone else? Anywhere else?" His voice pitched higher than he wanted, like a kid arguing.

The ghost's eyes flickered, steady and dark. "No. You die where you die. And you stay," he shrugged. "So unfortunately for both of us, I'm not going anywhere."

The words landed heavy, like the door of a cell slamming shut. Sanji’s stomach dropped. This wasn’t temporary. This wasn’t something he could drive away from. He clenched his jaw.

"Oh, good, perfect," he said through clenched teeth. He paced, rubbing his temple, anger thrumming under his skin. "So what do you want, then? You have unfinished business? You want revenge? Information? Closure? What?"

The ghost was silent for a moment, then he tilted his head, dry as dust. "No. I just don't appreciate being ignored by people who can see me. It's rude."

Sanji froze mid-step, brows raised incredulously. "Rude? Are you serious?" He laughed - ugly and bitter, anger bubbling as he raked back his hair.

"I don't know if you realise this, moss-head, or if you've got algae in your brain, but over the past week, I have lied to my friends and family about where I am, literally fucking died and became a goddamn necromancer - but on top of all of that, I still have to stay here. In this house! With you!" His chest heaved.

"So I'm so sorry if my 'attitude' isn't to your liking, but I have bigger things to worry about!"

A silence carried over the courtyard for a moment, Sanji's shoulders moving ragged after his outburst.

The ghost nodded lightly, frowning as he looked at the gravel path, his arms still folded casually. His expression never shifted. Then, finally-

"What the hell is a necromancer?"

Sanji blinked. He let out a strangled sound, somewhere between a laugh and a curse, looking skyward, as if asking for divine confirmation that this was happening. This genuinely felt like a wind up.

"I can't believe this," he said, shaking his head, "you are unbelievable."

"My English isn't perfect, alright?" The ghost frowned. "In case you haven't noticed, curly brow, there are no teachers here."

Curly brow. The nickname, obviously reference to his eyebrows - which were not that weird - burrowed under his skin and he scoffed, jaw falling slack. "Well, well, well, now who's being rude?" He muttered, stomping around him and unlocking the front door. "Maybe I outta beat some manners into you?"

"You're very welcome to try," he said, phasing through the front wall with insulting ease. "But I doubt you'd make much progress."

Sanji looked up at the ceiling, like he could tell God directly, "this is Hell. This is actually Hell - of all the ghosts the universe could send me, I just had to get you, didn't I?" He dumped his keys on the dresser by the door and shrugged off his coat. "And I can't even kick you."

"Yeah, well I'm not crazy about you either," he said bluntly. "And my name isn't moss-head, by the way. It's Zoro. Roanoa Zoro."

"Sure thing, mossy. Noted," Sanji shot him a glare and trudged up the stairs.

"Oi!" Zoro rushed to follow, circling Sanji like a cat.

His shoulder bumped the wall as he sidestepped out of the way. He shot a fleeting glance at that bleeding wound, pulse spiking harshly at the sight.

"What's your problem, anyway?" Z demanded. "If you hate being here so much, why don't you just leave?"

"What's your problem, you nosey asshole?" Sanji bit back, scurrying around Zoro. "Is 'mind your own business' part of your English vocabulary yet?"

Zoro scoffed, unyielding. "You can't complain about me being here if you could easily pack up and go! I was here first - or did you forget?"

Sanji continued onto the landing. "Yeah, well... as much as it sucks, I'm here to stay now." He turned once he reached the bedroom door, pointing a finger at Zoro. "So if we're going to coexist, we need to set up some house rules."

The ghost blinked, as though the word was foreign. "Rules?."

"Number one-," Sanji raised a finger, stepping closer. "-Stay out of my room, especially when I'm sleeping. And no more singing," he cringed. "If I hear another verse about beer, I will kick the shit out of you."

"You can't," Zoro countered flatly.

"I know!" Sanji snapped, heat in his voice. "That's not the point."

Zoro tilted his head, arms folded. "Then what is?"

"Number two," Sanji barrelled on, entering his room and gathering a few clothes from his bag as he went on. "No sneaking up on me. If you're going to drift through walls like some bargain-bin Dracula, announce yourself. Loudly. And stay out of the bathroom when I'm in the shower."

Zoro's mouth twitched - almost a smile. "You think highly of yourself."

Sanji shot him a glare, squeezing out of the room, past Zoro with his clothes. "Number three," he continued. "When other people are here, keep your mouth shut. I don't need you yapping in my ear when I'm trying to act sane."

Zoro let the silence hang, his gaze unreadable. "And if I don't?"

Sanji leaned against the bathroom doorway, exhaustion bleeding through his anger. "Then you can go back to - I dunno - counting the floorboards and talking to yourself. Like you've been doing. For how long?"

That seemed to land. Zoro's eyes dropped for the first time, one hand tightening around the hilt of the sword at his side. His reply was quiet, almost reluctant. "Fine."

Sanji blinked, thrown by how simply he gave in. He covered it with a scoff, tugging the bathroom door half-closed. "Alright. Now I'm gonna take a shower. Have fun practicing rule number two."

The door clicked shut, leaving Zoro alone in the dim hall.

He stood there a while, staring at the wooden door like it might open again. His arms folded tighter across his chest, though the gesture did nothing to warm him. He muttered something under his breath and then sank down onto the stairs with the weight of someone who had all the time in the world.