"I'm fine, Lady Tsunade. Really."
Uchiha Sogetsu lay mummified in bandages, exasperation in his eyes.
"You a doctor? Or am I?" Tsunade sprawled beside him in a loose tea-green yukata, all curves and careless posture, legs long and bare below the hem, toes idly flexing like carved white jade.
Shameless woman.
Sogetsu covered his eyes. "Please… show a little restraint."
"What, afraid of a little scenery?" She wet her lip and shot him a sultry look. "Brat, your thoughts better not be wandering anywhere impure."
"Sorry. I don't like older women."
"Pfft." She waved him off. "As if I'd be interested in you."
Silence settled, prickly and awkward.
"Where's Hikari?" he asked at last, unable to stand her sideways glances.
"Relax, little perv." Tsunade rolled her eyes. "I sent her to shop. We're far from Ame—safe enough."
"…Understood."
"You sure you don't like her?" Tsunade leaned in, teasing. The scent of sake and something soft brushed his nose. Lowering his head meant falling into a valley of trouble.
"You misunderstand," Sogetsu said smoothly, pushing up his glasses. "I don't like her. I care as a comrade—nothing more."
"Mm-hmm. Say that again when it bites you."
He let it go. Liking was a luxury he'd forfeited the day he drank the Spectator's draught.
The door slid. "I'm back, Lady Tsunade," Hikari said, arms full of boxes.
"Good work, Hikari~" Tsunade was already half a blissful heap.
Sogetsu eyed the haul—beer and boxed meals. "You said you weren't drinking."
"Did I?" Tsunade blinked thoughtfully. "Mission's over. A little won't hurt."
A little became a lot. She was snoring soon after.
"Paper-thin tolerance, ironclad habit," Sogetsu muttered. "A dangerous combo."
He rose, dressed in traveler's black, and pulled his hat low. "Hikari, I'm leaving for two days. While I'm gone, I need you to plant a false memory—keep her from piecing things together."
"No problem." Hikari nodded, then bit her lip. "Um… can I come?"
"Stay." He ruffled her hair, a rare smile flickering. "You'll help me more here."
"…I won't let her get in your way," she promised, spirits dipping and then rallying.
"Reliable as ever." He slid the window open. "I'm counting on you."
Night swallowed him in three quick bounds.
—
Amegakure's rain fell like a lifetime habit.
Konan walked beneath a paper umbrella, dark hood drawn, watching her village pretend nothing had changed. Shops open. Footsteps quick. Warm dusk light in narrow windows. Peace built on silence.
They were smothering the news: Hanzo was dead.
Two days had torn her life to shreds. Yahiko—gone, burned black in her arms. Nagato—left skeletal and reeling by the Demonic Statue's price, receivers having torn him through. The only grace: Ame's fury had fixed on Tsunade, not on her fractured Akatsuki. A thin breath of time.
"Yahiko… what do I do now?" Konan whispered. The rain answered like a funeral drum.
Her steps took her—without thinking—down a quiet lane to a tiny stall tucked beneath an eave. Barely three tatami of dryness, a simple board, a single stool. A man sat reading a small black book.
White robe. Wooden cross at his breast. A face plain and gentle, like a still pond.
Strange man, Konan thought. The world's noise didn't touch him. The calm around him felt… safe. Her feet stopped of their own will.
"Lost lamb," the man said, closing the book and lifting his eyes. His voice was warm sunlight in winter. "Do you believe fate brought us to meet here?"
"What are you talking about?" Konan's guard wavered at the first sentence, as if he'd aimed it straight at the hollow in her chest. His eyes—dark, clean as a newborn's—seemed to reflect the snarl of her thoughts back at her.
"I can see the confusion in your eyes," he said, fingers folding loosely over his lap. "If you don't mind, speak it aloud. Perhaps I can share the weight."
"No… thank you." She shook her head. "No one can help me."
She turned to go.
"Fate is cruel, isn't it?"
She stopped. The rain blurred. Slowly, she looked back.
"Everything fate gives," the man said softly, "already has a price written in the dark. The question is—will you accept the price on your gift?"
The raindrops drummed on paper and stone. Konan's fingers tightened around the umbrella's handle. Somewhere deep in the man's clear eyes, tiny vortices turned… and turned.
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