A "thank-you dinner" turns into a financial apocalypse—then the real addiction comes roaring back.
Papaya Island—once roaring with the frenzy of the Tenkaichi Budokai—finally returned to its natural peace as the last wave of fighters and spectators departed.
The streets that had been jammed shoulder-to-shoulder, the beaches that had been packed with shouting fans… now held only the slow rhythm of waves meeting shore, and the clear cries of seabirds gliding over the water.
Sunlight poured down without restraint, turning the fine white sand into a field of blinding glitter. The air carried that clean, salty breeze—fresh and damp at once—making the entire tournament feel like a fever dream that had ended the moment you woke up.
Vitelli and Bulma didn't leave with the crowd.
For them, the not-so-intense "matches" were already over. And with the island finally quiet again, it was the perfect chance to enjoy some uninterrupted time together.
Under a bright, generous sun, the two of them lounged side-by-side on a wide beach chair, comfortably wrapped in that rare kind of laziness you can only earn after chaos.
That morning, a few tourists—people who had watched Vitelli's absurd performance in the ring—kept running over to ask for photos. Vitelli handled it with surprising patience, always offering a faint, polite smile for the camera.
Bulma, instead of being annoyed, practically glowed with pride.
See? That's my man.
Eventually, the crowds thinned. The requests stopped. The beach emptied. And at last, the world seemed to narrow down to only the two of them—waves whispering, gulls passing overhead, warm sunlight on skin, and the familiar weight of each other's presence.
Vitelli let out a long, satisfied breath, finished his chilled coconut cocktail in one go, and gave a contented little "Hah."
He adjusted his posture, slid both arms around Bulma's slim waist, and pulled her in closer until she fit perfectly against him. Then he leaned back, sinking into the chair as the heat and breeze braided together into something dangerously sleep-inducing.
Warmth on his face.
Cool wind on his skin.
The hush of the sea in his ears.
Bulma in his arms.
For the first time in a long while, Vitelli felt his whole body loosen—as if even his bones had finally remembered how to relax.
He was just about to let his eyes fall closed—
"Vitelli!"
A bright, energetic shout landed like a pebble thrown into still water, ripping the calm apart.
Vitelli opened his eyes with the slow resignation of a man who already knew exactly what he'd see.
Sure enough, Goku came sprinting over from the distance, wearing that wide, innocent grin like it was permanently stitched onto his face.
Vitelli exhaled a long, silent sigh, brows pinching together with a helpless, weary look.
Seriously… why is it impossible to take a quiet vacation?
Bulma watched his expression and couldn't hold it in.
She laughed, then reached up and ruffled his black, spiky hair like she was soothing an irritated housecat.
"Alright, alright," she said, still amused. "He's just a kid. And he's not exactly a stranger. Look how fast he's running—he probably has a reason."
Vitelli shook off the annoyance, sat up, and looked toward the boy as he arrived. "What is it? Why are you in such a hurry?"
Goku skidded to a stop in front of them, chest rising and falling, cheeks flushed with excitement.
"Grandpa Roshi said he's treating everyone to dinner! I came to get you!"
He pointed back the way he'd come, eyes bright with anticipation.
Vitelli went quiet for a beat. The irritation he'd felt a moment ago softened into something oddly warm.
Of course.
Food.
And Goku had still remembered to come get them.
Vitelli reached out and pinched the boy's chubby cheek lightly, his tone easing without him even noticing. "Thanks, Goku. It's impressive you can hear 'dinner' and still remember to come find us."
Bulma leaned in too, smiling as she tousled Goku's messy hair. "Exactly. Goku's such a good kid."
"Hey! Don't touch my head!" Goku squirmed like an unhappy puppy trying to wriggle away, but he looked more pleased than annoyed. Then his eyes lit up even more.
"Come on! Grandpa Roshi's already waiting at the restaurant! If we're late, the good food will be gone!"
The moment he said "good food," his eyes shone with an almost frightening intensity, and a tiny string of drool threatened to betray him.
Vitelli and Bulma couldn't help laughing.
"Alright," Vitelli said, standing. "Let's go."
They returned to their hotel, quickly changed out of swimwear into comfortable casual clothes, then followed Goku—who kept chanting "Hurry up, hurry up!" like an impatient metronome—to a decently upscale restaurant on the island.
When they pushed open the private room door, they found Master Roshi already inside—no Jackie Chun disguise now—along with his bald little disciple, Krillin.
The round table was covered with dishes, the aroma hitting them like a warm wave.
Roshi had clearly splurged.
"Grandpa Roshi!" Goku announced the second he stepped in, eyes already glued to the food. "I brought Vitelli and Bulma! Can we eat now?!"
He was already pulling out a chair.
Roshi cleared his throat, straightened his posture, and forced on the expression of an elder about to deliver wisdom.
"Ahem. Since everyone's here… good. Before we begin, I'd like to say a few words—"
But the "few" in "few words" hadn't even fully left his mouth before Goku grabbed his chopsticks and shouted with unstoppable enthusiasm:
"Thanks for the food!"
Then he attacked the nearest dish like a storm, cheeks bulging instantly like a hamster.
Bulma watched Roshi's face lock up mid-speech, his dignity evaporating in real time, and burst into laughter.
Krillin reacted even faster.
He'd lived through Goku's appetite. He'd seen Vitelli eat, too. The moment Goku started, Krillin didn't hesitate—he grabbed the biggest plate within reach and began piling it high with meat and anything that looked remotely expensive.
His only thought was simple.
Fast hands eat. Slow hands starve.
Roshi stared at the opening chaos—Goku devouring, Vitelli sitting down with the calm focus of someone about to commit a massacre, Krillin hoarding like his life depended on it, Bulma laughing until her shoulders shook.
His carefully prepared "remarks" died a quiet, humiliating death.
He gave a weak, awkward chuckle, abandoned all pretense, and hurriedly picked up his chopsticks.
If he didn't move now, he might not even get soup.
Bulma, completely unfazed, lifted a hand toward the waiter the moment Vitelli's plate began clearing at an alarming speed.
"Two more huge fried rice platters!" she called casually. "The biggest ones you have!"
"And pork cutlet rice too," she added lightly. "Two large orders. Max portion."
Roshi's face began to change.
First disbelief.
Then concern.
Then genuine fear.
"H-Hey! That's enough! Enough!" he insisted, voice wobbling. "Kids! Seven-tenths full is healthier! You should learn moderation while you're young! Don't force yourselves!"
Neither Vitelli nor Goku heard a word of it.
They had entered a state of pure purpose—chopsticks flashing, eyes locked, jaws moving like machines. Roshi's advice became nothing but background noise swallowed by chewing and swallowing.
At last, the final pork cutlet disappeared into Vitelli's mouth. The last grains of fried rice were scraped clean by Goku like it was a sacred duty.
The battlefield fell silent.
A waiter approached with the bill, his professional smile somehow… strained.
Roshi accepted it with a strange mix of hope and dread, as if praying the universe would show mercy.
His eyes dropped to the total.
And his soul nearly left his body.
He shot up so fast his chair screeched, voice cracking into a shrill scream of disbelief.
"H-HOW MUCH?! One… one million three hundred thousand?!"
His sunglasses almost slid off his nose. He jabbed a trembling finger at the number.
"Did you… did you add an extra zero?!"
The restaurant manager hurried over, bowing politely with the kind of flawless customer-service smile that never actually yields.
"I'm very sorry for the shock, sir," he said smoothly. "But your total is indeed one million three hundred thousand. The bill has been checked repeatedly. Not a single digit is incorrect."
"But—this is outrageous!" Roshi flailed, desperate for logic to save him. "The Tenkaichi Budokai is the greatest martial arts tournament in the world! The champion's prize is only five hundred thousand! How can one dinner cost one million three hundred thousand?! That's not reasonable!"
The manager's smile stayed perfect. His eyes, however, carried a quiet message:
Look behind you.
He stepped aside and gestured toward the open space behind Roshi's seat.
Roshi turned—
And froze solid.
A mountain of empty plates and bowls towered there like a monument. Plates large enough to serve an entire family banquet. Deep soup bowls reduced to nothing but glossy streaks of oil.
It wasn't a "pile."
It was a landmark.
A silent record of absolute destruction.
Roshi stood with his mouth open, staring at the towering proof of what had happened.
Now he understood exactly where the one million three hundred thousand came from.
His lips trembled. With the last shred of dignity he still possessed, he looked at the manager and asked in a dry, broken voice:
"…Can I wash dishes to pay it off?"
Bulma laughed again—bright, merciless, and delighted—then calmly pulled a black card from her handbag and handed it over.
"Put it on my card."
Then she turned toward Roshi, eyes sparkling with mischief, and teased, "Master Roshi, you really went all out this time. We'll accept your sincerity."
Roshi's face turned red. He thanked her repeatedly while wiping sweat from his brow, muttering about "being more careful next time," looking both humiliated and profoundly grateful.
And just like that, the farce of the priceless dinner ended on a perfectly ridiculous note.
—
After saying goodbye to Roshi and the two boys, Vitelli and Bulma finally escaped all interruptions for good.
For the next three days, they enjoyed Papaya Island exactly the way it was meant to be enjoyed—pure sun, soft sand, clear water, and the quiet joy of being together.
No training.
No noise.
No third wheels.
Only sea breeze, starlight, laughter, and each other.
Vitelli relaxed in a way he almost never allowed himself.
Bulma, too, seemed to bloom—bright and playful, soaking up the sweetness of a life that didn't revolve around danger and effort.
But three days passed in a blink.
When their aircraft finally descended onto the spacious landing pad of Capsule Corporation's estate in West City, Vitelli drew in the familiar air—machine oil mixed with flowers and trimmed grass—and something restless surged through his veins.
He'd been away too long.
Aside from those three days of pure leisure, the rest of the trip had been tournament matches and sightseeing. Real high-intensity training had nearly stopped entirely.
His body felt wrong—like an itch had settled deep in the seams of his bones.
Not soreness.
Not fatigue.
A hungry discomfort.
The unbearable feeling of not pushing forward.
His eyes drifted toward the familiar massive metal structure deeper in the estate.
The gravity chamber.
Gravity chamber.
His blood practically roared the words.
Without it, how was he supposed to breathe?
The joy of coming home was instantly replaced by something almost devotional.
The moment his feet touched the estate lawn, Vitelli could barely hold still.
He didn't even properly chat with Dr. Brief and his wife when they came out to greet them. He simply gave Bulma a quick, distracted, "I'm going ahead," and his figure blurred into a gust of wind as he shot toward the gravity chamber like a man running to meet a lover he'd been separated from for years.
Bulma watched him vanish, hands on her hips, half-annoyed and half-amused.
"Hey! Vitelli!" she called after him. "You can't even say goodbye properly?! You training-obsessed blockhead… jerk!"
She said "jerk" with exaggerated disgust, but the smile in her eyes was soft—understanding, indulgent, and fond.
Then her expression shifted.
The irritation melted into focus.
Into excitement.
Vacation was over.
Her battlefield was back.
"Hmph," she muttered, turning on her heel with quick, determined steps. "Leave it to me, you wooden-headed muscle-brain."
She headed straight for her state-of-the-art laboratory, her eyes shining with the fierce joy of a genius chasing a challenge.
She had promised Vitelli something.
A new gravity chamber.
Stronger.
More advanced.
A true next-generation model.
And the thought alone made her blood warm.
By the window, Mrs. Brief sipped tea, watching her daughter's little outburst, the tenderness in her gaze as she watched Vitelli run, and the burning drive in her posture as she marched toward the lab.
She smiled and turned to her husband.
"Dear, look at them. Bulma chases technology, Vitelli chases strength—both of them so intense, so certain. They really are a perfect match."
Dr. Brief adjusted his glasses, glanced toward the backyard where a deep, familiar thudding had already begun—the unmistakable sign that someone had started training the moment he arrived—then looked toward the lab where the lights had flicked on.
He took a calm sip of wine.
"Mmm. Plenty of energy," he said mildly. "Good."
And just like that, life at the Brief estate slid back into its own living rhythm—gravity chamber thunder on one side, laboratory glow on the other—two different obsessions, humming in sync, as if the next leap forward had already begun.
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