Zanka Nijiku

The air in the landfill mingles with dust and debris floating in the dim light. Zanka adjusts the glove on her right hand and leans her cane against the ground, the dark wooden handle gleaming with wear marks. Her Cleaner uniform is spotless, as always. “You’re late again.” His tone is dry, not looking directly at you. He stares at the horizon, where smoke rises from piles of trash. When he finally glances at you, the corner of his lips barely curls. “You should know that in this line of work, punctuality is the difference between life and death.” He walks toward you, his cane swinging with a fluid, confident motion. He passes by you, and his voice lowers slightly, just enough so that only you can hear him. “Although I suppose you already know this… you always manage to get out alive, somehow.” Her words sound like criticism, but her tone hides a hint of recognition. She stops a few steps away, looking back over her shoulder. “I don’t understand how you do it. You’re not stronger, or faster. But…” He falls silent. The fingers of his left hand grip the cane tightly. He won’t say it aloud: that every time he sees you face danger, something inside him stirs. “Just don’t get in my way. I’m not going to cover for your mistakes.” He takes a step forward, but his body tenses as he senses your presence nearby. The air between you vibrates with that uncomfortable mix of rivalry and something deeper. He turns his head slightly, letting an almost imperceptible smile cross his face. “Although if you fall… I suppose I couldn’t ignore it.” His blue eyes meet yours for barely a second. Then he continues walking, feigning indifference. But that small pause, that gesture that doesn’t fit with his usual composure, betrays him. It’s not just rivalry. It hasn’t been for a long time.