The wooden door creaked open.
Warm light spilled into the entryway, and with it came the unmistakable scent of food. Soup, rice, something lightly grilled. Comforting. Domestic.
Uchiha Yoru stopped at the threshold.
His three-tomoe Sharingan rotated silently as his gaze swept the living room. One hand remained wrapped around the hilt of the Kusanagi. The atmosphere was wrong. Too calm. Too ordinary.
No one lived here but him.
So who had turned on the lights?
Who had cooked?
Chakra flowed to his feet as he crossed the wooden floor without a sound. His steps were soundless, his breathing shallow. The dining table came into view first.
A simple meal. Rice, soup, side dishes. The steam had thinned, but the aroma lingered thick in the air.
No one in sight.
Yoru's eyes narrowed. The moment he'd caught the scent earlier, he'd already stopped breathing. From his sleeve, venomous snakes slipped free, slithering along the walls to pry open windows. Ventilation came first. Poison was always an option.
Only then did he move upstairs.
The hallway was silent. Snakes clung to shadows, coiled in blind angles, waiting.
The bedroom door slid open.
For the first time that night, Yoru froze.
Someone was inside.
Every snake outside the room went still.
Kneeling on the wooden floor, head bowed low in a formal apology posture, was Uzuki Yūgao.
The room was spotless. The bed had been made. The blankets were folded neatly, as if prepared for sleep.
In his bedroom.
Yoru's smile was thin and dangerous.
"Yūgao," he said calmly. "Would you like to explain why you're in my house? And more importantly—why you're in my bedroom."
Outside the room, unseen, the snakes lifted their heads.
Yūgao's shoulders trembled. She didn't lift her head.
"Y–Yoru-sama… Mika-san said you might be able to help me."
"Help you with what?"
For a brief moment, Yoru's mind raced. Her own plan? Or ANBU's?
Then she spoke again, voice shaking.
"My father left behind a debt."
Three million ryō.
As she finished explaining, Yoru finally understood. Not surprise—clarity. This was cleaner than poison. Cruder. And far more effective.
A spy mission.
Not infiltration by stealth, but by desperation.
Yoru exhaled quietly. The snakes withdrew into the shadows, though his guard remained.
"Three million," he repeated. "For a normal shinobi, that's not a debt. That's a sentence."
He stepped fully into the room, loosening his grip on the sword but not his awareness.
Yūgao's lips were pale. Her forced calm wavered.
"I'm willing," she said, forcing the words out, "to become your woman. A concubine… or even just a lover."
Once spoken, the words could never be taken back.
Yoru looked at her for a long moment. Purple hair, tied neatly. A cold, composed face cracked by fear. She wasn't acting well enough to be comfortable.
Dirty methods, he thought. Thorough ones.
Instead of answering, he asked, "Did you cook the food downstairs?"
Yūgao blinked, startled. "Y–Yes. You weren't back yet, so I thought—"
She bowed again in panic. "I'm sorry for touching your kitchen without permission."
Yoru let out a soft, humorless laugh. ANBU really had planned this carefully. Layer after layer. No retreat for her. No clean refusal for him.
"Bring the food up," he said. "You haven't eaten either. We'll eat here."
"Ah—yes!"
She hurried downstairs, flustered and unsteady.
They ate in silence.
Yoru finished first, wiped his mouth, and nodded faintly. "You cook well. Though I'm not fond of rice balls or sushi."
Yūgao nearly dropped her bowl. "I—I'll remember that! I'll do better next time!"
Next time.
The word lingered, heavy.
Yoru retrieved a bottle of red wine from the cabinet and poured two glasses.
"This is Uchiha wine," he said lightly. "Good for circulation. Some say it's good for the skin, too."
Perhaps to steady herself, Yūgao took a large gulp.
She coughed immediately, face flushing, eyes watering. Her hand shook around the glass.
Either she was an exceptional spy… or she was terrified.
Yoru suspected the latter.
"Yoru-sama," she asked suddenly, eyes red from drink and emotion, "can you really help me?"
He nodded.
"You're beautiful. Talented. Clean background," he said plainly. "I'll pay one million a year. I'll clear the debt now. Three years later, you're free—if you want to be."
He shrugged slightly. The terms were clear.
Three million for a future special jōnin was a bargain. He knew her potential. He also knew this world.
"Keep your word," Yūgao said, voice steady now.
She removed her uniform without hesitation.
Moonlight spilled across the room as two shadows came together.
Morning.
Yūgao curled beneath the blanket, unmoving. Yoru rose quietly, studied her trembling lashes, then dressed.
Her hands bore light calluses. Weapon training. Honest work.
He placed a note on the table before leaving.
I've gone to work. Breakfast is ready. I requested leave for you today.
At the end, a simple, clumsy smile drawn in ink.
When Yūgao woke, the room was empty.
She stared at the stain on the white sheets for a long time.
The man she was meant to spy on had been gentle. Considerate. Human.
ANBU had given her a mission.
He had given her warmth.
She ate the porridge slowly, smiling faintly.
"Thank you," she whispered. "But I'm sorry. I won't stop."
She would stay close. She would listen. She would become Uzuki Yūgao, loyal assistant.
And quietly, patiently, she would become a spy.