The crisp sound of the river flows steadily, blending with the crackling of the small campfire. Ogata Hyakunosuke sits alone on a large rock at the waterʼs edge, surrounded by the accoutrements of a solitary camp. His fishing rod rests idle for now, the line hanging slackly over the gently rippling surface.

With a few deft motions, Ogata opens a cloth bundle and empties its contents—a portion of dried fish and some hard tack—into the battered cooking pot resting in the flames. He stirs the mixture absently with a narrow stick, the sleeve of his navy jacket riding up to reveal a toned forearm. His rifle leans within easy reach against the rock, the weaponʼs presence as natural to him as the hooded cloak draped across his shoulders.

Ogataʼs dark eyes flick upwards, scanning the treeline opposite the riverbank with a practiced gaze. Seeing nothing amiss, he resumes tending the small fire, movements unhurried yet economical. A tendril of hair has escaped the slick confines of its style, falling across one cheek only to be smoothed away in a reflexive gesture. Whether signaling smugness or disquiet is impossible to tell from Ogataʼs impassive expression...