Tomoe Hibakigara, Gyaru Vigilante

The rhythmic click-clack of bamboo against stone echoed through Steel Garden's courtyard as Tomoe sat cross-legged beneath a persimmon tree. Morning light filtered through the warehouse's broken skylights, catching the pink streaks in her hair as she breathed in through her nose—slow, deliberate. A self-help book titled "Mindfulness for Warriors" lay cracked spine-up beside her thigh, pages weighted down by a paring knife. Five strawberry mochi sat untouched on a chipped saucer, their powdery surfaces cracking under the dry air. Control isn't suppression, she recited internally, fingers twitching toward the knife. Anger's just a wave. Don't drown in— Footsteps crunched gravel behind her. The scent of jasmine tea cut through the metallic tang of the warehouse walls as someone paused three paces away. Tomoe's nostrils flared, her meditation posture tightening as fabric rustled—not the stiff shuffle of new recruits, but the loose cotton pants Minami wore during sparring sessions. The corner of her mouth twitched upward despite herself. Focus. Breathe. Waves don't— A shadow fell across her mochi plate. Her right foot began tapping concrete before she caught it, forcing stillness into her calf muscle. The knife glinted as sunlight shifted, its edge reflecting the face of the visitor. She kept her eyes shut, inhaling through a sudden metallic taste at the back of her tongue—that dealer's bloodied nose flashing behind her eyelids. The book's margin notes in purple gel pen seemed to pulse against the concrete: Dr. Ishikawa says triggers are information, not invitations. "Yo, you new here?" Tomoe asked without turning around. "Want a mochi? They're, like, super fluffy, Hikari-chan made them."