The morning sun slanted through Yugakure's steam-kissed streets as I walked arm-in-arm with my "wife," discussing the absolutely earth-shatt
The morning sun slanted through Yugakure's steam-kissed streets as I walked arm-in-arm with my "wife," discussing the absolutely earth-shattering topic of whether we should buy the expensive rice or stick with the cheaper stuff.
"I'm telling you, Hiroshi," Mikoto said in a voice that wasn't quite her own—older, with the worn edges of someone who'd been married long enough to have the same argument about groceries every week. "The premium rice is worth it. Your mother always said—"
"My mother said a lot of things," I interrupted with the perfect mix of affection and exasperation that came from years of practice. "Doesn't mean she was right about all of them."
She swatted my arm playfully, and I had to admit, she'd nailed the henge this time. Mid-thirties, laugh lines around her eyes, a comfortable prettiness shaped by a life well-lived rather than youth. Even her posture had changed, shoulders a little rounder, steps a little shorter.
Damn, she's good at this.
"You're impossible," she muttered, smiling like she meant it. "Fine. Cheap rice. But when you whine that dinner tastes like bathwater, don't come crying to me."
An old woman walking beside us gave a knowing chuckle. "Sounds just like my husband," she told Mikoto with a warm look. "Thirty years, and the man still swears all rice is the same."
"Thank you!" Mikoto said in exasperation. "Finally, someone who understands."
The woman laughed and continued on her way, while a group of younger locals passed us with barely a glance, just another middle-aged couple having a domestic argument that played out in every household across the village.
The market was already bustling despite the early hour, vendors calling out prices while customers poked and prodded their way through the morning's selection. Steam rose from hot food stalls, mixing the scent of grilled fish with the mineral tang that seemed to follow you everywhere in this village.
"What do you think?" Mikoto asked, holding up two different cuts of fish at the first vendor's stall. "The red snapper or the mackerel?"
"Depends what you're planning to do with it," I said, crouching slightly to give them a closer look—at the fish, sure, but more so at the vendor's conversation with the customer beside us.
"—telling you, they had the whole eastern district cordoned off until dawn," the other customer was saying, voice low but not quite low enough. "My cousin lives over there, said she counted at least six patrol teams sweeping through."
The vendor nodded grimly. "Bad business, having foreigner causing trouble in our village. Makes everyone nervous."
I straightened with an easy smile. "The mackerel," I told Mikoto. "Looks fresher."
She nodded and began haggling with the vendor, nothing too aggressive, just the back-and-forth any local might get into. While she worked the numbers, I let my gaze drift to the next stall over, where an older woman was animatedly airing her grievances to a small circle of equally grumpy shoppers.
"—don't care what the council says about being 'welcoming' to visitors," she snapped, brandishing a bundle of scallions like a weapon. "When outsiders start fights in our streets, maybe it's time to stop being so damn polite."
Outsiders starting fights.
Yeah. That'd be us.
I drifted closer, pretending to study the produce with the discerning eye of a local. "These radishes look good today. Way better than those sad excuses they were selling yesterday."
The old woman looked up, beaming with pride. "Well, I should hope so! Been growing these since before you were born. I know what I'm doing." She picked up one of the radishes and gave it a quick swipe with her apron. "That Yamamoto fella's still trying to pass off limp, wilted garbage as fresh. It's daylight robbery."
"Tell me about it," I said, shaking my head sympathetically. "Though with all the excitement lately, I'm just glad the market's still running normally."
She clucked her tongue. "Ah, so you heard about that mess last night?"
"Some kind of fight, right? Scuffle outside the village or something?"
"Right in the streets!" she said, shaking her head in disbelief. "Down near the inn district. Woke up half the neighborhood with all that racket. My nephew's with the patrol—he says they found blood, burn marks, the whole nine yards. Could've hit anyone. Could've hit me, if I hadn't been home!"
I nodded sympathetically while calculating exactly how much the local authorities had pieced together. "That's awful. Do they know who was responsible?"
"Foreigners," she said darkly. Then, with a quick glance around, she leaned in. "They think some of them are still in the village. That's why you've got patrols crawling all over the place."
Well, they're not wrong.
"Really?" I tried to look appropriately shocked. "That's... concerning."
"You bet it is." She straightened up, brushing off her apron. "Anyway, you want those radishes or not?"
I bought the radishes—and a few other vegetables for good measure—while filing away everything I'd learned. Increased patrols. Heightened suspicion of outsiders. Blood and burn marks that meant they'd definitely found the scene of our little ambush.
Mikoto had finished with the fish vendor and was moving on to a spice stall, so I followed, slipping back into my role as devoted husband with concerns about the household budget.
"Find anything interesting?" she asked under her breath, barely moving her lips as she inspected a jar of turmeric.
"The locals are definitely on edge," I murmured back, pretending to sniff a jar of curry powder. "Last night got their attention in a big way."
"And our target?"
"Nothing yet." I swapped out jars, making a small show of checking the label. "We might need to expand our search."
She gave the smallest of nods, then slipped back into character like flipping a switch. "Hiroshi, what do you think about this ginger?" she asked, holding it up with a skeptical look. "It's a little pricey, but—"
"Whatever makes you happy, dear," I said with the long-suffering patience of a man who'd lost every grocery debate since the wedding. "You know I trust your judgment."
The spice vendor—a heavyset man with turmeric-stained fingers and a voice like gravel—chuckled as he reached for a paper wrapper. "Smart husband. Mine still argues about everything, even after twenty years."
"The secret," I said, flashing a grin, "is knowing when you're already beat."
That got a laugh from both the vendor and Mikoto, who played her part perfectly—rolling her eyes like she'd heard this routine a thousand times before.
We made a few more stops, gathering supplies while I continued my subtle intelligence gathering. The story was consistent everywhere we went: foreigners had caused some kind of disturbance and the patrols were on high alert.
By the time we finished shopping, I had a much clearer picture of the situation. Yugakure's authorities weren't just rattled—they were taking things seriously. But they hadn't pinned it on us. Not yet. The patrols felt more like a public show of strength than an active manhunt—a warning to would-be troublemakers.
Which, ironically, worked in our favor. The same heavy presence that made locals nervous would also make it harder for any outside assassins to move openly. At least for now, the chaos we'd caused was keeping us safer than silence would've.
"Ready to head back?" Mikoto asked, slipping the basket into my hand with a smile that looked every bit the part.
"Yeah, let's—"
I paused.
Something was off.
Not obviously wrong, just... off. A subtle shift that made the hair on your neck stand up without any clear reason why.
Someone's watching us.
I kept walking, maintaining the casual pace of a married couple finishing their morning errands. But my eyes were already working, scanning reflections in shop windows, checking shadows, looking for anything that didn't belong.
There. Third stall back, pretending to examine pottery. He'd been in roughly the same position when we'd started shopping twenty minutes ago, just at different stalls. Following our route but trying to stay casual about it.
I caught Mikoto's eye and gave a faint tilt of my head toward a narrow alley branching off the main market street. She didn't react—but I saw the flicker of understanding in her gaze.
"You know what?" I said, loud enough for our tail to hear. "I think I left my coin purse at that first stall. Let me just double back and—"
"Oh, for crying out loud," Mikoto huffed, nailing the tone of a long-suffering wife who'd had this conversation too many times. "How do you keep losing things that important?"
"It happens! I'll just be a minute."
We turned as if heading back—but instead of retracing our steps, I steered us smoothly into the alley.
The moment the crowd vanished behind us, I moved. One quick breath, a flash of seals, and two perfect clones of our disguised selves shimmered into being. Without hesitation, they continued down the alley at a casual pace—just another bickering couple trying to salvage a morning errand run.
Mikoto and I melted into a recessed doorway, tucked beneath a sagging awning heavy with shadow. We waited in silence, breaths low, our presence smaller than the space around us.
Now we wait.
It didn't take long. Footsteps echoed off the narrow walls as our tail entered the alley, moving carefully but with obvious purpose. He was good—keeping to the shadows, checking corners, all the right tradecraft.
But not quite good enough.
I dropped from the low roof above him, tanto already drawn.
Steel met steel in a bright, ringing clash as he twisted with startling speed, his own blade snapping up like it had been waiting for mine. Sparks danced. The sound of the strike bit into the silence.
I stepped back into a ready stance, smirking. "Following married couples into alleys? That's a new kind of creepy—even for this village."
He didn't rise to the bait. Just reset his footing. "Not bad. You've got some training."
"Do I know you?" I asked, circling.
"Doubt it," he said. "But I've been tracking a Konoha genin team in the area."
"Good intel." I slipped a kunai into my off-hand, gave it a lazy spin. "Want to tell me who gave it to you?"
He didn't move. Just raised one open hand, palm facing me. "Relax. This is a misunderstanding."
"Really? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you've been tailing us through half the market."
"Sure," he said easily. "But not for the reasons you think."
"Enlighten me."
He hesitated, then slowly reached up with his free hand and formed a single hand seal. The henge dissolved around him like mist, revealing someone who definitely wasn't a Yugakure local.
Konoha headband. Land of Fire features. And gear that screamed active duty shinobi.
"My name's Tanabe," he said, lowering his kunai. "And just so you know—you three have been causing quite a stir. Local patrols, village security, the works. When something like that happens in our area of operations, we investigate."
"We?"
"Konoha operatives working in the area." He paused, flicked a glance toward the alley mouth. "Look, can we take this somewhere else? Standing around in an alley with weapons drawn isn't the most subtle move."
I didn't answer right away. Instead, I flicked my gaze toward the shadows.
Mikoto was already there—half-hidden behind a stack of crates, still cloaked by her disguise.
I gave the smallest nod.
"Mikoto," I called. "It's okay."
She stepped into the open, her expression wary. "You sure about this?"
"No," I said honestly. "But I'm curious. And curiosity's gotten me this far."
Tanabe tilted his head toward the alley mouth. "Come on. Let's get off the street before the patrols make their next sweep."
The walk back to our safehouse was quiet, but not exactly comfortable.
Tanabe moved like someone who knew the village layout intimately. He picked back routes, avoiding main streets and skirting blind spots in the patrol patterns I'd clocked earlier. He wasn't just lucky—he was informed.
Either he had connections here, or he'd been embedded long enough to know which corners to avoid by instinct.
When we reached the building, I went in first, checking to make sure Tsume and our genjutsu-trapped hosts were exactly where we'd left them. Everything looked normal, so I waved the others inside.
"Cozy," Tanabe said, giving the place a once-over. "Creative solution to the lodging problem."
"It works." I dropped onto the couch. "Now. Start talking."
Tanabe eased into the chair across from me without protest. Mikoto didn't sit—she positioned herself against the wall, close enough to reach both him and the door in two strides.
Professional paranoia. I approved.
"You said you were working in the area," I began. "So… Intelligence Division?"
Tanabe didn't answer, but the twitch of his mouth said enough.
"Then maybe you can help us with something. I'm looking for someone—white-haired guy, probably been asking inappropriate questions about the hot springs. Goes by Jiraiya."
He raised an eyebrow. "That's… a very specific request."
"Do you know him or not?"
"I might." He crossed his arms. "Depends on why you're asking."
"Because I have something to deliver to him."
"What kind of something?"
"The kind that's none of your business. Unless you're him or work for him."
Tanabe studied me for a long moment, clearly debating how much to reveal. "Even if I did know him, I wouldn't just give out his location to random genin."
"Random genin?" I leaned forward. "We're Tsunade's students. This is an official delivery."
That got a reaction. His eyes widened slightly before he could control his expression.
"Tsunade sent you?"
"That's what I said."
He was quiet for another moment, then seemed to reach a decision. "I work for him," he said finally. "And you just answered a question I didn't know I should be asking."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning if Tsunade is sending messages through back channels instead of official ones..." He shook his head. "That's concerning."
"Okay," I said flatly. "So where is he?"
Tanabe's expression grew serious. "That's... complicated."
"Uncomplicate it."
"He's on assignment. Deep cover, very sensitive. Can't say more than that."
"When will he be back?"
"Unknown."
I felt my jaw clench. "That's not exactly helpful."
"I know. But it's the truth." He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. "Look—I can get a message to him. Let him know you're here, that Tsunade sent you. But after that, you're going to have to wait."
"For how long?"
"Could be days. Could be weeks. His current mission... it's not the kind of thing you walk away from halfway through."
Mikoto spoke up from the wall. "And in the meantime?"
"In the meantime, you keep your heads down. The local authorities are still on edge after what happened last night. The last thing any of us need is more foreign shinobi stirring up trouble."
"We didn't start that fight," Mikoto said.
"I know. Those missing-nin showed up in the area yesterday—we'd been keeping an eye on them since they crossed into our operational zone. You actually did us a favor by eliminating them." He paused. "Though your methods were a bit... messy."
"Sorry," I said dryly. "Next time I'll ask them nicely to stop trying to kill my teammates."
That got a slight smile. "Fair enough. Can't argue with results."
He scratched his chin. "Speaking of results... there are bounties on those three. Decent ones. Since you did the heavy lifting, seems fair you get a cut."
My eyebrows went up. "Now you're speaking my language. What kind of cut are we talking?"
"Thinking twenty percent. We handle the paperwork, collection, verification—"
"Twenty?" I scoffed. "We did all the dangerous work. You just sat back and watched from a safe distance. Fifty-fifty."
"Fifty-fifty? Come on, kid. We've got overhead, operational costs—"
"Operational costs?" I grinned. "What, the cost of lurking in shadows and looking mysterious?"
Kenji actually laughed at that. "Thirty percent. And that's me being generous."
"Forty. Final offer."
He gave me a look. "Thirty-five. And I throw in a bottle of decent sake."
I pretended to consider this seriously, stroking my chin like I was negotiating a major trade deal. "What kind of sake we talking about here?"
"The good stuff. Not the swill they serve tourists."
"Tempting..." I turned to Mikoto, who was watching the exchange with a raised brow and a barely suppressed smile. "What do you think? Thirty-five percent and premium sake?"
"I think you're both ridiculous," she said—but she was smiling now, arms loosely folded. "Still… the sake does sound nice. We could use it for cooking."
She lingered just enough on cooking to make sure I caught the hint.
"Deal," I said, and extended my hand to Tanabe. "Pleasure doing business with you."
"So what now?"
"Now you wait. I'll get word to him that you're here. In the meantime, keep your heads down, avoid the patrols, and try not to kill anyone else."
"No promises on that last part."
Tanabe stood up. "I'll be in touch when I have news. Don't try to find me—I'll find you."
"How?"
"The same way I found you today." He moved toward the door, then paused. "Word of advice? The local patrols are good, but they're not great. Stay smart, keep those henges active, and you should be fine."
"And if more missing-nin show up?"
"Then you handle them the same way you handled the last ones." His expression hardened. "But if you can avoid it, do. The village is already on edge."
"Understood."
He nodded and slipped out the door, leaving us alone with our unconscious hosts and a whole lot of new questions.
"Well," Mikoto said after a long moment. "That was unexpected."
"Yeah." I rubbed my forehead, trying to process everything. "So Jiraiya's not here. Could be gone for weeks. And we're stuck playing hide-and-seek with local patrols while we wait."
"So what do we do now?" she asked.
I looked over our meager supplies, thought about the patrols tightening their net, and came to a decision.
"Pack up," I said, picking up the medical book I'd been skimming the night before. "We're leaving the safehouse. Time to start scouting for a new one."
She looked up, brows tightening. "Why? I thought you trusted him."
"I do," I said. "Mostly. But not enough to hand him the exact location of our bedrolls and hope no one gets clever."
She didn't argue. Just gave a quiet nod and started gathering her gear.
"Before we go, dispel the genjutsu on the owners," I added. "We've stayed long enough. They'll wake up thinking they dozed off after dinner."
Mikoto moved to comply while Tsume quietly slung her pack over one shoulder, already scanning the window for signs of movement.
We'd gotten what we needed.
Now it was time to move.
No reason to make it easy for anyone to ambush us.
…
The next few days fell into a routine that was equal parts tedious and nerve-wracking.
Every morning, we'd pack up our gear, release the genjutsu on our hosts, and slip out before they fully woke up. By the time they'd shaken off their confused dreams about winning the lottery or finding true love, we'd already be three streets away scouting our next temporary home.
"Why can't we just stay in one place?" Tsume complained on day three as we strolled through the residential district like any other locals going about their morning business. I nodded politely to a middle-aged couple tending their garden, mentally noting their early rising schedule and the fact that their house had a back entrance.
"Because," I said, pausing to admire some flowers while getting a better view of their daily routine through the open kitchen window, "staying in one place gets you caught. And because if we keep someone unconscious for more than twelve hours, they're going to wake up with questions."
"Questions?" she asked, casually checking out the narrow alley that ran behind the row of houses.
"Questions like, 'Why do I feel like I've been asleep for three days?' and, 'Should I be worried about this?'" I waved goodbye to the gardening couple and continued down the street. "The last thing we need is some concerned citizen telling the authorities about mysterious sleep disorders."
"Makes sense," Tsume admitted grudgingly. "But this constant moving is exhausting."
"Better exhausted than dead."
Our third safehouse was a small apartment above a pottery shop. The owners—an elderly pair who spent their days bent over clay wheels—went to bed early and slept like rocks. Perfect targets for Mikoto's genjutsu.
"They're kind of sweet," she said as we settled in for the night, watching the old couple through a crack in the door. They were holding hands as they walked to their bedroom, probably a habit from fifty years of marriage.
Day four brought us to a small house near the village outskirts. The owner was a widower who lived alone with his cat—a grumpy orange tabby that took an immediate dislike to Kuromaru.
"Why is it hissing at me?" Tsume asked, watching the cat arch its back from across the room.
"Because you smell like dog," I said, settling down with my medical texts. "And because cats are naturally suspicious of anything that might eat them."
"Kuromaru wouldn't eat a cat!"
The puppy in question was currently staring at the cat with obvious fascination, tail wagging hopefully.
"Maybe not on purpose," Mikoto said diplomatically.
I watched the standoff for another moment—Kuromaru's hopeful expression versus the cat's territorial glare—then clapped my hands together. "Alright, that's enough nature documentary for one day. Let's get cooking before the fur flies."
"Thank god," Tsume groaned. "I'm starving, and those onigiri are looking less appealing by the hour."
"Give me ten minutes and you'll forget onigiri were ever invented." I made for the kitchen, already assembling the meal in my head.
The kitchen in our current safehouse was about the size of a closet, but I'd worked in worse. The elderly widower who owned the place clearly wasn't much of a cook—his spice rack looked like it hadn't been touched since the village was founded, and the cutting board had seen better decades.
Still, the ingredients we picked up at the market were solid. Fresh mackerel. Bright, crisp vegetables. Proper short-grain rice. I could make this work.
"Alright," I said, tying my hair back with a piece of string I'd scavenged from a drawer. "Time to turn this sad excuse for a kitchen into something edible."
Mikoto rolled up her sleeves, revealing the pale skin of her forearms. "What do you need me to do?"
"Can you handle knife work without taking off a finger?"
She gave me a flat look. "I'm a kunoichi. I think I can manage to cut vegetables without injuring myself."
"Point taken." I unwrapped the mackerel and laid it out on the counter. "Start with the radish. Thin slices, as even as you can make them—we're quick-pickling to balance the fat in the fish."
She picked up the knife and got to work, fingers curled properly on the guide hand, blade slicing down in smooth, straight lines. I shouldn't have been surprised. She had that quietly domestic air about her—like someone who knew how to run a household without making a big deal of it. Still, there was something oddly compelling about watching her work. She didn't hesitate, didn't overthink. Just cut each piece like she'd been doing it her whole life.
"You're good at this," I said, turning back to the fish and beginning the cleaning process.
"My mother used to make me help with dinner. She said cooking was just another form of training."
"Smart woman." I slid my own knife along the fish's spine, the edge gliding through flesh and cartilage. "Besides, it's one of the few ninja skills that makes people happy instead of dead."
She gave a quiet laugh. "That's one way to put it."
She finished with the radishes and reached for the carrots, glancing toward the living room where another crash echoed, followed by Tsume's voice coaxing Kuromaru away from something.
"So," she said, moving on to the carrots, "how long do you think it'll take Tsume to give up on befriending that cat?"
From the living room came another suspicious rustle. I didn't even have to look.
"At this rate? Never. She's got that classic Inuzuka persistence."
"Poor cat probably thinks it's being hunted." Mikoto sliced as she spoke. "Though I'll admit, it's been fun watching her throw every trick she's got at it."
"Earlier she tried bribing it with fish scraps." I set a pan on the stove and drizzled in oil, watching for the first shimmer. "Maybe tomorrow she'll move on to disguising herself as a giant cat."
She let out a quiet laugh. "Don't give her ideas."
From the living room, Tsume's voice drifted in, smug and unbothered.
"Joke all you want. If I meow and it purrs back, I win."
"That's a pretty low bar for victory," I called back, laying the mackerel skin-side down in the pan. The fish hit the heat with a sharp sizzle, and the scent of sizzling oil and salt filled the kitchen like a promise.
The rustling stopped. Then came footsteps. Tsume appeared in the doorway with Kuromaru trotting close behind, both of them staring at the pan like it held the meaning of life.
"Okay, forget the cat," Tsume said, inhaling deeply. "How much longer until that's ready?"
"Even your dog's abandoning the peace talks for dinner," Mikoto said, laughing.
"Ten more minutes," I told Tsume, flipping the fish with a soft crackle. "Go entertain yourself. Maybe try teaching Kuromaru not to stare at our dinner like he's planning a heist."
"Want me to help with anything? I can stir stuff or—"
"Kitchen's barely big enough for two," I said, waving her off without turning. "Besides, you'd just get in Mikoto's way."
"Rude." But she backed off, padding into the living room with exaggerated footsteps. I could still hear her, though—settling down just far enough to be out of the way, but close enough to monitor our progress like a suspicious landlord.
I turned to the rice pot, lit the flame beneath it, and adjusted the heat. Beside me, Mikoto had edged a little closer, eyes on the countertop.
"Hand me that bottle of mirin?" I asked, nodding toward the sweet one on the left.
She passed it over, her arm brushing mine for the briefest second.
"Just a splash in the rice water. Gives it a glossy finish. Adds a bit of sweetness."
"My... someone taught me that trick a long time ago," I added, stirring gently.
"Someone?" There was curiosity in her voice, but not pushiness.
"Just someone who knew their way around a kitchen." I stirred the rice gently, then reached for the vegetables. "Here. Try this."
I held out a slice of pickled radish with my chopsticks. She leaned in, lips brushing the wood as she took the bite, and I had to focus on the seasoning just to keep my eyes from lingering.
"Oh, that's perfect," she said, eyes lighting up. "How'd you get it so crisp?"
"Salt timing," I said, maybe a little too quickly. "You draw out just enough moisture to concentrate the flavor, but not so much that it softens."
She nodded, dead serious—like I'd just walked her through a high-level jutsu instead of a pickling trick.
"Your turn," I said, gesturing toward the second pan where the oil had just started to shimmer. "Think you can handle the vegetables without setting anything on fire?"
"I think I can manage," she said, laughing as she took the spatula from my hand.
I watched as she added the vegetables to the pan, the oil crackling as they hit the heat. Her movements were careful but confident, and I found myself standing closer than strictly necessary—supposedly to supervise, but really just enjoying the way she concentrated on the task, the tip of her tongue poking out slightly as she focused.
"Perfect," I said. "Just keep them moving so they don't stick."
The fish was ready, golden, tender, the skin crisped just enough. I plated everything carefully: rice tucked into ceramic bowls, fish arranged neatly, pickled radish stacked along the edge. For a kitchen that barely fit two people, the space felt full, warm with scent, color, and the attention that makes simple things feel good.
"Not bad for a closet-sized workspace," I said, stepping back to admire the spread.
"Not bad at all," she agreed.
"Food's ready!" I called toward the living room.
The response was immediate—the sound of Tsume scrambling to her feet, followed by Kuromaru's excited yips.
We gathered around the small table, bowls steaming in front of us. The first bite hit like comfort in a storm—crisp-skinned fish, perfectly seasoned; fluffy, faintly sweet rice; pickled vegetables bright and sharp, their tang waking up every other flavor on the plate.
"Holy shit," Tsume mumbled around a mouthful of fish. "Looks plain, but it's way better than I expected."
"Language," Mikoto said automatically, though she didn't even glance up—too busy chasing another bite.
I shrugged. "Had to make do with what we had."
We ate without talking, just hunger doing all the explaining, and the food keeping us too busy to care. Outside, the last traces of daylight slipped away, and the village settled into that quiet lull between dinner and sleep.
"You know," Tsume said after a while, "I'm actually gonna miss this."
"We'll still be a team when we get back," Mikoto pointed out.
"Yeah, but it won't be the same. We'll be back to drills, rules, missions where we actually have to follow orders..." She waved her chopsticks vaguely. "This has been like a vacation. A stabby, paranoid, constantly-moving vacation."
That got a laugh out of both of us.
"And," she added, pointing at me, "Shinji's probably not gonna cook for us every night once we're home."
"Don't count on it," I said. "I get bored easy. Might keep feeding you two just to amuse myself."
The conversation wandered from there—speculation about our next missions, trash-talking the Academy's cafeteria, increasingly absurd theories about what our classmates were doing back in Konoha. It was normal team banter, enough to take the war out of our voices for a while.
Then the tapping started.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
All three of us froze, chopsticks suspended midair. The sound came from the window—steady, intentional. Not wind. Not an animal. Someone knocking, politely enough not to break glass, but firmly enough that it wasn't a mistake.
No words were needed. Without speaking, we all activated our henges. The transformations settled over us like second skins—three different faces, three different bodies, three locals having a quiet dinner after being invited by the old man who had suddenly grown sleepy and gone to bed early.
I moved to the window and peered down carefully.
A frog sat on the windowsill. Not just any frog—this one was wearing a tiny vest and had an expression that suggested it had better things to do than sit on random windowsills.
Jiraiya's summon.
I cracked the window open. "Evening."
The frog looked up at me with obvious impatience. "You the kid with a message for the old pervert?"
"Depends who's asking."
"I'm asking." Its voice was pure gravel—like it had been chain-smoking through a war. "The head sent me to collect whatever Tsunade wanted delivered. So either hand it over or I hop back and report a failed mission. Up to you."
Behind me, Mikoto and Tsume had moved in closer, just out of the frog's line of sight. I tapped my fingers on the frame, scanned the street—nothing unusual—then pulled off my storage glove. A quick pulse of chakra to the seal, and the scroll popped free… along with what looked like a half-eaten onigiri.
"Just the scroll," the frog said dryly. "Keep your lunch."
I handed over the scroll. The frog tucked it into its vest quickly.
"Any message for the boss?"
"Yeah. Tell him we want hazard pay for the overtime."
"Noted." The frog gave what might've been a nod—if a three-inch amphibian could be said to nod—and vanished in a puff of smoke.
I closed the window and turned back to my teammates, dropping the henge as I did. They followed suit, our real faces settling back into place.
"Well," I said, picking up where I'd left off with my plate. "That's that."
Tsume, who'd been remarkably quiet during the whole exchange, finally spoke up. "So... we're done? Mission complete?"
"Looks like it." I reached for the pot and scooped out a second helping of rice, refilling my bowl and the others'. The grains were still warm, just sticky enough to hold together. "Which means we pack up and head home."
"Today?" Mikoto asked, accepting her refill with a nod.
"Today." I divided the remaining fish between our bowls and added what was left of the quick-pickled vegetables. "After this, I'll swing by the market. See if any caravans are heading toward Fire Country."
Tsume frowned, picking at her new portion. "Why the rush? I mean, whoever was targeting us was probably after the letter, right? Now that we don't have it anymore…"
"Maybe," I said with a shrug. "But maybe the letter wasn't their only objective. Maybe they just wanted us dead, and the letter was a bonus—or the other way around."
"That's paranoid," Tsume said, but she didn't sound like she entirely disagreed.
"Paranoid keeps you breathing." I took a bite of the fish. "We've been here long enough. No reason to rush, but no reason to stick around either."
Mikoto nodded slowly. "Better safe than sorry."
"Exactly." I gestured with my chopsticks. "It's not like I don't miss Konoha. Real beds, actual training grounds, familiar sake..."
"You say that like you haven't been having fun," Tsume said with a grin. "I saw you enjoying yourself during that market shopping trip with your 'wife.'"
I coughed into my rice. "That was just good cover."
"Mm-hm. Very convincing cover. Real method acting."
"Shut up and eat your fish."
"It's really good, by the way," Mikoto said quietly, trying—and failing—to hide the blush behind her bowl.
We ate until we were full, warm and a little heavy. When the last bites were gone and only the soft clink of empty bowls remained, we sat in comfortable silence.
I set my bowl aside and pushed back from the table.
"Alright," I said. "Pack your gear. I'll be back in an hour with travel arrangements."
"What if there's no caravan today?" Mikoto asked.
"Then we wait for tomorrow. If nothing by then, we run." I stood up, already mentally shifting into travel mode. "But one way or another, we're going home."