The ink bites cold—
—and something inside me *screams.*
Not my throat. Not my wrist.
The tether.
Warm density clamps my ribs so hard my lungs forget how to expand. Cold depth surges beneath it like a tide hitting a wall, and for an instant the world behind my eyes flashes red—bars, chains, a vast gaze turning toward the crack.
A laugh blooms inside my skull.
Low.
Ancient.
Delighted.
Then the dock drops out from under me.
I don't fall gracefully. I don't fall like a shinobi.
I fall like a broken thing with one hand that can't close and lungs already half-locked by Root's restraint seal.
The air becomes water.
The impact isn't loud; it's a blunt, full-body punch as black, freezing water swallows me and rips the remaining breath out of my chest.
Cold knifes into my skin.
My splint drags like a weight.
My cloak balloons and yanks me sideways.
For a heartbeat I'm suspended in the world's worst silence—water muffling everything, turning sound into distant vibration—and then panic detonates.
I kick.
My legs thrash.
My right arm jerks, but the wrist won't flex properly and the splint keeps my fingers straight, stupid and helpless. The missing left arm is a phantom that tries to grab the water anyway, and the attempt sends a bolt of pain through my shoulder stump that doesn't belong underwater.
I try to inhale.
The restraint seal on my chest—still warm, still active—doesn't care that I'm drowning. It limits my breathing like a lid.
My lungs burn.
My mouth opens reflexively—
—and water floods in.
It's so cold it shocks my throat into convulsion. I choke underwater, a useless movement. The tongue seal coils as if even drowning is something it can punish, and pain flickers under my tongue like an insult.
Above me, the dock is a dim rectangle of gray through dark water. Shapes move. I feel vibrations—footsteps, maybe, ice cracking, the thunk of wood, the thin whistle of senbon.
But the water keeps me in my own private hell.
My vision tunnels, not from pressure, from lack of air.
And the tether—
God, the tether—
pulses so violently in my ribs it feels like a second heart trying to rupture my chest from the inside. Warm density, then cold depth, then warmth again, faster and faster as if someone is yanking a chain on the other end.
**Little—**
Not a word.
A thought-shaped laugh.
The red world flashes behind my eyes again: bars, chains, and the enormous gaze pressing close, so close it feels like it's staring through my face.
It isn't giving me power.
It's doing something worse.
It's *aware* of me.
Aware that something touched the leash.
Aware that something tried to tape shut the crack.
Aware that I'm drowning and finds that funny.
My body thrashes harder, desperate.
My toes scrape something—mud, maybe, something soft, and then nothing again. The water here is deep enough to swallow.
A sharp tug hits my collar.
For a split second I think Haku grabbed me.
Then the tug yanks my throat painfully, and I realize it's a wire.
Root.
A retrieval wire looped under my clothes, yanking me upward like a hooked fish.
My stomach lurches.
Cold water tears past my face as I'm hauled toward the surface.
I break through with a violent gasp that turns into a cough because my lungs are full of water.
I spit black water and bile, choking, eyes burning.
Fog wraps around my head immediately, wet and cold, making everything dim and close. The dock is above me—rotted boards, a post, the edge slick with moisture.
A gloved hand grips the wire and reels me in with clinical efficiency.
The Root operative doesn't say my name.
He doesn't call for help.
He just retrieves.
I scrape against the dock edge, splintered wood tearing at my clothes. Pain blossoms in my wrist as the splint bangs hard.
Then my torso slams onto the boards and I lie there coughing water like it's my last job on earth.
My chest seal loosens enough to let air in and out, but it's still a leash. My breaths come in shallow, controlled sips forced by ink, not by will.
My right hand twitches against the splint.
Still useless.
Still mine.
For now.
I roll onto my side and retch again, stomach emptying seawater and whatever pride I had left.
The Root operative stands over me.
No mask. Plain face. Dead eyes.
He holds the wire like it's a tool, not something he used to drag a child out of drowning.
His gaze drops to my wrist where the suppression tag was pressed moments ago.
The ink line there—under bandage, under the sealing ring—glows faintly.
It isn't calming the tether.
It's provoking it.
The tether pulses hard again and my ribs tighten. I gasp, vision stuttering, and the red world threatens to overlay the fog.
Behind Root, the mist fractures.
Ice sings.
A delicate, sharp sound like glass forming too fast.
Haku.
He's there on the dock now, moving without haste. No mask. Calm face. Soft eyes turned sharp by necessity.
His voice is still polite.
"Please," he says. "Stop."
Root doesn't turn fully toward him. His attention stays split: part on me, part on escape routes, part on the threat.
"You are interfering with an internal operation," Root says.
Zabuza's presence hits the dock like a thrown weight.
He's behind Haku, looming, bandages stained, sword in hand again. His eyes are bright with irritation and bloodlust.
"Internal," Zabuza repeats, amused. "In my country?"
Root finally glances at him. "You are not the target."
Zabuza's grin is all teeth. "Everyone's a target."
The air tightens.
Fog presses in.
Haku shifts his stance slightly—protective without looking like it. He's between Root and me, and also between Root and Zabuza, like he's trying to control how much blood gets spilled.
A second Root figure appears at the edge of the dock—another plain face, another emptiness. He carries tags between fingers like knives.
They weren't alone.
Of course they weren't.
Root doesn't send one hand when it can send two.
The tether in my ribs pulses erratically, reacting to the numbers, the danger, the stress. Warm density squeezes, then releases. Cold depth stirs, amused by the chaos.
**Little…**
The intent brushes my skull again, closer.
Not a gift.
A taunt.
Haku's voice doesn't change. "If you take him, Kakashi will follow."
Root's first operative says, "Irrelevant."
Zabuza snorts. "Copy Ninja will follow his nose, sure."
Haku's eyes narrow. "He's already suspicious."
Root's second operative flicks a tag into the air.
It lands on the dock and flares—ink lines crawling outward in a thin ring. The boards darken under it, and the air inside the ring feels wrong, heavy, as if movement has to push through resistance.
A barrier seal.
My stomach drops.
They're sealing the dock.
Not to trap Haku and Zabuza.
To trap *me.*
So I can't be pulled away again.
So I can't slip back into water and disappear.
So the asset stays on the board until it's carried off.
Zabuza's sword lifts.
The massive blade cleaves down in a brutal arc toward the second Root operative.
Root's first operative intercepts with a tag slapped onto his glove.
The sword's edge stops against invisible resistance with a jarring impact that makes the dock shudder. The sound is wrong—metal meeting something that isn't metal.
"Annoying," Zabuza growls.
He shifts his grip and swings again, forcing power into it.
The invisible resistance strains.
Haku moves at the same time, stepping into the chaos like a thread weaving through needles.
Senbon flash from his sleeve, aimed not to kill—aimed to disable. Wrist. Shoulder. Neck.
Root's second operative snaps a tag onto his own forearm and the senbon that should pierce deflect at odd angles, skittering off as if skin has become sealed armor.
Haku's brows knit.
Root isn't just trained.
Root is *prepared.*
Zabuza roars and kicks the dock board hard enough to splinter it, trying to disrupt footing. The barrier ring ripples but holds.
Root's first operative doesn't look at Zabuza anymore.
He looks down at me.
And in his gaze there is nothing. No anger, no hatred, no contempt.
Only an inventory check.
"Asset compromised by external seal," he says quietly, as if reporting to someone who isn't here.
Then he speaks again, and the words knife under my ribs.
"Danzo-sama requires data."
The second operative flicks another tag.
It lands on my chest.
Ink bites through wet cloth.
My restraint seal tightens.
My lungs clamp.
I make a strangled sound and immediately water floods the back of my throat because my body panics and tries to inhale harder.
I cough, convulsing.
Tears blur my vision.
The tether pulses violently, reacting to the seal pressure like a wire being pinched.
Warm density crushes my ribs.
Cold depth surges beneath it—
—and for a second the fog in front of me isn't fog.
It's red.
Bars.
Chains.
A massive eye opening like a door.
The laugh is closer now, vibrating through my bones.
I hear it in the dock boards.
I hear it in the water below.
I hear it in Root's seal ink.
Haku freezes for half a heartbeat, senbon poised.
Zabuza's grin falters into a hard line, the first sign he's felt something he can't cut.
Root's first operative's eyes narrow slightly.
He felt it too.
The Nine-Tails' attention sliding along the tether like a tongue testing a wound.
Root's second operative whispers, almost reverent.
"So it's true."
Zabuza snarls. "Stop talking."
He swings again, forcing the blade through the resistance. The seal on Root's glove flares brighter, straining, but Zabuza's strength is brutal and honest. The dock creaks like it might break under the clash.
Haku moves.
He doesn't go for Root.
He goes for me.
His hand grabs my collar and yanks me backward, away from the tags, away from the center of the barrier ring.
The instant he touches me, the tether surges again.
Warm density clamps.
Cold depth rises.
Haku flinches—just a fraction—like he touched a furnace again.
But he doesn't let go.
He drags me anyway, teeth gritted, calm cracking at the edges.
"Sorry," he whispers, sounding like he means it.
Root's first operative reacts immediately.
A wire snaps out, looping around my ankle.
He yanks.
Hard.
Haku's grip on my collar and Root's wire on my leg pull me in opposite directions. My body jerks, shoulder screaming, wrist splint slamming the dock. Pain detonates, and my vision whites out at the edges.
I can't scream.
My tongue seal coils.
The sound dies in my throat.
Zabuza's sword comes down like a guillotine toward the wire.
Root's second operative flicks a tag at it mid-swing.
Ink flares, and the wire's path shifts—like an invisible hand nudged it sideways just enough to save it.
The blade misses by a breath.
Zabuza curses.
He tries again.
Haku's eyes narrow, and the temperature drops.
Ice forms in the mist around the dock posts—thin sheets, reflective, gathering like mirrors being born out of breath.
Ice mirrors.
The air makes a crystalline singing sound, delicate and terrifying.
Root's first operative clicks his tongue, the smallest expression of annoyance. "Kekkei genkai."
Haku moves faster then—faster than my eyes can track. One moment he's holding my collar, the next he's in the mirror, the next he's out, and senbon rain down like invisible fingers poking nerve points.
Root's second operative staggers.
His arm jerks. Not paralyzed—momentarily disrupted. A tag slips from his fingers and lands wrong, flaring uselessly against wet wood.
Zabuza takes that opening like he's been starving.
His sword swings.
It doesn't stop this time.
It tears through Root's second operative's shoulder with a wet, final sound.
Blood sprays dark against fog.
The operative grunts once—no scream—and stumbles back, arm hanging wrong.
No plot armor for him either.
Root's first operative doesn't react emotionally.
He reacts logistically.
"Abort external engagement," he says. "Extract asset."
He yanks the wire again.
My ankle burns where it bites.
Haku tries to keep hold of my collar, but Root's pull is brutal.
Zabuza lunges for Root, sword lifting—
—and Root slaps a tag onto the dock at Zabuza's feet.
Ink flares.
The air around Zabuza thickens like glue.
His forward motion stutters, slowed, not stopped.
Zabuza snarls and forces through, but it costs him momentum.
Root uses that half-second.
He yanks me off the dock—
back toward the water.
My stomach drops.
No.
Not again.
I thrash, legs kicking uselessly, and the restraint seal clamps my lungs so the panic turns into choking.
Haku's hand slips off my collar.
Not because he let go.
Because his fingers jerked involuntarily when the tether surged again, heat under skin warning him away.
The crack in that moment is all Root needs.
I go over the edge.
Black water swallows my legs.
Cold bites.
I flail with my useless hand and slip, slipping, sinking—
Then the wire yanks hard and I'm dragged sideways instead of down, scraped along the dock edge, half in water, half out. Wood tears at my clothes. Water fills my mouth again.
I cough and swallow it.
My vision blurs.
My ears ring.
Through the chaos I hear Haku's voice—not gentle now, strained.
"Stop!"
A senbon whistles and strikes the wire.
It doesn't cut it.
It sticks in it like a pin in rope.
Useless.
Root hauls harder.
My body slides across boards and into fog beyond the dock's edge, toward the waiting boat I saw earlier. The boat bobs like it's eager.
Zabuza finally breaks through the glue-like barrier around his feet, sword lifting to cleave Root in half—
—and Root flicks a final tag.
It hits Zabuza's bandaged chest and flares bright.
Zabuza's body locks mid-step.
His sword freezes in the air.
His eyes widen with rage.
He can't move.
Haku's breath catches.
"No," he whispers.
Root doesn't look at him.
He uses the moment to drag me into the boat.
My back slams onto wet boards. My splinted wrist bangs hard and pain explodes so bright I nearly black out.
The tether surges again in response to pain and proximity to seals, and the red world flashes in my vision like a wound reopening.
Bars.
Chains.
A vast eye.
The laugh again—closer, delighted—
as if the Nine-Tails enjoys watching me be pulled apart by hands that think they can control fate.
Root jumps into the boat after me.
He unties it with one swift motion.
The boat pushes off into fog.
Haku steps to the dock edge, eyes narrowed, hands trembling with contained fury.
He could throw a storm of senbon.
He could form mirrors over water.
He could chase.
But Zabuza is still paralyzed behind him, sword frozen midair like a statue, and Haku is loyal enough to choose his master over a hostage.
That loyalty saves Root.
It damns me.
The boat glides into thicker fog.
The dock disappears behind gray.
My breath comes in shallow sips forced by the restraint seal. Water sloshes under the boards. My wrist bleeds. My ankle burns from the wire cut.
Root crouches over me, one hand pressing down on my chest seal, the other lifting my wrist.
He stares at the sealing ring under skin.
At the fresh suppression tag ink still biting cold through bandage.
His eyes are flat.
"Reaction intensity increased," he murmurs.
He leans closer, voice meant only for me.
"Danzo-sama will be pleased."
My stomach drops.
I try to speak—to beg, to warn, to do anything—but the tongue seal coils and bites until pain floods my mouth.
Only a rasp escapes.
Root's gaze doesn't change.
Then, very softly, he says the line that turns my blood to ice.
"You will tell us," he whispers, "what the fox whispered to you."
The boat rocks gently on dark water.
Fog swallows the world.
And beneath the restraint seal's clamp, beneath the tether's pulsing weight, beneath my own ragged breathing, the cold depth rises one more time—slow and amused—
as if something inside Naruto has followed the thread through me far enough to lean close to my mind again.
This time it isn't just laughter.
A word forms—not spoken, but shaped with intent so clear it feels like sound:
**Mine.**
My vision whites out.
And the last thing I feel before darkness takes me is Root's gloved hand tightening on my wrist—like he's holding a prize—while the story itself tightens around my ribs, furious and protective of Naruto…
…and utterly indifferent to whether I survive being claimed.