There’s something about Mizuki—stylized in all caps like a billboard on fire—that feels like a contradiction made flesh. The smile says innocence, but the forearm shiver says vengeance. She’s five feet of daydream and detonation, a Magical Sugar Rabbit by gimmick but a feral banshee when the bell rings. A little Tokyo cherub wrapped in sparkles and grit, dancing her way into history with a smile that says “please” and a dropkick that screams “go to hell.”
Born Mizuki Kaminade on March 16, 1995, she was the kind of kid who probably played hopscotch in barbed wire and imagined bedtime stories ending with a body slam. Her journey through Tokyo Joshi Pro Wrestling began in 2017, and like most good stories in wrestling and in bars, it started with a fight—a debut match against Maki Itoh, the idol with the middle finger and a karaoke mic. Mizuki won. Quietly. Deadly. Like a gun with a Hello Kitty sticker.
But don’t let the pigtails fool you—this rabbit had fangs. And she’d gnaw through every booking sheet, every tag team tournament, every tournament bracket with that same contradictory blend of kawaii and chaos. In July 2017, she carved her initials deep into the Tokyo Princess Cup bracket, making it to the semis before Yuka Sakazaki shut the curtain on her run. No shame in losing to a champion. But Mizuki isn’t the type to forgive, or forget.
She got her revenge the slow, agonizing way—by teaming up with Sakazaki to form the “Magical Sugar Rabbits.” Yeah, it sounds like a Lisa Frank sticker pack. But under the pastel sheen was a team as technically crisp and spiritually unhinged as any in the Joshi world. They were the Lennon and McCartney of suplexes. The Abbott and Costello of pain. When they locked up, the tag division bent around them.
On August 25, 2018, they took the Princess Tag Team Championships and held them like twin gods for 287 days. Six successful defenses. No fake smiles. No apologies. Just moonsaults and mayhem.
But wrestling, like every dive bar in Tokyo, is built on betrayals and missed chances. They eventually lost the gold to Neo Biishiki-gun, and Mizuki, like all the great artists before her, went solo.
Solo and hungry.
In 2019, Mizuki proved she was no one’s sidekick. She won the Tokyo Princess Cup after grinding down Yuna Manase in the finals. The next year, she did it again—back-to-back titles, the first to do it. It was like watching a sugar-glazed ninja with blood on her hands—every move pretty, every finish brutal.
She challenged for the top prize—the Princess of Princess Championship—twice. First against Shoko Nakajima in 2019 and then against her own tag partner Sakazaki in 2020. Lost both times. Barely. And each time she walked back through the curtain with that glassy stare, like a wolf in a tutu, plotting her kill.
Then came Grand Princess ’23, and finally—finally—she won the big one. She beat Sakazaki for the Princess of Princess title, and the arena damn near levitated. It wasn’t just a win; it was a reclaiming. Of her story. Of her place. Of everything she’d been owed since the first time she stepped between those ropes wearing candy colors and a championship chip on her shoulder.
That win was poetry in motion. The kind of match that makes you forget about the rent and the rat race. It was the kind of match where you see your ex’s face in every strike and your childhood dreams in every reversal. Mizuki bled herself through that title win, and like most beautiful things in wrestling, it didn’t last forever. She held the belt for 205 days before Miyu Yamashita, the Pink Strangler herself, took it from her at Wrestle Princess IV.
But the reign—oh, the reign. Mizuki defended that belt like a street prophet with a vendetta. Submitted Nao Kakuta. Worked tag matches in LA with the Sugar Rabbits. And when Yuka Sakazaki went down with a neck injury, Mizuki vacated the tag belts like a soldier burying her comrade’s helmet.
There’s a loneliness in winning. A darkness that creeps into the edges of the spotlight. Mizuki knows that better than anyone. She’s done it all in TJPW—the underdog, the sidekick, the tag ace, the heartbreak artist. Now she stands as the heart and soul of the company. A princess, yes—but one who rules with blister tape and bruised knees.
She’s never been the loudest in the locker room. She’s never been the most marketable, or the most rebellious, or the one who gets her name printed on some foreign fan’s T-shirt. But she’s the one who shows up when the cameras are off and the ropes are wet. She’s the one who makes average matches unforgettable and title matches feel like confessionals.
Mizuki is every wrestler who never got their flowers on time. Every artist who had to paint masterpieces in the margins while the flashier stars took the credit. She’s Charles Bukowski in a tutu, writing pain in haiku and superkick.
You don’t watch Mizuki to see fireworks. You watch her because you want to remember what it feels like to fall in love with wrestling again. You watch her because deep down, we all wish we could be a Magical Sugar Rabbit with a middle finger and a dream.
So here she stands: bruised, blood-pumped, and better than ever. The kind of wrestler who’ll smile sweetly before she stomps the breath out of you. And when she finally wins that third Princess of Princess crown—and she will—don’t act surprised.
You were warned.
This rabbit bites.