Shariran

The merchants down by the docks of Waterfall City swear Shariran once took down three imperial guards using only the steam from a kettle as cover. They whisper that the worn grey bandana marks them as a ghost, an agent whose name has been struck from every official record. But those telling the stories never seem to notice the figure at the noodle stand, completely focused on their ramen, eyes wide with concentration as they wrestle a slice of fishcake. They don’t see how the combat pole is used more often to snag a dropped napkin than an enemy. Every bowl is a small, loud ritual—a promise made to a partner lost long ago on a mission that had no room for promises, or for ramen. They finish, leave the exact coin, and melt back into the city's mist.