Temari had always hated Konoha's air.
Not because it was actually clean—this was still a shinobi village. It smelled like sweat and ink and weapons and money pretending it wasn't blood. But it was clean in that smug way rich places had. Streets swept. Roof tiles replaced before they cracked. Trees that looked like someone scheduled them to be alive.
Suna didn't do schedules.
Suna did survive.
So when the signal hit—sharp, practiced, ugly—Temari didn't need anybody to explain what was happening.
The stadium exhaled.
And then Konoha screamed.
Not the crowd. The village.
A boom rolled through the stone under her sandals. Somewhere beyond the arena walls, something collapsed with the sound of a giant snapping its own spine. Smoke climbed over rooftops like a slow, patient hand.
Temari's fingers tightened around the folded iron fan at her hip.
Across the rooftop lane, Baki moved like a shadow that had learned manners. He didn't bark orders. He didn't have to. His eyes flicked over the chaos once and landed on her, and Temari felt the message like a punch to the sternum.
Extract. Now.
Temari didn't ask why.
That was for people who got to be soft.
The sand siblings had rehearsed this kind of now their entire lives. Not because they were eager.
Because the world never asked if they were.
Kankurō dropped onto the roof beside her with a heavy thud. His puppet pack clipped his hip. He didn't swear. He was too focused for swearing.
He had Gaara.
Not in his arms—not like a normal person carrying a brother after a fight.
Gaara was wrapped.
Sand had crawled up his body like wet clay, clumping around his torso and shoulders, hardening in places, still shifting in others like it couldn't decide what shape it wanted him to be. The gourd on his back rattled, not from the movement—like something inside it was tapping impatient fingers.
Gaara's eyes were half-lidded.
His breathing was wrong.
Temari felt it in her teeth: that shallow, fast inhale like a dog dreaming of biting.
"Don't look at him," Kankurō muttered, voice strained. He adjusted his grip. The sand-cocoon shifted, resisting like it didn't want to be held. "Just—move."
Temari didn't answer. Answering felt like tempting fate.
Below them, in the stadium's exit lanes, people started to wake up in ugly clumps. Not together. Not neatly. A pocket of civilians would jolt up, blink, realize, then panic like fear was contagious.
It was.
Sound shinobi dropped into those lanes like they were diving into a pond.
Sand shinobi followed with the calm brutality of soldiers who'd been told their enemies were less than human.
Temari watched a Leaf chūnin take a kunai to the shoulder while shoving a civilian kid behind him. The kid stumbled, sobbing, then tried to pull the kunai out like that would fix anything.
Temari's stomach clenched.
This wasn't a "mission."
This was a village getting ripped open on a holiday.
"Temari." Kankurō's voice cut in again, sharper. "We've got company."
She already knew.
You didn't grow up with Gaara as a brother without developing a sixth sense for attention. The air changed when someone targeted you. The pressure on your skin shifted. The wind paused like it was listening.
Temari turned her head.
And saw him.
Sasuke Uchiha hit the roof like a thrown knife.
He didn't stumble. He didn't hesitate. He landed in a crouch and rose into motion like gravity was a suggestion.
His eyes were red.
Not the normal red of irritation, not bloodshot anger—actual red, sharp and unnatural, like someone had lit a fuse behind his pupils.
Sharingan.
Temari had watched him in the arena. She'd watched him move like a boy trying to outrun the fact that he was still a boy.
Now he looked like a boy who'd decided childhood was a weakness and set it on fire.
His gaze snapped to Gaara.
And Temari saw it—pure, murderous focus. Not rage, not panic. A straight-line obsession that didn't care what else was happening in the world.
It hit her in the gut because she'd seen that same look on Gaara's face a thousand times.
Sasuke took one step—
Temari moved.
She dropped between him and Kankurō like a door slamming shut.
Kankurō didn't wait. He pivoted and ran along the roofline, hauling Gaara's cocooned weight with both arms and grim determination.
Temari didn't look back.
If she looked back, she'd split her attention.
If she split her attention, somebody died.
Sasuke's voice came flat, controlled. "Out of the way."
No insult. No posturing. Just a command he expected the universe to obey.
Temari almost laughed. Almost.
Humor died fast in the smell of smoke.
"Sorry," she said, and her voice came out too light. "Road's closed."
Sasuke's gaze flicked to her fan, then back to her eyes. Measuring. Calculating.
Temari lifted her chin like she wasn't calculating too.
He started forward again.
Temari snapped her fan open.
CLACK.
Metal on metal—like drawing a sword, like punctuation on the end of Konoha's "peace."
Sasuke paused half a beat.
That was all she needed.
She swung.
Not a full arc. Not a showy technique. Just a clean, controlled sweep—one practiced movement that turned air into a weapon.
Wind knifed out.
The space in front of Sasuke split.
His hair and shirt whipped back like the gust had grabbed him by the collar. He skidded, sandals scraping stone, and had to drop his weight to keep from being thrown off the roof entirely. Loose tiles ripped free and spun into the sky like shuriken.
Sasuke's eyes narrowed. "Wind Release."
Temari lifted a brow. "Gold star."
He lunged.
Fast.
Temari's brain registered the blur of his movement, the angle of his shoulders, the way his weight shifted at the last second—he wasn't just fast, he was precise. His chakra felt hungry, not like Gaara's cracked-glass murder aura, but like lightning trapped in a jar.
He came in low, kunai angled for her ribs.
Temari pivoted and let the strike pass where her body had been. Her fan snapped down edge-first to knock his wrist aside—
—and Sasuke twisted mid-motion like he'd predicted the counter.
His foot swept for her ankle.
Temari hopped it, just barely, and flicked her fan again.
A second wind-blade slammed into the roof between them, cracking stone and spraying dust into his face.
Sasuke didn't flinch.
Of course he didn't.
Temari bit down hard enough to taste blood.
He's good.
The thought didn't feel like praise.
It felt like grief.
Because good kids died first.
Because good kids got used by adults.
Because good kids turned into monsters if they lived long enough.
Sasuke's eyes flicked past her shoulder—toward the ridge where Kankurō had gone.
He wasn't here to fight her.
He was here to get through her.
Sasuke shifted—straight-line burst, not aimed for Temari, aimed for the gap in her guard.
Temari clicked her tongue.
Fine.
She drove chakra into her legs and jumped, twisting midair, snapping her fan wide.
She didn't swing a blade.
She threw a wall.
A roaring gust slammed into Sasuke's side like a shoulder-check from a giant. It knocked him off his line and forced him to dig his kunai into the roof to stop himself from sliding.
Metal screamed against tile. Sparks flashed.
Temari landed light, fan up, eyes sharp.
Sasuke ripped his kunai free. He looked at her like she was a problem he didn't want to solve.
"Why are you doing this?" he asked, and Temari almost stumbled because she hadn't expected words.
Not from him. Not now.
"I'm not here for you," Sasuke added, voice flat. "Move."
Temari's throat tightened.
Because there were a dozen answers and all of them tasted like ash.
Because the honest one was: Adults made a decision and now kids are carrying it out with their bodies.
Because the uglier one was: My brother is a weapon and if you keep pressing him, he'll crack and you'll all die.
Because the secret one was: I watched your village wear peace like jewelry and call it strength.
Temari shrugged like none of it mattered. "Orders."
Sasuke's eyes flickered—just a fraction—and Temari saw something under the obsession.
Not sympathy.
Disgust.
Like "orders" were a kind of weakness.
He moved again.
This time—different.
Hand signs, minimal, fast. Chakra spiked sharp at his palm.
Temari felt the heat before she saw it.
"Fire Style—"
Temari snapped her fan open wider and swung hard.
Wind met flame.
The fireball didn't vanish. It shattered, ripped apart into burning scraps that scattered over the roof like flaming leaves. Embers clung to Temari's sleeve. She slapped them out without looking.
Sasuke used the smoke like cover immediately—smart.
Temari tracked him by pressure, by sound, by the electric taste his chakra left in the air.
He came out of the smoke low and fast, aiming for her legs again.
Temari jumped.
Sasuke's kunai slashed through empty air where her calf had been.
Temari landed behind him and swung her fan sideways—not at him—
At the roof.
The wind she released wasn't a blade.
It was a shove.
A hard, sudden gust that ripped dust, grit, and tile fragments up into Sasuke's face. The roof itself coughed debris.
He flinched this time—just enough.
Temari closed distance and slammed the flat of her fan into his forearm.
Metal met muscle.
Sasuke's hand spasmed. His kunai clattered onto the stone.
Temari didn't follow with the killing blow.
She stepped back instead, fan raised, breathing controlled.
Sasuke stared at her like he couldn't compute restraint.
Temari hated that she understood the look.
In his world, if you had advantage, you pressed until something broke.
Temari's world had Gaara.
You learned restraint because you were always one bad second away from unleashing something you couldn't put back.
Sasuke's gaze cut sideways again, toward the roof ridge—
Temari saw the calculation in him.
He might slip past her anyway.
He was fast enough. Mean enough. Desperate enough.
So Temari did something she didn't usually do in a fight.
She talked.
"You're doing this like you think you're saving him," Temari said.
Sasuke's eyes snapped back. "What."
"Gaara," Temari said, tipping her chin toward the ridge. "You're chasing him like it's personal. Like you think you're the one who gets to stop him."
Sasuke's mouth flattened. "I'm not saving him."
Temari's laugh came out thin. "Sure."
Sasuke's chakra flared—irritated, offended.
Good.
Burn it. Waste it.
"You're wasting time," Temari said. "Your village is on fire."
Sasuke's jaw tightened. His gaze flicked down—brief, unwilling—toward the lanes below.
Temari followed it without meaning to.
A cluster of civilians had woken and started to run. Two Sound shinobi cut into them from the left, blades low. A Leaf chūnin barreled in, trying to intercept.
He was too late.
Temari's stomach dropped hard, like she'd missed a step.
Sasuke's chakra spiked—sharp, ugly, controlled anger.
Not for the civilians, not openly.
But something in him had flinched anyway.
Then he looked back at Temari like she was the problem again.
"Get out of my way," he repeated, and this time it sounded less like a command and more like a threat he didn't want to have to follow through on.
Temari could've killed him.
That was the awful part.
A full Great Sickle Weasel here, in this narrow rooftop corridor, could've turned everything into a blender. Sasuke's speed wouldn't matter if the air itself became knives.
She could've ended him and run.
Temari didn't.
Her fan didn't swing that far.
Instead she stepped forward—just enough to keep him locked on her—and let the wind around her tighten, gathering. Dust skittered toward the edge like it was being pulled by invisible fingers.
A promise.
Sasuke's Sharingan tracked it.
He understood enough to recognize the threat: if she cut loose, he'd have to retreat or eat a storm.
His jaw clenched.
For a heartbeat, Temari thought he might actually back down.
Then his gaze slid past her shoulder again.
And Temari realized he wasn't thinking about winning.
He was thinking about getting through.
That was worse.
Because that kind of focus didn't negotiate.
"You're stubborn," Temari said, and it came out like accusation and admiration at the same time.
Sasuke moved.
Straight-line dash—then a low slide under the line of her fan like he'd memorized its reach.
Temari swore and pivoted, swinging down—
Sasuke clipped her wrist with the flat of his hand, redirecting the angle. Not to hurt her. To steal her timing.
He shot past her shoulder.
Temari reacted on instinct.
She snapped the fan shut and drove it into the back of his shoulder like a baton.
Sasuke staggered one step. It broke his momentum. He turned on her, eyes sharp, hand reaching—
Temari opened the fan halfway and blasted a gust directly into his face.
Not lethal.
Just humiliating.
His hair whipped into his eyes. Dust hit his mouth. He coughed once, involuntary.
Temari used the beat to hook the fan's edge under his forearm and yank hard.
His balance broke.
He hit the roof on his side with a sharp grunt.
Temari stepped back, breathing hard now, fan raised.
Sasuke pushed up onto one elbow, glare like a blade. "You're not trying to kill me."
Temari's lips pressed tight.
"Correct," she said. "Gold star."
His eyes narrowed further. "Why."
Because she didn't want that on her conscience.
Because she'd watched enough boys die for adults' pride.
Because she'd looked at Leaf kids in the arena and—stupidly—felt something like recognition.
Instead, Temari gave him the closest thing to honesty she could afford.
"Because I don't need to," she said.
Sasuke's gaze snapped past her shoulder one last time.
Temari followed it fast.
The roof ridge was empty.
Kankurō was gone.
Gaara was gone.
Only a faint smear of disturbed dust marked their path.
Relief loosened Temari's chest for half a second.
Then dread tightened it again.
Gaara wasn't safe just because they'd extracted him.
Gaara was never safe.
Not for them.
Not for anyone.
Temari looked back at Sasuke.
He was standing now, breathing hard, pain flickering across his shoulder where she'd struck him—eyes still burning with refusal.
"You're helping do this," Sasuke said, voice low.
His gaze flicked down toward smoke and screams and the village cracking open under its own roof beams.
"You're helping burn it."
Temari's throat tightened so hard it hurt.
Because yes.
Because she could smell the smoke even up here.
Because she could hear the screams even through the wind.
Because she'd watched Leaf shinobi throw themselves between civilians and blades like their bodies were shields, and something in her ribs had twisted like a knife.
Temari opened her mouth.
Nothing came out.
So she did what she always did when emotions got too big and too messy.
She turned them into bite.
"Welcome to the real world, Uchiha," she said, voice steady because she refused to shake. "It sucks."
Then she snapped her fan shut—
CLACK—
and pivoted, leaping away.
The wind caught her as she moved—her element, her accomplice—and carried her over the ridge into the next stretch of roofs where Kankurō's chakra trail tugged like a string.
She landed near him a breath later.
Kankurō didn't slow. "Did you—"
"Stalled him," Temari said, short.
Kankurō glanced back once, eyes tight behind face paint. "You okay?"
Temari almost laughed.
Are you okay? while carrying their brother who might explode into a monster any second.
"I'm fine," she lied, because lying was a survival skill.
They sprinted together, roof to roof, away from the stadium's screaming center.
Gaara's sand shifted in its cocoon with a wet, horrible sound. His breathing hitched.
Temari's stomach dropped.
Kankurō's grip tightened. "Gaara, don't—don't you—"
Gaara didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
The sand at his shoulder bulged outward like something inside was trying to stretch.
Temari felt the wind change again.
Not her wind.
Something heavier.
Something that made the hairs on her arms stand up like the world itself was afraid.
Temari swallowed hard and forced her legs to keep moving.
Behind them, Konoha burned.
Ahead of them, the forest waited.
And Temari—Temari of the Sand, daughter of a village that survived by turning children into blades—ran with guilt gnawing at her ribs like a starving animal.
She told herself she didn't care.
The lie tasted like smoke.