The morning air in the Green Ring tasted like biting into a crisp apple. Cold, sharp, and clean.
We stood at the edge of the market district, where the sacred silence of the forest collided with the profane noise of commerce. The ground beneath our feet was a battleground of textures—the immaculately raked white gravel of the shrine path was losing a war against a carpet of blinding yellow ginkgo leaves.
The low morning sun ignited the fallen leaves, turning the ground into a river of molten gold that made me squint behind my glasses.
The light hit the waxy leaves and shattered, creating a harsh, glittering glare that bleached the color out of everything above knee-height.
Crinkle-snap.
Every step sounded like breaking dry parchment.
My emotions felt... slippery.
Yesterday, the slug contract had felt like a tranquilizer. A heavy, damp blanket over my anxiety. But this morning? The connection was buzzing. It felt less like a sedative and more like caffeine.
My skin felt too tight for my body, and a low-level vibration hummed in my fingertips—zzzzzt—making me want to stick to things.
My palms felt tacky, secreting a phantom moisture that made the strap of my medical bag cling to my hand making the leather strap of my medical bag bite into my palm, refusing to slide. It felt like I was sweating glue.
I looked at Kakashi-sensei. He was leaning against a massive cedar tree, the rough bark wrapped in a straw komomaki mat to protect it from the coming frost. He looked bored. He looked cool.
"Why do you always wear that mask, Kakashi-sensei?"
The question popped out of my mouth before I could filter it. It was curiosity, unrefined and childish.
Kakashi blinked his visible eye. He reached up, tugging the fabric of his mask.
"Didn't Kiba ever tell you?" he drawled, his voice muffled.
The heavy cotton smothered the sharp edges of his voice, leaving only a deep, chest-heavy thrum that I felt in my ribs more than I heard.
"I have fangs."
My eyes widened. My brain skidded to a halt and then accelerated in the wrong direction: was Kakashi a shark man? No wait, canine? That made more sense. No wonder he had his own ninken pack.
"Really?" I breathed.
Kakashi scratched the back of his head, his silver hair catching the hard November light.
The air was so clear it looked brittle, sharpening the edges of his silhouette against the dark cedar bark until he looked like he'd been carved out of the scenery with a knife.
"No, not really."
"Awww."
I deflated. The excitement vanished as quickly as it had arrived, replaced by a sudden, intense self-consciousness. I reached up, my fingers brushing against my cheek. My skin felt exposed in the cold air.
I could feel the heat radiating off my own neck, a fragile layer of warmth fighting a losing war against the freezing wind that was currently biting at my nose and chin.
I traced the line of my jaw. It felt... plain.
Kakashi watched me. His eye narrowed slightly, crinkling at the corner.
"Oh," he murmured. "I see."
He leaned down, bringing his face level with mine.
"You want one too, don't you?"
My eyes went wide again. The ping-pong ball of my emotions slammed back to the "YES" side of the table.
"Yessssss," I hissed.
It wasn't logical. It wasn't tactical. It was just... I wanted to hide. I wanted to be cool. I wanted to be like him.
Kakashi straightened up, looking over my shoulder to check the perimeter.
"HEY! GET DOWN FROM THERE YOU LITTLE SHIT!"
Fifty yards away, Anko-sensei was jumping up and down in front of the Ankorodō shop. She was wielding a bamboo broom like a bo staff, swinging it wildly at the sign above the door.
The shop smelled aggressively of roasted soy flour and red bean paste, the sweet scent clashing with the sharp thwack-thwack of Anko's broom hitting the wooden frame.
Underlying the sweetness was the bitter, sharp scent of caramelized sugar burning on a hot iron griddle—a smell that stuck to the back of the throat like tar.
Perched on top of the giant, wooden dango sign was Naruto.
"I CAN SEE THE WHOLE VILLAGE FROM HERE!" Naruto yelled, hanging upside down by his knees.
His orange jacket hung down, obeying gravity, while his hitai-ate remained perfectly glued to his forehead, the curved metal plate stretching the reflection of the street into a funhouse mirror smear.
"IT'S AWESOME!"
"MY GRANDMOTHER'S SIGN IS NOT A JUNGLE GYM!" Anko roared.
From the doorway of the shop, a tiny, wrinkled force of nature emerged. Tsubuan—Anko's grandmother. She was bent over with age, her grey hair wrapped in a blanket, but her voice could cut glass.
It was a shredded, metal-on-glass scream that bypassed the ears and rattled directly against the molars.
"AIM FOR HIS FINGERS, ANKO!" the old woman screeched, waving a ladle. "BREAK THE GRIP! PROTECT THE BRANDING!"
Whack.
The broom handle connected with the sign, inches from Naruto's hand. He laughed, swinging out of reach like a monkey.
The wood of the sign groaned under his shifting weight—creeeaaak—sending a shower of dust and paint chips raining down onto Anko's hair.
A few flecks drifted into the air; I clamped my mouth shut to avoid the chalky, metallic taste of old, lead-based exterior paint.
Kakashi sighed. The sound was weary, but fond.
"Well," he said, turning back to me. "They're occupied. Let's go to my place."
My brain stopped.
Kakashi's apartment was an S-Rank Mystery...nobody had the clearance to enter except Asuma-sensei- and that's only because they were neighbors.
"Kakashi-sensei's house...." I whispered, failing to prevent my eyes from widening further.
Thump-thump.
The blood rushed to my ears, a heavy, rhythmic whoosh that sounded like the ocean trapped in a shell, drowning out the wind.
He started walking, his hands in his pockets. The dry leaves skittered across the stones behind him—scritch-scritch—sounding like eager footsteps.
A gust of wind whistled through the bare branches overhead, a sharp, flute-like sound that signaled the end of the show and the start of the mission.
I ran to catch up.