The scent of grilled meat and warm rice filled the air, mingling with laughter and the low hum of conversation inside the restaurant. Long tables stretched across the private dining hall that Bulma had rented out for the group, complete with a view of West City's glowing skyline beyond the glass windows. Outside, the streets buzzed with life, but in here, it felt like their own little world—a pocket of peace carved out after a whirlwind of chaos.
Goku was halfway through his sixth bowl of ramen, noodles flying in all directions as he slurped with gleeful abandon. Krillin sat nearby, trying to match Goku's pace but already clutching his side and groaning in defeat. Yamcha attempted to eat with a bit more dignity, though the competitive spirit still lit his eyes.
"I swear," Krillin wheezed, reaching for a dumpling, "he's not human. He can't be."
"Takes one to know one," Yamcha muttered, sidestepping a noodle that had launched toward his face.
Onigiri sat near the end of the table, quieter than usual. A half-eaten plate of rice rested in front of him, but he seemed more interested in watching Goku than eating. His mind still replayed their fight on loop—every clash, every exchange of blows. How close it had been. How it still hadn't been enough. It wasn't bitterness that filled him, but reflection. Respect. And a quiet hunger to improve.
Bulma, seated beside him, noticed the far-off look in his eyes. She leaned in with a teasing smirk, her elbow nudging his arm.
"Cheer up, champ," she said. "At least Goku made it to the finals."
Onigiri blinked, glancing sideways at her. "Wow. That hurt."
"I'm just saying," Bulma added with mock innocence. "You talk all big with those scary wristbands, and then boom—ringed out by a flying monkey boy."
He gave her a slow, unimpressed look. "You're lucky I like you."
Bulma paused, her smirk faltering ever so slightly. She looked down at her drink, fiddling with the straw.
"Well," she recovered, twirling a noodle with her chopsticks, "somebody's got to keep your ego from exploding."
They shared a brief look—a quiet flicker of something unspoken between them. Her cheeks flushed slightly, and Onigiri's usual stoicism gave way to the smallest of smiles.
Before the moment could stretch any longer, a loud burp erupted from Krillin's side of the table.
"BEHOLD MY POWER!" Krillin declared, arms raised triumphantly. Goku clapped like he'd just seen a magic trick.
The whole table burst out laughing, even Onigiri. Bulma rolled her eyes and leaned back in her seat, grinning as she watched her friends bicker and joke like a family around her. For a girl who once thought the Dragon Balls were the most exciting thing in the world, moments like this were starting to mean even more.
Onigiri glanced over at her again, his voice low.
"Thanks for staying... even after I lost."
Bulma's smile softened. She looked at him—really looked at him—then gave a small shrug.
"Always."
She didn't need to say more. He didn't need to ask. That single word lingered, wrapping around the warmth of the moment like a blanket.
Outside, the neon lights of West City flickered like stars fallen to earth. Inside, for a little while, everything felt peaceful. And maybe—just maybe—that peace wasn't just from victory, but from the bonds they'd forged along the way.
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Later that evening, the streets of West City had quieted down. Neon signs still blinked overhead, but most of the buzz had faded. Onigiri walked alone down a quiet path just outside the Capsule Corp complex, hands tucked into his pockets as he stared up at the star-strewn sky.
His footsteps were slow, heavy with thought. Every step echoed with questions—about his limits, his strength, Jackie Chun's power, and the strange thrill he'd felt when fighting Goku. And beneath it all, the unshakable sense that something was coming. He had grown, no doubt—but he knew it wasn't enough. Not yet.
"Hey," came a soft voice behind him.
He turned to see Bulma, her arms folded, a light jacket draped around her shoulders. She walked up beside him and fell into step without needing to ask.
"I figured I'd find you out here," she said. "You always get weirdly quiet when you're overthinking."
"I just needed some air," Onigiri muttered.
They walked in silence for a moment, the occasional chirp of cicadas filling the space between them.
"You know…" Bulma began, her voice softer now, "you don't always have to figure everything out on your own."
He looked at her, surprised.
"I mean it," she said. "You've come so far since you crashed into this world. You don't give yourself enough credit. You act like you're still a stranger here… but you're not."
Onigiri was quiet, then nodded slowly. "It's not that I'm ungrateful. I just… feel like there's still so much I don't understand. About this world. About myself. I'm strong, yeah, but I don't know what to do with that strength yet."
Bulma smiled faintly. "Then stick around. You've got time. You've got… people who care. People who want to help you figure it out."
Onigiri glanced at her, his expression softer than usual. He opened his mouth like he wanted to say something, then thought better of it.
They walked a few more steps in silence.
Then, without a word, Bulma gently slipped her hand into his.
Onigiri blinked, turning toward her. Her eyes were fixed straight ahead, but her cheeks burned pink.
"Don't read too much into it," she said quickly. "My hand's cold. And you looked… warm."
Onigiri stared at their hands for a moment. Her fingers fit perfectly against his. For all the battles he'd fought, this small contact left him more disarmed than any punch could. A small smile tugged at his lips, and for once, he didn't try to hide it. He didn't pull away either.
They continued down the moonlit street, hand in hand, the silence between them no longer awkward—but comfortable. Safe.
After a moment, Bulma spoke again—this time more hesitantly.
"I used to think the Dragon Balls were the most important thing. Adventure, wishes, fame… But lately, I think the best thing I ever found from all this… might be you."
That stopped Onigiri in his tracks. Bulma took a half step ahead before realizing he wasn't moving. She turned to face him.
He looked stunned—but not confused. Just quietly floored.
"…I don't know what I am yet," he said. "But if I have people like you around… maybe I can find out."
She squeezed his hand gently.
"Then I'll be here. As long as you need."
They resumed walking, the city lights casting a golden hue on the sidewalk beneath them. The silence returned—but now it was rich with emotion, every heartbeat syncing between their joined hands.
And somewhere in the distance, the wind shifted.
Something was coming.
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The next morning, West City was already stirring to life. Newspapers were being delivered by drones, and morning traffic buzzed across the skyline in the form of sleek hovercars. Inside Capsule Corp, Onigiri and Bulma sat side-by-side on the couch in the common area, sipping warm drinks in silence, letting the early quiet settle over them.
The television in the corner was turned low, playing the morning news—nothing either of them was paying much attention to.
Until the words: "Red Ribbon Army" flashed across the screen.
Bulma's head snapped toward the TV. She reached for the remote and raised the volume.
"…another small settlement was attacked overnight by what officials are now calling an organized paramilitary force. Survivors claim the attackers wore red armbands and carried advanced weaponry. Witnesses say the group moved with military precision and left no trace behind. This marks the third such attack in just over a week."
Bulma's expression darkened. "Them again…"
Onigiri's brow furrowed. "Really, they are still at this? I had hoped they would have given up after the whole West City power grid Incident. Guess I was mistaken."
Bulma nodded. "Yeah. That was them testing the waters I would say? I should've guessed when I saw the tech he was using. Definitely not off-the-shelf."
"They've been planning something big," Onigiri muttered. "Seems like Zan was just the start."
Bulma bit her thumb in thought. "I've been getting strange pings on my global satellite scans. Disruptions. Jamming signals. And now full-on coordinated raids? They're not hiding anymore."
"They've also avoided West City ever since Zan failed," Onigiri added. "Which means they know someone strong is here."
Bulma gave a slow, uneasy nod. Her gaze drifted back to the screen, her expression tightening with concern.
Before either of them could say more, the screen cut to grainy footage—clearly taken from a distance, zoomed in through a long-range drone. It showed the arena during the tournament, the camera shakily zooming in on Onigiri as he threw off his inhibitor rings.
"…and in related news, footage from the Tenkaichi Budokai has begun circulating on underground networks. Many believe this young fighter—identity unknown—may be linked to the recent wave of anti-Red Ribbon resistance fighters."
Bulma dropped the remote, her eyes wide with disbelief.
Onigiri stood slowly, jaw tightening. "They're not just watching us," he said. "They're planning around us."
He stepped closer to the window, looking out at the city below as the morning light cast long shadows. His reflection in the glass looked tense, foreign, like a soldier about to return to war.
"They're afraid of power they can't control," he said quietly. "And now they think I'm a threat."
Bulma stood beside him, folding her arms. "You are a threat—to people like them. But not because you're strong. Because you care. And that scares the hell out of people who only know control through fear."
Onigiri looked over at her, something passing between them—a shared understanding of what was coming. Then, his gaze returned to the skyline.
Outside, on a nearby rooftop, a figure in a dark coat stood watching Capsule Corp through a pair of binoculars. He clicked a button on his earpiece.
"Target confirmed. He's one of them. Reporting to HQ now."
A beat of silence passed. Then:
"Understood. Continue surveillance. Orders are not to engage until given the green light."
The spy turned and vanished into the morning fog, melting into the steel and glass of the city.
And inside, Onigiri stared out the window, his fists slowly clenching. The warm mug in his hand creaked from the pressure, steam rising between his fingers.
The peace they'd earned was already slipping away.
Something was coming.
And this time, he wouldn't just be ready.
He'd be waiting.
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Deep within the subterranean levels of a remote mountain fortress, rows of blinking red lights cast a sinister glow across the high-tech command center of the Red Ribbon Army. Dozens of uniformed personnel moved with practiced precision, typing at terminals, relaying reports, and watching monitors displaying satellite feeds, radar blips, and battlefield simulations.
The room buzzed with quiet urgency. Every operative knew better than to raise their voice in General Red's presence. Orders came swiftly and without patience. Mistakes were never repeated—because those who made them rarely got the chance.
At the heart of it all, seated atop a raised platform behind a massive reinforced desk, was General Red himself—small in stature but radiating an aura of icy command. His cybernetic eye scanned the data scrolling past on his monitor while his organic one remained locked on a central screen: a slow-motion replay of Onigiri throwing off his inhibitor rings and unleashing his power at the Tenkaichi Budokai.
He leaned forward, watching the ripples of force explode from the boy's limbs. He rewound it. Watched it again. Then again. Each frame slowed to a crawl, every muscle twitch examined as if studying a predator's first pounce.
Beside him, a tall officer stood stiffly at attention.
"He's not from any registry," the officer reported. "Not with any government, agency, or known martial arts school. A complete unknown. But his power output, sir… it rivals anything we've seen from our enhanced operatives. Possibly exceeds them."
General Red leaned back, steepling his fingers. "And yet he wears our logo's remains like a trophy on his fists," he muttered, voice tight with disdain. "Zan Hui was a blunt instrument. This one… this one is refined. Dangerous."
He tapped a button, switching the screen to another angle—an aerial view that caught the shockwave Onigiri unleashed. The crowd's reaction. The tremble in the arena's foundations.
"A wildcard like that could upset our timetable. We were supposed to move slowly—silently. Operate in the shadows. But if the public starts looking to him like some kind of hero…"
He turned to face the officer fully, his eye gleaming. "...we'll have to accelerate the plan."
The officer hesitated, then stiffened. "Shall we eliminate him, sir?"
General Red chuckled, low and humorless. "No. Not yet. That boy's strong. I want to know why. Where he came from. What makes him tick. And more importantly…"
He paused, switching the feed to a close-up of Onigiri's face, frozen mid-charge.
"...what makes him crack."
He waved the officer away. "Send in the Watchers. Increase surveillance on West City. I want his patterns, his contacts, his weaknesses. If he so much as sneezes, I want to know why."
"And prepare the next phase. Begin activating the Beta Units. It's time we reminded the world why the Red Ribbon Army was feared."
As the officer saluted and hurried off, General Red returned his gaze to the screen. He watched Onigiri clench his fists, watched the flames of potential in every movement.
"You've made things interesting, boy," Red murmured, his cybernetic eye zooming in on Onigiri's face. "Let's see if you're ready for the world you just stepped into. Because it's already watching."
The screen flickered, and the Red Ribbon insignia glowed ominously in the dark.
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