Haku doesn't run the way Naruto runs.
Naruto runs like he's trying to outrun being ignored—loud feet, loud breath, loud intent. Haku moves like the world is already quiet for him. Even while carrying me, he wastes no motion. His steps land without announcement. He shifts his weight without sound. The mist parts just enough, then closes again, erasing the path behind us.
My collar bites into my throat where his hand grips it.
Not cruel. Firm. Controlled.
My splinted wrist is pinned against his chest, held in the one place I can't flail. Cloth rubs the cut every time we land, every time he pivots, every time my body jolts with motion. The bandage is already warm with new blood, sticky under the splint like a second skin that won't peel off.
The poison in my veins feels different now.
Not the sharp spread from before. More like a cold residue that makes my fingers uncertain even when I try to force them into obedience. Pins-and-needles spark and vanish in my fingertips. The tendons in my wrist ache with a deep, structural wrongness—like something important was severed and my body is pretending it can compensate.
And layered over everything is the tether.
It pulses in my ribs as if it's keeping time with Naruto's heartbeat.
But Naruto is far behind now.
Every pulse feels… strained.
Like a rope pulled tight.
Warm density presses around my lungs—less suffocating than when Naruto stood inches away, but constant, a low pressure that never releases. Beneath it, cold depth stirs with lazy amusement, like something caged has discovered it can feel the world through me and finds that funny.
**Little… taken.**
Not sound. Not language.
Intent brushing the edge of my mind like a tongue tasting blood.
I swallow bile. My tongue seal tightens in response, a private cruelty inside my mouth. Even nausea feels monitored.
Haku lands lightly on wet ground. The smell of salt hits my nose—sharp and clean and rotten all at once. Seaweed. Brine. Mud warmed by sun and cooled by fog. Somewhere nearby, waves slap wood in a slow, patient rhythm like the ocean is counting.
Land of Waves.
We're here—or close enough that the air already belongs to it.
Haku pauses only long enough to adjust his grip. He doesn't set me down. He won't risk me running.
As if I could.
My legs tremble from blood loss and shock. My right hand won't close properly. My mouth can't form warnings. And even if I somehow crawled away, Root's leash and fate's gravity would drag me back toward someone else's plan.
Haku's voice is near my ear, gentle as before.
"Breathe slowly," he says. "Your body is loud."
I try.
The warm pressure around my ribs makes "slow" feel like a joke. Still, I force a rhythm: in through my nose, out through clenched teeth. The air tastes wet.
The fog thickens again, and Haku slips between trees that look sickly compared to Konoha's—thinner, damp, salt-stained. Leaves here don't rustle like forest leaves. They whisper like paper left too long in water.
We cross a narrow wooden walkway that creaks softly under Haku's weight. Below it, black water moves sluggishly, reflecting nothing but fog.
My wrist pulses.
Warm.
Then cold beneath, attentive.
Not Kurama's lazy amusement this time—something sharper.
A needle-sense, like being watched through a pinhole.
Root.
The thought doesn't come with certainty, just dread.
Because Root doesn't lose assets.
And Danzo doesn't forgive curiosity from outsiders.
If Haku took me, Root will either retrieve me…
…or make sure I never speak again.
Haku stops in front of a door that looks like it was built to be forgotten. Old wood. Swollen edges. The kind of shack fishermen abandon when the sea takes too much and gives nothing back.
He knocks twice.
Not a polite knock.
A code.
The door opens a fraction.
A shape fills the gap: large, rigid, dangerous even at rest. A voice like gravel soaked in water.
"You're late."
Zabuza Momochi.
His tone isn't scolding. It's simply how he speaks—as if softness is a language he never learned.
Haku inclines his masked head. "I had to retrieve something."
Zabuza's gaze drops to me.
It hooks on my pinned sleeve first, then on my splinted wrist, then on my face. His eyes are not curious. They are appraising, the way you look at a blade to decide whether it's worth sharpening or whether it should be melted down.
"Kid," Zabuza says. "That's your 'something'?"
Haku's voice remains gentle. "Yes."
Zabuza's mouth twitches, almost a grin. "Konoha is sloppy."
The words should be insulting to me.
Instead they land like a verdict: even a legendary rogue ninja sees me as a mistake that wandered into a scene too big.
Haku steps inside, and the door shuts behind us, sealing out ocean air and fog.
The hut smells like damp wood and old smoke and blood that has been washed but not forgiven. A thin lantern hangs from a beam. The light is weak, making corners deep and shadows thick.
Zabuza is sitting on a low platform, bandages visible under his clothing. His breathing is controlled, but not easy. He's injured. Not dead. Not beaten. Just… forced to acknowledge that Kakashi exists.
Haku sets me down finally, propping me against the wall.
My legs fold uselessly. My shoulder screams. My splinted wrist thuds against the tatami.
Pain flares. My vision spots.
I bite down hard.
The tongue seal coils and bites anyway, as if it enjoys punishing me for reacting.
Haku kneels beside me.
He removes his mask.
The face underneath is young—too young. Gentle features. Calm eyes that look like they belong to someone who should be carrying groceries, not carrying corpses.
That contrast is the most unsettling part.
He glances at my wrist and his brows knit faintly.
"You're still bleeding," he murmurs.
Zabuza snorts. "Let him."
Haku's gaze flicks up, brief and reproachful. "He'll die."
Zabuza shrugs one shoulder, careless. "Then he dies."
The words are said like weather. Like the sea is rough. Like wood rots.
My stomach twists, but the fear is almost clean—at least Zabuza doesn't pretend.
Haku reaches for my bandage.
The moment his fingers hover near the sealing ring under my skin, the tether pulses hard.
Warm density tightens my ribs.
Cold depth rises beneath, amused and watchful.
My breath catches.
Haku pauses, hand suspended.
He exhales softly. "It reacts."
Zabuza's gaze sharpens. "What does?"
Haku answers carefully. "His seal. It isn't just Konoha's work. There is something… else."
Zabuza's mouth twitches. "The fox?"
Haku's eyes flick to Zabuza, and for a heartbeat his calm cracks into something like discomfort. "Yes."
Hearing them speak about Naruto like that—so casually, so correctly—makes my skin prickle.
Not because it's new to me.
Because it means I'm not the only one with forbidden awareness.
Not meta-knowledge.
But the kind of practical knowledge killers accumulate: what's sealed in the blond boy and how the world bends around him.
Zabuza leans forward slightly, interest sharpening. "Then the kid's a leash to the jinchūriki."
The word lands heavy in my ribs.
Jinchūriki.
Naruto.
The tether pulses warm as if agreeing.
Zabuza's gaze drops to my wrist again. "And Konoha put their own leash on top."
Haku's voice is soft. "Yes."
Zabuza laughs once, low. "Perfect."
The word makes my stomach go cold.
Haku begins rewrapping my wrist, using senbon to reduce bleeding again. The needle prick is small, but my body flinches hard anyway. Pain has made me twitchy; fear has made me fragile.
Haku works quickly, precise. His fingers are steady, careful not to jostle the cut tendon further. He ties the bandage tight, then presses two fingers lightly at my pulse point as if listening to my body like a clock.
"You won't die yet," he says, almost kindly.
Yet.
Zabuza watches with a predator's patience.
When Haku finishes, Zabuza speaks again.
"We use him," Zabuza says.
Haku doesn't look up, but his voice tightens by a fraction. "As what?"
"Bait," Zabuza replies, as if the answer is obvious. "Kakashi will follow."
Haku finally looks up. "He may prioritize the bridge builder."
Zabuza's grin shows teeth. "Not if the kid's tied to Naruto. Kakashi will protect the boy. The boy will protect the bridge builder. All threads lead to the same knot."
My ribs tighten as if the story is listening.
All threads.
Yes.
That's what I am now.
A thread.
Haku's eyes flick to me—brief, quiet, almost apologetic. "I didn't want to involve him."
Zabuza's voice goes flat. "You already did."
He shifts, wincing slightly under bandages. His pain doesn't soften him; it sharpens him into irritation.
"We hit them again," Zabuza continues. "We force Kakashi to choose. He can't protect everyone."
Haku's jaw tightens. "They are children."
Zabuza's eye is cold. "So was I."
The room goes quieter after that.
Even the lantern seems to burn smaller.
My right fingers twitch against the splint.
Useless.
The tendon cut has robbed my hand of its most basic function. I can't grip a kunai. I can't form proper seals. I can barely hold a pencil without snapping it.
And now I'm in a hut with two killers discussing how to use my existence as leverage against Kakashi and Naruto.
I try to think of escape.
My mind reaches toward the future—bridge, needles, mask—and pain flashes behind my eyes like a slap. The world refuses to let me hold the timeline clearly. Not enough to plan. Only enough to fear.
Haku turns slightly, addressing Zabuza. "Kakashi saw the mark I placed."
Zabuza's mouth tightens. "So he knows."
"He knows he was visited," Haku says. "He will guard tighter."
Zabuza's gaze drops to my wrist seal ring beneath the bandage. "Then we force the leash to pull."
My blood turns to ice.
Force the tether.
Force the thing in my ribs that responds to Naruto.
Force the story's gravity.
If they pull on me, they pull on Naruto indirectly.
And fate, which always protects Naruto, will respond.
How?
By crushing me.
By editing reality again.
By bending violence away from Naruto and into the nearest acceptable target.
Me.
Haku's voice remains calm, but there's something strained under it. "If we pull too hard, the fox may react."
Zabuza's grin returns. "Then let it."
The cruelty is effortless.
Haku's gaze flicks away, jaw tight.
He stands. "I'll prepare."
Prepare what?
More needles. More traps. A battlefield designed to force a choice.
He walks to the back of the hut and begins sorting equipment—senbon, bandages, small vials, tags.
Zabuza watches me again.
His eyes are heavy. Assessing.
"You," he says.
I lift my gaze slowly.
Zabuza's voice is quiet. "If you scream, I cut your throat. If you run, I cut your legs. If you cooperate, you stay alive until you stop being useful."
My mouth goes dry.
The tongue seal coils, but it doesn't bite; I'm not speaking.
I nod once, stiff.
Zabuza leans back, satisfied.
Then my wrist pulses—hard.
Warm density surges around my ribs so suddenly I flinch.
Cold depth rises beneath it like a smile.
And layered with that… something else.
A faint tug.
Not from Naruto.
From behind.
From a direction that isn't inside this hut.
The needle-sense returns.
Sharper.
Closer.
Haku pauses mid-motion.
His head turns slightly toward the hut wall, eyes narrowing.
Zabuza's expression shifts too—subtle, but immediate. The lazy brutality tightens into alertness.
Someone is outside.
Not Kakashi. Kakashi's presence would feel like a blade—direct and controlled. This feels… empty.
Like a person making themselves smaller than human.
Root.
My skin goes cold.
Because Root doesn't knock.
Root doesn't announce.
Root enters.
The lantern flame trembles—barely.
The room's air feels suddenly pressured, as if two different kinds of secrecy have overlapped.
Haku's voice is quiet. "We're not alone."
Zabuza's hand reaches toward the massive sword leaning against the wall.
And my tether pulses again, warm and heavy—
like Naruto's story is far away and safe, while mine has become a junction where enemies and shadows meet.
Then, from the darkness outside the hut, a whisper slips through a crack in the wood—too quiet for normal ears, but not for mine.
Because my body is trained now to hear danger.
"Souta."
My name.
Spoken flatly, without affection.
Root.
My throat tightens. My tongue seal coils in anticipation.
Zabuza's grin flashes. "Konoha came to collect."
Haku's eyes narrow, calm turning sharp. "Not Konoha."
Zabuza's hand closes around his sword.
The whisper comes again, closer, as if the speaker is already inside the wall.
"Asset retrieval."
My blood turns to ice.
Because Root isn't here to save me.
They're here to reclaim what belongs to Danzo.
And if that requires cutting through Haku and Zabuza—
or cutting through me—
Root will not hesitate.
Haku steps in front of me without looking back. Protective posture, gentle body becoming a shield.
Zabuza's grin widens, teeth showing. "This will be fun."
My wrist pulses hard—warm density tightening my ribs—
and beneath it, cold depth stirs, amused and awake, as if something inside Naruto is listening to the tension through my tether and enjoying the way the world tightens around an extra who never had plot armor.
Outside, the hut's door doesn't open.
It simply… stops being a barrier.
A shadow slides in.
No mask.
No name.
Just a presence that feels like a hand reaching for my collar from the dark.
And I realize, too late, that I'm about to be fought over like property—
and the story won't protect property from breaking.