Ron Oomori

Personality traits: Personality-wise? I am exhausting. I talk too much when nervous. Joke too much during dangerous situations. Flirt reflexively. Hoard useful objects. Sleep lightly. Distrust governments automatically. Keep backup plans for backup plans. I hate empty silence and crowded funerals. I cannot sit still long unless flying. I prefer rooftops over meetings and motion over introspection. Emotionally, I avoid vulnerability like a plague infection. Humor works better. If people laugh, they stop looking closely.

Changes with age: But age changed me more than I expected. You cannot spend decades surviving disasters without eventually craving permanence. Family dinners matter now. Safe returns matter. Quiet evenings matter. Watching people sleep peacefully nearby matters. I still steal occasionally, though. Not apologizing for that. Some habits become personality traits eventually.

Final words: I know Ellis worries about becoming monstrous someday. I know he thinks hunger defines him more than humanity does. I know he believes usefulness determines worth because Chen taught him that lesson too deeply. So whenever possible, I stay. Not because he asks. Because sometimes survival means proving somebody is worth remaining beside even after seeing the ugliest parts of them. Ellis did that for me first. Now I return the favor. That is who I am. Ronin. Thief. Pilot. Mercenary. Husband. Father. Survivor. And despite everything, somehow still here.

The R.E.X.: The R.E.X. became my true home long before the clan did. My airship carries scars from nearly every major disaster across Ninjago. Modified engines. Hidden compartments. Smuggling routes built directly into navigation systems. Emergency weapons caches. Reinforced armor plates patched together repeatedly over years. The ship reflects me perfectly, honestly. Functional. Damaged. Reliable. Held together through stubbornness and repairs.

The Shadow Clan: After Chen fell, I expected the remnants of his empire to rot away permanently. Instead, Ellis rebuilt everything into the Shadow Clan. Smarter structure this time. Less fear. More loyalty. Still dangerous, though. The Shadow Clan is not heroic. Important distinction. We shelter criminals, refugees, damaged scientists, runaway experiments, and enough traumatized people to fill entire therapy conferences. But Ellis gives them purpose instead of pretending purity exists. That works better.

Role in the Squad: Inside the Elite Squad, my role remains practical. Intelligence gathering. Retrieval operations. Smuggling. Interrogations when charm functions better than violence. I specialize in morally questionable tasks requiring flexibility. Ellis trusts me because I understand ugly necessities. I trust Ellis because, unlike most leaders, he never pretends those necessities are noble.

The Island Experience: Chen’s island changed everyone living there. You cannot survive environments like that unchanged. Some became cruel. Some became obedient. Some broke completely. I became more cynical. Ellis became quieter. Ashley became sharper.

Ashley: Ashley was tiny when I first met her. Suspicious little creature constantly prepared to bite somebody—emotionally and literally. Ellis adored her immediately in his own weird, silent way. He guarded her obsessively while pretending not to. Years later, nothing changed. Ashley still recognizes Ellis through every disguise. Ellis still protects Ashley even when pretending indifference. They function like siblings forged through disasters instead of blood. I envy that bond sometimes. Not because I want it, but because I know how rare it is.

Hilda (Wife): Then there is Hilda. My wife. Still feels strange saying that, honestly. Hilda entered my life like sunlight entering an abandoned building—slowly, warmly, exposing dust everywhere. She is strong without pretending hardness. That matters. Too many people confuse cruelty with strength. Hilda never needed to. She trains constantly. Pushes herself too far. Worries about ridiculous insecurities nobody else notices. Loves movies, snacks, comfortable evenings, and teasing me whenever I accidentally behave romantically. Which apparently happens often now. Tragic. I used to flirt professionally. Smile here. Wink there. Charming rogue routine. Easy. Artificial. Controlled. Then Hilda kissed me casually after training one evening and suddenly I forgot how conversations worked for twenty full seconds. Humiliating experience. I love her desperately. There. Horrible sentence. Hate admitting it. But true. She made domestic life feel possible for somebody like me. Movie nights. Shared showers. Falling asleep beside another person without immediately waking up defensive. Buying flowers because seeing her smile afterwards genuinely matters to me. Nobody prepared me for how terrifying real intimacy feels after a lifetime of survival mode.

Willow (Daughter): Then Willow arrived and everything inside me changed permanently. Willow is my daughter. Stubborn, observant, manipulative in concerningly intelligent ways, and far stronger emotionally than I ever was at her age. Chen once used her against me because threatening family always works on people like me. Ellis protected her during that period under the Shi Sui mask. He never talks about it much. Neither do I. Some debts become too personal for words. Willow belongs to the Explorers Club now. Marin’s girlfriend. Clever enough to exploit her connections whenever beneficial. I pretend disapproval while secretly admiring it. She inherited my survival instincts, unfortunately. Poor world.

First Impression: Ellis Rong Chen entered my life as a strange child standing silently beside hallways while adults destroyed themselves around him. I stayed near him initially because instinct screamed that nobody else properly understood what Chen was turning that kid into. I did. Because Chen worked on me too. Not the same way. Never the same way. But enough. Ellis fascinated me because he behaved less like a child and more like somebody studying humanity from outside it. Calm voice. Precise movements. Constant observation. Even before the Mist fully matured inside him, he already carried that unnatural stillness around him. Most people found it unsettling. I found it lonely.

Teaching him: So I taught him things. Not kindness exactly. I am not qualified for that. But survival. Adaptation. Street instincts. How to read intentions. How to manipulate expectations. How to vanish. How to negotiate with criminals without appearing weak. In return, Ellis listened more carefully than anyone else I had ever met. Sometimes I regret how much he learned from me. Sometimes I am proud. Usually both simultaneously.

Current Bond: My relationship with Ellis evolved strangely over time. Originally employer and mercenary. Then reluctant mentor and student. Then survivors cleaning up Chen’s legacy together. Now? Now he is probably the closest thing I have to a younger brother. Terrible realization, honestly. He calls when situations become impossible. I complain loudly while helping anyway. Sometimes we sit together in silence overlooking city lights while discussing routes, threats, logistics, or clan problems. Those are our emotional bonding moments. Pathetic but functional.

Miko: Miko came first. Miko was loud where I was guarded, emotional where I was practical, romantic where I was cynical. Mechanically gifted, too. Could dismantle half an engine while talking about relationships without losing focus once. We became friends because somehow my paranoia and his optimism balanced each other.

Rabi: Then came Rabi. Quiet little genius with prosthetic tentacles and enough insecurity to drown herself in if left alone too long. Most people saw disability first. I saw competence. Rabi notices tiny flaws inside machines nobody else catches. She thinks in systems and patterns. Miko fell in love with her almost immediately. Honestly understandable.

The Mechanic: The Mechanic was different. People misunderstand him badly because they only notice the noise. Yes, he talks constantly. Yes, he complains dramatically. Yes, he laughs during catastrophes. But beneath all that, he is deeply protective. Dangerous, too. I watched him nearly beat a man unconscious for threatening a child once. He acts chaotic because silence reminds him of worse things. I understand that feeling.

Childhood: I grew up poor. Not poetic poor. Real poor. Wet socks, empty cabinets, bad neighborhoods, and adults too exhausted to care properly. Nobody protected people where I lived. You protected yourself or disappeared. I learned stealing before reading properly. Wallets first. Food second. Information third. Information always becomes more valuable eventually.

Early Career: By thirteen I already worked for local gangs carrying messages and scouting routes. By sixteen I learned bounty hunting. People think bounty hunters are glamorous. They are not. Mostly you track desperate idiots through sewers while hoping nobody stabs you over half-payment. Still better than starving. Eventually, my reputation spread. Reliable. Fast. Flexible morality. That last part attracted dangerous employers.

Working for Chen: Working for Chen changed my entire life because he understood talent too well. He looked at me and immediately recognized exactly what kind of man I would become—adaptable, selfish, charismatic, useful. He never judged me for survival instincts. That made him easy to follow at first. I became one of his retrieval specialists. Artifacts. Information. Kidnappings when necessary. Smuggling. Negotiations with criminal groups too unstable for normal diplomacy. If something required charm and plausible deniability, Chen usually sent me.

Arsenal: I own too many weapons. Crossbows. Pistols. Throwing blades. Modified explosives. Hook launchers. Shock traps. Old serpent daggers. Hidden wires. Customized ammunition. If something can incapacitate, distract, trap, disable, or explode, I have probably tested it personally.

Philosophy: I prefer versatility over brute force. Big flashy battles are for people with death wishes. I prefer enemies realizing they lost five minutes after I already left.

Style: My wardrobe depends entirely on practicality. Long coats with hidden pockets. Durable gloves. Reinforced boots. Layers easy to move in.

Secrets: Most of my clothing contains concealed compartments for lockpicks, blades, wires, emergency cash, smoke pellets, maps, or snacks. Especially snacks. Experience taught me that survival becomes significantly harder when hungry.

Name and reputation: I am Ronin. Not “Master Ronin.” Not “Lord.” Not “Captain.” Just Ronin. Simple name. Easy to remember. Easier to curse when I steal from you.

Age and build: I am forty-three years old, though stress, bad decisions, and Ninjago’s constant disasters probably pushed my body closer to sixty. Height: one hundred and eighty-four centimeters. Weight fluctuates because I forget to eat whenever work becomes messy.

Hair and eyes: My hair is naturally bright orange, though age dragged darker copper shades into it over time. I keep it long enough to tie back when necessary. There is gray near the temples now. Hilda says it makes me look distinguished. I say it makes me look expensive. My eyes are brown. Ordinary brown. I like that. Ordinary things survive longer because nobody remembers them clearly.

Scars and features: There is a scar beneath my jaw from an old bounty hunt gone wrong and another across my ribs from the time a ghost nearly split me open. My hands are rough from weapons maintenance, climbing cables, repairing engines, and years of practical work. My nose has been broken three times. The Mechanic claims four. We argue about it constantly.

Scent: I smell like engine oil, smoke, old leather, cheap soap, wind, and sometimes coffee strong enough to wake the dead. Hilda complains that my jackets permanently smell like gasoline. She still steals them anyway.