The hot-spring pool was choked with thick white steam, like someone had shredded a bag of cotton candy and let it melt on the surface.
Uchiha Makoto suddenly sneezed. When he rubbed his nose, the splash hit the slate edge and froze into a thin sheet of ice before it could even drip.
"Who the hell's trash-talking me behind my back?" he muttered, staring into the foggy water. His voice got lost in the gurgle of the springs, lazy as a cat napping in a sunbeam.
Night outside was thick as spilled ink, swallowing the whole inn.
Two paper lanterns out front swayed in the blizzard, their warm yellow glow half-melting the snow on the eaves. Droplets plinked off the wooden overhang like someone tapping a tin bucket, counting down the seconds.
Makoto, skin pruned from hours in the water, flopped onto the tatami in his room. He'd barely shut his eyes when his ears twitched.
Outside the courtyard wall: the faintest crunch of snow under boots, light as a cat's paw. Breathing steady as a drawn bowstring. Heartbeat low, but way too fast for stealth.
Classic "about to do some shady shit" rhythm.
Makoto didn't even crack an eyelid. A smirk ghosted across his lips—like a cat that just heard the mouse trap snap shut. Inside, he purred:
Here they come.
From the jump, who's the hunter and who's the prey never flipped. These Cloud punks were just following the breadcrumb trail he'd laid out, step by dumb step.
Moonlight slipped through the paper door, pooling on the floor like a fishing line reeling in slow and tight.
Shrrrip—
A kunai sliced the paper door, quiet as a moth's wing. Then a black shadow oozed in, smooth as ink in water.
The hem of the intruder's cloak didn't even whisper across the mats.
Samui was wrapped head-to-toe in black spandex, only her teal-green eyes glowing like wet sea glass in the dark. She stepped on the tatami seams, sound dialed down to zero. Her stealth game was top-tier among the Cloud envoy squad.
Only downside? She was green. These past nine days, the more she thought about it, the more this whole setup stank.
This kid picked a hot-springs joint so far off the map it might as well be in Narnia. Nine straight days marinating in the water like he was waiting for FedEx.
If that was coincidence, fine. But that night his two-tomoe Sharingan flared to life, and the way he stared at her—like he was daring her to try something…
A batshit theory kept looping in her skull: Is this little shit baiting us?
Too ridiculous. She and Asui (the other Cloud ninja) both dodged the topic like it was radioactive. Who the hell begs to get kidnapped by foreign ninjas?
No way. Absolutely not.
Until now—watching Makoto "sleep" on the tatami, her pulse kicked up half a beat. The hairs on the back of her neck stood at attention.
She was definitely stepping into a trap.
Samui crept forward, hand chopping down in a knife strike—fast, precise, gentle. Fingertips brushed his neck, feeling warm, springy skin. Gotta keep the merchandise pretty.
Thud—
A soft impact. Makoto's neck throbbed, but his jacked physique shrugged it off. He kept fake-snoozing, lashes casting tiny shadows, even mentally grading her: Form's textbook. Could've hit harder, though.
Samui's brows pinched. Kid's younger than her and built like a brick wall. She bit her lip, raised her hand for round two—can't have him waking up and screaming for Konoha's cops.
The second shadow fell. Makoto's eyes snapped open. It didn't hurt that bad, but he wasn't here to play punching bag.
Plus, cooperating now gave him leverage when he "negotiated" with the Raikage later.
Pitch-black pupils locked on Samui's shocked teal ones. No words. Just a slow, deliberate zip-it gesture across his lips.
Silent message: I'm in. Quit stalling.
Samui's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
That insane hunch exploded in her brain like a tag on a tripwire. Makoto's chill-as-fuck reaction confirmed it.
But the arrow was nocked—no turning back. Asui and the Cloud spies embedded in Konoha were waiting. Every second wasted was another second closer to getting busted.
No hesitation. She slung Makoto over her shoulder, fast and steady. Only her fingers trembled when she pressed his head into her chest to muffle any noise.
"Mmph—"
Two soft, warm pillows smashed into his face, locking his cheeks in a vice.
Thick milk-scent mixed with faint cedar crashed over him like a warm python coil. The pressure was nuclear. He could feel every breath-induced curve, every stray lock of hair tickling his ear.
Samui felt hot breath on her chest. Her ice-queen ears flashed crimson all the way to the roots.
She gritted her teeth, bolted out the room like a gust of wind, black cape kicking up snow fog. Didn't even shut the door.
Night wind whipped snow into her face like tiny razors.
She hauled ass through Konoha's back alleys, black spandex carving perfect lines under moonlight—a lightning bolt slicing the dark, leaving only afterimages.
Makoto, wedged under her arm, stayed perfectly cooperative. She could feel his steady breathing.
…
At the abandoned warehouse on Konoha's edge, Asui paced like a caged bull. Boots crunched frozen gravel, echoes bouncing off empty walls like a countdown.
Her thumb worried the copper clasp on her tool pouch until it gleamed. Withdrawal clock was ticking. Samui was late.
Konoha patrol was due any minute. Every wasted second shaved their odds.
Moonlight through a broken window lit her white-knuckled fist like frost.
CLANG—
The iron door slammed open. Blizzard and a black shadow burst in.
Samui, chest heaving under spandex, teal eyes sharp as icicles. She dumped Makoto like a sack of potatoes.
Asui spun, saw them, and her tight lips split into a manic grin brighter than the stars. Words tumbled out machine-gun fast:
"No ANBU? No Konoha MP?"
"Nope." Samui's voice was muffled, ears still red, eyes dodging.
Asui yanked a drug-soaked cloth from her cleavage—sweet, cloying milk scent laced with sedative. She slapped it over Makoto's mouth, no finesse.
Makoto inhaled a lungful of cloying perfume and medicine. Brain fog rolled in, eyelids turned to lead.
He almost opened the [Player Shop] for an antidote, then thought nah. Passing out was perfect.
If Cloud's plan tanked, he stayed the innocent victim. Black pot? All theirs. Teflon Makoto.
The thought flickered out as he sagged into Samui's arms, "out cold."
Asui checked his steady breathing, then barked: "Rest of you—stick to the plan. We're extracting him!"
The Cloud spies still in the warehouse snapped to attention, voices low but iron-hard:
"Forge Cloud's glory—our duty, no excuses!"
They clutched stacks of explosive tags, knuckles white. These guys were the suicide squad—buying time with their lives.
Asui shot Samui a look. The two of them, plus the heaviest hitters, hoisted "unconscious" Makoto and vanished into the snow.
Their footprints filled in behind them like the storm was erasing evidence.
The rear-guard spies watched the others fade, then the leader growled:
"Execute!"
Shadows scattered like ink in water, melting into Konoha's alleys.
Their job: light up the village—chaos, explosions, anything to slow Konoha's pursuit.
This op dwarfed the old Nine-Tails jinchuriki snatch—that redheaded Uzumaki girl.
They'd burned every sleeper agent in Konoha. A kid who unlocked two-tomoe Sharingan this young? Raise him in Cloud, and he could be their Shura of the Ninja World.
Worst case? Land of Lightning gets top-tier bloodlin e limit.
For that? Dying was a bargain. Hell, a steal.
On Konoha's main drag, the decoy Cloud envoy squad was still strolling, playing tourist, burning clock.