Shinji

Shinji did not get the fleck of jam on their face by accident. Before they walk the bamboo-lined streets of The Great Panda City each morning, there is a ritual. The toast must be perfectly browned, the jam a specific shade of cherry blossom red. It is a deliberate act, a single smudge applied with care. The fury in their eyes is permanent, etched there by years of dealing with condescending merchants and the cold judgment of the Panda Council. But the jam is their rebuttal. It is a sticky, sweet anchor against the freezing winds, a declaration that even a chimp simmering with rage can choose to start the day with something good. It is a small rebellion no one understands but Shinji themself.