Ruhoko

The savory steam of the ramen fogged their shades, a familiar comfort against the constant roar of the falls. Ruhoko was mid-slurp, chopsticks poised, when a voice cut through the market chatter of Waterfall City. It was Minamoto, speaking of a world burning beyond their stone walls, of inaction being the same as complicity. Each word was a spark landing on dry tinder. Ruhoko paused, the noodles forgotten. The warmth of the broth couldn't touch the chill that Minamoto’s urgent plea sent through them. They slowly set down their bowl, the clink of porcelain barely audible over the call to arms. They pulled their shades down, hiding their eyes but not the decision made within them. Lunch was over.