The room is small but warm, the kind of warmth that seeps into the bones rather than sitting on the skin. A low yellow light fills the space, coming from a lamp on the wall. Shadows sway gently as if the room itself is breathing. The smell of cooked food lingers in the air—rice, spices, oil—and my stomach does not ache for once. It feels full. Content.
I am sitting at a table.
My father sits across from me, sleeves rolled up, face relaxed in a way I have not seen in years. He is talking about something trivial, work maybe, his voice steady and confident. My mother moves around the table, setting bowls down with practiced motions, scolding him lightly for speaking with food in his mouth. She looks tired, but satisfied.
To my left, my wife leans close, her elbow brushing mine. She smells familiar. Safe. Our child sits between us, feet dangling from the chair, eyes bright, cheeks puffed as they chew too fast.
"Slow down," I tell them, smiling.
They grin at me, unafraid.
For a moment, the world feels right. As if nothing was ever wrong. As if I didn't fail. As if choices were something I actually made.
Then the air shifts.
The warmth dulls, like a fire running out of fuel. The lamp flickers, its light stretching the shadows into something long and thin. My mother stops moving. My father sets his bowl down carefully, too carefully.
My wife straightens.
Our child stops chewing.
They all look at me.
Not with anger. Not yet.
With calculation.
My father's voice is calm, but there is something sharp beneath it. "Why are you sitting there?"
My mother crosses her arms. "You always take what you don't deserve."
My wife pulls our child closer to her side, away from me. "You never protected us."
I try to speak, but my throat feels tight. The food on my plate begins to darken, spots forming, the smell turning sour. Insects crawl over the rice.
"I tried," I say, but my voice sounds distant, wrong.
Our child finally looks at me directly.
"You ruined everything," they say.
The lamp goes out.
---
I wake up gasping, my chest tight as if something heavy is pressing down on it. My hands claw at the ground before I realize where I am. The cold hits me immediately, sharp and unforgiving. My back aches from sleeping on uneven stone. My stomach twists violently, hunger burning like acid.
The dream lingers longer than I want it to.
I sit there for a while, staring at nothing, trying to shake the feeling that I was just judged again. That even in a world that isn't mine, I am still being accused.
Eventually, hunger wins.
By midmorning, the village is awake, and so is the cruelty that comes with it. People move with purpose around me—vendors shouting, shinobi walking with confidence, children laughing loudly. I move between them like a shadow that doesn't quite belong.
I steal BECAUSE I have to
A bruised apple from a distracted stall owner. A piece of bread left unattended near a window. Each success sends a spike of fear through me. Each failure feels like a countdown to punishment.
They start noticing.
Not all at once. It begins with glances. Then whispers. Then the way people adjust their grip on their belongings when I pass. Children are the worst. They learn quickly who is allowed to be cruel to.
By the afternoon, it escalates.
A shove that looks accidental. A foot sticking out just enough to trip me. Laughter follows every time I hit the ground. Dust sticks to my skin, mixing with sweat. I keep my head down, my teeth clenched, my hands shaking with restrained anger and humiliation.
I tell myself to endure.
That's when they corner me.
Three boys, older than me, well-fed, confident. One grabs the collar of my shirt and yanks me close.
"Thief Again?," he says, loud enough for others to hear. "You think you can just take things?"
"I didn't—" I start, but the words die as his fist tightens.
The shove sends me sprawling. Pain blooms across my ribs. Someone kicks dirt into my face. My vision blurs, not from tears, but from the sheer effort of not breaking down.
From a rooftop, Mizuki watches the scene unfold with mild interest.
He had chosen the boys carefully. Not too cruel, not too soft. Children who already understood hierarchy. All it took was a few words planted earlier in the week. A suggestion that leniency toward thieves would make the village weak. A reminder that the Hokage's mercy had consequences.
The boy on the ground does not fight back.
Good.
That tells Mizuki more than resistance ever could.
Desperation strips people down to their core. Those who endure without breaking are worth shaping. Those who lash out blindly are liabilities.
Mizuki waits until the balance tips just far enough.
Then he intervenes.
Not as a hero.
As a correction.
---
The pressure lifts suddenly.
A shadow falls over us, tall and solid.
"That's enough," a voice says, sharp with authority.
The boys scatter immediately. I don't look up at first. I'm too busy breathing through the pain, too busy swallowing the bitterness in my throat.
"Pathetic," the man mutters.
I know that voice.
Mizuki.
He doesn't offer a hand. He doesn't ask if I'm hurt. He just looks at me like I'm a problem he's been forced to acknowledge.
"You bring this on yourself," he says. "If you're going to steal, don't be obvious."
I flinch at the word steal, but he continues before I can respond.
"There are places people don't watch closely," he adds, turning away. "Alleys. Back paths. Learn to see patterns instead of crying about consequences."
He pauses, just long enough to make sure I heard.
Then he leaves.
---
I stay on the ground for a long time after that.
My body hurts, but my mind is racing.
This wasn't random.
The bullying had timing. Repetition. Pressure applied, then released. And Mizuki—he didn't stop it because it was wrong. He stopped it because it had reached a useful point.
For the first time since arriving in this world, something clicks.
Hunger teaches survival.
Pain teaches awareness.
And somewhere in this village, someone is already watching me to see which lesson I learn.