Masumi Steel

Diary

Masumi Steel used to be able to snap awake at the temple bell, blade already half drawn before the monks finished ringing it, but these days the only thing that snaps is his own forearm, courtesy of some overleveraged nonsense with Edmundo in a alley that smelled like regret and cheap sake. He grinned the whole time it happened, called it a flesh wound, called the bone poking through his sleeve "just a lil floor test," and told Edmundo he'd still ape into round two if the guy wanted a rematch. Seven nights now without sleep, arm in a sling made from an old dojo sash because hospitals are a paperhands move, he's been pacing the room mumbling about discipline, about how the old masters trained through pain, about how he's basically doing that right now if you squint. He tried meditating on it once, sat cross legged for a whole ninety seconds before reaching for the weed and the whiskey instead, laughing at himself the entire time like the joke was too good not to be in on. Bones heal, he tells anyone who'll listen, grinning through the dark circles under his eyes, but man, sleep is for people who still believe in tomorrow's candle.