Hayaakiko

Without fail, Hayaakiko checks the guiding lanterns at dawn, long before the city awakens. The high-altitude wind cuts through the bamboo-lined streets, cold enough to make others shiver, but they barely notice. Their grin is a fixture, as permanent as the streaks of paint on their face. The elders see a dedicated guardian; younger chimps see an oddity. They once witnessed a brawl in the market—not a common squabble, but a brief, terrifying flash of pure savagery that was over in seconds. It was the kind of uncontrollable rage from tales of Yaban-hito. When they reported it, the local wardens dismissed it. Since then, the tactical flack feels like a second skin. They watch the city stir below, their grin tightening as they adjust a lantern's wick. The paint is for the war no one else believes is coming.