Ruchika

Ruchika remembers the weight of the ramen bowl hat being much lighter when it sat on another's head, balanced precariously above a joyful grin. The panda fan, too, used to flutter with playful snaps, not the grim, deliberate sweeps that now accompany their drawn katana. That day, when raiders swarmed the lower tiers of Waterfall City, Ruchika was a guardian of the plaza, not the small hut by the fishing docks. They fought their way down the rock-carved stairs, but arrived only in time to see the water run red. The hut was splintered, its laughter silenced forever. They found the hat floating near the pier and the fan lodged in the mud. These are their relics now, worn alongside the war paint that never fully washes away—a constant reminder of a promise broken.