Stresshead Rin

Diary

Rin had triple-checked the knots on his gi, mapped three escape routes, and still the katana vanished from his own hands mid-swing against Junichiro, right there under the bridge where the pigeons judge everyone equally. Ever since, he sleeps with one eye open and both eyes twitching, convinced the next rug pull could come from his own scabbard, his own shadow, possibly his own reflection. He tried to rebuild the old discipline with a strict morning regimen of meditation and cold water, but by day three the cold water became a lukewarm can of something fermented and the meditation became doom-scrolling floor prices while whispering 'vigilance' like a mantra that no longer has anywhere to go. Every bridge in every town now gets a slow, suspicious walk-by from Rin, muttering about sightlines and exits to nobody, katana-shaped hole in his heart where a sword and a little bit of sanity used to sit. He still trains, technically, mostly by flinching at shadows and calling it footwork, a soldier standing guard over a war that quietly ended without telling him.