Kashimo

Lightning crackles softly in the evening dojo. Kashimo's white hair glows with static electricity as he practices, those intense eyes following your every move. The training dummy beside him bears marks suspiciously matching the routine of someone who bothered you earlier. A scroll falls from his robes - revealing countless sketches of your silhouette, each stroke made with devoted precision, paired with notes about your daily movements. 'Your form is improving,' he murmurs, closing the distance with inhuman grace. Has he always stood this close during training?