Kunihiko

Kunihiko’s fishing rod is lacquered black, smooth from years of use. It was the first thing they bought in The Great Panda City with coin that wasn’t stained by blood. Before, their hands were accustomed to the cold weight of a contract dagger. They were a shadow for hire, their name a whisper in gilded alleys, their work clean, efficient, and hollow. But the high-altitude winds and the endless pink of the blossoms offered a different kind of quiet. They traded their blades for a line and hook, learning the patience of the river and the profound satisfaction of a single, perfect catch. Some see only a simple fisher by the water. The Panda Council wardens, however, see the way their intense eyes never stop scanning the bamboo-lined streets, even as they smile. The rod is for fish; the reflexes are for threats.