The vow hung in the air between them, a tangible thing in the sudden, unnerving quiet.
'I'm not letting go.'
Aiko's fingers, burned and trembling, remained interlaced with Hiro's, which were cold and lifeless. The frantic chaos of the medical tent had receded, leaving behind a vacuum of sound that was somehow more terrifying. The worst of the incoming wave had been triaged, the dead covered, the critically stable monitored. In this lull, she was alone with him, the silence pressing in, thick and heavy with the scent of blood, antiseptic, and her own singed flesh.
A sharp, throbbing ache pulsed from the burn on her palm, a constant reminder of the forbidden seal she'd used. Every muscle in her body screamed for rest, for a moment of oblivion from the relentless parade of broken bodies. But she remained rooted to the stool, a sentinel at his bedside. To move was to break the vow; to sleep was to risk him slipping away in the silence.
Inside, a silent war raged, one far more draining than any physical battle. It was the war of emotional burnout, of grief fatigue held at bay by sheer, stubborn will. She was the calm one, the steady hands, the voice of reason in the storm. But who was steady for her? Her mind, exhausted and vulnerable, drifted to the chasm that had grown between her and the legends of her generation.
There was Renjiro, the sole survivor of Uzushiogakure, a boy her age who had, according to hushed, awe-struck reports, not only slain the Two-Tails Jinchuriki in a battle that sparked the war but had also confronted the Third Raikage and lived. Not many shinobi had this privilege.
And then there was Hiro. Not a prodigy from a destroyed village, but a son of Konoha's proud Hatake clan. He hadn't just been a promising jonin; he'd been their destined leader. Even with the rising star of his younger cousin, Kakashi, the clan elders had seen in Hiro a blend of raw power and strategic acumen that echoed the White Fang himself. He'd led the desperate, legendary defence of the Konoha outpost at Serpent's Pass, holding a narrow bridge against an entire Iwa battalion for two days with only a handful of men, a feat of tactics and endurance that was already being taught in the Academy. He was the one who made history.
And she was just the medic. The one who patched up the history-makers. The one who stood in the background, her accomplishments measured in pulses stabilised and fevers broken, not enemies felled or battles won. A simmering resentment, not towards them, but towards the war itself, bubbled beneath her clinical detachment. It was a machine that chewed up brilliant, vibrant lives like Hiro's and spat them out as broken, poisoned things on her cot, and for what? A few miles of scorched earth? The bitterness was a hot coal in her stomach. Yet, despite the inner turmoil, the rising tide of helpless rage, her hands, when she checked his status, were perfectly steady.
They had to be.
It was that very steadiness, that hyper-awareness born of exhaustion, that made her pause. Something was off. She double-checked the diagnostics scroll attached to his cot. His vitals were stable. Too stable. For a person with his injuries, there should be fluctuations, the natural ebb and flow of a body fighting to live. His was a flat, unwavering line. His chakra patterns, visible to her trained senses as a soft, internal glow, were coherent, but there was a subtle dissonance within them, like a single instrument playing slightly out of tune in a full orchestra. Furthermore, the deep tissue regeneration she had jump-started hours ago seemed to have stalled. The external wounds were closed, but beneath the surface, his body was… waiting.
Her instincts, honed by thousands of patients and sharpened by sleeplessness, screamed a silent alarm. This wasn't recovery; it was stasis.
The world outside her bubble of concern began to feed her paranoia. She overheard a tense, hushed conversation between two med-nin by the supply cabinet. "…relapsed without warning. Chakra network just… collapsed," one whispered. "It's the third one from the other Squad," the other replied, voice trembling. "They're saying it's not bad luck. They're saying it's sabotage."
The word hung in the air like poison gas. Infiltration. Suddenly, the increased ANBU presence made sense. They moved through the tent not as guards, but as hunters, their animal masks making their heads swivel in unnervingly smooth motions. One of them, a tall operative with a sleek, dog-like mask and a shock of unmistakable silver hair peeking from the back, approached her. His voice was muffled, deliberately neutral.
"Medic Nakamura. A list of all patients admitted from this Squad's last mission. Their current status and treatment logs. Immediately."
He didn't look at Hiro, but his presence was a confirmation. This was targeted. Her eyes flickered over the ANBU's posture, the way he held himself with a precocious, deadly grace that seemed familiar in a way she couldn't quite place.
She merely nodded, her throat too tight to speak, and gestured to the records desk. As he turned, the way his head tilted just so, analysing the entire tent in a single, efficient sweep, sent a strange jolt through her. It was a gesture she'd seen before, in a younger, more arrogant boy. But that was impossible.
The tension in the tent was now a physical weight. Every shadow seemed to hold a threat, every whisper an accusation. Was the enemy here, among them? Had they not just wounded Hiro, but planted a slow-acting kill-switch inside him?
Driven by a new, cold fear, Aiko ignored all protocol. She placed her burned palms back on Hiro's chest, ignoring the fresh wave of pain. This time, she didn't just channel generic healing chakra. She sent forth tendrils of her own energy, a fine, probing net, diving deep into the rivers and streams of his chakra network, searching for the source of the dissonance. It was like looking for a single corrupted file in a vast library.
And then she found it. Not a physical blockage, not a residue of the puppet's poison she'd already purged. This was something else. A faint, almost imperceptible signature, woven into the very fabric of his chakra like a parasitic vine. It was inert, dormant, evading all surface-level scans. A chakra-based toxin. A timed assassination, hidden beneath the obvious, life-threatening injuries.
The realisation was a cold splash of water.
'He's not just wounded. He's been poisoned.'
The attack hadn't ended on the battlefield; it had followed him here, into what was supposed to be a sanctuary.
A terrifying fury, cold and clear and entirely professional, washed over Aiko. The weariness, the self-pity, the resentment—it all burned away in the face of this new, insidious threat. This was no longer about healing. This was a duel.
Her movements became sharp, precise. She began isolating the affected chakra points, creating a containment field around the parasitic energy with threads of her own chakra. She stood, her legs protesting, and went to the restricted archives, pulling older, dustier scrolls on advanced toxin-binding techniques—esoteric, dangerous methods most med-nin never used outside a secure laboratory. Her burned fingers screamed in protest as she unsealed the scrolls, but she didn't stop. She was no longer just a caregiver; she was a defender.
Finally, she took a pot of sealing ink and a brush. With swift, sure strokes, she painted a series of intricate protective seals on the ground around Hiro's cot, a barrier designed to block any external chakra influence. Just in case the poisoner was close, waiting to activate the dormant kill-switch.
She finished and looked down at Hiro. His breath was still a shallow whisper in his chest, his face a pale mask under the dim light. The war hero, the future clan leader, was reduced to a pawn in a shadow war.
Aiko's expression, once just tired, was now something else entirely. It was hard, focused, and held a glint of lethal promise. She untied her medic apron, stained with his blood and her sweat, and retied it tighter, more deliberately. She rolled up her sleeves, revealing the fine tremors of exhaustion in her arms, which she willed into stillness.
"You were supposed to be safe here," she muttered, her voice calm but firm, her gaze fixed on his unconscious form. "But I see it now—they're still playing with our lives."
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