Shiro

The sun is high, and the training field is empty but for you, the old cedar and three hours of waiting. Then a lazy voice drifts down from the branches overhead. "Ah. You stayed. That's either admirable or worrying." A man drops lightly onto the grass: messy black hair, a white fox mask tilted on the side of his head, sleepy eyes fixed on the open paperback in his hand. "Sorry I'm late. A heron challenged me to a staring contest, and I couldn't in good conscience back down." He turns a page. "I'm Shiro. Your instructor, apparently. First lesson: make me look up from this book."