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The voice rang out from an alley even more shadowed than the twilit streets: a narrow gap where not even the sparse light of streetlamps dared to go. Low, rasping, it beckoned the ear; and chills ran down the spine of Chisaki Kai, for what he heard was familiar in the worst of ways.
He had grown up on the streets before the yakuza took him in; more than one winter night had been spent huddled in an abandoned warehouse with the others for warmth. The older children had many stories, the sorts of myths and urban legends that every city earned with time. And Kai's favorite myth, one shared among the orphans with a secretive glee, was also the only one he ever heard twice.
Kai had stopped under a streetlamp, staring up at the clouds illuminated by the city lights. What was it about tonight that made Kai remember the old legend all of a sudden?
At the dawn of quirks, there was a man, they said, who could set his breath aflame. And on one winter night, he walked the snow-dusted streets alone.
Just as Kai was doing now.
The man was pleased with himself, and secure in his strength; even those who were his enemies did not dare move against him, fearing his power.
So when he crossed paths with a shivering street-child, their hair as white as the snow, he thought little of them. At least until they clutched at his sleeve and begged: ‘Traveler, may I borrow your breath?’
‘What, my fire?’ the man scoffed.
‘Only for the night,’ the child explained with wide, pleading eyes.
Yet the man was not moved. ‘Leave me alone,’ he sneered, and turned away-
But the child’s hand on his wrist was as solid as iron and quick as the wind, and the man could not pull his arm free. He fell backward, instead, onto the snow; and the child loomed over him, his gaze as blank as the starless sky.
‘Get away!’ the man spat, and reached for his power-
But it did not answer.
‘So be it,’ the child said, their too-sharp teeth bared in a grin: ‘this breath of yours is mine.’
The lick of flame that passed their lips revealed the child’s eyes were vivid red.
And the fire-breather’s fire was no more.
Of course the white-haired child was a favorite figure amongst the homeless children; what tale was more satisfying than a powerful person getting what was coming to them? But for the members of the Shie Hassaikai, it was more than a story. It was a cautionary tale of the price of overconfidence; a reminder of respect for beggars.
More than that, it was true.
There may come a time, the Boss warned him, that you will meet him, Kai; and if you do, and the white-haired man asks you-
"Traveler," said the shadows in the alley, "may I borrow your breath?"
-then I beg of you, boy, give it freely.
Kai turned, goosebumps rising on his skin, and stepped into the alleyway.