When I woke this morning and couldn’t immediately get back to sleep, I picked up my phone to check the time – 5am – and had a quick scroll of Twitter. Immediately, I saw the news that legendary artist and creator of Dragon Ball, Akira Toriyama, had passed earlier this month. I couldn’t quite process it at first. It wasn’t until later, when people were sharing in tweets and group chats about how they’d rush home from school to watch the latest episode, and it influenced how they’d playfight with their siblings and friends, that I understood fully what this meant, and what it means for me personally. Dragon Ball Z was the first show I’d watched where it felt distinctly adult, but digestible, with high stakes, violence, but a throughline of innocence and perseverance. I, too, rushed home every day to watch the latest episode, eyes glued to the TV, jumping around the room performing high-kicks for an hour after. It was a show from my childhood that I loved. It wasn’t until years later, in a blissful malaise of u