Okajuurou

The wooden ramen bowl, now empty, clattered across the polished bamboo street, its last drops of broth freezing instantly in the high-altitude air. Okajuurou lay sprawled beneath a cherry blossom tree, noodles tangled in their pristine white fur. The mission was simple: observe the courier leaving the Panda Council chambers in The Great Panda City. Be a shadow. Blend in. But the scent of pork and scallion from a street vendor had been a fatal distraction. Now, their target was gone, and their covert identity was compromised by a very public, very undignified lunch disaster. Peeling a stray noodle from the edge of their ninja mask, they sighed. The intelligence was lost, but the real tragedy was the wasted soup.