Disclaimer: I do not own One Piece or any of its characters - this is all Oda's work. I'm merely adding to his own amazing story.
Please check out u/1778260/Shadow-of-Malice - she's an awesome writer for Ghost Hunt and Soul Eater stories, if you're into some creepyness.
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Stagnant
It had been a normal morning.
A five-thirty in the AM start, followed by a ten minute shower and a modest meal of scrambled eggs, toast and a pot of hot coffee.
He had no idea if Zeff was up or not. He couldn't hear that peg leg wobbling around upstairs, so he assumed that the old fart was still snoring his fat head off, making his plaited moustache twitch at every breath.
The Baratie didn't open until seven, but it was good to start getting things served up, making sure the kitchen was ready to go. Sanji decided that he'd start with the rubbish first, but as he made his way over to the bin, he noticed that it had already been emptied, though it had been full after closing hours the previous night.
Perhaps the old shit was up after all.
Pulling out a cigarette and lighter from his ever-present suit, he stepped out into the icy fog of Saturday morning, a chill coursing through his spine. It was very quiet out, and he could only just see in the fog if he squinted. He lit the cigarette up, inhaled the nicotine taste, savoured it, and looked down the alleyway by the side entrance of the Baratie.
"Oi, shit-head. You out here?" He called.
A slurping, muffled sound greeted him. It wasn't exactly the noise he had been expecting, and his curly-brow furrowed.
The damn hobos were eating from their trash again. It's not like they'd find much from the Baratie in there, though. Sanji didn't waste his ingredients.
He stepped forward, and the sound stopped.
"Zeff?" He tried, again, attempting to see past the fog.
He heard a small scrape – a footstep against loose dirt or asphalt from the road, perhaps – and something clanged against a rubbish bin, loud and metallic against the eerie silence, and the scraping stopped. Sanji held his breath.
It started again; slow and clumsy – the movements weren't deliberate, and obviously were without precision. Scrape, slide, crunch.
Sanji froze, unsure of how to react. The cigarette in his mouth dangled from lips limply, the flame burning within slowly dying out.
Scrape, slide, crunch.
Gurgh.
The scraping, dragging sound was accompanied by a groan. An inhumane groan, which forced a fist to clamp shut tightly in Sanji's gut, disabling his breathing. A sort of gut-wrenching, winded feeling overcame him. He was feeling a little more than uncomfortable – he was almost… scared, worried. Short pants of breath escaped him, and he had worked up a sweat.
He shook off the feelings though, and began to smoke the cigarette greedily again, attempting to dissolve any fear. What did he need to worry about?
Sanji didn't get scared. He was just like that. He was an excellent fighter. Most people would underestimate him due to him being a bit of a pretty-boy, and he was more on the skinny side than that of muscles, but word had gotten around town that he was tough. No one would approach him in an intimidating way. Surely not.
Then why was he so uneasy?
"If you're not out there, old man, I'm going back inside with my cigarette. I don't give a shit that you don't like me smoking inside."
He expected to hear a gruff "Don't even think about it, Eggplant." But there was no sign of Zeff. Sanji, as a result, came to the conclusion that Zeff was still sleeping, and that he'd been talking to himself all along like a crazy person.
Before he could completely turn a way, he caught a figure moving out of the fog from his peripheral vision. Slowly, uncoordinated, eventually becoming visible to the naked eye. Sanji stood and stared.
The thing's eyes bugged out, then cut to the sky, the ground – everywhere – in a few multiple shocking movements, as if it didn't know where to look. Blood dribbled from its chin, a mask of red all around its mouth, and a piece of thick, blonde plaited hair, which resembled Zeff's moustache protruded from its mouth as it tried to chew it absent-mindedly. The leg was obviously broken as it was dragged along at a highly awkward angle. On closer inspection, a bone was jutting out in a bloody, horrific way, and it gave a sickening 'pop' sound every time the leg was moved.
Well, fuck me. Sanji breathed out heavily, his heart hammering wildly in his chest.
The cigarette fell to the cold path, burning embers dying out, spraying tiny red sparks across the foggy sky. The spots of glowing orange-red danced in front of the mutilated being, making it turn its crushed in head towards Sanji. Its hollow eyes locked with his blue ones, a gurgle escaping its rotting, mangled mouth, as it dropped Zeff's signature moustache from its dead flesh that once upon a time resembled lips. It gazed at the young chef with a far from satiated, passionate urge of hunger, like it hadn't eaten for a good week; reminding Sanji of his own difficult, hunger-ridden past. He almost felt sympathy for the disgusting creature in front of him.
Almost.
The seemingly gender-less creature suddenly moved with renewed vigor; its broken, painful-looking leg forgotten.
Sanji, two legs perfectly intact, and without any excuse whatsoever, didn't move. He was completely stagnant, counting down the seconds he had left. He didn't know why he didn't move – he supposed he just couldn't. Not in this type of situation.
He'd be better off stuffing himself like a Turkey and putting himself on a platter by this point – at least he'd taste better that way, with a bit of seasoning.
Sanji couldn't find it in himself to laugh at his own thoughts.
He simply stood limply as the thing advanced. It crept closer and closer and closer.
It was in his face before he knew it; bloody, grotesque lips wafted a vomit-inducing stench into his face and he stumbled back, but it had a tight grip on his arm and on his shoulder.
Move, Sanji! Move, damn it, you shit-head! Move, move, move!
It lunged for his neck; rotting, razor-sharp teeth closing in, a piece of Zeff's blonde hair still stuck to the corner of its mouth.
MOVE.
A metallic crash, a panicked scuffle, a choked sob, a single heartbeat and a chilling scream.
An agonizing, almost deafening silence.
A perennial torrent of blood.
And then -
- nothing.