Bulma watched him through the window, chin resting on her palm. The morning light made everything look deceptively calm — even him.
She hated that it felt peaceful.
"Shouldn't he be, I don't know, exhausted?" she muttered. "After rewriting time or whatever it is he actually did?"
Mai sipped her tea, her expression unreadable. "You sound jealous."
Bulma shot her a glare. "I sound sane."
Before Mai could answer, the sliding door opened. Buu stepped inside, barefoot, shirt slightly unbuttoned from the early heat. He looked infuriatingly composed.
"Good morning," he said simply, as if they hadn't spent the last few days inside a collapsing time rift.
Mrs. Brief smiled radiantly. "Breakfast's ready! I hope you like pancakes!"
Buu inclined his head politely. "I like anything made with care."
Mrs. Brief giggled, clearly delighted. "You're too kind!"
Bulma pinched the bridge of her nose. "Mom, please."
He sat across from her, helping himself to coffee. "You seem tense," he observed.
"Oh, I don't know," Bulma said, voice dripping sarcasm. "Maybe because last time we saw you, the laws of reality were breaking, and now you're having breakfast like it's Sunday?"
Buu took a slow sip, then looked at her over the rim of the cup. "Would you prefer I panic instead?"
Mai smirked. "He's got you there."
Bulma huffed but didn't reply. She hated that he was right — and that he knew it.
Mrs. Brief, blissfully unaware of the tension, slid into a chair beside Buu. "So, what are your plans for today, dear?"
Buu considered for a moment. "I'd like to stay here for a while. Rest. Think."
"Oh, wonderful!" Mrs. Brief clasped her hands. "We always have room for guests!"
Bulma blinked. "Wait, what—"
"It's decided," her mother said brightly. "You'll stay in the west wing. Bulma, show him the room after breakfast."
Buu nodded once, calm as ever. "Thank you. That's… very kind of you."
When he looked up, his gaze met Bulma's. There was no challenge in his eyes, no smugness — only quiet certainty, the kind that made her more uneasy than arrogance ever could.
"Fine," she muttered, turning back to her plate. "But you're explaining everything later. No more cryptic answers."
Buu's lips curved just slightly. "Of course."
For a moment, silence hung between them — broken only by the sound of Mrs. Brief humming and Mai's amused exhale.
Then Bulma glanced out the window again.
When breakfast was over, Mrs. Brief fluttered away to tend her flowers, leaving the three of them alone in the kitchen.
The silence that followed was heavy — not awkward, but weighted, like the calm before a storm.
Bulma crossed her arms, leaning against the counter. "Alright," she said, tone sharp. "Time for answers."
Buu looked up from the empty cup he'd been absently spinning between his fingers. "About?"
"Don't play dumb," Bulma snapped. "About you. About what you did — and what you are."
Mai stepped closer, arms folded. "She's right. You disappear into a collapsing space, come back like nothing happened, and expect us to just… have breakfast?"
Buu's gaze flicked between them — calm, unreadable. "I said I'd explain. But perhaps not all at once."
"That's not good enough," Bulma said. "You talk like you've seen everything, and you act like none of this is new to you. You don't get to stay silent anymore."
Mai's voice softened slightly, but her eyes didn't. "You're not human, are you?"
He didn't answer immediately. The faint hum of Capsule Corp's machines filled the background, the quiet ticking of circuits behind the walls. Then finally, he stood.
"I'm not what you'd call human," he said at last, his tone even. "But I was once closer to it than you think."
Bulma frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the truth," Buu replied, stepping toward the window.
Mai's expression didn't change. "Help us understand."
Buu turned slightly, his gaze resting on her. "Would that really make you feel safer? Knowing what I am?"
Bulma bristled. "It's not about feeling safe. It's about not being kept in the dark."
For a moment, the air seemed to hum — faint, like static before lightning. The gold in his eyes shimmered, then dimmed again.
He exhaled softly. "Here goes nothing."
Then, with a flicker of energy, his form shifted — skin turning a faint pink hue, markings disappearing like flowing ink. The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
"This," he said quietly, "is my true self — a race called Majin."
He looked at his own hand, flexing it once. "But I'm… a little more complicated than that." His gaze lifted to meet theirs again. "And after that battle with Fu, you two are a little like me now — though you can't control it yet."