The sun hung low over Konoha, casting long, amber streaks of light across the village streets. Afternoon drifted lazily toward evening, and the buzz of celebration still clung to the air like lingering incense smoke. The Academy's graduation ceremony had ended barely an hour ago, but the echoes of cheering parents, proud instructors, and exhilarated students still pulsed faintly in the back of Satoru's mind.
Satoru walked quietly through the heart of the village, one hand tucked into his pocket and the other turning a gleaming new Konoha headband over and over in his palm.
The streets around him were alive with colour and sound. Stalls lined the sides of the main avenue, vendors calling out to customers with warm familiarity. One man waved skewers of sizzling yakitori in the air, the scent of charred chicken and soy glaze mingling with the distant perfume of sweet dango from another stand. Groups of newly promoted genin passed him in bursts of laughter, some already wearing their headbands proudly, others still clutching them like precious trophies. A few younger students ran by, tossing paper shuriken and shouting mock battle cries, their voices bouncing off the walls.
The walk home took him through quieter lanes where the crowds thinned, replaced by the rhythmic chirp of cicadas and the faint hum of distant conversation.
He turned into a narrow residential street, its wooden doors and potted plants lined neatly under hanging paper lanterns. A few of his neighbours nodded as he passed; he returned their greetings with polite half-smiles.
He reached the door and stopped. The world around him stilled.
Something was wrong.
The faintest ripple brushed against his chakra field; an irregularity, barely perceptible but impossible to ignore. His breath stilled, body going perfectly still as his mind dissected the feeling. There; two chakra signatures inside the apartment. Familiar, but off.
'Two chakra signatures… both steady. Not aggressive. But why are they in my home?'
His fingers flexed subtly, loosening and tensing again. 'Could it be the Root? Did they finally decide I was worth picking up now that I've graduated?'
The thought sent a chill crawling up his spine, a reflex carved into his instincts. He had always known it might come—the quiet footsteps one night, the emotionless voice offering "service to the village." The smile of an orphan turned into a weapon. He could almost imagine Danzō's eyes behind the thought, cold and unblinking.
He inhaled slowly, soundlessly. 'Of course. How poetic and naive—thinking I'd escaped them just because I made it through the Academy.'
The air around him shimmered faintly as chakra began to flow through his network. His eyes bled into red, twin tomoe rotating lazily within each iris as his Sharingan flared to life.
The world sharpened; the grain of the wooden door, the faint displacement of air from movement within—all of it became crystal clear. His heartbeat slowed to a measured rhythm. Every instinct honed itself into readiness.
He reached for the door handle and eased it open with a soft click.
A split second later—
"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!"
The shout exploded in his face.
Satoru froze mid-step. His hand tightened instinctively on the doorframe; his pupils contracted sharply. For one absurd moment, his mind failed to reconcile the reality before him: colourful paper streamers dangling from the ceiling, a tiny cake perched precariously on the table, and two familiar faces beaming at him as though they'd just pulled off the prank of the century.
Ito's grin was wide and unrestrained, a smear of frosting already decorating one cheek. Ayano stood beside him, holding a small paper bag, her expression a mix of pride and amusement.
"…You two really don't value your lives, do you?" Satoru said flatly.
The Sharingan faded, his irises returning to dark grey. A faint sigh escaped him as he pressed a hand to his temple. Ito blinked, confused—then noticed the subtle crimson shimmer vanishing from Satoru's eyes. His expression faltered.
"Wait. Were you about to—?"
"Attack you? Possibly," Satoru replied, tone dry. "Next time, at least try hiding your chakra signatures. You were practically screaming from halfway down the street."
Ito gasped theatrically, clutching his chest. "Oh, look at him now—Mister Genin thinks he's too good for us lowly Academy students!"
Ayano rolled her eyes, though the corner of her mouth twitched. "He's not wrong. If we're going to surprise someone with a Sharingan, maybe we shouldn't broadcast our presence like fireworks."
Satoru crossed his arms, a reluctant smirk tugging at his lips. "See? At least one of you gets it."
Ito groaned. "You're both impossible. I swear, one of these days I'm going to learn how to mask my chakra just so I can prove you wrong."
Ayano giggled softly, stepping forward to set the paper bag on the table. "We weren't sneaking around for that reason. We just wanted to surprise you—and say happy birthday." She tilted her head slightly, eyes softening. "You're seven now, Renjiro."
Satoru blinked. For a moment, something flickered in his expression—something gentler. "Right. I almost forgot."
"Of course you did," Ito said with mock exasperation. "You act like birthdays are optional."
"They kind of are," Satoru replied lightly. "Time's arbitrary. We just measure it differently here."
Ayano smiled knowingly. "And yet, you picked today years ago. That has to mean something."
He hesitated, gaze drifting briefly to the cake—unevenly frosted, but unmistakably made with effort. "I picked it because it felt… neutral," he said quietly. "No pain attached to it. Just a possibility."
Back in the orphanage, if one couldn't remember their birthday, they were allowed to choose a date. Satoru picked the same date as his previous birthday, and he still forgot it.
Ayano's voice broke the silence, gentle. "It suits you. Calm and dramatic at the same time."
Satoru chuckled, the tension in his shoulders easing. "I'll take that as a compliment."
Ito grinned, snapping his fingers. "Speaking of compliments—this cake isn't going to eat itself. Come on, birthday boy, blow the candle already!"
Satoru glanced at the single small candle flickering uncertainly atop the lopsided cake. The tiny flame reflected faintly in his eyes. He leaned forward and blew softly; the wick sizzled out with a quiet fsshhh. Smoke curled upward, twisting lazily in the warm air.
They sat together afterwards, the three of them chatting in the easy, unhurried rhythm of familiarity. Ito bragged about his taijutsu scores, Ayano teased him about his lack of finesse, and Satoru—ever the observer—listened more than he spoke, the faintest smile ghosting across his lips. For a little while, the walls of the small apartment felt like a world of their own; laughter filled the space, warm and tangible.
When Ito accidentally dropped a slice of cake onto his lap with an exaggerated plop, Satoru snorted quietly. "You'd think a future shinobi would have better coordination."
"Hey," Ito shot back, waving his fork accusingly, "battle reflexes don't apply to dessert."
Ayano shook her head. "You're hopeless."
"Hopelessly charming," he corrected with a wink.
The banter drew a small, genuine laugh from Satoru—one that surprised even him. He hadn't realised how tense he'd been until that moment, how long it had been since he'd simply laughed without thinking about the consequences. The sound felt foreign but oddly comforting.
For a moment, Satoru simply sat there, watching his friends bicker softly about who got the last piece of cake.
Maybe, he thought, this was what peace looked like. Fragile, fleeting—but real.
Ito broke the quiet first, stretching his arms dramatically. "Alright! Enough talking. Let's go eat properly. It's your birthday and your genin promotion—double the celebration! We should go and eat out!"
Ayano crossed her arms with a mock sigh. "Of course, the first thing you think about is food, Ito."
"Someone has to make sure we celebrate properly," he muttered, pretending to sulk.
Satoru shook his head, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You two never change."
"And you love us for it," Ito said, throwing an arm around his shoulders.
"'Love' is a strong word," Satoru replied dryly, but he didn't shrug him off. Instead, he stood and grabbed his headband from the table, the metal glinting as he tied it loosely around his arm. The gesture felt symbolic somehow—acknowledgement without surrender.
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