Kitami

“The mask isn’t to hide their identity,” the bamboo-cutter sighs, polishing a soot stain from their tools. “It’s to hide the grin right before they set something on fire.” In the high-altitude streets, everyone has a Kitami story. The dango seller speaks of a shadow that zipped past their stall, leaving three perfectly toasted skewers and a singed awning in its wake. A guard, shivering in the cold wind that never brings snow, remembers seeing the cherry blossoms illuminated by a sudden blast of flame, followed by a giggle that echoed across the rooftops. Their own instructors despair, noting that Kitami’s stealth is impeccable, but their idea of a silent takedown involves a flamethrower. They’re a trainee with boundless energy and zero restraint, a walking fire hazard with a heart of gold.