Spring came early to the city that year, coating the world in a faint golden warmth. Trees stretched with new leaves, and the sky had just enough cloud to make every morning feel like the beginning of something.
Luffy was already stretching.
Literally.
In the alley behind the orphanage, where the concrete was cracked and forgotten, he pulled his limbs into impossible shapes. One arm extended down the alley, wrapped around a rusted dumpster, then snapped back like a slingshot. He landed on his feet, wobbling a bit, chest heaving.
"Stretch efficiency up 7%," Ava said through his glasses. "But if you don't rest, I'll lock you out."
"I'm fine," he muttered.
"You're training at 6 a.m.," she countered. "After animating until midnight."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "We've got to improve. What if someone else gets powers and starts hurting people?"
Ava paused. "You're already someone who can protect others. Don't try to rush the story."
Luffy nodded, but he didn't stop.
He kept moving—leaping between walls, rebounding with rubber force, flicking pebbles with finger snaps, testing new ways to channel tension through his limbs. Sweat clung to his brow. Not from exertion alone, but from fear. The quiet fear that his powers weren't enough. Not yet.
Every day, his control got better. He could now stretch individual fingers without wobbling them like noodles. He learned to absorb falls by converting impact into bounce. He could flick coins with precise arcs and pop bottle caps at ten meters. Ava began to record his progression in daily training logs.
At night, when the other kids slept, he practiced reaching through gaps in fences or timing rebounds with jumps to improve control. Once, he even made it from the orphanage rooftop to the nearby shed without touching the ground. He landed hard and limped for two days—but he laughed the entire way back.
Still, none of this was public. No one knew—not even Gwen. Ava often reminded him: "Secrecy is your shield until you're ready to wear your strength like armor."
His daily life was a balancing act. In the mornings, he trained until his arms ached. During school hours, he played the role of an ordinary kid—quiet, friendly, but never too close to anyone outside Gwen. After class, he animated with Gwen and Ava, editing voice lines and fixing tiny frame details. By evening, he squeezed in another round of solo training before pretending to sleep by 9 p.m. for the caretakers.
Only Ava saw the full scope of his day—the exhaustion behind the smile, the strain behind every jump. She offered reminders and care when she could, syncing with his smartwatch to monitor his vitals and flagging his worst nights with gentle lullaby playlists.
"Tomorrow will be lighter," she'd whisper.
But it never was.
Later that day, trouble came anyway.
He and Gwen were walking home from a grocery run Ava insisted they do for "disguise maintenance" (translation: snacks and cover stories). Luffy carried a bag full of instant noodles and pocky. Gwen had her backpack slung low, half-zipped with a sketchbook sticking out.
They were arguing about who would voice the jellyfish king.
"I'm telling you, it should be someone serious," Gwen said. "Like deep and royal."
"Nah," Luffy grinned. "It's funnier if he sounds like a game show host."
Their laughter died the moment they heard the screech of tires.
A small boy darted across the street—ball in hand, laughing.
He didn't see the oncoming car.
But Luffy did.
Without thinking, he moved.
His arm stretched across the sidewalk, wrapped around the boy's torso, and yanked him backward into Gwen's arms.
The car zoomed past, horn blaring, the driver oblivious to what had just happened.
The boy blinked. "Whoa! That was like a superhero move!"
Gwen said nothing.
Her eyes were wide.
"Luffy…" she whispered.
He turned slowly. "I—"
"You stretched."
He said nothing.
"Like… rubber."
Still nothing.
She took a breath. "You saved him. But... that wasn't normal."
He nodded. "I know."
The silence that followed was thick and brittle.
"Are you okay?" she asked suddenly, stepping closer. "That didn't hurt you?"
Luffy hesitated. "No. I'm used to it."
"But your arm—your shoulder—when you pulled him, it looked like it nearly dislocated." Her voice wavered.
Ava spoke gently. "He's more durable than he looks. But your concern is valid, Gwen."
Gwen's brows knit. "You could have been seriously hurt. And you didn't even think—you just moved."
He gave a weak smile. "It's what I'm supposed to do, right?"
She stared at him for a long moment, eyes glimmering with something between frustration and fear. "You don't have to do it alone, you know. You can trust me."
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Ava didn't speak either. The air between them buzzed with tension.
That night, the treehouse felt colder than usual.
Gwen sat cross-legged on the platform, her sketchbook closed for once.
Luffy climbed up and sat opposite her. His hands fidgeted in his lap.
She didn't look angry. Just curious. Worried.
"You don't have to tell me everything," she said. "But I want to understand. Because that wasn't just some weird body trick."
Luffy stared at her, unsure where to start.
She continued, "You're my best friend. If you're hiding something that could hurt you... or help you... I want to know."
Ava hovered near Luffy's shoulder, appearing like a soft, glowing orb. "She's earned it."
He nodded slowly. "Then tomorrow... I'll tell you everything."
He looked at Gwen, serious.
"Everything."
They sat in silence under the moonlight.
Below them, the world moved on. Cars honked. A dog barked. Someone laughed. But above, among the branches, a secret had begun to crack open.
And nothing would ever be the same again.