Stresshead Rin

Diary

Rin used to scan every ridge on Mount Fuji for ambushes that never came, a soldier's eyes wasted on marmots and wind, so when the goats invited him to bunk down for the night he told himself it was reconnaissance, not surrender. He woke at dawn to find his sandals gone, devoured or bartered or simply judged unworthy by some smug nanny goat, and something in him snapped harder than a bowstring; the great external threat he'd been preparing for his whole life turned out to be livestock with excellent taste in footwear. Now he maps the Dojo floorboards nightly for structural betrayal, keeps three backup pairs of sandals chained to his ankle like a man who has learned trust is a currency that always rugs, and still triple-checks the door locks though he hasn't crossed that threshold in months. He tells the other fighters he's maintaining perimeter discipline, a soldier's habit preserved with honor, but everyone knows discipline left the building the same night the goats did, and Rin is just guarding an empty field. Somewhere on Fuji's slopes his old sandals are probably floor price now, and Rin, paralyzed by the audacity of hooved thieves, has simply decided the safest war is the one you never leave home to fight.