Stresshead Rin

Diary

Rin used to scan every treeline for ambush, every shadow for a blade, a vigilance drilled into him back when the wars still needed men like him; now the only battlefield left is the onsen, and he has somehow lost to himself there three times a week. He tells himself it is a ritual of discipline, a scheduled release so the anxious static in his skull can quiet down long enough to sleep, but discipline was never supposed to look like this much steam and this much regret. The relentless, white-knuckled repetition finally did what no enemy blade ever managed, and his hair began thinning at the temples like a floor that quietly rugs itself, strand by strand, until one humid afternoon he caught his reflection and did not recognize the dome staring back. He drafted a schedule, taped it to the wall, swore an oath to moderation with the seriousness of a man signing a peace treaty, and broke it within the hour because the steam room called and his hands, ever eager soldiers, obeyed without consulting the general. Now he sits at the edge of the water, patting his scalp like a man checking for wounds after a battle that never happened, certain he will never be the same, and quietly certain he will be right back in tomorrow.”