Three days passed. The hunger did not leave. Every meal was a risk — half-eaten rations abandoned near the supply carts, a soft pear snagged from the edge of a careless gardener's patch, stale bread wrapped in a piece of cloth discarded by a hurried merchant. None of it kindness. All luck, and luck here was a dangerous thing. It could run out fast. It could betray you. It was a currency as fragile as the dreams Kuro tried to hold onto.
They kept close to the walls of Konoha, never daring to step inside the gates. The towering wooden walls stood watch like silent sentinels, guarded by sentries who never blinked. The towers at every corner pierced the sky, their gaze sweeping endlessly for anything unusual. But cracks existed — hidden blind spots beneath thick branches, corners where shadows folded perfectly like blankets. In those spaces, Kuro moved like a ghost, learning to breathe slow, to lower their eyes, to make footsteps vanish before they even hit the dirt.
Inside the village, laughter drifted from the Academy. It carried through the air like a fragile melody, bright and clear, warm in a way that made Kuro's chest ache. The faces were unknown, the voices unfamiliar, but the sound was pure — a reminder of life's promise that existed just beyond the walls. The contrast was stark against the dull hum of static that buzzed constantly at the edges of Kuro's mind whenever alone, a reminder that something was broken, something waiting.
The pressure beneath their ribs had not fully returned, but Kuro felt it stir now and then — a quiet coil, watching, waiting beneath the skin and bones like a predator stalking its prey. The memory of the seal lingered, stubborn and painful — the ink that circled their feet, the heavy door they had seen, the whispered words that had chained them in silence. Not yet, the voice had said. What it meant was unknown. A puzzle missing pieces.
Then, on a morning soaked in drizzle, it happened. The kind of rain that didn't fall so much as drip, making the leaves glisten like tears caught in time. Mud clung to the hems of Kuro's threadbare shirt, and their feet ached from walking too long without rest. They'd slept under a broken awning near a laundry line, hidden behind crates piled high with old scrolls stained by age. When their eyes blinked open, someone was watching.
A man stood before them. Older, with a sharp scar running diagonally across his cheek. He wore the unmistakable vest of a Chuunin, the armor light but worn. His eyes held no immediate threat — no killing intent — but suspicion burned in them like a quiet flame.
"You're not supposed to be here," the man said, his voice low, steady. Kuro blinked, unmoving. The man crouched, bringing himself level with their eyes. Not threatening, just cautious. "You from another village?"
Kuro shook their head. The answer was simple, but it carried no relief.
"A clan kid?" the man pressed.
No. Again, silence.
The man frowned, his gaze sharper now. The tension didn't lessen, only shifted — not away, but into something quieter, more careful.
"What's your name?" he asked.
Kuro's mouth opened, but no words came. The question hung heavy, demanding, impossible.
He waited patiently, the silence stretching. Finally, he sighed. "Alright. Look... you can't just live in back alleys. Not in Konoha. Especially not now. There's been talk. Strange chakra signatures near the walls. Animals acting... weird."
Kuro flinched, the smallest movement betraying a flicker of guilt or fear.
He noticed.
"Was that you?" he asked quietly.
Kuro looked away. The truth was neither lie nor confession.
The man rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture of hesitation. "I should report you. But I won't. Not yet. You're just a kid. And there's a look in your eyes... I don't know what it is, but it's not nothing." He paused, searching for words. "Come with me. You need food. Shelter. And maybe a name."
Kuro did not resist.
They followed him through winding side streets, past vendors setting up their morning stalls. The scents of fresh bread, sizzling oil, and damp earth filled the air. The city stirred to life with an energy Kuro longed to touch but still felt separate from. The man led them through a rusted gate into a quieter courtyard where children's laughter rang out, unburdened and carefree — the Academy.
Knocking on a side door, he spoke briefly with someone inside. Minutes later, Kuro was led into a plain room with two wooden chairs. The man gestured for them to sit.
"I'm Umino Iruka," he said at last. "Instructor here. I don't know what your story is. But if you stay in Konoha, you need one."
Kuro stayed silent.
Iruka leaned forward. "So let's make a deal. I won't push. Not today. But you have to give me something."
Kuro's fingers clenched the edge of the chair.
"A name," Iruka said softly. "Doesn't have to be your real one. Just something you'll answer to."
Kuro thought of the door. The ink that had circled their feet. The voice that had whispered from shadows.
"I... Kuro," they whispered.
Iruka nodded once. "Alright, Kuro. Let's get you registered."
He stood and held out his hand. Kuro took it. It was warm. Not just in temperature, but in a way that reached toward something lost.
That night, Kuro lay alone on a cot in a room meant for orphans. Three other beds were arranged neatly; two were occupied by soft, even breathing. Rain tapped rhythmically against the windowpane. The thin blanket itched but was clean.
In the darkness, Kuro held a pencil — the one Iruka had given them — and a single sheet of paper.
They drew a door.
Tall.
Cracked.
Still shut.
Beneath it, one word:
Soon.