Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The playground wasn’t very big: a crooked swing set, wooden climbing bars that creaked when the wind blew too hard, and a metal slide that burned in the summer and froze in the winter.

Uzumaki Naruto lingered at the edge, watching.

Other kids were laughing—playing ninja tag and tumbling through the sandbox like it was a battlefield of their own making.

She stared at them, small hands swallowed by the too-long sleeves of her jacket.

A red scarf wrapped around her neck flared slightly in the winter breeze. Its weave was worn and fraying at the edges, uneven from being scrubbed too many times in cold river water. Too big for her and always slipping off one shoulder. It kept her warm anyways.

She took a step. Then another. Sandals crunching on gravel as she made her way toward the sandbox.

A pink-haired girl sat there alone, meticulously shaping something in the sand.

Naruto crept closer, tilting her head. “Whoa,” she breathed, eyes wide. “That’s so cool.”

The pink-haired girl jumped a little, hands hovering protectively over the half-built shape in front of her. She blinked up at Naruto, then down at her castle again. “It’s not done yet,” she whispered.

Naruto plopped down cross-legged in the sand without waiting for an invitation, scarf slipping sideways as she leaned in. “What is it?”

The girl hesitated, still shielding the castle with small hands. But then she glanced up again—met Naruto’s bright, eager eyes—and her shoulders eased.

“A castle,” the girl said, so softly it almost got lost in the wind. “For a princess.”

Naruto’s mouth fell open in awe. “Are you the princess?”

The girl’s face turned pink all the way to her ears. She shook her head fast, hiding behind her bangs. “N-No.”

“Oh.” Naruto scratched her cheek, then grinned wide. “You look like one.”

The girl peeked at her from under her hair, lip caught between her teeth. But her hands stopped trembling, and a tiny, wobbly smile started to grow.

Naruto’s heart puffed up a little at the sight.

She shoved her sleeves up and slapped her palms into the sand. “Show me how to do it! I can help! I’m really good at—uh—dirt stuff!”

The girl paused, uncertain for a moment, before pointing at the lumpy trench circling the castle walls. “The moat’s really hard…”

Naruto’s grin stretched bigger. “Yeah? I’ll make the best moat ever!” She froze halfway through her first dig, then blinked. “…What’s a moat?”

The girl’s giggle slipped out before she could catch it. “It’s the water. Around the castle. So no bad guys can get in.”

Naruto gasped like that was the coolest thing she’d ever heard. “Ohhhh! Okay! I got it!”

And without another word, she started digging fast, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth in pure concentration.

She smushed a big glob of sand onto one side of the castle wall, then sat back to admire it. “We should add a secret tunnel,” she said suddenly, eyes bright.

The pinkette paused, shooting her companion an incredulous glance. “Huh? Why would a princess need that?”

“So the princess can sneak out at night,” Naruto said matter-of-factly. “To go on adventures! Fight oni! Find treasure! Or save people when bandits come!”

The girl tilted her head, considering. “But… princes are supposed to do that.”

Naruto froze mid-scoop, then squinted at her like she’d just suggested eating sand. “Why?”

“Because… that’s what princes do,” the girl said, like it was obvious. “Princesses wait in the castle. Or they get spirited away and wait for the prince to come save them.”

Naruto wrinkled her nose. “That’s dumb.”

The pink-haired girl gasped, scandalized. “It’s not dumb! It’s the story!”

“Well, it’s boring,” Naruto huffed, puffing out her cheeks as she went back to digging. “If I got taken by spirits, I’d punch my way out myself, ‘ttebayo!”

The girl opened her mouth—probably to argue—but then paused. After a moment, she tilted her head and asked, “Are you the princess?”

Naruto stilled. Blinked. Then burst into laughter. “Nah. I’m the wandering ronin!” She jumped up, swinging an imaginary katana through the air with big dramatic slashes. “Or—or maybe I’d be the dragon!”

That earned her a small, reluctant giggle. The girl ducked her head, hiding her smile behind her hands. “You’re weird.”

They worked like that for a few more moments—pressing their hands flat for the walls, smoothing out towers, poking holes for windows.

And for that little stretch of time, it felt almost… normal.

Almost like she could belong.

Then—

“Sakura!”

The voice snapped like a whip across the playground.

Sharp.

Loud.

Naruto flinched instinctively. Her heart kicked hard against her ribs. She knew that tone. She always knew that tone.

A woman came hurrying over—tall, well-dressed, with the same pink hair as the girl in the sand. Without so much as a glance at Naruto, she bent down and scooped Sakura up into her arms like she was something fragile and breakable.

“Kaa—” the pinkette tried to say, but the woman was already turning away, grip too tight for how small the girl was.

“Don’t talk to her,” the woman muttered harshly. Not even whispering. Just saying it like it was a rule.

Naruto blinked.

“I—I wasn’t—” she started, but her voice sounded small.

The woman didn’t respond. Didn’t even look at her.

“We’re going,” she said sharply, turning away.

“But—I wanted to—”

“We’re going, Sakura.”

The girl twisted in her mother’s arms to peek back over her shoulder, expression small and guilty and unsure. Her gaze lingered just a second too long on Naruto—who sat there with dirt-smudged cheeks and hands still full of sand.

She didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

Didn’t dare say another word.

Because somehow… she already knew.

No one was going to tell her what she did wrong.

They were just going to leave.

Again.

The half-finished moat was still shaped under her hands, an uneven ring around a sandcastle that already looked lonelier than before. Grains of sand clung to her fingernails. Her throat felt strange—like she’d swallowed something dry and scratchy and it was stuck there now.

Behind her, another parent muttered, not softly enough:

“That’s the one. The red-haired brat.”

”Why is it allowed to be near children?”

“It’s dangerous. Just look at it. Trouble if I’ve ever seen it.”

She pretended not to hear. 

She didn’t say anything.

She didn’t turn around.

She just sat there for a moment, staring down at the broken remnants of their castle. At the hollow in the sand where the rest of the moat would’ve gone. The warmth from earlier had already slipped away. The kind that came from shared laughter, from being seen—even for a moment.

Her throat clenched tighter.

But she shook her head. Shook it hard, like maybe that would knock the lump loose.

Then she blinked. Once. Twice. Fast and firm. And she stood.

She slapped a smile on her face—too wide, too bright. Her cheeks ached from it.

Then—only then—did she square her shoulders and march toward the jungle gym.

“Hey!” she called out, already climbing the first rung. “Bet I can beat all of you at ninja tag!”

A boy near the slide scrunched up his nose. “No! You can’t!”

Her grin faltered slightly. “Why not?”

“Cause you’re a freak,” another piped up. “My mom says you’re cursed!”

“I’m not cursed!” she said, though her voice wobbled.

“She looks like a boy now!” a girl from the monkey bars added with a mean giggle. “A weird, tomato-haired boy!”

Naruto’s stomach twisted. Her face felt hot all over again. “I’m not a boy—!”

More kids gathered. The teasing got bolder.

”Tomato-head!”

”More like squashed tomato!”

”Cursed!”

Naruto stood there, right in the middle of them, hands shaking at her sides.

Her shirt was wrinkled. Her face was smudged with dirt. And her hair—or what was left of it stuck out at odd angles, cropped short and uneven. It had once been long and wildly red—like fire, jiji once told her. Now it just looked like something fire had chewed up and spat out.

She’d trimmed the ends herself last night after dinner.

It was the usual, her favorite; instant ramen. She hadn’t eaten lunch, and the ache in her stomach had gotten loud. So she’d dragged a chair to the counter, climbed up on her knees, and twisted the stove’s knobs the way she’d learned to do.

The gas hissed, but the fire wouldn’t start. So she leaned in close. Clicked and clicked.

Then—whoosh.

The flame burst to life all at once, too fast, too big. She didn’t even scream. It hadn’t touched her skin, but it had eaten the ends of her hair.

She hadn’t cried then.

She wouldn’t cry now.

She just stared down at her feet—shoes scuffed raw, toes half-numb from the cold. She turned to leave, but a sudden yank dragged her backward.

One of the boys had grabbed the edge of her scarf.

Naruto lurched, nearly choking as the fabric snapped tight against her neck. Her hands flew up, clawing at it in a panic, knuckles going white as she clutched it close.

“Let go!” she shouted, voice shaking more than she wanted.

“Make me,” he shot back, still tugging.

A girl giggled near the swings. “Looks stupid anyway! Tomato-head with a tomato scarf!”

Naruto’s stomach twisted. Her face flushed hot all over again. “It’s not stupid,” she said quickly, voice cracking at the edges. “I—It’s mine—”

The words barely left her mouth before someone shoved her from behind. Not hard. Just enough to send her stumbling.

Her knees hit first. Then her hands. The gravel scraped rough and sharp against her skin.

The laughter swelled.

It was loud and ugly and high-pitched. It rang in her ears.

Naruto stayed down, fists buried in the dirt, scarf twisted tight against her throat, breath coming hard and fast.

Her throat burned where it had pulled.

Her chest burned worse.

And then—

“Tch. You’re all louder than you are skilled.”

Uchiha Sasuke—undisputed king of ninja tag—stood at the edge of the swingset, arms crossed loosely over his chest. His dark, unreadable gaze swept across the group—eyes bored, mouth flat, and his pale hands shoved deep into his pockets. 

He wasn’t glaring. That would have meant he cared.

Just looked through them, like they weren’t worth his time.

The effect was immediate.

One of the girls gasped, clutching at her cheeks. “Sasuke-kun!” she squeaked, scandalized and swooning all at once. “You don’t mean—“

Another boy bristled. “What’s your problem?”

But Sasuke was already walking away. He didn’t look back, didn’t even answer. 

After a few paces, he slowed—and without even glancing, reached back to grab someone’s hand. The boy he pulled beside him looked older, taller, dressed in darker clothes. 

Uchiha Itachi met his little brother’s grip with wordless familiarity.

But just before they disappeared down the path, Sasuke’s gaze flickered one last time toward the girl still kneeling in the dirt.

He said nothing.

Just tugged his brother forward.

“Let’s go, Aniki. It’s boring here.”

Naruto watched him go.

No one spoke to her after that.

Not one kid offered to help her up.

Not one grown-up came over.

The laughter didn’t resume.

And the castle in the sandbox stayed crumbled.

Some of the parents began gathering their children. One picked up his son without a word and walked away. A mother gave Naruto a look that burned hotter than any fire, one that screamed, you shouldn’t exist.

In mere moments, the playground was empty.

The wind stirred a discarded paper cup near the swing set. Her hands trembled in her lap, scraped red.

She looked at them. At the blood. At the dirt.

Then, quietly, she got up.

Brushed off her shirt. Wiped her nose with the back of her hand, and walked to the swings where she sat down, gripping the cold metal chains so hard, her knuckles turned white.

A soft wind tugged at the uneven edges of her hair as small feet pushed against the wood chips, slow and steady. The chain creaked with each pass—forward, then back—the metal groans cutting through the silence.

She swung.

Because sitting still made the bad feelings louder.

And she didn’t want to hear them.

So she just kept going.

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

Two years later…

The Academy’s classroom windows rattled in their frames, thin paper screens fluttering with the spring wind. Beyond them, the trees in the courtyard had just started to bloom.

Inside, two dozen students sat cross-legged at their desks. Naruto lounged in the second row, hands splayed behind her head. Her sleeves were still too long.

Umino Iruka leaned casually against the edge of his desk, arms crossed as he surveyed the room.

“If the world were to end tomorrow…” he said, voice light but expectant, “who would you want to spend your last day with?”

Naruto blew out a puff of air, grinning wide. “C’mon, sensei. That’s stupid. Like that’s really gonna happen.”

Iruke sighed, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “It’s a hypothetical, Naruto. Just suppose the moon began to fall.”

“If the world was ending,” Akimichi Choji chimed in, “I hope it’s meat that falls instead of the moon!”

Laughter erupted around the room.

Naruto twisted in her seat, flashing a cheeky grin toward Sakura. “If the world was ending, I’d protect you, Sakura-chan!”

Sakura scoffed, turning her nose up with a huff. “Yeah, no thanks. I don’t need protection from you, Naruto.” She sighed dreamily, casting a glance sideways toward the raven-haired boy beside her, half-snoozing into his palms.

“All right, all right—bring it back.” Iruka clapped his hands for attention. “Everyone, write down the name of the person you’d want to spend your last day with.”

He made his way down the rows, passing out blank sheets of paper.

Naruto stared at the one on her desk.

All around her, classmates were already scribbling away—whispers and giggles traded across desks, a few dramatic sighs about crushes and best friends. Sakura leaned over her page protectively with practiced grace. Ino was doodling hearts. Even Shikamaru, half-asleep as usual, had started writing without much fuss.

But Naruto just sat there.

She bit the inside of her cheek and looked out the window.

If the world ended tomorrow…

She stared at the blank page for a while longer. Then, without a word, she folded it.

Crisp edges, neat creases. A sharp nose, wide wings.

A paper airplane.

She held it up, aimed toward the window, and flicked her wrist.

It soared straight through the open pane, catching the wind with perfect lift.

A few heads turned.

One pair of onyx eyes tracked it longer than the rest as it glided into the sunlit sky.

“Tch. Dobe,” Sasuke muttered under his breath. There was no heat in it though, just quiet resignation, since this was the kind of nonsense that was expected from her by now. Without looking up again, he leaned back into his hand, bored as ever. Lazily, he picked up his pencil and started writing.

“Hey—Naruto!”

She sighed as Iruka’s voice cut across the room, sharp with exasperation.

“Don’t throw that out!“

Naruto slumped back in her chair with an easy grin. “What? It’s flying toward its destiny.”

“This is a writing assignment,” Iruka snapped, already rubbing his temple. 

She crossed her arms and shrugged in reply. “What’s the point? I mean, there’s no way the world’s just gonna end tomorrow.”

“That’s not the point! It’s a hypothetical—”

“Exactly! Hypothetical. Which means made-up. Which means I can hypothetically do whatever I want, right?” She shot him a peace sign, teeth flashing.

Iruka groaned. “Why do I even try?”

Naruto just laughed, tipping back in her chair like she hadn’t a care in the world.

Outside the window, her paper airplane dipped, then rose again, caught on the breeze. It sailed above blooming cherry blossoms and roof tiles slick with afternoon sun. Higher and higher, untethered, unburdened, until the classroom and its noise faded entirely.

Above the village, the world was quieter.

The little paper plane spun once, twice, then steadied. Its nose tilted upward, aimed not at the sun, but toward the moon—pale and watching in the daytime sky.

It would fall eventually, flutter back to earth like everything else, forgotten, like so many things before it.

But for that single breath of a moment—it didn’t.

It flew like it had somewhere to go.

Like it had someone waiting for it on the other side of the sky.

And then—

BZZZZZT.

A phone vibrated violently.

Heads turned. Irritated glances swept the dark rows. A girl in the front row made a strangled noise of despair.

The culprit?

Dead center, middle row. Feet kicked up on the seat in front of him. White hair like a beacon and black sunglasses worn indoors, despite the dim theater lighting.

On-screen, the title card swelled across the frame in bold crimson ink:

NARUTO: THE LAST.

A flute sang softly behind it. Harp strings tugged delicately at something old and wistful. The opening melody shimmered—gentle, dreamy, full of longing—

BZZZZZT.

“Bro,” someone hissed from the back, full of accusation and agony.

Gojo Satoru didn’t flinch.

He just sighed and drew his phone out with one hand.

The screen lit up in full brightness like a miniature sun, its blast of light lighting up five rows behind him. At least a dozen people were left physically recoiling in the haze. A girl shielded her eyes. Someone swore. A popcorn kernel fell, slow and tragic, from a startled hand.

Gojo clicked his tongue. “Some people,” he whispered gravely, “have no respect for cinema.”

And then—without shame, without pause—he answered the call.

“What?” he snapped. “I’m grieving.”

“You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago,” came Nanami Kento’s voice. His tone was dry, unimpressed, and unmistakably fed-up. “There’s an active cursed site. Shoko’s on-site and Ijichi’s halfway through a nervous breakdown. Where are you?”

“Watching the absolute worst romantic decision in modern fiction history.”

A pause.

“Again? Seriously?” 

“I raised my expectations,” Gojo said, voice trembling with passion, “and it hurt me.”

Nanami sighed.

“I mean—” Gojo continued, volume rising. His eyes flicked down to the screen where Uchiha Sasuke was currently brooding by a sunset like he hadn’t spent three arcs actively trying to murder half the cast. “—she kissed Sasuke in the end.”

Several groans chorused around the room.

“Sasuke. Sasuke. The human fire hazard. The emo war criminal with exactly one emotional setting and it’s ‘murder.’ After everything—after the pain—the trauma—the Chidori-inflicted trauma—she still picks the emotionally constipated stab-happy Uchiha?!”

A woman near the front whispered, “Is he okay?”

“No,” her boyfriend murmured. “Obviously not.”

“Gojo—” came Nanami’s voice again, painfully strained.

“THAT TRASH LITERALLY TRIED TO KILL HER. MULTIPLE TIMES.”

A teenage girl two seats down audibly gasped—like Gojo had just insulted her bloodline, her village, and her entire fanfiction archive all at once.

She spun in her seat with whiplash speed. “I know you didn’t just say that about Sasuke.”

Gojo blinked. He pulled the phone slightly away from his ear, squinting at her as if she was a rare, dangeroud species of delusion. “Oh, I absolutely did.”

“Sasuke is misunderstood!” she declared, voice trembling with righteous fanfiction-fueled fury.

“He’s a walking red flag in ninja sandals,” Gojo shot back. “Misunderstood doesn’t mean you get to commit high-level treason and still get the girl.”

The girl sat up straighter, adjusting her oversized Akatsuki hoodie like it was armor. “He’s a survivor. He’s allowed to have trauma—”

“He causes trauma,” he deadpanned.

“You don’t get it!” the girl shouted. “The movie’s a metaphor! It’s about redemption! About how love can heal!”

“It’s about bad decision-making and lowered romantic standards,” Gojo refuted.

“What?! How can you say that!?” she shrieked, eyes blazing. “Naruto and Sasuke are soulmates. Period.”

Gojo threw both hands dramatically into the air. “Yeah? Then maybe one of them should’ve acted like it before the final five minutes!”

He jabbed a finger at the screen, where Naruto and Sasuke were now eating ramen in what looked suspiciously like pre-conflict bliss. “You know what this really is? Stockholm Syndrome. With sparkles. And bad narrative pacing.”

Gasps. Several rows of bystanders fully turned to watch now. Someone in the back whispered, “This is better than the movie.”

“TAKE THAT BACK!“

“NOT UNLESS SASUKE TAKES BACK SEVERAL ATTEMPTED HOMICIDES!”

“I—You—URGH—“ The girl shot to her feet, glaring down at him. “You’re just too old to get it!”

Gojo clutched his chest, feeling the blow land hard. “YOU TAKE THAT BACK.”

“YOU’RE LIKE TWENTY-FIVE OR SOMETHING!”

“NINETEEN!” Gojo screamed with the raw intensity of a man watching his youth die in real time. “I AM NINETEEN! AND FULL OF VALID OPINIONS!”

More popcorn was spilled. A girl in the back was shaking with laughter.

On the other end of the call, Nanami had gone full deadpan. “You’re arguing with a child,” he said flatly. “Please stop.”

“I’m fighting for literary integrity,” Gojo scoffed into the phone.

Nanami sighed so hard it sounded like static.

Gojo, undeterred, pointed one last dramatic finger at the girl like they were sworn rivals destined to meet again. “This isn’t over,” he declared. Then he stomped down the aisle, coat flaring behind him.

The girl cupped her hands and shouted after him, “READ THE NOVELIZATION! YOU DON’T KNOW THE CONTEXT!”

Gojo didn’t look back.

The theater door swung shut behind him with a clang, leaving behind only stunned silence, spilled popcorn, and a girl still clutching her Akatsuki hoodie, still trembling with fury.

“…He’s so wrong,” she muttered darkly.

“Yeah,” her friend whispered beside her, eyes still wide. “But he was kinda…”

They stared at each other. Their cheeks reddened in tandem.

“Shut up,” the first girl hissed.

But she didn’t exactly disagree.

⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹

On the other end of the call, Nanami sighed. Deep. Full-bodied. The kind of sigh that started somewhere behind the lungs and ended somewhere near existential collapse.

“…If you hate it so much,” he muttered, staring blankly at the cracked wall in front of him, “why are you watching it for the third time this week?”

Gojo’s voice crackled through the receiver, cheerful and deeply unrepentant. “Because I’m loyal, Nanamin. Something Sasuke clearly isn’t.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. Just behind him, Yaga paced back and forth like a thunderstorm given human form—broad-shouldered, glowering, and very obviously one bad update away from snapping.

The blonde exhaled through his teeth. “Yeah? Try being a little more loyal to your alma mater,” he said, sharper now. “You may have graduated, but Yaga still needs you. And you’ve got five minutes tops to get here before he detonates. Metaphorically or otherwise.”

There was a pause. Just long enough for Nanami to imagine—correctly—that Gojo was smirking like the world’s most insufferable gremlin.

“Okay, but real quick,” Gojo said suddenly—voice brightening with the same dangerous enthusiasm that usually preceded disaster, “do you think Naruto actually loved Sasuke, or was it trauma bonding with a side of abandonment issues?”

There was no dignified answer to that.

So Nanami didn’t give one.

Without ceremony, without hesitation, and with a single, well-practiced motion—he hung up.

CLICK.

Nanami sighed and stuffed his phone deep—very deep—into the inner lining of his uniform, as though the further it was from his body, the less likely Gojo’s nonsense could infect him through osmosis.

He walked across the dimly lit theater toward the front, the flickering light of the movie still rolling on the oversized screen—soft flutes, wistful harp strings, something about longing.

The film’s title still burned faintly in the corner:

NARUTO: THE LAST.

Nanami resisted the urge to sigh again.

Rows of empty seats gave way to a scattered cluster of unconscious teens slumped across the front section—sprawled like dropped marionettes, heads lolled, limbs loose. A half-empty popcorn tub had toppled onto one of them. Another still clutched a light-up keychain in their limp hand.

Ijichi crouched near the center of the group, sleeves pushed back, a small health monitor blinking faintly in his palm as he murmured readings into his recorder. His brow furrowed deeper with each result.

Beside him, Shoko knelt with practiced ease, moving from one body to the next with detached efficiency. Her med bag lay open at her side—vials, tools, and a tangle of diagnostic seals stacked inside in an organized chaos only she understood. With one gloved hand, she checked radial pulses along a wrist; with the other, she pressed her penlight beneath an unresponsive eyelid.

“Non-reactive,” she muttered to herself, an unlit cigarette bobbling at the corner of her mouth.

Yaga paced nearby, arms crossed. His presence filled the room with a kind of silent pressure.

“Did you place the veil?” he asked, turning as Nanami approached.

“I did,” Nanami assured him. “Mid-grade layered. Should hold back civilians and suppress the ambient cursed energy.” He moved closer, gaze sweeping the unconscious group with growing unease. “How are they?”

“They’re… stable,” Ijichi said, though his voice wavered with uncertainty. Almost immediately, he glanced at Shoko like he needed backup.

Shoko didn’t meet his gaze, just tugged another student’s sleeve back to check for external bruising—nothing. Her brow furrowed slightly as she repositioned her flashlight and lifted the boy’s eyelid.

“Breathing’s steady across the board. Heart rates are all elevated, but not like a stress response—almost like… some overstimulated REM state, but with none of the typical sleep markers,” she said, voice low and certain.

She flicked her light off and sat back on her heels, finally glancing up at Nanami with a tired, unimpressed look. “And their pupils aren’t responsive at all. Fixed. Dilated. Extremely so.”

Her gaze swept over the group again. One of them was muttering faintly, lips twitching like they were mid-conversation in a dream.

“No external trauma. No cursed wounds. No sign of technique interference on the body,” Shoko went on, rolling her shoulders. “My technique won’t work on them because there’s nothing to fix. It’s all neurological. ”

Nanami scanned them with a deepening frown.

Yaga turned toward him, eyebrow raised. “What’s Gojo’s status?”

“…Allegedly,” he said with deadpan finality, “he is en route.”

Yaga’s brow lifted even higher. “Allegedly?”

Nanami tugged at his cuffs with visible irritation. “Ten minutes would be the optimistic estimate. Reality says he’s already detoured twice—once to pick a fight with a middle schooler over anime discourse, and another for that crepe cart in the lobby.”

Shoko snorted under her breath, finally standing and dusting off her knees. “Bold of you to assume it’ll only be two detours.”

Ijichi, still crouched, sighed softly like he agreed with all of it but lacked the will to say so.

A vein pulsed in Yaga’s forehead.

Then—

BANG.

The emergency exit at the far end of the theater burst open with all the subtlety of a minor explosion. A gust of cold wind swept in with it, carrying the smell of powdered sugar and strawberry syrup.

And there he was.

Gojo Satoru.

Dramatically backlit by the glowing red EXIT sign—a half-eaten crepe in one hand and the world’s most obnoxious sunglasses glinting under the flickering projector light.

Nanami stared for one long, incredulous beat.

“…That was quick,” he said dryly.

Gojo took a leisurely bite of his crepe. “Mmm. Yeah. I was in Sector A. They’re still letting people watch screenings on that side—y’know, to keep the business running.” He gestured vaguely with the crepe. “I figured since I was already here, might as well see the intro again. For research purposes.”

Yaga took a breath. Possibly for the last time.

“Gojo—”

“Also,” Gojo added brightly, “I’m now banned from Sector A. Something about ‘disrupting the cinematic experience’ and ‘making a child cry.’ But in my defense, she started it.”

Nanami didn’t dignify that with a glance. “You’re a public menace.”

Gojo beamed, mouth full of whipped cream as he finished off the last of his dessert. “A well-dressed public menace.”

“Did you at least bring the cursed energy detector, senpai?” Ijichi asked, faintly exasperated.

Gojo pulled it from his coat pocket and tossed it to him underhanded, still chewing. “See? I’m so responsible.”

Yaga closed his eyes.

“Soooo,” Gojo drawled, rocking back on his heels as he peered down at the nearest unconscious kid. He poked the edge of a dropped plushie with the toe of his shoe. “Are they having nightmares about that kiss scene too?”

Nanami’s eye twitched. “If you say one more word about that movie, I will personally shove you through the projector screen.”

“Please do,” Shoko pleaded, half-jokingly. “It might actually help.”

Gojo grinned. Then nudged his sunglasses down with one finger. His eyes—normally hidden—gleamed with sudden, quiet focus over the rim of his lenses.

He crouched beside one of the teens, all lazy posture and long limbs, but his hands moved with precision. Two fingers to the neck as he checked their pulse.

“So what’s the diagnosis, doc?” Gojo asked.

Shoko’s lips thinned, brushing hair behind one ear as she stepped closer. “They’re not cursed. No marks, no wounds. No technique affecting the body, at least not physically.” Her voice dropped a note. “If I were any regular doctor, I’d call it right now.”

Nanami’s jaw tightened. “You mean…?”

“Dead zones on every cognitive test I ran.” Shoko’s mouth flattened. “They’re not brain-dead, but they might as well be. Everything’s functioning—heart, lungs— but upstairs?” She tapped her temple. “Nothing. It’s like the mind’s been unplugged.”

Gojo leaned in, brushing back the fringe of hair to lift one eyelid. The eye beneath was fully rolled back, twitching faintly in place.

He whistled low. “Well. That’s not creepy at all.”

Behind him, Shoko met Nanami’s gaze, her tone quieter now.“What the hell happened here?”

“We found them like that. Theater owner said they all came in for a private screening this afternoon. Lights flickered ten minutes in. No screams, no noise. He thought they fell asleep. After the screening, they just never woke up,” Nanami paused, gesturing toward the teens. “Or, rather, they won’t wake up. And that’s when we got the call.”

Gojo pulled back a little, his palm hovering above the teen’s chest now—feeling for the drift and static of cursed energy.

“Huh. Funky.”

Yaga stepped closer. “Define funky.”

“Like… a Wifi signal with half a bar.” Gojo held up his hand, fingers flexing as if feeling for something in the air. “They’re still connected. Just… buffering.”

Yaga’s gaze darkened. “You think they’ve been displaced?”

“Displaced, embedded—maybe both.” Gojo rose to his full height, brushing nonexistent dust from his knees. His eyes drifted toward the projection booth at the back of the theater room. “Something’s got them halfway between.”

Ijichi’s brow furrowed. “Between what?”

Gojo’s mouth twitched, just enough to flash teeth. “That,” he said lightly, eyes going sharp, “is what we’re gonna find out.”

Yaga caught the shift in his tone. “What are you thinking? Your eyes pick up something we missed?”

Gojo exhaled slowly, hands resting on his hips. His gaze flicked from the frozen movie screen—still locked on the washed-out, red-tinted credit roll—back down to the unconscious teens scattered like broken dolls across the floor.

“…I’m thinking this movie sucks more than I thought.”

Shoko snorted, almost despite herself.

“Well,” he drawled, flashing Shoko a lazy grin, “you’ve got this handled.”

Shoko just rolled her eyes and went back to checking another student’s vitals.

“Gonna do a little perimeter sweep,” Gojo announced suddenly, already turning away. “Maybe interrogate the popcorn machine. Real fieldwork.”

Nanami’s voice followed him, dry as ever. “Just don’t make it worse.

“No promises~” Gojo sang over his shoulder.

He made his way up the theater stairs two steps at a time, footsteps quiet against the old carpet.

The carpet underfoot was sticky in places, littered with spilled snacks and trampled flyers for upcoming releases. Empty soda cups tipped sideways along the aisles. A forgotten glowstick rolled under the edge of a seat.

Evidence of panic, maybe, but no real signs of struggle. No blood. No broken seats. No scuff marks. Just silence and stale butter.

Gojo slowed as he reached the top landing, letting his gaze drift toward the mounted security camera in the far corner—one lens covering the exit, another angled down at the front rows.

The camera’s little standby light flickered dim red.

Probably caught everything. Probably useless anyway, if this was a curse-type domain.

His Six Eyes prickled faintly as he climbed the last short flight of stairs toward the projection booth.

The door to the projection room stood half-ajar, hanging crooked on its hinge like it had been kicked open and never fixed.

He pushed it the rest of the way with his fingertips.

Inside, the faint mechanical hum of the still-running projector filled the air, low and steady—like a purr with too many teeth.

He let out a low whistle, eyes scanning the rows of outdated equipment stacked against the walls: dusty reels, scratched film canisters, exposed cables like frayed nerves. But his gaze didn’t linger long.

Because something was wrong.

Very wrong.

The cursed energy in this room didn’t just linger. It wasn’t smeared across the room like most cursed sites. Nor was it residual.

No—the cursed energy was concentrated.

His gaze slid toward the projector.

He slipped his sunglasses off and let them hang on his collar. Immediately, the world shifted—colors bleeding brighter, cursed energy patterns turning fractal and sharp.

There it was.

Singular.

Alive.

The projector’s light wasn’t just illuminating the screen—it was pouring cursed energy through it like a siphon. And inside the lens was a seal. Faint. Circular. Moving ever so slightly, like a ripple across water.

Gojo crouched down slowly, tilting his head to the side. “Well, well,” he murmured. “You’re not just cursed. You’re anchored. That’s not a normal domain.”

The door to the projection booth creaked open behind him.

Gojo raised his eyes idly, one hand still propped on his bent knee. “If this is another lecture about professionalism, I’m busy.”

“Not in the mood,” Nanami said flatly, stepping in first. His tie was already loosened, jacket tugged sharply back on his shoulders.

Shoko followed right after, snapping her lighter closed as she pocketed her cigarette case. “This room sucks,” she muttered, sweeping her gaze around the dusty equipment with a practiced medic’s eye.

Ijichi appeared next, hesitating awkwardly at the doorway like he wasn’t sure if he needed permission to enter.

And Yaga ducked inside last, the door frame creaking as he squared his shoulders beneath it. His presence filled what little space remained, all broad stance and bad mood.

“Report,” Yaga rumbled.

“There’s no evidence of a struggle. No cursed user nearby. No cursed spirits, either. And yet…” Gojo stayed crouched, tipping his head toward the projector with a casual wave.

He pointed to the lens.

“That thing isn’t just running a movie. Look closer. There’s a seal in the glass. It’s actively channeling cursed energy. It’s not just cursed—it’s a gateway.”

Ijichi visibly paled. “A gateway to where?”

Gojo shrugged. “Best guess? They’re stuck in some kind of pocket domain. Consciousness displaced, but still tethered by cursed energy.”

“This much output with no caster on-site?” Shoko questioned, crouching low beside the equipment. “That’s some advanced technique work.”

“This projector doesn’t need a caster—anymore at least. The object is the domain. Self-sustaining. Self-feeding.”

Nanami crossed his arms. “So, like Sukuna’s fingers?”

Gojo shook his head. “No.” He turned, glancing back through the window at the theater seats—at the unconscious teens sprawled below. “Sukuna’s fingers are inert unless eaten. This thing is active.”

Shoko straightened with a tired breath of realization. “So those kids didn’t just pass out. They were pulled into something.”

“Exactly,” Gojo said. “Whatever’s on the other side—it’s designed to trap. And this one’s clever. There’s no forced entry. It waits for you to engage.”

Shoko’s eyes narrowed. “A visual trigger.”

Gojo tapped his temple. “Right into the brain. Which explains the symptoms. From the outside, they look brain-dead. But from the inside…” He shrugged. “They’re just stuck. Somewhere else.”

Yaga—who’d been standing silent by the door until now—stepped forward. His gaze darkened as it settled on the projector. “Then we shut it down. Cut the feed.”

Gojo moved quickly, stepping into Yaga’s path. “I wouldn’t.”

Yaga raised a brow at him. “And why the hell not?”

Gojo gestured toward the cracked, unresponsive switchboard. “Controls are fried. Totally unresponsive. If you cut the power mid-signal…” He tilted his head toward the theater below, where the kids lay. “Well. I don’t need to spell out what happens to their minds.”

A heavy silence settled.

Ijichi swallowed. “Then… how do we pull them out?”

Gojo’s lips curled into a slow, knowing grin. “We send someone in.”

Everyone stared at him.

“And by someone,” Gojo clarified with faux modesty, “I mean me. Duh.”

“No,” Yaga said flatly. “Absolutely not. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

Gojo turned to him, already rolling his shoulders. “C’mon. Someone has to. Besides…” He smirked. “I know this story better than any of you.”

“That’s not a compliment,” Shoko chimed in dryly.

Nanami tensed. “You can’t be serious.”

“I’m always serious when I’m right.” Gojo already sounded half distracted, surveying the room for the best point of contact. “Think about it. It needs visual engagement—a mental link with the projection. If this domain pulls people in through narrative immersion…”

Shoko caught on quickly. “Then someone who can resist domain manipulation—someone who can control their perception—might be able to go in and come back.”

“Bingo.” Gojo pointed at himself with both thumbs. “Six Eyes, baby. If anyone can see through the story, it’s me.”

Nanami’s frown deepened. “We don’t know what’s on the other side.”

Gojo’s grin stretched wide, eyes practically sparkling. “That’s exactly what makes it fun,” he said, voice rising with manic glee. “Do you understand what this means, Nanamin? I’ve been spiritually preparing for this moment since I was eight. This isn’t a cursed object—this is a portal to greatness.”

He jabbed a finger toward the projector like it was the gates of heaven.

“I’m about to isekai into Naruto. Peak cinema. Peak storytelling. Peak—”

Yaga’s expression was stone. “‘Peak cinema’ isn’t the goal here.”

“Right, right. Heroic self-sacrifice, noble intentions, I’ve seen the anime.” Gojo said, cracking his knuckles. “If I can anchor myself with a cursed energy tether, you should be able to monitor my signals from out here. Worst case? You drag my sorry ass back before my brain turns into soup.”

Shoko rolled her eyes. “That’s not how any of this works.”

“It might be today,” Gojo chirped. Then, after a beat, the edge of his grin softened. “If those kids are stuck in there… someone’s gotta go in.”

He glanced at the projector—at the faint pulse of its glow, steady and inviting like a heartbeat.

“And let’s be honest,” he added, with mock solemnity, “I’m the only one here who’s emotionally prepared for a Naruto crossover. I’ve studied the lore. I’ve endured the filler. I am prepared.”

Nanami pinched the bridge of his nose. “You cried when she said ‘Dattebayo’ in the trailer.”

“It was poetic, Nanamin.”

“She was ordering ramen.”

“It was narrative closure!” Gojo whipped around, indignant. “And don’t act like you don’t know! You only know this anyways because you watched it with me on Wednesday.”

A beat.

Shoko’s head turned slowly. Her gaze landed on Nanami.

Nanami… said nothing.

Shoko’s eyes narrowed. “…You watched it?”

Nanami looked away, throat clearing. “…The animation was decent.”

Gojo preened like he’d won a court case. “See? Emotional investment. We’re all compromised.”

He approached the projector, its light flickering now—brighter, sharper. It pulsed like it was aware of him. Waiting. He stopped just shy of the beam, sunglasses still hanging from his collar, hair catching the glow like starlight.

“All right,” he said, rolling his shoulders. “If I get stuck in there with filler arcs, tell my fan club I died heroically.”

“What fan club?” Shoko deadpanned. “There’s no one to tell.”

Gojo grinned wider, ignoring her. “If anyone’s gonna LARP their way through a cursed anime movie, it’s me.” He took a grand, unnecessary step forward—planting one foot dramatically inside the wash of projector light. “This is my moment. My narrative arc. My—”

The cursed energy surged.

Gojo didn’t finish.

CRACKLE.

The seal in the lens spun violently. Light flared.

Gojo’s body dropped mid-step like his strings had been cut. He hit the floor, eyes rolled back, breath seizing.

Ijichi let out a noise that was equal parts horror and despair. “Senpai—?!”

Shoko dropped to her knees beside him immediately, two fingers moving to check his pulse. “Stable,” she muttered. “Same vitals as the others. Same pattern.”

Yaga swore under his breath, already moving for the comm. “We’re escalating this. Get emergency relay measures set up now.”

Ijichi scrambled to his feet, fumbling with his equipment bag. “I’ll grab the external monitors from downstairs,” he said quickly, already halfway to the door.

Yaga followed, voice clipped with urgency. “Bring the stabilizers too. And the long-range cursed signal relay—we’ll need full field coverage if this thing gets worse.”

Ijichi bobbed his head in a frantic nod. “Yes, sensei!”

The door to the projection booth swung shut behind them, their retreating footsteps echoing down the theater stairwell as they hurried back toward the main floor.

Shoko glanced grimly toward the flickering projector. “Congratulations,” she said flatly, reaching for her medical kit. “We have a fifth victim.”

Nanami sighed, already crouched beside Gojo’s body. He gave him a long look, then muttered, “Idiot,” and heaved him up with ease.

He dragged a nearby folding chair over with his foot and eased Gojo into it. It creaked under the weight, but held.

Gojo slumped bonelessly, head tipped to one side, mouth slightly parted like he was snoring through the best nap of his life.

Nanami adjusted Gojo’s collar like shoving down a particularly annoying blanket. Then he retrieved the fallen sunglasses, setting them neatly in Gojo’s lap.

“Theatrics,” he muttered, “even in unconsciousness.”

Shoko didn’t look up. “At least he’s consistent.”

The projector hummed louder.

FWOOOM.

The projector whirred violently back to life with a sudden kick, and the screen lit up—bright, golden, and full of motion.

“Woah… That’s so cool.”

A bright, cheery voice rang out through the theater’s speakers.

On-screen, the camera panned to a small red haired girl, whisker marks stamped on chubby cheeks, smiling brilliantly at a pink-haired classmate in a sandbox.

“I… think he’s in,” Shoko murmured, eyes narrowed on her scanner.

Nanami turned to face the glowing screen. His expression didn’t change, but his jaw tensed slightly. “God help that world,” he muttered under his breath.

⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹

Gojo’s eyes blinked open.

The first thing he noticed was water—still, reflective, endless. A perfect mirror stretching beneath his feet. He stood atop its surface like it was glass, robes pooling like silk around his ankles.

Wait.

Robes?

He squinted down.

Robes.

Long, billowy, aggressively majestic robes. Ivory white with enough silver embroidery to bankrupt three small kingdoms. The sleeves alone were so wide, they could double as sails.

“Okay…” Gojo muttered, tugging experimentally at the fabric.

The next thing he noticed was the silence.

It wasn’t just quiet. It was paused. Heavy. Artificial. Like the whole scene was waiting for a director’s cue.

And then—three faces.

Frozen mid-stare. All of them turned toward him, unmoving. Unblinking. Hostile.

The man in the middle? Unmistakable.

Sharp features. Pale eyes like lit moons. That god-tier resting disapproval face.

Hyuuga Hiashi.

His brain lagged for a full two seconds.

Then:

“Oh wow,” Gojo muttered. “You look like you yell at children for fun. 100 yen says you’re about to monologue at me about bloodlines and honor.”

Silence.

Literal, screen-freeze silence.

Gojo waved a hand at him. No response. Not even a blink. The man stayed mid-glare like he was buffering.

“…Okay. Cool. So we’re frozen.”

Gojo turned a slow, suspicious circle, only now clocking the water’s reflection. His own face stared back at him—still white-haired, still blue-eyed, still criminally handsome. But now draped in full villain-chic cosplay.

He frowned. Tugged at the fabric again. Then glanced back at the frozen figures ahead.

Hiashi Hyuuga, center stage. Rigid. Mid-glare. The man’s entire energy screamed ‘I disown people for sport.’

Gojo squinted at him.

Then at the other two figures flanking him. Both distinctively Hyuuga.

Then back at himself.

Then back at Hiashi.

…Wait.

Wait.

His gaze drifted upward. Past Hiashi. Past the water.

To the pale, looming shape in the sky above them.

“Oh,” Gojo said aloud.

The moon.

Huge.

Too close.

Too bright.

“Ohh…”

He stared at Hiashi, connecting dots with dawning realization.

He glanced over his shoulder, hoping that maybe, there was someone else standing behind him. No such luck.

“Well,” he muttered, tugging dramatically at the collar of his celestial bathrobe, “at least I’m a hot villain.”

Chapter Text

Uchiha Sasuke stood at the crest of a dune, black cloak whipping faintly in the dry wind. The desert stretched out in every direction before him; an endless sea of burnt gold and shifting heat.

The sun hung low on the horizon, fierce and unrelenting. Its familiar shades of crimson and gold lingered in his sight longer than they should have—bright, untamed, and utterly impossible to ignore.

It twisted something low in his chest.

He forced his gaze away.

Konoha lay east, and as he stared up at the sky, he found himself measuring the distance in ways he didn’t usually bother with. How long the roads would take. How quickly he could cross them.

And without another word, Sasuke turned east. His shadow stretched long across the dunes, fading into the deepening dark as he walked on alone.

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

The academy field buzzed with restless energy.

A breeze stirred dust and petals from the sakura trees, sending them spinning through the air like confetti—nature’s own party for Konoha’s favorite disaster magnet.

And the kids?

The kids were losing their absolute minds.

Dozens of little faces were squished against the classroom windows like moths to a flame. The glass rattled under the weight of at least three students pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, pounding on the panes in fan-feuled excitement.

A few of the braver (or less supervised) students had fully climbed onto the window ledges. Legs dangled. Sandals slipped. Teachers inside shouted themselves hoarse, but none of the kids cared.

“NARUTO-HIME!!!”

“SHE’S HERE! SHE’S REALLY HERE!!”

“LOOK AT HER HAIR! SHE’S SO PRETTY!!”

“I’M GONNA MARRY HER!!!”

“NO, I’M GONNA MARRY HER!!!”

“NO, ME FIRST—”

Naruto tugged awkwardly at the hem of her shorts, cheeks flushing as she glanced up at the chaos. Her suddenly too-tight leggings trapped more heat than they should’ve in the winter chill, knee-high sandals far too scuffed from excessive training—and for a second, she almost wished she could disappear into the dirt. Instead, all she could think to do was lift a hand in a small, uncertain wave.

“Uh…” She cleared her throat, grinning sheepishly. “Hi.”

The screams doubled.

Somewhere near the third floor, two kids had broken into a full-on chant of her full name. A cluster of first-years waved hand-drawn signs with crayon-colored foxes and horribly affectionate slogans like “We <3 Naruto!”

Naruto waved both arms at once, half laughing, half panicked. “Okay—okay, settle down already! You’re gonna fall out the window! Seriously, stop climbing—hey! You—second floor, third from the left—get back inside before Iruka-sensei sees you!”

The kid froze mid-climb, looking simultaneously terrified and thrilled at her attention.

Naruto dragged a hand down her face, groaning softly. “This is so weird,” she mumbled under her breath, cheeks burning even hotter. “Why does this always happen…?”

She forced a shaky breath out, bouncing once on her heels to shake off the nerves.

Right. Focus. Lecture time. Cool ninja stuff. She could do that.

She squared her shoulders, tugged her shorts straight, and plastered on her usual grin. Turning to face the field full of freshly graduated genin, she threw both hands on her hips nonchalantly, as though she hadn’t just been seconds away from dying of secondhand embarrassment.

“I’m your guest lecturer today!” she announced. “So listen up and watch close!”

A fresh round of cheers erupted. Someone on the first floor launched a paper shuriken out the window. Another kid tripped and nearly took two classmates down with him in his scramble to get a better view.

Naruto refused to let it throw her off.

Without giving herself time to overthink, she bolted across the field, kicking up dust as she went. And then—

She jumped.

A twisting, flipping, knee-tucked spin that sent the hem of her jacket flaring in the wind. Her ponytail whipped behind her like a comet tail, catching the afternoon sun. For a brief second, the kids watching collectively forgot how to breathe.

Mid-spin, her hands flashed—too fast to track—drawing six kunai in one smooth pull. Three between each set of fingers, blades glinting in the light.

The air cracked as she threw.

One. Two. Three—four, five, six.

Six targets. Six perfect strikes. Dead center.

Before the last kunai had even finished quivering in the wood, she dropped out of the spin, drove her heel straight into the chest of the nearest training dummy—

THUNK.

The dummy toppled, crashing into the dirt with a spray of dirt.

For one, glorious beat: silence.

And then—

“NARUTO-HIME I LOVE YOUUUUU!!”

“SHE’S SO COOL!!!”

“TAKE ME AS YOUR APPRENTICE!!”

“DATE ME WHEN I”M OLDER!”

”MARRY ME!!”

“ADOPT ME!!”

The voices blurred together, all high-pitched and earnest, so full of awe it made her ears ring.

Naruto landed in a crouch, one knee bent, breath steady.

…And instantly ruined the image by turning scarlet.

Briefly, she covered her face with both hands. “Kami,” she groaned, shoulders hunching. “How did Kakashi-sensei deal with this…?”

After taking a moment to collect herself, she shoved her hands onto her hips, spun toward the screaming crowd, and threw up a double peace sign. Her grin stretched too wide—until she caught herself mid-smile, faltered, and flushed harder.

“…A-And that’s how it’s done,” she stammered, flicking her ponytail back over her shoulder with all the swagger she could scrape together. “A-Any questions?”

Dozens of small hands shot skyward.

“Can you teach me that spin kick!?”

“Can you sign my headband?”

”Do you eat ramen every day? Is that the secret?!”

Naruto blinked, stunned, as the first-years stared at her expectantly—faces flushed, eyes sparkling, voices tumbling over each other in a chorus of admiration and pure excitement… for her.

For a second, she almost didn’t know what to do with it.

She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to play it cool, even as her chest clenched in a way she couldn’t quite name.

“Okay, okay—one at a time, dattebayo!” she called, waving her hands in surrender. “You’ll all get a turn, I promise!”

The cheers only grew louder.

Naruto blew out a shaky breath, half-dizzy from it all.

This… was going to be a long afternoon.

But maybe—just maybe—a good one, too.

On the other end of the training field, just behind the academy’s boundary fence, three familiar figures loitered in the shade of a half-bloomed cherry tree.

Ino leaned her elbows over the wooden slats, chin resting in her hands as she watched the chaos unfold. Her eyes sparkled with amused disbelief.

“Wow,” she drawled, a slow grin creeping across her face. “Never expected her to be such… prime stakes material.”

Choji—midway through digging around in a bag of honey chips—paused, blinking. “You mean… like steak?”

Ino turned to stare at him, deadpan. “No, Choji. Not steak. Stakes. As in—high demand. I mean—look at her! She’s basically Konoha’s it-girl. Boys. Girls. Random fangirls from other villages. All lining up just to catch a glimpse of her.”

Choji glanced back at the field. Sakura petals from the trees swirled dramatically around Naruto like someone had cued a special effects team.

“…Oh,” Choji said after a beat, thoughtful. “So like… snackable. But, like… figuratively.”

Ino sighed. “Exactly.”

Shikamaru, stretched out flat on the grass with one arm behind his head and the other lazily covering his eyes, let out a long, bored breath. “Troublesome,” he muttered, voice muffled but audible.

Ino’s grin sharpened. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you didn’t see this coming. All that war hero press. The interviews. The peace envoy missions…” She gestured vaguely toward the field, where Naruto was now flailing to get a group of kids to stop doing coordinated Naruto-themed cheer routines with matching hand signs.“Girl saves the village, grows out her hair, finally retires those hideous orange monstrosities she used to call clothes—and now half the under-thirty population wants to propose.”

“Half?” Choji asked, voice full of innocent wonder. “I think it’s more like… three-quarters.”

Shikamaru cracked one eye open just long enough to glance over at the aforementioned redhead. “She could sneeze and someone’d propose on the spot.”

On the field, Naruto finished demonstrating a roundhouse kick with slightly more power than intended. The target dummy snapped off its post and went skidding into the dirt. Cheers went nuclear.

Shikamaru closed his eyes again with resigned defeat. “And yet she still acts surprised when people like her.”

“Honestly?” Ino said, smiling to herself. “It’s kinda cute.”

Choji nodded, contentedly munching another handful of chips.

A few feet away, a small group of older academy boys had started arguing loudly over who could bring Naruto water first. One kid tripped over another’s foot, faceplanting directly into the dirt while still clutching a thermos.

Ino burst out laughing.

Shikamaru just sighed again. “Absolute chaos,” he muttered. “And it’s not even lunchtime.”

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

Steam curled from the bowls in spirals, filling the air around Ichiraku Ramen with the smell of broth and soy and freshly pulled noodles.

Naruto sat at the counter, a pair of chopsticks already halfway to her mouth. “Go on, guys!” she said, motioning with her free hand toward the group of Genin crowded onto the stools beside her. “Eat up! Ramen’s on me today!”

“Thank you, Naruto-hime!!” the kids chorused at full volume, slamming their hands together in clumsy, overexcited bows before diving into their bowls like starving wolves.

Naruto snorted mid-slurp, nearly choking on her noodles. She swallowed hard, cheeks puffed and pink. “Hime… seriously?” she mumbled, scratching the back of her neck with a sheepish laugh. “Where do you guys even get this stuff…”

Her ears still felt warm when one of the younger girls giggled and whispered “She’s blushing!” loud enough for half the stand to hear.

“Naruto-nee!”

Naruto turned mid-gulp, eyes lighting up. “Oh hey! Konohamaru!” she called, grinning wide.

The boy barreled up to her, panting hard. He bounced on his toes as he tugged at her sleeve with both hands.

“You have to come with me!” Konohamaru said, eyes wide with barely-contained excitement. “Right now! I found something! You’re gonna flip out—come on!”

Naruto blinked at him, then at her still mostly-full bowl, then back at him.

“…But my—”

“No time!” Konohamaru insisted, already dragging her toward the exit by the wrist. “It’s super important! C’mon, Naruto-nee, pleeease!”

Naruto laughed as she stumbled after him, waving over her shoulder at Teuchi. “Sorry, Teuchi-san! I’ll pay later!”

“You always say that,” Teuchi called back, shaking his head but smiling all the same.

“And I mean it every time!” Naruto shouted over her shoulder as she disappeared down the street, Konohamaru still tugging her along like a determined little freight train.

The journey to the Sarutobi estate wasn’t far, but Konohamaru was so hyped he nearly tripped over himself twice trying to pull her faster. By the time they burst through the garden gate, Naruto was half-laughing, half-winded.

“Okay, okay—slow down, boss,” she teased, hands on her hips as she caught her breath. “What’s the big deal?”

Konohamaru didn’t answer right away. Just grabbed her hand again and led her straight through the front hall, past a stack of scrolls and an abandoned toy kunai, toward one of the back rooms.

There, in the center of the tatami floor, sat an old wooden box.

Konohamaru crouched beside it, practically vibrating with anticipation. “I found it in the storage room this morning,” he said, flipping the lid open with a dramatic flourish.

Inside, half-covered in an old cloth, were photos, knick-knacks, and a scattering of worn trinkets: mission tags, old hitai-ate, faded team photos…

And nestled carefully at the very bottom…

Naruto’s breath caught.

She knelt beside him, fingers hovering before she finally reached in. The fabric was soft. Familiar. Handmade, clumsy in places—but made with care.

“…Is this…?”

“Yeah,” Konohamaru said proudly. “It’s the one!”

Naruto’s throat tightened. “…I thought I lost it.”

Konohamaru watched her closely, bouncing nervously on his toes, not sure if she was going to laugh or cry.

“The old man kept it safe after the fire. It was getting mended, but he never had the chance to give it back to you. Said it used to be your dad’s—your mom made it for him.”

Her thumb brushed the fabric, tracing the uneven seams, the small patches where new thread had been worked in. She’d worn it for years, never really knowing why it mattered so much—only that it did.

Now she knew.

Her vision blurred before she could stop it, but her smile tugged through anyway. Soft. Crooked. But real.

“…Thanks, Konohamaru,” she said quietly, tucking the fabric against her chest. “This… means more than you know.”

Konohamaru beamed. “Anything for you, Naruto-nee!”

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

Lanterns were already going up along the rooftops—paper streamers and silk ribbons fluttering in the breeze as preparations for the Rinne Festival began in earnest.

Stalls overflowed with festival trinkets, lucky charms, and stacks of bright red and white gift boxes. Vendors called out their specials, kids darted between stands clutching paper fans, and the scent of grilled mochi drifted through the air.

Naruto walked alongside Konohamaru, hands tucked behind her head, a lazy grin on her face as she took it all in.

“Man… feels like the whole village’s out today,” she said, eyes following the swaying rows of hanging lanterns. “Haven’t seen it this packed in forever.”

Konohamaru trotted to keep pace beside her, kicking at a loose pebble in the road. “What did you expect? Rinne Festival’s next week. Everyone’s scrambling to buy gifts before the good ones sell out.”

Naruto hummed. “Right… gifts…”

That was all the opening he needed. Konohamaru’s grin turned wicked. He elbowed her in the side. “Soooo… who’s your lucky guy?”

Naruto nearly tripped over her sandal. “Huh? What are you talking about?”

Konohamaru wiggled his eyebrows like the menace he was. “You know. The Rinne Festival gift exchange? The whole ‘give your heart to someone special’ thing? It’s tradition. Who’s getting your present this year, huh?”

Naruto flushed immediately, swatting at him with both hands. “Oi! Quit it! I don’t—I don’t have time for stuff like that! I’m not giving anyone anything!”

“You’re, like… Konoha’s most eligible kunoichi right now. The entire village’s got a crush on you,” Konohamaru pressed, dodging her flailing arms. “C’mon, you gotta have someone in mind.”

“I really don’t!” Naruto shot back, louder this time. Her cheeks flared, from the sheer absurdity of it. “I don’t think about… that kind of thing, okay? I’ve got missions! Training! Actual important stuff to do! Not… not that!”

Konohamaru grinned wider, looking way too pleased with himself.

Naruto, meanwhile, huffed and kicked at the dirt.

“Honestly…” she muttered, face hot. “Where do you even get ideas like that?”

Before Konohamaru could press the issue, a voice called out from nearby.

“Naruto-senpai!”

Naruto stopped—just in time to catch sight of one of the genin from her earlier academy lecture jogging toward her, a small box clutched tight in both hands.

The teen stopped short in front of her, breathing hard but determined.

“I—uh—I hope you’ll accept this!” he stammered, thrusting the box toward her.

Naruto blinked at it. “Eh? Oh—uh… thanks?” She took it awkwardly, cradling it like it might combust at any second.

Konohamaru was already smirking.

But before she could process further—

Another teen ran up.

Then another.

Then a girl too, giggling nervously and shoving a bag of festival sweets into her hands with a flushed face.

Within two minutes flat, both Naruto and Konohamaru were standing there, arms full of boxes, bags, and little hand-wrapped gifts.

“Naruto-hime, this is for you!”

“Please accept mine too!”

“W-would you read the letter inside later?”

“Will you go to the festival with me?”

Konohamaru wheezed with laughter, trying to balance three different snack boxes against his chest.

Naruto, bright red and absolutely flustered, could only bury her face behind the growing mountain of presents.

And still, more people were coming.

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

By the time Sasuke reached the village gates, the sun had already slipped beneath the horizon, leaving the streets of Konoha glowing with lantern light.

He stood there for a moment, letting the view settle over him. Watching. Listening.

Same as it always was.

And yet…

His hand shifted slightly at his side, thumb grazing the edge of his pocket. The metal trinket inside felt cool and unfamiliar against his fingers.

He didn’t take it out. 

Instead, he adjusted the line of his cloak and moved forward, silent as shadow, and slipping into the village like a ghost returning home.

His steps stayed even as he crossed the plaza, the Hokage Tower looming ahead, its spire cutting sharp against the deepening sky. Its long shadow stretched across the main street, a reminder of everything that had changed, and everything that hadn’t.

Sasuke didn’t pause at the door.

He just kept walking—one hand buried in his pocket, thumb pressing once—absently—against the small weight nestled inside.

Then he stepped into the Hokage’s office without knocking.

Kakashi sat behind his cluttered desk, half-buried in mission reports, a half-empty cup of tea cooling by his elbow. He didn’t look up right away—just flipped a page in his book with one finger.

“Back from Suna already? That was fast,” Kakashi said, voice light, almost bored. “Didn’t think I’d see you for another week.”

Sasuke didn’t answer. Just let the silence settle, his cloak shifting faintly with the draft from the open window.

At last, Kakashi lifted his gaze. His single eye softened just slightly, the faintest curl of something tired but genuine tugging at the corner of his masked mouth.

“…Welcome home, Sasuke-kun.”

By the time Sasuke reached the desk, his expression was unreadable, all sharp lines and composed silence. He dropped a sealed scroll onto the stack in front of Kakashi without ceremony.

“Nothing but scattered Sound activity. Dealt with it.”

Kakashi hummed at that. He cracked the seal with one hand, skimming the contents at speed—his visible eye narrowing just slightly. “Hn. Clean work. As expected from my third-best student.”

Sasuke shifted, resisting the urge to roll his eyes, and glanced out the window, already wanting to leave.

Kakashi noticed, of course. His eye curved in that slow, familiar smile—the kind that always meant trouble.

“You’re just in time for the Rinne Festival, you know,” Kakashi drawled, setting the scroll aside with exaggerated care.

Sasuke gave him a flat stare. “…And?”

Kakashi let the silence stretch for a beat too long, clearly enjoying himself, then gestured lazily toward the corner of his desk—where an ominously large stack of colorful envelopes sat, tied together with red festival string.

“Big week for Konoha. Everyone’s excited,” Kakashi said, voice deceptively mild. He plucked one envelope from the pile, waving it teasingly in the raven’s line of sight. “The season for grand gestures. And—apparently—fanmail.”

Sasuke stared. “…Fanmail?”

“Fanmail,” Kakashi confirmed cheerfully. “Though more specifically? Marriage proposals. Political arrangements. Romantic confessions. Some slightly concerning poetry. All addressed to our dearest Naruto-chan.”

Sasuke didn’t react. Not a twitch. Not a flicker. His shoulders stayed loose, his face unreadable.

Kakashi’s smile curled just a fraction higher beneath the mask. “With this much competition,” he mused, “you’d think you’d show up to at least one public event. Come to the festival, Sasuke-kun. Consider it fieldwork in human emotions. Your weakest subject.”

“I’m leaving,” Sasuke cut in abruptly, already halfway to the door.

Kakashi didn’t stop him. He only leaned back in his chair, tone light as air, and called after him:

“Let me know if you need help picking out a gift—the good ones get taken fast~!”

Sasuke just kept walking and the door closed behind him with a soft, final click.

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

The council chamber was colder than usual.

A round table sat at the center of the room, carved from dark oak, worn smooth from years of debate. Around it sat the Kage of every major village—each marked by their own posture, their own guarded silences.

The Raikage, A, leaned forward, massive arms crossed atop the table, his scowl deep enough to carve stone. “Let me get this straight,” he said, voice low and unimpressed. “You’re telling me the moon is dropping out of the sky?”

“Yes,” Kakashi confirmed without preamble, his fingers steepled together as he leaned in. “It’s getting closer by the day. Hence…” He tilted his head, gesturing vaguely toward the scroll-mounted map on the wall where impact sites were marked in red. “…All the meteorites.”

Gaara sat opposite him, face impassive as ever. “The atmospheric readings from Suna’s outposts show a measurable shift in gravitational pull. The phenomenon started three days ago. It’s accelerating.”

“I can explain.” A new voice spoke then. It was the lead chakra physicist from Konoha—a middle-aged woman with sharp eyes and long grey hair tied back in a strict knot. She stepped forward from the wall where the advisors stood.

“As two celestial bodies draw closer, gravitational forces between them increase exponentially,” she began, producing a small projection scroll and unfurling it across the center of the table. An ink-drawn simulation lit up in soft blue chakra light: Earth, the moon, and the tightening orbital pull between them.

“Tidal pull, tectonic strain, air pressure fluctuations—all of it. But at this proximity…” She tapped the floating image, and the simulated moon began to crack apart in slow, agonizing detail. “…the structural integrity of the moon will fail. Its surface will fragment. The debris fields we’ve seen falling these past few days? Those were just the beginning.”

“…And what happens after that?” Ōnoki asked grimly, already knowing but needing the words said aloud.

Her voice dropped a register. “Once critical distance is breached… the entire lunar body will disintegrate. Billions of tons of debris will rain down across the planet’s surface. The atmosphere will ignite. Tidal displacement will cause global flooding. And what doesn’t burn will drown. If nothing is done, mankind will—”

”—Perish.” A finished quietly.

Silence spread like a slow poison.

The Mizukage broke it first, her voice deceptively light as she lazily tapped her polished nails against her water flask. “Is this a natural phenomenon…?” she asked, arching a brow. “…Or is someone behind this?”

Her question cut clean through the air.

Kakashi’s gaze didn’t waver. “That’s the million-ryo question.”

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

Konohamaru rounded the corner at full speed, a half-empty box of mochi tucked under one arm, cheeks already stuffed with at least two pieces. His other hand juggled a precarious tower of small snack boxes and wrapped sweets—all brightly ribboned, all clearly not meant for him.

He licked powdered sugar from his thumb with zero shame.

“Man, this was the score of the century,” he mumbled to himself, grinning wide enough to nearly choke on his own snack.

He’d begged Naruto for them. Whined, really. Flopped dramatically over her like a starved orphan until she gave in with a long-suffering sigh. She’d made him promise to take only the extras. Said something about it being rude to give away gifts from people who cared enough to make them.

But honestly? The girl had so many boxes she’d tripped over the pile of them in her apartment.

Konohamaru popped another mochi in his mouth, turning the next corner—

And nearly walked straight into a wall of dark fabric and colder-than-average air.

He stumbled back with a yelp. “Whoa—!”

Then blinked up.

“Oh—Sasuke?!” he blurted, still mid-chew. “When’d you get back?”

Sasuke stood there, leaning against the alley wall. His hands were occupied—fingers turning over something small and metallic at chest height.

Konohamaru’s gaze zeroed in immediately.

A necklace.

Thin silver chain. A single, polished blue garnet dangling at the end. Small, but sharp-edged. The kind of thing you didn’t just pick up casually at a vendor stand.

Sasuke caught him staring and was already starting to pocket the thing, but Konohamaru—quick as always—leaned in with all the social grace of a nosy little brother.

“Oooh, what’s that?” he said, mouth still full, pointing a powdered-sugar finger at Sasuke’s hands.

Sasuke’s brow twitched. “Tch. None of your business.”

Konohamaru’s grin stretched teasingly. Without invitation, he planted both hands squarely on Sasuke’s shoulders like he was bestowing divine advice.

“Go for it, Sasuke!”

Sasuke froze. His entire posture went rigid like Konohamaru had just threatened him with public karaoke. “…What?”

Konohamaru gave him a sage little nod, stepping back with a mock-solemn chew of his mochi. “C’mon, don’t play dumb. That’s for Naruto-nee, right?”

Sasuke’s gaze darkened. “I didn’t say that.”

Konohamaru just pointed more aggressively toward the necklace, grinning so wide his face practically split. “You didn’t have to!”

There was… a pause.

The barest flush of color touched Sasuke’s ears. Barely there. Blink and you’d miss it.

Konohamaru did not miss it. But to his credit—or perhaps his obliviousness—he just kept going, gesturing now to the mountain of boxes in his own arms like he was showing off treasure.

“Besides, you better catch up soon, y’know? She’s got half the village throwing gifts at her. I mean, look at this!” He wiggled a wrapped sweet for emphasis. “These are just the overflow she let me steal. The rest? Piled up on her kitchen counter like a festival float!”

Sasuke’s gaze lingered on the stack of pastel boxes.

Konohamaru shoved another mochi in his mouth and offered a muffled, unhelpful: “Just sayin’, timing matters.”

Then, whistling off-key and still grinning, he sauntered down the street—leaving Sasuke standing there, thumb absently brushing over the curve of the blue gem tucked in the inner lining of his sleeve like it had become heavier all of a sudden.

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

Ichiraku Ramen Bar buzzed with its usual evening crowd, steam curling from every bowl like lazy ghosts. The air smelled like broth, soy, and nostalgia.

Naruto sat on a stool, elbows propped on the counter, kicking her heels lightly against the stool rung. A newly acquired red scarf hung loose around her neck like a badge of honor, its ends trailing halfway down her lap.

“Mmm—ramen really hits the spot this time of year!” she declared with preemptive glee, grinning wide as she drummed her fingers against the counter in barely restrained anticipation.

Sakura, sitting two stools down, crossed her arms with a fond but exasperated sigh. “What are you talking about, Naruto? You eat this stuff all year round.”

“Yeah, but it tastes extra good when it’s cold out!” Naruto huffed.

“Naruto-kun,” Hinata began, almost chidingly as she hid her smile behind one pale hand. “You say that like you don’t eat this stuff during heatwaves and missions and… well… any day ending in -day.”

Naruto flashed her a peace sign. “And? Seasonal flavor enhancement. It’s science.”

Ino laughed, flipping her hair over one shoulder as she leaned her elbows on the counter. “You’re ridiculous. Honestly, I half expect you to marry a bowl of miso one day.”

Naruto put on her most serious, contemplative face, chin on her palm like she was pondering some deep philosophical truth. “I mean… I could do worse,” she said at last, sending Sakura into a snort-laugh beside her.

“At least ramen wouldn’t ignore you for weeks at a time,” Hinata remarked, letting out a soft, knowing chuckle.

The reaction was immediate.

Ino nearly slid off her stool from laughing. Naruto turned a shade of red that almost matched her scarf. Sakura—mid-sip of tea—choked.

For half a second, she froze, eyes wide and blinking like she’d short-circuited. Then she coughed hard into her sleeve, face going pink as she stared way too intently at the menu board like it had just become the most fascinating document in Konoha.

Naruto, meanwhile, waved both hands defensively like she could physically shoo the comment away. “Wh-What?! That’s not even—! I don’t—! Hinata!!”

Clutching at her scarf on pure reflex, she tugged it tighter around herself, almost as if she could crawl inside it and disappear. Hinata just smiled into her teacup, utterly unrepentant.

Before Naruto could mount a halfway decent defense, Teuchi’s voice rang out from behind the counter.

“Alright! Four miso specials, extra toppings—plus one side of gyoza on the house!”

Naruto’s eyes lit up. “Yosh! Teuchi-san, you’re the best!~”

With practiced ease, Teuchi set down each steaming bowl in front of them—each brimming with glistening broth, thick noodles, soft-boiled eggs, and slices of pork that practically melted at the edges. The smell hit first—rich, warm, like home. The plate of gyoza followed, still sizzling slightly on the iron tray, edges crisp and golden brown.

Naruto barely managed to whisper a reverent “oh my god” under her breath before reaching for her chopsticks.

Hinata opened her mouth, clearly winding up for another teasing remark, but before she could get the words out, Naruto grabbed a piece of gyoza and shoved it straight into Hinata’s mouth—without the dipping sauce.

“Eat,” Naruto declared, voice full of mock authority.

Hinata blinked, wide-eyed for one stunned second… then just laughed around the mouthful, cheeks puffed, shoulders shaking as she chewed.

Sakura and Ino burst out laughing all over again—though Sakura’s felt just a little strained at the edges.

Naruto grinned, victorious, dragging her ramen bowl closer with both hands. “Itadakimasu!” she announced brightly.

But just as she was about to take her first bite, she paused—chopsticks hovering halfway to her mouth. Her gaze dropped down to her scarf, still looped around her neck.

“…Hmm. Can’t get this dirty,” she murmured, mostly to herself.

Carefully, she tugged it loose, winding the fabric gently around itself until it formed a small, soft bundle in her lap. She patted it once for good measure then grinned at the girls again.

With zero hesitation this time, she dove straight into her ramen.

Sakura, deep in thought, let her gaze drift out toward the street beyond the noren curtains. Her smile faltered—just a flicker—as her eyes caught on something—or someone—walking past.

“…Sasuke-kun?” she murmured, eyes going wide.

Naruto, halfway through slurping another mouthful of noodles, froze like she’d been unplugged. “What—where?” she sputtered, twisting in her seat so fast her stool squeaked in protest.

Sure enough—there he was.

Sasuke, walking at an easy, distracted pace just beyond the noren curtains of the stand, his hands tucked in his pockets, hair a little wind-tousled from travel.

Their eyes met—brief, but direct.

Naruto’s whole face lit up like someone had flipped a switch.

“Teme!!” she shouted, half-laughing, half-accusatory. “You jerk! You never tell us when you’re back! Don’t tell me you’re already heading out again?”

Sasuke slowed, just a step. His gaze drifted over the group: Naruto—pink-faced and grinning wide, Sakura—watching with raised brows, Ino—smirking behind her chopsticks, and Hinata—biting her lip, clearly fighting back a knowing smile.

Naruto didn’t wait for an answer. She slapped the open seat to her left. “C’mon! If you haven’t eaten yet, join us!”

Ino leaned in, voice syrupy sweet. “Something’s got our Naru-chan in such a good mood tonight… she wanted to celebrate,” she drawled.

Naruto’s face flared even redder. “Th-That’s not why—! I just—! Stop making it weird, Ino-pig!” she sputtered, but she couldn’t stop smiling either way.

Sasuke’s gaze drifted to her for a beat longer than strictly necessary. His eyes dropped—just for a second—to the red scarf folded in her lap… then back up to meet hers.

A small, almost imperceptible curve ghosted across his lips.

“…Hn,” he said at last. Then—quiet, casual—“I haven’t eaten.”

Sakura didn’t say anything. Just sat quietly, stirring her tea, eyes lowered to her bowl, but her shoulders had stiffened just enough for Ino to notice.

The blonde’s smile faltered, her gaze narrowing in subtle concern.

And with that, Sasuke stepped closer, shoulder dipping slightly as he moved past the curtain and took the seat beside her. 

Naruto blinked at him—momentarily stunned mid-breath as though she hadn’t actually expected him to say yes.

But the pause lasted barely a second.

Her grin snapped back into place, twice as bright.

She whipped around toward Teuchi with renewed energy. “Another bowl! Extra toppings! And throw in some tomatoes too!” she shouted, practically vibrating with sudden, chaotic joy. Then she twisted halfway around to throw Sasuke an exaggerated side-eye. “Gotta keep the Teme happy. He eats that stuff raw like a freak.”

Sasuke didn’t blink. Didn’t argue. Just gave the most put-upon, world-weary “…Hn,” like he couldn’t be bothered to engage.

“See?” Naruto crowed, turning back to her ramen with a triumphant slurp. “He knows.”

Ino watched the entire exchange with barely hidden amusement, eyes flicking between them.

Sakura, meanwhile, stayed unusually quiet. She lowered her tea, setting the cup down with a little more force than necessary.

Ino’s gaze drifted sideways. Noted that too.

Sasuke, for his part, didn’t seem to notice—or maybe he just didn’t care. His gaze drifted over the menu board like he hadn’t just derailed the entire mood at the table.

Naruto, oblivious as ever, bounced slightly on her stool, still riding the high of surprise and reunion. One hand toyed absently with the edge of her scarf as she grinned over at Sasuke again.

“So, hey! When did you get back?” she asked, the words tumbling out too fast. “Have you eaten yet? Oh wait—duh, obviously not, you just said that—but like, where were you this time? Did you come straight here? Or were you already passing by? Are you leaving again tomorrow? Or—”

“You’re rambling,” Sasuke said flatly—but there was no bite to it.

Naruto blinked, caught herself, then laughed—loud, easy, unembarrassed. “Hah—yeah, well.. It’s just… you know. You showing up out of nowhere. Classic Teme.”

Sasuke hummed low in his throat, barely a sound. His eyes half-lidded, but there was something faintly warm about the way he didn’t immediately shut her down.

Hinata, keeping a casual ear on the exchange, nudged Naruto in the side with her elbow.

“Careful, Naruto-kun,” she teased, tone light but eyes sharp. “Keep smiling like that and people are gonna start talking again.”

Naruto choked on air. “I—It’s not like that!” she yelped, waving both hands in frantic denial. “It’s just—!“ Her next words came softer, quieter—almost hesitant but sincere all the same. “…It’s good to see you, Teme.”

For a split second, Sasuke’s gaze flickered—lowering just enough to catch the edge of her smile. The smallest pause. A subtle shift.

He reached for his chopsticks as Teuchi placed the steaming bowl of ramen in front of him, adjusted his seat looking wholly like he was going to ignore her entirely… but then, without looking at her, started answering.

“I got back this afternoon,” he said simply, voice low and even.

Naruto perked up immediately, leaning forward, not wanting to miss a word.

“Kakashi-sensei sent me to the Suna border last month,” Sasuke continued, pausing only long enough to mix the broth. “There was movement near the western trade routes. Some remnants of rogue Sound groups forming. Nothing serious.”

He took a slow bite of noodles, like the entire table hadn’t gone quiet to listen.

“Stopped at the mission office first,” he added after swallowing. “Filed the report. Was on my way home when I passed by here.”

Naruto’s grin stretched wider. “Lucky timing for us then,” she said, knocking her shoulder lightly against his before turning back to her ramen.

“And tomorrow?” she prompted, almost holding her breath.

Sasuke paused—only a fraction of a second—but enough to make both Hinata and Ino glance sideways with interest.

“Not leaving,” he said finally. “Not yet.”

Naruto’s face lit up—too fast, too bright—but she quickly ducked her head, shoving another mouthful of noodles into her mouth in an attempt to physically smother the smile trying to break loose.

For a minute, they all just ate—conversation shifting back to light chatter about the festival schedule, the latest mission gossip, and Ino making snide comments about the Academy kids Naruto was mentoring.

But between one bite and the next, Sasuke’s voice cut through the noise again—quiet, flat, but unmistakably directed at her.

“If you’re free tomorrow,” he said, gaze still pointed at his bowl, “we should spar.”

Naruto froze mid-chew.

There was a full beat of stunned silence.

Then she nearly inhaled her broth.

“Wait—seriously?!” she barked, scrambling for her napkin as she half-coughed, half-laughed. “You mean it? You’re actually offering for once?”

Sasuke gave the barest shrug. “You’ve been running your mouth about how much stronger you’ve gotten. Figured I should see for myself.”

Naruto slammed her hands down on the counter hard enough to rattle the bowls. “I don’t ‘run my mouth,’ you jerk! I state facts!”

Ino snorted into her drink. “You absolutely run your mouth.”

Even Hinata laughed—soft, but very real.

Naruto barely noticed. She was already bouncing in her seat, grinning. “You’re on, Teme! Training field seven, tomorrow morning! Hope you’re ready to get your ass handed to you!”

Sasuke hummed in acknowledgment, already turning back to his ramen.

But there was a faint, unmistakable curl at the corner of his mouth—just enough for Ino to catch it as she dragged her gaze slowly from him… to Naruto… then back to Sakura, whose knuckles had gone white around her tea cup handle.

Naruto was mid-rant, chair tipped back dangerously far—to which Sasuke had preemptively braced his leg against—already listing off in her head which jutsu she wanted to show off first, when the sound of approaching voices broke through the buzz of the ramen stand.

A group of boys—older teens and young twenty-somethings, all undeniably good-looking in that clean-cut, civilian heartthrob kind of way—came jogging over en masse like a stampede of enthusiasm and cologne.

“Naruto-hime!” one of them called, waving both hands over his head like he was signaling a ship to dock.

“Ah! There she is!” another grinned, skipping the last few steps.

“Naruto-samaaa~!” one sang out dramatically, earning an eye roll from his friends.

Naruto blinked mid-slurp, then brightened in recognition. “Oh hey! It’s you guys again!” she said, flashing them her usual sunny grin. “Thanks for all those presents earlier! Seriously, you guys didn’t have to do all that.”

One of them—clearly the ringleader—laughed a little too quickly, scratching the back of his neck. “W-Well, you deserve it… after everything you’ve done for the village, y’know?”

Ino coughed pointedly into her sleeve. Hinata bit her lip again—this time to hide a laugh.

Sasuke’s chopsticks paused mid-air, just for a second.

Deciding to power through the awkward, Naruto pushed her empty bowl aside and stood up, dusting off her hands.

“Well hey, since you’re here…” she said and gestured broadly to the counter. “Order whatever you want—it’s my treat! As a token of my gratitude, dattebayo!”

That… apparently broke them.

Two of the guys went bright red on the spot, waving their hands frantically in front of them.

“W-Wait, no! Absolutely not! You can’t just—!”

“We should be paying for you! I mean, that’s only right, isn’t it?!”

Another guy cleared his throat awkwardly, then ducked his head. “Yeah… uh… honestly, let us get your ramen. Please.”

Naruto blinked at them—confused, then laughing. “What? Seriously? Guys, it’s fine. I invited you.”

But they were already flagging Teuchi down to settle the bill, half-tripping over each other to do it first.

From behind her bowl, Hinata didn’t bother hiding her grin. “Popular tonight, huh?” she quipped teasingly.

Naruto just scratched the back of her head, giggling like this was all one big, dumb joke she hadn’t figured out yet.

Sasuke stayed silent, eyes never straying from their interaction.

Naruto was mid-awkward-laugh, still joking with the guys about their over-the-top gifts, when one of them—braver than the rest—reached out and caught her lightly at the crook of her elbow.

“Hey, Naruto-hime, actually… why don’t you come eat with us?” he said, smiling a little too eagerly. “We’ve got a table over by the festival stalls.”

Another chimed in, eyes bright with hope. “Yeah! Our treat, of course. Just as thanks for… you know… everything.”

Naruto blinked, startled by the contact.

“Wait—what? No, no, I’m already eating here,” she refuted, gesturing to the counter where a stack of empty bowls laid atop one another. “And I already ate like… three bowls. I’m good, seriously.”

But the guys weren’t giving up. Another one stepped forward, offering an embarrassed, lopsided grin. “Well then… dessert! Or drinks? Just… sit with us for a bit, at least?”

Behind her, Sasuke had finally gone back to eating—but with noticeably more… force.

The next bite sounded like it might snap the poor chopsticks in half.

Ino clocked it immediately, biting back a laugh behind her hand. Hinata caught it too, her gaze flickering nervously between Sasuke and the group now crowding Naruto’s space.

One of them reached again—polite but persistent—trying to hook her arm, even as she’d tugged it back with an awkward smile. The guy didn’t let go right away. His fingers lingered for a second too long against her sleeve.

And when Naruto looked up to meet his eyes—

Something was… off. 

His smile stayed fixed in place, but his eyes didn’t move with it. Too still. Too bright. Like glass catching light.

The hairs at the back of her neck prickled.

Naruto’s grin faltered for half a beat—instinct tugging at her gut, whispering wrong, wrong, wrong—

—and then movement caught her eye.

Pale and silent, Sakura had set her untouched tea down and grabbed her bag with stiff fingers. “I’m gonna head out,” she said abruptly, already turning for the street.

“Wait—Sakura-chan?” she started, moving toward her, but Sakura was already halfway down the block.

Naruto’s gaze dropped to Sasuke, who was still stabbing through his ramen. Without thinking, she kicked him under the counter.

Hard.

Sasuke scowled. “What the hell, Dobe?”

Naruto jabbed a thumb toward the pinkette’s retreating figure. “Teme. Go walk her home.”

Sasuke’s brow furrowed. “…Walk her home? What for?”

Naruto’s eyes darted around—anywhere but at him. Her fingers drummed against the countertop, her knee bouncing under the stool. “Uh—because—you can’t just let a young girl wander around this late at night, dattebayo!” she blurted, voice going high and fast.

Sasuke’s stare flattened into something halfway between incredulity and deadpan disbelief. “…You’re joking, right? Nobody in this village would mess with her. Of all people.”

Naruto groaned, rolling her eyes. “I—it’s basic manners! Be a decent person for once, yeah?”

Sasuke’s eyes narrowed, tone turning dry. “Pretty sure she could fold half the Chunin Corps before breakfast if she felt like it.”

Naruto sputtered. “That’s—not—ugh, you’re missing the point!”

Sasuke raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “Am I?”

Naruto let out a strangled sound and threw her arms up. “Kami, you are so dense!”

His frown deepened. “Tch. Says the one making no sense.”

Naruto opened her mouth—then shut it just as fast. Her gaze darted wildly toward the street, where she caught the flash of pink hair rounding the corner and disappearing from view.

“Ugh, forget it!” she burst out, hopping off her stool with a scrape of wood on pavement. “You’re such an idiot. Seriously.”

Before Sasuke could say another word, she bolted for the door. “Sakura-chan! Wait up!”

Sasuke sat there, still scowling, watching her go.

“Tch… why am I the idiot,” he muttered, stabbing at his ramen with extra irritation. “Idiot.”

When he glanced up, Hinata and Ino were both watching him with poorly hidden smirks.

Hinata’s was soft, amused, almost sympathetic.

Ino’s was absolutely not.

Sasuke’s scowl deepened.

After a brief, tense pause… he stood up without finishing his bowl, shoved his hands in his pockets, and disappeared into the night without another word.

For a moment, Ichiraku fell unusually quiet.

Ino and Hinata sat there in the lingering silence, both still holding their chopsticks mid-air, watching the street where all three of their friends had just stormed off in various levels of emotional dysfunction.

Ino was the first to break.

She let out a long, theatrical sigh and collapsed dramatically onto the counter.

“Oh my god,” she groaned. “We are witnessing live the world’s most awkward, slow-burning, emotionally constipated love triangle. The Team Seven Curse is real and it’s thriving.”

Hinata nearly choked on her rice. “I—I mean… I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t call it that… exactly…”

Ino lifted her head just enough to give Hinata a long, flat, unimpressed stare. “Hinata. She literally kicked him under the table to make him chase after the girl who’s still obviously in love with him… while dodging a table full of civilian suitors in love with her… and he’s sitting there murdering his ramen because he’s jealous and emotionally illiterate.”

Hinata opened her mouth to argue… paused… then quietly lowered her chopsticks with a soft, helpless huff.

“Yeah, that’s fair.”

⊹₊‧.𖤓.‧₊⊹

“Sakura-chan! Wait up!”

Naruto’s voice rang down the street as she tore after her, sandals slapping hard against the pavement.

Sakura didn’t slow.

If anything, she sped up.

But Naruto wasn’t the type to take a hint.

She caught up halfway down the street, grabbing lightly at the edge of Sakura’s sleeve before the other girl could disappear around another corner.

“Oi—hey, what’s up?” Naruto asked, still slightly breathless but grinning all the same. “You just ghosted on us back there.”

Sakura froze at the contact.

For a second, she stayed stiff, eyes locked forward like she hadn’t heard—but then she let out a long, shaky exhale and finally turned, schooling her expression into something neutral.

“I’m fine,” she said. Too quickly. Too tightly.

Naruto’s grin faltered.

“…You sure?” she asked, squinting at her, the edge of concern creeping into her voice. “You didn’t even finish—“

Sakura laughed—short, brittle. “I said I’m fine, Naruto.”

Naruto stared at her, clearly not buying it. But also… not really knowing what to say.

There was an awkward beat where she fidgeted in place, shoving her hands into her pockets and rocking back on her heels.

“…You know,” Naruto started, voice a little softer, “you could’ve stayed. I mean—Sasuke wasn’t gonna bite you or anything.”

That earned her a sharp side-eye. “Naruto.”

“What?” Naruto blinked. “I’m just saying! He’s not that scary. Well… okay, no, that’s a lie. He is kinda scary. But not to us.”

Sakura’s expression flickered. “You really don’t get it, do you?” she muttered.

Naruto scratched at the back of her neck, awkward. “Uh… get what?”

Sakura sighed—tired, resigned. She shook her head, the loose ends of her hair falling in front of her face.

“Nothing,” she said. “Forget it.”

Before Naruto could argue, Sakura adjusted her bag higher on her shoulder. “I’ve got early rounds at the hospital tomorrow. I should get home.”

Naruto opened her mouth—then closed it again.

“…Right. Yeah. Makes sense,” she mumbled.

Sakura offered her a small, polite smile. Too polite. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

And just like that, she turned and walked off—quick but steady, her pace measured now, controlled.

Naruto stood frozen on the sidewalk, staring after her until the last trace of pink disappeared around the corner.

“…Ugh,” she muttered under her breath, dragging a hand down her face. “Why does this feel like my fault?”

She kicked at a loose stone near her foot, sending it skittering across the road.

For a second, she debated going back to Ichiraku—but the thought of sitting there, pretending everything was normal, forcing down more food while Ino and Hinata threw her weird looks…

Yeah. No thanks.

Her stomach twisted, and just like that, the idea of ramen—her third bowl of the night, still half-finished on the counter—made her feel vaguely sick.

“…Forget it,” she mumbled.

Stuffing her hands deep into her jacket pockets, Naruto turned on her heel and started walking, heading toward home with a sluggish, restless sort of frustration buzzing under her skin.

The streets felt colder now. Quieter.

It wasn’t until she rounded the corner by the old bookstore—past the spot where she used to sit and watch the street performers as a kid—that she realized where she was heading.

The playground.

It had been rebuilt after Pein’s attack—new paint, fresh equipment, soft impact gravel instead of the old, hard one. Safer now. Cleaner too.

Different.

The swing set wasn’t crooked anymore. The chains gleamed silver under the streetlights, polished and new. The slide wasn’t metal anymore either—now it was some smooth, plastic thing that wouldn’t burn in the summer or freeze your legs off in the winter.

Naruto let out a slow breath and crossed the playground, her sandals crunching on the gravel as she made her way to the swings.

She sat down with a soft thud, the swing barely shifting under her weight—newer chains, less give. She rocked back and forth anyway, letting her toes drag lines through the dirt.

Her eyes drifted over to the sandbox.

The sandbox was still the same.

Same size. Same uneven edges where the wooden border met the ground. Same patches where the sand never quite filled in all the way.

Right there. That’s where Sakura had been. Pink hair down over her face, building some lopsided sandcastle for a princess she insisted she wasn’t.

Naruto smiled at the memory.

Sakura.

The first person who’d ever smiled at her without being told to. The first person who hadn’t looked at her like she was a problem to avoid or a nuisance to ignore.

Naruto dragged her sleeve across her nose, huffing out a breath. “…Idiot…” she muttered, mostly to herself.

She didn’t know who she meant. Herself. Sasuke. Maybe both.

Leaning forward, she rested her elbows on her knees, staring at the dirt under her sandals. The air felt cool against her face. The scarf slipped off one shoulder, but she didn’t bother fixing it this time. She tilted her head back, staring up at the night sky—at the faint stars barely visible past the streetlights and rooftops.

Her throat felt tight.

She wasn’t even sure how long she’d been sitting there, staring, thinking. The lump in her chest just kept growing heavier.

It wasn’t like she didn’t get it. People grew up. Got busy. Had lives.

Sasuke was gone most of the time, chasing whatever road he thought would make things right. Kakashi was buried under Hokage work, barely surfacing for air except to send them all on missions.

But Sakura…

Sakura was here. Still in Konoha. Still part of her day-to-day… and yet somehow…

Naruto blinked hard, eyes stinging before she even realized it was happening.

“This is so stupid,” she mumbled, scrubbing the heel of her palm across her face.

She sniffed, then laughed—a short, watery thing that didn’t sound like her at all.

“What’s wrong with me…?” she whispered.

It wasn’t like Sakura had said anything mean. Wasn’t like she’d picked a fight or stormed off.

But still… lately… every conversation felt a little shorter. Every smile a little thinner. Every excuse to leave came a little faster.

And Naruto—who’d never been good at sitting still, or waiting, or watching people drift away—felt like she was losing something.

Like the version of Team 7 she still carried in her head was slipping further and further out of reach.

She ducked her head, shoulders curling in as she tightened her hands into fists at her knees. Her breath hitched. And before she could stop it—before she could tell herself to knock it off, or get over it, or laugh it off like she always did—

Her vision blurred.

Her shoulders shook with small, uneven tremors she couldn’t quite control.

But she stayed quiet. Too quiet for someone like her.

And with no one around to see—she let it happen.

For just a little while.

Except, she wasn’t alone.

“…You cryin’?”

Naruto tensed.

Her head snapped up, eyes wide—heart jolting in her chest. She hadn’t sensed anyone approach. Not a flicker of chakra. Not a shift in the air. Nothing.

And yet—there he stood.

Propped against the swing set pole like he’d been there the whole time. Shoulders loose, one leg crossed over the other, posture all relaxed lines and practiced indifference.

Snow-white hair.

Sunglasses pushed up onto his forehead, resting like a headband.

And those eyes—Kami—those stupid, ridiculous, way-too-pretty eyes.

The most vivid, unnatural blue she’d ever seen. Watching her like he already knew exactly what she was thinking before she did. Piercing. Bright. But… not unkind.

Naruto sat up straighter on instinct, dragging her sleeve across her face in one frantic swipe like that would erase all the evidence.

“…Tch. Not crying,” she muttered automatically, voice still scratchy but full of defensive bite.

“Oh no, of course not. Must be allergies.” He pushed off the pole with lazy grace and took a slow step closer, gaze dropping briefly—pointedly—to the scarf around her neck. “Just saying… you’re gettin’ your scarf all wet with your snot.”

Naruto blinked, hands fumbling to tug the scarf back into place. Her ears went hot—not from embarrassment but from sheer irritation at being caught off guard like this by… whoever the hell this was.

”I’m not—I—Who the hell even—?“

“Relax, princess,” he said, voice dripping with that too-comfortable charm of his. “I’m just passing through. Saw you sitting here… all tragic. Figured—hey, why not say hi?”

“I—I am not tragic!” Naruto snapped, making a strangled noise in her throat. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Lots of things wrong with me,” he mused, tipping his head like he was cataloging each one, “but that’s not really relevant right now.”

Naruto squinted at him suspiciously. Still on guard. Still not sure if she wanted to punch him or… something else. There was something about him—his energy. Big. Casual. Impossible to pin down.

She exhaled hard through her nose, scowling deeper. “I think it’s pretty relevant, actually. You didn’t answer my question.” Her voice came out gruff but steadier now. “Who are you?”

The man didn’t answer right away. Just gave her a slow, easy grin—tilted like he was enjoying this way more than he should.

“I’m S—” He paused mid-letter, eyes narrowing as he caught himself at the last second—then rolled straight through without missing a beat. “—Toneri.“

“…Toneri?” she repeated flatly.

“Yup.” He gave her a dramatic finger-gun and a wink.

And then, without giving her a second to respond, he leaned in just enough to invade her space—not close enough to touch, but close enough that her breath caught.

“And lucky you…” His voice dropped, low and smooth. “…I’ve come for you.”

Naruto recoiled instantly, face burning. “Wh—What kind of creepy line—?!” she burst out, hands going up, more than ready to throw something, anything, at him.

His gaze dropped to her scarf again. Then to her cheeks.

And then—because apparently this night couldn’t get any weirder—

His hand moved. With way too much care for someone this annoying, he’d reached out and thumbed away the last stray tear from her face like it was nothing.

She froze.

She didn’t punch him. Didn’t yell. Didn’t even flinch.

She just sat there—wide-eyed, heat blooming under her skin, caught in the sudden sharp focus of him looking at her like that.

She blinked up at him, mouth going dry.

And then—just when she thought maybe he was finally going to say something serious—

He grinned again.

Bright. Easy. Catastrophic.

He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice, soft and way too sincere:

“You know… you’re a lot cuter up close than I was emotionally prepared for.”

Naruto’s brain stopped functioning.

Her mouth opened. Nothing came out.

“So!” He clapped his hands once, cheerful. “Let’s skip the awkward part, skip the small talk, skip the entire three-act structure—”

The smile that followed was unfair. Full of teeth. Full of challenge.

“Y’know.” His head tilted. “Save time.”

And then, with the same reckless momentum of someone jumping off a cliff:

“Marry me, yeah?”

Naruto made a strangled, gasping, full-body noise that wasn’t a word. Not even a full scream. Just pure, garbled, air-sucking disbelief noise like her brain blue-screened and her fight-or-flight reflex picked both at once.

“SHHDHDHSJE?!”

The stranger lit up like she’d said yes.

And while she was still buffering—he smiled again, easy and warm and terrible, and murmured something under his breath, hands shifting into a shape she didn’t recognize.

The air dropped.

A split-second pressure change, like the ground dropped out from under her—but the swing didn’t move. The wind didn’t blow. Her balance vanished anyway.

It wasn’t chakra. Not any kind she recognized.

Just sensation.

Vast. Crushing. Immediate.

Her instincts screamed at her—but before she could summon even a sliver of her own power—the world tilted and its colors blurred. Her stomach lurched hard, and a ringing filled her ears—sharp and high.

Naruto opened her mouth to shout, chakra flaring in her gut—

But the man was already moving.

One pale hand caught her wrist—not tight, not painful, just… anchoring. 

“Easy, princess,” she heard him murmur—closer now. There was no teasing this time. No smile. Just something softer. Almost… apologetic.

“…Sorry,” he said, quieter this time, “Promise I’ll make it up to you.”

His thumb pressed comfortingly against the inside of her wrist, like some part of him wished she wouldn’t panic.

But by then—

The entire playground dissolved into white.

Chapter Text

Lavender eyes stared into his own, unblinking and eerily still. The Hyuuga’s distinct gaze was already unsettling on a good day—as elegant as it is eldritch—but frozen like this?

Full uncanny valley.

So this was the famed Byakugan in 4k Ultra HD.

And here Gojo thought he had weird eyes. 

He squinted. The Hyuuga didn’t react.

He waggled his brows. Nothing.

Leaned in slightly, you know, just to test the waters—because statistically, at least one in ten Hyuuga would’ve blushed by now, and he was being very charming—

Still nothing. Just the same soulless, pale-eyed death glare. 

Gojo blinked first.

“…Damn,” he swore under his breath.

Figures. A doomed staring contest from the start.

With a sigh of defeat, he flopped back onto the rock he’d apparently spawned on, treating it like just another workday. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far off. Most of his workdays did often consist waking up in strange places, getting yelled at by cranky old men, and the occasional threat of cursed possession.

This mission? Pretty standard. So far.

His gaze drifted skyward, arms folded behind his head as he pondered. This had to be the post-title sequence, right? The one after that soft-focus opening with kid Naruto on the swing, already gunning for Best Protagonist in the “childhood trauma” category?

If he remembered correctly—and yes, of course he did, because Gojo never forgot a movie he blackmailed Nanami Kento into watching—this was the part where Otsutsuki Toneri, the big bad moon prince himself, made his dramatic entrance.

The problem was… nothing was happening.

No villainous monologue about bloodlines or lunar destiny. No Hyuuga outrage. Not even a gust of wind.

A ghost of pressure brushed against his forehead. Light, clinical, and startling in its familiarity. It felt exactly like someone pressing two fingers to his brow—the kind of check Shoko did on him after bad missions or long nights spent fighting things others wouldn’t have survived.

Gojo jerked upright, swatting at the air. “The hell—?”

The sound came half a beat later, muffled yet close.

“Satoru—can you hear me?”

He blinked, head tilting towards a voice he couldn’t quite place.

Somehow, it sounded like someone speaking right beside his ear and directly inside his skull at the same time.

He scanned the air around him once more, but there was no one there. Just open sky, too-bright moonlight, and the distant, unmoving figures still frozen mid-scene.

But the voice?

Unmistakable.

“…Shoko?” He questioned, just a touch uncertain. “That you?”

“Yeah, hey,” her voice came through again, tinged with relief. “Good news, we finally got the relay stable. Audio link’s live.”

”Is there bad news?” He asked, lips quirking.

“Isn’t it obvious?” Shoko drawled, “You’re trapped inside a cursed domain with all the survival instincts of a goldfish.”

“Hey—my instincts are excellent,” he countered smugly, flexing his arm like she could see it (she can’t.) “Wouldn’t have made it this far without them.”

“I truly don’t know how you do it,” she replied with mock awe.

A second later, another ghostly sensation pressed against him—this time along his jaw. It felt like she was prodding at his chin. Bluntly affectionate in that detached Shoko kind of way.

Gojo twitched a little at the phantom touch, brows furrowing. “Pretty sure this counts as workplace harassment.”

“…You can feel that?” Shoko’s tone shifted instantly, all faux-clinical interest. “Interesting.”

His frown deepened. “Unsettling, you mean.”

A pause. He knew that pause—she was smiling without admitting it.

“I’m doing it again.”

“Don’t—”

Too late. A faint pinch at the tip of his nose. He flailed at the empty air in front of his face like maybe, just maybe, he might actually catch her hand across dimensions. “Shoko, I swear to God—”

“Medical examination,” she offered blandly.

“You’re poking my face.”

“Mm-hm. Monitoring vitals, cursed energy flow. Audio’s good, still no visuals. Movie started back up but… where are you?”

Gojo blinked. ”It started?”

“Yeah. Some grown woman is out here mean-mugging a five-year-old. Real uplifting stuff. Did you seriously watch this twenty times just to torment yourself?”

Gojo didn’t answer. He let the jab hang, chewing on the thought instead.

If the movie had just begun…

His gaze swept over the scene set around him. The Hyuuga were still locked in place mid-glare, every detail poised but unmoving.

A scene loaded but not yet played.

“…Huh.” He tipped his head back, staring up at the glaring moon. “If you guys are still on the intro, that means I’m…” His words trailed off. 

The domain had dressed him up as the moon prince, but that guy wasn’t even supposed to show up until after the title card. Seven minutes in, maybe more.

If Shoko was watching kid Naruto on a swing, then she was watching the past—a flashback, the setup. But here, where he was standing? The aftermath of the Ninja War. The part of the story that hadn’t technically happened yet.

Past on her end. Future (present?) on his. Nonetheless, it was the same reel. The same moment. But different points in the time.

“…I’m in between,” he said finally.

“Erm…between where and what?”

Another voice bled into the line, far less charitable:

“Between ‘alive’ and ‘idiot,’ at this rate,” Nanami muttered.

“Ah, Nanamin!” Gojo lit up, eyes darting around like he might catch a hidden camera. “Try to sound less worried, yeah? You’ll blow your cover as my secret admirer.”

“Disturbing sentence,” Nanami deadpanned. “Unfortunately, you’re still breathing, which means we need to address the actual issue. Where are you?”

“I’m on a rock.”

Silence.

A long one.

Disrupted only by a distant, dutiful scratch of pen against paper until—

“And?” Nanami prompted at last, tone clipped.

Gojo straightened with a huff, gaze dropping to the dull gray stone at his feet.

Sandals. Ninja sandals.

Then his eyes traveled further—and of course.

Front and center, staring him down with the judgmental weight of a thousand years of family shame: Hyuuga Hiashi.

“Good news,” Gojo announced breezily, “I look fantastic in ninja sandals. Not everyone can pull them off, but, y’know—” he gave a casual roll of his shoulders. “—I make it work.” His grin widened. “Bad news: pretty sure I’m about to get clocked by the Hyuuga head. Or, y’know… he can try.”

“The Hyuuga? Are you in a confrontation?”

“Technically? Not really,” Gojo said, nonchalant as ever. “Everyone’s frozen. Like—frozen frozen. I could pants Hyuuga Hiashi right now and the man wouldn’t blink.”

“Mm.” Shoko didn’t even try to hide her unimpressed hum. “Remind me again why we let you handle fieldwork unsupervised?”

“Because I’m the strongest,” he said sweetly.

“At this point, I’m more concerned for the Hyuuga than for you.”

“…Wow,” Gojo sniffed, feigning deep offense. “No sense of humor. And apparently, zero faith in me.”

“No,” Nanami corrected. “Too much faith in your ability to make this worse.”

Gojo smirked, sprawling lazily on the rock. “Nanamin, I’m literally cosplaying a moon cult leader. Of course it’s going to get worse.”

“…Toneri,” Nanami concluded, grim and resigned. “Figures.”

“Wait, you know who that is?” Shoko’s voice lilted with sudden amusement.

The sequential frown on Nanami’s lips was practically audible. “I told you. I watched the movie with him. Twice. Against my will.”

“Twice?” Shoko echoed, scandalized.

“Against my will,” Nanami reiterated immediately.

“C’mon, Nanamin,” Gojo sang out. “Just admit it—you liked it. The scarf scene got you right here, didn’t it?” He thumped a fist against his chest for emphasis. ”He cried, Shoko. Actual tears.”

There was silence on the line. Long. Frosty. Practically a confession.

At last, Nanami’s voice returned, dry as dust. “If I had cried, it would’ve been from the agony of sitting next to you.”

Gojo cackled. “Please, you even bought the limited edition—”

“Enough,” Nanami cut in—albeit a little too quickly. “This is irrelevant. Focus.”

A pause. Then Shoko chimed in, tone as mild as it was merciless: “…Limited edition, huh? Duly noted.”

Gojo smirked, tipping his head back toward the frozen tableau around him. “Fine, fine. Moving on before Nanamin dies of embarrassment… I figured it out.” His mouth curved, eyes narrowing on the unmoving Hyuuga. “You’re watching the flashback. Me? I’m already in the aftermath. Which means I’m stuck between cuts.”

Nanami cleared his throat, tone smoothing back to something a little more refined. “That tracks. Right after you went under, the projector started rolling again. The movie’s running on our end but Toneri doesn’t appear until after the title card.”

“Okay,” Shoko said slowly, piecing it together despite her shaky grasp on the source material. “So Satoru’s in a scene that hasn’t actually started yet.”

“Not just that,” Nanami corrected. “He’s in a timeline that technically hasn’t even begun.”

“Ding, ding, ding!” Gojo sing-songed. “Look at us, all on the same page. Brilliant minds, eh? Essentially, I’m waiting for my cue to LARP as a moon supremacist.”

“…Stop calling it LARP. And what, exactly, do you think a cue looks like—”

A deep, ominous drumbeat resonated through the air, cutting Nanami off, followed by a swell of strings that seemed to emanate from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Gojo blinked. Tilted his head.

The music was… diegetic. Loud. Surround sound. Surrounding him.

He paused, then pointed an accusing finger at the empty air. “Nanamin. You jinxed it.”

A faint shuffle of papers, then Nanami’s voice came back, lightly irritated. “…I lost track of the film. You were distracting me with your nonsense.”

“Wow. One job, Nanami. Just the one,” Shoko muttered, her tone all feigned sympathy—until she stopped short. “Wait… hold on. Satoru, I can see you. You’re definitely in the movie.”

His eyes lit up.

“I was born for this,” he whispered to himself. Then, louder—addressing no one in particular and everyone at once—he shouted, “CAMERA A, PUSH IN! I WANT LENS FLARE ON THE JAWLINE!”

The music obliged—brass crashing in behind the strings, the full orchestra of bad decisions revving to life in the world’s most dramatic anime opening.

“Gojo,” Nanami sighed, “stop trying to direct the cursed domain.”

“I’m just saying,” Gojo reasoned, entirely unfazed, “if we’re doing this, I want proper lighting and a dramatic slow zoom when I monologue.”

“This isn’t a production set. You’re—”

“Nanami, look.” Shoko’s voice cut in, suddenly taut, all humor gone. “His cursed signature… it’s syncing with the domain’s baseline. See that spike? It’s resonating at about 0.7 hertz.”

Papers shuffled faintly.

“The domain’s locked him in as Toneri, stabilizing the reel around his presence,” Nanami deduced. “Then it isn’t just hosting him, it’s—“

A sharp series of metallic chings rang out through the air.

Gojo didn’t flinch. Didn’t move at all.

The kunai stopped midair—six of them—suspended inches from his skin, each frozen perfectly in place by a subtle ripple of cursed energy.

He angled his head lazily, eyes settling on the still-quivering blades, then on three Hyuuga now very much un-frozen and very clearly on the offensive.

Hiashi had two fingers raised in prep, pale eyes flaring with the activated Byakugan. Two guards flanked him in tense stances, ready to close the gap.

Gojo glanced down at the weapons hovering harmlessly in his Infinity, clicked his tongue, and gave a casual shrug.

“My bad. Totally forgot about you guys.”

“Cursed resonance at 0.7,” Shoko droned in his ear. “Ego at 700.”

Hiashi’s gaze sharpened further, eyes locking onto Gojo with the full ancestral fury of someone who had never smiled in his life—and wasn’t about to start now.

Gojo raised both hands in surrender, still grinning.

The air thickened. Pressure spiked.

Somehow, he felt it. 

The weight pressing in wasn’t unfamiliar. Not really. At first brush it had that clean quality the film lore liked to call chakra. Except underneath, threaded through every layer, was the raw, unrefined static of cursed energy.

He could see it clearly: the way it shimmered at the edges of Hiashi’s outline, too jagged for something supposedly “pure.” The way it had clung to the frozen scenery like film grain, ready to flicker forward on cue. The domain wasn’t generating real chakra at all—it was repackaging cursed energy into the nearest narrative equivalent.

Definitely something to poke at later… assuming he got out of here.

For now, it just meant one thing: the movie wasn’t playing by shinobi rules. It was still a cursed domain at its core, and cursed domains had rules of their own.

Hiashi stepped forward, slow and deliberate. His guards mirrored him, tightening their stance. A beat away from striking.

Unbothered, Gojo lounged atop his dramatically high rock perch, basking in their collective disapproval as if it were applause.

A beat of silence stretched.

Then another.

And another.

The scene kept… holding.

Hiashi kept glaring. His glare shifted from wrathful to… vaguely confused.

Seconds dragged. Long enough for the dramatic music to sputter into awkward, suspenseful strings, like even the soundtrack was side-eyeing Gojo.

“…I think it’s your line,” Nanami suggested, a bit hesitantly.

Gojo blinked again. “My line?”

The Hyuuga didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

“If you’re really in Toneri’s role,” Nanami began, speaking on a hunch, “then the problem is obvious: the story won’t move forward unless you play the part.”

“Possibly,” Shoko allowed. “Or maybe you just have to interact with the NPCs meaningfully. Set the story ball rolling.”

But before Gojo could figure out what the hell a moon cultist was supposed to say in this situation—

Hiashi spoke first.

“Unidentified intruder,” Hiashi’s voice rang out, full of ice. “State your purpose.”

“…He wasn’t supposed to speak first,” Nanami commented idly.

“Then the NPCs aren’t entirely deterministic,” Shoko observed. “Fascinating. They’re exhibiting partial autonomy within the narrative framework. Ijichi-kun, you’re getting this right?”

There was a faint shuffle of paper, the scratch of a pen. Then Ijichi’s voice broke through at last—steady, quiet, like he’d been waiting to be called on.

“Of course. I’ve been recording from the beginning.”

Gojo perked up immediately. “What? You were here this whole time and didn’t say hi?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt,” Ijichi replied, matter-of-fact. Another quick note scratched down. “Observation: NPC initiated dialogue outside of script order.”

“See Satoru?” Shoko said, without a hint of inflection. “Some of us are actually working here.”

“Gojo. Don’t talk to us while you’re in the scene,” Nanami interrupted before he could respond. “You’re confusing them.”

And he was—the Hyuuga guards were staring at him like he’d grown a second head, their gaze edged now with something closer to bafflement. Even Hiashi’s expression had faltered, his icy glare shading into the tight, wary look of a man wondering if his supposed adversary was a lunatic.

He didn’t speak. He just stared. The silence itself felt like a flat “…what the hell is wrong with you.”

“Yeah, Satoru,” Shoko echoed mockingly, her voice pitched with fake scolding. “Don’t confuse the poor NPCs.”

Nanami’s voice lightened slightly, the sweatdrop practically audible in his sigh. “…You too, Shoko. You keep egging him on.”

“Observation,” Ijichi murmured in the background, “Nanami attempts damage control. Low success rate.”

“Just get back on script.”

“Fine, fine,” Gojo conceded.

”And stop smiling,” Shoko jabbed, clearly enjoying herself.

Gojo’s grin went sideways. “Err... Right.”

He took an overly theatrical breath. Rolled his neck. Flexed his fingers. And, with a dramatic flare of his robes, he stepped forward onto the rock’s edge—arms spreading wide, palms lifted, body poised in perfect silhouette.

Like some messianic figure welcoming the city to his gospel, he stood tall against the moonlight, basking in its light. Every inch of it screamed grandiose villain soliloquy about fate, freedom, and the futility of human struggle.

Gojo lowered his chin, voice dropping to an ominous purr as he spread his arms wider.

“What is a man,” he intoned, “but a marionette dancing on the strings of destiny?”

“…Why are you speaking in an accent—“ 

Gojo ignored Shoko entirely, pressing on with full conviction.

“—I have descended from the heavens—obviously—”

She groaned so loudly it somehow distorted through their auditory link.

“—to cleanse this impure realm of its misguided obsessions to fate, legacy… and inferior eye-based bloodlines…?”

He clsoed his eyes and inhaled deeply, as if drawing power straight from the moonlight.

“This world is nothing more than a stage. Each of you—” he gestured broadly at the Hyuuga, kunai still hovering frozen midair—“is bound to your role, locked in repetition, playing the same tired scenes century after century.”

He tilted his head forward, Six Eyes gleaming in the night.

“But me?” His voice dropped to a conspiratorial hush. “I alone hold the script. I alone can cut the strings.”

Shoko muttered, “Dear god, he’s enjoying this.”

“…Those aren’t even his lines,” Nanami complained, sounding genuinely aggrieved, as if Gojo’s creative liberties offended him on a professional level.

Gojo frowned, lowering his voice even further to address them. “…Bro, I don’t know this movie word for word—do you?”

Nanami didn’t dignify him with a yes or no. Instead, with the audible reluctance of a man actively dying inside, he recited: “‘This is a celestial decree… bestowed upon the Hyuuga clan.’”

Gojo’s mouth opened, then closed. He scratched the back of his head.

“…That’s so lame. My lines are way—”

“Can’t you just say the damn line?”  Shoko snapped, exhausted with the whole thing.

“Alright, relax,” Gojo huffed. He cupped his hands like a makeshift microphone, grinning wide as ever, and bellowed, “THIS IS A CELESTIAL DECREE! BESTOWED UPON THE HYUUGA CLAN!”

The orchestra immediately swelled again—full choir this time, just to hammer it in.

In his ear, Nanami’s voice—laced with immeasurable regret—continued feeding him the next line like a hostage reading off a ransom note. “What is your answer, Hyuuga Hiashi—“

Gojo cut him off mid-sentence, booming to the night, “What is your answer, Hyuuga Hiashi?!” He spun once for no reason at all. “Will you accept your lunar destiny—or will your clan perish in shame?! Your response decides the future of your entire clan!”

The soundtrack surged as thunder cracked somewhere in the sky that definitely had been clear two seconds ago.

“…He’s ad-libbing again,” Nanami muttered, audibly pained.

Shoko sighed. “If he breaks into song, I’m pulling the plug.”

Below, Hiashi moved—just a single step forward, but his posture was rigid, fury carved into every line of his face. And he wasn’t alone. The rest of the Hyuuga stirred, their stances shifting in eerie synchronicity. Veins bulged at their temples, pale eyes igniting as the Byakugan flared across the line.

Gojo halted mid-pose.

“Visual update,” he reported cheerfully. “We’ve got Byakugan activation from at least six people down there. Hiashi looks like he’s about one syllable away from ordering my public execution.”

“Because that’s the next beat,” Nanami said, weariness audible even through static. “This is where they retaliate.”

“Retaliation?” Gojo’s tone brightened. “Now we’re talking. Finally—some choreography.”

As if on cue, Hiashi lifted his chin, and his voice rang out, cold and commanding:

“This is the Hyuuga’s…”

Gojo gave a jaunty little hop, shaking out his arms as if he were warming up for the performance of his life. His grin lingered, bright and infuriating, but there was no mistaking the readiness in his stance.

“Reply!”

Blazing arcs of condensed energy launched skyward all at once—spiraling and interlocking in a lattice of white-blue light. Dozens of projectiles hurled through the air toward him.

“So, fun fact,” Shoko’s voice rang in his ear. “Those are designed to maim.”

“Noted,“ Gojo laughed as he launched himself off the rock, twisting effortlessly to avoid the first volley.

He landed smoothly on one knee, skidding across stone—just in time to duck under a heel scything through the air where his head had been. The impact cracked against the ground behind him, stone splintering under the force.

Gojo glanced up, teeth flashing as a Hyuuga guard dropped into stance, Byakugan blazing. The man shifted forward fast, snapping into another strike, palm slicing toward Gojo’s jaw.

The strike halted a hair’s breadth from his skin, suspended uselessly against Infinity.

Gojo blinked, feigning awe. “Whoa. So close. If I didn’t have reflexes of steel, you definitely would’ve—oh wait.”

The man snarled, pushing harder, as he cycled through precise strikes—fist, elbow, palm, each aimed to shut down chakra points. His hand only trembled each time as it hovered centimeters from Gojo’s chest but never connected.

“Seriously,” Gojo went on, tone almost pitying. “Who even are you? Backup cousin? Hyuuga Guard #3?“

Then, with a sigh as casual as it was cutting, he raised one finger.

“Alright. My turn.”

He flicked the man lightly on the forehead.

It was barely a tap—so light it could’ve been mistaken for playful. Yet the guard’s body convulsed like he’d been rammed by a cannon, launching backwards across the courtyard. He crashed into the stone with a thunderous crack, skidding in a graceless heap until dust billowed around him.

A stunned silence fell over the Hyuuga line. More than one pair of Byakugan eyes blinked, like they were trying to process how that—a single flick—had caused that.

Gojo dusted his hands off. “And that, ladies and gentlemen, is why you don’t pick fights when the credits don’t even bother listing your name.”

“…Unnecessary,” Nanami stated, though his tone said he wasn’t surprised.

A faint scratch of pen, then Ijichi murmured, “Log: Infinity magnified minimal force into catastrophic output. Target incapacitated.”

Shoko snorted softly. “Translation: Satoru just turned a mosquito tap into blunt force trauma.”

Gojo turned as a distant sound rang across the clearing.

Metal. A low, grinding clatter, like chains dragged across stone.

Out of the mist, they came.

Dozens of humanoid constructs—pale, faceless, and draped in tattered ceremonial cloth—emerged from darkness, their bodies moving in that jerky, uncanny way only bad CGI or cursed puppets could manage.

Gojo slanted his gaze. “Oh hey, movie budget finally kicked in.”

It was Toneri’s puppet army, right on cue. In the original script, they were supposed to confront the Hyuuga ranks, a disposable backdrop against the clan’s righteous defense.

But here, something was… off.

The puppets hesitated at the edge of the clearing, heads twitching at broken angles. Then, one by one, they turned, not toward the Hyuuga. Not all of them, anyway.

A good half pivoted toward him.

He lifted a hand in a little wave. “Oh, nice of you guys to finally help out.”

The first wave lunged—half sprint, half glide—racing toward the Hyuuga front with murderous precision.

And just like that, the Hyuuga formation broke into motion.

Clan members surged forward, palms flashing, rotation barriers spinning to life, shockwaves bursting the air with every strike. The clash hit like a storm—precise, relentless, beautiful in its brutality.

Gojo whistled low, watching with an almost giddy detachment. “Man. You forget how cool hand-to-hand looks until both sides actually know what they’re doing.”

Movement flickered at the edge of his vision. One puppet broke off, gliding past the melee, its empty gaze locked squarely on him.

Gojo’s brows lifted. “Really?”

The puppet lunged.

He barely moved—just a lazy pivot and a casual backhand. The thing went pinwheeling into the horizon, vanishing with a splash and a hollow crunch.

“Not today, discount NPC.”

The puppet’s body hadn’t even finished its spectacular splashdown before two more broke formation, veering toward Gojo with unnerving synchronicity.

“Persistent little guys, huh?” he muttered, sidestepping one with an easy lean and letting Infinity eat the other’s strike before flicking it away like lint off a sleeve.

“They shouldn’t even be targeting you,” Nanami said, his tone keen with interest now. “They’re supposed to be on your side.”

Gojo arched a brow. “So much for villain perks. Can’t even get the disposable minions to listen to me.”

Shoko’s voice followed, cooler, clinical: “If the puppets are redirecting…They’re hardwired to Toneri’s—the real Toneri’s—cursed imprint. Which means the domain has already registered Satoru as an active variable.”

“So, to recap: everyone here wants to kill me?”

“I figured you’d be used to it by now,” Nanami said, a hint of amusement bleeding through before his tone settled into thought. “Anyway, if the Hyuuga and the puppets keep fighting each other, the scene won’t conclude properly. You need to hit some sort of narrative trigger.”

“Right,” Gojo hummed. “And that’s supposed to be…?”

“Toneri asserts dominance over the Hyuuga in this scene,” Nanami explained. “The story won’t advance otherwise. Your next move is incapacitating the head. Who, in case you haven’t noticed, has been chasing you for the last five minutes.”

Gojo spun on his heel and shot finger guns at Hiashi, who was advancing with the quiet wrath of a man personally offended by Gojo’s existence.

“Ohhh, I noticed,” Gojo said, smirking broadly.

Hiashi’s glare somehow intensified, which Gojo hadn’t thought was humanly possible.

“Hyuuga Hiashi!” Gojo bellowed, throwing his arms wide. “Your reign of… stoic glaring and general disapproval ends today! I, uh—” He snapped his fingers. “I, Otsutsuki Toneri, hereby challenge you to—“

“Satoru. Just get to the point.”

“Alright then,” he huffed, tone dropping with gravitas. “Time for Daddy Hiashi to catch these hands.”

He pivoted—not toward Hiashi, but upward—pointing a finger gun straight at the jagged cave ceiling. Squinting down the length of his own finger, he stuck his tongue between his teeth in mock concentration.

“Pew,” he whispered.

A tiny spark of cursed energy crackled at his fingertip—then burst outward in a sphere of blinding blue light. It slammed into the stone ceiling with a deafening crack.

For a split second, nothing.

Then—boom.

The entire cavern groaned as chunks of rock split loose, cascading down in a sudden landslide of stone and dust.

Hiashi looked up too late. His byakugan flared wide as the ceiling collapsed around him. He darted forward, hand glowing with chakra, ready to strike Gojo where he stood—

—but the first boulder crashed between them, scattering debris in his path. Another struck the ground at his side, forcing him to skid back. Then a third, larger stone crashed down directly above him, pinning him beneath a heap of rubble.

Dust choked the air, caught in the light streaming down through the fissures above.

Gojo lowered his finger, blew across his fingertip like it was the barrel of a smoking pistol, and grinned.

The scene had unfolded exactly like the movie.

Okay, fine—maybe not word-for-word, beat-for-beat. But close enough. He’d bullied the story into the same endpoint.

“Alright,” he muttered under his breath. “And next up is—”

Gojo blinked. 

The air shimmered. The cavern, the rubble, the Hyuuga—all of it rippled like film burning too close to a projector lamp. His balance wrenched sideways, his body yanked by a force that wasn’t physical but narrative, dragging him down into the reel.

His breath caught—and then the reel ripped him clean out of existence.

⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹

The lobby was chaos—patrons still being herded out through the emergency exits, mutters sharp with annoyance, confusion, and the kind of entitlement that always bloomed when plans were cut short. A paper cup clattered across the floor, soda still dripping from where a man had flung it down in protest.

Yaga’s eyes flicked once to the man’s shoulder.

A little curse, nothing more than a scrap of resentment given shape, clung there like mold. Yaga sighed through his nose, stepped forward, and brushed it away with a single sweep of his hand. The curse popped, dissolving into nothing.

The man blinked once, his scowl slackening. His shoulders eased, his mouth working as if he’d forgotten why he’d been upset in the first place. With a muttered apology to no one in particular, he stooped, picked up his own bag, and drifted toward the exit with far less heat than before.

“Honestly,” Yaga muttered as he stooped down to pick up the abandoned cup and dropped it into the nearest trash bin.

When he straightened, voices cut through the low murmur near the yellow caution tape. A couple stood pressed against the cordon— both wore the same brittle, strung-out look of people who’d been waiting too long for news.

“Excuse me!” the man called. “Hey—do you work here?” His eyes darted to Yaga’s dark suit, searching for answers. “What’s going on? Why’d they shut everything down?”

The woman leaned forward, her voice edged with desperation. “Our son—he was in there. With his friends. No one will tell us anything. Please—do you know what happened?”

Yaga’s expression softened. He approached the tape, broad frame casting a long shadow across the tiled floor.

“I’m with the investigation team,” he said evenly, voice carrying that practiced calm meant to soothe frayed nerves. “Your son’s name?”

The woman rattled it off in a rush—one of the students from the cursed screening. Yaga remembered the list. He gave a small nod.

“He’s safe,” he assured them. “Everyone inside is safe. We just had to shut things down while we sort out a… technical malfunction.”

The man’s jaw clenched. “Safe how? They’re clearing the whole building. Someone said the police—”

Yaga lifted a hand. “I understand you’re worried. But your son and his friends are unharmed. They’re being looked after. No one’s being left behind.” His voice dropped a notch, warmer. “You have my word.”

The woman’s eyes shimmered as she tightened her grip on her husband’s sleeve. “…So we’ll see him again soon?”

“Yes,” Yaga said simply. “You will.”

He didn’t linger. The more he said, the more questions they’d ask—questions he was not legally allowed to answer. With a final nod, he turned and continued toward the stairwell. His footsteps echoed in the suddenly too-quiet lobby, past the caution tape and the nervous eyes that followed him.

The lobby settled behind him, the couple’s anxious voices fading into the murmur of the dispersing crowd. Yaga pushed through the stairwell door and let it close with a dull echo.

Silence. Just the hum of the emergency lights and the faint creak of the building as it emptied completely.

He stood there for a moment, one hand braced on the railing.

He’d given them the words they needed to hear—enough to hold them together for now. Whether they were a promise or a prayer, he couldn’t say.

The truth was simpler and far crueler: their son and a number of other children were trapped in something none of them could see, bodies slumped while their minds ran through a cursed reel.

This was the kind of work sorcerers did every day—thankless, invisible, deliberately hidden. Parents left in the dark because the truth would never make sense to them.

Yaga exhaled through his nose, the sound rougher than he meant. He thought of the drink on the floor, of the little curse festering on that man’s shoulder. A reminder of how easily resentment bloomed, how fragile people were even in the smallest moments.

And here he was, sweeping up after them. Picking up their trash. Carrying the weight of their anger and their ignorance both.

That was the job.

Protecting them from the things they weren’t meant to see—even if it meant becoming the wall they pushed against.

He straightened, brushing the dust from his slacks, and set his jaw. The stairwell hummed with silence, every creak of the building reminding him how fragile the line really was. Above, the monitors waited. So did the children. So did Gojo.

There was no room left for stillness.

Yaga turned, climbed the first step, and did what he always did.

He carried it.

⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹

For a heartbeat, Gojo couldn’t tell if he was standing, floating, or falling.

One blink—he’d been ankle-deep in dust and falling debris. The next, it was gone. All of it. No cave. No rubble. Not even the sound of his own breath bouncing back at him.

It wasn’t transition so much as erasure. A hard cut in the reel, spliced so cleanly it felt as though the last frame had never existed at all.

When he opened his eyes again, he wasn’t sure he trusted what he saw. He’d seen plenty of strange things in his life—curse wombs, twisted domains, the inside of a barrier that wanted him dead—but this? This was new.

His body felt caught between motions, suspended. Every step was half a glide, every breath buoyant. He wasn’t anchored the way Infinity anchored him, locked in that careful untouchable stillness. No, this was different. This felt like swimming without water. Like being carried.

The chamber stretched outward into endless dark, too vast to measure, dotted with pinpricks of light like stars in the night sky.

No, not stars. Not quite.

Planets.

Dozens of glowing orbs floated all around him, hanging in the air. Each one pulsed in faint rhythms, too clean, too precise. Six Eyes caught every refraction, every fractal thread of light, until it almost hurt to look.

And because—as Shoko so lovingly claimed, he had the self-preservation instincts of a goldfish chasing something shiny—he drifted straight toward the nearest one, letting its glow skim across his skin.

Then the glow shifted. Motion and color threaded themselves across its surface, blooming into shape.

A girl. Small. Hair red as autumn apples. Grinning through a mouthful of noodles at a ramen stand.

Gojo tilted his head, brows knitting faintly in concentration. It was just light, just a projection. He knew that. And yet—

Another orb pulsed nearby, drawing him onward.

He moved toward it, slow as if pulled by tide.

She was older in this one, standing with teammates—two silhouettes he recognized instantly from years of print and panel. Her laughter split bright across the space, even though he couldn’t hear the sound.

A third sphere spun lazily at his shoulder. He turned, and there she was again—running alone, face wet, jaw set in that stubborn, furious way that could only belong to her.

Every orb was a fragment. A moment caught and looped, turning endlessly in light. Together, they painted the outline of a life.

Her life.

Uzumaki Naruto.

The entire place was akin to a solar system, and she, the star at its center.

He found himself wondering; had Toneri—the real Toneri—stood here before him? Watching her like this? Every fight, every smile, every private tear replayed on a loop, catalogued by a stranger who believed himself her fate.

Gojo had been young when he first saw her face. Young enough he couldn’t pin the age, only the memory: panels by candlelight, tucked beneath blankets, hiding from the clan’s watchful eyes while he pretended he was asleep.

She’d been everything he wasn’t allowed to be—flashy, loud, reckless, impossibly bright. Strong enough to protect what she loved. Stupid enough to believe she could. And still right, somehow. Always right.

A low whistle slipped past his teeth. “Guess even cursed domains know good character design when they see it.”

Hands buried in his sleeves, he drifted among the glowing orbs, tilting his head this way and that like he was strolling through an art gallery.

One sphere pulsed brighter than the rest. It pulled him in.

The glow coalesced into a scene: Konohamaru, grinning, holding out a box. Naruto unfolding the red scarf inside. Her hands stilled. Then that smile—soft, hesitant, shy in a way that didn’t look meant for anyone else to see.

Gojo didn’t realize how close he’d leaned until his reflection blurred faintly against hers on the orb’s surface.

She looked close enough to touch.

And so he reached.

His fingers brushed the orb’s surface where a tear slid down her cheek—light refracted into water, not the real thing. Cold glass met his skin, nothing more.

The orb quivered anyway, sound rising faintly like water rushing in: the rasp of fabric as she drew the scarf close to her heart.

“Thank you, Konohamaru,” her voice whispered, echoing from all directions at once. “This… means more than you know.”

On the edges of his mind, he could sense the tether—the ghost of Shoko’s touch against his wrist, the muted voices calling from somewhere far away. But they felt distant.

Because here, in this moment, nothing else existed.

Gojo stared, wonder burning low in his chest.

He told himself it was awe—the surreal thrill of seeing his favorite character rendered in impossible detail, the dream of every kid who ever needed a story to make life bearable.

And maybe that was all it was.

But still, one thought lingered, unbidden, as the image blurred against his reflection. Somewhere in the haze of it all, he caught himself thinking that he’d never seen anyone look so real.

⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹

The door to the projection room creaked open and Yaga stepped inside.

Gojo sat exactly where they’d left him—slouched in a rickety plastic chair, his long frame awkwardly folded into it.

A ring of talismans circled the floor in a crude sigil, ink still wet in places. Chalk lines linked them in messy concentric loops to a cluster of receivers scavenged from the theater’s old projection booth.

The whole thing was crude but functional; an improvised cursed relay designed to anchor Gojo’s consciousness inside the domain and bleed fragments of it back into the room. Wires clipped to the talismans fed into the monitors, every surge of cursed energy translating into jagged spikes across the graphs.

His breath, his pulse, even his voice when it broke through. All of it caught and transmitted by the half-functional circuit. The setup hummed like a power grid on the verge of shorting out, the paper charms fluttering with cursed energy in every pulse.

Shoko crouched close at his side, two fingers pressed against his wrist in rhythm, as though the contact might remind him of his body. His chest rose and fell steadily, but the rest of him remained slack, head angled as if tuning in to a sound only he could hear.

Across the room, Nanami stood with arms crossed, eyes pinned on the cursed energy monitors. He didn’t glance up when the door clicked shut.

Ijichi sat in the corner, clipboard clutched like a lifeline. His pen scratched, steady against the uneven beeping of the machines, eyes flicking between the readings and the movie playing on-screen.

On-screen, the scene had shifted to an outdoor ramen bar. Naruto sat hunched over a steaming bowl, laughing with her friends, when a group of boys crowded the counter.

Ijichi’s pen froze mid-note. He leaned closer to the monitor—only to startle when Yaga’s voice rumbled beside him.

“Status,” Yaga prompted.

Nanami tipped his chin toward Ijichi.

Ijichi jolted, fumbling his pages. “Subject Gojo engaged Hyuuga Hiashi at timestamp 7:14. Deviation stalled the scene for ninety-two seconds. At 8:46, Nanami-san provided the canonical line. At 8:53, perimeter density dropped eleven percent. At 12:28, following Hiashi’s incapacitation, subject vanished from visuals. Scene transitioned at 13:01.”

Yaga’s brows drew tight. “…Transitioned?”

“A scene cut,” Nanami clarified. “One moment he’s there, the next—gone. Energy fractured, then restabilized at a new frequency.”

Shoko didn’t look up, palm still hovering at Gojo’s chest to count the steady rise and fall. “Vitals hold. Heartbeat’s oddly elevated, but steady. Wherever he is, he’s still… in there.”

Nanami gestured toward the cursed energy monitors. Jagged spikes crawled upward in a steady incline. “Every time the story moves forward, the domain’s baseline rises. His cursed output, his signature, has to climb with it. It’s not improvisation or fidelity that matters—it’s progression.”

Ijichi adjusted his glasses with a quick, nervous motion. “R-right. The timestamps line up. Whenever Gojo stalls the scene, the readings drift—the domain keeps climbing while his output lags just under it. But when he completed the objective, the gap narrowed again.”

“If that’s the case…” Shoko began, finally glancing up. “Then there’s a possibility—complete harmonic convergence would destabilize the entire system.”

Her voice stayed even, detached, though her eyes flicked briefly toward Gojo’s slack form in the chair. “If the story continues long enough, and if his cursed signature achieves resonance with the domain’s frequency, the construct could, theoretically, fracture.”

“So the ‘movie’ doesn’t move unless he does,” Yaga summarized.

“And not just moves,” Nanami corrected. “Moves according to narrative logic. Which explains the scene cuts when an objective is completed.”

“Which means if he wants out, he has to…” Shoko paused, as if she couldn’t believe what she was about to say next. “…LARP.”

There was a long silence.

“I’m not calling it LARP,” Nanami said, the word tight like it physicaly pained him.

Ijichi, too jittery to stop himself, muttered, “Well, technically, he is roleplaying as—”

Shoko didn’t miss a beat. “Ijichi-kun, get this down—observation: Nanami exhibits elevated irritability when confronted with terminology that reflects reality.”

“I love calling it LARP,” Gojo’s voice slipped in faintly over the speakers, as though he’d been listening the entire time.

Shoko’s shoulders sagged. “Don’t go radio silent like that again, dumbass.”

Nanami’s brow creased, the faintest tic pulling at his temple. “…Trust Gojo to come back on comms only to lower the collective IQ.” His eyes shifted to the projection screen. “Enough jokes. What’s on your end?”

A pause followed—long enough to suggest Gojo was either thinking very hard or deliberately wasting their time.

Gojo hummed, distracted. “Planetarium vibes. Whole place is glowing with these orbs—like fake little planets. Nice set design, I’ll give it that.”

“…The memory trap,” Nanami murmured, half to himself.

“Bingo,” Gojo confirmed.

Nanami glanced to the others. “Exactly as in the film. A genjutsu trap that bridges to the moon palace.”

“Okay, nerd,” Shoko teased lightly with a smirk.

Nanami ignored her, rolling his eyes.

On the monitors, a sudden spike cut jagged across the graph—sharp, unnatural. Shoko frowned. “…Satoru, don’t linger. We don’t know if this trap can affect you too.”

Gojo chuckled, airy and dismissive. “Relax. I’m just appreciating the view.”

“Well, in case you didn’t know, we lost visuals,” Nanami remarked. “You must have forced the scene to its endpoint. The domain advanced.”

Ijichi shifted uneasily, adjusting the monitors. His eyes darted from the jagged spikes still climbing across the chart… to the row of teenagers slumped in their seats out in the theater. His voice was low, cautious.

“Hey, if Gojo’s been forced into the lead antagonist’s role…” he said carefully, “…then what about the others? The kids from the screening. Where did they go?”

Nanami’s gaze narrowed, considering. “The domain would have had to distribute them too.”

Shoko tilted her head, eyes flicking across the monitors. “The system required a central anchor. Gojo’s cursed output registered high enough to override Toneri’s role, so the domain forced him into the lead.”

Ijichi’s grip tightened on his clipboard. “…So you’re saying the students—”

“—are bodies for the framework,” Shoko finished, voice flat. “Repurposed signatures.”

Gojo’s voice bled faintly back through the relay, but this time it lacked its usual breezy cadence. “Makes sense. My bet? The system pulls ‘closest fit’ whenever it needs extras. Festival crowds, academy flashbacks, nameless villagers—any broad demographic will do. Their cursed signatures aren’t strong enough to carry the reel, so it just… recycled them as set dressing.”

Yaga’s arms folded, expression grim. “That tracks. The domain wouldn’t waste energy. Fear and confusion are high-yield emotions that would only strengthen the projection’s stability.”

“Translation,” Gojo drawled, a hint of his usual playfulness bleeding back in. “Keep civilians away from the projector.”

“Already done,” Yaga asserted. “The entire theater’s been shut down.”

Nanami looked back to the readouts. “Point stands. It’s not just space he’s in. It’s the logic framework of the story. Which means we need the next trigger. What happens after the Hyuuga confrontation?”

“Konohamaru gives her the scarf,” Gojo recited easily. “Ichiraku ramen. Banter. Sasuke passes by. Then… the playground. And then I make my grand entrance.”

“You already made one,” Shoko retorted.

“I’ll make another,” Gojo corrected. “Better lighting.”

“Then you know that hitting the cues isn’t optional,” Yaga urged. “It’s the only way to move the domain toward resolution—and eject the kids.”

“Or at least force a transition that releases them,” Gojo mused, his tone turning thoughtful.

A pause stretched across the line.

Then—“…So what if I sped things up?”

Nanami’s brow furrowed. “Sped things up?”

“Mmhm.” Gojo’s voice tilted sly. “Skip a few beats. Push the reel forward faster than it wants to run. I mean—none of this is real, right? Every single character’s a plot device. Literal NPCs. If I just tick every box and hit the endpoint, does it really matter how I get there?”

Shoko leaned forward onto the console. “…You want to speedrun a cursed domain.”

“I’m just saying,” Gojo reasoned, far too flippantly. “Why suffer through two and a half hours of melodrama when I can shave it down to thirty minutes of highlights?”

Ijichi paled. “…Highlights?”

“Highlights!” Gojo repeated brightly. “Cut the small talk, ditch the ramen-shop filler, fast forward to the good stuff. If I just bring Naruto straight to the moon palace, she stops the Tenseigan, Sasuke swoops in for their stupid moon-kiss, the domain collapses, kids saved, and I get to brag about setting a world record.”

Nanami blinked slowly. “…But what about the story?”

“I am the story,” Gojo said, the smile in his voice somehow very audible.

There was a beat of horrified silence.

Shoko groaned first, dragging a hand down her face. “Oh god, it’s official. We’ve lost him to the plot.”

Yaga muttered, “We should’ve muted his audio feed when we had the chance.”

“You can’t just skip it,” Nanami snapped, arms crossing tight, voice edged with genuine offense. “The entire point of narrative structure is pacing—progression—payoff. This arc exists to show Naruto’s emotional growth—her loneliness, her empathy, her capacity to—“

“You sound like a wiki page,” Gojo cut in lazily.

“I read the wiki page,” Nanami shot back. “And unlike you, I actually respect the source material.”

Shoko snorted. “Hate to interrupt your dissertation, but Nerd-ami might have a point here.” She gestured loosely toward the projector. “The domain literally runs on story logic. If you ignore structure, you could destabilize the entire construct.”

Gojo hummed. “…What’s the worst that could happen? The cursed projector gives me a bad review on Rotten Tomatoes?”

“The worst that could happen?” Shoko began dryly, “You stay stuck in there—“

”In all honesty, that doesn’t sound so—“

“—while your brain turns into cursed soup—“

“Okay, that’s a little—“

“—and your body shrivels up and rots in this musty ass chair until eventually someone, likely Nanami, has to scrape what’s left of you off the upholstery—”

”You guys really couldn’t find me a nicer—?“

“—and I’d be stuck with filing the dumbest autopsy report in jujutsu history.”

“…But I could make this movie so much better,” Gojo tried once more, pout audible in his tone.

“You won’t,” Nanami shot him down, attention not straying from the film sequence.  “Naruto’s chasing after Sakura,” he reported flatly into the relay. ”As per the story. That means, Gojo, your scene’s coming up.”

Shoko rolled her eyes. “Pray to whatever god still listens to you that the domain doesn’t realize what kind of idiot it cast as Toneri.”

“Don’t worry. I’m very convincing.”

Yaga sighed, long and weary. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Gojo exhaled loudly, as if crushed beneath the tyrannical weight of narrative structure. And before he could pitch another “creative rewrite”—

The line went eerily quiet. Too quiet. Shoko frowned. “Satoru? Don’t go dead air on us again.”

Static crackled. His voice came back faint, disoriented.

“…I’m never getting used to that.”

Ijichi jolted upright, pointing at the monitor. “Visuals are back. He’s in.”

The feed steadied: a playground at night, the dim swing set in frame. Gojo’s silhouette loomed in pale robes, sunglasses absurdly out of place in the dark setting.

Nanami’s gaze was glued to the live feed.

On-screen, Naruto sat alone on the swing set, scarf pooled in her lap, eyes still damp from the previous scene. She sniffled once, then rubbed hard at her face, as though sheer stubbornness might scrub the evidence away.

“It’s your line again,” he reminded Gojo absentmindedly.

“Yeah, yeah. Ask if she’s crying. Establish contact. Set up the abduction attempt.”

Gojo’s lips tugged sideways into a crooked, reluctant smile as he leaned against the swing set pole. He watched the girl’s scarf slip further down her shoulder, the red fabric catching the breeze.

“…Easy for you to say, Nanamin,” he murmured. “You’re not the one looking at her.”

Shoko blinked. “Wait—abduction? I thought this was, like, the meet-cute part.”

“…Meet-cute?” Yaga rumbled, unimpressed.

“How should I know?” Shoko snapped, flicking her wrist dismissively. “I’ve never seen the damn movie. Isn’t this supposed to be the enemies-to-lovers arc?”

Nanami’s head turned slowly, like he’d just been insulted on a spiritual level. “…It’s not a romance. At least, not between them.” He shuddered. “It’s a kidnapping.”

Shoko squinted at the screen, utterly unconvinced. “…Could be both.”

“It. Is. Not.” Nanami made a noise somewhere between a groan and a growl, pinching the bridge of his nose. “The scene requires escalation. In the original sequence, Toneri incapacitates her now.”

“Incapacitate?” Shoko echoed, brow raised.

“It sets the stage for Sasuke’s rescue,” Nanami went on, irritation creeping in. “Like she ever really needed to be rescued anyway, but I digress—”

Gojo’s cracked back over the speaker, incredulous, and interrupted him mid-rant.

“How the hell,” he whispered, almost solemn, “am I supposed to incapacitate Uzumaki Naruto.”

“Is that supposed to be hard?” Shoko asked unhelpfully, propping her chin in her palm as she dragged her chair closer to the screen. “You’re Gojo Satoru.”

“And she’s Uzumaki Naruto,” Nanami and Gojo shot back at the same time—defensive, like the name alone was the entire argument.

Shoko blinked slowly, turning a skeptical look on the screen. “I’m going to repeat this for the record: I had literally never heard that name until today.”

Gojo pressed a hand over his heart with theatrical pain. “Unbelievable. This is worse than ignorance. This is cultural poverty.”

Shoko tilted her head back with a long-suffering sigh. “Right. Big words from the guy who thought Titanic was a documentary.”

“It’s a true story and I stand by it,” Gojo scoffed. “I mean—the boat’s literally still there in the Atlantic. Exhibit A. Case closed.”

“Is this really the time?” Nanami interjected, sounding done with the both of them.

“…Right,” Gojo muttered under his breath.

The quip hung in the air, but he didn’t follow it with another grin or jab.

Instead, the sound of his own voice faded, and he lingered—grin softening at the edges as something quieter slipped in.

He stalled, listening to the faint creak of the swing’s chains, watching the way she kept her head down.

His chest rose and fell once. Twice. The silence stretched.

When he finally spoke again, the words slipped out softer than he’d intended.

“…You cryin’?”

From the swing, Naruto jerked her head up. Even with the sound muted, her startled expression was clear—defensive, prickling, hands flying to her scarf as she scrambled for words.

Gojo leaned in slightly, posture loose, casual.

Shoko squinted at the screen suspiciously.

”…Tch. Not crying,” Naruto sputtered, cheeks red.

Gojo’s smile came easy. “Oh no, of course not. Must be allergies. Just saying… You’re getting your scarf all wet with your snot.”

Naruto’s jaw dropped. ”I’m not—I—Who the hell even—?“

Gojo tilted his head, every movement dripping with his usual charm. “Relax, princess. I’m just passing through. Saw you sitting here all tragic. Figured—hey, why not say hi?”

Naruto nearly choked on her own voice.

Shoko groaned. “Jesus. He’s going to annoy her into a coma.”

“Domain readings are stable,” Ijichi reported quietly. “Whatever he’s doing, it’s working.”

“I—I am not tragic!” she snapped, making a strangled noise in her throat. “What is wrong with you?!”

“Lots of things wrong with me… but that’s not really relevant right now.”

Shoko blinked at the screen, then smirked. “Hey, that’s the most honest sentence I’ve ever heard him say in the six years I’ve known him.”

Nanami didn’t look away from the movie feed, but the corner of his mouth twitched like a tiny, begrudging laugh trying to escape.

Onscreen, Naruto froze mid-breath, wide-eyed, color rising to her cheeks as Toneri—no, Gojo—reached out, thumb brushing her cheek with infuriating delicacy.

Ijichi’s pen clattered against his notes. “…Did he just—did he just caress her? Tenderly?”

Shoko’s chair screeched back as she stood, mouth dropping open. “Oh hell no—don’t tell me—Satoru, are you trying to seduce her unconscious?”

Gojo only smiled, insufferably serene on the big screen.

“Look at him,” Shoko hissed accusingly. “He’s doing the thing.”

Nanami’s jaw flexed. “…He’s always doing the thing.”

Ijichi squinted at the projection, nervous. “…What thing?”

“The smolder,” Shoko spat. “Weaponized eye contact. Classic Gojo bullshit.”

“That’s not a real technique,” Nanami argued, without much conviction.

“Tell that to her face!” Shoko barked, just as Naruto visibly malfunctioned onscreen, redder than her scarf.

Gojo’s grin only widened. “You know… you’re a lot cuter up close than I was emotionally prepared for.”

Nanami’s eyes narrowed, tone not far from how a doctor sounded when diagnosing a disease. “…He flirted.”

“He’s been flirting,” Yaga corrected, exasperated.

Ijichi made a strangled sound, feeling increasingly like he was watching something he shouldn’t as the scene went on.

“We—we shouldn’t be watching this—”

“Then stop staring,” Shoko retorted, not looking away.

“I’m logging data!” Ijichi yelped, pen scratching furiously.

“You’re logging his pickup lines,” Shoko droned.

“If it works, it works,” Yaga relented at last, glancing at the cursed readouts. “And it is. The domain doesn’t care how—it just cares the scene advances.”

Shoko folded her arms, muttering under her breath. “Advance the scene my ass. He’s about to talk her into bed…”

“So!” Gojo clapped his hands once, cheerful. “Let’s skip the awkward part, skip the small talk, skip the entire three-act structure. Y’know, save time.”

“Did he miss the entire part where we explained narrative fidelity?” Yaga muttered darkly, staring at the jagged graphs on the monitor like they might answer him.

Shoko grumbled, “He heard. He just didn’t care.”

Nanami’s eyes widened in sudden realization, already fearing what he suspected was coming next. “Wait. Gojo. Don’t—”

Gojo ignored them all, flashing a smile so self-satisfied it was practically a crime. “Marry me, yeah?”

The room froze.

On-screen, Naruto’s face went scarlet—redder than her scarf, redder than her already ridiculously bright hair. Her hands clutched the scarf at her throat as her mouth opened and closed, sputtering half-formed syllables that tumbled into incoherent shouting.

“…H-he proposed?!” Ijichi whispered, face pale.

A muscle jumped at Nanami’s temple. “…He skipped half the damn story.”

Ijichi squeaked. “W-we’re not supposed to be broadcasting this, right?”

Before anyone could pile on further, the cursed relay crackled. The monitors spiked hard, cursed wavelengths locking into alignment. The domain pulsed once—acknowledging the beat.

Nanami stared at the graph, incredulous. “…You’ve got to be kidding me. It counted.”

Back on screen, Naruto’s eyes narrowed, mouth opening to snap back—only for her breath to hitch, lashes fluttering closed.

Gojo’s fingers locked into a hand sign that was far too familiar, lips moving with the quiet murmur of activation.

Collectively, the room went slack.

Naruto sagged, scarf slipping from her grip as her body went limp. Gojo caught her gently, scooping her into a bridal carry.

Then—

Shoko’s voice was wary. “…Satoru. Did you just do what I think you did?”

“Yep,” Gojo chirped through the relay. “Just a baby one. Like, 0.1 seconds. Didn’t want to turn her brain to soup.”

Shoko slapped both hands over her face. “I cannot believe this. You just proposed marriage and then roofied her with Infinite Void.”

Nanami’s eye twitched so hard it looked painful.

“B-but—how?!” Ijichi pressed. “He used Infinite Void inside the domain. Shouldn’t that have collapsed the whole thing?”

Shoko, stifling the urge to reach for her cigarette case, drummed her fingers against the panel instead. “In a usual case, yes. But this is far from the usual. On both ends. What we saw wasn’t a full expansion—it was a flicker. Satoru can meter his output to the atom.”

Ijichi blinked at her. “That’s possible?”

“Not for anyone else,” Shoko replied dryly. “Six Eyes makes him obnoxiously precise.”

“And remember,” Nanami chimed in, “this isn’t a human’s or a curse’s domain. It doesn’t defend itself. It only cares about story progression. As long as the scene advances, the method doesn’t matter.”

Yaga’s voice was low, final. “…And if he miscalculated, the girl’s brain would already be soup.”

Ijichi looked like he was going to faint. “T-this has to be against regulation.”

“Everything he does is against regulation,” Yaga deadpanned.

Onscreen, Gojo simply beamed, cradling the unconscious redhead like he hadn’t just bent two laws of jujutsu physics, three clauses of narrative logic, and every HR guideline in existence in one breath.

⊹₊‧.☾.‧₊⊹

Target incapacitated, scene advanced.

Easy.

Gojo took off at a gleeful sprint, sandals slapping stone before he vaulted onto the nearest rooftop. Wind bit at his face, robes streaming behind him in dramatic silver arcs of moonlight.

“—You’re telling me you don’t even know the basics?” His voice pitched high with disbelief. “Orange jumpsuit? Loud? Runs around screaming about friendship? Punches gods in the face?”

“…Sounds like you.” Shoko deadpanned.

“Please do not encourage him.”

“Too late, Nanamin,” Gojo said cheerfully as he bounded across Konoha’s rooftops with the greatest protagonist of all time unconscious in his arms. “Shoko just compared me to the GOAT. That’s a win. I win and—”

“Can we focus?” Yaga ground out, his voice thinning with sheer restraint.

“Can’t. Busy being validated,” Gojo said smugly. Then, louder, “Alright, Shoko, quick primer since you’re clearly culturally illiterate—Uzumaki Naruto: orphan, ramen enthusiast, number one hyperactive ninja, and the single greatest protagonist in shonen history. Born into tragedy, branded a monster by her own village, but still said, nah, I’m gonna make everyone love me anyway, dattebayo! Inspiring, right?”

“I’m sorry, I must have missed the part where I asked—”

Gojo kept going, completely undeterred. “She’s all about protecting bonds, chasing dreams, never giving up—you get it. Classic main character energy. If I had a nickel for every time she turned an enemy into a friend with the sheer force of optimism—”

Her scarf fluttered against his sleeve as he landed, the faintest warmth brushing his chest where she rested. He didn’t look down at first. Didn’t need to. But when he did, just briefly, her lashes were still damp, cheeks pink from the cold, freckles dotting across her nose like stray stars.

For one beat too long, he stared.

Then he clicked his tongue, shook his head sharply, and vaulted higher.

Advance the plot.

If he delivered Naruto to the moon palace—where the puppets already refused to obey him—the sooner the Tenseigan sequence triggered. The sooner Sasuke showed up for their ridiculous “romantic” finale. The sooner the credits rolled, the projector shut down, and everyone got out.

That was the plan.

“Again, Satoru,” Shoko sighed, “I don’t need to know—”

“The point is, she’s the GOAT. You’d get it if you’d read the manga. And I swear, if you call her fanservice one more time, I will personally—”

His grin flickered, instinct snapping sharper than thought. In the same breath, he dropped low, sliding across the tiles in a sweep of pale fabric.

Steel whispered past where his head had been an instant before, cutting the night air clean in two.

His sandals skidded against stone as he came to a halt, body twisting lightly.

Behind him, the silence rang with the unmistakable note of drawn metal.

Shiiing.

“Unhand her…” A voice, low and lethal, each syllable honed like the edge of a blade. “Or bleed for it.”

Gojo tilted his head, just enough to glance back.

From the shadows of the rooftop, a figure stepped into the moonlight.

A cloak of black brushed the rooftop, high collar casting his face in shadow. Sword bared, steel catching the moon, and above it, an eye—red and burning, tomoe whirling with silent promise.

Uchiha Sasuke had finally entered the scene.