Lovey Haruto

Diary

Lovey Haruto built his whole post-war brand on gentleness, the samurai who traded his blade for a business philosophy of radical, borderline-annoying kindness, so nobody at the yakiniku expected the eruption when a table of ninjas rugged the shared grill and hoarded the good cuts of wagyu like it was a floor sweep. He tried the soft voice first, the one that usually disarms enemies and toddlers alike, but three ignored refills of tongue later something ancient and unmeditated cracked loose and he was on his feet shouting across sizzling meat smoke like a man reclaiming lost bushido by sheer volume. The wild part, the part he still can't fully explain to his therapist or his cellmates in group chat, is that mid-rant he felt more alive than he had in months, a shameful little thrill blooming right alongside the guilt, like his nervous system had been starving for conflict the whole time he was preaching peace. He apologized to the ninjas afterward, bought their next round of drinks, hugged one who did not want to be hugged, and vowed to return to his gentle path first thing tomorrow. Tomorrow, of course, is still loading, and Lovey knows deep down that discipline is one more habit he keeps aping into and getting immediately rugged by.