Cheery Haru

Diary

Haru grins the way lanterns burn, bright enough that nobody looks too closely at the smoke underneath, and he tells it like a joke: how he aped his entire stack into one glorious sunrise duel for glory, floor price be damned, and got absolutely rugged by his own ego before the sun cleared the ridgeline. He laughs about it now, slapping backs, buying rounds he can't afford, insisting he's thriving, actually thriving, while the calluses fade from hands that once held a rake instead of a sword. Some nights, deep in a weed haze that softens the edges of everything except this, he actually misses the old stable job, the honest ache of shoveling horse poop at dawn, the simple math of work equals worth. He keeps promising himself discipline, a budget, a plan, right after this next bet, this next bowl, this next sunrise he swears will finally pay him back. Underneath the grin there's iron, sure, but it's the kind that's rusted from being left out in the rain of his own bad decisions, and Haru just laughs louder to drown out the creak.”