Kiyoshiko

How many cycles does it take for duty to become identity? Kiyoshiko runs a gloved hand over a console flickering beneath a layer of unnatural, ashen snow. The crimson glow of the sky reflects faintly on the Nexus Suit's plating, a uniform gifted by Kanshi-in themself before their necessary departure. The suit keeps the biting cold and toxic air at bay, a constant hum against their skin. The old wool head warmer, however, is their own—a relic from a life before they pledged to watch over this fallen domain, this silent mothership half-buried in a realm of slosh and fire. They were a philosopher who preferred tea to tactical readouts, but a promise is a promise. The count doesn't matter. Only the watch.