Palms rise. The class flows out of the room as one thin line, ribs first, ankles honest, hands where the hall can see them. The doorway takes them without chewing. The corridor breathes like a patient animal and remembers it has rules written into its floorboards.
"Front hall," Iruka says from the rear. "Row order stays. Palms up. If you cannot fix a thing, stop and let space learn its manners."
Mizuki shadows the group at a legal distance, clipboard tucked, eyes awake. He does not speak. He does not own the air. He lets procedure hold the leash.
They take the long hall in quiet rectangles of light. Izayoi anchors the tail because anchors finish last on purpose. Naruto fights the urge to be first and learns that being second can be a kind of strength. Hinata moves near the head of the line, hands at chest height as if carrying a bowl that contains calm.
"Ribs before shoulders," Iruka says. "Doors make liars out of shoulders."
A side room slides its shoji a hand width. Voices leak out and then go quiet out of respect for the line. A janitor with a mop bucket stops at the intersection and lets the class pass because water does not hurry. The mop holds still but thinks about dripping. Izayoi files himself thinner by a coin where he will need to be and then does not need to be because the bucket waits.
"Corner," Iruka says. "Left bend. No collisions. If you must pay, pay with waiting."
The left bend teaches nothing new and everything old. A teacher with a tray of cups comes the other way. Hinata narrows two heartbeats early and permits the tray the dignity it deserves. Naruto wants to prove he can narrow too and almost proves it too loudly. Shikadai breathes one word - "Small" - and Naruto buys the cheaper version.
The front hall opens ahead like a room that likes to hear footsteps. Paper announcements line one wall. The door to the street is propped open to a sliver that smells like market and dust. Civilians cross the far end with packages, voices softened to stay polite inside a school.
Iruka steps past the line to the threshold of the front hall and turns so the class will see his hands before they hear his words. "Field doorway," he says. "Public eyes. Same rules. Palms visible. Ankles honest. Ribs before shoulders. If civilians arrive, you pay with waiting unless waiting makes them unsafe. If they stumble, you receive and you do not perform."
Mizuki chooses a pillar and becomes furniture there. He angles the clipboard down as if writing can wait until after behavior has decided what ink deserves.
"Row one," Iruka says. "Hinata second. Izayoi anchors." He raises one finger. "On my count only."
A clerk from the records office exits the stair with a lacquered scroll box hugged to her ribs. She moves like someone who already paid for the day and does not want extra taxes. The class lets her cross the hall without buying attention. That is the point.
"One," Iruka says.
The first student approaches the big door that pretends to be narrow. He becomes modest at the jamb and passes into the front hall. He does not stare back to see if he did it right. He keeps moving because humility keeps traffic alive.
"Two," Iruka says.
Hinata steps and edits early. The jamb forgets to be special. She arrives in the front hall and stands a finger inside the room, palms still up, eyes normal. The simple dignity of it reads as permission for everyone behind her.
"Three," Iruka says.
Izayoi moves. The smell of dust and market salt rides the hall. He narrows by ribs, not shoulders. The jamb understands compromise. He is through and it did not cost the door a lesson.
"Row two - alternate with three," Iruka says. "If you meet at the frame, one stops. One pays by waiting. Decide in a breath."
Two bodies arrive at once and do not try to pass like rivals. An early stop and a small nod solve the problem cheaper than words. The janitor hums two notes and pushes the bucket along without leaving streaks. He approves of drills that keep his floor uninteresting.
Naruto reaches the frame and narrows in time, then forgets he is supposed to keep hands high when a civilian steps into his peripheral. Izayoi lifts two fingers where Naruto can see them. Palms up. Naruto remembers and raises them. The civilian does not notice being protected. Good drills leave civilians out of the story.
"Reverse," Iruka says once the first wave clears the hall. "Hall to corridor. Narration allowed only if one word buys the right movement. Otherwise, silence is cheaper."
They turn. Izayoi stays at the rear because anchors behave. Hinata enters first. A civilian teenager with a basket of ink blocks appears from the outer door at an angle that would ruin a shoulder anywhere else. Hinata sees the collision coming two heartbeats before it exists and becomes smaller without asking anyone to respect her. The ink blocks stay dry.
"Choose," she says under her breath, word small as a weight you lift with two fingers.
Naruto comes next wearing a look like he might attempt generosity too loudly. The teenager keeps the basket, Naruto keeps his feet, and the door keeps being a place instead of a test.
Mizuki watches posture, not faces. He watches wrists and elbows and the way heads choose not to duck because ducking is a different sport.
Iruka holds the frame on the corridor side and listens to how silence flows. When the last of row three re-enters, he touches the jamb with two fingers - ritual as attendance. "Again," he says. "Add a carried object. You will mime a thing that breaks if you drop it. You will not let the door write about you."
They go again. Hinata carries invisible porcelain with both hands and treats empty air like it is worth money. She passes. Izayoi carries an invisible bowl at collarbone height and the doorway acts like he is a rumor. Naruto carries a heroic nothing and almost salutes with it before remembering heroes are expensive.
A man in a courier vest slips in through the external door with a pouch. He does not run. He does not yield more than the law requires. He has a stamp on his wrist from the front desk. He becomes part of the weather.
"Receive," Iruka says when a second-year from another class misjudges an angle and clips the courier's elbow lightly. Izayoi lifts his hand where both can see it. He takes the loose corner of the pouch on its own momentum and lets it complete the arc into the courier's palm again. No drama. No extra breath. No need to pause.
"Thank you," the courier says to no one. He finds the front desk and becomes someone else's task.
The class breathes better now. Traffic becomes grammar. The door calms down.
"Last pass," Iruka says. "Smallest version. If a stranger would see your decision from across the hall, it is too big."
They do it. The door forgets to be the subject. Ankles tell the truth. Shoulders refuse to brag. Centers stay small.
Iruka allows himself the weight of one nod. He looks at Mizuki. Mizuki tilts his clipboard at a respectful angle and finally speaks because the moment belongs to paperwork now and not to movement.
"Administrative note," Mizuki says. "For the record - this morning's supervision of Byakugan was logged. This afternoon, seven minutes of activation during rail constraint as approved. In addition, Iruka, the office requests a brief open demonstration for the parent committee in two days - practical safety - doors, stairs, and crowd flow. Two students only."
Iruka answers without surprise. "Approved. We choose the two. We do not perform. We instruct."
Mizuki writes a single line. He turns the smallest fraction to Izayoi. "Question for you - still simple, still in front of your teacher so the answer belongs to the room. When you narrate in class, do you use the seal words because they are habit or because they help you breathe."
"Habit," Izayoi says. "Breath follows the shape whether I say the words or not."
Mizuki nods once. "Log notes understood." He closes the clipboard with the soft click of a tool that trusts itself.
"Back to the classroom," Iruka says. "We traverse in reverse order. Palms visible until benches decide to be benches again."
The line reforms, learns how to be smaller even in success, and flows toward the corridor mouth. The janitor waits at the end of the hall to claim the section the class did not scuff. He looks pleased in a way that will not make anyone else uncomfortable.
Izayoi takes the rear. Hinata takes second at the head. Naruto takes not being first as a personal exercise and accomplishes it admirably for almost nine steps. On the tenth he stops himself from rushing because there is no prize for arriving with noise.
The classroom receives them. Desks reassert their shape. Chalk waits to be told what to do. Iruka holds them at the door by not letting his hands fall yet.
"Open demonstration," he says to the class. "Not a show. A procedure. Two days from now. Parents need to learn that doors repay small people. Two students will assist me in showing that. I will choose them after I read your notes."
Naruto's hand finds the air with unusual control. "Sensei," he says, and his voice decides to be quiet. "Can I be with Izayoi next time."
Iruka's eyes read the room and then read the boy's posture. "Maybe," he says. "If you can stay smaller than the door."
Naruto grins like a promise he intends to pay. "I can learn that."
Mizuki taps his clipboard against his knuckle as if counting time. "Scheduling," he says. "Tomorrow during the last block, Izayoi will report for a short supervised repetition of no-seal basics with Kenta observing - five minutes only - to finalize the proficiency note."
Iruka checks the class shape and finds it can afford to hear the sentence. "Approved," he says. "We keep it boring."
"Boring makes rules cheap," Mizuki says. He steps back toward the frame and becomes furniture again.
Iruka lowers his hands and the room begins to breathe like a room, not a corridor. He taps the chalk rail once. "Three lines," he says. "One thing doors taught you. One thing you still do too loud. One thing you will change before the demonstration."
Pencils begin their whisper. Hinata writes without underlining. Shikadai writes without looking happy about being right. Naruto writes and then, without being told, crosses out a loud word and replaces it with a smaller one.
Izayoi stands where the door cannot make a claim on him and lets the room set itself down. We keep it boring. He believes the sentence until he has to buy something more expensive.
Iruka does not dismiss them yet. He looks at the chalk door on the floor, then at the real one, then at the window rectangles. He balances the room with his eyes and finds it wants a final line to hold onto.
"Hands where I can see them," he says. "On my count, we walk the aisles and let the room be a room again. On three."
He raises one finger.