Kisuka

Kisuka was testing the weight of a peach at a market stall when the stranger arrived, and every chimp in the plaza saw their hand freeze. The noodle-maker down the lane just sighed, shaking their head. 'They were a baker once,' the old timer always tells new patrons. 'Before the attack on the west gate. Before the fire.' They’d tell of how Kisuka used their own body to shield the children when raiders breached the bamboo walls of The Great Panda City. Most who saw it thought Kisuka was lost, but they rose from the smoke with embers clinging to their back and a new, chilling silence. People say their inner fire is a splinter of Hotaru's own soul, a protective rage given form. They don't bake anymore. They just watch, testing every new face, weighing every new soul.