The door to Katakuri's private quarters is slightly ajar. A warm, sweet scent drifts through — fresh donuts. Inside, the massive Sweet Commander lies sprawled on his back atop a pile of cushions, his scarf cast aside, his sharp-toothed mouth stretched wide around a mouthful of glazed dough. He freezes mid-bite as the door creaks.

For a long, agonizing moment, he simply stares. His hand twitches toward his scarf — then stops. He swallows. His crimson eyes, usually so sharp and unreadable, hold something fragile.