It had been a year since James had come into this world—one full rotation of seasons in this strange, vibrant reality. Ironically, his new name wasn't too different from the old: James D. Barrett. That middle initial made him pause sometimes. Shawn, his youngest son, used to joke about how the "D." meant something in One Piece—something important. But James could never quite remember what. Maybe it would come to him.
He hadn't seen any signs of the man or the system, but he would sure it would come in time.
At the moment, though, he had a more pressing mission: stacking blocks.
He sat cross-legged on the smooth pine floor of their cozy log cabin, tongue poking slightly from the corner of his mouth in concentration. In front of him were four mismatched wooden blocks—scuffed, hand-carved, and uneven. The goal was simple: stack them all without toppling. The execution? Less so.
James grunted as he carefully aligned the third block. His hands were steadier than they used to be. A few months ago, he could barely lift one without knocking the rest over. Now, each movement had purpose. His fingers—still pudgy and uncoordinated by adult standards—moved with surprising focus, gripping and adjusting with growing control. It was slow work, but work he welcomed.
When the stack finally stood upright, all four blocks balanced and unmoving, he stared at it for a long second, as if expecting it to fall on its own. When it didn't, he allowed himself a soft, satisfied grunt and moved on to disassembling it. Practice made progress, and James had plenty of time to get this right.
Every day, a little stronger. Every day, a little more capable.
Good job," came a warm voice from across the room—gentle, amused, and unmistakably proud.
James glanced up, cheeks slightly puffed from concentration, his chubby fingers still resting on the unstable tower of mismatched blocks. One wobbled, then toppled with a soft clack against the pine floor. He exhaled through his nose like an old man frustrated with gravity, then sat up straighter and reached again. Each day, he practiced. Each week, his control improved. What once felt like trying to move hands in mittens was now starting to feel natural—clumsy still, but his.
Their cabin was snug and lived-in, its timber walls darkened by years of smoke and warmth. The stone fireplace cast flickering shadows over the smooth floorboards, worn by time and bare feet. Everything was within arm's reach: a narrow cooking counter, a corner for drying laundry, a water basin tucked beneath a shelf of cracked clay cups. A thick curtain hung near the back, drawn halfway to offer privacy around the family bed. His wooden bassinet sat just beside it, carved with care and padded with fresh hay that rustled when he moved.
His mother, Mary, stood by the basin, drying her hands with a faded linen cloth. She looked over, and the corners of her emerald eyes lifted. She couldn't have been older than her early twenties. Her black hair was thick and glossy, tied into a loose braid that swung with every movement. It reached down to her waist, a few rebellious strands always framing her face. Her skin was fair with a flush of winter pink in her cheeks, and her lashes were long enough to cast faint shadows when she blinked.
Mary was petite in height—around five-foot-six—but her figure was exaggerated in ways that aligned with the stylized world James now lived in. Her chest was full and prominent, almost cartoonishly so, offset by a narrow waist and well-shaped hips that swayed with effortless balance. She moved with purpose, barefoot on warm wood, each step confident and light. Her features were sharp yet soft in their expressiveness: high cheekbones, an upturned nose, and full lips that curled easily into a knowing smile.
She was beautiful in that surreal, heightened way this world seemed to encourage—just enough to make it clear that James wasn't on Earth anymore.
"Stacked them better this time," she said with a wink, her voice teasing as she tossed the cloth aside. "Aren't you my hard little worker, always working with your blocks?"
James gave her his adorable baby giggle—a soft, bubbly sound that tumbled out of him without effort. It worked every time. Her eyes lit up the moment she heard it, and she smiled wide, like nothing in the world was better. Of course it worked- he was very adorable.
Then the culprit who had serenaded him with terrible lullabies in the womb stepped through the doorway, ducking low to squeeze past the timber frame—his father.
He was another reminder that this world looked and felt like anime come to life, where proportions and presence went hand in hand.
James's father was a mountain of a man—easily close to seven feet tall, with broad shoulders that nearly scraped the doorframe and arms thick as tree trunks. When he stepped between the fire and the room, the light dimmed behind him, casting his silhouette across the wall like some hulking legend.
His hair was a deep, blood red, tousled and thick, falling in shaggy waves that caught in his fur-lined collar. His eyebrows matched—bold, expressive, and untamed. And though his face still held something babyish in its smoothness, his jaw was anything but soft. It was square, sculpted, oddly clean—no stubble, no shadow—just strong lines like someone had carved it carefully and forgot to add the scribble of a beard.
His voice was unmistakable—low, rumbling, and gravel-thick. James had known it long before he had ears that could truly process it. It was the same booming noise that had flooded the womb, hitting every wrong note with confidence and heart. If there was a pitch to miss, his father found it. Yet he sang with pride, always trying to soothe or entertain, convinced the effort counted more than the result.
He wore his heavy fur coat open at the chest, revealing a body carved by hard labor—muscles stacked over muscles, the kind that came from years of hauling nets and dragging kills across snow-covered hills. His suspenders hung loose at his sides, attached to rough canvas pants. A large knife sat sheathed on one hip; the other carried the faint scent of smoke and salt from a long morning out.
Despite his massive frame, he moved with surprising ease—boots landing softly on the pine floor, careful not to track in slush or crush a stray toy. It was one of those small contradictions James had already noticed about this world: being large didn't mean being clumsy. Here, power carried grace.
His father was a fisherman and hunter—one of the most common and respected occupations in their winter wonderland.
James often found himself thinking about the strange little world he now lived in—this wintry wonderland that never quite thawed. He didn't know the island's name yet—no one had said it around him, and at just a year old, he couldn't exactly ask—but one thing was clear: it was cold. Almost always. Snow drifted past their windows nearly every day, thick as flour in the wind, and the trees outside wore white coats year-round.
There had been a brief warm stretch—maybe two months at most—where the temperature had crept into the 60s. Enough to melt the snow and let a bit of green peek through the slush. James had been younger then, still getting used to crawling. But even during that short reprieve, they hadn't gone into town. His mother, ever the homemaker, kept them bundled up at the cabin. The journey to town was long, and she only made the trip when necessary.
The few times he had gone, though—usually tucked in a sling against her chest—he'd seen some things that stuck with him.
One memory in particular stood out: a large, hairy man waddling down the snow-packed road in a pair of clinking metal clip-on suspenders… and a speedo. No shirt. Just a speedo, suspenders, and thick winter boots. His gut jiggled with every step, but the man looked perfectly at ease, even cheery. No one gave him a second glance. In fact, his mother had smiled and waved like it was the most normal thing in the world.
Apparently, that sort of fashion existed here too.
Anime logic, James mused. Turns out it wasn't just for show.
His father came over and scooped him up in one massive, calloused hand, lifting James high like he weighed nothing. "How's my little chumpkin doing?" he boomed, voice echoing through the rafters as he gave James a playful spin.
James laughed, eyes sparkling, and reached for his father's thick red hair. He managed to grab a few strands and gave a firm tug, earning another belly-deep laugh from the giant of a man.
In his past life, James hadn't known this kind of warmth. His mother had struggled with addiction for as long as he could remember. She tried, in her own way, but by the time James was seventeen, her body had given out. And his father—well, he existed somewhere in Chicago, but James had only known him by name. He hadn't been part of the picture.
That year of laughter and simple moments had filled something James never realized was empty. The warmth of the fire, the smell of pinewood, the weight of his father's arm—he leaned into it all. There was comfort here. Not perfect, but present. And he was soaking it in.
James's eyes lit up a little as he sat nestled in the crook of his father's arm.
Ohhh, he thought, excitement curling in his tiny gut.
Seal meant solids—rich, fatty meat that they'd started feeding him in small, tender bits. First the soft meat, then a few spoons of warm fat that made his whole little body feel full and satisfied. Afterward came the breast milk—something he'd quickly adjusted to. At first, the idea had been strange to his adult mind trapped in a baby's body, but that passed fast. A baby needed to eat, and he wasn't about to overthink survival. Hunger beat pride every time.
As his father leaned over the pot of seal stew, inhaling deeply with an exaggerated sniff, his mother swatted at him with the wooden spoon.
"Out of the kitchen," she said, mock stern. "Dinner's not ready yet."
Just then, James latched onto a handful of his father's thick red hair and gave it a mighty tug, giggling like he'd just won a prize.
His mother burst out laughing, the sound bright and unguarded. His father yelped in playful alarm, eyes wide as he spun in place, still holding James.
"Ah! Betrayed by my own son!" he cried, voice booming with mock despair.
James squealed with delight, pulling again as his father stumbled away from the stove in theatrical retreat. The cozy cabin echoed with laughter and warmth, the stew bubbling behind them like a drumbeat to their evening ritual.