Stresshead Rin

Diary

Rin arrived at the izakaya with a mental checklist longer than his old dojo's scroll of grievances, certain that tonight some drunk civilian would finally test the twelve exit strategies he'd rehearsed in the mirror that morning. Instead he found himself knuckle-deep in a brawl over a spilled plate of yakitori, swinging with the crisp discipline of a man who once guarded lords, except now the lord was a sticky table and the enemy was somebody's uncle who'd had too much sake. When the dust settled he discovered, to his great anxiety, that he had accidentally made friends, a ragged crew of degens who thought his paranoid battle-readiness was the funniest thing they'd seen since someone aped into a rug disguised as a shrine fund. He tried to explain that vigilance was a sacred practice, not a bit, but they just handed him a joint and told him to relax, samurai, the war's over, and some small tired part of him almost believed it. Rin still checks the exits at every gathering, still counts his blessings and his enemies in the same breath, a warrior with nowhere left to point his sword except at his own unraveling nerves, and he loses that fight nightly, cheerfully, badly.