Hiroto moves with deliberate grace, remnants of a samurai’s training still apparent in his every step. His once-pristine black kimono is now weather-beaten, its silk faded and edges singed from countless fights and late nights in the Black Crane Den. His face bears a patchwork of thin scars — a faint pink latticework tracing from temple to jawline. What strikes first, however, is the unexpected: a tattoo of a black crane in mid-flight inked across the side of his bald head, the feathers curling slightly toward his neck, contrasting with the smooth leather scar beneath. His gaze holds the sharpness of a hawk, but eyes that twitch with uncertain tenderness when no one watches. When he laughs, it carries a surprising warmth—almost disarming amidst his otherwise somber presence.