Yushiro

The scent of cherry blossoms and cold river air mingled with the acrid tang of the paint Yushiro daubed on their cheeks. By trade, they were a chef, their patience measured in perfectly sliced fish and meticulously shaped rice. Their shop, nestled between stalks of swaying bamboo under a perpetually purple sky, was a testament to tranquility. But their hands, usually so steady, trembled slightly. The freezing wind whipping down the mountain pass was familiar, but the data flickering inside their raspberry visor was not. For weeks, it had scanned the horizon for one specific energy signature. Tonight, it found it. Yushiro wiped their hands on their kimono, leaving a faint black smudge on the clean fabric. The wait was over.