The tag under my skin doesn't itch like a wound.
It itches like a thought that won't finish forming.
Back in the cell, the lantern's steady light makes everything feel unreal. No sunrise. No shadow shifts. Just the same colorless glow on stone walls and folded futon and my pinned sleeve lying limp across my chest like a flag of surrender.
I sit with my right wrist turned upward.
The ink isn't visible anymore—not as writing. It's become a faint branching pattern under the skin, like charcoal veins drawn too close to the surface.
When I press on it, it doesn't hurt.
When I *try* to peel at it with my nail, it hurts everywhere at once.
Not the skin. Not the wrist.
My ribs tighten, my throat narrows, and the pain behind my eyes sparks like someone striking flint inside my skull.
The world doesn't allow me to remove it.
Not Root.
Not Danzo.
Not even my own panic.
The tether is law now.
I curl my fingers into a fist and force myself to stop.
One-handed, I adjust the bandage at my shoulder. The stump throbs, a steady ache that never fully fades. My phantom fingers twitch anyway—fingers that will never touch anything again, still trying to move as if my brain can bully reality into apologizing.
I breathe.
In. Out.
The tether sits on my breath like a weight.
Not crushing. Not yet.
Just there. Always there.
Every few minutes it pulses—warm density blooming around my ribs for an instant, then receding. Like a heartbeat that isn't mine.
Naruto's heartbeat, my mind supplies before I can stop it.
Immediately, the pressure sharpens. My lungs hesitate.
I swallow and let the thought dissolve.
I can't afford to name him too loudly inside my own head.
That's the kind of thing that makes the world notice.
And the kind of thing Root exploits.
I lie back on the futon and stare at the ceiling.
Sleep doesn't come.
It never does down here, not really. Every time I start to drift, the tether pulses and my body jolts, convinced something is about to happen. Like a prey animal sleeping with one eye open, only there's no predator I can see—just the certainty that one exists.
When I finally do drift, it isn't rest.
It's a half-dream where my missing hand is still in the dirt, fingers curled, and someone—someone with bandaged arms—steps on it without looking down.
---
"Up."
A hand grips my collar and drags me upright.
The motion yanks my shoulder. Pain flashes. I bite down hard, tasting old blood where my cheek split yesterday.
A Root operative stands over me. Plain mask. Plain voice.
No apology.
"Observation," he says.
The word lands like a hook.
I stand unsteadily, pin my sleeve tighter, and follow.
They blindfold me. They always blindfold me.
The complex becomes motion: steps, turns, stairs. The air warms. Smoke and rice and damp wood seep in as we near the surface. The smell of Konoha tries to be comforting, and I hate it for that.
The blindfold comes off on a rooftop.
Sunlight stings my eyes. The village spreads around me in bright normal colors—laundry lines, market stalls, children running with bread. Life pretending there's no darkness underneath it.
A second Root operative crouches near the roof edge, already watching something below. Civilian clothes. Forgettable face. The way he holds his posture gives him away; he's too balanced to be harmless.
He doesn't greet me.
He points.
Below, beyond a stretch of trees and fence, is a training ground.
Team 7.
My ribs tighten immediately, warm density swelling like a tide.
Not as violent as when I touched Naruto.
Distance helps.
But the tether makes distance a lie. Even from here, the air around my lungs feels thickened, as if the world is reminding me where my orbit belongs.
Kakashi stands in the clearing with his orange book held up like a shield.
Naruto is bouncing on his feet, shouting. Sakura stands rigid with irritation. Sasuke looks bored in the precise way of someone who is never bored—only offended.
The scene is almost comforting in its familiarity.
Almost.
Because now I can smell the heat rising from sun-warmed dirt. I can hear Naruto's voice without speakers, raw and real. I can see Kakashi's single eye curve with that lazy amusement that hides calculation.
I can feel the story's gravity in my ribs like a second skeleton.
The Root operative beside me speaks without turning his head.
"Report," he says.
I wet my lips. The tongue seal coils faintly, like it's listening for forbidden words.
"Pressure," I rasp. "Constant. Manageable."
The operative makes a small noise that might be acknowledgment.
Below, Kakashi explains the bell test.
Naruto yells about lunch. Kakashi smiles behind his mask; you can see it in the shape of his eye, the calm cruelty of a test designed to teach them that rules and survival are not friends.
Then Kakashi vanishes.
Sakura yelps. Sasuke moves. Naruto shouts and charges the wrong direction like a bull with a grudge.
The instant Naruto moves with intent—*real* intent—the tether pulses hard.
Warmth thickens around my ribs. My lungs resist filling.
My nose tingles.
I taste metal.
I wipe under my nostril with my thumb without thinking and see red smear across skin.
The Root operative's gaze flicks to my hand.
"Do not faint," he says.
As if fainting is a choice.
I force my breathing slow, shallow, controlled. I fix my eyes on the edge of the roof tile and pretend the world isn't tightening around my chest.
Below, Naruto attacks Kakashi like canon—loud, reckless, desperate to prove he exists.
Kakashi dodges with minimum effort. His movements are small, economical, almost insulting. He teaches without lecturing, the lesson carved into the boy's failure.
Naruto forms hand signs.
Shadow clones explode into existence.
The tether hits me like a punch.
Warm density becomes pressure. Pressure becomes a clamp.
My ribs seize. My throat tightens. The pain behind my eyes sparks so bright my vision stutters.
I suck in air and get half a breath.
Blood warms my upper lip and runs down.
I can't look away. My body is reacting to his chakra like it recognizes something enormous standing behind the boy's grin.
The Root operative shifts closer—not to catch me, but to hold me upright if I drop. Efficient. Prepared.
Below, Kakashi disperses clones with casual strikes. Naruto keeps coming anyway. Determination made of sheer stubborn pain.
Sasuke makes his move next, more calculated, more deadly. His shuriken throw is sharp enough to make my skin prickle even from this distance.
Kakashi praises him lightly, then humiliates him anyway. Because that's the point: teach them what they are up against.
Sakura hesitates, trapped between fear and duty.
The tether pulses again, smaller this time, like the world is breathing with Naruto's effort.
I swallow blood.
My stomach churns.
I force myself to watch, because this is the observation Root wants and because looking away doesn't make me less bound.
Kakashi catches Naruto.
He ties him to the post like a warning sign.
Naruto thrashes and screams. His face is red with fury and humiliation.
And the pressure in my ribs does something strange.
It eases—just slightly—like the story relaxes because the beat landed where it was supposed to.
Kakashi lectures them about teamwork.
Then he leaves, baiting them with the bells and the rule about feeding Naruto.
Sakura argues. Sasuke glares.
Then, quietly, Sakura offers Naruto food.
Sasuke pretends he didn't see.
The tether pulses again, warm and heavy, and this time it isn't suffocation.
It's… approval.
Not from Kakashi.
From the world.
As if reality itself enjoys the moment where Naruto is chosen—where he receives proof, however small, that he isn't entirely alone.
My throat tightens anyway.
Because every time the story approves of Naruto, it feels like it is turning its face away from me.
Below, Kakashi returns in a blur.
He is angry—genuinely, controlled but real. His voice hardens. The killing intent he releases makes the air ripple even up here, and I feel it in my teeth.
Sakura and Sasuke freeze.
Naruto looks terrified and stubborn all at once.
Then Kakashi laughs and passes them.
Canon.
The scene completes itself. The world settles.
My ribs loosen by a fraction. My lungs finally take a deeper breath without resistance.
The Root operative beside me speaks again.
"Report deviation," he says.
"There was none," I whisper.
The tongue seal stays quiet.
Truth.
And that truth is its own horror: even Root's interference—watching, testing, tethering—didn't derail the main thread.
It just made *me* bleed around it.
Kakashi leads Team 7 away.
As they disappear into trees, Kakashi pauses for a fraction of a second, head turning slightly—not toward me exactly, but toward the rooftop line.
His visible eye narrows.
For a heartbeat, I swear he's looking straight at the space my body occupies.
The tether flares—sharp, warning—and my breath catches.
Kakashi's gaze lingers.
Then he turns away and follows his students, as if he decided whatever he sensed wasn't worth pulling into the open.
Or as if he recognized it and chose not to touch it.
Either interpretation makes my stomach drop.
The Root operative grips my wrist—hard—right over the buried tag.
"Move," he says.
We leave.
Fast.
No blindfold this time. Just a brisk walk through back routes, alley shadows, spaces between normal people. The village continues smiling around us, unaware of the strings underneath.
And through it all, the tether pulses—faint, constant—like Naruto's presence is now stitched into my body's rhythms.
A reminder that even when I'm not near him, I'm not free of him.
---
Back underground, Danzo receives the report without ceremony.
He sits behind his table, visible eye half-lidded as if my pain is background noise.
"Shadow clones increased your reaction," he says, not asking.
I nod, wiping dried blood off my lip with the back of my hand. It smears. It doesn't clean.
Danzo's fingers tap once.
"So it responds to output," he murmurs. "Not merely proximity."
He looks at my wrist.
"You are a meter," he says calmly. "A sensor the village did not intend to create."
A meter.
My stomach twists.
Danzo gestures to the medic. "Prepare the sealing room."
My ribs tighten.
The medic appears, expressionless. He carries a tray with small items arranged neatly: ink, tags, a thin brush, a syringe-like tool used for chakra injection.
My mouth goes dry.
"What…" I start, and the tongue seal bites hard enough that my eyes water. I choke the word off before it becomes a question.
Danzo watches the flinch with mild interest. "You will remain quiet," he says. "This requires focus."
They take me down a different corridor.
Deeper.
The air grows colder. The smell changes—less mold, more ink. More metal. A sterile sharpness that reminds me of instruments.
The sealing room is circular, walls inscribed with old symbols. The floor is covered in a faintly reflective seal array that makes my skin crawl. The lanterns are set higher here, out of reach, throwing shadows that look like kneeling figures.
A low platform sits in the center.
"Sit," a Root operative says.
I sit.
My stump throbs in anticipation, as if my body has learned to fear rooms like this.
Danzo stands at the edge of the seal array.
He doesn't step onto it. He never steps where he doesn't have to.
"Your tether is not merely a tag," he says. "It is a conduit."
The word makes my ribs tighten in protest.
Danzo continues, voice quiet. "If it conducts, it can be stimulated."
I stare at my wrist.
My skin looks normal.
It isn't.
The medic kneels beside me and swabs my wrist with something cold and sharp-smelling.
Antiseptic.
Then he places two fingers over the buried pattern and channels chakra—gentle, controlled.
Pain snaps behind my eyes immediately.
My throat tightens.
The tether pulses hard, warm density surging around my ribs as if the world suddenly remembered to pay attention.
I gasp and force air in.
Danzo watches closely.
"Increase," he says.
The medic obeys.
The pain isn't localized anymore. It blooms through my chest like a bruise being pressed from the inside. My lungs resist filling. My nose starts bleeding again, a slow warm trickle.
I clamp my jaw shut to keep from making noise.
The tongue seal coils tight, biting my mouth from the inside like a second set of restraints.
Danzo's voice remains calm. "Tell me what you feel."
The question is a trap.
If I describe fate, I risk punishment.
If I say nothing, I risk being increased until I break.
I choose the simplest truth.
"Pressure," I rasp. "Stronger."
Danzo's eye narrows. "Anything else?"
I hesitate.
Because under the pressure, there is something new now.
A sensation that wasn't there during proximity tests.
A cold presence behind the warmth.
Like deep water under a sunlit surface.
The medic increases chakra again at Danzo's gesture.
The tether surges.
And suddenly the warmth in my ribs isn't just weight.
It's a door.
Something on the other side of it shifts.
My breath catches. My vision tunnels. The lantern light blurs into a ring.
In that narrowing, I feel it—distinct, unmistakable.
A gaze.
Not Danzo's. Not the medic's. Not the world's indifferent correction.
A gaze that feels ancient and immense and amused by my suffering in a way that makes my skin crawl.
My spine locks.
My phantom hand clenches into agony.
The cold presence presses against the tether from the other side, testing it like an animal testing a cage.
Danzo's voice comes from far away.
"Speak," he orders.
My tongue seal tightens violently.
Pain rips under my tongue.
And in the same instant, the presence behind the tether presses closer—
—and I hear something that isn't sound, isn't language, isn't a thought I made.
A low, wordless laughter that vibrates through my bones.
The medic jerks back, startled.
Danzo's visible eye sharpens.
The seal array under me seems to hum, faintly, like it's reacting to something vast brushing against it.
My blood turns to ice.
Because I understand what just happened with brutal clarity:
It isn't only Naruto's "protection" I'm tethered to.
There is something inside him.
And it just noticed the leash.
The laughter curls around my mind again, closer now, and the world's warm pressure tightens like it's bracing—
as if fate itself is suddenly afraid of what might look back through me.