I wake to the sound of water licking wood.
Not waves—small, repetitive slaps, like something patient is counting time against the side of the boat. The air is wet and cold enough to make my teeth ache. Salt sits on my tongue. So does blood.
My chest won't rise fully.
The seal Root slapped onto me is still there—tightening my breathing into shallow, measured sips, like I'm a bellows someone else owns. Every inhale feels rationed.
My eyes open to gray.
Fog. Always fog.
The world is a smear of damp air and dim shapes, and for a moment I don't know where my body ends. Then the pain reminds me: stump throbbing, wrist burning under the splint, ankle raw where wire bit skin, tongue aching with a curse that punishes even the urge to speak.
And under it all—
the tether.
It's not quiet anymore. Not a pulse. Not a background heartbeat.
It's a *strain*.
Like a rope stretched too tight between two points that shouldn't be connected. Warm weight around my ribs, constant, pressing from the inside. Beneath it, something colder shifts in slow satisfaction, as if it enjoys the friction.
I remember the last thing clearly: Root's hand on my wrist, the suppression tag biting cold, the laugh blooming in my skull—
and a word that formed like intent made solid.
**Mine.**
My stomach turns.
I don't know if it was meant for me or through me. I don't know if it was a threat or a claim or just a creature noticing a crack in its cage.
Either way, it wasn't mine to hear.
A shadow leans over me.
The Root operative is crouched at the boat's edge, one hand on the gunwale, the other holding my wire leash like a fisherman holding line. His face is plain. His eyes are emptier than the fog.
He watches me without expression.
"You're awake," he says.
Not comfort. Confirmation.
I try to lift my right hand.
The splint makes the movement clumsy, and my fingers still won't close properly. They twitch like they're debating whether they belong to me. Pain flares along my wrist, deep and structural.
My mouth opens instinctively.
The tongue seal tightens like a fist.
A bright sting sparks under my tongue, and I clamp my jaw shut with a wet rasp.
The Root operative's gaze flicks to my mouth and back to my wrist.
He's cataloging symptoms.
He's not worried. He's pleased.
"We arrive soon," he says.
Soon where?
I don't ask. I can't. And asking would just give the seal another excuse to hurt me.
The boat rocks once—harder. A bump, wood against wood. Dock. The movement jerks my shoulder stump and I bite down on a sound I can't afford.
Hands grab me.
Not many. Two. Efficient. They haul me like cargo, stepping off the boat onto wet boards that stink of rot and brine. I catch a glimpse of shoreline—shadows of twisted trees, low structures half-swallowed by mist.
A place that exists to be forgotten.
A safehouse.
Or a temporary grave.
They drag me through a narrow door into damp darkness. The smell changes immediately: less salt, more mold and old paper. Ink. Seals. The air of hidden rooms where people become objects.
Lantern light blooms, flat and controlled.
A small sealing chamber—bare walls with faint script carved into them. A ring on the floor. Not elaborate. Not ceremonial. Practical.
Root doesn't do religion.
It does procedure.
They drop me onto the floor inside the ring.
The impact jars my wrist; pain flares hot. The tether tightens around my ribs in response, not sympathetic—reactive, like it hates me being moved too far from the axis it's tied to.
The Root operative kneels and places two fingers on the ring.
Chakra flows.
The floor's script glows faintly, then settles into a dull hum. The air inside the circle thickens, like the room decided sound shouldn't travel easily.
Containment.
Not for me.
For what might look back through me.
My stomach sinks.
A second Root shinobi enters—taller, older, with a calm that isn't empty. This one has eyes that *choose* to be blank.
He carries a thin writing board and a charcoal stick. He sets them just outside the ring, then slides them toward me with the tip of his sandal.
"Write," he says.
The word lands like a familiar cruelty.
My right hand trembles as I reach.
Fingers twitch. Refuse to curl. I end up pinching the charcoal between two unreliable digits like a child learning to hold a utensil for the first time.
Humiliation burns hotter than pain.
I glance at the older Root operative.
He's watching my wrist, not my face.
The tether pulses once, warm and heavy, then tightens—like it senses intention gathering.
The older operative speaks again. "What did the fox whisper?"
My blood turns to ice.
So Danzo already knows the shape of it. Not "what did you feel." Not "what happened."
Whisper.
As if the Nine-Tails spoke to me like an ally.
My ribs tighten. The world feels suddenly attentive, listening in the same way it listens when someone tries to step into Naruto's sacred scenes.
I lower the charcoal to the board.
My hand shakes.
I write slowly, ugly letters:
M I—
Pain snaps behind my eyes.
A white lance. My vision shimmers.
The charcoal slips from my fingers and clatters.
I gasp, shallow, because the chest seal still limits breath.
The older Root operative doesn't flinch.
He only watches the reaction with clinical interest.
"Try again," he says.
Try again.
Like the cost is acceptable as long as the data is obtained.
I pick up the charcoal with trembling fingers and force my hand to obey.
M I N E.
The moment the final line is drawn, the tether in my ribs *jerks*.
Not a pulse.
A yank.
Warm weight clamps down hard enough that my lungs freeze mid-inhale. Cold depth surges beneath it like deep water slamming into a dam.
The sealing ring hums louder.
Lantern light seems to sharpen too much.
And behind my eyes—
red.
Not a color. A place.
Bars as thick as tree trunks. Chains sunk into darkness. A massive presence pressing toward a crack it shouldn't have.
A gaze opens, lazy and immense.
Amused.
And for the first time, it feels less like it's looking *at me*… and more like it's looking *through me*.
Like I'm a peephole.
A throat-tightening, soul-smallening awareness brushes my mind:
**Still breathing.**
Not my thought.
Not my language.
But intent shaped into meaning.
I convulse, body trying to curl inward around my own ribs.
Water rises in my throat. I cough hard and spit blood onto the floor inside the ring. The taste is metallic and old.
The older Root operative's eyes narrow slightly.
He isn't afraid.
He's satisfied.
"You wrote it," he says. "Mine."
My hand drops uselessly to my lap.
My fingers twitch against air, still unable to close properly.
I stare at the word on the board and feel sick—not because of what it means, but because of what it *invites*.
The older operative reaches into his sleeve and withdraws a scroll sealed with Danzo's stamp.
He doesn't open it. He reads the seal itself like an order.
"Danzo-sama requests verification," he says.
Then he gestures to the first operative.
"Apply chakra to the conduit."
My stomach drops.
The first operative crouches beside the ring, reaches in—
and places his fingers on the sealing ring around my wrist, right over where the containment circle sits under my skin.
The moment he touches it, the tether flares.
Warm pressure clamps my ribs.
Cold depth rises beneath, pleased.
The first operative channels a thin stream of chakra.
Pain blossoms behind my eyes instantly.
Not localized. Not a normal response. It's as if my nervous system has become a doorway and someone is knocking from both sides at once.
The sealing ring on the floor hums.
The lantern flame trembles.
The older operative leans forward slightly, eyes sharp.
"Again," he says.
The chakra increases.
My vision tunnels.
My lungs seize in shallow breaths.
And the red place floods my awareness again—bars, chains, the massive presence pressing closer, closer—
The laugh returns, vibrating through my teeth, through the floor, through the sealing ring as if ink itself can carry amusement.
Then something *pushes back.*
Not a gentle nudge.
A surge—huge, abrupt—like a wave smashing against glass.
The suppression tag on my wrist burns cold-hot all at once.
Ink under my skin flares.
Pain detonates down my arm and into my shoulder stump like lightning finding a path.
The first operative jerks his hand back with a sharp intake of breath.
Blood beads at the corner of his glove.
Not from me.
From him.
His fingers have blistered as if the conduit bit him.
The older operative's calm cracks by a millimeter, enough to show surprise.
"So it punishes contact," he murmurs.
The first operative shakes his hand once, expression tightening.
The tether still thrums in my ribs, but now it feels… different.
Agitated.
Like something behind Naruto's seal didn't just notice.
It objected.
And it used me as the medium to slap the hand that pulled.
I sit there trembling, feeling heat creep up my arm where the ink flared. My wrist burns under bandage—burns like skin being branded from the inside.
Permanent.
I can tell by the way the pain doesn't fade when the chakra stops. It settles into a deep, raw ache like cooked flesh.
The older operative studies my wrist with something like respect, which is worse than disgust.
"Asset integrity remains acceptable," he says. "Proceed to phase two."
Phase two.
My stomach drops through the floor.
The first operative retrieves another seal tag—larger, thicker ink. He holds it poised.
The older operative speaks, calm again. "We will not remove the tether. We will regulate it."
Regulate.
As if you can regulate fate.
As if you can regulate the Nine-Tails.
As if I'm not the thing that breaks when you try.
The new tag touches my forearm.
Ink bites cold.
The sensation is immediate: a tightening around the tether that isn't relief. It's compression, like a band being drawn around a swelling wound.
The warm pressure around my ribs dulls.
Not gone.
Muted.
The cold depth beneath it shifts, annoyed.
A low, lazy displeasure brushes my mind's edge, and I gag, bile rising.
The tongue seal coils as if it's laughing with the monster.
The older operative watches my reaction, then nods once.
"Good," he says. "Reduced bleed response."
He steps closer to the ring and speaks quietly, as if reading from a report in his head.
"Kakashi will pursue the abduction," he says. "If he does, his team is exposed. If he does not, the bridge builder dies."
My skin goes cold.
They're talking about Team 7 like they're variables.
Like Naruto is a constant.
Like I'm a baited hook.
The older operative looks down at the board again, at the word **MINE**, and then at me.
"Danzo-sama's question remains," he says. "What else did it say?"
My mouth goes dry.
I shake my head immediately.
Not because it said nothing.
Because I can't afford to know if it can say more.
Because I can't afford for Root to learn what a crack in Naruto's cage might mean.
The older operative doesn't insist with violence. Not yet.
He simply signals.
The first operative steps behind me.
A hand clamps my shoulder—not the stump, just below it—pinning me with careful pressure. The message is clear: don't thrash, or they'll tear stitches without regret.
The older operative kneels at the edge of the ring, close enough that I can smell ink and damp cloth on him.
"We can open your mind," he says quietly. "But Danzo-sama prefers cooperation."
Cooperation.
The word is absurd in Root.
Cooperation means "give us what we want before we take it."
I stare at the floor and try to think without thinking. Try to plan without revealing the plan to myself.
If they use a mind technique, they'll see too much.
Not just the fox.
Not just Naruto.
They'll see *meta*.
Panels. Scenes. Future arcs I can't even hold clearly anymore without pain.
And then I won't be an asset.
I'll be an emergency.
A leak to be plugged.
They'll dissect my brain like a scroll they can't stop trying to read.
My right hand twitches in my lap, fingers still unreliable.
The burn in my wrist pulses where the suppression tag flared. Heat under skin. A scar being written.
No plot armor.
Just more subtraction.
The older operative's voice remains calm. "You will be returned to Konoha tonight."
Returned.
My heart stumbles.
Returned to Root. Returned to Danzo. Returned to Naruto's orbit.
The story's gravity will tighten again. The nosebleeds, the choking, the blackouts.
And now Haku knows the tether exists.
Zabuza knows.
Root knows.
Danzo knows.
Too many hands on the rope.
The older operative stands.
"Danzo-sama will decide whether you remain on the mission as a monitor," he says, "or as a trigger."
Trigger.
My blood turns to ice.
Trigger what?
Naruto?
The fox?
A failure state in the story that forces correction?
The older operative meets my eyes for the first time fully.
His gaze is not cruel. It's emptier than cruelty.
"You will survive," he says. "Until you are no longer informative."
Then he turns away as if the conversation is finished.
The first operative releases my shoulder.
My body sags forward, trembling with exhaustion and pain and the sick aftertaste of red eyes behind my eyelids.
As they step out of the chamber, I hear the older operative speak one final instruction over his shoulder:
"Prepare the Yamanaka."
My stomach drops so hard I nearly vomit.
A mind probe.
Not "if."
When.
The door closes.
The sealing ring hum remains, low and steady.
I sit alone with my breath still rationed by ink, my tongue still gagged by curse, my wrist burning where the fox pushed back, and the word **MINE** staring up at me from the board like a brand.
Somewhere far away—across water, across fog, across story—Naruto Uzumaki is alive.
Protected.
Unaware.
And the thing inside him has noticed a crack in its cage and decided it can reach.
I press my useless fingers against my thigh and feel them twitch, still refusing to close.
Then, very faintly, under the muffling seals and restraint tags, the tether gives a slow pulse that isn't warm.
It's satisfied.
And in the quiet between breaths I hear it again—not loud, not a laugh, not even a word this time.
Just intent, brushing my mind like the promise of teeth behind a smile:
Soon.