The cool desert night hung heavy in the narrow canyon where Team 7 had established their temporary forward base. The air was tense. Kushina was still healing, and Minato and Jiraiya watched with profound unease as Makima took charge of the captured Suna Jōnin, Siroshi. He was bound with chakra-suppressing rope, unable to summon even a hint of his power.
Makima knelt gracefully before the defiant prisoner and removed his gag. Her expression was perfectly neutral.
Siroshi coughed out a laugh that quickly turned into a dry, scornful sneer. "A child? Is this Konoha's new interrogation technique? Go fetch a real Jōnin, brat. I have resisted Interrogation Masters who specialize in pain. I don't give up Suna secrets to a pair of pretty eyes and petty parlor tricks."
"I am merely seeking efficiency," Makima replied, her voice soft but unnervingly steady. "It would save us both considerable trouble if you simply provided the location and time of your main deployment."
"Trouble? You have nothing to threaten me with," Siroshi scoffed. "My loyalty is absolute. I will not break."
Makima's polite, curious demeanor evaporated. Her face did not contort in anger, but instead became an unnervingly smooth mask. Her golden eyes—the ones her classmates found warm and intelligent—widened and deepened. The pupils seemed to dilate until they swallowed the iris, reflecting the weak moonlight like a liquid, terrifying void.
Siroshi froze. The contempt and arrogance vanished, replaced by an immediate, searing dose of primal, existential terror. He didn't see a girl; he saw a sentient consciousness so vastly superior that it perceived his very free will as a computational error. His ninja training had prepared him for pain, for genjutsu, even for death. It had not prepared him for Absolute Evil—not the emotional malice of a torturer, but the crushing, indifferent malevolence of a force that seeks the total domination and dismantling of every spirit it encounters.
His mind screamed against the psychic pressure, but through sheer, desperate will, fueled by the memory of the two faces he lived for, he gritted his teeth and swallowed the word of betrayal. He would not scream. He would not talk.
Makima registered the failure of the blunt force. Her frown was one of mild, momentary disappointment.
"A truly admirable defense," she observed, her voice returning, clinical and low. "A shinobi will break when faced with pain, or with the truth of his own erasure. You resisted erasure." She stood slowly, circling him once, the tension in the air growing unbearable. "But that suggests your fear is tied to something external to yourself. Something you value more than your own mind."
Makima leaned down again, this time her gaze fixed not on his eyes, but on his temple, as if reading a filing cabinet of personal data.
"You are Siroshi of the Sand. You have a wife, Koto, a seamstress, and a son, Jun, who crafts truly dreadful clay birds. You believe you are dying a hero's death—a final, silent sacrifice for their future peace."
Siroshi's rigid frame snapped, jolting against the bonds. "Don't you dare mention them! Leave them alone!"
"We will not touch them," Makima assured him, her voice perfectly serene. "They are irrelevant. But your sacrifice will be meaningless. When this war is over, I will personally ensure that an agent visits Koto. They won't hurt her. They will simply tell her the truth of your final moments."
She delivered the final, crippling psychological blow. "They will tell her you were captured. That you were easily broken by a mere Genin. That you wept, provided every detail of Sunagakure's movements, and that you begged for your life before being executed as a liability."
"Your nation will list you as a coward. Your son, Jun, will grow up not mourning a hero, but inheriting the stain of a traitor, knowing his father's last act was one of pitiful, selfish betrayal. And that is the legacy you will leave them."
The threat of death had failed. The gaze of oblivion had failed. The erasure of his honor and the destruction of his family's peace was the thing that shattered him completely.
"No! No, stop it! Don't you dare!" Siroshi didn't scream; he howled, a sound of raw, agonizing defeat. "I'll tell you! I'll tell you everything! Leave my family's name untouched! Swear it! Swear to me my memory will be of a ninja who died in the line of duty!"
"That is easily arranged," Makima agreed, her face instantly returning to bored neutrality. "The location. The time. Be efficient."
Siroshi spilled the critical intelligence in a torrent of broken sound: "The Hidden Canyon of the Hawk... three days... before dawn on the fourth day. Heavy weapons, elite puppet divisions... Please, just kill me quickly!"
Makima gave a short, deliberate nod. "Thank you for your cooperation."
She stood, pulled a kunai from her sheath, and with a swift, clean motion, granted him the death of a ninja who fell in battle—the lie his family needed to survive.
Makima wiped the blade clean and sheathed the kunai. She turned toward Jiraiya, and the chilling mask of the Control Devil was instantly replaced by the perfect, apologetic student.
"Sensei?" she called out, her voice bright, gentle, and utterly apologetic. "I'm so sorry, I took a little longer than I meant to! He was quite stubborn at first, but once I helped him understand the true utility of cooperation, he was a darling about it, wasn't he?"
She approached Jiraiya with a graceful, easy stride, pointing to the map. "The intelligence is solid, sensei. The main force is mobilizing in three days at the Hidden Canyon of the Hawk. We must formulate a rapid counter-plan."
Jiraiya stared from the dead shinobi to Makima's sweet, innocent face, his blood running colder than the desert air. The seamless perfection of the switch terrified him most of all.
"Yes, Makima," Jiraiya forced out, swallowing hard. "Immediately. Go fetch Minato. We have three days."