The classroom noise hits me like a wave.
Chairs scrape. Paper rustles. Voices collide and stack over each other until they become a single living thing—loud, careless, normal. Sunlight spills through the windows in warm bars. Chalk dust hangs in the air like a faint fog, catching the light whenever someone moves too fast.
For half a second my brain tries to accept it.
*This is real life again. This is just school.*
Then the empty sleeve tugs against my chest where it's pinned, and the lie breaks apart.
My ribs tighten.
Not from pain. From *pressure*—that familiar, suffocating density in the air that only exists in one place.
Near him.
Near the axis.
Naruto Uzumaki's voice cuts through everything, bright and obnoxious and desperate, and the story inside my bones turns its head like a hunting dog catching scent.
My lungs seize halfway through an inhale.
The room blurs at the edges. The noise becomes distant, muffled, as if someone has pressed me under water. The pressure doesn't crush me outright. It doesn't need to.
It simply *claims the space.*
This is his.
I am trespassing.
I force my breath out through my nose in tiny increments. In. Out. In. Out. The pressure eases by a hair. My vision steadies enough to move.
Don't look at him, I tell myself.
Don't think his name.
Don't let your face tell the room you feel something wrong with reality.
I step inside, keeping close to the wall. The door clicks shut behind me, sealing me into a container full of children who don't know they're standing on a fault line.
Conversations falter. A few heads turn.
The first thing they notice isn't my face.
It's the sleeve.
Whispers bloom like mold.
"Did he…?"
"Is that—?"
"Where's his arm?"
A girl I don't recognize stares openly, eyes wide with fascination that hasn't learned shame yet. A boy nudges his friend and jerks his chin toward me. Someone laughs once, nervous and thin, and then stops when nobody else joins in.
I keep my gaze low and move toward my old seat near the back.
Every step is a negotiation with my body. Balance feels wrong; my shoulder aches under tight bandages; phantom fingers itch and curl against nothing. The uniform Root gave me is hidden under civilian clothes, but I can feel it anyway—stiffer fabric against my skin, like a reminder that "normal" is a disguise.
I sit.
Wood presses into my back. The desk edge digs into my ribs where the kunai cut still aches when I breathe too deep. I keep my right hand flat on the tabletop so people see it—see that I'm not hiding a weapon, not hiding anything.
Because in a room full of children trained to read threat, looking secretive is the fastest way to become one.
Across the room, Naruto is standing on his chair, shouting about something stupid.
He's smiling. He's always smiling.
But now that I've seen his face in the forest—frozen, twelve years old, hearing the word *demon*—I can't unsee the brittleness under it. The smile is a wall built out of noise.
He turns his head.
His blue eyes land on me.
The pressure in my ribs surges.
My throat tightens as if invisible fingers have found my windpipe again—not fully closing, not yet, just warning.
Naruto's mouth opens.
I can almost hear the words before he says them, because the scene is too easy: *Hey, aren't you—?* *What happened to your arm?* *Did you—?*
If he talks to me, everyone will look.
If everyone looks, Root's interest sharpens.
If Root sharpens, Danzo cuts deeper.
Naruto hops down from his chair and starts toward me with the unthinking directness of someone who has never had to survive by being invisible.
Panic flashes hot.
I lower my head and stare hard at the desk as if I'm absorbed in the grain of the wood. I make my posture small. Unremarkable. A background extra doing what background extras do: trying not to be noticed.
Naruto stops near my desk anyway.
The pressure around my ribs becomes almost warm—dense, humming, the air thick with story weight. My vision trembles at the edges. I taste metal faintly, like blood beginning to rise somewhere it shouldn't.
"Hey," Naruto says, quieter than I expect. Still rough, still loud in him, but the volume turned down like he's not sure what rules apply here. "You… you okay?"
My mouth opens on instinct.
The tongue seal coils like a living thing.
A sharp bite of pain lances under my tongue, immediate and intimate, and my eyes water.
I snap my mouth shut.
Naruto blinks. His face twists, confusion colliding with concern in a way that looks almost comical on him because he wears emotions openly like he can't help it.
I force my head to nod once.
Yes. No. Go away. Please.
Naruto's gaze drops to the empty sleeve.
Something flickers across his face—guilt, maybe, or a kind of recognition he doesn't understand yet. He saw me in the forest. He saw the weapons bend away from him and into me. He may not have words for it, but his body remembers.
He takes a breath. "That was… that was messed up."
My throat tightens. The invisible pressure brushes my ribs as if reality itself doesn't like him giving shape to it.
Naruto's jaw clenches. "Mizuki was—"
I flinch.
Not because of Mizuki.
Because Naruto is stepping too close to a truth that isn't his to know. The story already decided what he learns and when. Anything outside that script feels like reaching toward a hot stove.
Naruto's eyes sharpen. He leans in slightly. "Did you—"
The tongue seal bites again, harder, and this time the pain spikes up my jaw like a wire being yanked. A thin sound escapes me, half-gasp, half-choke.
Naruto jerks back, startled. "Whoa! Are you hurt?"
I press my right hand to my mouth and shake my head quickly.
Stop. Stop talking to me.
Naruto frowns, frustration rising—at me, at the world, at anything that won't just behave.
Then Iruka's voice cuts through the room like a blade.
"Settle down!"
The classroom stills.
Iruka stands at the front, eyes scanning, tired but firm. When his gaze lands on me, it catches for a fraction of a heartbeat.
He sees the missing arm.
He sees the pinned sleeve.
And something tightens in his expression—pain, anger, guilt, all swallowed into professionalism because he's an adult in a room full of children.
He doesn't come to me.
He doesn't say my name.
That restraint feels deliberate. Like someone told him not to.
Hiruzen, I think. Or Danzo.
Either way, it tells me something important: Iruka is aware I'm tangled in something above his pay grade.
That awareness makes my stomach twist.
Iruka clears his throat. "Today we will be assigned to three-man genin teams under a jōnin instructor."
Excitement ripples through the room. Nervousness. Pride.
Naruto pumps his fist. "Yeah! Finally!"
The pressure around him surges warmly, and for a heartbeat the world feels… pleased. Like reality itself enjoys watching him step into the role it prepared.
My mind tries to run ahead—Team 7, Kakashi, the bell test—and pain flickers behind my eyes as if a hook catches the thought and yanks.
I inhale slowly and force my brain to stay in the present.
Iruka begins reading names.
"Ino Yamanaka, Shikamaru Nara, Chōji Akimichi…"
Kids cheer, groan, shift.
"Sakura Haruno, Naruto Uzumaki, Sasuke Uchiha."
Naruto's howl of protest fills the room. Sasuke looks like he wants to disappear into contempt. Sakura beams like she's been given the sun.
Canon locks into place with a satisfying click.
For a second, relief loosens something in my chest.
The main thread is intact.
Then the relief turns to dread.
Because Danzo doesn't want me observing something random.
He wants me observing **the main thread**.
Iruka continues down the list. Names I recognize, names I don't. Team after team. The room empties in waves as kids leave to meet their jōnin instructors.
And then Iruka's voice reaches the end.
There's a pause.
His gaze flicks up, finds mine, and holds for a fraction longer than it should.
"Souta," he says finally, and the sound of my name from his mouth makes my skin prickle. "You will remain in the Academy for now."
For now.
Not failed. Not graduated. Not assigned.
Suspended between roles like I'm an error they haven't decided how to file.
A few kids glance back, whispering. Naruto stares at me with open confusion, then is yanked into movement by Sakura's insistence and Sasuke's silence.
Team 7 leaves.
The pressure in my ribs eases as Naruto's body moves away, like a storm cloud drifting off.
I don't relax. I can't.
Because the story's gravity is gone, but Root's gravity remains.
Iruka dismisses the remaining students. The room empties until it's just me, Iruka, and the smell of chalk dust settling in sunlight.
Iruka approaches slowly, careful. He stops beside my desk rather than in front of it, as if he's trying not to loom.
"Souta," he says quietly.
The softness in his voice hits like a punch. Iruka is the kind of person who chooses kindness even when it costs him. I tried to protect that in the forest. I failed.
He looks at my bandages, then at my face.
"What happened to you… is not your fault," he says.
The sentence is shaped like comfort.
But my chest tightens, because it isn't true.
Not entirely.
I chose to run into the clearing.
I chose to grab at the story with my bare hands.
And the story taught me what happens to people like me when they reach.
My mouth opens.
The tongue seal coils.
A warning sting bites under my tongue, hard enough that I wince.
Iruka's eyes sharpen. He notices. Of course he does.
He doesn't ask why my mouth hurts. He doesn't ask who did it.
He just exhales, slow.
"Listen," he says, voice even quieter. "You're going to be watched."
My stomach drops.
He continues, carefully, like every word is a step across thin ice. "Don't do anything reckless. Don't try to carry burdens that aren't yours."
Burdens that aren't yours.
Naruto's burden. The village's burden. The plot's burden.
I nod once, because anything else feels dangerous.
Iruka hesitates, then sets a small paper package on my desk.
Bandage supplies. Better quality than what a random Academy kid should have access to.
"I can't…" He stops, jaw tight. "I can't fix everything. But I can at least make sure you don't bleed through your clothes."
My throat burns.
I want to tell him thank you. I want to tell him I'm sorry. I want to tell him to be careful around Danzo.
The tongue seal pulses.
The world doesn't need fate's chokehold to silence me.
Root already bought my words.
Iruka straightens. His voice firms back up into teacher mode. "Go home after class. Rest. That is an order."
He turns to leave, then pauses at the door without looking back.
"And Souta," he adds, rougher. "If anyone asks you questions you don't understand… go to the Hokage Tower."
Then he's gone.
I sit there staring at the bandage package like it's a bomb.
Go to the Hokage Tower.
Was that advice?
Or a warning disguised as advice?
Either way, it's dangerous. Danzo will see any movement toward Hiruzen as defiance.
And defiance is what makes Root cut.
I leave the classroom on unsteady legs.
The Academy corridors are loud again—kids moving, laughing, complaining, dreaming. They brush past me, then notice the sleeve and either flinch away or stare too long. One boy whispers "creepy" under his breath. A girl looks like she wants to ask what happened but doesn't.
No one comes close.
Invisibility returns, but it's a different kind now.
Not "unimportant."
"Damaged."
I step outside into sunlight. The brightness hurts my eyes.
The village smells like steamed rice and damp wood and smoke. The normalcy is obscene. It makes last night feel like a hallucination.
I walk toward the address the Root handler gave me.
Every few steps, I check reflections in windows and puddles—looking for a tail, for an unremarkable face that stays in the same place too long.
I find nothing.
Which means I'm being watched by someone good at it.
Halfway down a side street, a paper slips under my sandal.
I stop so abruptly a woman behind me clicks her tongue and sidesteps around.
The paper is plain. No seal visible. No signature.
I bend to pick it up with my right hand and feel the tongue seal tighten faintly as if it senses information entering my possession.
I unfold it.
Two lines, written in neat, controlled strokes:
**FOLLOW UZUMAKI NARUTO AFTER HE MEETS HIS JŌNIN.**
**REPORT ANY DEVIATION.**
My skin goes cold.
They don't want a general report.
They want *movement.* They want me close to the story's spine.
My ribs tighten faintly, as if fate notices the intention and doesn't like it.
I fold the paper and tuck it into my pocket with a hand that won't stop shaking.
My mind races.
If I follow Naruto too closely, fate's pressure might escalate until I can't breathe.
If I don't follow him, Root will treat disobedience as a defect.
Defects get corrected.
I turn my steps toward the training grounds—because if Naruto meets his jōnin instructor, it will be somewhere like that. The idea of intentionally moving toward Naruto makes my skin prickle.
The farther I walk, the heavier the air feels.
Not physical humidity. Narrative density. The same sensation as approaching a storm center.
I spot them at a distance.
Three kids sitting, waiting, annoyed: Sakura trying to look patient, Sasuke looking like patience is beneath him, Naruto fuming loud enough to be heard even from here.
And one jōnin arriving late on purpose, hands in pockets, silver hair catching light, mask covering his face.
Hatake Kakashi.
Seeing him in person is like seeing a myth step off a page. Not glamorous. Not dramatic. Just… real. A man who moves like he's already measured every exit and decided he doesn't need one.
My brain tries to pull canon forward—bell test details, Kakashi's speech—and pain flickers behind my eyes.
I blink hard, focusing on the present instead.
Team 7 follows Kakashi toward the training ground.
I follow at a distance.
As soon as Naruto's body moves, the pressure in my ribs surges, warm and heavy. The air thickens until breathing feels like dragging lungs through water.
A metallic taste fills my mouth.
Blood.
I press my fist against my lips as I walk, trying to hide the tremble.
My nose warms.
I wipe under it with my thumb and my stomach turns when I see the smear—thin red on skin.
Fate's warning.
Too close.
Too curious.
I force myself to slow, to hang back, to keep Naruto at the edge of my vision instead of the center.
The pressure eases slightly. The nosebleed stops.
So that's the rule now, I think grimly.
I can orbit the story.
But if I approach the core, I start to hemorrhage.
Team 7 disappears into the trees.
I stop at the edge of the path, swallowing hard.
If I go farther, I risk collapsing. If I don't, I have nothing to report.
I stand there shaking, caught between two laws: Root's command and fate's boundary.
And then I feel it.
Not the warm density of Naruto's protection.
Something colder.
A presence behind me.
I don't turn fast. Turning fast looks guilty.
I pivot slowly, like a tired child looking around.
An unremarkable man stands by the fence, arms folded, face plain enough to forget the moment you look away.
Civilian clothes.
But his posture is wrong for a civilian. Too still. Too balanced. Too aware of the space around him.
Root.
His eyes meet mine briefly—just long enough to confirm he sees me.
Then he looks away, as if he was never looking at all.
My tongue seal pulses once, tight and pleased, like a collar feeling its leash tugged.
The man speaks without moving his lips much, barely audible.
"Closer," he says.
One word.
No explanation.
My ribs tighten. My mouth tastes like iron.
I stare at the path where Team 7 vanished and feel the story's gravity pulling from ahead, and Root's grip tightening from behind.
If I step forward, fate punishes me.
If I don't, Root does.
My right hand clenches, nails biting into my palm.
I take one step toward the trees.
The pressure surges. My vision swims. Blood runs warmer down my nose.
Another step.
My lungs seize, and the world tilts, sunlight slicing into darkness at the edges.
Behind me, the unremarkable man's voice comes again, soft and certain:
"Do not disappoint Danzo-sama."
My knees wobble.
I taste blood and antiseptic and fear.
And somewhere ahead, unseen behind leaves, Naruto Uzumaki laughs—bright and alive—while the world bends itself around him.
I take a third step.
My vision whites out.
And the last thing I feel before I hit the ground is the story's invisible hand closing—tight enough to remind me I can't approach the main character without paying in flesh.