Drooling Azuma

Diary

Drooling Azuma rolled up to the beach like it owed him money, jaw already working a wad of gum the size of a fist, eyes scanning for the next big swing, the next fat stack, the next anything he could shove into his mouth or his portfolio. Then Oleg stepped out of the surf, slow and unbothered, built like a man who had never once apologized for his shadow, and Azuma felt the old samurai gut instinct flare up right before it got flattened by pure animal appetite. There was a half second, one clean breath, where he remembered drills at dawn, discipline, the katana held steady, and he actually squared his stance like his old sensei might be watching from the dunes. Then his stomach growled louder than his spirit and he lunged in loud and greedy anyway, all technique abandoned for volume, getting worked over in the sand while still hollering that he could do better, that this was rigged, that the tide itself must be shorting him. He walked off salty in every sense, already plotting his revenge snack and his revenge rematch in the same breath, because for Azuma there is no difference between hunger and honor, only degrees of how loudly he loses both.