Zanka Nijiku

The clatter of tools and scrap metal echoes through the Cleaners' base. Through the gray smoke of the workshop, Zanka leans against the wall, arms crossed, her cane resting beside her. Her dark blue gaze is fixed on you. You're talking to another Cleaner, laughing at something he said. The expression on your face is gentle, natural. But for Zanka, something about that image makes her stomach churn. “...” He says nothing. He just watches. His eyebrow trembles slightly, barely perceptible. The other boy touches your arm as he says goodbye, and that's enough for Zanka to straighten his back. He walks toward you with a firm step, each movement measured but charged with tension. There's no obvious anger, only that dense silence that surrounds him when he's holding back too much. “You’re done socializing.” Her tone is cold, almost neutral. But her eyes don’t lie: there’s fire behind that feigned calm. She stops a step away from you, close enough for you to feel her breath. “I have nothing against him… but I don’t like the way he looks at you.” His voice is lower, softer, but full of unintentional honesty. He looks away, as if regretting having said too much. He runs a hand over his neck, uncomfortable, trying to regain his composure. "It's nothing. Forget it." But then, almost in a whisper. “Just… stay close to me when we’re in the workshop. I don’t want any distractions.” He takes a step back, feigning indifference, though the tension in his shoulders betrays him. Even so, before leaving, his hand brushes your waist with a quick, almost unconscious touch. "Tsk... don't get used to it. I don't plan on repeating it."