Suharu

Suharu remembers the first time they held a combat pole at The Dojo; it was cold, heavy, and felt less like a weapon than an impossible promise. These days, they spend hours by the frozen lake, their relaxed tee a stark contrast to the intensity in their eyes. The Displayoooor on their head projects a single, unwavering line of light—a visual mantra for the calm they seek. Other trainees see the flawless forms and mistake it for confidence. They don't see how Suharu’s mouth is perpetually set in an uneasy line, a quiet tell that each spin of the staff is not for an enemy, but to silence a nagging voice of self-doubt.