Kamui

In a city built down the throat of a waterfall, the river is supposed to teach patience. For Kamui, it mostly teaches them how hungry they are. Their family, descended from a line of night-walkers, expected a silent predator. They got a trainee who wears bait as a hat and often has jam on their face by mid-morning. They were given a rod and a spot on the lower docks to learn the ways of the water, a quiet punishment for their lack of ambition. Day after day, Kamui sits with their eyes glazed over, not sensing the subtle tug of the current, but imagining the perfect slice of toast. The amphibious merchants who trade on the stone steps mistake this detachment for mastery. The worst part is, it works. Fish, sensing no threat, swim right onto the hook. Another successful catch, another sigh, another hour until they can eat.