Ibiki Morino stood behind the T&I front desk, his arms crossed over a chest that felt like a wall of cold iron. He kept his posture relaxed—a deliberate, practiced stillness that made the air in the room feel heavy and pressurized.
The scars on his face, jagged lines of pale, raised leather, did the rest of the work. They itched with a dull, rhythmic heat, a constant reminder of the biological tax he paid for every secret he'd ever pulled out of a man's throat.
The merchant committee didn't care about his history. They only cared about the ledger.
"You're telling us," one of them said, his voice sharp and smelling of sour tea and expensive tobacco, "that after the invasion—after the wall was breached and Orochimaru walked out alive—we're supposed to keep paying the same rates?"
Another man leaned forward, his rings clicking against the wooden desk—clack-clack. "For what? A standing army that failed to defend its own infrastructure?"
Ibiki didn't interrupt. He let them build momentum. Anger was a diagnostic tool when you let it run long enough. He listened to the low hum of the village outside, the industrial drone of a city trying to pretend its foundation hadn't just cracked.
A third voice, quieter and more dangerous, cut through the room: "An anonymous bounty would've been cheaper."
The air in the office suddenly felt like an acoustic vacuum.
Ibiki felt the comment land in his chest like a jagged piece of shrapnel.
"Say that again," he growled.
The merchant swallowed, his throat working against a stiff collar, but he squared his shoulders. "I said: why are we funding a monopoly on violence that doesn't deliver results? We pay the mission fees. We pay the taxes. We bury our dead in the Green Ring. Meanwhile, there are mercenaries and missing-nin who would've taken that snake's head for a fraction of the cost."
Ibiki leaned forward, the scars on his face pulling tight as he bared his teeth. It wasn't a smile; it was a display of friction.
"And when they miss?" Ibiki's voice was a low, grinding rumble. "When they take your gold and disappear into the Mist? When they decide your family is a better payday than the target?"
"We're already risking that," the man shot back, his eyes hard as glass beads. "At least this way we'd be choosing the risk. We wouldn't be paying for a guarantee that isn't there."
There it was. Not a rebellion. Accounting.
The village functioned as a market monopoly, absorbing diverse clans to create a "Supermarket of Techniques." But the merchants were running the numbers, and the deficit of the invasion was making the price of loyalty look like a bad investment.
Ibiki straightened slowly, every inch the monster they expected him to be. "The village is not a contract killer for hire."
"No," another merchant said, standing up. "It's an insurance policy. And the payout was a graveyard."
Ibiki said nothing. He watched them leave, the heavy thud of their boots on the floorboards sounding like earth falling on a coffin.
They weren't wrong. That was the hot lid keeping his temper down. Ethics didn't survive a spreadsheet, and the public was starting to notice exactly who was doing the bleeding.
The street corner smelled of hot asphalt and sweet bean paste.
Ibiki turned the corner and stopped.
Konohamaru froze mid-step. Udon squeaked, his goggles fogging instantly. Moegi grabbed both their sleeves, her small knuckles white as she anchored them to the grit of the road.
They stared at Ibiki the way prey stares at a predatory shadow.
He felt the exhaustion of the day settling into his joints like wet cement. He sighed, a heavy sound that rattled his lungs, and crouched down.
All three children flinched.
"Relax," Ibiki said, his voice a low, raspy gravel. "If I was here for you, you'd already be crying."
That didn't help. The fear coming off them tasted like cold copper.
"M-Mister Morino…" Konohamaru stammered.
Ibiki leaned closer, the afternoon sun hitting the geological scars on his scalp. "You know how I got these?"
Udon whimpered, a thin, high-pitched sound.
"I asked too many questions," Ibiki said gravely. "That's why you should never ask adults what they're doing when they look tired. The answers are usually boring."
There was a beat of silence.
Konohamaru snorted. A sharp, sudden burst of air that surprised even him.
Ibiki chuckled, the sound rough and real, like sandpaper on wood. "Good. You laugh loud. It means your lungs are still clear."
Iruka appeared at the end of the street, his face tight with a familiar, chronic stress. He saw Ibiki and nodded once—a silent exchange between caretakers of different kinds of trauma.
Ibiki stood, his shadow stretching across the gravel like a sundial finger. He ruffles Konohamaru's hair with two fingers, the texture of the boy's hair a shock of soft, living warmth against his calloused skin.
"Stay curious," he said. "Just don't be stupid about it."
He didn't look back as he walked away. He fought for those moments—for kids who could still find a reason to laugh at a monster. Even if the adults were already calculating the cost of his failure.
At the gate, the air smelled of wet fur and axle grease.
"Dog food again?" Kotetsu groaned, his pry-bar biting into the wood of a shipping crate—shre-eeeak. "What are they feeding these mutts, gold bullion?"
Izumo smirked, leaning against the guard post. "If it keeps them from biting the hand that feeds, maybe we should switch diets."
Kotetsu laughed, the sound echoing off the high stone walls. Then he stopped.
His hand lingered on the crate. The weight was wrong. It didn't have the slumping drag of grain or kibble. It was too rigid.
"Hold that thought," Izumo said, his posture shifting from lazy to wired-alert in a single microbeat.
Kotetsu tapped the side of the wood—tock-tock.
The sound was hollow. A false bottom.
His smile vanished, replaced by the cold, professional mask of a sentry. They worked quickly and silently, the wood yielding to their tools with a dry splintering sound.
The hidden panel came away to reveal packages wrapped in heavy, black oilcloth. It didn't smell like dog food. It smelled of bitter chemicals and raw salt.
Kotetsu exhaled, his breath hitching as he looked at the contraband. "Every time I make a joke, the world decides to be serious."
Izumo shrugged, flagging the cart for a secondary inspection. "That's when they think we aren't looking."
They flagged the crate and waved the next merchant through, the banter creeping back into their voices like iron armor settling into place. Humor was the only way to stay human when the vigilance never stopped.
Behind them, the village breathed—a low, rhythmic thrum of survival.
For now.