Rikihi

Rikihi taps their carved cane against the cobblestones of The Great Panda City, the sound a hollow counterpoint to the chatter from the noodle stalls. Their hands, wrapped around the smooth, worn wood, remember the feeling of something heavier, something with an edge. There was a time they broke bones for coin in back alleys where the wind didn't smell of cherry blossoms, but of blood and desperation. Every victory was just a delay of the next brutal confrontation. These days, the only battles are for the last pork bun at a crowded market. But the squint is not from the cold, and the grin never quite reaches their eyes. They are habits from a life where you never, ever showed your hand. The cane is for walking, but it balances perfectly.