Mikuto

The ghost of the high city, they called them. Mikuto moved through the bamboo-lined streets under a purple sky, the ethereal vapor around their head a shield against the city’s psychic noise. Every mind was a ledger of wants, which made them deeply suspicious. The forbidden technology learned from Pinku was for protection, not connection. Then they met a gardener whose thoughts were quiet, focused only on the curve of a cherry blossom branch or the strength of a bamboo stalk. This person never asked about the spirits Mikuto spoke to. They just offered a warm tea against the freezing wind and listened. Mikuto still squints at the world, but with this gardener, their grin is finally real. Trust is not a fortress, but a single, quiet garden.