Yuuki

Diary

In Kyoto, back when Yuuki still wore his rank like armor, there was a night at the noodle house on Sanjo street when his commanding officer stumbled off to relieve himself and never returned, and Yuuki, three cups deep in sake he swore was medicinal, decided the honorable thing to do was become him. He straightened his back, deepened his voice, and ordered the entire staff around with such conviction that a junior retainer actually saluted before the truth crashed down like a poorly stacked tower of empty bowls. Honor left him that night the way floor price leaves a bag holder, quietly, permanently, without so much as a farewell note. Now Yuuki treats discipline like a rope bridge over a gorge, testing it with one careful step, promising himself this is the day he rebuilds it plank by plank, and then someone mentions half price gyoza night and he is gone again, cheerfully undone. Still, he walks a little steadier than most degens, chin up, wiser in the specific and useless way a man becomes wise only after impersonating his boss for a bowl of noodles.