Chapter 359 – The Man Between Storms
The door slid shut behind Malik with a soft wooden click, cutting off the charged, hidden tension between fire and iron on the other side.
He stood there for a breath, facing the closed door, his palm still resting lightly against it.
"I really do love you both," he murmured to the wood, voice low and fond. "Please don't kill each other while I'm gone. I've already planned outfits for our family dinners."
No answer, of course. Just the faint whisper of incense and koi water on the other side.
He turned.
The hallway of his mansion stretched out in both directions—polished wood floors, pale walls broken by niches of art and potted trees, enchanted lanterns softly glowing pink and gold along the ceiling. The air smelled faintly of green tea, ink, and old cedar.
And tension.
Lots of tension.
Lined along each side of the hallway, spaced neatly and rigidly like mirrored reflections, stood Danzō's ex-Root loyalists and Shisui's current Root operatives.
Eight women in total in the visible line.
More in the shadows. Malik could feel them—chakra signatures tucked into beams, closets, above doorframes, beneath perception if you didn't know what to look for.
Ex-Root on the right. Current Root on the left.
Every one of them deadly. Every one of them beautiful in that sharp, efficient way only people who lived close to violence ever truly were.
They all bowed the moment he turned away from the tea room.
"Malik-sama," they said almost in unison.
He smiled at them—soft, warm, entirely failing to match the knives of tension stretched between the two rows.
And Malik felt all eight sets of eyes flick between each other.
Root versus Root.
Uchiha versus Shimura.
Coexisting only because Malik said so.
He sighed.
Here we go.
He clasped his hands behind his back and addressed them gently but with unmistakable authority, his voice warm yet strong enough to ripple through the hallway like magic.
"Ladies," Malik began, smiling softly, "thank you for waiting so patiently."
His outfit of the day was one of his favorites: a long, high-collared robe of deep rose-pink chased with gold threading, sigils and motifs shifting faintly with his magic along the hems. His smooth cocoa-brown skin caught the light, his gold-and-pink eyes warm and bright, curls perfectly soft and annoyingly touchable.
He started walking.
The eyes of eight women followed his every step.
He'd almost made it past them when a thought tugged him backward—something irritated and fond in the back of his mind, something that sounded suspiciously like: If I leave this alone, there will be blood on my walls within an hour.
He stopped.
Turned.
All eight women snapped slightly straighter, like weapons aligning to a new target.
Malik folded his hands neatly in front of him and gave them a real, focused look for the first time this morning.
"Toshiko," he said gently.
The First Line
Toshiko, standing closest to the tea room door on Danzō's side, stepped forward half a pace. She was tall, with short dark hair braided close to her scalp, a jagged scar trailing from jaw to collarbone that she wore without shame. Her eyes were sharp and serious.
"Yes, Malik-sama."
"Chiyo," he continued, turning his gaze to the woman mirroring Toshiko on Shisui's side.
Chiyo had her white hair bound in a low knot, her expression calm, hands folded behind her back. Her eyes were pale amber—always scanning, never still.
"Yes, Malik-sama," she echoed.
Sachiko stood next—Danzō's side. Petite, delicate-looking, with ink stains on her fingers and a quiet intensity in her gaze. She gave a short bow.
"Here, sir."
Fumio on the opposite side—Shisui's. Short red hair shaved along one side, a tattoo of the Uchiha fan on her neck. She grinned sharply.
"Present."
"Yukia," Malik said, inclining his head toward Danzō's third visible loyalist.
Yukia had long straight black hair, and her demeanor was so perfectly bland she could disappear in plain sight. Her eyes were the only thing that betrayed her—calculating, always measuring distances and exits.
"Yes, Malik-sama," she said quietly.
"Kikuno," he added, turning his gaze to Shisui's third.
Kikuno was taller than most, her beach-tan skin and long braids wrapped up in a high knot. She wore her standard gear like a uniform and her expression like a dare.
She nodded, respectful. "Here."
"Harue," Malik said, his tone still gentle, still firm, focused on Danzō's fourth visible loyalist.
Harue had sharp cheekbones and softer eyes, her hair tied in an efficient bun, a faint smudge of charcoal on her sleeve where she'd been running notes earlier. She bowed deeply.
"At your service, Malik-sama."
"And Tomie," he finished, looking at the last woman in the visible line—Shisui's fourth.
Tomie was deceptively unassuming: medium height, dark bob, round face, faint smile. Only her eyes betrayed her status as Root—flat, cold, and able to calculate kill patterns in under a second.
She smiled faintly. "Listening, sir."
Eight women.
Eight different backgrounds.
One shared awareness:
They were standing between two of the scariest women in the village.
Malik smiled at all of them, something kind and luminous, but there was a line of steel under his warmth now—subtle, but unmistakable.
"I know," he said, voice soft but carrying, "that my wives are… not fond of one another."
That was the polite version. To their credit, none of the women snorted.
He continued.
"I know that, as their loyalists, you all have your own opinions. Loyalties. Grudges. Histories. And I respect that."
Eight chins lifted slightly. Eight spines straightened.
"But," he said gently, "I will not have them fight in my home."
The words slid through the hall like a seal snapping into place.
His magic hummed in the air—faint pink-gold wisps curling around the lantern light, making his voice feel heavy and clear and impossible to ignore.
"I forbid it," he said, and though his tone was still kind, the air around him had sharpened.
"In this house, there will be no blades drawn between them. No ambush in a hallway, no 'accidental' misfire, no 'training incident' that gets out of hand."
He looked at Toshiko and Chiyo first—two anchors, one on each side.
"I know I have no formal command over any of you," Malik added, smiling ruefully. "You answer to your Hokage, your clan, your captains. I'm just… the man they both made the mistake of marrying."
A few of them almost smiled at that.
"But," Malik went on, "I am also the man they chose. The man they trusted with their hearts. The future father of their children. And as that man, I'm asking—no, I'm expecting—that you all do everything in your power to keep their conflict to sharp words and nothing more."
He let that hang there.
Then added, lighter, "If they want to trade barbs until sunrise, that's fine. They're both very good at that. But if anyone so much as thinks about turning this hallway into an arena…"
The pink-gold light behind his eyes flared just a little.
"…I'll be upset."
Every shinobi in the hall felt the weight in that word.
Upset.
Not furious. Not wrathful. Not murderous.
Just… upset.
And somehow, the idea of disappointing him felt worse.
Malik gestured gently toward the tea room.
"Danzō is pregnant," he said softly. "We all know she could still kill a hundred men in that condition if she had to—and probably enjoy the challenge. But I'd rather no blood be spilled in here. Not hers. Not Shisui's. Not mine. Not yours."
His gaze flicked upward, to the beams and corners and unseen pockets where chakra signatures hid.
"And not the blood of the dozen of you hiding in the shadows. I see you too," he added, mildly.
Several unseen Root operative chakras flinched ever so slightly in the ether.
Malik smiled.
"Be nice," he finished gently. "For me. That's all I'm asking."
Silence.
Then:
Toshiko stepped forward, bowed at the waist, and straightened.
"For Danzō-sama's sake and yours, Malik-sama," she said steadily, "I will not allow any conflict to become physical. I give you my word."
Chiyo echoed her with a bow of equal depth.
"For Shisui-sama's sake and yours, Malik-sama, I will do the same. If any escalation begins, I will intervene."
Sachiko adjusted her gloves, eyes flicking toward Shisui's side with a measuring hunger that had nothing to do with food.
"If blades are drawn," she said quietly, "they will be turned aside—not sunk into flesh."
Fumio cracked her knuckles, grinning.
"Don't worry about us, Malik-sama. If they start throwing kunai, I'll drag Shisui-sama out by her ankles if I have to."
Kikuno snorted. "You won't get near her ankles before I get between you and her."
Yukia gave both of them a flat look. "He just asked us not to fight, and you two are already planning how to tackle each other."
Tomie smiled, almost sweetly. "Consider it practice in preventing conflict."
Harue bowed again.
"You have my word," she said. "We will not let their rivalry become bloodshed under your roof. We know how much they both care about… not hurting you."
That last part was soft, careful, and entirely true.
Malik's shoulders relaxed. The warm, sunny brightness returned fully to his expression.
"Thank you," he said simply. "All of you."
He put his hands together and bowed to them in turn, not as a lord, but as an equal—earnest and sincere.
They weren't used to that.
Most of these women had served in Root or near-Root all their lives. They were used to being tools, weapons, shadows. Not… people someone thanked.
The effect was obvious.
Spines softened.
Hands relaxed.
Even the chakra in the walls eased.
Malik straightened.
"Alright," he said, more cheerful now. "I've got chores from both of them to do, or I'll be sleeping on the couch in three different houses somehow. So I'll leave the hallway to you ladies."
He turned to go, walking down the corridor with his usual soft, light step.
As he reached the corner, he paused again and glanced over his shoulder.
"Oh—and Toshiko? Chiyo?"
Both women snapped to attention.
"Yes, sir?"
"If either of them even looks like they're about to unsheathe something sharper than sarcasm—" he said, smiling, "—please remind them that they promised me, once upon a time, to try and be happy. And happiness usually involves not stabbing your co-wife."
Chiyo's lips twitched. "I'll remind Shisui-sama."
Toshiko gave the smallest hint of a smile. "I will remind Danzō-sama."
"Perfect," Malik said.
And then he was gone — turning the corner, humming to himself as the magic of the mansion responded to his mood with faint, shimmering warmth.
The Room After
The moment he vanished, the hall seemed to exhale.
The ex-Root and Root women glanced at one another.
For the first time since they'd lined up, the hostility shifted into something… else. Not friendliness. Not trust.
But recognition.
"He's dangerous," Tomie said quietly, breaking the silence.
Fumio scoffed. "He's cute."
"Those are not mutually exclusive," Yukia replied.
Harue folded her hands. "He is soft-hearted."
Kikuno shook her head. "No. He is kind. That is different."
Toshiko stared straight ahead, but there was a contemplative furrow in her brow.
"For all Danzō-sama's power," she said, "and all Shisui-sama's eyes… he might be the only one who can actually keep them from destroying each other."
Chiyo murmured, "Then we protect him. For their sakes."
They didn't say anything more after that.
They didn't need to.
In the beams above, in the cracks of the walls, in the pockets of invisible space where more Root operatives hid, the chakra signatures settled, attuning themselves not just to their mistresses—
But to the man who had just asked them, very gently, not to let this house become a battlefield.
—
Malik and the Greenhouse
Meanwhile, Malik walked deeper into his mansion, the floor subtly shifting from smooth wood to cool stone as he passed through an archway. The walls widened, the ceiling climbed, and a familiar hint of damp earth and growing things pressed softly against the air.
The greenhouse.
It was one of his many favorite places.
The doors parted for him without needing his touch, responding to his presence like polite servants. Warm, humid air rushed over his face, fogging his glasses (which he immediately enchanted clear again with a flick of his fingers).
Inside, the greenhouse stretched like a captured piece of spring—rows of herbs, medicinal plants, fruit trees, chakra-reactive vines, and glowing blossoms Malik had imported, grown, or conjured from half a dozen worlds and a few dreams.
He inhaled deeply.
"Shisui says the cold will warp the ink," he muttered, scanning the room. "Which means some bright-eyed maid thought to store a sealing crate somewhere near the exhaust vent instead of in the dry room."
He spotted it quickly—a squat, heavy chest resting beneath a shelf of hanging blue herbs, faint frost gathering along its metal edges, reacting badly to the humidity.
Malik sighed.
"Yup. That'll ruin half the formulae."
He knelt, pressed his palm to the lid, and murmured a quick spell. Warm pink-gold light seeped into the chest, evaporating the frost without disturbing the contents. The locking seals glowed faintly and then cooled.
He lifted it carefully with magic alone—no strain, just a gentle drift up into the air beside him.
"You get to live in a better room now," he told it, because he talked to objects sometimes. "No need to thank me. Just don't explode the next time Shisui draws something dangerous."
The chest hummed faintly in its seals.
Malik smiled.
He carried it out with him, letting the mansion guide his steps to the dry storeroom. The doors opened, shelves parted, a cleared space appeared as if expecting him.
He set the crate down.
Taped a note to the top in neat handwriting:
"Do not put my wife's explosive ink near freezing vents. I like my eyebrows. – Malik"
He added a tiny doodle of himself with burned-off eyebrows in the corner, just for comedic effect.
Then he dusted off his hands.
"Right," he said. "One crisis averted."
—
The Shimura Ledger
From there, the mansion adjusted its pathways again—stairs rearranging subtly, corridors shortening, doors aligning to form a convenient straight shot toward the Shimura annex.
By the time he stepped into Danzō's side of the estate—the part she was permitted by her punishment to rule like a quiet queen—the mood shifted. The lights here were cooler, the décor more restrained. Scrolls, maps, and old battle flags lined the walls.
Okabe and Enaka Tsushi stood near a long desk overflowing with documents, stamps, and ink bottles.
They both looked up as Malik entered.
"You're late," Enaka said flatly, her cropped silver hair catching the light.
Okabe, her older sister, raised a brow. "Fourteen minutes later than projected."
Malik put a hand over his heart. "I was giving a speech about not letting your boss and my wife murder my other wife in the tea room hallway. I feel like that buys me at least a five-minute extension."
Enaka considered that. "…Acceptable."
Okabe slid a thick ledger toward him.
"Supply manifests," she said. "Ink stock, training dummy replacements, restraint seals, prenatal medical supplies, and… tea. She circled the tea line three times."
Malik smiled fondly.
"Of course she did."
He took the pen, flipping through the pages with practiced ease. He scanned each line—reading not just the ink, but the intent behind it. Danzō never wasted resources. If she'd requested something twice, there was a reason.
His handwriting flowed smoothly as he signed off. Pink-gold magic flickered at the edges of the ink, locking it against tampering.
Okabe watched his pen strokes.
"You enjoy this," she observed.
"What?" Malik asked.
"Paperwork," she said. "Logistics. Domestic order."
He blinked, then chuckled.
"I enjoy… knowing they have what they need," he replied. "Tsunade yells less when supplies are stocked. Danzō glowers less when things run smoothly. Shisui complains less when her weapons are where she left them. All of that is priceless."
Enaka tilted her head. "You carry a great deal of their weight."
Malik shrugged. "They carry more. I just… shift things around so the load doesn't break them."
He finished the last signature, set the pen down, and tapped the ledger twice.
"Done," he said.
Okabe took it, scanning his magic seal.
"Accepted."
Enaka nodded once.
"We'll process this. She will be… pleased."
Malik smiled softly.
"Good. I like it when she's pleased. She gets this tiny little not-frown and pretends it's not a smile."
Enaka and Okabe exchanged a look they did not share with him.
It was the look of two long-time subordinates who still couldn't quite grasp how a man who glowed like a sun had walked peacefully into the orbit of a woman like Danzō Shimura and called it love.
"Anything else?" Malik asked. "Any other crises I need to put out before my wives set the carpet on fire?"
Okabe shook her head. "No. Just… be aware: whatever they discussed today will have consequences."
Enaka's eyes gleamed faintly.
"For the team. For the village. For you."
Malik smiled, softer, distant.
"I trust them," he said simply. "Even if they don't trust each other yet. Whatever comes out of that room… I'll face it with them."
He turned to go.
Enaka spoke again, quietly.
"Malik-sama."
He paused.
"Thank you," she said. "For… speaking to the guards."
Okabe inclined her head.
"You are more persuasive than any of us."
Malik grinned.
"My superpower," he said, "is making terrifying women agree not to stab each other in my hallway. I'm oddly okay with that."
He left them with that, the faint echo of his laughter drifting down the corridor.
As he walked back toward the living heart of his mansion, he couldn't help glancing up toward where he knew the tea room sat, back the way he'd come.
He couldn't hear anything.
He couldn't sense any murderous chakra flares.
He smiled to himself.
"They're talking," he murmured. "Good."
Then, because he knew better than to overestimate his own luck, he added under his breath:
"And if they're not… at least my carpets, my walls, and my hallway are safe from being stained red."
The mansion seemed to hum in agreement, its soft magic wrapping lovingly around its master as he moved on to the next quiet crisis, the next gentle duty—
The man between storms.
The heart they both refused to break.