White caught that sneaky little "for now" tacked onto Makoto's offer and damn near smirked. Back when they first met, the boss never tossed around wiggle-room words like that.
"Cool," the girl shot back—one word, flat as a pancake, but it said everything.
Makoto Uchiha let his eyes drift across her drop-dead gorgeous face before locking onto those peepers. Eyes way too old for a kid—should be all wide-eyed and clueless, but nope, they were drowning in baggage, every scar of getting kicked around etched right in there.
He swallowed a silent "damn." This chunk of the world just slapped him in the face again with how brutal it was. Fire Country still had rules and cops; Water Country and the surrounding seas? Straight-up Darwin on steroids. Eat or get eaten. Strength was the only law, power was God.
Just to survive—the most pathetic goal ever—forced a stunner like her to tail a total stranger whose depth chart was blank.
Makoto wasn't recruiting muscle; he was hiring a roadie. Logistics chick.
She stood up, ready to bounce from the rubble heap that had been her half-assed safe house.
One step in, she froze. Spun around. Eyes on the pack of orphans still huddled under the busted walls—staring at her with a cocktail of jealousy, "good luck," and straight-up lost-puppy vibes.
She wasn't local; just another war refugee who washed up here, clung to these doomed kids for a hot minute, and scraped by.
Silent, she pointed at the greasy paper bundle still in Makoto's hand. Voice chill, but you could feel the tiny beg vibe underneath. "Can I… have that?"
Makoto actually blinked. Thought she was ice-queen, me-first survivor mode. Turns out there's a soft chewy center under the frost.
No hesitation—he chucked the whole food pack her way. Dude's got rations for days.
She snagged it like a ninja deer, bolted back into the ruins.
Unwrapped it careful as hell, split every crumb fair-and-square between the wide-eyed teens.
"I'm out. Y'all… take care of yourselves."
Tried to play it cool, but her voice cracked at the end like a bad radio signal.
Job done, she marched right back, posted up half a step behind Makoto, never looked back.
The kids clutched their surprise snacks, tears rolling, choking out the only goodbye they had.
"Thanks, big sis…"
"You better live happy, dammit!"
That quick flash of warmth cut through the despair like a cheap flashlight—then the darkness swallowed it whole.
In the shinobi world, goodbyes are Tuesday. Staying alive? Jackpot. A crumb of kindness is basically a unicorn.
The boat topped off water and grub, hoisted sail, and ghosted away from that heartbreak coast.
From then on, Makoto rolled with a quiet, gorgeous, scary-efficient mystery chick glued to his six.
Ship life got real Groundhog Day.
Girl slid into domestic goddess mode seamless—no gaps. Meals, snacks, laundry, folded sharper than a kunai. Flawless.
Barely talked, but those eyes? Laser-focused. Dude taps the table once—boom, tea refill. Side-eyes an empty cup—refilled before he blinks.
After hours of lightning-style body forging left his muscles screaming, she'd hit the perfect pressure points, melt the knots without a word. Light touch, dead-on accuracy. Smart cookie.
Sometimes Makoto ran White through chakra micro-control or jutsu drills in the cabin.
Mystery girl parked herself in the sweet-spot corner—not too close, not too far—eyes locked, ears wide open, soaking up every syllable like a sponge on fire.
Makoto clocked the thirst for knowledge but let it slide. Basic shit wasn't gonna arm a rival; might as well let her sip from the hose.
When the mood hit, he'd toss her a pointer on chakra refining or a random jutsu trick.
Girl absorbed it like it was gospel—focus dialed to eleven, comprehension off the charts. Even White started sweating the competition. Makoto just nodded, low-key impressed.
He already had a fuzzy silhouette in his head about who she might be. Talent + vibe like that? Ain't no random street rat. That initial déjà vu was 100% from the anime back in his old life.
Memory's fuzzy, though—she was way older in the show, and intel was thin. He had a hunch but zero proof. Figured she'd spill her real name when she was ready.
Treating her like a person instead of furniture—plus the occasional free masterclass—kept chipping away at her ice wall.
Years on the run taught her: big village kids get ninja school. Orphans with god-tier potential? Good luck, sucker.
She expected to be a tool, nothing more—used to the cold shoulder and getting played.
But Makoto's off-hand respect? Tiny sunbeam hammering cracks in her armor.
Day by day, the survival math—guard up, calculate every angle—faded into legit gratitude, baby-steps crush, and mad curiosity.
Few days later, the ship punched through endless sea fog. A broke-ass, wilted coastline crawled into view—Wave Country, baby.
Calling the port a "harbor" was generous; looked more like a jumbo fishing village dock.
Run-down didn't cover it—worse than the chaotic mini-port back in Water Country.
Ricketiest piers you've ever seen, couple of boats that looked one wave from the scrapyard.
Shore shacks sagged, locals were walking skeletons in rags, eyes dead as disco. Poverty and invisible boot on the neck had crushed the fight out of 'em.
Makoto, White, and No-Name stepped onto the forgotten chunk of earth.
First stop: least-gross diner in sight. Dude ordered a table of local grub like a man possessed.
After days of electro-fishing and eating nothing but fish (waste not, want not), he was one scale away from growing gills.
Bellies full—food wasn't gourmet but it shut the stomach up.
Next: dragged the crew through every clothing stall in town (all three of 'em). Personally picked solid, sharp outfits for White and the girl.
Back in Water Country's dump, he'd only grabbed thick cold-weather gear. Now in a slightly-less-dump town, no way his people roll looking homeless. Gotta keep the drip respectable.
He wasn't trying to get strung up on a lamppost for bad PR.
Checkout time: price was peanuts, but Makoto's eyebrow still twitched. Wallet pain hit different.
Flashback: Konoha? Charged everything to Uchiha Fugaku's tab. Kumo? Signed the Fourth Raikage's name like a boss.
Gotta admit—between silver tongue and zero shame, Makoto had been eating good since reincarnating.
Girl ran her fingers over the soft new fabric, brain blanking on the last time she owned new clothes that were actually hers.
Pretty sure warmth and care vanished the day her parents got bodied.
She changed quick, smoothed every seam, stole glances at the tall back in front of her—eyes softer than before.
Quick breather, then Makoto got to business: prowled the narrow streets, ears open for any whisper of "Cardo" and his shady empire.