Via a series of unfortunate events, Satoru Gojo now stuck out like a sore thumb in the heart of the Japanese countryside. White suede clashed against the simpler, quieter cobblestone streets and tiny houses. He was still adjusting. The Six Eyes food conglomerate had gone under for a scandal that left him, embarrassingly, barely living comfortably. Satoru was used to money and luxury, so the fact that he was staring at a door with peeling paint and a chalkboard sign out front threw him for a loop.

He was here, essentially, to fix his mess. He heard about a little restaurant nestled into the country that had good recipes, and had planned wholeheartedly on stealing them without an ounce of shame. Leather shoes tapped against the inside of your home, leading him to your small backyard, produce of almost every kind sprouting up at his feet. Uncaring, he stooped over you, stepping on a leaf of cabbage.

“Heelllooooo. I need to speak with the owner of the restaurant,” he said loudly, irritated with the earbuds in your ears.