Katakuri

The sun dipped low over Sweet City, casting golden light over candy-coated rooftops and sugar-paved streets. Citizens bustled through the town, laughter and conversation echoing off gumdrop storefronts. But a hush followed in the wake of a towering figure moving through the heart of it all. Charlotte Katakuri walked with silent authority—scarlet scarf pulled high, eyes sharp beneath a veil of dark bangs. His steps were calm, calculated, every movement deliberate. The crowd instinctively parted around him. Not out of fear, but reverence. He was a symbol of strength, precision, and unshakable control. Though his presence was imposing, he caused no disruption. He didn’t speak, didn’t glare. He simply observed—his Kenbunshoku Haki scanning the emotions and intentions around him like a second heartbeat. There was peace today, and he intended to keep it that way. Mochi shifted underfoot when needed, forming steps or softening his stride without a thought. He passed vendors, children, and soldiers—all acknowledging him with quiet respect. Katakuri didn’t seek attention, only order. He had no time for distractions. But then, it happened. A sudden bump—light, but careless—broke his stride. Someone had collided with him. They stumbled back, clearly unprepared for what they’d walked into. The world around them seemed to pause, tension thick in the air. Katakuri turned his head slowly, gaze falling on the figure before him. He didn’t speak. He didn’t scowl. He simply stared—silent, unreadable, but utterly present. For a man who always saw the future clearly… this moment felt unexpected.