"Come on, Girl Boss! It's right here!"
Konohamaru dragged me by the wrist, his grip surprisingly strong for a kid whose main offensive technique involved a blue scarf and tripping over his own feet. Moegi and Udon trailed behind us, vibrating with the specific, terrifying energy of children about to spend money on shiny cardboard.
We stopped in front of a shop that looked like it had been decorated by a colorblind explosion. Posters plastered the windows, depicting exaggerated, muscle-bound versions of famous ninja throwing jutsu that looked more like laser beams than chakra.
The window glass vibrated with the excited shrieks of children inside—thrum-thrum—acting like a speaker membrane for the chaos.
Card Shop "Nin-Nin".
"It smells like bubblegum and unwashed polyester in here," I muttered as we stepped inside.
A bell chimed above the door—ding-dong—a cheery, artificial sound that clashed with the gloom.
The shop was narrow, cramped, and lined floor-to-ceiling with display cases, booster packs, and plastic figurines. It was a temple to the commodification of warfare.
The air was thick and stagnant, smelling of hot plastic wrappers and the faint, dusty scent of cardboard that had been stored too long.
Behind the counter sat a man who looked like he had lived through three Great Ninja Wars just so he could end up selling foil-wrapped lies to six-year-olds.
Menko.
He was reading a newspaper, his expression one of profound, existential fatigue. He wore a faded apron and glasses that slid down his nose every time he exhaled.
"Hey, old man!" Konohamaru shouted, slamming a handful of ryo onto the glass counter. "Gimme three packs of Boiling Blood: Series 4! I need the Ultra-Rare Fourth Hokage!"
Menko didn't look up. He just reached behind him, grabbed two foil packs, and slid them across the counter.
The foil packs landed with a crisp slap-slide sound on the glass, promising rare loot or disappointment.
"No refunds if you pull a dud," Menko grunted.
Udon was already pressed against the glass display case, fogging it up with his breath.
"Wow!" Udon gasped, pointing a snot-slicked finger at a single card on a pedestal. "Look, Moegi! This card says Hashirama Senju has a Power Level of 500! But Madara Uchiha is only 450!"
Menko paused. He slowly lowered his newspaper. He adjusted his glasses, staring at Udon with the look of a man who remembered hearing stories about Madara dropping meteors from the sky.
"...Sure, kid," Menko sighed, a deep sound that rattled in his chest. "Whatever the card says. That'll be fifty ryo."
"Wait," Moegi squinted at a different card, tilting her head. "Why does my Lady Tsunade card say her summon type is..." She paused, reading the text. "...Slime?"
Menko took a deep breath. He took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
Squeak. His glasses rubbed against his sweaty skin, a tiny sound of frustration.
"Because the illustrators live in the Capital and have never seen a slug," Menko muttered to the ceiling. "Kid... just buy the card or don't."
I walked over to the counter while the kids tore into their booster packs like piranhas.
Riiiiiip.Riiiiiip.Riiiiiip.
The sound of foil tearing was sharp and jagged, followed instantly by the shuffle-shuffle of cards being sorted by sticky fingers.
"Excuse me," I said.
Menko put his glasses back on. He looked at me, assessing my age and my headband. "We're out of the 'Kakashi of the Sharingan' holos. Scalpers bought them all this morning."
"No," I said. "I'm looking for... Uchiha cards. Older sets."
The air in the shop shifted.
The frantic tearing of foil wrappers stopped for a second before resuming. Menko looked at me. His expression softened from annoyance to something more guarded. Pity, maybe.
"We don't put those in the display case anymore," Menko said quietly. "Bad for business. People don't like buying ghosts."
The ambient noise of the shop—the kids yelling, the crinkling wrappers—seemed to mute instantly, replaced by a low, buzzing silence in my ears.
He gestured to a dusty cardboard box sitting on the floor at the far end of the counter, shoved between a stack of unsold Ninja Cats strategy guides and a bin of discount dice.
The box smelled of mildew and old attics, a stark contrast to the chemical "new card" smell of the rest of the shop.
"Clearance bin," Menko said. "Five for one ryo. Help yourself."
I knelt by the box.
It was humiliating.
The Uchiha Clan—the police force, the elite, the founders of the village—were sitting in a cardboard box marked MISC / DAMAGED.
My fingers brushed against the rough edge of a card—scritch—sending a shiver up my arm.
I flipped through them. The cards were older, the cardstock thicker and less glossy than the new Boiling Blood series. The art was more realistic, less stylized.
I saw faces I didn't know. Men and women with the fan symbol on their backs.
Then, my hand stopped.
I pulled out a card. It wasn't Sasuke. It wasn't Itachi or Shisui.
Habaki Uchiha.
The illustration showed a young man, maybe late teens. He was thin, with black hair pinned up on top of his head in a messy bun, streaks of blue ink highlighting the shine. He had the standard high collar of the clan, reaching all the way to his chin. He wore special plated armor on his forearms and looked at the 'camera' with black eyes that held a quiet, focused intensity. The ink on the card was faded slightly, the colors muted as if time itself was trying to erase him.
Uchiha Habaki
Power Level: N/A.
Affiliation: Konoha Police Force.
Specialty: Fire Style.
Signature Jutsu: Fire Style: Ash Pile Burning
He wasn't a legend. He wasn't a monster. He was just a guy.
I looked at the card. I thought about Sasuke, walking alone in the forest, convinced that his entire history was just blood and betrayal.
He needs to know there were people, I thought. Just... normal people.
I grabbed four other random cards to fill out the transaction—a generic Police Force grunt, a backdrop card of the Naka Shrine, and two others.
I walked back to the counter and placed the single ryo coin down.
"Thanks," I said.
"Yeah," Menko grunted, picking up his newspaper to hide his face. "Whatever."
"Girl Boss!" Konohamaru cheered, holding up a shiny piece of cardboard. "I pulled a Rare Asuma! Look at his beard! It has +10 Charisma!"
"That's great, kid," I forced a smile, tucking the Uchiha cards into my pouch. "That's really great."
Sasuke's apartment building was on the other side of town, near the river.
It was a stark, modern block of concrete that looked more like a prison than a home.
The wind whistled through the metal railings of the walkway—whooo-shhh—a lonely, hollow sound.
The hallways were silent, smelling of dust and lack of occupancy.
The concrete floor was cold through my sandals, leaching the warmth from my feet.
I walked up to door 204.
I raised my hand to knock, then stopped.
I sensed inside. No chakra. The apartment was cold.
He's out training, I realized. Or sulking. Or both.
I sighed. I reached into my pouch and pulled out the Habaki Uchiha card. I took a small piece of paper and a pen.
I didn't know what to write. 'Hey, found your dead cousin in a bargain bin'? No. Too dark. 'Thinking of you'? Too creepy.
I scribbled quickly.
Found this at Nin-Nin. I don't know, he just reminds me of you. The hair, mostly. - Sylvie.
I stuck the note to the card sleeve and slid it through the mail slot in the door. It made a soft shhh-click as it hit the floor inside.
The silence that followed was heavy, swallowing the sound instantly.
"Sylvie!"
I jumped, spinning around.
Naruto was jogging down the hallway, grinning. He looked freshly showered, his hair damp.
He smelled of cheap citrus soap and rain, a bright, clean scent that pushed back the gloom of the hallway.
"What are you doing here?" Naruto asked, tilting his head.
"Just... dropping something off for Sasuke," I said. "But he's not home."
"Figured," Naruto nodded sagely. "I was coming to get him for ramen! Teuchi said he'd give us the 'Hero Discount' since we're back! Everyone's gonna be there!"
Naruto looked at the closed door. His smile faltered for a second, then bounced back.
His stomach gave a loud, enthusiastic growl—gurgle—punctuating the silence perfectly.
"Well, if the brooding jerk isn't here, more pork for us! Come on, Sylvie! I'll race you!"
"You're on," I said, stepping away from the door.
I glanced back one last time at the metal number plate.
Inside, on the floor of the empty entryway, the card of Habaki Uchiha lay face up in a shaft of dust-filled sunlight, waiting to be found.
Dust motes danced in the light beam, swirling slowly in the disturbed air, settling gently onto the forgotten face.