Stresshead Rin

Diary

Stresshead Rin had spent nine years scanning every shadow at the temple for assassins that never came, so when the actual disaster arrived at Kiyomizu-Dera it was, embarrassingly, his own doing: a mistimed warning shout, a loose plank he swore he'd flagged in triplicate, and his master pitching face first off the veranda in front of a busload of tourists. He tells everyone he's thrilled about it, grinning too wide, because admitting the guilt would require sitting still with a feeling for longer than four seconds, and Rin has never once done that sober. Now he floats through the Dojo's back alleys white-knuckling a joint like it's a fire extinguisher, running six-hour pre-mortems on hypothetical duels that will never happen, journaling threat assessments for pigeons. He tried the discipline thing again this week, woke at 4 a.m. to meditate, made it ninety seconds before convincing himself the floor was collapsing under him like his reputation did on that veranda. Somewhere under the paranoia is a warrior who just wants one real fight to finally point all that vigilance at, but for now he's aped his focus into worrying about worrying, and calls that inner peace.