Nichihiko

Every morning, Nichihiko sits in the shadow of the palace walls to inspect their bamboo. To the guards of The Teikodian Empire, they are just a craftsman, a familiar, calming presence amidst the blinding gold architecture. Their hands move with a practiced grace that betrays no secrets. No one notices the thin wire running from under their haori to the recon headset nestled against their ear. They never asked for the device; it was pressed into their palm one night by a fleeing figure with a whispered plea to just listen. So they listen to the cold calculations from the war room, the bitter whispers in shadowed corridors, and the schedules of the Emperor's enforcers. This morning, a new voice crackles through the static. It speaks a single phrase, and Nichihiko’s hands still, their grip tightening on one perfectly straight stalk.