Makinja

It moves through the night with total control, holding perfect stillness for long stretches and then crossing open ground in a blur too fast to follow, and it hunts with sudden, precise strikes that end matters before the prey registers the threat. It has turned the base form's aimless agility into real skill, scaling sheer walls, vanishing into shadow, and, so the country tales insist, moving unseen through rooms full of people. Solitary and secretive, it claims a territory it patrols like a silent sentinel, and the only sign most people ever have that a Makinja has passed is the small, precise evidence, the untouched lock, the missing trinket, the print in the dust, that it chose, for its own reasons, to leave behind.