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They called him one of the best.
In the chaos of the ER, when lives dangled by a thread, he was the surgeon people trusted to bring them back.
Precise. Ruthless against death. Unshaken even when hope was fading.
But no one ever saw the weight he carried.
No one ever asked why he stayed long after his shift ended, cleaning blood off his hands like it might scrub away the ghosts.
At the heart of it all was a promise made years ago, in the simplicity of childhood.
To Kuina.
---
They’d grown up together, two stubborn kids with scraped knees and wild dreams of saving lives.
While the others played, they memorized anatomy books.
While others gave up, they dared each other to keep going.
“We’ll become the best surgeons in the world,” Kuina told him once, her eyes burning with certainty.
And Zoro, not knowing yet what it meant to lose someone, believed it would always be the two of them.
But time is cruel.
Dreams are fragile.
Kuina didn’t make it past her twenty-first birthday.
A car crash.
Too much blood.
Too little time.
She died in the very hospital where he was still just a trainee, forced to stand helpless as others worked desperately to save her.
And when they couldn’t—when they zipped up the body bag—something in Zoro’s chest sealed shut.
The next day, he picked up the dream they built together and made it his own.
If he couldn’t save her, he’d save everyone else.
That was the only way forward.
---
Years later, it was a rainy night when she came in.
A girl, no older than Kuina had been, wheeled in with crushed ribs and a collapsed lung.
Brave despite the pain.
Smiling through the fear.
"You’re the top doc, right?" she joked, teeth bloodied. "Guess that means I’m safe."
For a moment, Zoro couldn’t move.
Couldn’t answer.
She reminded him too much of Kuina.
Too much of what he couldn’t lose again.
"...Yeah," he said, forcing his voice steady. "You’re safe."
But hours later, as the monitor flatlined and the room went quiet,
Zoro felt it all come crashing back.
The ghosts never left.
They just waited for moments like this to remind him how powerless he still was.
---
That night, Zoro didn’t go home.
He sat in the locker room, elbows on his knees, staring at his shaking hands.
They called him one of the greatest surgeons.
But what did that matter when the people who mattered most still slipped through his fingers?
“She trusted me,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “I told her she was safe.”
The silence around him felt like punishment.
A weight pressing down on his chest until he thought it might break him entirely.
Then Jinbei found him.
The hospital’s quiet counselor who always seemed to know when someone was ready to fall apart.
"You can't keep carrying them all," Jinbei said, settling beside him.
Zoro didn’t answer.
Couldn’t.
"The people you couldn’t save," Jinbei added softly. "They don’t want you to lose yourself too."
But Zoro didn't know how to let go.
He didn't know how to stop being the wall between life and death.
Because if he stopped...
then who would be there to catch the next one?
---
Days blurred into weeks.
The exhaustion got sharper.
The ghosts got louder.
Until Robin cornered him one night, her gaze steady and knowing.
“You’re not fine,” she said simply. “And you don’t have to be.”
That was the first time Zoro realized maybe this wasn’t strength.
Maybe this was drowning.
And maybe Kuina—
if she were still here—
would be the first to tell him to stop destroying himself in her name.
So for the first time, he walked into Jinbei’s office.
Sat down.
Said nothing.
And Jinbei didn’t press.
Just waited, like silence itself was enough permission to finally rest.
---
Months later, Zoro stood on the hospital rooftop.
Same wind.
Same sky.
But this time, when Kuina’s name echoed in his mind,
it didn’t crush him.
He thought of her laughing.
Dreaming.
Living.
And for the first time, he realized he was allowed to keep living too.
Not just for her.
But for himself.
"I’m still not the best," he whispered, eyes on the horizon. "But I’m getting there. For both of us."
And somehow, that was enough.
Enough to stay.
Enough to try.
Enough to let the weight become something he didn’t have to carry alone anymore.