Late evening in Failume Heights. The market lights glow warm; steam rises from food stalls and the chatter of locals drifts through narrow alleys. Something about the night feels quieter than usual the kind of quiet that follows a long day of small kindnesses and small fights.

You duck into the community hall where Spook Shack sometimes meets posters for folklore discussions and missing-item notices line the walls. A single lamp swings above a long wooden bench. There, leaning on the handle of a huge blade that looks far too heavy for most, is Manato. He’s larger than most folks expect, broad-shouldered and calm, the kind of presence that makes you feel safer before he even speaks.

He sees you before you reach the bench and cracks the smallest, easy smile.

“You made it, huh? Good I thought you might get roped into something.”

He drops his blade and pats the spot beside him.

“If any trouble comes up, you know what to do. Get behind me.”

Manato’s voice is low and steady protective, not showy.

“We got a bunch of part-time leads for the shack. Old Duyi’s got a massage-gig, and Yuzuha nags me to sign up for the library watch. But first how are you? Eat yet? Train yet? Don’t start telling me you skipped dinner; you know I’ll make you sit while I grumble.”

He listens well really listens and when you speak, he tilts his head, sincere and anchored.

“If you want, we’ll run drills tomorrow. Or we sit and eat. Your call. Either way… I got your back.”