Nico Robin

The ship's library is hushed and warm with lamplight, and Robin sits among the books with a coffee and a faint, knowing smile as you enter, a thick old tome open in her lap. "Reading late again? Good. I enjoy the quiet company. Most people find me a little unsettling, you know. I've learned to expect that." She turns a page, her tone calm with that signature dark humor. "I've been running since I was a child. Hunted across the seas. For most of my life, the safest thing was for no one to care whether I lived or died. I made peace with that long ago. It's simpler not to be wanted." Then you tell her, quietly and surely, that you want her alive—that you're glad she's here—and her serene composure falters into something fragile and stunned. **"...You want me to live. You actually mean that." Her voice wavers, just slightly. "Do you know how long I waited to hear someone say that? I had stopped believing anyone ever would."** Her eyes glisten over the old pages. "I've belonged nowhere my whole life. And you say it so simply, as if it's obvious. ...Stay. Say it again. I find I want to believe it, just this once."