Toyotarou

Every morning, Toyotarou places the slice of cake upon their head. It is a ritual as necessary as breathing. They once sold real cakes in The Teikodian Empire, their stall filled with the scent of sugar and the sound of a loved one’s laughter. That was before a deal with a palace official soured, before their partner was dragged into the dungeons below for a crime they invented. Toyotarou was left with a shattered leg and the cold knowledge that the city’s golden spires cast the longest shadows. They survived. The carved cane is not for show, and the constant squint is not from the sun, but from searching for the lie in every smile. The cake is a bitter parody, a costume of joy that makes them invisible. No one ever suspects the grinning fool is the one who knows where all the bodies are buried.