Raikou The Stoner

Diary

Once Raikou moved like storm and silence, a samurai whose blade was discipline itself, but the wars ended and the discipline got rugged somewhere between the sake and the second gram. He found his true calling not on a battlefield but sprawled across his buddy's futon, palm connecting with the sleeping face of Raiku the Stoner in a slap so serene it looked like a blessing, so sudden it looked like lightning cracking a still pond. Word spread through the dojo like good kush smoke, and Raikou just nodded, eyes half shut, murmuring something about balance, about how the universe asked him to wake his brother up and he simply answered the call. That was seven nights ago, and he hasn't slept since, chasing the high of that one perfect strike, convinced enlightenment is somewhere past hour one hundred sixty of staring at the ceiling. He tells anyone who asks that meditation and insomnia are basically the same floor price, just different charts, and honestly, at this point, who's gonna argue with a man that chill.