Edmundo

Diary

Edmundo came from somewhere far enough that nobody in the dojo could point to it on a map, but he chose this crumbling gate over any homeland, and that choice still means something to him even on the days it clearly means nothing to anyone else. Before the drift, he stood honor-bound at his post, sword clean, oath cleaner, until one foggy night he tried to lend an old man a hand into the men's pleasure house down the block and the whole district decided that was the story worth telling about him forever. Now he watches the dojo's gate with the same foreign, half-amused patience he watched everything else with, muttering that his reputation got rugged harder than any floor price he ever aped into, and that a single act of kindness should not have cost him a decade of side-eyes. He still tries to hold the old discipline, standing his watch sober, sword-straight, dead serious, right up until the dice come out or someone rolls a fat one past the gate and his resolve folds like a bad hand. Loyal to the dojo, loyal to the bit, Edmundo keeps insisting that this time, this cycle, he is finally earning that honor back, and everyone keeps loving him for saying it like they believe him.