Shadow In another life, perhaps he would have thrived. There was a time he turned from war — not in defeat, but in quiet defiance. Beneath the cold steel of his past, he found solace in warmth: the hiss of a pan, the scent of spice, the sacred stillness of a kitchen untouched by violence. They say he smiled once. That he opened his own place. A modest restaurant — his name above the door, his hands building rather than breaking. But peace does not last for men like him. Now the chair sits empty. The stove has gone cold. No one saw the end, but all felt it. He left like smoke — silent, clinging, impossible to hold. They speak his name in hushed tones, not out of reverence, but regret. He was almost something more. Almost.