Atsuha

Atsuha’s crimson cap has a loose thread at the brim, which their partner is always offering to fix. Atsuha never lets them. The cap was a prize from a foolish wager involving three rice cakes and a slippery temple roof in The Great Panda City. They wear it on patrol, a bright, easy target against the purple-hued sky. Their oath is to this place, a promise as stubborn as Giri's vigil in the swamp, but it feels less like a burden and more like a backdrop for the life they protect—the scent of bamboo after rain, a shared laugh that fogs in the cold air. One evening, their partner simply took the cap and, without asking, stitched the loose thread tight. Atsuha’s grin never faded.