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Summary
“Why don’t you heal yourself?” Smoker says.
“Burned myself out.”
“Don’t bullshit me.”
“I’m not kidding,” says Portgas. He reaches for Smoker’s hand, touches the back with his fingers. His skin is—not freezing, but it may as well have been. Compared to how hot Smoker knows he runs, he’s corpse cold.
“Couldn’t use my power if I wanted to.” He pulls his hand away. “I wanted to know if you could help with that, actually,” he says. “I figured if anyone could set me right again, it would be you.”