Chapter Text
It was dark. The kind of dark that pressed against his eyes even when they were open, thick and suffocating. Sanji lay on a bed he didn’t remember lying down on, the sheets coarse against his bare skin, too tight and heavy, pinning him in place. The air smelled faintly of metal and salt, sharp enough to sting the back of his throat.
He tried to move—just to roll his shoulder, to flex his wrist—but the weight held him down,His body felt sluggish, numb in places and burning in others, like he’d been hollowed out and stitched together wrong. His pulse thudded in his ears, loud, frantic, echoing in the silence.
Somewhere beyond the dark, footsteps creaked.
Slow.
Purposeful.
The sound curled down his spine like ice water.
Sanji’s breath quickened. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, tried to summon words—an insult, a threat, anything —but his throat scraped dry, voice little more than a rasp. His chest rose and fell shallowly, as though the air itself was rationed, doled out to him in mean, miserly drags.
Then the mattress dipped. A presence leaned close, too close. Fingers brushed his cheek, slowly , leaving a trail of heat that made his skin crawl. A low voice murmured near his ear, soft and coaxing, and Sanji froze, the sound curling like a knife into the quiet.
Darkness pressed in, heavy and airless.
Sanji couldn’t move. His wrists ached where iron bit into them, the cold of the chains sinking into bone. His chest heaved, but every breath dragged like smoke through his lungs, slow and choking.
And then came the voice.
“Pretty boy… mine.”
Lafi’s breath was warm against his ear, sickly sweet. Fingers skimmed down his ribs, pausing to dig in just enough to remind him who was in control. Sanji flinched, tried to twist away, but the chains yanked him back, biting sharper, cutting into raw skin.
“Don’t fight. You can’t. You look better when you give in.”
Sanji’s throat burned. He wanted to spit a curse, scream, anything—but what came out was a ragged whimper. His tongue felt heavy and useless. His body betrayed him, trembling under that touch.
A hand slid across his stomach, the kind of touch meant to be soothing, claimed as “gentle,” but laced with ownership. He recoiled, spine arching, chest heaving against invisible weight.
“No—don’t—” His voice cracked, nothing but air.
The darkness swallowed it.
“Hush. Mine.”
Sanji’s skin crawled. He clawed at the chains in his mind, wrists bleeding in the memory, but they held him with merciless power,Every nerve screamed at him to fight, to kick, to bite—but his limbs stayed heavy, pinned.
Useless.
The only thing left was the sound of his own heart, pounding against his ribs like a trapped bird.
And still, that voice. Low, crooning, patient. “Better this way. You’ll see. You’re mine.”
Sanji’s breath shattered into gasps. Sweat slicked his skin, eyes darting frantically beneath closed lids. He couldn’t wake—couldn’t break free. The chains dug deeper, the voice pressed closer.
No… this wasn’t just a nightmare. It was memory.
Reality.
The walls, the touch the chains ,the words—every detail carved into him too sharply to be a dream.
And when the pressure closed in, when the darkness felt endless, he did the only thing left to him.
He screamed.
Zoro had dozed off in the chair, exhaustion finally dragging him under after days of watching. His head had slumped forward, chin nearly brushing his chest, one hand still curled near the hilt of a sword even in sleep. The infirmary was quiet but for the low tick of the monitor and Sanji’s uneven breaths.
It was quiet
Then the scream split the silence.
Zoro shot upright, blade half-drawn before his eyes focused on the bed.
Sanji.
The cook’s body jerked against the sheets, eyes open but wild, trapped somewhere Zoro couldn’t see but he could guess where,His throat tore with sound, raw and broken, words lost inside the panic.
“Sanji!” Zoro shoved the chair aside, two steps to the bedside, hands hovering but not daring to touch. Sweat drenched the blond’s hair, plastering it to his temples. His wrists twisted as if bound, nails digging into his palms. His chest heaved, desperate for air that wouldn’t come.
“Oi—look at me,” Zoro barked, low but firm“It’s not real. You’re here. You’re safe.”
The words barely scratched through. Sanji curled tighter, trembling, mouth moving around a whisper Zoro couldn’t catch.
The door banged open—Chopper skidding inside,his
fur bristled, eyes wide. “What happened?! Did his fever spike? Is he in pain? W-what is ?”
“He was dreaming,” Zoro growled, never taking his eyes off the cook“Or remembering.”
Chopper scrambled up onto the bed, stethoscope already out, paws trembling as he pressed it to Sanji’s chest “His heart rate’s through the roof—dammit, he can’t take this strain—”
Sanji flinched at the touch, hands pushing weakly as if every brush against his skin belonged to chains instead of friends. “Stop—don’t—” His voice cracked, child-thin, nothing like the sharp, cocky cook Zoro knew.
Zoro’s gut twisted. He set a heavy hand on Chopper’s shoulder, stilling him“Give him a second.” Then he leaned down, close enough that his shadow covered Sanji’s trembling face“Cook. It’s me. Zoro. You’re on the Sunny. He’s gone.”
Zoro could feel the rest of the crew gathering outside the infirmary.
For a moment Sanji’s eyes darted everywhere—walls, ceiling, lamp—anywhere but Zoro. Then, slowly, his gaze locked, blue glassy and unfocused. His lips parted, shaky. “…Zoro?”
Relief punched through Zoro’s chest like a blade sliding free. He gave a sharp nod. “Yeah. Me. No one else.”
Sanji’s breathing stuttered, the fight bleeding out of him in shallow gasps. He sagged back against the pillow, but his hands still clutched the blanket tight, his knuckles turning white.
Chopper adjusted the sheet, voice gentler now“you can’t keep going like this. If you don’t sleep, your body won’t heal. But I can’t risk strong medication—not with your brain this fragile.”
Sanji shook his head violently, wet hair clinging to his cheeks“No. No more sleep,” he whispered, almost frantic“Not again. I can’t.”
Zoro stared down at him, jaw tight. He wanted to argue, to tell him he had to, but the raw terror in Sanji’s voice silenced him. Instead, he pulled the chair closer and sat, elbows on his knees “Then don’t. I’ll sit right here. You don’t sleep, I don’t sleep. That’s the deal.”
Sanji’s lips pressed together, trembling. He didn’t answer. But his breathing eased, just a fraction. His eyes drifted, not closing, but softening—like maybe he could believe it, if only for this one night.
Zoro leaned back, arms folded. He wasn’t moving. Not until the cook stopped shaking. Not until Sanji believed he was free.
The door clicked softly behind Chopper as he stepped out into the hall. The rest of the crew were waiting, shadows stretched long in the dim light. They whispered the moment they saw him—voices hushed but tight with worry.
“How is he?” Nami’s arms were crossed, but her fingers tapped restlessly against her sleeve.
“Did the fever break?” Usopp asked, eyes darting toward the door.
Brook’s voice was low, unusually serious“We heard him scream…”
Even Luffy was quiet, sitting cross-legged on the floor with his chin on his knees, wide eyes fixed on the doctor “Chopper?”
Chopper rubbed the back of his neck, exhaustion making his ears droop“He’s awake now. Shaken, but awake. It was another memory. His body can’t take nights like this for long.”
Silence rippled through them, heavy and sharp. Nami pressed her lips together. Usopp swallowed hard. Luffy’s fists tightened on his knees.
And through the door, Zoro sat unmoving in his chair, watching over Sanji like a sentinel, unwilling to yield even to sleep.
As the days dragged by, sleep became a torture chamber for Sanji. The moment his eyes closed, the world collapsed into the same shadow, the same voice, the same touch—Lafi. That bastard’s face waited for him behind his eyelids, grinning at him whispering sick words, reaching where he shouldn’t.
So Sanji stopped sleeping. Or tried to. He stayed awake all day and all night,his body trembling with exhaustion, mind fraying at the edges. His voice turned hoarse, his hands shook when he tried to eat, and still he refused to rest.
“Sanji, please,” Chopper begged, eyes glistening, his little hooves clutching the chart he couldn’t bear to look at anymore. “You have to sleep. Your body can’t heal without it.”
Sanji only shook his head, tighten his jaw, eyes wild.
‘ I can’t. I can’t ’
Even Chopper’s pleading face—those wide, innocent eyes—couldn’t sway him.
The little doctor tried everything—warm tea with calming herbs, soft lullabies hummed under his breath, even crawling up onto the chair beside the bed so Sanji wouldn’t feel alone. But each time Sanji’s eyes fluttered shut, his body would jerk violently, snapping him awake with a muttered curse or a broken gasp.
Zoro stood nearby, never leaving his bedside like guarding dog , watching with his usual stone face. But his eyes betrayed him—tracking every tremor in Sanji’s hands, every twitch in his jaw. Finally, he muttered, with low and gruff voice but soft not the less “You’re killing yourself faster this way, cook. Sleep.”
Sanji glared at the wall, not at him, shoulders trembling. “I can’t,” he rasped again, like the words were carved into him.
Then Nami tried. Sanji never said no to her , she was his weakness which normally ticked Zoro but not today , they need it .
So She sat at Sanji’s bedside, brushing damp hair from his forehead, her voice softer than anyone had ever heard it. She coaxed, teased, promised him sweets, whispered that he could rest because they were all here now, safe. She tried every trick she knew, every bit of charm that had once turned him into a puddle of devotion.
But it didn’t work. Sanji only shook his head, eyes fixed anywhere but hers, jaw clenched as if holding himself together with nothing but willpower.
And Nami worried. God, she worried. She’d never thought she would use words like thin or fragile to describe him—not Sanji, who was always fire and energy, the one who carried trays stacked high with food like they weighed nothing, the one who flirted endlessly, loudly, without shame. But now, with the oxygen mask resting against his pale skin, the feeding tube taped in place, and his body trembling with exhaustion, he looked breakable.
And Nami hated it.
She tried again, brushing her thumb over his knuckles, voice breaking around the edges. “Please, Sanji-kun Just close your eyes. Just for a little while I will be here we all are no one gona hurt you “
Sanji pause long looking at his hands ,But he only muttered hoarsely, “I can’t.”
They all sigh ….
So the captain needs to intervene.
Luffy tried next. Captain’s voice, sharp with authority “Sanji. Sleep. That’s an order.” Then he add softer, more earnest“I’ll hug you while you sleep. I’ll keep the nightmares away. I’ll fight them for you, Sanji. I promise.”
And Sanji tried. God, he tried. He is really exhausted bone tired so He let Luffy crawl into the narrow bed beside him, his strong arms wrapping around his shaking frame. He let himself believe, for just a moment, that maybe this time the dark would stay empty. Slowly, slowly, they both drifted.
But it was worse.
The moment Sanji’s head dipped into sleep, the memory struck like a knife. It was Lafi’s arms around him now possessive and suffocating. The weight of a body pressing him down after nights of violence, of being used until he couldn’t breathe. The bastard whispering into his hair, holding him tight as if he belonged there— mine, mine, mine. The sick reality of being forced to lie still while Lafi buried himself deep and kept him there until morning.
It’s hurt itself hurt , take it out take it out!
Sanji woke screaming.
He thrashed in blind panic, legs kicking so hard the bedframe groaned under the force, nails tearing at the sheets until thin white threads gave way. A strangled cry broke from his throat, half a scream, half a plea, his voice raw and unrecognizable.
Luffy was thrown off the bed with a startled yelp, landing hard on the floor. His hat rolled away, forgotten, as he scrambled to push himself up, eyes wide in shock.
Sanji’s voice ripped through the room—hoarse, broken, desperate. He wasn’t shouting at them; he was begging some phantom only he could see. “Stop—please, don’t—no, no! Take it out”
Chopper darted in, hooves trembling as he grabbed at Sanji’s flailing wrists, his own eyes wide with horror. The cook’s skin was slick with sweat, hot to the touch, fever radiating off him like a furnace“He’s burning up—hold him, I need to sedate him! He is hurting himself!”
The door slammed open behind them—Nami, Usopp, and Zoro rushing in at once. Zoro moved first, pinning Sanji’s shoulders down with strong hands, though he flinched at how frail the bones felt under his grip. Sanji bucked against him, eyes wild, gasping as though chains still bound him.
“Chopper, hurry!” Nami cried, voice breaking, her hand clutching her mouth as tears welled.
Chopper fumbled with the syringe, muttering, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—just hold him steady—” His small body shook as he pressed the needle into Sanji’s arm, praying the sedative would work before the cook tore himself apart.
Sanji gave one last violent twist, muscles screaming, before the drug dragged him down. His limbs went slack, but his lips still moved, whispering broken words through cracked breath “Please… stop…”
That night the fever came back worse than ever. He burned and shook, disoriented, his lips cracking as he whispered - begging- through chattering teeth “Stop… please stop… no more…” His words were slurred, broken pleas spilling into the dark.
Nami cried quietly against Usopp’s shoulder, tears streaking her cheeks as she listened to the muffled begging. Usopp’s arm trembled as he held her, his own eyes red.
Robin sat in silence, but her gaze was sharp and cold. For the first time, her smile slipped entirely. She whispered in a voice like steel, “If I could bring that man back to life, I would skin him alive.”
Franky paced the hallway, his metal steps echoing, fists clenching and unclenching. He couldn’t bear to see his little brother in pieces.
Brook sat against the wall, violin silent in his lap. The musician who always had a song had none tonight—only a stillness born of grief.
Inside, Zoro and Chopper hovered over Sanji’s fevered body. Zoro’s face was carved in stone, but his hands trembled as he wrung out a cloth, pressing it to Sanji’s burning forehead. Chopper’s eyes were swollen from crying, his small voice hoarse as he whispered orders to himself just to keep moving.
On the floor, Luffy hadn’t moved from where Sanji’s kick had sent him. His hat had fallen forward, shadowing his face. His shoulders shook—not from laughter, not from energy, but with something deeper and darker. Rage? Pain? Maybe both.
The crew looked at him, and in that moment they understood their captain wasn’t just angry. He was furious and hopeless.
And every one of them shared the same thought, the same vow.
If Lafi hadn’t been dead already, they would’ve hunted him down.
And if they could, they would kill him again. And again. And again.