The air in the tea room hung thick as molasses, the only sound the faint chirp of crickets sneaking in through the window. Terumi Mei's emerald-green eyes churned like a storm-tossed sea—torn between pride and resolve.
Her slender fingers absently traced the rim of her steaming teacup, knuckles going white. Finally, the chaos inside her settled into a whisper-soft sigh that melted into the tea's earthy scent.
Screw it. She wasn't asking.
Whether Uchiha Makoto really pried that intel about the Fourth Mizukage from the "Walking Maiden" or not, Mei wasn't about to lean on some guy—especially not this half-dead kid in front of her—for her future.
She had pride. Ambition. A burning need to drag the Hidden Mist out of its blood-soaked gutter with her own two hands. No way was she gonna be some arm-candy trophy wife.
Especially not when the word "use" kept slithering into her brain like a snake.
Her gaze flicked back to Makoto's face—pale as printer paper, almost see-through from chakra drain. A sharp pang of guilt stabbed her gut. The dude pushed himself to the brink for her, and here she was still scheming…
Right on cue, Makoto lifted his eyes. Those bottomless black pools were dulled by a haze of exhaustion, like someone threw a filter over them. He caught the flicker of conflict in her stare, the final click of resolve, and forced a smile so fragile it could shatter if you breathed wrong.
The earth-shattering truth—that the Fourth Mizukage Yagura was a puppet dancing on Uchiha Obito's Mangekyo strings? Yeah, Makoto wasn't dropping that bomb on Mei. Not yet.
Too many moving parts. Obito was a walking nuke—overpowered, batshit crazy, and unpredictable as a drunk raccoon. One whiff of a leak and he'd go full psycho.
First in the crosshairs? The woman right here trying to save the village. Obito could body-flicker in, call in Pain as backup, and boom—game over.
Maybe… sic Big Bro and Sis-in-Law on his ass? Makoto mused, face calm as a pond. Gold-tier muscle for the win.
He clocked the guilt and worry in Mei's eyes and decided to twist the knife.
"Cough—hack—" He clutched his mouth, shoulders shaking like he was one sneeze from the grave. When he pulled his hand away, crimson speckled his palm—bright and glaring under the dim lantern light.
His voice came out threadbare, like a candle guttering in the wind. "The Walking Maiden… picked up chatter. Fourth Mizukage's 'Bloodline Purge'… new moves coming soon."
A juicy-sounding tidbit—vague enough to be useless, specific enough to sound legit. Kabuto's intel pipeline was his now. He wrote the script.
Pause for dramatic effect, like he was scraping strength from his bones. "After this… I gotta haul ass back to Konoha."
"What?" Mei jolted, teacup nearly cracking in her grip. A cold wave of oh shit crashed over her—loss, panic, something dangerously close to don't go. She knew he'd leave eventually; the Mist was a meat grinder. But now?
Her throat locked up. All she could do was stare, eyes glassy, words stuck like gum on a shoe.
Makoto read her like a manga and gently nudged her out the door—too long here and the village's old geezers would sniff something fishy.
Once she was gone—three hesitant glances back—he sat a minute longer, listening to the faint splash next door. When his "recovery" hit the sweet spot, he shuffled toward Nonou's spring, still playing the invalid.
The frailty? Half-acting, half Lightning Chakra Mode. Coughing blood? Child's play.
His debt to her wasn't just a life saved. Teaching her medical jutsu was cute, but the Walking Maiden's real value? Priceless.
---
Next door: Private Onsen
Steam billowed like a damn fog machine, sulfur and herbs thick in the air. Nonou sank deeper into the water with a purr that'd make a cat jealous.
When's the last time I just… breathed?
Spy life had wrung her dry—every muscle coiled, every nerve screaming danger. But here? The water cradled her like a lover, melting years of tension. Golden hair floated like silk, skin glowing under the haze. Curves shifted beneath the surface—full breasts, narrow waist, legs that went on for days.
She was mid-bliss when the door slid open with a shlick.
Muscles twitched—instinct—but she forced them loose. He saved me. Healed me. I'm safe.
In bounced Hong Lian, pink yukata embroidered with cherry blossoms, tray piled high with sweets and a steaming pot of flower tea. Purple eyes sparkled with surprise! energy.
She'd been warming the futon like a good girl, heard the splash, and bolted over with snacks—hoping for a sleepy Makoto and maybe a head pat.
Instead? Some blonde bombshell lounging like a goddess.
Hong Lian's smile died. The woman was stacked—mature, sultry, everything her flat-chested self wasn't. Jealousy prickled like static.
It's because I'm still a kid… can't even help him…
She slammed the tray down harder than intended, spun, and bolted—door banging shut like she was fleeing a fire.
Nonou blinked. Oh honey. She'd seen that look on a hundred teenage girls. Time to clear the air later.
She sniffed the food—spy habits die hard—then popped a sakura mochi in her mouth. Sweet red bean exploded on her tongue. When did I last taste something just for me?
Every ryō went to the orphanage. Her kids. This? A guilty pleasure.
Door opened again.
Makoto stepped in and froze. Nonou—barely submerged, shoulders and the top of her chest gleaming, water tracing paths down her collarbone into valleys he had no business staring at.
His brain blue-screened. Eyes went full Sharingan for a hot second.
Nonou felt the heat of his stare, sank lower with a squeak, cheeks flaming. "M-Makoto-sama?!"
Well, shit. Shura field activated.