The lunch dishes had barely settled in the sink, the boys had scattered off in a flurry of post-pasta energy, and Anuli had gone downstairs to prepare for the afternoon session when Ken slipped away upstairs.
He wasn’t fleeing, not exactly. But something inside him was stirring—had been stirring since his talk with Anuli earlier that morning, and now with the kids laughing and playing like mini versions of the heroes he’d once idolized, he knew it was time.
Time to stop waiting for Blue Boxer and Lumberjack to “return.” Time to stop being the junior partner. Time to figure out who HE was.
Ken Izumi—formerly Khaki Karateka—was going solo.
He closed his bedroom door behind him with a soft click and immediately dropped to his knees in front of the cedar storage trunk at the foot of his bed. It was heavy, ancient, and still had his initials burnt into the top in crooked block letters. Lifting the lid unleashed the scent of old sweat, sandalwood, and the ghosts of vigilante years past.
Inside were pieces of old gear: reinforced karate gis, cracked training masks, prototype belts, throwing knives with dull edges, a busted grappling hook from when he was thirteen and overconfident. There was even a busted yellow domino mask with the words “Khaki 4 Life” scribbled on the inner lining in black marker.
Ken winced. Cringe.
He shoved it deeper into the chest and pulled out the folded dark fabric he’d stashed at the very bottom—the thing he wasn’t supposed to have but had secretly kept hidden for months.
The deep purple, nearly-black fabric(secretly ordered online for a comic convention) unfurled with a satisfying swoosh.
He laid the suit across his bed with reverence. The sleek lines, the reinforced joints, the hidden pockets. The matte finish. The way the collar was slightly higher than strictly necessary, giving it a dramatic swoop. It looked cool.
Too cool.
This had started years ago—quiet late nights during his earliest training with the Blue Boxer, when stress dreams and nightmares kept him up past curfew. The only thing that helped him wind down was streaming Japanese action anime. It had begun with old shows he remembered from his childhood and spiraled into an unholy archive of fan fictions, elaborate cosplay costumes, and a private playlist titled “Emotionally Devastating Anime Battle Themes, Vol. 2.”
He bit the inside of his cheek and glanced around his empty room.
No one was here.
And then, he whispered it.
“Nightshade Ninja…”
His cheeks flushed instantly, and he groaned, collapsing onto the bed next to the suit. 'It sounds fine,' he told himself. 'Totally normal. Absolutely not based on that one anime character I liked when I was eleven.'
That 'cool, brooding antihero' from Midnight Ronin: The Forbidden Bloom.
Ken rolled onto his bed and covered his face with a pillow.
This was stupid. He was supposed to be maturing, becoming a leader. Not cosplaying his childhood anime crush.
But the idea had dug in and refused to let go. There was something about the name—Nightshade Ninja. It sounded sleek. Mysterious. Dangerous. And unlike “Khaki Karateka,” it didn’t make him sound like a fashion-themed dojo .
Still, he couldn’t walk into the Gym like this yet. He needed to make sure the costume worked. And for that, he needed backup.
There was only one person in the estate he trusted with this kind of thing.
—
“...You want what?” Amelie asked, raising one delicate eyebrow over her half-moon reading glasses.
Ken stood sheepishly in the living room, clutching the suit behind his back like a guilty teenager caught with a forbidden comic book.
“I need help with... tailoring,” he muttered.
Amelie slowly set down her cup of chicory coffee. “Tailoring?”
Ken nodded.
“To make adjustments… to a ninja costume.”
Ken nodded again, tighter this time.
There was a beat of silence.
Amelie sipped her coffee, thoughtful.
“Is this for a mission or a masquerade?”
Ken looked mortally offended. “It’s a new identity. For crime-fighting.”
“Mmm. I see. And does this new persona… have a name?”
Ken shifted his weight.
Amelie waited.
Finally, he muttered, “Nightshade Ninja.”
The words were nearly inaudible.
Amelie blinked. “Pardon?”
Ken cleared his throat and tried again. “Nightshade Ninja.”
There was a pause.
Then, to Ken’s utter horror, Amelie smiled.
“A very romantic name,” she said, her voice warm and just slightly teasing. “Like something out of one of those... animated Japanese dramas you used to watch in middle school.”
Ken choked. “I don’t watch those anymore!”
“Of course not,” she said graciously. “It’s just a coincidence.”
Ken was fairly certain she knew exactly what Midnight Ronin was.
“Please don’t tell the boys.”
“I would never dream of it,” Amelie said solemnly. “Now bring me the suit. We have work to do.”
—
The next two hours were a whirlwind of thread, patches, and mild embarrassment.
Amelie moved with quiet efficiency, pinning here, hemming there, all the while maintaining a dignified silence as Ken tried not to feel ridiculous wearing his anime-inspired tactical ninja ensemble.
At one point, she held up a strip of fabric and said, “You’ll need a utility sash. Something to break up the silhouette.”
“What’s wrong with the silhouette?”
“You look like a walking bruise, mon chéri.”
When he didn’t protest, she handed him a bandolier for the shuriken and adjusted the strap with careful fingers. “There. Now you’re mysterious and functional.”
She stepped back and surveyed him.
The suit was deep violet-black, tight-fitting but breathable, with reinforced knees and elbow pads. A short half-cape was added to drape just past the shoulders—a nod to traditional shinobi, but more modern in cut. The mask covered most of his face, leaving only the eyes exposed, and the slim sheathe across his back held a curved katana with a charcoal-gray hilt. Shuriken lined his chest in discreet slanted loops.
“You look…” Amelie tilted her head, “...ridiculous and dangerous. Like a 90s action figure. But in a good way.”
Ken smiled, just a little. “Thanks, Amelie.”
“And don’t worry,” she added with a conspiratorial wink. “Your anime secret is safe with me.”
“I told you, it’s not—!”
But she was already walking out of the room, humming the Midnight Ronin theme song under her breath.
—
Later, Ken stood in front of his bedroom mirror, now fully suited, practicing a few slow katana poses. The costume moved well. However, the name still made him flinch a little. He’d whispered it aloud before he could stop himself.
“Nightshade Ninja.”
He winced the second he said it.
“Too dramatic,” he muttered. “Too anime. The boys will never let me live it down.”
But as he looked again in the mirror...
It worked.
It had flair. It had mystery. It had... shadows. And plants. And vengeance. And, let’s be real, killer alliteration.
He didn’t have to say it came from anime.
Nobody had to know.
“Nightshade Ninja,” he repeated, trying it with a deeper voice.
Then again, but with more grit: “Nightshade Ninja.”
Then with a whisper-growl: “...NIGHTSHADE... NINJA.”
He turned sideways. Raised a hand in a block pose. Narrowed his eyes.
Yup.
It was perfect.
Just as long as Ethan never found out it was named after an anime protagonist with sparkly eyes and a tragic backstory involving a cursed chrysanthemum. He’d NEVER live it down.
But that was fine.
Because Nightshade Ninja was HIM.
And finally, Ken was ready to step into the lead.