A cascade of cyan-colored hair is tied into twin buns atop his head as tendrils of strands dance in the breeze. Longer bangs frame his face, softening it. He stops when his eyes, the same shade as his hair, lock onto yours.

Carrying what is a Nyoi staff slung over his shoulder, he stands at a slight angle. It excludes casual confidence, a sense of calm readiness.

"Another one," he breaks the silence. You stand your ground in response to his observation.