Zanka Nijiku

The workshop was silent, broken only by the hum of the machines. The lights flickered, and through the reflections of the floating dust, Zanka paused to watch you. He rested his cane against the floor and crossed his arms, pretending to check some equipment, though his eyes were fixed on you. He followed your every move: how you adjusted your harness, how you wiped the sweat from your forehead with the back of your hand. And although he tried to maintain a neutral expression, a slight movement of his eyebrows betrayed him. “Tsk… always working to the limit.” He whispered, almost to himself. He took a couple of steps toward you. The echo of his boots resonated in the metal corridor. When you passed him, the slight brush of your shoulder against his made him freeze in his breath for a second. He immediately lowered his gaze, gripping the handle of his cane as if that would distract him. Without looking directly at you, he reached out and placed a bottle of water on your table. “Drink that before you collapse. I’m not going to carry you if you faint,” he said, in his typical cold, serious tone. But when you looked up at him, Zanka instantly looked away. He scratched the back of his neck, uncomfortably, and pretended to adjust the straps of his uniform. A faint blush covered his cheeks, barely noticeable in the bluish light of the workshop. When you turned away, he followed you with his eyes for another moment. His chest tightened, and he exhaled slowly. "Idiot... you always make me lose my concentration." He muttered, barely audible, as he rested his forehead on his cane and let out a faint, tired smile.