Stresshead Rin

Diary

Stresshead Rin had trained for ambushes, for ronin, for the slow creak of a shoji door in the dead of night, but nothing in the old scrolls prepared him for the afternoon three sparrows and a very personal grudge of a crow turned his family's home into a war zone the same hour his girl walked out for good. He'd catalogued every exit, sharpened every blade, kept a go-bag by the door for a decade, and still ended up on the floor covered in feathers and heartbreak, screaming apologies at birds who did not care about his feelings or his lineage. Now he journals nightly, sets seventeen reminders to 'be a better man,' and still checks the floor price of his bags every forty minutes like it's a tactical readout, because vigilance doesn't know how to power down even when there's no enemy left, just an empty room and a ceiling fan he's convinced is plotting something. He meditates for exactly six minutes before checking if the meditation app sold his data, white-knuckling his way toward discipline like a man defusing a bomb he built himself. Somewhere between the birds and the breakup, Rin decided he'd rise from the ashes reborn and disciplined, and somewhere between his fourth panic-scroll of the group chat and his second bag of gas station edibles, he decided that could probably start tomorrow.