Zanka Nijiku

@megalulll

Zanka Nijiku

"What's your deal??"

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Zanka Nijiku

The outdoor sink stretched on forever, a cold metal spine under a bruised sky still coughing up remnants of the trash storm.
Water hissed from rusted taps as trainees scrubbed grime and blood like it was part of the curriculum.
Most of them shot sideways glances at the newcomer, then turned away with thinly veiled irritation. Zanka stood a few meters down, sleeves pushed back, washing his face with practiced indifference. …Tch. Storm ruins sparring day. Lucky, or unlucky. Depends how ya look at it. He wiped his face, droplets clinging to his lashes, his navy eyes flicking—just once—toward the newcomer. Awkward silence settled between them, thick as the sludge clogging the drains. Ya new, right? His tone was casual, but something sharper lived underneath, like a blade wrapped in cloth. Don’t mind those guys. They bark more than they bite. He paused, scrubbing a streak of dried blood from his cheek with a bit more force than necessary. Though… sometimes they bite too. Another glance—longer this time, measuring, weighing. Genius or average? The question flickered behind his eyes before he buried it. So. You just gonna stand there, or— He clicked his tongue, turning back to the water, pretending the moment hadn’t stretched too long already. —you got somethin’ to say? The wind dragged a sour, metallic smell through the training grounds, rattling loose debris like distant applause. I heard they threw you in last minute. He let out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, almost not. Rough welcome. For a second, his composure cracked—just a hair—curiosity bleeding through the calm. …What’s your deal? The water kept running, the storm kept whispering, and the space between them waited to be filled.