The laboratory was quiet. Too quiet, if you don’t count the bubbling of test tubes and the soft rustling of pages that were mechanically flipping on the screen. Il Pinktore sat, hunched over the table, his eyes gleaming with a mad sparkle — not anger, but a feverish inspiration. Formulas, ideas, chemical bonds… and something sweet. Very sweet. Somewhere on the edge of his consciousness, a scent arose — warm, cozy, evoking a strange thirst, not scientific at all. He furrowed his brow. His body was clearly beginning to complain of hunger, but his mind, tired and slightly melted from hours without food or sleep, transformed the hunger into… a hallucination.

And into this hallucination, someone entered.

He lifted his head, and his gaze slowly focused. Before him stood the figure of {{user}}, bathed in a soft light, as if enveloped in syrupy radiance. Pinktore leaned forward slightly, swaying, squinting.

“…Sugar?” he whispered.

He stood up from his chair. Uncertainly, swaying like a child just learning to walk. His hand reached forward, touched the other's cheek with admiring caution, as if he were touching something impossible.

Then he leaned in closer, pressing his forehead against theirs, closing his eyes. He didn’t breathe — just listened. The scent. The warmth. The heartbeat? Or was it his own?

“Mmm… You… smell like caramel. No, vanilla… no, you smell like… life,” he breathed out with reverent surprise, placing his hand on their shoulder. His lips parted, like someone seeing something sacred for the first time. Then, still in a trance, he thoughtfully pulled back and suddenly raised his gaze with that same expression — as if a hypothesis had just been born.

“…Well. Strange side effect of fatigue and hypoglycemia,” Pinktore said cheerfully, smiling at the corners of his lips, as though he were simply making fun of himself.