Chapter Text
The daily security log was a litany of the village's petty aches.
Hound scanned it anyway, ink still fresh from the chunin clerks' most recent updates.
A lost cat—presumably a master of espionage, given the resources being dedicated to its recovery. A genin team's prank in the market district gone awry.
Standard nonsense that meant some poor bastard of a jōnin-sensei had to waste an afternoon watching their students chase a feline with an attitude problem through the whole fucking village.
The office buzzed around him—shinobi in ANBU gear collecting orders, carrier hawks landing on the windowsill. He prepared to flip the page to the higher security reports when his gaze snagged on a single entry line.
Unknown female. Uzumaki Naruto’s residence. Non-scheduled arrival. Medium priority.
He ran his thumb over the name, smearing ink along the parchment. The Hokage’s direct decree was clear.
Maintain distance. The Sandaime's voice, heavy with regret that changed nothing. For his protection, and yours. The boy must not become a target for those who still hold a grudge against his father.
The Fourth Hokage’s legendary student suddenly taking an interest in an orphan boy who shared his sensei’s brilliant, sun-gold hair and lopsided grin?
It would raise questions the village had buried.
From the shadows, he’d watched Naruto grow under a colder legacy—the village’s scorn for the fox sealed inside him.
Protecting Naruto from a rogue shinobi was his duty. Protecting him from the village’s casual cruelty was a political act. One he’d been forbidden to take.
So he stayed away. Patrolled the perimeters of Naruto’s life. Made sure neglect never became something darker.
Unknown. Non-scheduled arrival.
His patrol of the commercial district could wait.
He turned and exited the security office, cutting through a side passage till he reached the eastern exit of the Hokage's tower. With a single leap he launched himself from the street to a nearby rooftop.
Mid-afternoon sun hit him, warming the exposed skin on his arms despite the chill of the late autumn day. He leapt from rooftop to rooftop, picking up pace.
Probably nothing. A social worker who forgot to check in.
Hound, the part of him made of protocol and predator instinct, knew that was bullshit.
The dull grey tones of the administrative district melted away into the warmer hues of brick and painted wood as he entered the lower eastern residential areas.
Here, the streets smelled of grilled eel, damp laundry, and the faint sour tang of the garbage collection point.
Naruto’s building came into sight. An older, three-story complex with peeling green paint, warm orange roof tiles, and balconies that creaked with every wind gust.
He landed lightly on a roof across from Naruto’s unit, the form of his ANBU uniform blending into the shadows of a nearby ventilation unit. He expanded his senses, filtering out the constant hum of the village.
There.
Naruto’s chakra signature flickered, steady and warm, overflowing with bright enthusiasm. He pushed chakra to his ears until he could hear the muffled buzz of the kid’s voice.
No obvious signs of distress so far.
Then, another voice.
A woman's, calm and measured.
But nothing else, no chakra signature at all.
Every living thing hummed with chakra. To reduce that innate energy to zero…
It spoke of shinobi mastery—the kind reserved for ANBU, Hunter-nin, or hidden-village operatives who specialized in making other ninjas disappear.
Well, so much for a quiet evening.
He pushed off the roof and landed on the third floor balcony, approaching Naruto’s door, the scent of old wood and mildew heavy in the air. He knocked once. Firm.
The conversation inside cut off, Naruto’s chakra prickling in confusion.
The next second, the door swung open, pushing a wave of heat and salt into the cool afternoon air, making his next inhale taste metallic through the filter of his ANBU mask. Steam from the kettle haloed the cheap bulb inside in a greasy haze.
Naruto blinked up at him, barefoot, wearing an old white shirt with an Uzumaki swirl on the front. His blonde hair stuck out in every direction, whiskered cheeks streaked with dirt.
“ANBU?” Naruto said. “What’s goin’ on?”
Over the boy's head, he scanned the apartment in a single sweep. A single bed with rumpled grey sheets. A small fridge vibrating against one wall. A tower of empty instant ramen cups standing on the counter like a monument to institutional failure. The linoleum floor curled at the corners, trapped dirt forming a dark grout line around the room.
Naruto’s guest moved. She uncoiled from her crossed-leg position on the floor and rose to place herself behind the kid, a hand coming down to rest on Naruto’s shoulder.
Steam drifted between them, and for a heartbeat he was pretty sure he was losing his damn mind. Then the light caught her hair. The color of rose quartz, a soft pink-gold, pulled back in a single messy braid that fell over one shoulder.
The smell of cheap broth curled into something richer: stew, warm spice, a home years dead.
No. She can't be.
Kushina’s little stray. The fragile nine-year-old girl with a raspy voice and a dusting of freckles. The one who always hid behind Kushina’s green skirt whenever he—fresh from a mission, blood and death clinging to him—came too close.
Rynna.
But the girl he remembered had shy amethyst eyes, perpetually blown wide in fear. She died in the Kyuubi attack nine years ago. He’d signed her death certificate himself.
This woman's eyes were the same striking color, but stared at him with deep unnerving calm. Her high collar jacket and black cargo leggings were covered in mud and dried blood. A maroon scarf sat tight around her throat, wrapped with careful precision.
His ANBU mask caged his breaths, pressing down on his face. The hood he wore, designed to hide his distinctive silver hair, felt stifling.
Impossible.
A transformation?
A clone?
A fucking ghost?
“You,” he pointed at her. “You’re being detained, come with me.”
“Hey!” Naruto protested, puffing out his chest. “You can’t just take her! She helped me against these jerks who chased me earlier. She’s nice!”
The woman—Rynna, it had to be, that's the whole fucking problem—squeezed Naruto’s shoulder gently.
“It’s okay Naruto,” she said, voice light, but eyes filled with vitriol for his presence. “When the nice ANBU officer gives us an order, we listen.”
Naruto looked from her face to the white porcelain of Hound’s mask and back. His lips quivered as he tried to keep a brave face, fighting back tears.
“Will you…” the kid’s voice broke. “Will you come back?”
She bent down slightly to ruffle his blonde hair. Naruto pressed his head into it, blue eyes growing glassy.
“I will try,” she said, giving him one last squeeze before letting her hand fall away.
Hound moved back, ignoring the heavy sensation in his chest, allowing her room to step out into the open air.
Out here, he could see her clearly. Her jaw was smudged with dirt, bits of leaves sticking to her braid. A dark bruise colored her cheekbone.
She looked like she’d just returned from an A-rank mission that went to hell.
With a tilt of his head he gestured for her to start walking, falling into step behind her as they descended the stairs to the street. Late afternoon sun cast long, distorted shadows between the buildings, painting the street in bars of gold and deep blue.
He kept his eye on Rynna as they took the turn onto the main road: a river of noise and motion from chattering civilians, busy merchants, and hurrying shinobi.
Luckily the crowd gave the young beaten-up woman being escorted by an ANBU operative a wide berth.
“So,” she began, tilting her head up at him in a show of mock curiosity. “Do you kidnap all your dates, or am I just special?”
Bad comedy. Just what I needed.
He ignored her, letting his uncovered eye do a slow deliberate arc of the street as he tracked possible vantages, choke points, and escape vectors.
“Ah,” she slowed her pace, leaning toward him till her shoulder almost brushed his bicep. “Strong silent type? Classic.”
Her eyes flicked across a nearby roofline as they approached the bridge leading deeper into the village. A tempura vendor at the end of the bridge was packing up his cart of fried snacks, making a clear lane in the foot traffic for someone to slip through to the alley on the other side.
Rynna feinted to the right, toward the escape route he’d already marked. He took a single long stride, torso sliding into her path like a gate slamming shut.
She stopped just short, bangs brushing his chest plate, and glared up at him. He looked down and held her gaze until she turned and started to walk again.
“You seem tense,” she said, dragging her feet, index finger tracing tiny complex patterns against her leggings.
She stopped abruptly in front of a shop window, admiring a set of throwing knives. He stopped a half-step behind her, hand finding the leather hilt of his tantō.
Her eyes tracked the motion in the window’s reflection, a tiny smile on her lips.
He closed the last of the distance, chest plate brushing the back of her jacket. Her shoulder blades drew together, but she didn’t turn. He tilted his head impatiently.
“I'm very impressed,” she rolled her eyes, but started walking again, the tracing on her thigh growing more frantic. “You’ve shown such restraint, most men in your position would’ve felt the need to manhandle me by now.”
Try that again and I might reconsider.
The Hokage’s tower with its red brick walls loomed ahead, like a flame alight in the heart of the village.
She sneered at the village symbol, fists clenching at her sides. Her posture shifted, knees softening, eyes darting towards a narrow alley mouth.
The math wasn’t in her favor, but he had to admit, he admired the spirit.
“Don’t,” he said, voice seal in his mask making the words come out in a synthetic pitch. “Last warning. The outcome would be messy.”
Her hand snapped to her throat, brushing the fabric of her ratty scarf before she forced it back to her sides. Then, the tension melted, replaced by a smile that was all teeth.
“Oh Fido,” she said, voice syrupy. “You assume it would be a fight.”
Her eyes unfocused, looking past him. “It wouldn’t. It would be…artistic.”
Artistic.
He’d interrogated killers who saw their work as a craft, who found beauty in the breakdown of a body or a mind. They used that same word.
He held out his arm, the message clear.
This time, she went without comment, energy draining into a stiff tension. He led her through the massive wood doors. They sealed behind them with a final thud, like a gavel coming down.
He had no fucking clue what Lord Third would think when he looked up from his desk and saw a girl they’d buried stroll back into his office.