Chapter Text
-Nayoro Shrine, Countless Moons Prior-
The child lay unnamed when they found him.
The height of Nayoro’s winters had been a cruel thing, and the snow fell upon the shrine’s gates like ash upon a forgotten elder. In the doorway stood two, an older shinshoku bent by time yet steady in his steps, and a younger acolyte, barely older than fifteen yet cloaked in cloths decades older.
Both stepped beyond the stone statues that lined the path outward, noticing immediately the faint cry in the distance, soft but not panicked.
The younger stepped forward, finding the source of the cries from behind a pillar, finding an infant in worn linen, cradled within a basket of old prayers and broken dreams.
They carried him to the Guji in silence, stepping aside as if unwilling even to attempt clouding the thoughts of either when a pair of worn hands lifted the child.
The shrine’s head stared a long while at the child. The frigid winds of December blew through the open shoji doors once again, yet the child bore no reaction, no discomfort.
He opened his eyes, unblinking in his stare as unease grew.
Beneath the child’s skin was a silent cold, a frigid isolation that none could fully understand, yet all felt oddly familiar.
A glimpse that was of something ancient, one that wasn’t cursed as much as it was merely forgotten.
“Ishiro,” The Guji finally stated, setting the boy back in the basket he had been cradled in when first found. “The solid path from which a lost generation may seek to learn and hope. It is such. Teach him our ways. May he be of the faithful, to be balanced; may he outlast us all.”
“May he be the best of what we never could be.”
- Nanda Parbat , Five Years Ago-
The boy knelt in a pool of blood not his own.
The thick crimson liquid steamed against the cold stone below his knees, seeping into the cracks like an unrequested tribune. Around him was silence, save for the crunch of approaching footsteps, dignified and powerful.
“I told all you were too soft, yet never once did I give up on the possibility that you may prove me wrong,” Ra’s al Ghul’s voice cut through the silence like a knife, a firm hand gripping the boy’s chin before abandoning it to the side with a flick.
“And yet, here you are. An anomaly beyond all reason. Once I had thought you’d come to outgrow the esoteric teachings of a shrine that has been reduced to rubble, though now, such appears more a dream than ever.”
Ishiro refused to look up. His breaths were shallow but hasty. His hands trembled as the footsteps of another approached.
He knew his fate.
“Such a shame. A boy tailored to be the best of us all—still too childish, too hesitant. Perhaps I have erred. You did prove me wrong, Ishiro.” Ra’s stated harshly, piercing green eyes burning holes through the boy’s skull. “You fooled us into believing you would ever amount to anything worthwhile. We do not train to be merciful here. Mercy is the philosophy of the weak.”
“And you, Ishiro, prove to be its greatest patron. Do it, daughter.”
And yet it never arrived.
Ishiro didn’t flinch. He had expected this, how could he not? Talia stepped forward. Her unreadable eyes flicked with pity from the still breathing bodies surrounding Ishiro to the boy himself, barely fifteen, barely calm, and barely holding himself from tears.
“No,” Talia stated, hand hovering over the boy’s head, but doing nothing.
“What?”
“There is nothing to be gained. He is neither worth killing nor keeping. Let him go and let the world deal with him in its cruel way. He chose life; let him and none other bear the consequences of it. Allow him one last lesson.”
Talia placed a hand on Ishiro’s head, fingers sinking into deep locks of onyx-black hair in an oddly maternal gesture.
“Allow him to learn that mercy can be the greatest cruelty.”
Ra’s’ eyes narrowed, surprised by his daughter’s defiance, yet far too indifferent to provide any meaningful rebuttal, his wrinkled head simply falling into a silent nod as he turned away.
Ishiro looked up, knowing this to be no kindness. Exile was a fate worse than death.
It meant being cast aside. It meant being forgotten. Again.
But the boy bowed his head one last time, retreating from the strange warmth of Talia’s palm before turning and sprinting out of sight, her final whisper to him carrying through the wind.
“Be well, Snowflake.”
-“Japan”, Four Years Ago-
The world fell into ruin and hellfire not long after, falling in whispers rather than thunder.
A land that fell into the rot of an inability to remember; a land that attempted so desperately to live up to the promise of its twilight years, yet one that fell short right as it passed the finish line of a new millennium; a land where cities collapsed and traditions laid broken; a fractured Japan where the Gods of old returned, not with fury, but with a pitiful curiosity.
Ishiro walked alone through it all—the anarchy of a bitter north, the rage of a neo-modern Tohoku, the memories of a Kansai that desperately clung to its tradition, the madness of a neo-feudalistic nightmare that was Kanto, and even the quiet longing for the old within a disgraced south.
This environment was unsuitable for habitation, and he had no intention of residing there. He endeavoured neither to dominate nor to be dominated by anyone other than himself.
Ishiro walked alone. The snow followed him even into the spring—a storm that followed, or perhaps a storm of his making.
He found to survive. At barren, broken shrines dotted across fractured lands, he prayed, he cleansed, he forgave all but himself. At weary, wrathful dojos he found through the words of others, he bled, he fought. What he knew, he perfected, and what he didn’t, he learned.
There was no honour in it. There was none to be found in a land so broken.
But none were beyond saving. He knew that well. He had been raised in such. How could he have ever forgotten?
The cobblestone stairs up the Nayoro Shrine remained frigid as ever, snow still layered each step, though the home that once welcomed him was here no longer.
If the march through an anarchic Hokkaido had been gruelling, this was repentance as if a chance to make up for his sins had now presented itself.
Though he should have known by now, he was beyond saving.
“Your… Attempt, one might call it, is commendable, Ishiro.” The priest, once a young man himself all those years ago, said as he glanced at Ishiro. “As is your honesty. However, we cannot grant you salvation.”
“This is not your home anymore. For what it is worth, we are sorry… We missed you, too.”
The man stepped forward, placing a folded garment in Ishiro’s arms—red and white.
“In only one place may you perhaps find salvation, or punishment. Often, one will follow the other. That old shrine in Kyoto, I trust you know it well. Perhaps there, amongst the kitsune and red gates, you will find that the Gods have not abandoned you yet… Even if they have abandoned us all.”
The older man’s fingers trembled slightly as he fastened the rope that bound the robes Ishiro now wore, whispering a silent prayer with a shaky voice as the younger man took a deep breath.
A prayer not of protection, but of clarity, strength and the will to walk a path without losing oneself.
“We cannot bestow on you the traditional white of the clergy, your innocence has long been tainted,” The priest stated, adjusting the red hakama Ishiro wore alongside the otherwise white robes. “You will always carry the blood of your deeds, but it is your strength that shall prevent the red from spreading further.”
Ishiro stood before the gates of the shrine one last time that night, red-and-white illuminated only by the dim light of a lantern he held. The robes of a shinshoku, of a task unfulfilled, of which they now viewed him in.
Not as a priest returning to his post, but as a son of the shrine being sent out into the storm.
If there was to be hope left for him in this world, it would be in Kyoto.
The home of ten thousand gates.
The crossroads of the Old Gods and faded prayers.
And so, he bowed, then left. This time, perhaps for good.
The path to the Fushimi Inari was entirely devoured by time—consumed by frost, moss, and lingering regrets of a people who were never truly allowed to move on. Only the faintest hints led him forward, be it the small flickers of flame where there was no torch, the brief echo of a fox’s amused purr where there was no fox, or the sight of nightmares in a land where dreams had long since been abandoned.
The gates rose crimson and black like silent watchers, judging Ishiro as he passed beneath each with unending steps, until finally, he came upon the heart of the old shrine, a grand structure intact yet abandoned, as though waiting. The statues of kitsune, amongst those untouched by time, peered at him, their offering dishes lying expectantly in wait.
Ishiro stepped inside, the ground trembling under his feet as the faint light of morning poured down upon his face.
Then, they appeared, or at least, he thinks they did.
Ishiro tilted his head, eyes locking upon a rustling shrub as he took a cautious step closer, pushing gently past the greenery as his gaze fell upon three figures shrouded in light, flinching immediately as they returned his glance and vanished from sight.
“Oh? A lost little cub!” A young woman whispered, amused and giggling. “You’re much smaller than I expected. Sadder too.”
The Goddess Inari carried a small smirk, circling him as she came into full view with long, black hair trailing down to her waist and a pair of fox-like ears poking from her head, her kimono worn wild with eyes sharp with mischief.
“Aww… Don’t be so cold. Oh, wait, you are cold! Heh, adorable.”
“You may not keep him,” A second voice stated, a firm hand grasping his chin as it lifted his face, black eyes meeting their equivalent. “He is afraid, yet he remains upright.”
“He is ready.”
Tsukuyomi let go gently, her silver hair swaying slightly in the wind whilst her gaze continued to hold the cold precision of truths too old to be doubted, or to be remembered.
Ishiro’s lips quirked to speak, though his voice never left his throat, as if never finding the right words as the air around him grew warmer.
“Yours is a name long written in agony, but we are pleased that you graced us with your presence. Do forgive our deception—”
“It was a great disguise, wasn’t it?” The youngest amongst them asked, cutting in as fox-like ears twitched in mischief.
A roll of eyes. “But it was the only way one could have guided your way to us. You seek redemption, but we cannot grant it. Only one who has fallen to the deepest depths can ascend to the highest heights, but it is up to you to make it there.”
“If you are willing.”
Amaterasu stepped back, a woman clad in white and gold, long dark hair trailing like silk, whilst her eyes glowed with warmth and compassion.
“You are not guiltless. But that is of no matter, none of us are truly pure.” Tsukuyomi stated, her arms folding beneath her wide sleeves. “We seek not purity. We seek resolve.”
Inari, the youngest, stepped forward once again, giggling as she held out her hand.
“If you are willing, then you may carry. There is no reward, only repentance for all those who inhabit this faithless, and honestly quite ungrateful land. Though for you, well… Maybe you’d like that. So, what will it be?”
The raven-haired boy’s breath caught in his throat before he nodded, hesitantly reaching out as their fingers touched.
The other two sisters raised their hands, as green foxfire sparked from Inari’s outstretched one, before crimson ribbons flowed from nothingness, wrathful, grieving, guilty whispers flowing through the cloth as they hovered over the green flames, catching in their embers.
Then, the ribbons slithered like serpents, wrapping around his wrists and searing deep wounds over untouched flesh, embedding themselves deep into his flesh and burning through each of his cells.
The fox-girl tilted her head with faux innocence, barely able to keep a neutral glance as if doing her best not to giggle.
“Oh my… Did I forget to mention that it may hurt?”
Amaterasu stepped forward, inspecting the ribbons before tightening the knots on each wrist, stemming the wild flow of blood and managing to stabilise Ishiro’s breathing.
“Here. Another step towards destiny, yours and yours alone. May it prove to be your doom or your salvation. You shall carry the sorrows of us all, and in doing so, may you find your peace.”
The ribbons pulsed with power, raw and untamed, a fusion of grief and purity. Both burden and blessing.
“You will carry them always,” Tsukuyomi intoned, “They will remind you of what has happened and what must never happen again. Then, and maybe then, the wound that has been dealt can finally begin to heal.”
She lifted her hand, a small, letter-like package fading into view in his arms, containing within it the red and black robes of an exorcist.
“There. Now you’re officially cursed. Or blessed. Same thing.” Inari teased, peeking at the contents of the package. “You’d look good in those… Red suits you. Yeah, imagine you now, but more tragic, more brooding. Pretty sure girls love that these days.”
“Best we move this along before she gets carried away,” Amaterasu stated, a wry smile coming over her face as Tsukuyomi pulled Inari back, the kitsune Goddess pretending to struggle against her eldest sister’s grasp. “From this day, you are no longer a boy of blood. You are our brother, the voice of man. The saviour of the forsaken, the purifier of the unforgivable.”
The crimson ribbons gleamed in divine will before the light faded as the three Goddesses began to vanish from view, their mere presence the grandest of assurances that the Gods had not abandoned Japan, and under such, he could not do the same now.
Inari leaned in close, forehead pressed against his as she vanished from sight.
“Try not to die, little brother… Okay?” Inari asked with a giggle. “That would make me very, very sad.”
The world shifted, and they were gone.
The shrine remained behind him, decrepit and abandoned, still as the forest loomed over it. Not sparing a further glance, Ishiro, wounded permanently, wrapped in flame, and burdened by divinity, walked down the mountain alone.
-Venice, Italy, Three Years Ago-
With the crimson ribbons wrapped around his wrists rippling with raw energy, Ishiro held up the rough surface of a wooden cross against a shadowy corner and waited. And waited. And waited.
Nothing happened. A faint hiss was heard, but nothing beyond such.
Ishiro paused momentarily, the faint light of a rising moon casting a momentary glow over his red and black robes, before he gently lowered the cross onto the chair next to him.
He held nothing at all, red ribbons contained still. He merely stood in place, the shadows in the corner growing ever furious as Ishiro lifted his hand.
The spirit shrieked, morphing and wearing the face of a long-drowned woman, releasing a shrill and echoing laugh at Ishiro’s seeming misfortune, only for the boy to spit the wooden cucchiaini he had in his mouth and raise two fingers, curling them in mocking invitation.
The taunt was deliberate. The spirit howled and lunged at him.
Ishiro took a step back, leaning to the side as the shadow launched past him and slashed at the wall, its claws nearly grazing a statue of Saint Mark as he quickly ducked back, leaning onto his back as he crashed out of a window and onto a nearby stone bridge, the shrieking spirit following him immediately after.
The creature clawed forward, jagged teeth twisted into an unholy grin as it shot for the exorcist before it, only for Ishiro to reach into his left sleeve and whip out a strip of white rice paper.
An ofuda, painted in careful ink many moons ago with ink-drawn markings glowing a faint green as if sensing the impurity in its presence.
Ishiro flicked back, the beast’s claws nearly grazing his red and black robes as he embedded the seal in the creature’s forehead. It screamed now, soundless still, but this time in agony.
The paper pulsed with ancient power, green flames swallowing it and the spirit as the ribbons on Ishiro’s wrists tightened ever so slightly, glowing faintly before fading back to their dull crimson as the creature dissolved into sparks, then silence.
He stood still for a moment, head bowed low with both hands placed together, before exhaling slowly.
“You’re not a Catholic, aren’t you?”
The voice came from behind him, casual, amused, velvet-smooth.
“Not sure if you’re aware, but as far as I know, one needs to have true faith in its power to wield a cross, though, points for style.” The voice continued as footsteps grew closer whilst he clung onto another ofuda under his sleeves. “Creative too. Sold that whole ‘I definitely know what I’m doing’ thing with the cross and—oh relax now, I’m not a spirit to exorcise, you can cool it with the seal.”
Ishiro turned around, setting the ofuda seal aside as he saw her, eyes never leaving as she spoke again.
“Now, I wouldn’t say I’m the greatest magician of all time yet, but I’d assume that wasn’t your first exorcism. Certainly, the first in Italy, but I doubt it’s the first time.” She joked, leaning against the bridge’s railing, one brow arched with dramatic flair, the raven-black hair spilling over her shoulders flowing with the gentle breeze. “Me personally? I prefer spells spoken backwards, though no judgment here, someone must do the exorcising.”
Her eyes flicked to the ribbons, brows arching with interest and in recognition, before her gaze sharpened.
“The name’s Zatanna, by the way. Zatanna Zatara. Don’t wear it out now, things sound less cool when said over and over.” The girl, either of his age or slightly older, yet clearly taller, explained whilst stepping over, placing a hand on her chin as she scanned the crimson ribbons, then going to the red and black robes. “You’ve got something on you… Something old. Can’t say what, so probably a blessing or a curse.”
She watched him a moment longer, gaze finally fitting between his face and the way he avoided her eyes right before they’d meet.
“Relax, I’m not gonna bite.” Zatanna grinned, circling him once again, a magician assessing a magic box too complicated for her to even attempt opening in one go. “You’re bold, I’ll give you that. Most guys with a crush usually don’t stare so obviously or hold back from saying a single word.”
Ishiro froze.
“Oh yes, I didn’t need magic to sense it,” She giggled, teasing again. “That subtle little tension. That sudden inability to look me in the eyes. That faint heartbeat stutter when I stepped closer. That gaze you fixed on me ever since you saw me making apples float in the city square earlier…”
“Don’t get me wrong, it’d work wonders. That uncertain confidence of yours would probably make most blush. Though I’d say I’m much prettier when cast in sunlight, wouldn’t you agree? Points for being shorter than me and still trying to be mysterious.”
She let out a laugh, soft yet full of mischief, before shifting slightly, softening though the teasing tone largely remained.
“Look,” Zatanna said, her voice lower now. “I get it. To be followed by magic that you didn’t ask for; to have to deal with destinies you never would have wanted; to have expectations thrown on your shoulders before you even know who you are. I get that. I really do.”
Her voice dropped—less performance, more sincerity this time.
“My father, that guy next to me with the moustache? He’d probably offer to train you, had he been here, but fortunately for you, I snuck out of the hotel.” Zatanna explained, taking a glance before nodding, accepting that Ishiro’s lack of anything said was the only answer she needed. “But you’ll say no. You’ll run. Probably already thinking about it.”
A beat passed, and she stepped back, not in retreat but in silent understanding.
“It’s alright. Some of us are meant to wander before finding where we’re supposed to be. Just don’t pretend you don’t want someone to find you first.”
She pulled out a pen from the back of her coat, then scribbled a number on the back of a half-torn flyer, before folding it into a tiny origami fox. With a word whispered in reverse, it fluttered towards him, weightless.
“If you ever want to talk, to brood… Or hey, even ask me out awkwardly, you know where to find me. Though, I’d expect you to buy me gelato the next time, and don’t say I never gave you my number, and don’t be ungrateful now. I don’t go around giving all my admirers this.”
He reached out and took the small fox, staring at it momentarily as she turned to walk away.
“I hope we meet again, hopefully then you’ll be willing to talk to me with that fluster you’re hiding, and I can tease you properly. ‘Till then… Take care of yourself, Ishiro.”
Like a stage trick long perfected, she turned and walked away, her shape swallowed by the fog into the endless night, never once even seeking to explain how she knew his name.
Ishiro stared at the origami fox once again, barely able to glimpse the written numbers folded within.
He held it like something delicate. Something alive.
-Gotham City, One Year Ago-
The damp air welcomed his arrival. The harbour groaned in the dying wind of evening, stained by the scent of oil and rust. Gotham’s lead-lined skyline rose like a crown of thorns beyond the fog, hunched over under its own weight.
A cargo ship screeched into the harbour, the hull scraping against the concrete of the dock. Atop it, the door of a shipping container slid open with a silent clang, where a figure dressed in white and red snuck out into the shadows, the robes stirring with each silent step.
There was something wrong about this place, no doubt about it. A rotting heart of a civilisation doused in gasoline which he now stepped through unceremoniously, the ribbons remained still, wrapped around his wrists and for once, silent.
Something here wasn’t just wrong, it was twisted. A city haunted by something, trauma or something similar. If Japan’s soul had been chewed through by demons and deities alike, Gotham never had a soul to begin with.
Ishiro said nothing. He didn’t speak, there was no one to speak to, nothing to speak about. He just walked, sandals scraping against damp concrete with each step.
Through alleys stained by the stench of garbage; past neon signs flickering with wild colours dimmed; over puddles that smelled of old blood and motor oil. His eyes scanned past it all, but there was no demon, no spirit, no target to cleanse, nothing that could be exorcised by prayer alone.
Yet, there was still something rotting, even if he couldn’t determine for sure what it was.
A scream came sharp and sudden from a nearby alley. A woman, perhaps in her mid-to-late 20s, beige coat and torn heels, cornered by a chain-link fence by three men—one waving a pipe, another with brass knuckles, and the third, standing before the woman directly, jittered like a sparkplug.
He stepped forward silently. None of the others noticed, at least not until he kept walking forward.
“Take a hike, kid,” one of them growled, “we’ll get to you later.”
Ishiro tilted his head, then stepped forward once again, moving without a sound.
A blur of white and red smote the broken pavement as Ishiro ducked to the side, the first man’s pipe swinging just wide of his face, before he kicked upwards, foot coming down hard on the man’s shoulder, folding him like origami on asphalt.
The crack of bone stemming from his foot falling onto the thug’s shoulder again fell silent against the howling wind.
The others froze, shocked silent by what they witnessed.
Ishiro stood straight and still, a wraith illuminated by a flash of lightning, red and white robes fluttering in the wind as he lifted a hand, crooking four fingers whilst the thumb remained in place.
A silent taunt. Bait that was quickly taken.
The man with the brass knuckles rushed forward, charging like a raging bull as he threw a looping punch, only for Ishiro to slip under, spinning under his heel and elbowing the man in the stomach, feeling something snap under the joint.
The thug stumbled back, grasping at his stomach, but Ishiro wasn’t done. The noticeably shorter exorcist took a silent step forward, before grabbing at the man’s neck after jumping up, driving his heel into the man’s hamstring and slamming the thug into the pavement, knocking him out into a crumpled mess.
The last man didn’t wait and bolted for the open road. From behind, a crimson ribbon, flowing and alive, snapped forward and clung to the man’s wrist, searing a faint mark into flesh as Ishiro tugged him back into the alley.
The man hit the ground with a hard thud, screaming in the pain on his wrist as Ishiro pulled the ribbon back, allowing it to fasten around his wrist once again, before he stepped forward.
Without warning, Ishiro swung his foot downwards, crashing his heel down on the man’s nose, shattering it and knocking him out.
The woman, so nearly a victim, stood frozen, staring. Her gaze swept over his robes, the way they reflected youth yet some form of archaic power. The crimson ribbons, earlier dancing with spirit and wrath, now remained still and unmoving. Before she could speak, Ishiro looked up, gaze unreadable beneath slightly matted dark hair.
“Are you… Are you one of his?” she asked softly, hands loosening slightly as his attention peeked. “Of… Batman’s?”
His eyes lifted slightly, following her hand as she pointed up into the air.
He glanced above them, towards the sky, where the dark clouds parted amidst the rain, just enough for a single symbol to shine through as if it were a beacon cutting through the storm—a yellow circle with a black bat in the centre.
He didn’t react, not out of indifference, but out of a failure to recognise.
“Oh,” the woman muttered, voice softening slightly as her posture relaxed. “You’re not? You don’t know who…?”
Her voice trailed off, before she took a breath and leaned in closer, eyes urgent.
“Look. You helped me. Thank you, truly. Not many people here would have done that,” she began to say, voice urgent and shaking. “But you should go. Please. People don’t just do that in Gotham without drawing attention. He—no, they will show up.”
He watched her as she stepped past.
“You helped me, I won’t tell anyone, I promise.” She assured, taking one last glance before backing away immediately after. “Just… Please. Go.”
She left without another word, leaving him alone with the falling thunderstorm, alongside the unconscious men lying in the alley.
For a moment, he remained still, surrounded by flickering neon and falling raindrop, lightning flashing as the wind pulled at his robes.
Then, without a word, Ishiro turned and vanished into the dark, the city swallowing him whole as if he had never been there to begin with, unaware of the shadowy figure who had just arrived on the edge of an overlooking rooftop.
-Gotham City, Present Day-
The ramen was going cold. Steam had ceased rising from the bowl placed in front of him, chopsticks cast aside whilst the noodles sagged like something forsaken to fate.
Ishiro didn’t seem to mind much.
“God I’m such a loser,” he mumbled, voice clear yet barely louder than the buzz of the neon sign hanging outside. “I’m supposed to be some big-time exorcist, or something like that, but no. I’m here eating cold ramen around three in the morning.”
A few heads turned, but none lingered. The ramen bar was quiet at this hour, the few patrons left at the far end paid him no mind, and the sleepy-eyed chef behind the counter busied himself with broth for the next morning.
“Well, guess it’s not all bad,” Ishiro sighed, shaking his head. “Could be much worse, actually.”
He wasn’t talking to them anyway. He was talking to the man beaten, gagged and tied to the broken chair next to him.
“… You weren’t listening at all, were you?” Ishiro asked dryly, narrowing his eyes as the panicked robber shook his head frantically. “Of course you weren’t. To your credit, I’d have trouble keeping up with nineteen years of someone’s life.”
The man on the chair groaned through the strip of duct tape across his mouth, nose crooked, likely recently broken. One eye was swollen shut, both hands were bound at the wrists by multiple layers of duct tape, the man’s legs telling the same story.
“Don’t try to move, by the way,” he assured, turning back to his ramen and muttering a silent prayer with closed eyes, before a soft smirk came upon his lips as one eye slowly blinked open. “I’m not too sure what I broke earlier, so for all we know, that tape is the only thing keeping you together.”
He picked up the chopsticks, ignoring the increased panic of the man next to him.
“Oh please, calm down, it’s nothing a hospital can’t fix,” Ishiro stated simply, slurping up the cold noodles. “They’ll treat you; you’re just a robber. A terrible listener? Probably, but you are just a robber. Me? Well, I’m probably much worse.”
“But hey, I’m still trying here. That’s gotta be worth something, right?”
He turned slightly in his seat, setting an empty bowl aside as he sighed soon after, addressing the robber once again.
“Aaaaand… I’m still hungry. Great.” Ishiro stated, shaking his head before pausing, then speaking again. “You ever just like, randomly get some flashback or something to a moment you regret, and just wish you could do it all again? Just me? Okay.”
The man didn’t answer. Couldn’t, actually.
Ishiro’s tired gaze travelled past the man, fixating on something that prompted him to stand, going over to the window and peeling off a flyer stuck to it.
GOTHAM CITY YOUTH KARATE OPEN
VENUE: ROBINSON CONVENTION CENTER (FORMALLY ROBINSON PARK)
AGES 13-19; BROWN BELT AND ABOVE; ALL KARATE FORMS WELCOME
CASH PRIZE OFFERED
“Huh.”
He stared at the flyer once again, then folded it once, before tucking it under the crimson ribbons wrapped around his wrists.
“Guess I’ve not got anything better to do… Good-for-nothing city doesn’t have any demons to exorcise.”
Ishiro stepped past his seat, placing several crumpled bills on the table as he bowed his head towards the chef behind the counter, before turning towards the still-bound robber.
“You’ll be fine, Batman usually doesn’t care about small robbers. If you’re lucky, it’ll be the police.” Ishiro assured, patting the man playfully on the shoulder.
“Thanks for listening, by the way.”
He rolled the door open by one hand, vanishing into the darkness of night moments after.