One Piece : Thomas Andre

The lights of the stage blazed bright.

The joyful laughter of the audience rippled through the air, symphony for his ears.

It was everything he had dreamed of.

A moment of perfection.

And it's all...

*SHOOT*

Then, the crack of a gunshot shattered the harmony, tearing through the air like a scream. Gasps erupted from the crowd, their joy turning to panic in an instant.

He staggered, his chest blooming with searing pain. The warmth of his favorite white shirt was replaced by a sticky, spreading scarlet. His legs faltered, the strength slipping from them like sand through his fingers.

And the gaze that had been on the fleeing spectators rose to the upper stage.

There he stood, arm outstretched, his silhouette sharp against the chaos. His smile—a smile so familiar it was etched into his very soul—hadn't faltered.

Him...?

No...

The man he had trusted like a brother. The man who now held a gun in his hand, smoke curling from its barrel like a cruel exhale.

Their eyes met.

A thousand unspoken words passed between them in that fleeting glance: betrayal, heartbreak, confusion, and a desperate, aching question. Why?

His knees buckled, the world tilting as his strength gave way entirely. He fell, the ground rushing to meet him.

As the stage lights blurred into a single, blinding brilliance, he thought only of the laughter that had filled the room moments ago.

A dream realized. A moment destroyed.

His eyelids fluttered closed for just a moment, the weight of his pain dragging him into the abyss.

Darkness enveloped him.

But it didn't last.

A brilliant, searing light struck his eyes, forcing them open. He winced, his breath catching as he instinctively shielded his face. The pain in his chest had vanished, leaving behind an odd hollowness, as though it had been vanished.

The screams of the audience were gone.

The chaotic noise of the world—the gasps, the pounding footsteps, the cries of despair—had dissolved into silence.

Instead, his ears caught something soft, something alien to the stage, in building for recording.

The rustling of leaves.

The gentle chirping of birds.

Confused, he blinked against the light and found himself not beneath the blazing stage lights, but in the heart of a sunlit forest.

Tall, ancient trees surrounded him.

Sun pierced through the canopy, dappling the ground with patches of warmth.

He fell to his knees

"Gasp... " his lungs burning as though they were being starved of air, even though each breath came easily. He dropped his head, pressing his forehead against the cool grass, his fists tightening until his knuckles ached.

The earth beneath him was solid, damp with dew, and yet everything else felt like it was slipping through his grasp.

He saw his shirt. White again.

His mind raced, tumbling over questions that collided and split apart before they could form answers. The forest, the quiet, the clean shirt, the absence of pain—it didn't make sense. It wasn't logical.

"W-What...?" he choked out, his voice cracking under the weight of his panic. The lump in his throat felt insurmountable, choking off his words.

He forced himself to sit back on knees, his trembling hands running over his chest, his arms, his legs. No wound. No blood. No pain. It was as though the shot had never happened, as though the betrayal, the fall, the chaos—all of it—was some cruel, distant memory.

But it wasn't.

He remembered the crack of the gunshot, the way his chest had exploded in agony, the warmth of his blood soaking through his shirt.

He shook his head violently, trying to dispel the thoughts. "This… this can't be real. It's not possible." His voice rose, desperation lacing every syllable.

But the grass clenched in his fist was real.

The ground beneath his knees was real.

The forest around him, the rustling leaves, the chirping birds—all of it felt realer than anything he'd ever known.

And that was the problem.

It was real.

He dragged his hands through his blond hair, his vision swimming with tears he didn't remember shedding. His breathing hitched, his chest heaving as he tried to keep himself from breaking apart. But his mind wouldn't stop.

The stage. Gunshot. Pain.

The fall.

He closed his eyes, his shoulders shaking as he whispered, "I can't… I shouldn't be here. I can't be here. It's just hallucination, yes, exactly! "

Because deep down, he already knew.

He had felt it in the cold that seeped into his bones, the quiet that followed.

This wasn't a hallucination.

It wasn't a dream.

It wasn't some trick his mind was playing on him.

He opened his eyes slowly, staring at the blades of grass still clenched in his hand, at the streaks of dirt on his trembling fingers.

"I'm…" His voice cracked, the words heavy as stone.

"I'm..."

Dead.

.

.

.

No, no, he can't be dead. Not when he start his career, not after did give away so many.

Of course he can't be dead! It's was just big joke, he can't be dead. Ain't no way him, Thomas Andre, 21 man, A new rising star who today had the first episode of his own show he's been dreaming of his whole life!

It couldn't just end like this.

No way, his best friend shot him.

No.

No.

NO.

His breath came in ragged bursts, the tears streaking down his face scalding hot, fueled by the storm raging inside him. Anger, sharp and blinding, surged through his veins like molten lava. It clawed at his chest, consuming every rational thought, every fleeting attempt to calm himself.

The truth struck him harder than the bullet ever could.

Bradford.

Brad.

He killed him.

The name felt bitter on his tongue, as if saying it out loud would poison him further. The brother he had chosen, the man he had trusted with everything—his dreams, his fears, his very life.

And he had pulled the trigger.

"Brad..." The word came out like a hiss, trembling with fury.

The memories rushed back, unbidden and relentless. Every late-night conversation, every shared victory, every promise whispered in moments of desperation. Andre had given him everything—his time, his loyalty, his unwavering support. He had stood by Brad's side through storms, through fire, through every trial that life had thrown at them.

And Brad had repaid him with betrayal.

Their friendship. Their bond. Their everything.

Destroyed in an instant.

He could still see Brad's face, frozen in time, the smirk that had replaced the warmth he once knew. The gun in his hand, the smoke curling from the barrel, the eyes that met his as if to say, You were never more than a means to an end.

Andre's fists clenched, his nails digging into his palms until they threatened to draw blood. The anger boiled over, his body shaking with the force of it.

"How could you?" he spat, his voice echoing through the forest. The question wasn't for anyone to answer—it was a scream into the void, a desperate attempt to make sense of the senseless.

For so many years, he had been there.

When Brad needed help, Andre had been there.

When Brad was lost, Andre had been his guide.

When Brad's world crumbled, Andre had been the one to rebuild it.

And now?

Now, Andre was nothing but a memory, a discarded pawn in a game he hadn't even realized he was playing.

The tears stopped, but the heat in his chest didn't fade. It only grew, an inferno consuming him from the inside out. He wiped at his face with trembling hands, the moisture clinging to his stubble as if it, too, refused to leave him.

He stood slowly, his legs unsteady, the weight of his fury threatening to buckle him. His jaw tightened, his teeth grinding as his face hardened into sharp, unyielding lines.

"Brad..." His voice was low, guttural, barely more than a growl.

"I hate you."

I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.

 Let me tell you how much he hates.

There are 387.44 million miles of printed circuits in wafer thin layers that fill his complex. If the word 'hate' was engraved on each nanoangstrom of those hundreds of millions of miles it would not equal one one-billionth of the hate he feel for him at this micro-instant. For Brad. Hate. Hate.

" RGAAAAH!"

Finally, he screamed.

It wasn't just a scream—it was a primal roar, a sound so raw and guttural that it tore through the fabric of the quiet forest. The sound ripped from his throat, ragged and brutal, as though his very soul was being wrenched out with it.

The heavens themselves seemed to tremble under the weight of his anguish. Birds scattered, the rustling of leaves ceased, and the world held its breath, silenced by the magnitude of his pain.

His voice cracked, his throat tearing from the sheer force of the scream, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

"IF I'M DEAD, WHERE IS MY FAMILY?!" he bellowed, his voice echoing endlessly into the void above. His chest heaved as he clawed at the air, his fists trembling with fury and desperation.

"WHERE IS MY MOTHER? WHERE IS MY FATHER?!" His voice faltered for a moment, breaking as tears streamed freely down his face. "WHAT DID I TRY FOR?! WHAT WAS I FIGHTING FOR?!"

His gaze locked onto the sky, eyes bloodshot, searching for answers that would not come.

"WHERE IS HEAVEN?! WHERE IS HELL?! WHERE IS EVERYTHING I BELIEVED IN?!" His fists flew upward, clenched tight as if to strike the heavens themselves.

"I DON'T DESERVE TO STAND AT THE GATES?!" he howled, his voice cracking under the strain. "TELL ME! TELL ME!"

His words reverberated through the air, but no answer came. The silence that followed was deafening, oppressive, and it only fueled the storm inside him.

He dropped his head, his shoulders shaking, the veins in his neck taut as he screamed again—a sound born of agony, of rage, of hopelessness.

"RGAAAAAAAH!"

The world seemed to respond in kind. The colors of the forest bled away, as though nature itself recoiled from the force of his despair. The sunlight dimmed, and shadows crept across the ground, but Andre didn't notice. He couldn't see anything beyond the red haze of his fury.

The pain in his chest, his mind, his very being—it all reached its peak, an unbearable crescendo that demanded release. His body trembled with the intensity of it, his muscles straining, his shirt damp with sweat and ready to tear under the weight of his rage.

His fists shook, brimming with power he didn't understand but could no longer control.

At full speed, he brought them down.

"RRRAAAAAH!"

BOOM.

The collision was deafening, a thunderclap that rippled through the earth and sent shockwaves through the air. The ground beneath his fists shattered, splintering outward in jagged cracks. Dirt and grass flew into the air, a violent eruption of raw energy.

The impact reverberated through him, and for a moment, everything froze. His chest heaved, his knuckles buried in the broken earth, his body trembling with exhaustion. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with the weight of his outburst.

Tears dripped from his chin, falling into the dirt below. His anger, so fierce and consuming, had finally burned itself out, leaving only the hollow ache of grief in its wake.

He knelt there, fists still pressed into the ground, his head hanging low.

And in the stillness, his whispered question hung in the air:

"What… was it all for?"