Naruto woke to his alarm at 5:58 a.m., a full two minutes before it was set to blare, which was either a triumph of discipline or proof he'd barely slept. The haze of bad dreams and bad decisions clung to his skin, so he steamed it off in a shower set one tick below scalding. The mirror above the sink was a war zone of motivational sticky notes, most now stained or peeling, but he ignored the mantra-of-the-day ("WRITE. REVISE. REPEAT.") and focused instead on the faint purple mark still blooming on his neck like the world's most obvious brand. He pressed a towel to it, then used his thumbnail to try and erase it, which predictably failed.
He dressed with the speed of someone who'd packed his bag the night before: jeans, a button-down that still held a faint crease from the clearance bin, and the orange hoodie reserved for Mondays when the world needed warning he might combust. The city outside was gunmetal and drizzly, the kind of January morning that made even subway rats contemplate hibernation. Naruto navigated the slush like it owed him money, flinging himself onto the express train with seconds to spare, breath clouding in the gap between the doors.
The office was deserted at six forty-five, but the sensor lights snapped on like they'd missed him. Naruto's desk was the same as ever: a half-dozen battered mugs in varying stages of mold, manuscript stacks balanced at chaotic inclines, a fox-shaped mug that doubled as a pen caddy, and—today—a whole new layer of carnage, courtesy of a red-eyed all-nighter. He dropped his bag, collapsed into his rolling chair, and powered up his laptop, watching the boot-up sequence.
He started with email, burning through the easy stuff—art department questions, a typo hunt from the proofreaders, a bitter, five-paragraph rant from a rejected poet who'd made it to the final round. Naruto replied to every one, his fingers mechanical, brain only half-present. The other half was a hamster wheel of intrusive thoughts: the memory of Sasuke's hand on his shoulder, the press of lips at the base of his throat, the taste of regret and expensive hotel linen. He fought it by doing what he always did: working harder than anyone in the building, faster than any editor alive, until his eyes watered and his wrists throbbed.
He ignored his phone completely, because every time it buzzed, it might be from the wrong city, or worse, from the right one.
By eight-thirty, people began trickling in. Naruto nodded to the interns, grunted at the junior editors, and ducked into the copy room for a third cup of battery-acid coffee. The old copy machine was already jammed, but he coaxed it back to life by sheer force of will and a ritualistic smack to its toner compartment. He liked it here—the hum of machinery, the industrial smell, the promise that if you pressed the right button enough times, something would come out looking better than it went in.
He returned to his desk, cradling the mug in both hands, and let his eyes drift over the office. Walls lined with shelves, every one packed with backlist titles, some of them his own handiwork—YA dystopias, urban fantasies, the occasional trashy romance that paid the light bill for months. Near the windows, the design team huddled over storyboards, arguing with the low, pitched intensity of reality show contestants. In the far corner, someone had set up a ring light and was filming a TikTok about book recs, which Naruto respected in theory and loathed in practice.
He settled back into his inbox, only to be interrupted at 9:01 by a seismic disturbance—Jiraiya, the man, the myth, the CEO, blowing through the office with all the subtlety of a parade float shaped like a middle finger.
The office door banged open as Jiraiya's six-foot-three frame filled the doorway. "God's balls, kid, you look like you've been resurrected by spite alone!"
Naruto rolled his eyes and yanked his hoodie higher to cover the mark on his neck. "Says the guy who probably hasn't seen his own bed in three days. What's with the early morning ambush, Pervy Sage?"
Jiraiya dropped a folder onto Naruto's desk with a theatrical thud. "Brain's been pinging since four a.m.—all this energy, nowhere to put it except on you." He winked in that way that made the interns giggle and HR twitch.
"If you're dumping more slush pile rejects on me, I swear I'll hide your scotch," Naruto said, flipping open the folder with his pen. "What fresh hell is this?"
Jiraiya perched on the edge of the desk, legs spread wide, hands drumming on his knees. "Remember that little fantasy series you've been shepherding for the last three years?"
"You mean the one that's been keeping me alive on ramen and no sleep?" Naruto snorted, leaning back in his chair. "Chronicles of the Shadow Fox? What about it?"
"It's got teeth," Jiraiya said. "And I'm not talking about the advance sales. I mean real, Hollywood producer teeth. Big money, big names, adaptation rights, maybe even a streaming deal." He grinned, all canines. "They want a pitch, kid. They want it bad."
"Holy shit!" Naruto shot forward, nearly knocking his coffee over. His face split into a grin so wide it hurt. "Are you serious? They actually want my book? For a real movie?"
"They want the whole damn series," Jiraiya corrected, chuckling at Naruto's reaction. "And they want you in the room for the pitch. I told them you're the only editor in this city who could make high fantasy sound like a goddamn TED Talk."
Naruto's mouth went dry. His fingers twitched against the desk edge, tapping an erratic rhythm as his stomach twisted itself into a pretzel. "When?"
Jiraiya's smile turned sharklike. "Friday. Four o'clock."
"Fri—" Naruto's voice cracked. He swallowed hard, did the math three times. "That's three days from now."
"Let's call it two," Jiraiya said, plucking at Naruto's sleeve with a grimace. "You'll need time for a haircut and a shirt that doesn't scream clearance rack. Maybe lose the hoodie. I'll even comp the dry cleaning."
Naruto flipped through the folder, vision blurring at the edges. Contracts. Rights agreements. Option deals. Numbers swam before him, zeroes multiplying like cells under a microscope. His pulse hammered in his ears.
"They're coming here?" he managed, voice barely a whisper.
"No, kid. We're going to them." Jiraiya leaned in, his cologne overwhelming. "The Ritz. Private suite. Bespoke cocktails. And you—" he jabbed a finger at Naruto's chest, "—are going to kill them with charm. Got it?"
Naruto nodded, his fingers drumming a frantic rhythm against his thigh, sweat beading at his hairline despite the office chill. "What do you need from me?"
Jiraiya laughed, slapping his own thigh. "A pitch. Maybe a sizzle reel. Get Sai to do some concept art—he owes me after that manga debacle last quarter."
Naruto's throat tightened. His calendar flashed before his eyes—the editorial meeting tomorrow, manuscript deadline Thursday, and now this. His leg bounced under the desk, heel tapping so hard the pen caddy rattled.
"Three days," he croaked, voice barely audible.
"Three days," Jiraiya confirmed, oblivious to Naruto's racing pulse. "I believe in you, kid. And if you mess up, I'll take the blame and give you a raise for trying."
Naruto's laugh came out as a strangled hiccup. "Really?"
Jiraiya grinned. "No, but I'll buy you a beer and roast you until the end of time. That's what godfathers are for." He leaned in, lowering his voice. "This is your shot, Naruto. Don't let your demons get in the way."
Naruto's stomach lurched. He knew exactly which demons Jiraiya meant, but he nodded anyway.
Jiraiya gave his shoulder a hard squeeze, then leapt to his feet. "I'm off to schmooze the legal team. Don't let me down."
As Jiraiya strode away, Naruto watched the folder as if it might bite. He thumbed through the papers, each one heavier than the last, then opened a blank document and started outlining. The hamster wheel slowed, replaced by the slow build of adrenaline and the low, humming terror that if he failed, the dream would slip away.
He didn't check his phone, not once, even as it buzzed with notifications—group chat memes, a missed call from his mother, a text from Kiba reading "u alive or nah?" He muted it, then buried it under a stack of sticky notes.
By noon, he'd mainlined two more coffees and finished a rough outline for the presentation. By two, he'd coordinated with design for sample spreads and concept art. By four, he'd built a spreadsheet of all the talking points, complete with backup stats and a contingency tab for "unexpected executive questions."
At five, he was still at his desk, the sky outside now nearly black, the office echoing with the last gasps of coworkers as they fled for the day. Naruto leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples, and forced himself not to think about what came after the pitch—what came after the deal, after the book, after the dream.
He was so tired he almost didn't notice the shadow standing just outside his cubicle. When he looked up, it was Sai, holding a sketchpad and leaning against the partition with one hip cocked, shirt riding up to reveal a sliver of pale skin.
"I have art," Sai announced, holding up the pad. "And a question." His eyes lingered on Naruto's face, then drifted down to his chest before returning to meet his gaze.
Naruto blinked. "Shoot."
Sai stepped closer, close enough that his knee brushed Naruto's. "Is this why you look like you haven't slept in weeks?" He reached out and traced a finger along bruise on Naruto's neck. "Though I must say, the exhausted look suits you."
Naruto hesitated, leaning away from the touch. "It's work."
Sai tilted his head, lips curving into a knowing smile. "You're lying."
Naruto managed a smile. "Yeah, I am. But the work helps."
Sai nodded, accepting this, then flipped open the sketchbook, deliberately brushing his fingers against Naruto's as he handed it over. The first page was a gorgeous, moody rendering of the Shadow Fox, fur bristling, eyes wild. The next was a panorama of the fantasy world: spires, forests, a sunlit cityscape so lush it made Naruto's chest ache. "Holy shit," he said, running his finger over the edge. "This is—wow, Sai. Thank you."
Sai watched him, eyes half-lidded. "You will be great at this. I am told public speaking is terrifying, but if you picture the audience naked, it helps." He winked. "I'd be happy to help you practice that visualization technique."
Naruto barked a laugh. "Not sure that'll work with Hollywood suits, but I'll keep it in mind."
Sai's eyes flicked to the side, then back to Naruto, his gaze dropping deliberately to Naruto's lips before traveling down to his collarbone. "If you need anything else, ask," he said, leaning forward until his breath warmed Naruto's ear. "Anything at all. I will be here late, working on cover revisions." His fingertips brushed Naruto's wrist as he straightened, and he wet his lower lip with his tongue. Then he lingered a beat too long, eyes darkening with unmistakable intent, before turning and drifting away, leaving Naruto with the art and a flush creeping up his neck.
By eight, the office was silent except for the occasional flicker of the overhead lights. Naruto scrolled through his presentation one last time, mentally rehearsing talking points. The Shadow Fox's golden eyes stared back from Sai's artwork, challenging him. Numbers danced through his head—potential revenue streams, merchandising opportunities, adaptation rights. His fingers twitched with the urge to revise the third slide again.
He saved his work, shut down the computer, and gathered up the folder. His shoulders relaxed as spreadsheets and pitch angles continued to shuffle through his mind like a well-worn deck of cards.
He put on his orange hoodie, zipped it to his chin, and stepped out into the city night. The cool air hit his face as he mentally blocked out tomorrow's schedule: 9 AM design review, 11 AM practice pitch, 2 PM final revisions. Three days to pull off a miracle. The challenge filled every corner of his thoughts, leaving no room for anything else.
Not yet.