The chalkboard had stopped being the enemy and gone back to being just a chalkboard when Iruka finally let Naruto back inside.
Naruto, tragically, had not stopped being Naruto.
He stomped into the classroom like he'd been personally wronged by the concept of architecture, throwing himself into his seat in the back row. The desk rattled. A couple of kids jumped. Someone muttered, "Here we go," under their breath.
From my spot near the windows—third row, girls' side—his energy felt like it always did when he was mad. I didn't have a name for it yet, not really, but I could feel it buzzing against my skin. It felt like a bonfire someone had poured too much gas on—bright, unstable, sloshing right up to the edges and looking for something to burn.
"Uzumaki Naruto," Iruka said warningly, without even turning around.
"What?" Naruto complained. "I just sat down!"
Iruka wrote something about the First Hokage on the board with unnecessary force.
On Naruto's other side, the dark-haired boy—Sasuke—sat like he'd been carved out of stone: straight-backed, arms crossed, eyes half-lidded. His energy was different. If Naruto was a bonfire, Sasuke was a furnace someone had slammed the door on. Tight. Hot. Coiled in on itself.
My own desk was a disaster—in a controlled way. Textbook open, actual notes on one side, doodles creeping down the margins like ivy. Little geometric designs wound around the kanji for "fire" and "water," spirals and interlocking lines that might do something one day if I ever figured out the logic behind them.
"Pssst."
A pink-tipped pencil poked the edge of my paper.
I glanced sideways.
Yamanaka Ino had somehow achieved maximum elegance while slouched at her desk. Her hair was pulled back with a neat clip; her writing was tidy and slanted. Her energy felt like a sharp, clear pool—surface-bright, with things moving thoughtfully underneath.
She tilted her head toward the back of the room.
"So," she whispered, lips barely moving, "how bad was it?"
Naruto chose that moment to lean back in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, earning himself another "Naruto!" from Iruka. He flailed, overbalanced, and almost fell. The room tittered.
I kept my voice low. "Define 'bad'."
"On a scale from 'mildly scolded' to 'lifelong ban from the market district'?"
I thought of Iruka's headache face, the buckets of soapy water, the climb up the mountain, Naruto nearly slipping off the Third's nose twice.
"Mm. Somewhere between 'irreparably disappointed' and 'personally offended on behalf of the government.'"
Ino covered her mouth, shoulders shaking.
"Serves him right," she said, once she'd wrestled the laughter down. "Drawing that mustache on the Third was a crime."
"It was a conceptual statement about the burden of leadership," I said. "You just don't understand his creative vision."
She snorted. "Please. Naruto's 'creative vision' is 'what if I made this worse and louder?'"
She wasn't wrong.
Iruka cleared his throat pointedly. We both dropped our eyes to our workbooks like model students.
"…and so," he said, tapping the page with his chalk, "the First Hokage founded the village with the goal of bringing peace to the warring clans—"
My attention drifted.
Information was important and I wasn't about to flunk out of the Academy. Losing my spot here meant going back to being a civilian orphan with no future, which wasn't an option. But my brain kept wandering away from the words to the people saying them.
Hinata, two rows ahead, shrank into her seat like she was trying to fold herself into a pocket. Her energy flickered and dimmed every time Iruka called on someone.
Kiba was the opposite. Even with his head on his desk, he radiated loud heat, the kind of restless sharpness that made dogs excited and teachers tired. The puppy on his head yawned, their energies overlapping like two versions of the same song.
And then there was the sleepy kid, Shikamaru.
He was slouched so low in his seat he was practically melting, eyes half closed. From the outside, he looked like he might drift off at any second. From the inside, he felt like a river with deep, slow-moving currents—calm on top, surprisingly heavy underneath.
At lunch, the Academy loosened its tie a little.
Kids poured out into the courtyard in noisy clusters, bento boxes in hand. I ended up on a low wall under one of the scraggly trees with Naruto, because apparently, shared trauma (cleaning graffiti) creates bonds. He ripped open his lunch like it had insulted him.
"Iruka-sensei is such a drag," he said around a mouthful of rice. "History this, treaties that. Who cares what a bunch of dead guys signed a million years ago?"
"People who don't want to die in wars," I said. "Also people who like not being on fire."
He made a face and kicked his legs. That buzzing energy moved around him—restless, bright, like a storm cloud made of orange paint.
I was halfway through my own onigiri when my weird sense prickled.
Someone small, fast, and overly determined was moving through the crowd like a guided missile. Their energy was sharp and young and trying way too hard to be sneaky.
I turned my head just in time to see a blur of beige and a long blue scarf bolt past.
The blur tripped on absolutely nothing, face-planted, and slid in the dirt.
Naruto burst out laughing. "PFF—ha! You good there, little guy?"
The kid sprang back up like a rubber ball. He couldn't have been more than… eight? Brown hair stuck out from under a too-big helmet with goggles. His cheeks were smudged with dirt and pride.
"I-I totally meant to do that!" he blurted, then frozen when he actually focused on Naruto. His eyes went wide. "You're Uzumaki Naruto!"
Naruto blinked. "Yeah? And you are…?"
The kid straightened, puffed up, jabbed a thumb at his chest.
"I'm Konohamaru!" he declared. "Grandson of the Third Hokage! But don't call me 'Honorable Grandson' or I'll kill you."
That last bit came out with the exact intonation of someone quoting themselves from a hundred tantrums.
I almost choked on my rice. Grandson?
Konohamaru's energy jittered impatiently, like it was trying to climb out of his skin. He kept cutting glances toward the red tower where the Hokage's office sat, visible over the rooftops.
"Okay, Konohamaru," Naruto said, grinning. "Why were you sprinting like a weirdo?"
Konohamaru's ears went pink. "I—I was going to challenge Gramps. I mean… the Hokage. Again." He scowled. "But I slipped. Stupid floor."
"The ground hates all of us," I said solemnly. "Equal opportunity."
He only then seemed to realize I existed. His gaze flicked to me, then to my forehead (bare of any headband), then down to the ink stains on my fingers.
"And you are?" he asked, slightly suspicious, like I might be a secret guard in disguise.
"Sylvie," I said. "Random orphan. Resident Naruto-enabling committee."
Naruto elbowed me. "Hey! I don't need enabling!"
"That's exactly what someone who needs enabling would say."
Konohamaru watched us bicker, eyes shining in that way kids get when they've just realized older kids are actually idiots.
Then he leaned forward. "Boss," he said.
Naruto jerked. "Huh?"
"Teach me," Konohamaru said, dead serious. "You painted the Hokage Monument. You don't care he's the Hokage. You talk to him like he's just some old man. Nobody else does that. So… teach me how to beat him."
There it was: the little tangle of envy and resentment in his chest whenever he said "Hokage." Big shadow, small kid.
Naruto scratched his cheek. "Heh. I get that," he said, voice softer. Then he brightened. "All right! I'll teach you."
Konohamaru lit up. "Really, Boss?!"
"Boss?" I repeated, amused.
Naruto straightened, puffing his chest out like a pigeon. "Yeah, that's right. From now on, I'm your boss. Lesson one: you can't beat the Hokage by tripping on the ground."
They were about to devolve into a slap-fight when a new presence approached—smooth, controlled, and deeply annoyed.
"Konohamaru-sama!" a voice snapped.
A man in dark clothes and a standard-issue flak vest marched toward us, sandals clicking on stone. Dark glasses, tight ponytail. His energy felt like a walking lecture.
He stopped, hands on his hips.
"There you are," he said. "I turn my back for one moment and you're fraternizing with… with this delinquent again."
Naruto bristled. "Delinquent?!"
"Ebisu-sensei," Konohamaru groaned. "I told you not to call me '-sama' in front of people."
"I am your elite private tutor," the man, Ebisu, said without a trace of irony. "It is proper to address the Hokage's grandson with respect."
He gave Naruto a once-over like he'd found something moldy in the fridge.
"And it is proper," he added, "to keep him away from bad influences."
His gaze flicked to me, clearly lumping me into the "bad influence" bucket by proximity.
I smiled, sharp and sweet. "Hi," I said. "Random orphan. Zero political power. I have a name too, but by all means, keep objectifying us."
His mouth pinched.
"Uzumaki Naruto," he said, as if reciting a wanted poster. "Perpetual Academy failure. Repeated vandalism. Chronic disrespect for authority. A boy like you will never become Hokage."
Naruto flinched. Just a tiny twitch around the eyes. But his energy spiked like someone had jabbed it with a needle.
"You don't know that," he said. "I'll show all of you. I'll—"
"Konohamaru-sama," Ebisu cut in, turning away from Naruto as if he'd ceased to exist. "We are going. Now."
My fingers curled around my bento box.
"I don't know," I said lightly. "Naruto seems pretty good at dragging people up, actually."
Ebisu's lip curled. "You children don't understand how the world works," he said. "Status exists for a reason. Talent exists for a reason. Hokage is not a title for clowns and strays."
My ears buzzed. Stray.
Naruto was shaking now, just a little. Anger rolling off him like heat.
"Take it back," he said.
Ebisu ignored him, putting a hand on Konohamaru's shoulder. "Come, Konohamaru-sama. We'll work somewhere you won't be corrupted by—"
Naruto moved.
It wasn't the wild, flailing charge he'd used on the training field. It was faster—offense braided with spite.
"Heh," he said, backing up a step and folding his hands into a seal I'd only ever seen doodled in the margins of dirty comics and prank scrolls. "If I'm a clown anyway… might as well use my best gag."
My brain took a second to catch up.
Wait. No. He wouldn't—
"Don't tell me you're going to—" I started.
Naruto grinned, sharp and wicked.
"Sexy Jutsu!"
He slammed the last hand sign.
Chakra flared, hot and ridiculous, and smoke exploded around him.
When it cleared, Naruto wasn't there.
In his place stood a tall, curvy girl with long blonde hair spilling down her back in soft waves. Same bright blue eyes, now framed by thick lashes. Same grin, turned devastating. The standard censoring smoke curled around her at strategic points, but there was enough visible skin to make the point extremely clear.
She giggled—high, breathy, weaponized.
"Ebisu-sensei," she cooed, leaning forward just enough that physics had a panic attack. "Isn't it lonely~ doing private lessons all day?"
My jaw dropped.
Konohamaru shrieked, "WHOA—BOSS?!"
Ebisu made a strangled noise.
For a split second, the entire courtyard seemed to pause. Even my chakra sense kind of blue-screened.
Because, sure, I knew about the Transformation Jutsu. I'd read the textbooks. I knew ninjas could look like other people.
But knowing it and seeing it from three meters away, in real air, as someone whose whole brain was already a tangled ball of gendered wires, were very different things.
My thoughts did a hard crash and reboot.
Transformation can do that? my brain screamed. It's that complete? That seamless?
There was a dizzy, lurching moment where my body felt both too real and not real enough. Naruto had just flipped a switch and became, effortlessly, something I wanted so badly it hurt to look at.
Shock hit first—sharp, electric.
Right behind it: envy. Hot and sour and ridiculous, because it was a joke, it was a gag, it was meant to humiliate an uptight tutor, not rip open my carefully labeled "Deal With This Later" box and dump it on the floor.
I must've made some kind of face, because Konohamaru glanced at me and then did a double take.
"Uh, Sylvie?" he whispered. "You okay? You look like you ate a ghost."
"Working on it," I croaked.
Ebisu, meanwhile, was losing a battle with his own circulatory system.
He stumbled back, glasses slipping down his nose, red gushing out in a nosebleed so over-the-top it would've looked fake on stage.
"Th-this… this vulgar… forbidden…" he choked, swaying. "Such… powerful… indecency—!"
He toppled backward in a perfect faint, hitting the ground with a thud.
The sexy version of Naruto dispelled in a pop of smoke, leaving regular, sweaty, smug Naruto in his place.
He planted his hands on his hips and cackled.
"Hah! That's what you get, you stuck-up glasses freak!"
Konohamaru stared at him, eyes like dinner plates. "That," he breathed, "was the greatest thing I've ever seen in my life."
"Right?!" Naruto beamed. "One day I'll make a whole new version and knock the Hokage flat too."
Konohamaru clenched his fists, trembling with religious fervor. "Teach me, Boss," he begged. "Teach me the forbidden art."
"Nope," I said automatically.
They both turned to look at me.
"That's a war crime," I said. "On at least three levels. The world is not ready for two of you doing that."
Naruto pouted. "C'mon, Sylvie, you gotta admit it was awesome."
"I will admit it was effective," I said. "I will also admit I am going to be unpacking my reaction to it for approximately the rest of my life."
He blinked. "Huh?"
"Nothing," I said quickly. "Just processing the fact that transformation jutsu is apparently… that flexible."
I glanced at my own hands. At the way my hospital gown had fit months ago. At the way this body still felt like a borrowed outfit, even when it was right.
A little tremor ran through me.
Naruto, mercifully oblivious, slung an arm around Konohamaru's shoulders.
"Lesson two!" he declared. "If someone tells you you can't be Hokage, you ignore them and get stronger anyway."
Konohamaru nodded, deadly serious. "Right!"
"And lesson three," Naruto added. "Sometimes, to shock the world… you gotta be a little pervy."
"Do not make that your life motto," I said. "Please."