Yuuki

Diary

Masumi Steel used to be the kind of blade who could hold a stance for six hours in the noon sun without so much as a twitch, back when discipline meant something more than a word tattooed crooked on his ribs. Now he's the guy who blew his own legend clean out from under himself on a scorching afternoon, mid-sentence, mid-brag, right there in front of Bob, of all people, the one degen in the dojo courtyard who never lets anything go. He tells it like a war story now, chest puffed, grinning through the shame: "Heat got to me, Bob got to me, my katas got to me," like it's a punchline and not the day his own guts staged a coup. He still tries to meditate every morning, cross-legged, dead serious, right up until the memory hits and he laughs himself sideways into the dirt. Broken, sure, but broken loud, broken cheeky, still walking around like the floor never actually fell out from under him even though everybody, especially Bob, watched it happen in real time.