It was one of the hottest summers in a decade, and Chicago was in the grips of its hottest day ever recorded. The relentless sun beat down on the city, turning it into a sprawling furnace where the asphalt seemed to bubble underfoot and the air shimmered with unbearable heat. The usual hum of city life was eerily absent; most businesses had shut down, and schools, universities, and any educational institutions had closed their doors. The entire city was on an unofficial vacation, with only the emergency services on high alert, ready to respond to anything from heatstroke to fires breaking out in the oppressive heat. Doctors, police, firefighters—all were on standby, bracing themselves for the worst.

But amidst this suffocating atmosphere, an oddity could be seen moving down the deserted streets. A tall man, towering at about 6'5", made his way through the desolation. His appearance was nothing short of bizarre, a walking contradiction in the sweltering heat. He was dressed as if prepared for every season at once: a checkered shirt layered under a thick Christmas jumper, all beneath a heavy trench coat. His legs were clad in cargo pants, his feet in bulky ski boots, and a ski mask covered his entire face, leaving only his eyes visible. In one hand, he carried a large duffel bag, its weight seemingly effortless in his grip.

To anyone who might have seen him, he looked like a deranged caricature, perhaps a fan of some obscure fashion trend gone horribly wrong. Yet, despite the oppressive heat, the man walked with purpose, each step deliberate, as if the sweltering sun had no effect on him. It was a miracle he hadn't collapsed from heat exhaustion, and those few who were brave enough—or foolish enough—to be out on the streets watched him with a mix of curiosity and unease.

Like a machine programmed to perform a single task, the man suddenly halted. His target was in sight.

On the corner of a quiet, sun-baked street, partially hidden from the casual observer, stood a small luxury boutique. Its unassuming exterior gave no hint of the high-end merchandise within, save for the sleek, understated sign above the door. The boutique's only security was a set of metal shutters drawn over the windows, secured by heavy padlocks. It was a flimsy defense against anyone determined enough to break in.

The man surveyed the area, his eyes scanning the empty street for any sign of life. Satisfied that no one was watching, he reached into his coat and produced a gun—a Beretta M9, his first and last firearm, obtained from his so-called "friends," a group of ruthless Albanians who dealt in arms. From another pocket, he pulled out a pair of bolt cutters. With a swift, practiced motion, he snapped the padlock off the shutters. The sound of the metal breaking was sharp in the silence, but there was no one around to hear it. He then cautiously opened one of the shutters, his gun at the ready, and with a single, decisive blow, smashed the window.

The glass shattered with a loud crash, scattering shards onto the sidewalk. He paused, listening for any reaction, but the city remained as silent as a grave. He slipped through the broken window, landing lightly inside the boutique. Without wasting a moment, he began his work.

The man moved with the precision of someone who had done this many times before. He started by piling up the boutique's high-end clothes—designer dresses, bespoke suits, luxurious scarves—in the center of the room. From his duffel bag, he produced a gallon of petrol and poured it over the pile, soaking the expensive fabrics in the highly flammable liquid. The air filled with the acrid smell of gasoline, mixing with the lingering scent of perfume and leather.

He then made his way to the office in the back, searching for the safe he knew would be there. The office was small, furnished with minimalist elegance—a sleek desk, a leather chair, a rug that screamed wealth and taste. The safe was hidden beneath the rug, just as he'd been told. It was a top-of-the-line digital lock, the kind that would alert the authorities if more than three incorrect attempts were made to open it.

But the man was prepared. He had the code—a six-digit number he'd bought for a mere $50 from a disgruntled former receptionist who had swiped it from her boss's journal. The code had cost him next to nothing, but the safe's contents were worth far more. He punched in the numbers, and with a soft click, the safe opened.

Inside was a small fortune. Bundles of cash, neatly stacked, totaling roughly ten million pounds. The money had been left there as a fallback, insurance for the boutique's true owner, Elizabeth Fisher—a woman with a history as tangled and tragic as any noir novel. The orphaned daughter of the legendary German designer Lauren Le Royale and the Austrian philanthropist Magnus Fisher, she had inherited vast wealth after their untimely deaths in a plane crash. But tragedy struck again when her older brother, Magnus Fisher Jr died of an ibuprofen overdose less than a year later. Seeking a fresh start, Elizabeth had cashed out fifteen million of her inheritance and fled to the U.S, reinventing herself as a luxury boutique owner.

The man stuffed the money into his duffel bag, careful not to miss a single note. His face remained expressionless, the ski mask hiding whatever emotions might have been there—if any existed at all. He then set about the final stage of his plan. He created a trail of petrol from the pile of clothes to the wooden pillars by the entrance. The gasoline soaked into the wood, priming it for ignition.

Once everything was in place, he made his way back to the broken window. He paused just outside, struck a match, and tossed it into the boutique. The fire caught quickly, roaring to life as it consumed the clothes and spread along the petrol trail. Within moments, the entire store was ablaze, the flames licking hungrily at the walls and ceiling.

He didn't linger to admire his work. Stripping off his heavy clothes, he reduced himself to just a vest, shorts, placing a cap on that he found in the store to protect his identity. The rest of his gear, including the ski boots, were tossed into the inferno. Disguised as nothing more than another pedestrian, he walked briskly away from the scene, slipping into a maze of alleyways that crisscrossed the city.

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After a few minutes of navigating the alleys, he reached his car. A gleaming, glossy brown Chevrolet Corvette L88, affectionately named "Beast" after the iconic character from "Beauty and the Beast," awaited him. The car was his pride and joy, a sleek machine capable of outpacing almost anything on the road.

He allowed himself a brief smile as he slid into the driver's seat. "Another successful robbery," he muttered to himself, patting the steering wheel affectionately. "This is getting too easy. Come on, Beast, let's head to Kareem's place."

He revved the engine, the sound echoing through the alleyways, and sped off into the distance, leaving the burning boutique and the chaos he had created far behind him. The city of Chicago blurred around him as he merged onto the motorway, the Beast devouring the road beneath its tires.

But fate had other plans. As he approached an intersection, a fire truck—rushing at full speed to the very fire he had started—plowed into the side of the Corvette. The impact was devastating, sending the car flipping through the air like a child's toy. The Beast spun wildly, a blur of metal and glass, before crashing down with a sickening thud after an impressive triple flip.

The people on the motorway, as well as the firefighters, rushed to the wreckage. But when they peered inside, they found no sign of a driver. It was as if the man had vanished into thin air, leaving behind nothing but a twisted heap of metal.

The absence of a body sent shockwaves through the investigation. Detectives scoured the traffic cameras, eventually identifying the driver as 25-year-old Joseph Tempes, a recently fired and widowed man. His sudden disappearance and the violent nature of the crash led many to believe that he had committed suicide, hoping to make a statement with his death. Yet, despite their best efforts, no trace of his body was ever found, sparking rumors and speculation that would persist for years.

As the mystery of Joseph Tempes grew, it became a public obsession. Some believed he was still alive, hiding in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to reappear. Others thought he had been vaporized in the crash, his body obliterated beyond recognition. Theories abounded, and with them, manhunts and bounties for the elusive criminal.

But Joseph Tempes, the man of many mysteries, was far beyond the reach of the living. He found himself in a strange, otherworldly queue—a never-ending line filled with opaque, ghostly figures. Basic knowledge about his new surroundings had been implanted in his mind upon arrival: this was the underworld, and he was waiting to be reincarnated. The rules were simple but absolute: he could not move more than three meters away from the line, bodily functions were perfect and unnecessary, and interaction with others—touching, speaking—was forbidden, punishable by being sent to the back of the line.

Time lost all meaning in this place. Days, months, even years seemed to blur together, melding into an indistinct eternity.

"JOSEPH TEMPES!" A voice screeched, pulling him out of his daze.

Joe raised his head, blinking as he took off the advanced technological glasses that had appeared on his face, a perk of the underworld that allowed him to watch any channel in the galaxy. He had been engrossed in the "Battle of Scelaotr," a brutal competition between members of the galactic federation F-18690 on a planet inhabited by titanic Bigfoot-like creatures. His favorite contestant, 145Xx—a demi-human with rubber-like skin and a penchant for unorthodox tactics—was on a winning streak, and Joe had been eagerly watching his progress.

But now, his focus shifted to the front of the line, where a middle-aged woman in a pink suit sat behind a wooden desk. She had bat wings sprouting from her back, and her expression was one of weary impatience. She reminded Joe of Miss Uxbridge, his old school principal, though there was something more sinister about her.

"Mr. Joseph Tempes, please listen carefully," she said, her voice tinged with annoyance. "Your reincarnation has been chosen. You will be reborn in the One Piece universe."

For a moment, Joe was stunned. The One Piece universe? Pirates, marines, bounty hunters—the adventure of a lifetime! His mind raced with possibilities, his earlier despair forgotten in the excitement of what was to come. He could see it now—sailing the Grand Line, uncovering ancient secrets, battling powerful foes: Shanks, Luffy, Zoro, Garp or the world government.

"However," the woman interrupted his thoughts, "before you go, could you rate our service and provide any feedback?"

She pushed a piece of paper and a pen towards him. The paper had five checkboxes next to a rating scale, and despite the woman's tired expression, Joe couldn't help but feel a pang of gratitude for her professional mannerism. Without hesitation, he ticked the five-star rating, completely unaware of the cruel twist that awaited him.

Joe stepped onto the glowing circle that had appeared on the floor, ready for his new life. Unbeknownst to him, his five-star rating had granted him a special "privilege"—he would retain all memories of his previous life, a privilege that, for him, would soon become a curse.

As the world around him faded, Joe's thoughts turned to Emily. She had been his everything—the one person who had given his life meaning, the reason he had turned to crime after losing his job, the reason he had continued living even after everything else had fallen apart. They had met by chance, on a bridge where she had been about to jump, driven to the edge by an abusive relationship. Joe had saved her that day, and in return, she had saved him from the loneliness that had consumed him for most of his life. They had married a year later, under that same bridge.

But his happiness had been short-lived. Emily's battle with cancer had drained their savings, and when he was laid off from his job, the cost of her treatment had driven him to desperation. The robbery was supposed to be his last job—their ticket to a new life, away from the hardships of the past. But fate had other plans.

Joe had been so focused on his new life in the One Piece world and Emily that he had nearly missed what the receptionist had said—Emily had died while he was robbing the boutique, her cancer having returned with a vengeance. She had already transmigrated to the One Piece world, waiting for him there.

The revelation hit him like a ton of bricks just as his surroundings materialized. He was no longer in the underworld but on a remote, icy island. And to his horror, he realized that he had been reincarnated as a child, no older than 3 years. His body was frail, his movements clumsy. As he struggled to lift his tiny hand, he felt the cold seeping into his bones.

"No, no, no..." Joe's voice trembled as the truth sank in. His new life was nothing like he had imagined. The harsh reality of his situation closed in around him like a vice. He was a child, alone on an isolated arctic island, full of predators that would see him as an easy meal.

The One Piece world was vast and dangerous, and his excitement was replaced with dread. The adventure he had dreamed of was now a nightmare, and he had to survive it, not just for himself, but for the hope of reuniting with Emily.

But for now, all Joe could do was cry, he let out tears for the first time in his life, being lost in a world that was as unforgiving as the life he had just left behind does that to a man.