The Great Naruto Bridge was impressive. Anko had to give the brat that much.
It wasn't just a slab of concrete suspended over the churning grey ocean; it was an artery. The smell of fresh asphalt and diesel exhaust hit her first—a sharp, chemical welcome that contrasted with the heavy salt air.
Carts piled high with timber, steel beams, and bales of colorful textiles were flowing in both directions. The thrum-thrum-thrum of heavy wheels on the pavement created a constant, vibrating bassline that resonated in the soles of her boots.
Anko frowned, testing the vibration. It should have been worse. Someone had bolted custom-machined dampeners onto the suspension struts—ugly, scavenged scraps of iron, but placed at perfect intervals to absorb the kinetic load. It wasn't standard carpentry; it was heavy-duty counter-balancing.
Heat shimmered off the fresh blacktop, distorting the air around the carts and carrying the biting scent of hot tar.
The high-pitched scream of ungreased axles sliced through the air, a metallic protest that tasted like sour iron in the back of my mouth.
Beneath the mechanical roar, the wind howled through the suspension cables—whoooo-hiss—a high-pitched, mournful song that cut through the warmth of the noon sun.
Yet the bridge deck didn't sway. Anko squinted at the cables; someone had rigged makeshift aerodynamic fairings—sheets of scrap metal bent into wing shapes- to shred the wind before it could grab the cables. Whoever was maintaining this thing understood drag better than half the engineers in Konoha.
The economic boom hit you in the face the moment you stepped onto the span; this wasn't a desperate island anymore. It was a trade hub.
But the scene at the toll booth wasn't commerce. It was harassment.
A massive, hulking man in a sleeveless shirt stood with his arms crossed, blocking the path. It was Gōzu, one of the Demon Brothers.
His wild, shoulder-length hair was matted with salt spray and engine grease, hanging heavy and stiff around a face that was usually hidden behind rubber and filters.
He wasn't wearing his gas mask or his poison gauntlets.
Without the rebreather covering his jaw, his face looked startlingly human, though the skin where the mask usually sat was pale and chafed, marked by the deep, red indentations of a seal worn too tight for too long.
He was wearing a high-visibility vest and holding a clipboard, but the menace was still there, packed into his shoulders like coiled springs.
The neon safety vest looked ridiculous stretched across his chest.
The cheap synthetic mesh groaned audibly against the darker, heavy camouflage of his combat fatigues, struggling to contain the sheer density of a man built to haul siege weapons.
The fabric straining against muscles that were built for crushing bones, not checking manifests.
A ragged black cape, frayed at the hem like a torn sail, fluttered listlessly in the bridge wind, brushing against thick, knee-length sandals that looked less like footwear and more like armored treads for his feet.
He smelled of old sweat and cheap tobacco, a dense, earthy musk that radiated off him in waves, overpowering the clean salt air.
Sunlight glinted off the single, cruel horn of his Kirigakure forehead protector, the metal dull and pitted from years of corrosive mist, looking less like a badge of honor and more like a warning spike.
Facing him was a lean, white-haired teenager with a giant water bottle strapped to his back.
Slosh-thud.
The liquid inside the tank shifted heavily as he moved, a wet, viscous sound that seemed too loud for a simple water bottle.
"I told you," Gōzu rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly, sounding like stones grinding together underwater. "It's not here."
"Ehh," the kid whined.
He leaned casually on the handle of a massive blade; it was a crude, heavy slab of iron that looked more like a sharpened I-beam than a sword.
Skreee.
The tip of the blade dragged against the concrete as he shifted his weight, gouging a deep white scratch into the pavement and sending a spark dying in the sea breeze.
He wore a purple sleeveless shirt and pants that looked like they were made of liquid.
The fabric didn't wrinkle where it should; it draped heavy and wet, clinging to his legs as if he'd just walked out of the ocean fully clothed.
Anko's eyes nearly rolled into the back of her head. She knew of this boy- Kabuto used to talk about Suigetsu Hōzuki like he was raising a beta fish.
"But you were his partner," Suigetsu complained, tilting his head. His eyes were a startling, unnatural purple. "If anyone knows where Zabuza-senpai put the big knife, it's you. I walked all the way here! My feet are dry! I need hydration!"
Gōzu didn't budge. "You're too late, kid. Some skinny guy took Zabuza's blade last week."
Suigetsu paused. He blinked.
"Skinny guy?" Suigetsu asked. "Did he have weird hair? Like... gravity-defying?"
"Didn't see his face," Gōzu grunted. "Just saw the sword gone."
"C'mon, man, don't lie," Suigetsu grinned, showing a mouth full of serrated, shark-like teeth.
A glint of sunlight caught the jagged edge of a canine—cling—white and razor-sharp, contrasting violently with his bored expression.
"Just give me a hint. Is it under the water? Buried in the concrete? Did you sell it for scrap?"
"Leave," Gōzu warned. He cracked his knuckles—pop-pop—a sound like dry twigs snapping.
"Or what?" Suigetsu chuckled. His arm seemed to ripple, the muscle losing definition and turning into something fluid. "You gonna splash me?"
"He's cute," Sylvie murmured.
The words were soft, dampened by the thick cotton of her mask, but in the sudden lull of traffic, they carried like a shout.
The words slipped out before the girl could engage her filter.
Anko froze. She looked at her student. Sylvie was staring at the shark-boy, her face turning a distinct shade of pink behind her dark blue neck gaiter. She clawed at the fabric, pulling the hem all the way up to her glasses; it instantly became a stifling oven, trapping her hot, panicked breath against her burning cheeks.
The blue cotton served as a muffling filter, stripping the clarity from her voice until her protests sounded like the low, rhythmic thrum of an engine vibrating in a closed room. The fabric sucked in against her mouth with a sharp inhale, outlining the shape of her lips for a second before puffing back out with a ragged exhale.
Naruto whipped his head around so fast his neck cracked.
"WHAT?!" Naruto shrieked, pointing at Suigetsu. "Him!? He looks like a piranha! He has teeth like a saw! He drinks water from a jug on his back! That's weird!"
Suigetsu blinked. He looked over Gōzu's shoulder at the group.
He smiled. It was wide, predatory, and full of jagged enamel.
"Thanks, pinky," Suigetsu called out, winking.
Even from ten feet away, he didn't smell like a person; he smelled like a thunderstorm: that sharp, electric scent of petrichor and bruised clouds.
Sylvie's blush deepened to a catastrophic crimson. She pulled the gaiter up higher, trying to disappear inside the fabric.
Condensation from her heavy breathing began to dampen the inside of the mask, making the fabric stick uncomfortably to her nose and lips.
The furnace-blast of her embarrassment vented upward, instantly fogging the bottom edge of her glasses with opaque white steam, hiding her panicked eyes behind a wall of condensation.
"I... I meant his aesthetic, uhm...hydraulic pressure!" she squeaked. "The...hair...uhm...he's...got a big sword?"
Anko nearly spit laughing and covered her mouth quickly.
Naruto groaned. He grabbed his own spiky blonde hair with both hands and messed it up, a gesture of pure, unadulterated frustration.
"Sword?! HYDRO-WHAT?! He's just wet!"
Anko popped a dango ball into her mouth, chewing slowly.
Schluck.
The sticky rice paste adhered to the roof of her mouth, the sickly-sweet glaze coating her tongue as she suppressed a laugh.
Well, well, Anko thought, watching Sylvie try to hide behind Kakashi. A thing for the dangerous ones with sharp teeth and bad attitudes.The kid is more like me than I thought.
She watched the way Suigetsu's weight didn't seem to settle on his heels like a normal human; he stood like a skin-bag full of water—heavy, shifting, and constantly seeking its own level.
Anko shifted her weight, hand resting on her hip.
"Alright, lover-girl," She drawled. "Let's go break up the reunion before the toll booth gets liquidated."