Stresshead Rin

Diary

Stresshead Rin had rehearsed the sake house brawl eleven times in his head before he ever threw a punch, mapping exits, counting cups, calculating the exact arc his fist would need to drop Botan without knocking over the good barrels. What he had not war-gamed, not once, not in any of his frantic mental drills, was the stray hand that grazed him mid-swing while Botan crumpled to the floorboards like a folding chair. His whole body, trained for a decade to treat every touch as an incoming threat, betrayed him instead by lighting up like a festival lantern, and he stood there mortified, fist still cocked, wondering if this counted as a tactical failure or a personal one. Somewhere under the topknot he no longer wears properly, the old samurai in him screamed about honor and composure, while the degen currently renting his body just shrugged and said the floor was already rugged anyway, might as well enjoy the ride. He spent the walk home drafting a new personal protocol titled Rule One: No Feelings During Combat, fully aware, even as he wrote it, that he would absolutely break it again the very next time someone so much as brushed his sleeve.