Left.

I turned left, my boots pounding against the cobblestones as I raced down the street.

The tall buildings of white stone loomed on either side, casting long shadows that stretched across the uneven paving. It wasn't quite an alley, more of a narrow back street, the kind where residents hung laundry out to dry on lines strung between windows, and rickety wooden stairs climbed the sides of buildings. My breath came in ragged gasps, but I didn’t care. This was it—I could feel it. Nami was just ahead, and if I could catch her, I could get everything back.

The street twisted slightly, opening into a small, sparsely populated area. A few people strolled by, minding their own business, but the overall vibe was far less bustling than the main thoroughfare. I slowed slightly, scanning for any sign of her, my heart pounding as adrenaline surged through me. I sped up again, my eyes darting from doorway to doorway, alleyway to alleyway.

Minutes ticked by, each one a tiny hammer blow against my hope. No flash of orange hair, no glimpse of a bo staff. Nothing. My elation began to fade, replaced by a gnawing unease. Had I made the wrong choice? Had she slipped through my fingers?

Then, I saw them. Some of Buggy's crew!

Near the end of the street, three figures stood cloaked and hooded in bulky grey cloth, their faces completely obscured. It was exactly the kind of ridiculous disguise Buggy would come up with, the kind that drew more attention than it deflected. The cloaks were comically oversized, their dark fabric incongruously heavy in the midday sun. They stood out like sore thumbs against the backdrop of the weathered stone buildings and bustling crowds. If they'd just walked around in their normal pirate attire, they'd have been far less conspicuous.

They were huddled together, engaged in some kind of transaction with a gnarled fellow who looked like he could wrestle a bear and win. The gnarled man had massive forearms, thick as tree trunks, and he was overseeing the transfer of heavy sacks. Two of the cloaked figures, noticeably slighter than their companion, strained under the weight as they lifted the sacks onto their backs. The third figure, taller and broader, stood by, watching with an air of quiet authority.

I barely needed to think. Minions!

I veered toward them immediately, my boots scuffing against the stone as I surged forward.

“Oi!” I barked, my voice raw with urgency. “You lot!”

The two smaller figures in the group stiffened as the brawny forearmed local took one look at me and retreated, slamming the door shut behind him. Their heads whipped toward me, their shoulders jerking upright in alarm. I recognized them vaguely—part of a five-man squad in Buggy’s crew known for their bizarre teamwork. Their primary role? Forming precarious human ladders in battle and being bet on by the rest of the crew for how much shit could be added before it all came crashing down. I didn’t know their names, but I knew their type: loyal enough, but not exactly the sharpest knives in the drawer.

The third, bulkier one, didn’t react the same way.

He didn’t freeze or twitch or shift his weight. He just turned, his thick neck twisting as he gazed at me impassively.

“Three and one,” he muttered.

Friendly, Buggy’s quartermaster. The name was surely an ironic moniker, as the man was about as friendly as a stump. Unlike the other flashy morons in the crew, he always seemed like background noise, a bruiser who mostly just stood there while Buggy ranted or Cabaji postured. If he wasn’t standing, he was crouched down, rolling dice between his thick fingers and muttering numbers under his breath. The guy really liked numbers.

I didn’t know what the hell 'three and one' meant, but I didn’t have time to care.

My thoughts scrambled for something, anything, to latch onto. I didn’t have a plan, not really, but I had a ****, clawing realization: I couldn’t do this alone. If I had any hope of getting the earrings back, I needed help.

And these three were the only ones I had.

The human ladder boys exchanged glances, then turned back to me with identical smirks. Recognition dawned in their eyes, and their tense postures relaxed immediately.

“Well, if it ain’t the Ringmaster himself,” one of them snickered, his voice thick with amusement. “Lookin’ a little rough there, boss.”

“Yeah,” the other added, eyeing my disheveled state—the haphazardly worn pants, unlaced boots, sweat glistening on my bare chest as I caught my breath. “Lemme guess—some local husband came home early?”

I wasn’t surprised by this reaction. My breath was ragged, my chest still heaving from the sprint, and I was barely dressed. To them, the scene was obvious: Tsujo, caught mid-escape after fucking some poor local’s wife, now running from an enraged husband.

It was a reputation I could live with.

“Thought you’d be busy screwing Alvida right now. Guess even the smoothest, most beautiful pirate babe in the East Blue ain’t enough for you, huh?”

The smaller one elbowed his partner and snickered. “Figures. Guy’s got a huge dick—makes sense he’d need some variety on land.”

But Friendly, standing slightly apart, barely reacted. He just tilted his head slightly, eyes flicking over me before murmuring about his numbers.

I was still catching my breath, hunched slightly with my hands on my knees, sweat trickling down my bare chest.

“Hey, Friendly, how many times has he drilled the Iron Mace aboard the ship?”

His deep voice rumbled, flat but certain. “Seventy-six.”

The two pirates burst into laughter, one of them doubling over. “Holy shit! Seventy-six?! No wonder he looks half-dead!”

I finally straightened, still panting. “Ah… it’s—” I swallowed thickly, wiping sweat from my brow. “Nami.”

The laughter stopped immediately.

Both men gawked at me, their jaws practically dropping open. Then, as one, they erupted again—this time in hoots and cheers.

“You fucked that Straw Hat bitch?!” one of them hollered. “Right on!”

“Damn, now that’s a score!” the other added, slapping my shoulder. “What, you gonna go for every big-name Pirate chick on the Grand Line?!”

I clenched my fists. I didn’t have time for this!

“I don’t have time to explain,” I said, my voice urgent. “I need your help. Nami stole my earrings, and I need to get them back. Now.”

The two goons exchanged glances before their grins turned downright wicked.

“She screwed us over back in Orange Town,” one of them growled. “About time someone put that bitch in her place.”

The other snickered, elbowing his partner. “Hell, maybe we all screw her over, yeah? Payback as a team.”

I ignored them. Idiots. My attention snapped instead to Friendly—easily three times their combined mass and the only one here who was actually competent. If I was going to get my earrings back, his answer was the only one that mattered.

Friendly didn’t stiffen, didn’t react with any immediate interest. His fingers continued rolling his dice, smooth and deliberate, as his thick neck slowly tilted toward me. His gaze remained unreadable, but after a moment, he muttered, "Jewelry. Two and fifty-two.”

I barely had time to register it before he gave a slight nod, as if confirming something to himself. The other two didn’t even seem to notice, but I knew exactly what it meant. His count.

Two earrings missing. Fifty-two still accounted for.

Presumably the assorted jewelry worn by the rest of the Buggy Pirates—because, for whatever damn reason, Friendly kept track of that.

The numbers had changed, and that meant something to Friendly.

I remembered him doing the same thing back on the ship, frowning slightly whenever Buggy got too deep into his monologue about the flashy execution he was planning for Luffy. Friendly never argued, never spoke up, but every time Buggy started going on about spectacle and making a statement I'd see him tilt his head slightly, rolling his dice a little slower, muttering about numbers under his breath.

I guess he liked things that could be quantified. Plans that had clear, measurable elements. A number subtracted from inventory? Simple. A grandiose execution plan filled with unpredictable theatrics and vague declarations of ****? Messy.

Which meant, in Friendly’s mind, this was a problem that needed to be fixed.

And if Friendly was moving to correct a mistake in his numbers, then I had my shot.

I barely realized when Friendly took over. One moment, I was breathlessly explaining how Nami must have turned right instead of left ten minutes ago—next thing I knew, we were moving. And not just aimlessly charging ahead—Friendly was leading.

At first glance, the big guy gave the impression of plodding, his massive frame cutting through the side streets like an unstoppable ****, but that wasn’t it at all. Friendly was fast. Not sprinting, not rushing, but moving with absolute certainty. No hesitation, no wasted movement—each step perfectly measured, each turn taken like he’d already decided on it before we even got there.

I was scrambling to keep up, and the two goons beside me didn’t even question it.

I didn’t really know Friendly. He’d always been just a shadow in the background of Buggy’s crew—a huge shadow, but not someone you noticed much. A bruiser who stood around while the loudmouths ran their mouths, or crouched down rolling dice and muttering numbers to himself. The crew joked that he counted everything, but I had no idea if that was just some dumb pirate superstition or if he actually tracked absurd minutiae.

What I did know was that Friendly had just taken command of this situation without a word, and that made me uneasy.

Finally, I asked, “What exactly are you doing?”

Friendly didn’t look at me. Didn’t stop. Didn’t slow. Just muttered: “Straw Hat quartermaster. Supplies. You said west on Ricka Street. Fourteen minutes ago.”

My brain skidded to a halt.

“Wh— I didn’t say that!”

Yeah, I had said something kind of like that, but not in those words. I’d guessed that Nami had turned right at some intersection ten minutes ago, but nowhere had I mentioned Ricka Street or any damn fourteen minutes!

Was he… calculating? Did he know these streets? Was he guessing based on where a quartermaster would go?

The idea was absurd.

Nami—a quartermaster? That sneaky, chaotic, fire-crotched menace? She was a thief! A con-woman! A pirate! She probably stole from quartermasters; that didn’t make her one! But Friendly—assuming that’s what he was even doing—seemed to see her as exactly that. And if he was treating her like a quartermaster, did that mean he was treating this like a quartermaster’s supply run?

I wasn’t sure what to make of that.

Instead, I latched onto something simpler. “Why are you three even separate from the rest of the crew?”

Friendly, as usual, didn’t look at me when he answered. “Buggy ordered us through town unseen.”

I snorted. Oh, I get it. A hundred guys in loud, stupid cloaks stomping through Loguetown in a big, secret group? Not subtle. Three guys on the side streets? Much harder to notice. Friendly seemed to obey the letter of Buggy’s orders while completely ignoring the spirit of them.

The shorter of the two grunts chuckled. “Yeah, we just stick with Friendly. He don’t get into the kinda trouble the rest of the crew does, and since we’re carryin’ quartermaster stuff, no one can bitch.”

I glanced at Friendly again, watching as he took another turn without hesitation. He was still leading. Still certain.

There was no way he actually knew what he was doing.

But a bewildered, worried me sure as hell didn’t have any better ideas.

Which was how I ended up following along—right into Nami.