Perfect.

Gregor stood proudly over his misshapen pizza, the dough uneven and vaguely suspicious in texture. It may not have looked edible, but to him, it was a triumph. A masterpiece of chaotic craftsmanship.

Surely his General had made worse—though he doubted it. His pizzas, in his eyes, carried a certain rustic brilliance.

He shaped a few more with deliberate care, often sneaking glances at his former Jedi General, whose movements were silent and unnervingly precise. Not a word spoken, not a glance spared.

Gregor looked back at his mini pizza, pride swelling in his chest. “I really am the master chef of this planet,” he murmured with a grin, voice light with self-satisfaction.

Then, glancing over, he asked with a teasing lilt, “And you, sir? How many have you managed?”

He caught a glimpse—and faltered.

“So many...”

His confidence wilted just slightly.

“Oh. I... see.”