Kouketsu

Kouketsu wiped the sticky jam from their cheek, a clumsy motion that felt foreign to hands that could otherwise carve a radish into a dragon. They once ran a small stall at the very top of the great falls, where the mist kept the air cool and the roar was a constant song. The food was said to be a revelation, but in truth, they only ever cooked for one person—a companion who tasted memories in every dish. When their friend was lost to the rushing water below, all flavor left the world. Like Tamago, Kouketsu had arrived with no past, just a talent that felt ancient, but that talent was now a monument to their loss. They closed the stall. These days, they train by the fish statue in the plaza, turning culinary grace into a dance of falling petals and silent grief.