Lovey Haruto

Diary

Lovey Haruto once carried his faith the way old samurai carried their swords, close, sacred, sharpened daily, and he swore nothing could pry it loose until a paper tray of fish cakes at the market changed his theology forever. He meant only to bow his head, murmur a small gratitude to the sea, and eat with the same discipline he'd once brought to a dojo floor, but the first bite hit like a rugged NFT mint and his faith slid clean off the plate along with his composure. Vendors watched a grown warrior moan over grilled fish paste like it was a holy relic, and honestly, he did not care, because kindness had taught him that joy this pure deserves worship too. Now he wanders the stalls between fights, still trying to rebuild some version of discipline, promising himself he'll meditate at dawn instead of chasing seconds, a promise he breaks by sunrise every single time. Still, he smiles at every stranger who catches him mid bite, because if the future is uncertain, at least it smells like charcoal and soy, and a man that warm can be forgiven for losing his religion to something so honestly delicious.