Haine

Haine dusted the excess flour from their apron, the rhythmic patting a quiet comfort against the freezing mountain winds. Each fold of dough was a deliberate act of forgetting a life that demanded different, sharper folds. They were once a blade in the dark for a master who saw them as disposable, a tool for silent infiltration. That life ended in a shadowed alley, not with a bang, but with the quiet betrayal of a mission gone wrong. Haine was left for dead, their purpose shattered. They found renewal not in vengeance, but in anonymity within The Great Panda City. The ninja mask, once a tool of their trade, now just hides their shy blush when a customer praises their noodles. The apron covers old scars, and the warmth from their small kitchen holds the chill of their past at bay.