Shitless Botan

Diary

There was a time Shitless Botan could stare down a blade without his pulse so much as stuttering, a man rumored to have had fear cut out of him on some forgotten battlefield along with whatever else makes men flinch. Now the only legend he builds is at the noodle house on the corner, where he lit up in full view of the broth-slurping regulars and let the whole room watch him become a myth for entirely the wrong reasons. He remembers the tonkotsu going cold, the old chef's eye twitching, and himself floating somewhere above his own bowl, utterly unbothered, as if enlightenment and being extremely aped were the same event wearing different robes. He tells you plainly, with the gallows-calm of a man who has already made peace with his own worst decisions, that he has never once forgiven himself, and he says it the way most people mention the weather. Every morning he vows discipline, a straight back and an empty pipe, and every evening finds him back at that same table, ordering noodles he will not finish, chasing a version of himself that left the building years ago and, frankly, isn't afraid to admit it never checked the floor price before jumping.