Jiemon

Jiemon slammed the tactical goggles onto the training post, the wood groaning under the impact. Masatoshi, their sparring partner, flinched. They had given Jiemon the goggles as a gift, a tool to cut through the spray and mist of Waterfall City. But Jiemon hadn't just used them for training. They had stood by the pale stone temple, staring into the river below. The lenses were meant to track an opponent's footwork, not the shimmering, ghostly figures Jiemon saw twisting in the current. Figures only visible through those cursed lenses. They tried to describe the things they saw, but Masatoshi only saw the water. These days, the shocked look never leaves Jiemon's face. The goggles are less a tool than a burden, a constant, chilling whisper of a world no one else can see.