The damp night air swallowed Yakushi Nono's question whole. Uchiha Makoto didn't answer right away—just let his eyes linger on her for a hot second.
She'd just survived a straight-up slaughter-fest, chakra drier than a desert, chest heaving like she'd run a marathon. Her clothes? Shredded. Barely hanging on, clinging to the good bits and accidentally showing off every killer curve underneath.
Pale skin slashed with nasty gashes—one still oozing crimson, the warm blood snaking down her tight, toned stomach like it had a damn map. Golden strands glued to her sweaty neck and cheeks with dried gore. Moonlight carved her profile sharp—fragile, like one wrong breath and she'd shatter.
Catching his stare, Nono glanced down, clocked her half-naked state, and instantly tried to yank the rags together. Fingers shook from exhaustion and pain—pathetic little tugs that did jack shit.
"Patch the wounds first," Makoto said, voice flat as a gravestone. "Unless you want permanent scars ruining that skin."
Nono blinked, then nodded. Healing was priority one—might even squeeze a drop of chakra back while she was at it. Facing this mystery dude who'd saved her ass but could still be an enemy? Every scrap of power counted.
She shoved down the agony, the bone-deep fatigue, and scraped together what little chakra she had left. Hands clumsy, she forced through the seals—each twist ripping open wounds, white-hot stabs shooting through her.
This guy just watched. No guard up, no nothing. Nono exhaled inside. Good.
Soft green light bloomed from her palms—life in the dead of night.
A-Rank Medical Ninjutsu: Palm Immortal Technique—speeds up cell division, stitches flesh fast, even cures hidden ailments.
She pressed the glowing hand to the deepest gash under her ribs. The second that healing chakra hit, a tiny, choked groan slipped through her teeth.
It was divine—burning pain drowned in cool relief, like rain on cracked earth, soaking into her marrow.
Nono dragged it out on purpose. One, she was running on fumes; two, she needed every second to hoard chakra like a stingy dragon.
Makoto clocked the play but didn't call her on it. He just stood there, the wild lightning cloaking him fading into his skin. Every now and then, a hair-thin spark crackled across his flesh—proof that monster power was still cooking inside.
His eyes traced her furrowed brow, the long, pale fingers trembling as they worked the jutsu, the skin knitting closed under that green glow—smooth, fresh, tempting.
Palm Immortal's dope, he thought. Gotta learn that shit.
As the healing dragged on, color crept back into Nono's ghost-pale face. Cuts sealed, scabs flaked off, leaving baby-soft skin under the crusty blood. The "about-to-break" vibe morphed into something tired but tough—still hot, just less tragic.
The last stray spark sank into Makoto's body. Moonlight hit his real face—no mask, no bullshit. Black mid-length hair, eyes like spilled ink, sharp jawline that screamed "I could ruin your life and you'd thank me." Aggressive, but weirdly approachable. Total mind-fuck.
Nono's hands froze for a split second mid-jutsu.
She looked up. Déjà vu slammed her like a truck.
"It's him."
"No fucking way."
Same face she'd stared at for months in Kumogakure—photos of the kid she was supposed to snatch back to Konoha. Uchiha Makoto.
Except… kid was twelve. This dude? Built like a goddamn weapon, cold, mature, sexy-dangerous.
Silence choked the air. Crickets chirped like awkward side characters.
Nono's heart jackhammered. Memories and reality overlapped—kid vs. man, photo vs. flesh.
Finally, she swallowed the chaos and whispered, voice shaky with barely-hidden awe: "Uchiha… Makoto?"
"You know me?" He raised a brow, chill as ice.
That was basically a "yep." The floodgates opened.
Black Flash showing up in Kirigakure the same time she did? Explains the Raikage-level Lightning Release Chakra Mode. But Flying Raijin? How the fuck did a Konoha S-Rank space-time jutsu end up in his arsenal?
Nono's eyes lit up—shock, realization, joy, hope. Her blood-smeared face cracked into a grin so pure it hurt, like sunrise punching through a storm. Blood, ruins, and that smile? Heart-stopping. Tragic. Holy. Fucking unreal.
"I…" She sucked in air, steadying. "I studied your file inside-out for the Kumogakure rescue op."
She skipped the Root/spy/Danzo details—smart. Enough to build trust without spilling the classified tea.
"Come back to Konoha with me?" she asked, voice soft, hopeful, a little pleading.
If he comes back, the "Root's Flower" mission reboots. I'm useful again.
Makoto didn't bite. Swerved hard: "Why'd Kirigakure's ANBU send a death squad after you?"
Her smile died. Hesitation, guard up. Root secrets were for Danzo's ears only—not even the Hokage got a peep.
Makoto saw the freeze, arched a brow. "Cool, keep it. Guess you're walking back to Konoha solo."
"You… won't come with me?" Nono's voice cracked—didn't even realize she was begging.
He just shook his head. Done.
Nono's breath hitched. No way she could force him—and she wouldn't. Brain in overdrive: he saved her, he was the key to Kabuto, the kid she'd raised like her own in Root's shadows…
After staring death in the face, she'd leveled up—less fear, more fuck it.
She scanned the ruined courtyard—empty. Deep breath. Leaned in, voice a whisper: "I found out… the Fourth Mizukage, Yagura? He's been puppeted by some insane high-level genjutsu for years."
"Didn't get who was pulling the strings before I got made…"
Makoto's eyes? Ancient wells. Zero ripple. Like she'd said the sky was blue.
She wasn't wrong. He knew—knew the clown in the shadows, the why, the whole damn play.
Didn't flinch. Just glanced at her mostly-healed body, reached out, warm dry palm landing on her bare, blood-smudged shoulder. Gave a firm squeeze.
"No need to explain. Don't fight me—we're ghosting."
Flying Raijin activated.
They blurred out of the courtyard, swallowed by mist and night.
Next second—pop—inside a swanky hot-spring inn. Air thick with sulfur and steam. Elegant AF.
But Makoto stumbled on landing—dropped to one knee, caught himself on a pillar. Face went corpse-pale, cold sweat beading, whole body trembling like he'd just fought a goddamn kaiju.
Nono's heart dropped. The thunder god who'd curb-stomped an ANBU squad was… weak?
Then—footsteps. Terumi Mei burst in, auburn curls bouncing, emerald eyes zeroing in on Makoto. Worry dripping.
"You okay?!" She was at his side in a heartbeat.
He leaned on the pillar, waved her off. "I'm good."
Turned to stunned Nono: "Go hit the next spring. Wash the blood off."
Nono clocked Mei—those curls, those eyes. Elite jonin. Future Mizukage candidate. Makoto was in deep with her. No wonder he knew about the ANBU hit squad.
She gave Mei a long, loaded look—curiosity, shock, respect for Makoto's pull—then nodded and shuffled to the springs. Dried blood crusting her skin was gross.
Soon as Nono was gone, Mei dropped her voice to a hiss: "'The Walking Maiden' is slippery as hell. Seal her with a forbidden jutsu, lock her down—she bolts, we're fucked."
Makoto just smirked, faint and cocky. Escape? Anyone he'd touched was on a leash only he could see. Good luck outrunning that in the ninja world.
Minutes later—cozy tea room. Steam, blood-tinged air, fancy cups.
Mei kept stealing glances at Makoto's still-pale face, lips parting, stopping. She needed Nono's intel on Yagura—her future Mizukage shot depended on it. But seeing him actually tired? The words died in her throat.
Makoto sipped his tea slow, waiting. Let her beg for it. Free info ain't business.
Finally, Mei bit her lip—left a dent—steeled herself. Here we go.