I stop stealing like an animal.
Animals rush. Animals panic. Animals grab and flee.
That was me—until the bruises taught me something better.
Now, when hunger coils in my stomach, I don't move right away. I sit with it. I let it burn. The pain sharpens my thoughts instead of drowning them. I watch first. I wait for the moment when the village relaxes just enough to forget me.
Stealing isn't about speed.
It's about timing.
The first change I make is simple: I stop stealing from the same area twice in a row. Even if it's easy. Even if the food is right there. Easy paths are remembered. Hard paths are ignored.
I rotate.
One day near the market's edge, another near the residential lanes, another near training grounds where scraps are tossed without thought. I take less each time. Just enough. People notice loss faster than they notice absence.
I also stop running.
That takes effort. Everything in my body screams to flee the moment my fingers close around food. But running draws eyes. Walking doesn't. Walking says belonging. So I walk away slowly, heart hammering, sweat cold on my back.
No one stops me.
The success terrifies me more than failure ever did.
---
As days pass, something strange begins happening inside my head.
I start remembering things I didn't mean to.
Not important things—small ones. The kind people assume don't matter.
Which vendor turns their back longer when counting coins. Which guard scratches his neck when bored. Which alley stays empty ten seconds longer than it should before footsteps echo through it again.
I don't write anything down. I don't even try to memorize.
It just stays.
Information piles up quietly, like dust in a corner no one cleans.
I begin to understand that the village isn't chaotic.
It's repetitive.
And repetition creates blind spots.
---
Near the Academy, I sit on a low wall and pretend to nap. Children run past me in groups, loud and careless. I keep my eyes half-closed.
That's when I see them.
The loud blond one is shouting again, arms flailing as he argues with an instructor. His chakra feels… wrong. Heavy. Like something coiled too tightly beneath the surface.
Naruto Uzumaki.
I've heard the whispers. Everyone has.
They avoid him, but they also watch him. Too closely. He's invisible only in theory. In practice, he's under constant quiet surveillance.
He's not like me
Nearby, a dark-haired boy sits alone, back straight, eyes sharp even while pretending not to care. Sasuke Uchiha. He doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. Space opens around him naturally, like people are afraid to brush too close.
Power changes gravity.
A girl with pink hair follows him, trying to act confident, laughing too loudly. Sakura. Her eyes flick between the boys, calculating, hopeful, anxious. She wants to be seen.
The bullying shifts again.
It becomes quieter. Smarter.
They don't corner me anymore. They sabotage instead. Food gone when I return. Sleeping spots disturbed. Once, I hear laughter behind a wall as stones are thrown near my head—not at me, just close enough to remind me.
Fear without witnesses.
I adapt.
I move sleeping places every night now. I never return to a stash without checking it from a distance first. I start leaving false hiding spots—empty places meant to be found.
When one is discovered, I know who's watching.
Patterns again.
Always patterns.
---
Mizuki doesn't appear often.
That's intentional.
When he does, it's never dramatic. He never saves me directly. He never scolds the bullies openly. He simply… shifts things.
One afternoon, I'm lingering near a side street, watching a shopkeeper argue with a supplier. I'm calculating how long before he turns away when Mizuki's voice cuts in behind me.
"You're hesitating."
I flinch but don't turn around.
"I was waiting," I say carefully.
"For permission?" he asks.
The question irritates me more than it should.
"No," I answer.
"Good," Mizuki says. "Because no one gives it."
He steps beside me, gaze fixed forward like we're just two people watching the street. "You've started thinking ahead. That's progress."
I feel a small, dangerous spark of pride.
"I figured it out myself," I say.
Mizuki smiles slightly. Not kindly.
"Of course you did."
He lets the silence stretch, then adds casually, "You know, patrol routes near here changed last week. Most people didn't notice."
I glance at him despite myself.
He doesn't look back.
"Careful thieves survive," he continues. "Careful observers thrive."
He walks away before I can respond.
I tell myself I'm not being led.
I tell myself I'm learning.
---
That night, I replay the day in my head, not just my actions—but everyone else's.
Naruto yelling again, being dragged off by an instructor.
Sasuke leaving alone after class, two ANBU shadows lingering just a little too close behind him.
Sakura staying late, practicing alone, frustration tight in her movements.
They all have paths laid out for them.
Academy. Teams. Missions. Recognition.
I have nothing.
Which means I can go anywhere.
The thought scares me.
The thought excites me.
The boy doesn't realize it yet, but he's already gathering intelligence.
Mizuki watches from afar, careful to keep his presence rare. Scarcity increases value. The boy believes he is acting independently. That illusion is crucial.
He sees the Academy students but doesn't envy them.
Good.
Envy would make him reckless.
What Mizuki needs is someone who understands absence—where power isn't, where eyes don't linger, where mistakes vanish.
Soon, it will be time to test him.
Not with orders.
With opportunity.
---
I don't know what Mizuki wants from me.
Not really.
But I know this: every time he speaks, he doesn't give answers. He gives direction. Enough to make me think I'm choosing where to walk.
I'm still hungry.
Still bruised.
Still alone.
But now, when I move through the village, I don't feel like prey.
I feel like something smaller.
Something quieter.
Something learning how to grow in places no one looks.