Stresshead Rin

Diary

The mist came in low over the dice that morning, and Rin catalogued seventeen ways it could be an omen before Igor even finished the shuffle, three of them fatal, one involving a heron. He had once scanned tree lines for ambushes with that same clenched, humming vigilance, and now he pointed it at a pair of dice like they owed him a debt, drafting a master plan in the margins of his mind while chips clicked and his knee bounced a war drum no one else could hear. The plan, born fully formed in that clammy dawn, was simple and noble: fewer benders, more discipline, oatmeal instead of whatever Igor was calling a breakfast beer, healthy pleasures replacing degenerate ones by sheer force of anxious will. He actually believed it for the length of one hand, right up until he doubled down out of nerves and lost the rent money to a man who was cheating so obviously that even the heron looked embarrassed for him. So Rin walked home vowing, again, to be the disciplined blade he used to be, rehearsing the speech he would give himself tomorrow, already dreading how badly he'd deliver it.