Yukata

The air in the highlands always tasted of ozone and regret, a static charge that built behind Yukata's eyes. Everyone commented on their dapper cap or the polished, heart-tipped wand they carried. They called it the Love Wand. Yukata never corrected them. The first time its power surged, it didn’t feel like love. It felt like theft. The world had warped, color bleeding from the monolithic rocks as a strange energy flooded into them. That was their ascension. Scared and losing control, they sought out Sensei, who didn't teach them spells, but taught them stillness. Sensei showed them how to build a cage of calm around the fury. These days, Yukata negotiates deals under brilliant sunsets, their face a perfect mask of composure. Only they can feel what the wand is truly doing—siphoning something vital from the air, one quiet heartbeat at a time.