I didn't let him walk away.
The memory of that rhythmic zzzt-thump was too jarring, too out of place in a world of flutes and taiko drums. I said a quick goodbye to Anko—who looked ready to crawl into a food coma—and pivoted on my heel, jogging to catch up with the high-collared figure disappearing into the afternoon crowd.
"Shino!" I called out, weaving past a merchant selling roasted chestnuts.
Shino Aburame stopped. He didn't turn around immediately. He paused with that distinct, unnerving stillness of his clan, letting the crowd flow around him like water around a stone.
The smell of roasted chestnuts lingered in the air, smoky and sweet, contrasting with the metallic scent of Shino's gear.
I caught up to him, slightly out of breath. Up close, the sound was undeniable. A tinny, rhythmic leakage was escaping the heavy fabric of his collar.
Tsk-tsk-tsk-thump. It was a faint, tinny vibration that cut through the ambient noise of the market like a mosquito buzzing in my ear.
Tsk-tsk-tsk-thump.
He turned his head slowly. The dark, circular lenses of his sunglasses reflected my face, giving nothing away. But I saw his hand twitch toward his pocket.
"Sylvie," he said. His voice was a monotone drone, but his thumb moved. Click.
The faint beat cut out instantly.
"I knew it," I said, pointing an accusing finger at the wire snaking down his neck. "You were listening to music. I heard the bass line back at the shop."
Shino hesitated. The silence stretched, heavy and awkward, filled only by the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer. He looked left, then right, as if checking for enemy ninja.
Then, with the solemnity of a man revealing a forbidden jutsu, he reached into his deep coat pocket.
He pulled out a brick.
It was a cassette player. A chunky, grey plastic rectangle with mechanical silver buttons and a small window showing the spools of magnetic tape inside. It looked like 1980s technology that had been dropped into a feudal village.
The plastic felt cold and slightly greasy under my fingertips, a texture I hadn't felt since my previous life.
"It is a portable audio interface," Shino explained, his voice low. "It allows for auditory isolation. Why? Because the ambient noise of the village disrupts my focus. The buzzing of the hive must be regulated."
"A cassette player," I breathed, reaching out to touch the cold plastic case. "That is... legitimately retro cool."
My heart did a stupid little nostalgic flip. Music. Actual, produced music.
"I am heading to General Store Bandai," Shino stated, sliding the device back into the safety of his coat. "The power source is depleted. I require fresh alkaline cells. You may accompany me."
"You bet I'm accompanying you," I said, falling into step beside him. "I need to see where a ninja buys batteries."
He adjusted his collar, the fabric rustling stiffly—swish-swish—hiding the forbidden tech once more.
General Store Bandai was tucked into a cramped corner of the commercial district, a narrow building that seemed to lean precariously over the street. The wood was stained dark with oil and age, and the windows were cluttered with a chaotic display of toaster ovens, blank scrolls, and radio parts.
A wind chime made of old vacuum tubes tinkled softly in the breeze—cling-clang—a surprisingly melodic sound for junk.
Outside, the street was blocked by a high-volume debate.
"No way!" a boy with a long blue scarf screamed, his face turning red. Konohamaru. "The Fourth Hokage was way cooler! He fought a giant fox!"
"But the Sannin have summons!" a girl with orange pigtails countered, stomping her sandal on the cobblestones. Moegi. "Giant slugs are cute!"
"I like the First Hokage," a boy with snot hanging precariously from his nose mumbled. Udon. "He made trees."
Udon sniffed loudly—snnnnrk—a wet, congested sound that made me instinctively recoil.
I skirted around the Konoha History Club, stepping onto the wooden porch of the store. Shino was already waiting, his hand hovering near the frame.
I grabbed the heavy brass handle of the sliding door. It groaned as I pulled it open, the runners grinding against grit in the track.
The door groaned with a low-pitched errrrrk, vibrating in my hand like a heavy cello string.
Shino stepped through into the gloom.
I was about to follow when a flicker of movement at my ankles made me freeze.
Waiting on the doormat was a cat.
It was a light brown tabby, sitting with perfect posture. But it wasn't a stray. It was wearing a custom-fitted blue kimono vest with visible mesh armor underneath. A regulation forehead protector with the kanji for "Shinobi" was tied securely around its forehead.
His whiskers twitched, sensing the air currents, while the mesh armor creaked faintly—creak—as he sat up straighter.
Denka. A Ninneko.
He was carrying a small, wax-sealed scroll in his mouth.
I held the door open, bracing it with my hip.
Denka looked up at me. His yellow eyes were sharp, intelligent, and entirely professional. He paused for a beat, then dipped his head—a distinct, deliberate bow of thanks—before trotting past me into the shop.
"You're welcome, sir," I whispered.
He marched down the center aisle, tail held high, ignoring the expensive electronics with the discipline of a veteran.
His paws made no sound on the wooden floor, silent pads moving with lethal grace.
That cat outranks me, I thought, suppressing a grin as I finally stepped inside.
The interior of General Store Bandai smelled like a lightning storm trapped in a dusty attic. Ozone, soldering iron smoke, and old paper.
The shelves were a labyrinth of tech and tradition. Stacks of explosive tags sat next to vacuum tubes. A CRT monitor was being used as a paperweight for a stack of sealing scrolls.
The CRT monitor emitted a high-pitched whine—eeeeeee—a frequency that made my fillings ache.
Behind the counter sat an old man with wild, Einstein-esque grey hair and a jeweler's monocle that magnified his right eye to the size of a dinner plate.
Kufū.
"Batteries!" Kufū barked as Shino approached the counter. "You need the cells? Or are you finally ready to look at the schematics for the audio-genjutsu amplifier? I told you, Shino, high fidelity is the future of warfare!"
Kufū slammed his hand on the counter, causing a jar of screws to rattle violently—ch-ch-ch.
"Just the batteries," Shino said stoically, placing ryo on the grease-stained counter. "Ingenuity is useless if the power source is dead."
"Bah!" Kufū waved a grease-stained hand. "You Aburame. Always practical. Never dreaming!"
To Shino's right, a customer with a backward teal cap and a loose purple bomber jacket leaned against the glass, radiating the heavy, "union break" energy of a man waiting for a shift to end.
He held a rolled-up red scroll against his cheek, scratching an itch on his goatee while he stared at a tray of focal lenses with large, unblinking, dead-fish eyes that looked perpetually bored.
He counted his ryo out on the counter with painful slowness, his dark Suna-complexion hands dusty, looking at the high-grade lighting crystal with the enthusiasm of someone watching paint dry.
While Shino completed his transaction, I wandered over to a dusty wire rack in the corner labeled AUDITORY STIMULATION.
I flipped through the plastic cases. There were Shamisen medleys. Flute compilations for meditation. A tape simply labeled THUNDER SOUNDS VOL. 4.
And then I stopped.
I pulled out a cassette case from the back.
The cover art was... a choice.
It featured four men. They were all wearing high collars that covered their noses. They were all wearing dark, circular sunglasses. They were dressed in pitch-black formal wear that looked appropriate for a particularly somber funeral, standing in a bamboo forest and staring dead-eyed at the camera.
The glossy paper of the cassette insert caught the light, reflecting a glare that obscured their eyes, making them look even more impassive.
The title, written in jagged, graffiti-style kanji, read:
Bikōchū no Shi: Tsurai Ichinichi
(Death of the Bikōchū: A Hard Day)
I stared at it. I looked at the serious expressions.
My brain stuttered. I looked at the cover again.
Four Aburame guys.
A parody of A Hard Day's Night.
The Beetles, I realized, the pun hitting me like a physical slap. It's literally The Beetles.
I stared at the Bug-Beatles. They stared back at me through their sunglasses, looking incredibly serious about their boy-band aesthetic.
I could almost hear the opening chord—a dissonant, insectoid hum—just by looking at the cover.
I made a completely blank, unemotional face. I carefully placed the tape back on the rack, sliding it behind the Shamisen collection.
I am not going to ask if they have 'Yellow Submarine', I decided. I'm just going to let that exist.
"Ready?" Shino asked, pocketing his batteries.
"Yeah," I said, my voice hollow. "I have seen enough."
I walked back to the entrance. Shino slipped out first, readjusting his headphones.
I grabbed the heavy door handle again, preparing to slide it shut.
But before I could, Denka appeared from the back room.
The scroll was gone. Now, he had a small canvas bag strapped securely to his back, filled with humming electronic components.
He paused at the threshold. He looked up at me again and let out a sharp, command-like meow.
I held the door.
He dashed out, his little claws scrabbling on the pavement for traction as he turned the corner, bolting down the alleyway and vanishing into the shadows of the village.
A loose wire on Denka's pack sparked once—zap—leaving a faint smell of ozone in his wake.
"Busy guy," I murmured, finally sliding the door shut with a heavy thud.
The dust from the street puffed up around my sandals, coating my toes in a fine, grey powder.
"Have you seen Boss?!"
I turned around. Konohamaru was standing right in front of me, his blue scarf trailing in the dust. Moegi and Udon were peeking out from behind him like colorful ducklings.
"Boss?" I blinked, shielding my eyes from the sun. "You mean Naruto? Yeah, why? What's up? Need help with the history debate?"
Konohamaru's eyes went wide. He grabbed Udon's arm and shook him.
"OH YEAH!" Konohamaru yelled, ignoring my question. "Boss said you're the smart one!"
I smiled, tilting my head and tapping my chin with two fingers.
"Oh really?" I asked. "He said that?"
"Yeah!" Konohamaru grinned, pointing a finger at me with absolute conviction. "He said you run the team! He called you Girl Boss!"
Konohamaru beamed, a gap in his teeth visible, radiating an infectious, chaotic energy that felt like warm sunshine.
I chuckled.
I reached out and ruffled Konohamaru's spiky hair.
"Yeah," I said, adjusting my pouch. "Girl Boss. I like the sound of that."