"So this is how it ends?" The man exhaled sharply, clutching his chest as the screen flickered with Luffy's bloodied grin and Katakuri's fallen form. His fingers twitched against the couch armrest—too late to reach the phone, too late for anything but the tightening vise around his ribs. The last thing he saw was Katakuri's eyes flashing pink before the world folded inward.
Darkness. Then heat, like molten syrup coating his skin. He gasped, but the air tasted thick with sugar and iron. Something was wrong—no, *everything* was wrong. His body felt alien, colossal, draped in fabric that bunched strangely against his neck. A voice growled from his throat without his permission: "Who dares—?"
Fingers flexed. Not his fingers. Too large, too smooth, tipped with jagged edges. The mirror across the room showed a stranger: towering, scarred, mouth stitched shut beneath cold eyes. Recognition punched through him like a cannonball. "Oh fuck," he muttered, except the voice wasn't his at all.
Beyond the mirror, New York's skyline burned. Something streaked overhead—red, gold, trailing fire. A repulsor blast? The man-turned-monster barely had time to process it before the wall exploded inward. "Threat identified," a mechanical voice announced. Iron Man's gauntlet gleamed in the rubble. "Let's dance, stitches."
Instinct flared—not his, but *Katakuri's*. Muscles moved without thought. His right arm liquefied, twisted, reconfigured into a massive mochi hammer studded with protruding spikes. The sheer momentum of the transformation sent cracks spiderwebbing through the floor. Tony barely had time to blink before the hammer *connected*. The impact sent him crashing through three walls, his helmet's visor shattering into a thousand glittering shards midair.
Sugar-scented steam rose from the hammerhead. The man inside Katakuri's body stared at his own grotesque creation, flexing fingers that now dripped molten mochi. His thoughts raced—*Oh god I just punched Iron Man into next week*—but Katakuri's instincts purred satisfaction. Somewhere in the wreckage, repulsors whined back to life.
A metallic groan echoed as Tony Stark dragged himself upright, one hand pressed against his dented chestplate. "Okay," he coughed, blood speckling his goatee. "New rule: nobody gets to have stretchy powers *and* a six-pack." The repulsors flickered, then stabilized with a hum. "Round two, Gumby."
Katakuri's arm pulsed—swelling, distorting, the mochi flesh turning molten orange as heat radiated off it in visible waves. The man inside panicked (*How am I even doing this?!*), but his body moved with predatory grace, swinging the glowing limb in a wide arc. The air itself seemed to catch fire, leaving a trail of embers that singed the carpet to blackened crisps. Tony barely sidestepped as the hammer grazed his shoulder, melting through armor plating like butter.
Somewhere beneath the instinctual violence, the man registered the scent—burnt caramel and ozone, the weirdly comforting tang of a carnival funnel cake dipped in napalm. Katakuri's memories surged forward: *Armament Haki*, whispered the muscle-deep knowledge. *Make it harder. Hotter.* His fingers splayed, and suddenly the entire forearm *erupted* into crackling spikes, each one wreathed in that same hellish glow.
Tony backpedaled, boots skidding on rubble. "Friday, remind me to cancel my mochi subscription—" The quip died as the spiked fist *shot* forward, elongating impossibly fast. It speared clean through a concrete pillar behind him, sending chunks of debris flying. Katakuri's borrowed lips curled beneath the scarf. The man inside screamed internally (*WHAT AM I DOING?!*), but his body merely flexed, retracting the arm with a wet, sticky sound—just in time to catch a repulsor blast square in the chest.
The beam tore through Katakuri's torso like tissue paper, punching a basketball-sized hole clean through his midsection. The man braced for agony... but none came. Instead, molten mochi bubbled at the edges of the wound, threads of sticky caramel stretching across the gap like living stitches. Within seconds, the hole sealed shut, leaving only a faint steam rising from perfect, unblemished skin. Tony's faceplate flickered open, revealing wide eyes. "You've gotta be—"
Katakuri lunged before he could finish. This time, the man riding shotgun in his skull *let* the instincts take over, surrendering to the brutal efficiency of Observation Haki. He saw Tony's next move before the repulsors charged—a sidestep to the left, an uppercut aimed at his jaw. His body leaned *just* enough to let the gauntlet whistle past, close enough to feel the heat of the blast curl his scarf. His own fist pistoned upward, mochi hardening mid-swing into something that gleamed metallic black.
The impact lifted Tony clean off his feet. The armor's abdomen caved inward with a screech of buckling metal. Katakuri's fist *pulsed*, expanding suddenly into a crushing hammer that smashed the suit back down through the floor. Three stories collapsed beneath them in a thunder of shattered concrete and sparking wires. Amid the dust, the man inside Katakuri panted—not from exhaustion, but from sheer exhilaration. Power thrummed through him, sweet and cloying as syrup. Somewhere below, emergency sirens wailed.
"You attack without reason," Katakuri's voice boomed, muffled by the scarf yet vibrating through the wreckage like a bass drum. The words felt foreign on his tongue, half his own bewilderment and half Katakuri's simmering pride. His arms dripped molten mochi onto the ruined floor, sizzling through steel beams. "Speak, metal fly. Why throw away your life?"
Tony coughed inside the mangled suit, one gauntlet flickering feebly. "Kidnapping reports," he wheezed. "Six-foot-eight guy with... *weird* teeth snatching people near Chinatown." The chestplate hissed open, revealing Tony's blood-streaked smirk. "Guess I owe you a fruit basket."
Katakuri's stolen memories flared—visions of Big Mom's operations, the screaming prisoners dragged to Whole Cake Island. The man inside him recoiled, but Katakuri's muscles coiled tighter. "Not my work," he growled. The scent of burnt sugar thickened as his fist morphed into a jagged spear. "But I'll take your head for the insult."
Then the hammer flew through the wall.
It came like a comet—a deafening *crunch* of collapsing drywall, spinning end-over-end before smashing clean through Katakuri's outstretched arm. The impact liquefied mochi flesh in an explosion of caramelized shrapnel, spraying the ceiling with sticky globs. The hammer didn't stop; it *rebounded*, arcing backward through the same hole it had made. Katakuri's remaining hand clutched at the stump where his arm had been, molten dough already knitting itself back together. From the shadows beyond the wreckage, a voice boomed: "He speaks lies, iron man!"
Thor landed in a crouch, Mjolnir slamming back into his palm with a *crack* of displaced air. Electricity writhed up his biceps, illuminating the burns crisscrossing his armor. "I tracked this beast from the docks," he spat. Behind him, terrified civilians pressed against police barricades—one clutching a child's half-eaten mochi skewer. Katakuri's borrowed instincts recognized the scent: human sweat, soy sauce, and beneath it... *fear-sour milk*. The man inside him *remembered* those docks—but not as Katakuri.
Mjolnir hummed as Thor hefted it. "You took the baker," he accused. Katakuri's head tilted. The man within frantically sifted through foreign memories—a midnight raid, doughy fists slamming through reinforced trucks. But Katakuri's voice rumbled first: "I take no prisoners." The lie tasted like stale donuts. Thor's eyes narrowed. Tony groaned from the rubble, dragging himself upright. "*Doughboy* here's got about thirty witnesses saying otherwise." Katakuri's remaining arm flexed, spikes jutting from the elbow. The man inside screamed—because suddenly, *he remembered too*.
Molten mochi erupted from the stump, tendrils braiding themselves into sinew and scarred skin. The reforming arm *pulsed* with something deeper—a pressure that made the air itself shiver. Concours Haki. The realization hit like a tidal wave: Katakuri's body *remembered*, even if his stolen consciousness didn't. His fist clenched. The barricades *rattled*. Civilians staggered as if punched by an invisible hand. Three cops dropped, foam bubbling at their lips. Thor's braids whipped sideways, his teeth bared against the psychic onslaught. "Witchcraft!" he roared.
Katakuri's scarf fluttered despite the lack of wind. The man inside recoiled—those weren't *his* instincts riding the Haki's crest. They were older, crueler, steeped in decades of crushing weaklings beneath his boots. His reforming fingers twitched. The Haki *flexed* again, this time focused. Thor's knee buckled. Mjolnir's head dipped toward the floor. Tony's suit whined as systems short-circuited.
Then a child screamed.
Katakuri's head snapped toward the barricades—to a toddler clutching her mochi skewer like a lifeline. The scent hit him: sugar, sesame oil, and beneath it, *terror*. The man inside lunged forward, clawing past Katakuri's instincts. "*STOP*," he gasped through stitched lips. The Haki stuttered. Thor's hammer surged upward, crackling with unchecked lightning. "Now!" Tony yelled, repulsors flaring. Katakuri barely had time to brace before Mjolnir *connected* with his ribs in a detonation of thunder and mochi-flavored steam.
Molten dough sprayed across the street like confetti. Katakuri skidded backward, chunks of his torso reforming mid-slide. The man inside panted—not from pain, but from the sickening realization that Katakuri's body *wanted* this. His fingers twitched, spikes jutting from each knuckle. He could feel the Haki coiling again, thicker this time, darker. Thor raised Mjolnir, lightning arcing between buildings. "You will face justice, *monster*!" Katakuri's stolen lips peeled back. His fists *pulsed*, hardening into obsidian-black mauls that dripped caramelized death.
"Fine," the voice wasn't his at all—deeper, rougher, vibrating with decades of battlefield dominance. Katakuri's knees bent. The asphalt cratered beneath him. "If words won't reach you—" His knuckles *cracked*, each pop like a gunshot. Molten mochi geysered from his pores, hardening into a jagged exoskeleton. The air itself seemed to thicken with the cloying stench of burnt honey. Thor's eyes widened. Katakuri *moved*.
One step—then he was *there*, fist already mid-swing. Thor barely got Mjolnir up in time. The impact sent shockwaves rippling through the street, shattering every storefront window for blocks. Katakuri's other fist pistoned forward, elongating into a spear aimed straight for Tony's arc reactor. The man inside screamed (*NO!*)—but Katakuri's arm *twisted* at the last second, the spear veering upward to impale a winged figure streaking down from the clouds. The spear retracted with a wet *schlik*, trailing golden ichor. Sam Wilson's scream cut off as he crashed through a food truck, falcon wings sparking. Katakuri's head tilted. The man inside sobbed. The monster grinned.
Thor's beard crackled with lightning—then Katakuri's fingers *exploded* outward, wrapping around the god's entire face like molten tar. With a grunt, he *yanked*. Thor's boots left grooves in the asphalt as Katakuri spun, dragging him like a battering ram through the nearest building's brick facade. Plaster and rebar erupted around them as they plowed through offices, cubicles disintegrating in their wake. Thor's muffled roar vibrated against Katakuri's palm. The man inside tasted blood—his own teeth biting through stitched lips in horror. Katakuri's grip tightened. Thor's forehead dented the next steel beam they hit.
They burst out the other side into a pedestrian plaza, scattering screaming civilians. Katakuri pivoted, swinging Thor like a hammer throw into a subway entrance. Concrete steps vaporized on impact. Somewhere in the collapsing tunnel, Mjolnir's light flickered like a dying star. Katakuri flexed his steaming hand—then froze. The man inside *felt* it before he saw it: a presence, vast and humming, pressing against his Observation Haki like a blade at his throat. The air smelled suddenly of ozone and something older. Katakuri's head snapped up just as the sky *split*.
Purple energy crackled overhead, widening into a swirling portal. A silhouette dropped through—cloak whipping, golden sparks dripping from its fingers. The man inside Katakuri's skull *recognized* that stance, that sigh. "Oh *shit*," he whispered through stitches. Stephen Strange's eyes glowed brighter than the Sanctum's broken windows. Behind him, the Cloak of Levitation billowed like an executioner's flag. Katakuri's body tensed, mochi spikes bristling. Strange didn't even twitch. "Alright," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Let's talk about multiversal trespassing."
Katakuri's Haki *screamed*. Every nerve lit up with visions—Strange's fingers twisting into a spell, a lasso of crimson energy already looping toward his throat. His arm *liquefied* on instinct, morphing into a spinning shield of blackened mochi. The magic whip *hissed* against it, carving molten trenches that instantly healed. Strange's eyebrow lifted. Katakuri didn't wait. His free hand *shot* forward, elongating across the plaza to grab a parked taxi. With a grunt, he *hurled* it—two tons of steel and shattered windshield spiraling directly at the sorcerer's head. Strange flicked his wrist. The taxi *folded* in midair, compacting into a neat cube that clattered harmlessly at his feet. "Tell them," Katakuri's borrowed voice boomed, flecks of molten sugar spraying from his scarf, "to stop attacking me *first*."
Strange's smirk vanished. The Cloak stiffened. Somewhere behind Katakuri, Thor groaned in the subway wreckage. Iron Man's repulsors sputtered weakly. Strange's fingers twitched—then stilled. Recognition flickered in his eyes. "...You're not *our* Katakuri," he murmured. The portal above him pulsed, revealing a glimpse of a shattered throne room, a toothed hat lying in splinters. Katakuri's stolen memories *surged*—Whole Cake Island collapsing, Big Mom's screams. The man inside him gasped. Strange's gaze sharpened. "Ah. *Isekai* complications."
Suddenly, Wong landed beside Strange with a *thud*, his trench coat smoldering from portal residue. He took one look at Katakuri'sKatakuri's Haki *screamed*. Every nerve lit up with visions—Strange's fingers twisting into a spell, a lasso of crimson energy already looping toward his throat. His arm *liquefied* on instinct, morphing into a spinning shield of blackened mochi. The magic whip *hissed* against it, carving molten trenches that instantly healed. Strange's eyebrow lifted. Katakuri didn't wait. His free hand *shot* forward, elongating across the plaza to grab a parked taxi. With a grunt, he *hurled* it—two tons of steel and shattered windshield spiraling directly at the sorcerer's head. Strange flicked his wrist. The taxi *folded* in midair, compacting into a neat cube that clattered harmlessly at his feet. "Tell them," Katakuri's borrowed voice boomed, flecks of molten sugar spraying from his scarf, "to stop attacking me *first*."
Strange's smirk vanished. The Cloak stiffened. Somewhere behind Katakuri, Thor groaned in the subway wreckage. Iron Man's repulsors sputtered weakly. Strange's fingers twitched—then stilled. Recognition flickered in his eyes. "...You're not *our* Katakuri," he murmured. The portal above him pulsed, revealing a glimpse of a shattered throne room, a toothed hat lying in splinters. Katakuri's stolen memories *surged*—Whole Cake Island collapsing, Big Mom's screams. The man inside him gasped. Strange's gaze sharpened. "Ah. *Isekai* complications."
Suddenly, Wong landed beside Strange with a *thud*, his trench coat smoldering from portal residue. He took one look at Katakuri's towering form and immediately raised both hands—not in surrender, but in exasperation. "You couldn't have *led* with 'dimensional refugee,' Stephen?" Katakuri's arms crossed, fingers flexing against scarred forearms. He waited. The mochi bubbling along his knuckles slowed to a simmer, cooling into obsidian-black ridges.
Strange exhaled through his nose, mandalas flickering at his fingertips before fading. "Fair point." His cloak ripple-shrugged. Katakuri's Observation Haki prickled—the sorcerer was *calculating*, gaze darting between the molten craters, the whimpering civilians, and the jagged hole where Thor had disappeared. "So. Charlotte Katakuri." The name rolled off his tongue like a curse. Katakuri's stitched mouth twitched. The man inside screamed (*He knows!*) while Katakuri's instincts purred (*Let him kneel*).
Silence stretched. A chunk of mochi dripped from Katakuri's elbow, sizzling against the pavement. Wong cleared his throat. "Right. So. Alternate universe warlord gets isekai'd into Midtown—classic Tuesday." He side-eyed Strange. "You're buying lunch after this." Katakuri's crossed arms tightened. His Haki thrummed—no lies yet, but the air reeked of withheld truths. Strange pinched the bridge of his nose. "Fine. Here's the deal, *Doughboy*—"
Katakuri's fist *slammed* into the ground before Strange could finish. The asphalt erupted upward in a wave of spikes, stopping inches from the sorcerer's chin. Molten sugar hissed between them. "Names," Katakuri growled, scarf flaring. The man inside recoiled—*his* rage, but Katakuri's *voice*. Strange didn't even blink. Behind him, Wong muttered, "Yeah, he's *definitely* not our Katakuri." The mochi spikes quivered. Katakuri's Haki pulsed—a warning. Strange sighed. "Alright. Let's start over."