“This wasn’t supposed to turn into a competition,” you continue. “The rotations, the teams, this district run was meant to be therapy with busy hands. Stress relief. Something normal after...” You don’t finish the sentence, but you don’t need to.

  Erza’s brow furrows. “Then these rotations are not... dates?”

  “They weren’t meant to be,” you say honestly. “They were time. Time with each of you while doing something ordinary instead of reliving cages, altars, or screaming.”

  C.C. lets out a soft, knowing hum. “Ah. Exposure therapy disguised as acquisition.”

  “Exactly,” you say. “We don’t actually need any of this stuff. We’re looting because it keeps your minds occupied while your nervous systems calm down.”

  Nami’s jaw tightens again. “Then why does it feel like everyone’s comparing notes?”

  “Because that part wasn’t pnned,” you admit. “I wanted to get to know you individually. Outside the anime versions I grew up with. Then there was a kiss. Then someone pulled me into a back room. Then an oath. Then a fashion rivalry. Somewhere along the way, I became both therapist and accidental pyboy.”

  C.C. ughs quietly. “Accidental, he says.”

  You ignore her and look back at Nami. “What you’re feeling isn’t jealousy. It’s anxiety. You’re watching the telepathy web and measuring yourself, because that’s how you learned to survive.”

  Nami looks away. “If I’m not useful enough, I get left.”

  “That’s not how this works,” you say firmly. “And that’s on me for not saying it sooner.”

  Erza shifts. “If this is personal, I can-”

  “No,” you say, meeting her eyes. “Stay. This matters. You need to hear this too. You have a habit of ignoring your own gender. Earth-Land let you do that. This world won’t.”

  Erza freezes, caught completely off-guard.

  You turn back to Nami. “This rotation doesn’t mean someone else won and you didn’t. It means we’re looting this store, and I’m here to help and distract you. That’s it.”

  Nami looks back at you, confused. “Then why does it feel so messy?”

  “Because you’re all human,” you say. “And because feminine competition crept in through gossip instead of healing. Some of you wanted privacy. Some wanted visibility. None of that is wrong. But it doesn’t make this a ranking.”

  C.C. tilts her head. “So the great experiment continues, but with crified parameters.”

  “Yes,” you say. “Much better night than fighting rotting zombies. Even with the chaos.”

  A moment ter, Erza exhales slowly. “I... did not realize this was meant to be rest.”

  “It was,” you say gently. “And it still is. Mental rest with physical exertion. Have you been reliving your past while moving your hands?”

  Your eyes flick briefly to her armor. “You haven’t taken that breastpte off since the med-bay.”

  Erza blinks, instinctively touching the edge of the armor, clearly not having realized how long it’s been.

  Nami uncrosses her arms at st. “So where do I stand?”

  You answer without hesitation. “On your feet. Attached to a beautiful pair of legs that look better in a skirt.”

  You give her a faint, crooked smile. “As for how you’re going to handle me, that’s your choice. I’ll warn you though,” you add, gncing sideways, “C.C. is hoping for entertainment.”

  Nami stares at you for half a second, then groans softly, covering her face. “You’re impossible.”

  C.C.’s grin widens. “Accurate.”

  Albedo’s presence brushes faintly through the telepathy web, approval, restraint, trust.

  You pick up your rifle again. “Now. High-grade pigments first. Those are worth a fortune.”

  C.C. smiles. “And thus the soon-to-be richest man in the world returns to stealing art supplies.”

  Nami snorts despite herself.

  You shrug. “So I can learn how to paint the most beautiful women in the world! Though,” you add dryly, “maybe I should stick with photography.”

  Erza coughs once, flustered.C.C. ughs outright.Nami shakes her head, but the tension is gone.

  You keep stacking boxes of sculpting cy, your hands moving on autopilot. “Each of my dates have gone a bit differently. Most involved sharing some details about each other. Some were just them openly taunting me. Others didn’t care about subtlety and just funted it.”

  Nami pauses, her hands hovering over a sketchbook she’s wrapping. “Funted it... meaning what exactly?” Her tone is sharp, curiosity edged with a flicker of offense.

  You gnce at her, shrugging lightly. “Depends. Sometimes it was pyful. Some are competitive. I’ve learned that different people handle attention in very different ways.”

  Erza freezes for a moment with a box of brushes in her hands. “And you... let them?” she asks quietly. There’s a careful steadiness in her voice, like she’s testing whether your approach is reckless or intentional.

  C.C. leans against a table, golden eyes tracking your movements. “I assume not all of them treated you as a casual... participant?” she says, the corner of her mouth twitching in amusement.

  You continue stacking supplies chuckling without looking up. “Some were, some weren't. Everyone’s different, some need gentle therapy others argument. And sometimes I just... let the night unfold. Helps me figure out how each person ticks, without forcing anything.”

  Nami frowns, her initial irritation softening slightly. “So... you’re basically just collecting behavioral data while we pack boxes?”

  “Each of you are doing the same to me,” you say lightly, tapping a hand against a crate. “Nothing serious. Just... learning what makes people act the way they do. Helps me keep my hands busy while letting everyone else blow off steam.”

  Erza exhales softly, lowering her box. “I see. That... makes more sense than I expected.”

  C.C. smirks, shifting her weight. “You certainly have a peculiar way of keeping company.”

  You keep stacking boxes of sketchbooks, your hands moving on autopilot. “It was actually our time in the home goods store, C.C., that started a common theme. Talking about details shared between you—each of you were orphaned and raised as child-sves in different capacities.”

  Nami’s hands pause over a set of paints. “Wait... what exactly do you mean?”

  You gnce at her without stopping your work. “C.C. was a simple bor-sve. Malnourished and abused. Ran away. Nami has a rare navigation talent in a world that’s ninety-nine percent water. She made a deal with the pirates who murdered her adoptive mother and took control of her vilge. Erza was too young to be used for sex, so she was assigned bor. They managed to rebel successfully, but not without injuries and losses.”

  Erza exhales sharply, lowering the crate she was holding. “How do you... know that?” Her voice is quiet, wary, but steady.

  You keep your hands moving, stacking boxes neatly. “I did try and warn you earlier. Your stories, your worlds, are known popur media in this world, that’s why I told you that you were household-name super-famous. Here, your stories and tragedies are famous. Anyone who can identify you likely knows your story as well as I do, each with a few differences in what they bothered to remember about a fictional story.”

  Nami swallows, her fingers tightening slightly around a paintbrush. “That’s... a lot to just drop casually while packing boxes.”

  C.C. leans against the counter, arms crossed, golden eyes glinting. “It is. And yet, oddly… useful. It frames the context without overexpining.”

  You nod, stacking the st box in the row. “Exactly. If someone else used this knowledge, it would be dangerous. Nineteen badass women around you would be happy to kick my ass, but the wrong person could try to make deals you couldn’t get out of. I’m just… making sure you know the stakes.”

  Erza exhales slowly, adjusting the box in her hands. “I... understand. It doesn’t make it any less uncomfortable.”

  Nami mutters, more to herself than anyone else, “No, it doesn’t. But at least it’s clear.”

  You keep stacking boxes, letting your words drift with your movements. “There are super-famous moments in each of your lives that everyone will remember because they got repeated over and over. Like Bell-mère being shot by Arlong. Or Erza’s teacher—the old man who taught her most of her magic. Most people, myself included, won’t even remember his name.”

  You shift a crate slightly, gncing toward C.C. as you continue. “And you, C.C… most of the years between when you got your immortality and the start of your story? People just get fshes. One second you’re in a ballroom dress, the next you’re diving into a trench to avoid artillery, then ter you’re asleep on hay with little Mao in your arms… hmm, was that before or after you came here?”

  Nami freezes for a moment, her hands hovering over the sketchbook she’s wrapping. Her brown eyes narrow, a mix of indignation and disbelief. “Wait… are you just casually dropping all of our worst moments while we’re packing?” she snaps. “Do you even realize how… personal that is?”

  Erza’s scarlet hair falls forward slightly as she stiffens, the box of sculpting tools trembling in her grip. “That is… dangerously blunt,” she mutters, voice tight. Her warrior instincts fre—this isn’t just a story anymore, it’s exposure, and she feels the weight of how much control she’s lost over it.

  C.C. leans back casually against the counter, golden eyes glinting with amusement. “Ah, so now we see the stream-of-consciousness historian in action,” she says lightly, her tone teasing, almost detached. “You want to rattle off the highlights and let everyone else squirm over what they remember?” She tilts her head, considering. “I remember giving a child named Mao the Geass. The rest of my years as an immortal? I lived them. You’re the one summarizing the fshes, not me.”

  Brad freezes mid-motion, a box half-lifted. “Oh. Right. Emotional trauma,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck once. “What I just said wasn’t intended to be harmful.”

  He sets the box down more carefully than necessary and resumes packing as he talks, voice steady again. “What I said was and is common knowledge here. Most people who recognize your name, Nami, will know about Bell-mère. Oddly, they’ll know Nojiko less, because she was shown less. That’s not me digging into your privacy. That’s me ying out what is publicly known to anyone who knows your name before you ever meet them.”

  He gnces between them, not pushing, not retreating. “I’m not trying to poke at your emotions. I’m trying to make sure you understand what information already exists, so it can’t be used to corner you. If you know what strangers already think they know, they lose the ability to manipute you with it.”

  Nami’s jaw tightens, but she does not interrupt this time. Her hands stay busy, wrapping paper a little tighter than necessary.

  Erza exhales slowly, shoulders still tense but no longer rigid. “So this isn’t about what you know,” she says carefully. “It’s about what others might use.”

  “Yep,” Brad replies. “If I ever misuse it, there are nineteen very capable women nearby who would happily kick my ass. If someone else uses it, they will try to make you agree to things you do not get to walk away from.”

  C.C. watches him for a moment, unreadable, then gives a small, thoughtful hum. “Clumsy delivery,” she says lightly. “But a sound premise. You are mapping the battlefield before the enemy arrives.”

  Brad huffs softly. “I’m bad at subtlety in general. After being wrung out repeatedly like this, you’re lucky I’m not a babbling mess… oh. Uh.”

  There’s a beat of silence.

  Nami blinks, then lets out a short, incredulous ugh despite herself. “You really don’t know when to stop talking, do you?” she says, shaking her head. The edge in her voice dulls just a little. “Idiot.”

  Erza coughs once into her fist, cheeks faintly pink. “That was… not the crification you think it was,” she says, though there’s a hint of amusement beneath her composure.

  C.C.’s lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “Too te,” she says calmly. “You said it. Now it exists.” She tilts her head. “But for what it’s worth, you are not wrong. Repeated emotional pressure does degrade precision. You are merely… demonstrating it.”

  Brad grimaces. “Fantastic. Even my foot-in-mouth moments are being analyzed.”

  The tension eases a notch. Not gone, but no longer sharp. Packing resumes, the conversation moving forward again instead of circling the same wound.

  Brad exhales once, steadying himself, then looks between Nami and Erza. “Alright. Reset.” He taps the side of a box, grounding the moment. “You both get a choice here.”

  He nods toward the open store, half-packed shelves, the others moving farther down the aisles. “We can keep this public. Keep packing. Talk it through where everyone can hear, interrupt, disagree, or ignore us as they see fit.”

  Then he gestures toward the darker back hallway. “Or we do it private. One at a time. No audience. No pressure to perform calm or strong or reasonable.”

  He meets Nami’s eyes first. “This is about where you stand. You decide how exposed that conversation is.”

  Then Erza. “And you,” he adds more quietly, “have things you’ve never had the chance to unpack without needing to be the strongest person in the room. That choice is yours too.”

  He does not step closer. Does not soften the words further. “Either way, we keep looting. No therapy deadlines. No forcing epiphanies. Just… options.”

  Nami’s fingers tighten around the roll of paper she’s holding. She doesn’t answer immediately, jaw working as she weighs the room, the people, the risk.

  Erza straightens slightly, thoughtful rather than defensive now. Her eyes flick once toward the back hall, then back to Brad. “You would really let us walk away from the conversation if we chose to?”

  “Yes,” Brad says without hesitation. “And pick it up ter. Or not at all.”

  C.C., who has been listening without comment, hums softly. “How generous,” she says, amused. “And how dangerous. Giving people real choices tends to bind them more tightly than contracts.”

  Brad snorts. “I’ve been warned.” He pauses, then smirks and adds dryly, “Speaking of warnings, Maria found dakimakura pillows featuring you.”

  Nami groans, covering her face with one hand. “I don’t even want to know.”

  Erza blinks, genuinely confused. “What is a dakimakura?”

  C.C.’s smile widens just a fraction. “Ah. So that’s the merchandise tier we’ve reached.”

  The tension breaks just enough for the room to breathe again, boxes shifting, hands moving, the conversation no longer stalled but not yet resolved either.

  Nami gnces once toward the back hallway, then back at you. "Private," she says quietly. "One at a time. Me first."

  Erza nods immediately, stepping aside without protest. "I'll continue organizing the front section."

  C.C. hops back onto the counter, swinging her legs idly. "How civilized. I'll keep myself entertained." Her golden eyes track you both as you move toward the hallway.

  The back storage room is cramped—stacks of canvas rolls leaning against metal shelving, boxes of cy and pster, a narrow workbench cluttered with sculpting tools. A single emergency light that must be sor powered, casts harsh shadows across the space. You close the door behind you, leaving it slightly ajar.

  Nami stands near the workbench, arms crossed, but the defensive posture feels automatic rather than genuine. Her orange hair catches the dim light, brown eyes fixed on you with an intensity that's equal parts anger and something else.

  "I kissed you," she says abruptly. "Hours ago. At the jewelry store. Maria was there, Robin was watching, and I... I kissed you."

  You wait, saying nothing.

  "And then I heard about Rin in the back room. Albedo doing... whatever Albedo does. Yoruichi, Nova, Sinon, Robin again." Her voice tightens. "Everyone else seemed to move forward. I stayed where I was."

  You stay still. You let her finish.

  “I know you said it is not a competition,” she continues. "You said that. But it feels like one, Brad. It feels like I'm watching everyone else figure out who they are to you while I am still calcuting whether I am worth choosing."

  “That is not how I see you,” you say.

  “I know,” she replies quickly. “Logically. But logic is not the problem.” She exhales slowly. “I survived by measuring value. Mine. Other people’s. Risk. Return. It's how I survived Arlong. It's how I kept Cocoyasi Vilge alive. And I hate that I'm doing it here too, but I can't stop."

  You step closer, carefully. "What are you calcuting right now?"

  Nami looks at you for a long moment, her jaw working. "Whether this is real. Whether you actually want me, or if I'm just... another name on the list. another situation you are handling well."

  “That matters,” you say simply. “And you are right to ask it.”

  She swallows. “Then answer it.”

  You take a breath, then speak more slowly. “Over the years of watching stories, reading books, there were many characters I came to love. A lot of them. Nami from the One Piece story is one of the hundred or so names on that list.”

  You meet her eyes directly. “You shared her childhood, her appearance, parts of her pain. But you stopped being her the second your timeline changed from the one I knew. You are more than the two-dimensional picture and story that I and countless others dreamed about.”

  Your voice stays steady. “Yes. I want you. But right now, it is me who needs to prove that I am worth your attention.”

  Nami studies your face, shoulders loosen a fraction. Her voice is quieter when she answers. “I need to know that if I stop calcuting, I will not disappear.”

  “You will not,” you say "If you need time, you have it. If you need reassurance, say so. If you want distance, I will respect it.”

  Nami's eyes glisten slightly, her jaw tightening. "I need to know I matter. Not because I'm useful. Not because I'm good at reading weather patterns or drawing maps. I need to know that you see me as... as more than that."

  "I do."

  "Prove it," she whispers, and there's no challenge in her voice now—only raw vulnerability.

  SnafuSam