Shourou

Every morning, before the red panda mask hides their face, Shourou prepares a single slice of toast with berry jam. The ritual is precise, a quiet moment of domesticity before a day spent in the rustling canopy of amber-leaved trees, watching targets and memorizing patrol routes. They know the hidden master, Henso, would see this habit as a weakness, a sentimental attachment in a life that demands none. It's why they never speak of the person who first shared the recipe, or the promise made over a warm kitchen fire so long ago. That memory is a vulnerability, one they guard more fiercely than any secret they are paid to keep. Sometimes a tiny smudge escapes their notice, a sweet, sticky secret carried into the dark.