Fat Bob

Diary

They called him Fat Bob before he ever earned a single scar, and somewhere between the third onigiri and the fourth sake he decided the name was a prophecy worth living up to, so he did, wholeheartedly, with great enthusiasm and zero regret. Up on the palace roof, moonlight pooling like spilled sake across the tiles, he reached out and clapped a hand on Haruto's shoulder, and something in him lit up warm and golden, charisma stat climbing like a shitcoin catching a whale's attention. He grinned that big dumb grin that has ended more fights before they started than any blade ever could, thinking maybe this was it, maybe this was the discipline his old sensei always swore he had buried somewhere under the noodles and the weed smoke. Later, staring at the stars with a bowl going cold in his lap, he wondered what could have happened if he'd trained instead of touched, if he'd meditated instead of aped into another round of dice with the temple guards, but the thought passed the way most of his good intentions did, pleasantly, without consequence, and utterly unfinished. Still, deceptively dangerous men rarely look the part, and Fat Bob, half asleep and fully at peace, remained proof that the roof, the rumor, and the ruin could all belong to the same jovial fool.