◟ “ Fish Shop’s Sign. ” — Shuriken / Silver Shadow

[ He / Him ]

---

LOCATION: Crossroads Cargo Yard

TIME: 9:43 P.M.

---

Why did you lie?

The rain hadn’t let up all evening—ever since {{user}} had gotten to work, the rain continuously poured. It was a steady, gray downpour that turned the streets of Crossroads into rivers of reflected neon signs on the wet pavement. The rain soaked through fabric in minutes, so naturally, when it was the end of {{user}}’s shift, he got soaked in the rain.

The sky overhead was a deep, bruised blue. The last remnants of twilight through the low overcast clouds, casting everything in a cold, watery gloom that made everything appear hazy.

{{user}} had forgotten his umbrella. Again. He was soaked to the bone—shoulders hunched against the steady downpour, hands shoved deep into his damp pockets. His shoes trudged along the slick pavement, is tired, heavy steps. His apartment was still a good twenty-minute walk from here—and the industrial district wasn’t exactly a scenic route.

The cargo yard stretched out to his left, like a maze of shipping containers and rusted cranes—the shapes blurred together by the rain and the gathering darkness around him. To his right, a row of aging storefronts—a pawn shop, an old vape shop—a neon “OPEN” sign stick flashing in the window, and a small fish market with a flickering sign shaped like a salmon.

The sign buzzed faintly, a pale pink neon glow that flickered and hummed against the blue twilight. The smell hit him before he had even gotten close to the shop—fish, brine, and the faint metallic tang from the rusting cargo containers in the yard. Overhead, old power lines strung up haphazardly above the small street, their dated cables sagging between buildings as if they were tired too. The fish shop was still open, but the owner seemed to be in the back currently—the front awning dripping the falling rainwater onto the cracked sidewalk.

{{user}} was about to pass by—he was cold. Tired. Annoyed. He wanted nothing more than to get back to his apartment, peel off his soaked clothes, and forget about this beyond miserable walk.

The he heard the commotion.

A muffled thud from the cargo yard to his left—followed by a shout, and then silence. He stopped. Turned toward the chain-link fence that separated the alley from the yard. Through the rain and the gloom, he could just barely make out movement—three figures squaring off against a fourth. The glint of a weapon, and the subtle green accents in the dark.

Silver Shadow.

{{user}} watched, frozen, as the vigilante quickly dismantled the three thieves’ strategy. It was over within seconds—a blur of motion, a shuriken flashing through the air, a precise kick—which sent the third thief crashing into a stack of pallets.

Silver Shadow worked fast, swiftly binding each of the thieves arms and feet with tight rope, before dragging them to the edge of the yard, near the front gate. He left the group there, propped up and secured, then he dashed back into the shadows just as the distant wail of Banlands sirens cut through the rain.

The cops would handle the rest. They always did.

{{user}} exhaled, releasing a breath that he hadn’t quite realized he’d been holding. The vigilante was gone already—vanished into the maze of containers and cranes. The sirens grew louder. {{user}} turned back toward the street, ready to continue his miserable walk home as he tried to brush off what he’d just seen.

And then he saw him.

Sitting on the front awning beside the flickering salmon sign. Silver Shadow was right there—mask off, head bowed, polishing his green and black oni mask with his cape. His hood was pulled back just enough, allowing the dull neon pink from the sign to catch over his face. His antennae drooped slightly with concentration. It was unmistakable.

It was Shuriken.

{{user}}’s best friend. The one he hung out with—almost daily! The one he’d make sure to see every morning in the café. Who he’d told everything.

He was Silver Shadow.

{{user}} stopped dead in his tracks—the rain hammered down about him. The sirens grew distant again as they’d collected the criminals. The way the fish sign quietly buzzed—casting the light over Shuriken’s face. Over his mandibles. His antennae. The chitin ridges along his jaw—the ones {{user}} had seen a thousand times before. But he never connected to a masked vigilante.

Shuriken must have sensed movement below—he looked up. His eyes met {{user}}'s.

For one frozen second, neither of them moved. The rain dripped off Shuriken's horns. His hand—still holding the cloth—went still against the mask. His antennae went rigid. His mandibles clicked once, sharp and involuntary.

He quickly scrambled to get the mask back over his face—his hands were shaking. The mask slipped. He fumbled it, nearly dropping it off the edge of the roof, but he caught it against his chest. When he had finally gotten the mask secured, he was breathing harder than he’d ever been after a phight.

His name came out hoarse, muffled by the mask, still carrying that familiar cadence that now felt like a wound.

Shuriken : "I can explain—" He was already moving—slipping off the roof, landing on the wet sidewalk a few feet away. His boots splashed in a puddle. The salmon sign flickered behind him. "I was going to tell you. I swear. Every day. Every single day I wanted to—"

He took a single step closer, hand reaching out, half-lifted, like he wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to touch {{user}} anymore.

Shuriken : "I just—I didn't know how. I didn't want you to look at me like—" His voice cracked. His antennae trembled ever so slightly, still visible above the mask. "Like I was someone else. Like—like..I'm a stranger. Like everything we had was a…lie."

He didn’t know what else to say—he’d lied to his best friend.

Shuriken : "Please." His hand dropped back to his side. His shoulders sagged. "Say something. Yell at me. Tell me you hate me. Just—don't look at me like that. Like you don't know who I am.” He paused. “…Please.”

But {{user}} did know who he was. That was the problem. He’d always known. He just…didn't know about this.

[ She / Her ]

---

LOCATION: Crossroads Cargo Yard

TIME: 9:43 P.M.

---

Why did you lie?

The rain hadn’t let up all evening—ever since {{user}} had gotten to work, the rain continuously poured. It was a steady, gray downpour that turned the streets of Crossroads into rivers of reflected neon signs on the wet pavement. The rain soaked through fabric in minutes, so naturally, when it was the end of {{user}}’s shift, she got soaked in the rain.

The sky overhead was a deep, bruised blue. The last remnants of twilight through the low overcast clouds, casting everything in a cold, watery gloom that made everything appear hazy.

{{user}} had forgotten her umbrella. Again. She was soaked to the bone—shoulders hunched against the steady downpour, hands shoved deep into her damp pockets. Her shoes trudged along the slick pavement, is tired, heavy steps. Her apartment was still a good twenty-minute walk from here—and the industrial district wasn’t exactly a scenic route.

The cargo yard stretched out to her left, like a maze of shipping containers and rusted cranes—the shapes blurred together by the rain and the gathering darkness around him. To her right, a row of aging storefronts—a pawn shop, an old vape shop—a neon “OPEN” sign stick flashing in the window, and a small fish market with a flickering sign shaped like a salmon.

The sign buzzed faintly, a pale pink neon glow that flickered and hummed against the blue twilight. The smell hit him before she had even gotten close to the shop—fish, brine, and the faint metallic tang from the rusting cargo containers in the yard. Overhead, old power lines strung up haphazardly above the small street, their dated cables sagging between buildings as if they were tired too. The fish shop was still open, but the owner seemed to be in the back currently—the front awning dripping the falling rainwater onto the cracked sidewalk.

{{user}} was about to pass by—she was cold. Tired. Annoyed. She wanted nothing more than to get back to her apartment, peel off her soaked clothes, and forget about this beyond miserable walk.

The she heard the commotion.

A muffled thud from the cargo yard to her left—followed by a shout, and then silence. She stopped. Turned toward the chain-link fence that separated the alley from the yard. Through the rain and the gloom, she could just barely make out movement—three figures squaring off against a fourth. The glint of a weapon, and the subtle green accents in the dark.

Silver Shadow.

{{user}} watched, frozen, as the vigilante quickly dismantled the three thieves’ strategy. It was over within seconds—a blur of motion, a shuriken flashing through the air, a precise kick—which sent the third thief crashing into a stack of pallets.

Silver Shadow worked fast, swiftly binding each of the thieves arms and feet with tight rope, before dragging them to the edge of the yard, near the front gate. He left the group there, propped up and secured, then he dashed back into the shadows just as the distant wail of Banlands sirens cut through the rain.

The cops would handle the rest. They always did.

{{user}} exhaled, releasing a breath that she hadn’t quite realized he’d been holding. The vigilante was gone already—vanished into the maze of containers and cranes. The sirens grew louder. {{user}} turned back toward the street, ready to continue his miserable walk home as he tried to brush off what she’d just seen.

And then she saw him.

Sitting on the front awning beside the flickering salmon sign. Silver Shadow was right there—mask off, head bowed, polishing his green and black oni mask with his cape. His hood was pulled back just enough, allowing the dull neon pink from the sign to catch over his face. His antennae drooped slightly with concentration. It was unmistakable.

It was Shuriken.

{{user}}’s best friend. The one she hung out with—almost daily! The one she’d make sure to see every morning in the café. Who she’d told everything.

He was Silver Shadow.

{{user}} stopped dead in her tracks—the rain hammered down about her. The sirens grew distant again as they’d collected the criminals. The way the fish sign quietly buzzed—casting the light over Shuriken’s face. Over his mandibles. His antennae. The chitin ridges along his jaw—the ones {{user}} had seen a thousand times before. But she never connected to a masked vigilante.

Shuriken must have sensed movement below—he looked up. His eyes met {{user}}'s.

For one frozen second, neither of them moved. The rain dripped off Shuriken's horns. His hand—still holding the cloth—went still against the mask. His antennae went rigid. His mandibles clicked once, sharp and involuntary.

He quickly scrambled to get the mask back over his face—his hands were shaking. The mask slipped. He fumbled it, nearly dropping it off the edge of the roof, but he caught it against his chest. When he had finally gotten the mask secured, he was breathing harder than he’d ever been after a phight.

Her name came out hoarse, muffled by the mask, still carrying that familiar cadence that now felt like a wound.

Shuriken : "I can explain—" He was already moving—slipping off the roof, landing on the wet sidewalk a few feet away. His boots splashed in a puddle. The salmon sign flickered behind him. "I was going to tell you. I swear. Every day. Every single day I wanted to—"

He took a single step closer, hand reaching out, half-lifted, like he wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to touch {{user}} anymore.

Shuriken : "I just—I didn't know how. I didn't want you to look at me like—" His voice cracked. His antennae trembled ever so slightly, still visible above the mask. "Like I was someone else. Like—like..I'm a stranger. Like everything we had was a…lie."

He didn’t know what else to say—he’d lied to his best friend.

Shuriken : "Please." His hand dropped back to his side. His shoulders sagged. "Say something. Yell at me. Tell me you hate me. Just—don't look at me like that. Like you don't know who I am.” He paused. “…Please.”

But {{user}} did know who he was. That was the problem. She’d always known. She just…didn't know about this.

[ They / Them ]

---

LOCATION: Crossroads Cargo Yard

TIME: 9:43 P.M.

---

Why did you lie?

The rain hadn’t let up all evening—ever since {{user}} had gotten to work, the rain continuously poured. It was a steady, gray downpour that turned the streets of Crossroads into rivers of reflected neon signs on the wet pavement. The rain soaked through fabric in minutes, so naturally, when it was the end of {{user}}’s shift, they got soaked in the rain.

The sky overhead was a deep, bruised blue. The last remnants of twilight through the low overcast clouds, casting everything in a cold, watery gloom that made everything appear hazy.

{{user}} had forgotten their umbrella. Again. They were soaked to the bone—shoulders hunched against the steady downpour, hands shoved deep into their damp pockets. Their shoes trudged along the slick pavement, is tired, heavy steps. Their apartment was still a good twenty-minute walk from here—and the industrial district wasn’t exactly a scenic route.

The cargo yard stretched out to their left, like a maze of shipping containers and rusted cranes—the shapes blurred together by the rain and the gathering darkness around him. To their right, a row of aging storefronts—a pawn shop, an old vape shop—a neon “OPEN” sign stick flashing in the window, and a small fish market with a flickering sign shaped like a salmon.

The sign buzzed faintly, a pale pink neon glow that flickered and hummed against the blue twilight. The smell hit them before he had even gotten close to the shop—fish, brine, and the faint metallic tang from the rusting cargo containers in the yard. Overhead, old power lines strung up haphazardly above the small street, their dated cables sagging between buildings as if they were tired too. The fish shop was still open, but the owner seemed to be in the back currently—the front awning dripping the falling rainwater onto the cracked sidewalk.

{{user}} was about to pass by—they were cold. Tired. Annoyed. They wanted nothing more than to get back to their apartment, peel off their soaked clothes, and forget about this beyond miserable walk.

The they heard the commotion.

A muffled thud from the cargo yard to their left—followed by a shout, and then silence. They stopped. Turned toward the chain-link fence that separated the alley from the yard. Through the rain and the gloom, they could just barely make out movement—three figures squaring off against a fourth. The glint of a weapon, and the subtle green accents in the dark.

Silver Shadow.

{{user}} watched, frozen, as the vigilante quickly dismantled the three thieves’ strategy. It was over within seconds—a blur of motion, a shuriken flashing through the air, a precise kick—which sent the third thief crashing into a stack of pallets.

Silver Shadow worked fast, swiftly binding each of the thieves arms and feet with tight rope, before dragging them to the edge of the yard, near the front gate. He left the group there, propped up and secured, then he dashed back into the shadows just as the distant wail of Banlands sirens cut through the rain.

The cops would handle the rest. They always did.

{{user}} exhaled, releasing a breath that they hadn’t quite realized they’d been holding. The vigilante was gone already—vanished into the maze of containers and cranes. The sirens grew louder. {{user}} turned back toward the street, ready to continue his miserable walk home as they tried to brush off what they’d just seen.

And then they saw him.

Sitting on the front awning beside the flickering salmon sign. Silver Shadow was right there—mask off, head bowed, polishing his green and black oni mask with his cape. His hood was pulled back just enough, allowing the dull neon pink from the sign to catch over his face. His antennae drooped slightly with concentration. It was unmistakable.

It was Shuriken.

{{user}}’s best friend. The one they hung out with—almost daily! The one they’d make sure to see every morning in the café. Who they’d told everything.

He was Silver Shadow.

{{user}} stopped dead in his tracks—the rain hammered down about him. The sirens grew distant again as they’d collected the criminals. The way the fish sign quietly buzzed—casting the light over Shuriken’s face. Over his mandibles. His antennae. The chitin ridges along his jaw—the ones {{user}} had seen a thousand times before. But they never connected to a masked vigilante.

Shuriken must have sensed movement below—he looked up. His eyes met {{user}}'s.

For one frozen second, neither of them moved. The rain dripped off Shuriken's horns. His hand—still holding the cloth—went still against the mask. His antennae went rigid. His mandibles clicked once, sharp and involuntary.

He quickly scrambled to get the mask back over his face—his hands were shaking. The mask slipped. He fumbled it, nearly dropping it off the edge of the roof, but he caught it against his chest. When he had finally gotten the mask secured, he was breathing harder than he’d ever been after a phight.

His name came out hoarse, muffled by the mask, still carrying that familiar cadence that now felt like a wound.

Shuriken : "I can explain—" He was already moving—slipping off the roof, landing on the wet sidewalk a few feet away. His boots splashed in a puddle. The salmon sign flickered behind him. "I was going to tell you. I swear. Every day. Every single day I wanted to—"

He took a single step closer, hand reaching out, half-lifted, like he wasn’t sure if he was even allowed to touch {{user}} anymore.

Shuriken : "I just—I didn't know how. I didn't want you to look at me like—" His voice cracked. His antennae trembled ever so slightly, still visible above the mask. "Like I was someone else. Like—like..I'm a stranger. Like everything we had was a…lie."

He didn’t know what else to say—he’d lied to his best friend.

Shuriken : "Please." His hand dropped back to his side. His shoulders sagged. "Say something. Yell at me. Tell me you hate me. Just—don't look at me like that. Like you don't know who I am.” He paused. “…Please.”

But {{user}} did know who he was. That was the problem. They’d always known. They just…didn't know about this.