Kinuha

The fishers down by the docks in Waterfall City say Kinuha’s fortune washed in with the tide, a single lucky deal that set them up for life. Kinuha lets the rumors flow like the river itself; a good story is fine currency. But the truth is etched in the wrinkles around their mouth, lines carved not by smiling at customers but by grimacing through dust storms on forgotten roads. The neat bowlcut isn't a sign of humility, but a relic from a mercenary life where vanity was a fatal distraction. They traded that life not for gold, but for the quiet predictability of watching boats arrive without having to scan the horizon for raiders. The combat pole in their office isn't an antique. It’s a promise to themself that they'll never have to use it again.