The factory was a beast that breathed.
As they stood before the massive sliding steel doors of the main processing plant, the ground vibrated beneath their feet. THUD. HISS. CLANK. It was the heartbeat of a machine that never slept. The vibration traveled up through the soles of their sandals, a constant, numbing buzz that made the bones in their ankles ache.
Smoke poured from vents high above, swirling in the bruised yellow sky before settling as a fine grit on their shoulders. It tasted metallic, like chewing on a handful of old coins, coating the back of the throat with a dry, chemical film.
Asuma took a long drag of his cigarette, the cherry glowing bright orange against the gray backdrop. He exhaled a plume of blue smoke that was instantly swallowed by the smog. The air was hot and humid, smelling of sulfur and burnt rubber, pressing against their skin like a heavy, wet blanket.
"Anko," Asuma rumbled, his voice low. "Take your team to the factory floor. See what they're building. Try not to blow anything up unless you have to."
Anko grinned, cracking her knuckles. "No promises, big guy. Come on, brats. Let's go see the sausage get made."
She turned and marched toward the side entrance, Sylvie and Naruto trailing behind her like ducklings following a crocodile.
Asuma watched them go, then turned to his own team. He gestured with his chin toward the upper walkway that led to a suspended glass-walled structure overlooking the chaotic floor.
"We'll hit the offices," Asuma said. "If this place is a body, that's the brain."
"Troublesome," Shikamaru sighed, slouching. "Paperwork."
"Let's go," Ino said, pushing him forward.
They climbed the metal stairs, their footsteps ringing on the grate—clang, clang, clang.
At the top, Asuma and Chōji took up positions by the door. Asuma leaned against the railing, watching the factory floor below where sparks showered down like fireworks.
The sharp hiss-crack of arc welders echoed from the pit, accompanied by the smell of ozone that stung the nose.
Chōji opened a fresh bag of chips. Pop.
He frowned, looking around the walkway. He scanned the break area—a desolate corner with a few rusted chairs and a water cooler that looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the Second War.
A single, dead fly floated in the stagnant blue water bottle, spinning slowly in the vibration from the floor.
"Sensei," Chōji mumbled between crunches.
"Yeah?" Asuma replied, not looking away from the floor.
"I haven't seen any vending machines," Chōji observed. "Or a cafeteria. Or even a snack cart."
Asuma glanced at him.
"Shouldn't a factory like this have food for the workers?" Chōji asked, genuinely concerned. "They're lifting heavy steel. They need calories."
He offered the bag to Asuma. Asuma politely waved it away.
He's right, Asuma thought, his eyes narrowing as he watched a line of gray-skinned Fūma workers hauling crates below. It is strange. It's like... the workers either don't need the food because of their modifications, or they are being prevented from basic accommodations to keep them weak.
One worker stumbled, dropping a wrench that clattered loudly—CLANG-clang-clang—but no one around him even flinched or stopped working.
"Maybe they eat later," Asuma lied gently.
"Maybe," Chōji said unconvinced, hugging his chips closer.
Inside the office, the air was still and suffocating. It smelled of stale coffee, toner ink, and the pervasive coal dust that coated every surface in a fine black film. The fluorescent light overhead flickered with a maddening bzzzt-click, casting strobe-like shadows that made the filing cabinets seem to jump.
Shikamaru stood by the window, keeping watch on the hallway. Ino was behind the desk, rifles through a filing cabinet.
Flip. Flip. Flip.
"Dead end," Shikamaru muttered, watching a security guard patrol the catwalk outside. "Just boring paperwork. Coal orders. Steel requisition forms. Standard logistical nightmare."
Ino frowned. She pulled a folder. She looked at the stacks of receipts.
She thought of her mother, Inouye, teaching her how to code messages into flower arrangements—how a single red camellia could mean danger in a bouquet of white lilies. She thought of her father, Inoichi, sitting in his study, explaining that the secrets of a village aren't hidden in kunai pouches, but in the margins of ledgers. The paper felt gritty under her fingertips, coated in the ubiquitous factory dust that managed to seep through closed drawers.
Plants leave roots, Ino thought. Businesses leave paper.
"No," Ino said firmly. "Let's check the invoices. Even Orochimaru has to pay for shipping."
Shikamaru raised an eyebrow, turning from the window. "Not a bad idea, blondie. Actually using your head?"
WHACK.
Anko appeared in the doorway—having apparently looped back to check on them—and cuffed the back of Shikamaru's head.
"Ow!" Shikamaru rubbed his skull. "What was that for?"
"Respect the initiative, lazybones," Anko grinned, leaning against the doorframe before vanishing back down the hall. "Good idea, Ino. Dig in."
Ino preened. She pulled a heavy black binder from the bottom drawer. Dust motes danced in the flickering light of the chakra lamp. The heavy binder cracked open with a sound like a dry bone snapping, smelling of old glue and mildew.
She flipped past the coal orders. She flipped past the rice shipments.
Then she stopped.
"Asuma-sensei," she called out, her voice tight. "Look at this."
Asuma stepped into the room. He took the receipt she held up. It was on heavy, expensive paper, stamped with a crest depicting a crashing wave.
Shikamaru peered over his shoulder.
INVOICE: 004-B
ITEM: Rare Earth Conductors & Chomei Dust samples.
ORIGIN: Takigakure (Hidden Waterfall).
PAYMENT: 5,000,000 Ryo. (Outstanding).
There was a handwritten note at the bottom. The calligraphy was aggressive, sharp, the ink pressed deep into the paper.
"Payment is three weeks late, Snake. I don't care if you're a Sannin. Compound interest is a bitch. - K.K."
The pen strokes were so heavy they had torn through the paper in places, leaving jagged little rips where the anger had spilled over.
Asuma stared at the initials. The ash fell from his cigarette, landing unnoticed on the linoleum floor.
"K.K..." Asuma muttered. His face darkened, the lines around his eyes deepening.
"If that's who I think it is... Orochimaru owes money to a very dangerous man."
"Who?" Ino asked, sensing the shift in atmosphere.
"A ghost from the Bingo Book," Asuma said quietly, folding the receipt and pocketing it. "Someone who would kill a Kage for a single ryo. Good find, Ino."
Ino beamed, flipping her ponytail. "Naturally."
The door to the inner office creaked open.
A man stepped out. He looked to be in his thirties, but his eyes were ancient. He wore a rumpled suit that had seen better decades, and his skin had a grayish, metallic sheen.
"Can I help you?" he asked. His voice was a high, melancholic drone—like the ringing cry of an insect at sunset.
A thin, high-pitched whine seemed to emanate from his chest when he spoke, vibrating the air like a cicada's wings.
Shikamaru stiffened.
"We were just leaving," Asuma said smoothly, stepping between the kids and the man.
"I am Higurashi," the man droned, pointing a pen at them. "The Supervisor. You are not authorized. You are not Fūma. You are not Sound."
He tilted his head.
"You are intruders."
His metallic skin caught the light with a dull, oily luster, looking less like flesh and more like polished pewter.
He reached for the alarm button on his desk.
"Troublesome," Shikamaru sighed.
Shadow Possession Jutsu.
The shadow under the desk leaped up, catching Higurashi's hand inches from the button. The man froze, his eyes widening in panic.
"We're leaving," Asuma repeated, smiling dangerously. "And you're going to take a nap."
Asuma moved. A quick chop to the neck.
Higurashi crumpled, his melancholic buzzing silenced.
As he fell, a puff of gray dust rose from his suit, swirling in the stagnant air before settling back onto the dirty linoleum.
"We got what we came for," Asuma said, signaling the exit. "Let's regroup with Anko. Before the shift change."