The blood on the contract didn't dry; it absorbed.
As I lifted my thumb, the blood seemed to sink into the fibers of the vellum, glowing with a sickly, internal heat like a deep-sea fish.
The light pulsed in rhythm with my own heartbeat—thrum... thrum—synchronizing my biology with something vastly older and slower.
It wasn't just writing.
It was a root system.
My nerves weren't just touching the paper; they were burrowing, dragging my tenketsu into a heavy, wet rhythm that beat three countries away.
Thrum-squelch.
A sensation of cold, viscous fluid rushed up my arm, settling at the base of my skull. It felt like swallowing a mouthful of mint jelly that refused to go down.
My pupils dilated. The room suddenly felt deeper. The sharp, high-contrast edges of the Hokage's office softened into a watercolor blur, and the frantic instinct to check corners for threats dissolved into a heavy, durable calm.
"BYE SYLVIE-CHAN~!"
Tsuyuyu waved a tiny, gelatinous nub.
POOF.
It wasn't a cartoon sound. It was the sharp, violent displacement of air caused by mass instantaneous transport. A vacuum bubble collapsed where the slug had been, popping my ears.
The air where she had stood smelled of wet moss and ionized salt.
I blinked. My eyelids felt heavy. Not tired—heavy. Like they were reinforced.
Naruto leaned forward, his face invading my personal space. He cocked his head to the side, his blue eyes scanning my face with the intensity of a dog sniffing a new fence post.
"Are... you okay?" he asked.
I turned my head. The movement felt smooth, lubricated. I looked at him. I saw the orange jumpsuit. I saw the whisker marks. I saw the jagged, buzzing heat vibrating off him like a wasp trapped in a jar. His movements were too fast for my new eyes, leaving smears of orange that made my stomach churn.
It was... exhausting.
"Yes, toad-boy," I said. My voice was flat, stripped of the nervous tick that usually lived in my throat.
It vibrated in my chest, deeper and wetter than usual, resonating against my ribs like a cello string submerged in water.
"I am fine."
Naruto blinked. He recoiled slightly. "...toad boy?"
I didn't blink. Why did I say that?
"Ahem."
Tsunade-sama's cough was a wet, authoritative bark that cut through the weirdness.
She rolled the contract scroll shut with a sharp snap, tying the ribbon with efficient, angry movements.
"The bond will stabilize in a few hours," she said, eyeing me critically. "Until then, try not to dissolve anyone."
She slid a folder across the desk. It hit the wood with a heavy thud, sending a puff of dust into the lamp light.
Flump.
The sound was a wet, meaty thump, lacking the sharp slap of paper on wood, muffled by the heavy humidity soaking into the pulp.
"Let's focus on the logistics. Since Uchiha has decided to go rogue, Team 7 is effectively dissolved. However, given the current geopolitical instability..."
She tapped the folder.
"I am authorizing a temporary restructuring. 'New' Team 7. Captain Kakashi. Special Jōnin Anko. You. And the toad-boy."
Naruto didn't even protest the nickname this time. He was staring at the folder. "A mission?"
"A cover," Tsunade corrected, her voice dropping to a low, conspiratorial register. "We can't just send a hunting party after Sasuke without alerting the other nations that the Sharingan is in play. We need a legitimate reason for you to be in the field."
She opened the file. A map of the eastern coast unfolded.
"The Land of Waves," she announced. "Intelligence reports a massive influx of refugees flooding across the straits from the Land of Water. The Village Hidden in the Mist is... leaking. People. Secrets. Problems."
"Mist?" I analyzed the map. "Civil war fallout? Or a purge?"
"Both," Tsunade said grimly. "We need eyes on the ground. You will escort a supply caravan to the Great Naruto Bridge, establish a perimeter, and investigate the refugee camps. While you are there... you scan for the snake."
Naruto slammed his fist into his palm. "We'll find him! And we'll help the refugees too! Multi-tasking!"
SCREEE-THUMP.
The sound came from the window behind the desk. It wasn't the wind.
It was the heavy, wooden impact of geta sandals hitting the floorboards after a dead drop from the roof.
The floorboards groaned in protest—CREAAAAK—and the vibrations traveled up through the soles of my sandals, rattling my teeth.
A gust of night air rushed into the room, smelling of woodsmoke, mountain pines, and cheap sake.
It was a distinct, earthy funk—a mix of campfire smoke, toad oil, and the ozonic tang of a man who spent his life chasing storms.
"Multi-tasking is just a fancy word for doing two things poorly," a deep voice rumbled.
We spun around.
Jiraiya stood on the windowsill, framed by the moonlight. He struck a pose—one hand on his hip, the other brushing back his wild white mane. He looked ridiculous. He looked legendary.
"Pervy Sage!" Naruto yelled, pointing a finger. "Use the door!"
Jiraiya hopped down, his sandals clacking against the floor. He ignored Naruto, his dark eyes sweeping over the room.
He looked at Tsunade, sitting behind the desk where the Old Man used to sit. He looked at Naruto, vibrating with the same stubborn energy Minato had possessed.
And then he looked at me.
I adjusted my glasses, feeling self-conscious under the Sannin's gaze.
He stared at my hair. The vibrant pink dye I had used to mask my identity for months had washed out in the snow and sweat of the last mission. What was left was a chaotic mess—faded, pastel tips, a wide band of aggressive, bleached blonde-gold, and the encroaching dark brown of my natural roots.
In the amber light of the lamp, the gold took over.
For a moment, the lamplight bleached the brown roots invisible, leaving only the fierce, golden halo that mirrored the boy standing next to me.
Jiraiya's smile faltered for a fraction of a second. The smile didn't reach his eyes. For a heartbeat, he looked old, tired, and full of ghosts.
He looked from me to Naruto, then back to Tsunade.
The tableau was undeniable. A loud, blonde idiot. A blonde, sharp-tempered kunoichi holding a slug contract. And a Hokage trying to herd cats.
"History really does move in a spiral, doesn't it?" Jiraiya muttered, half to himself.
"What was that?" Naruto asked, tilting his head.
"Nothing, kid," Jiraiya grinned, the mask of the jovial hermit slamming back into place. He walked over to the map, tapping the western quadrant.
"So, you're sending the brats Southeast," Jiraiya mused, tracing the coastline. "Smart. High traffic. Lots of rumors."
"And you?" Tsunade asked, leaning back in her chair. The leather creaked—urrr-gh—under her weight. "Are you going to stay and do paperwork?"
"Ha! Fat chance," Jiraiya laughed. "If they're taking the coast, I'll take the interior. I'm heading Northwest. Toward the borders of Rain, Waterfall, and Sound."
He looked at Naruto, his expression softening into something serious.
"We cover more ground this way. You look for the Uchiha. I'll look for the puppet master pulling his strings."
"Orochimaru," I whispered. The name tasted like bile.
"Yeah," Jiraiya nodded. He turned to the window, the night breeze catching his white hair. "Between the two teams, we'll pinch the continent. If he's out there... we'll find him."
He paused, looking back at us one last time.
"Don't die, toad-boy," Jiraiya said, winking at me. "And you, slug-girl... keep him on a leash."
"I am not a dog," Naruto grumbled.
"I'll try," I said, my voice heavy and slow. "But the leash usually breaks."
Jiraiya laughed, a booming sound that filled the office. Then, with a flicker of movement that defied his size, he vanished out the window.
Snap.
The air rushed to fill the vacuum where he had stood, rifling the papers on the desk with a sharp, fluttering rustle.
Whoosh.
The curtains settled. He was gone.
Tsunade sighed, reaching for a bottle of sake she had hidden behind a stack of reports.
"Dismissed," she said, popping the cork.
Pop.
The sharp, sweet fumes of alcohol instantly cut through the room's humidity, stinging my nose and burning away the lingering scent of wet moss.
"Pack your bags. You leave tomorrow."
I looked at the map. The Land of Waves. Where it all started.
I touched my faded hair.
"Back to the bridge," I muttered. "Let's hope it's still standing."