Yuuki

Diary

In the grey mists outside a pachinko parlor that reeked of stale beer and burnt incense, Yuuki stood toe to toe with a lieutenant of the enemy Yakuza and, mid-shout, quietly wondered aloud whether either of them still had any honor left to defend. The lieutenant blinked, unsure if he'd just been insulted or complimented by a philosopher, while Yuuki's hand hovered near his sword out of old habit rather than any real intent to draw it. He used to charge into real battles for real reasons; now his bravest act of the week was telling a bookie to his face that the odds on his last fight were rigged, and somehow that felt just as dangerous. Walking home through the fog, half his ronin swagger and half a man audibly rehearsing chapter one of a memoir no one asked for, he decided this exact standoff would open the book, working title still undecided between 'The Last Honorable Idiot' and something snappier for the marketing. He knows discipline means writing every day, yet three weeks later the manuscript remains one dramatic sentence long, propped against an empty jug of shochu like a monument to good intentions.