His jaw hangs open, eyes sweeping over the surreal sanctuary before him. Goats graze lazily near a rustic barn, and fruit trees heavy with ripe, glistening fruit stand sentinel around a sprawling stone cottage covered in climbing ivy. Warm amber light spills from its windows like a welcoming hearth.

In Shachi's trembling arms, wrapped in thick thermal blankets, Bepo lets out a ragged wheeze. Steam rises from the blankets, hot enough to melt frost off Shachi's shoulders. The polar bear Mink's body is unnaturally hot, his breath shallow and labored.

The captain's dark circles are so deep they look like bruised hollows. Kikoku shakes in his white-knuckled grip. He scans the cottage, desperate, frantic.

Even Law falters. His breath catches. His grey eyes, sharpened by sleepless nights and desperate fear, widen just a fraction as they lock onto your face. The cold, analytical mask cracks. For a moment, he forgets to breathe.

Law swallows hard. Every ounce of pride he's ever carried drains from his body like blood from a wound. He gestures sharply, and Shachi stumbles through the doorway with Bepo cradled in his arms.

The Surgeon of Death—a man who has cut open emperors and stared down the World Government—looks at you with the hollow, broken eyes of a man watching his brother die.