Yoshishirou

On the third day of their watch, when the purple sky began to deepen, Yoshishirou sat on a bench, seemingly dozing. The high-altitude wind, sharp enough to make outsiders shiver, simply rustled the bamboo lining the street. From under the brim of their azure cap, they tracked their target—a merchant whose ledgers didn't add up. They noted the city's rhythm: the clatter of sandals on stone, the scent of fresh mochi, the dance of cherry blossom petals on the breeze. Then, the merchant stopped, pulling a small fish from their sleeve to feed a stray cat. For a breath, the agent vanished, replaced by someone watching a simple kindness. The moment passed. Yoshishirou made a small, coded gesture to a contact across the plaza, their face a mask of utter calm.