Then the classroom emptied like someone had pulled a plug on a bathtub full of loud idiots.
Naruto sprinted out first, still arguing with thin air about how he was definitely going to be Hokage. Sasuke followed at a civilized walk, like he was too cool to acknowledge gravity.
I lingered.
My hitai-ate felt strangely heavy on my forehead. It still smelled faintly like metal dust and Iruka's chalk hands.
"Hey. Sylvie."
Iruka's voice cut through the leftover chatter.
I turned to see him by the door, clutching a small wrapped parcel and a stack of papers. His expression was that special blend of tired and soft that he reserved for kids who were probably about to make his life harder.
"Yes, sensei?" I tried to sound like a Responsible Kunoichi™ and not the girl who had nearly stabbed herself with a brush this morning.
"Can you run something down to the supply office for me?" he asked, holding out the parcel. "The mission office is swamped. They need these requisition forms delivered. It's… technically not an official mission," he admitted, a little sheepish, "but you'd be doing me a favor."
My heart did a weird little stutter.
Not a mission-mission. Just an errand. But it was still leaving the academy with a task and coming back with results.
"I can do that," I said, maybe too fast.
His mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but knew that would be encouraging my nonsense. "Straight to the supply office by the east wall. Don't open it. Don't get distracted. Just go there and come back. Got it?"
So: no detours, no doodling in the margins of reality. Fine.
"Got it," I said, taking the parcel. It was light—paper and maybe a couple of tiny metal weights. The twine scratched against my fingers.
For a second, Iruka's gaze softened even more. It made something in my chest ache. "You're doing well," he said, almost under his breath. "Don't overthink it."
Too late.
"I'll be back soon," I said, and escaped before I could turn into a puddle.
Konoha in late afternoon was obnoxiously pretty.
Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the streets. The air smelled like dust, grilled meat, and ink—the good stuff, not the cheap watery garbage I'd used before.
Before felt foggy now, a smear of shouting and slammed doors and never being the right shape, the right anything.
This life didn't fit perfectly either. My shirt was a knock-off school uniform with pink trim, one size too big. My shorts were dark pink and slightly baggy, held up by a black belt I absolutely did not fill out.
But my hitai-ate sat on my forehead, solid and real.
I walked.
Parcel tucked under one arm, glasses sliding down my nose, I mentally traced a little seal design in my head—tiny, useless chakra diagram to keep my brain occupied. A spinning circle of ink lines. Nothing powerful. Just the fantasy of control.
"—telling you, keep your son away from him."
The words snagged my attention like a hook.
I slowed without meaning to.
Two civilians stood at the corner where the street narrowed toward the east wall: a woman adjusting a basket on her hip and another woman with a small boy half-hiding behind her skirts. The boy had a wooden kunai, the sort sold to kids playing ninja—rounded tip, chipped paint.
I didn't mean to listen. Eavesdropping was rude. My feet kept me in earshot anyway.
"That demon brat's always shouting at the Hokage monument," the first woman said, wrinkling her nose. "Doesn't know his place. My husband says they should have gotten rid of him years ago."
I froze.
The parcel in my arms suddenly felt heavier.
The other woman shifted uncomfortably. "He's… still a child," she said.
"A child?" The first woman's voice went sharp. "You know what lives inside him. You've heard the stories. The Fourth died for this village and they let that thing run around like nothing's wrong. You want your boy playing with a monster?"
The little boy looked up, big eyes blinking, uncertain. "Mom? The yellow-haired loud one?"
She snorted. "Exactly. If you see him, you stay away. You hear me? He's dangerous. He's—"
I moved before I decided to.
My sandals scuffed on the packed dirt as I stepped into their line of sight, parcel hugged to my chest like armor. My heart hammered so hard I thought they might see it through my shirt.
"Excuse me," I said.
Both women turned, startled. Their eyes flicked to my hitai-ate.
Oh. Right. I was wearing the village's logo on my forehead like a flashing sign that said Has Opinions Now.
"Y-Yes?" the boy's mom asked, brow furrowing.
I swallowed. My mouth went dry. Every instinct screamed don't start anything.
Different world, same fear.
But Naruto's grin flashed in my mind's eye. Him yelling "Believe it!" like the universe had personally doubted him. Him slamming his hands on the desk and declaring he'd be Hokage, and the room laughing like it was a bad punchline.
My fingers dug into the parcel's paper.
"He's a boy," I said, voice coming out quieter than I wanted. "Not a demon."
The first woman's lips pressed into a thin line. "You don't know what you're talking about, little kunoichi."
"Yeah," I said, even though my legs trembled. "I probably don't know a lot of things. But I know Naruto. He's loud. He's annoying. He eats like a black hole. He trips on flat surfaces. He… tries really hard." My throat tightened. "He's a boy. That's all."
Silence.
The little boy stared at me like I'd just performed a jutsu. His wooden kunai dangled forgotten from his fingers.
"Come along, Daichi," his mother muttered finally, grabbing his hand. Her voice went cold and brittle. "We don't argue with shinobi."
The other woman opened her mouth like she wanted to say something, then closed it. Her gaze met mine for a heartbeat—complicated, uneasy—and then she turned away too.
They walked off, skirts whispering, conversation dissolving into a low hiss I couldn't quite hear.
I stood there, breathing hard like I'd just run laps.
Nobody clapped. Nobody told me I was brave. The village didn't stop, shocked by my moral clarity. A dog barked somewhere. A vendor shouted about dumplings. A breeze tugged at my hair.
My hands shook.
I looked down at them, surprised to see the tremor. Back then, if I'd talked back like that, there would've been shouting, broken things, guilt trips that lasted days.
Here, there was just… distance. Cold looks. Weight in the air that said know your place.
The problem was: I didn't. Not really. I was a half-formed person wearing a forehead protector and pretending that meant something.
My stomach twisted.
"What are you doing?" I muttered at myself. "Congratulations, you annoyed a bigot. Gold star."
The parcel crinkled in my grip. I forced my fingers to relax before I actually ripped it open and ruined Iruka's day.
A tiny pulse of energy slid down my arms, instinctive, like the faintest brush of watercolor across paper. My emotional sense—if you could call it a "technique" yet—picked up the lingering smear those women left behind.
Sour yellow-green. Bitter orange. Fear wrapped in righteousness.
It clung to the spot like old cigarette smoke.
I took a step backward, then another.
No seals. No ink. Just… retreat.
Because as much as I wanted to scream at all of them—He's saved me already and he doesn't even know it, how dare you—all I really was right now was a baby ninja with a kind-of-problematic fashion sense and a crush on teamwork charts.
I turned and kept walking toward the supply office.
Each step felt slow and floaty, like I was moving through honey. My glasses slipped further down my nose; I pushed them back up with a knuckle, because if I lost those, then I was really doomed.
"He's a boy, not a demon," I whispered again, just for me this time.
The words steadied me, tiny anchors in my chest.
Naruto didn't need to know I'd said it. He had enough heroic speeches to make on his own. Big flashy ones, shouted from rooftops.
This was… smaller. Quieter. The kind of resistance that didn't earn applause.
But as the supply office came into view—a squat building nestled against the east wall, crates stacked outside like Tetris blocks—I realized something:
For the first time in both of my lives, I'd talked back to an adult and nobody had hit me.
The world hadn't ended.
I was still shaking, yeah. My heart still pounded. The ghost of that woman's glare still burned on my skin like a bruise.
But I was walking under my own power. Parcel intact. Hitai-ate catching the sun.
Maybe that was what being a ninja actually meant, underneath the cool jutsu and dramatic poses.
Not giant battles. Not legendary techniques.
Just deciding who someone was—and saying it out loud—even when everyone around you called them something else.
I reached the door, knocked, and shoved my expression into something approximating "competent professional."
"Delivery from Iruka-sensei," I said when a harried chūnin opened up.
He blinked at me, then at the parcel, then grunted. "About time someone sent these. Good work."
Good work.
Two stupid little words. No big deal.
My throat still tried to close around them.
"Thanks," I managed.
On the walk back, the village looked the same. Same sunlight, same leaves, same kids running past shouting about which Hokage was the strongest.
But deep down, something tiny and stubborn had rewired.
Not a seal. Not a technique.
Just a choice I'd already made and now couldn't unmake:
If this world was going to try and eat Naruto alive, it was going to have to go through me too.
And I was very, very good with ink.