#ivyeshou

The words fill the Hokage’s office like someone has thrown open every shutter at once with the conviction of sunlight at dinner time.

Gai stands at attention before the desk, spine straight, shoulders squared, eyes bright with the kind of conviction that makes other people suddenly aware of their own poor posture. The mission folder has not even touched his hands yet, and already he looks prepared to sprint across the village carrying it between his teeth if duty requires.

Outside the open window, Konoha rebuilds itself in uneven rhythm. Hammer against beam. Cart wheels over cracked stone. Voices rising from scaffolds and half-mended rooftops. The war has been over for months, but the village still smells of sawdust, wet plaster, smoke, and old blood whenever the rain hits the wrong stones.

Shikaku watches from beside the map table. His expression suggests he has found the flaw in Minato’s plan and is waiting for it to become everyone’s problem.

Minato watches Gai.

Most people look at Gai and see volume first. The hair, the posture, the impossible green, the emotional force of a man who treats enthusiasm like a taijutsu form. It is easy to mistake him for simple because he is sincere in public, which is one of the fastest ways to be underestimated in a village built on secrets.

Minato does not make that mistake. Gai’s optimism has edges if one knows where to look. It is trained. Maintained. Chosen again and again with the same discipline other shinobi apply to blades. He has seen the war. Everyone in this room has. He simply refuses to let the war be the only thing people see when they look at him.

That refusal has weight.

It also has uses.

“This assignment is unconventional,” Minato begins.

Gai somehow becomes even more attentive.

Minato slides the folder across the desk. “Three genin teams. Two returning field squads. Records department.”

At the last name, Shikaku’s gaze drops. 'Records' does not come home from missions with torn flak jackets. 'Records' does not collapse in the training grounds where everyone can see. 'Records' sits behind desks and turns grief into official language.

Death confirmations.

Pension transfers.

Missing-nin designations.

Orphan stipends.

Corrected spellings on casualty forms because even dead children deserve accuracy.

For months, The Records department has handled the village’s losses after those losses became paperwork.

Minato looks back at Gai, and his voice gentles.

“You’re being sent to help them breathe.”

Gai takes the folder with both hands. For all the brightness in him, all the force and readiness and wild contained weather, his hands close around the folder as if he understands exactly how heavy paper can be. The excitement remains, but it narrows into purpose. His shoulders stay squared. His expression steadies.

He has heard the mission beneath the mission. Hopefully.

Then Minato produces a second sheet, “Operational restrictions.”

Shikaku raises a brow, but the Yondaime ignores him.

“No dawn training,” Minato says. “No surprise endurance challenges. No entering administrative offices through windows. No motivational shouting within three feet of injured personnel, sleeping clerks, or unsecured ink bottles.”

Shikaku blinks from his corner, “Specific.”

“Experience is a good teacher.”

Minato taps the final line.

“All acronyms must be submitted for approval before use.”

The office goes still. Shikaku turns his head slowly. “You're giving him an acronym mission with acronym restrictions.”

“I'm giving him a morale mission with communication guidelines.”

“You created the fire and drafted fire safety regulations.”

“Responsible governance.”

“Troublesome governance.”

Minato smiles.

Gai leaves with the folder tucked beneath one arm like a sacred charge. The hallway receives him poorly. Somewhere outside, a clerk makes a startled sound, followed by the frantic rustle of papers being moved out of range.

The door closes.

Shikaku waits three seconds.

“This is more than morale.”

Minato looks down at the desk. “It is morale.”

“Minato.”

The Hokage’s hand stills near his pen. Shikaku lowers himself into the chair across from him. “Records is being watched.”

Minato’s expression cools by degrees. “By whom?”

“Everyone who understands paper is power.” Shikaku nods toward the door. “Casualty confirmations determine pensions. Missing-nin designations determine property. Orphan stipends determine clan obligations. Transfers determine who gets absorbed, who gets forgotten, who becomes available.”

Available for pressure.

Available for recruitment.

Available for men who collect broken people and call it village security.

Minato’s gaze moves to the closed door.

“Gai will be dismissed,” he says.

“Yes.”

“As too loud to be subtle.”

“Yes.”

“As harmless.”

Shikaku pauses. “By the wrong people, yes.”

Gai will walk into the Records Department with all that impossible brightness, and people will see the performance before they see the attention under it. They will notice the posture, the volume, the green. They will miss the way he reads a room through breath and shoulders and the angle of someone’s hands on a stack of forms.

He will know who laughs because they are relieved.

He will know who laughs because they are afraid.

He will know who hides a file too quickly.

Gai notices people with his whole body - and most of the village has never understood that.

Minato clearly has.

Shikaku sighs. “You’re using him as cover.”

“I’m using what people already believe about him.”

“That’s a darker sentence than you think.”

“I know exactly how dark it is.”

The office quiets. Outside, Konoha keeps hammering itself into the shape of peace.

Shikaku studies him for a moment, then looks back toward the hallway where Gai has gone. “He’ll help them.”

“Yes.”

“He’ll also find something.”

“Maybe.”

“And when he does?”

Minato picks up his cold tea, drinks it, and grimaces faintly.

“Then we’ll know where to look.”

Shikaku makes a face. “That tea is dead.”

“It died in service.”

“So did half the village. Don’t make the metaphor work harder than it has to.”

Minato’s mouth twitches.

Good. Still human, then. Annoyingly so.

Shikaku stands. “The restrictions need tightening.”

“I expected you to say that.”

“And the acronym needs to go.”

“You haven’t heard it.”

“I hate it already.”

Minato’s eyes brighten.

Shikaku points at him. “Don’t.”

“P.A.U.S.E.,” Minato says. “Personalized Assistance Under Structured Encouragement.”

Shikaku stares.

“That is a committee stack wearing a trench coat.”

“It communicates the objective.”

“It communicates sleep deprivation.”

“It can do both.”

From somewhere down the hall comes the unmistakable sound of a clerk being encouraged at high velocity.

✎ㅤ. . .ㅤ𝑩𝑳𝑶𝑶𝑫 𝑨𝑵𝑫 𝑫𝑨𝑹𝑲𝑵𝑬𝑺𝑺 / pt 2.

She knows his voice made its way across the entirety of the establishment and if she had it in her at all to feel embarrassed about such a declaration on her behalf, it was lost with the few drinks she had had. Kurenai didn't mind hearing it anyways, not for the sake of her vanity, but because she always appreciated sincerity in a person and that was all Gai ever could be. That sincerity helped when she was feeling a bit down.

She was glad she had ran into him and he decided to tag along for a few drinks. It had given them a chance to talk about their students, and somehow it spiraled into this. She was a little tipsy, so she can't quite remember what she said that earned such a compliment, but she was sure she must've let it slip in some capacity that the secrecy of her relationship with a certain someone was taking a toll. Which was silly, given she had been the one to propose such an arrangement in the first place. A pity party of her own making.

"If by nefarious schemes you mean going over this years budget for the academy, then no, it's not about you." The headmaster hummed, looking up from his lunch.

The words lingered in the air after Gai spoke them - softly said. Almost apologetic.

The late afternoon wind moved through the cemetery in slow currents, stirring the long grass around the gravestones into restless waves. Leaves whispered overhead, sunlight breaking gold through the canopy in fractured pieces that shifted constantly across stone and earth alike. Somewhere downhill, incense burned steadily, its smoke threading pale and thin through the warm summer air.

Minato’s gaze settled on the grave beside Gai.

Maito Akiko.

The marker was old enough now that weather had begun softening its edges, though someone kept it meticulously clean. There were faint streaks of pollen gathering near the base again, traces of dirt pressed into the engraved lettering from recent rain, but the stone itself had clearly been cared for with steady hands and stubborn consistency.

Fresh flowers rested in a ceramic vase beside it, unevenly arranged. The stems had been cut too short on one side.

Minato felt something tight and quiet settle beneath his ribs at the sight. He knew, in fragments, what this place had become for Gai over the years.

Not from being told directly. Gai rarely spoke plainly about grief. Few shinobi did.

But Minato had noticed the patterns.

The regular visits.

The flowers replaced before they could fully wilt.

The way Gai’s mission routes somehow always curved near the cemetery afterward, no matter how inconvenient the detour became.

And after Dai’s death--

Minato’s eyes lowered briefly to the earth beside Akiko’s grave. The grass there grew differently still. Newer. Slightly uneven where the soil had once been disturbed and carefully settled again.

He remembered the paperwork crossing the Sandaime's desk; burial authorization, transfer of shinobi records. Just a sneak peak of the administrative gruel behind the decorated title.

Property inheritance requests delayed behind mission priority stamps and reconstruction reports because the village had still been recovering from war.

Administrative language reduced lives to columns and signatures with horrifying efficiency.

Approval granted for joint interment.

Minato had seen the weight on the Sandaime's shoulders, and behind his gaze when he looked at his successor.

The breeze shifted harder through the trees, carrying the scent of damp earth and crushed clover between them.

“I know,” Minato said quietly.

His voice rested gently against the silence instead of breaking it.

Then, after a moment, he stepped off the stone path. Grass bowed softly beneath his sandals as he approached the grave. The white cloak at his shoulders stirred behind him, flame-patterned hem brushing through green blades tipped gold by the lowering sun.

When he lowered himself beside the gravestone, one knee pressing into the earth, the movement was unhurried. Careful.

Instinctively reverent.

For a while, he said nothing more. The cemetery breathed around them in quiet layers of sound: leaves shifting overhead, distant birdsong, the soft clink of wind chimes somewhere near the civilian plots farther downhill. Beyond the memorial grounds, Konoha spread wide beneath the evening light, rooftops glowing amber through dense trees while thin trails of cooking smoke curled lazily into the sky.

Life continuing.

Minato’s gaze remained on the gravestone.

“I reviewed the mission reports after the funeral,” he said eventually.

The words came low and even beneath the murmur of branches overhead.

“The enemy pursuit unit should have intercepted your team before you reached the border checkpoint.”

His fingers rested loosely against his knee.

“The projected casualty estimates were severe.”

Clinical language - detached language. The kind used by shinobi trying to survive the reality beneath it. Minato remembered the recovery report far more vividly than he wanted to.

Charred earth fused black from chakra overload.

Trees split apart from pressure waves.

Burn damage extending across an impossible radius.

And at the center of it---

Even now, a year later, there were parts of the report his mind resisted revisiting for too long.

“The survivors made it back because your father stayed behind,” Minato said softly.

No embellishment.

No polished speech about heroic sacrifice.

Just truth.

The wind moved through the cemetery again, gentler now, rustling the flowers beside the grave.

Minato’s eyes lingered briefly on them before continuing.

“Your father understood exactly what opening the Eighth Gate would do to him.” A pause. “He chose it anyway.”

Somewhere nearby, a cicada buzzed lazily in the heat.

Minato exhaled softly through his nose.

“I think,” he said after a long silence, “people often misunderstand courage.”

Sunlight shifted overhead as the leaves moved, fractured gold sliding slowly across the gravestone beneath his hand.

“They imagine fearlessness. Certainty.” His gaze lowered toward the earth beside Akiko’s marker. “But your father was afraid.”

The admission settled quietly into the warm air.

“He was afraid for you.”

A branch creaked overhead.

“He was afraid he wouldn’t reach you in time.” Minato’s throat moved once beneath the high collar of his cloak. “And he went anyway.”

The breeze swept across the hillside stronger this time, carrying the distant scent of rain and woodsmoke from the village below. Minato reached forward then, brushing a small streak of dirt from the edge of the gravestone with his thumb.

The gesture was unconscious. Tender in the way deeply habitual kindness often was.

“I didn’t know your mother well,” he admitted quietly. “But I remember enough.”

His gaze softened slightly as he looked at the grave.

“She was patient.”

A faint trace of warmth ghosted briefly across his expression.

“The kind of patient required to love two very loud people simultaneously.”

The leaves overhead rustled continuously now, soft and endless.

Minato’s hand rested lightly against the stone.

“I think,” he said at last, voice almost swallowed by the wind moving through the trees, “she would have been glad he came home to her.”

The shout cuts clean across the training ground - loud, bright, impossible to ignore.

They are taking a break from one of their drills - and not the polite kind either. The Hokage Guard Platoon runs its circuits like they expect to be ambushed mid-breath: marked points, timed movement, clean transitions between kunai placement and Hiraishin anchors, everything repeated once fatigue sets in so mistakes have nowhere to hide. The ground keeps the record of it - churned dirt, embedded tags, the faint scorch marks of misjudged landings.

Minato turns into the interruption. He looks like he belongs in the middle of it - sleeves pushed up, forearms dusted, hair damp at the temples. Controlled, as always, but not untouched.

Behind him, Genma is bent forward with his hands on his knees, senbon tucked in his mouth - and, for reasons no one will ever explain, a twig lodged in his hair like it has signed a lease. Raidō is upright out of stubbornness alone, one hand braced on his hip, the other dragging slowly across the back of his neck. Iwashi has gone still in the particular way of a man who can already see the future and does not care for it.

Minato takes in the outstretched fist.

Pauses.

And then - inevitably - smiles. It is immediate. Warm. A little helpless.

“Well,” he says, straightening just slightly, his tone light, “that sounds like an official request.”

Genma makes a quiet noise around the senbon that is not disagreement.

“Careful, Hokage sama,” he adds, voice rough with exertion but edged with something almost fond for the once-teammate. “Those tend to escalate.”

Minato glances back at him, the look half apology, half agreement.

“I’ve noticed,” he says.

And then he steps forward anyway.

It begins like a demonstration. Clean lines. Controlled movement. His hand lifts, knuckles aligned with practiced precision, as though this is simply another form to execute correctly.

For a fraction of a second, it almost stays that way.

Then the force behind the incoming strike makes itself known.

Minato adjusts - not retreating, never that - but meeting it, redirecting just enough to keep the impact from becoming a problem for the medical corps.

Crack.

The sound rings sharp through the open space.

Raidō flinches despite himself, breath catching on a low exhale. “There it is.”

Minato’s hand lowers again, unhurried. His expression holds - composed, easy - though his fingers flex once at his side, subtle as a thought, like he is reminding them all to keep working.

“…Excellent form,” he says, and means it.

Genma straightens enough to reach up and pull the twig free from his hair, turning it once between his fingers like he is considering keeping it. His mouth tilts around the senbon.

“Still hits like that,” he mutters, not entirely to anyone in particular. There is history in it - recognition, not complaint.

He flicks the twig aside.

Minato’s gaze lingers a moment longer than necessary before it softens, something more thoughtful settling in.

“You know,” he says, almost idly, “he always reminds me how important passion is.”

The words land gently but the effect is immediate. Iwashi closes his eyes, slow and resigned, like a man watching a storm roll in with no shelter in sight. Raidō’s shoulders sink a fraction lower, something like understanding - unfortunate, inevitable - settling into place.

Genma, for his part, goes very still.

Minato claps his hands once.

“Since we’re all inspired,” he continues, brightness returning with disarming ease, “let’s run the circuit--”

Raidō straightens a fraction. “Don’t.”

“--three more times.”

Genma looks at him, then at the track, then back again, like he is weighing loyalty to the Hokage against self-preservation and finding both insufficient.

“…You say that,” he says slowly, “like we didn’t just survive it.”

“Yes,” Minato agrees easily. “Which means we can do it better.”

Iwashi exhales, long and defeated. Raidō tips his head back toward the sky like he is filing a complaint no one will read.

Minato gestures toward the track, smile easy, unguarded - dangerous in its sincerity.

“After you.”

The target fizzles, and vanishes. His pace easing, Gai’s head whips around to look for it. Where?

The faint prickle of wind crawls up his neck, and his neck snaps to his four o’ clock. “Minato-sensei!” Gai bellows, before his feet pivot on his ankles, and he bends his knees to kick off again.

But before he’s even reached full acceleration, the Yellow Flash is gone again.

An amused hum sounds from his left. Gai swivels and takes off before he even looks toward it, a battle cry erupting from his throat. But the man is like an apparition, and disappears just as fast as he appears. Again and again.

Gai grounds to a halt in a flurry of dirt and growls in frustration. In a real battle, if he was the enemy, he’d be dead five times over already. Throat slit and body crumpled to the ground before he’d even had a chance to throw a punch. What use is all his strength and raw speed if he still fails to hold a candle to the ninjutsu that others use? Dominance in the training ground means nothing in the field.

He stops. Quiets his mind. Seeing is too slow. He needs to either learn to anticipate Minato’s intention, or learn to read the air’s folding and warping at every iteration.

“Minato-sensei!!” Gai calls, his voice determined. “Please allow me to pause this drill, but let me listen while you move!”

Minato lets the last marker-flicker die without immediately reappearing, giving Gai the space to arrive at the thought on his own. The training ground holds its breath - dirt settling, wind skimming the posts, the cold making every exhale look louder than it is.

When Minato returns, it isn’t with bravado. It’s with that quiet inevitability that makes people realize the difference between fast and untouchable: a faint pressure-change in the air, the subtle sense of space being tugged and released, and then he’s simply there - just outside reach, posture relaxed, hands open.

The frustration on Gai’s face is familiar. He has seen it on his own students so many times.

But the request is new.

Minato’s expression shifts at once: not amusement, not pity, but something warm and unmistakably proud. The kind of look he reserves for a student who stops trying to win by force and starts trying to understand.

He doesn’t answer with a speech.

He answers by acknowledging the question as worthy.

Two fingers lift - pause. Then he taps his own eyelids, slow and deliberate, and sweeps his hand down in a steadying motion that silently corrects posture: shoulders lowered, knees unlocked, weight grounded. A small tilt of his head toward his ear follows - listen - and the approval in his eyes makes it clear: this is the right direction.

Then he begins again, measured and intentional. Each relocation carries the same signature if you know what to hunt: a brief tightening in the atmosphere, a whisper of displaced warmth, the almost-silent complaint of space folding and snapping back. He varies the angles, repeats a rhythm, holds still between iterations long enough for recognition to take root - offering Gai data.

It’s not just a drill anymore. It's a lesson.

It’s exactly eight in the morning, which Gai has learnt, from multiple serious sit-downs from multiple well-meaning friends, is the very limit on the spectrum of “appropriate times of the day” to announce his presence.

For all that Minato has done for him, he has to thank him! And it’s much much more than just getting to train against the Yellow Flash, although that alone was an incredible honour.

It’s also the many evenings Gai was ushered warmly across the threshold into that bright, lively home, into evenings of sharp banter and laughter tossed over a homecooked spread. The aroma of fresh rice always seemed to expand in his being, filling up the hollow spaces within.

So he’s here, fresh and beaming, a small cupcake in hand, and volume in check.

“Minato-sensei!! Happiest and most youthful of birthdays to you! May every hair on the top of your head stay strong and vibrant! May every earnest desire of yours come to pass! May your marriage with Kushina-san flourish and grow like a strong oak tree!”

Minato registers the knock in stages.

First the timing - precise enough to be intentional. Then the restraint behind it; a presence that announces itself without daring the door to object. He pauses with the cup halfway to his mouth, steam curling up and briefly blurring his vision, and exhales once through his nose.

Eight in the morning. Ambitious.

He sets the cup down before the tea can cool into disappointment and opens the door.

Sunlight spills into the entryway all at once, bright and unapologetic, carrying with it a carefully contained burst of enthusiasm. Minato takes it in with quiet thoroughness - the straight-backed posture, the small box held with reverence, the effort it takes to compress joy into something socially acceptable.

The greeting arrives in one long, ceremonial breath.

Minato listens. All of it.

When it finally ends, he blinks once - slow, deliberate - like he’s letting the words settle into the walls before responding. His mouth curves, restrained but unmistakably amused.

“That’s impressively thorough Gai kun,” he says. “I’ll do my best to ensure my hair feels encouraged rather than burdened by destiny.”

He reaches out before the cupcake can suffer from excessive sincerity and takes the box carefully. It’s warm from being held too long, too earnestly.

Then, without comment, he steps aside.

“Why don't you come in,” Minato says, already turning. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

The door opens wider, and the house answers immediately. Warm air rolls out - rice just fluffed, miso still breathing, the faint sweetness of eggs cooked slowly enough to suggest stubborn principles at work. Morning light stretches across the wooden floor in pale, forgiving bands, catching dust motes mid-drift like the house itself has paused to take note.

Inside, the table is already half alive. Bowls steam lazily. Chopsticks rest where they were abandoned in favor of talking.

Obito looks up first.

He squints.

“…oh,” he says. “It’s you.”

Minato clears his throat mildly as he steps inside. “Good morning, Obito.”

Obito points with his chopsticks, scandalized. “He’s here and I haven't eaten yet. Who does that?”

Rin, already shifting her bowl to make room, nudges Obito’s elbow with practiced patience. “Be nice.”

“I am being nice,” Obito insists. “I didn’t say anything about the eyebrows.”

Minato sets the cupcake down on the counter like it deserves ceremonial respect. He pours tea, movements unhurried, domestic in a way that suggests this is not a performance but a rhythm. Ceramic clicks softly against wood.

From the kitchen comes motion and noise in equal measure.

“Minato,” Kushina calls, “if someone is here to drag you into work before breakfast, I swear I will--”

She rounds the corner, wooden spoon in hand, red hair tied back like it’s barely contained, takes in the scene, and immediately brightens.

“Oh!” she says. “You brought an offering.”

Minato inclines his head. “Birthday visit.”

Kushina gasps theatrically, hand to her chest. “See? This is how you survive shinobi politics 'ttebane.” She points the spoon like a weapon of mass inclusion. “Food. Manners. Emotional sincerity before nine a.m.”

She leans closer, stage-whispering loudly enough for everyone to hear. “I like him already.”

Obito splutters. “Kushina nee--!”

“Sit,” she says, sweeping an arm toward the table. “Eat. Anyone who shows up this early without demanding paperwork earns the privilege of my cooking. Anyone who complains washes dishes.”

That settles it - chairs shift. Bowls slide. The table stretches the way it always does, accommodating one more without ceremony. Minato gestures to the open space between Kakashi and Obito with a small tilt of his head, invitation folded neatly into the motion.

As everyone settles, Obito’s attention sharpens - not toward the guest, but toward the food.

“Wait,” he says, narrowing his eyes at the spread in front of Gai. “Why does he get soup and eggs?”

Kushina plants the spoon back into the pot with a decisive clatter. “Because he brought dessert.”

“That’s bribery!”

“That’s foresight.”

Rin hides a smile behind her cup. Kakashi eats quietly, already disengaged from the argument. Minato sits last, wrapping his hands around the warmth of his tea, letting the sound wash over him - steam, clatter, the low, familiar chaos of people who know where they belong.

Obito, clearly not done, leans forward. “Fine. If he gets special treatment, then I want a challenge. Breakfast speed trial. Loser does dishes.”

“Absolutely not,” Minato says mildly.

Kushina’s eyes light up. “Absolutely yes.”

Minato sighs into his cup. “Kushina--”

“Too late,” she says cheerfully. “You married me. These are the terms 'ttebane.”

Obito grins, already inhaling his rice like it’s a competitive sport. Rin protests gently. Someone laughs. Someone knocks over a spoon.

Minato watches it all with quiet amusement, a small, private realization settling in his chest - not heavy, not sentimental. Just an observation, filed away with the others.

His table keeps expanding. People arrive, at reasonable hours or not, carrying offerings or noise or nothing at all, and somehow there is always space.

“This,” Minato says mildly, as the chaos crescendos around him in Genin voices and nearly spilled soup, “is shaping up to be a very productive morning.”

Kushina bumps his shoulder as she passes, already laughing. “You say that every time chaos feeds you.”

He hums, amused, and lifts his cup.

Outside, the door clicks shut against the cool morning air. Inside, breakfast continues - steam rising, bowls clinking, laughter spilling where it wants to - while Minato lets the day begin exactly like this.

(or: Someone Forgot He Married an Uzumaki)

Minato’s file starts like this, in his neat, painfully well-behaved Hokage handwriting:

Yondaime Patch No. 08 – Internal Infiltration Protocol (Draft) – Scope: detection and interception of foreign agents within civilian sectors of Konoha. – Proposed lead: Hokage (field). – Rationale:

The word Hokage is crossed out twice.

Underneath, in a different hand - sharper, more impatient, and in red ink:

Uzumaki Patch 01 – “Market Sweep” – Scope: fixing the infiltration bug without dragging my idiot husband out of his meeting. – Proposed lead: Uzumaki Kushina (because someone forgot he married one).

There’s a faint ring where someone set a dango plate on the paper.

The rest of the page smells very faintly of sugar and ink.

------🍥------

Midmorning, Konoha’s main market might as well be a sensory ambush.

Voices bounce off wooden awnings and canvas roofs. A fishmonger slaps a silver carp onto a block with a wet smack. Oil spits and pops from tempura stalls. Steam from dumpling pots curls up and sticks to the underside of awnings, carrying soy and ginger and something sweet.

Chill autumn air tries its best but loses a fistfight with charcoal smoke, frying batter, and the sharp green of cut scallions.

Kushina walks through it like she owns the place.

Basket hooked over one arm, hair pinned up with two cheap metal sticks, she looks like any other loud-mouthed, sharp-eyed Konoha aunty. She argues over radish prices, laughs with the fishmonger, flicks a peanut at a kid who nearly runs into a cart.

Her face is all sunshine.

Her chakra however, is not.

Now Kushina isn’t a proper sensory-nin and never has been. What she does have is Kurama: a huge, coiled presence wrapped around her chakra like a fox in a sunbeam, ears pricking whenever intent around her sours. Malice, hunting-focus, mean little spikes of curiosity aimed in the wrong direction - they all tug on that red thread in her gut.

Under the noisy, familiar thrum of the market - civilian signatures like messy brushstrokes, shinobi flares from passing patrols - she feels three neat, wrong little knots.

Not big. Not aggressive.

Just… disciplined in all the ways civilians aren’t.

There, at the cloth stall:

The “merchant’s” chakra is folded too cleanly, as if someone took a storm front and pressed it flat. Not Konoha’s warm, leafy hum - more like air right before lightning. His stance is balanced. His gaze tracks flak vests, not fabrics.

There, by the spice vendor:

Hands that should be stained permanent yellow from turmeric are callused in the wrong pattern - sword grip, not pestle. His chakra occasionally pricks, sharp and dry, then flattens again.

And at the edge of the street, near a side alley:

A bland man with bland eyes and very bland clothes whose chakra spikes in a tight, controlled pulse every time someone says “Hokage sama” within earshot.

Kushina plucks up a tomato, turning it in her fingers like she’s debating ripeness.

Bugs, she thinks, very calmly. Three of them.

“Ne, Kushina chan,” the vegetable aunty murmurs as she piles greens onto the scale. Her voice is low, but her eyes are bright. “You see those new traders? Good smiles, good money, never haggle, tch.” She leans in, breath smelling faintly of tea. “They ask too many questions. ‘When Hokage sama walks past.’ ‘What time guards change.’ Makes my spine itch. You tell your husband, hm?”

“Maybe,” Kushina says, still smiling, feeling the crackle of those too-clean chakras through the cobbles. “We’ll see 'ttebane.”

She pays, tucks the vegetables into her basket, and keeps walking, letting her senses map the market: stall positions, sight lines, rooftops, patrol intervals.

You don’t ping the Hokage every time you see a suspicious pop-up.

That’s what patches are for.

------🍥------

She appears in front of Obito like a jump scare behind a dumpling stall.

One moment, there is only steam rising from stacked bamboo baskets, the hiss of dough cooking, and Obito happily stuffing his face.

The next moment: Kushina.

He chokes.

“K-Kushina nee!” he wheezes, thumping his chest. “You can’t just--just materialize in front of people-- I nearly died without doing something heroic!”

“If a dumpling kills you,” Kushina says, patting his back exactly once, “you’re not allowed on missions 'ttebane. Question.”

He straightens, suspicious. “…Yes?”

She tilts her head. “Why are you watching the sandal stall for the third day in a row?”

Obito freezes with half a dumpling still in his hand.

“I’m… not?” he tries. He is terrible at lying. “I like sandals. And… stalls.”

She just looks at him, hands on her hips.

He caves instantly. “Okay fine,” he mutters. “The guy’s wrong. His hands are wrong, his posture’s wrong, his feet are too quiet, and his chakra feels like it’s trying not to be thunder. I’ve been watching him. Hypothetically.”

“Good boy,” Kushina says, entirely satisfied.

His ears go red.

They shift a half-step deeper into the steam-shadow behind the stall. Kushina points out the other two with a little nod - a spice vendor who never actually tastes anything, a bland man whose eyes are too sharp, too observant.

Obito, who has been hopping around rooftops and alleys like a squirrel on missions, fills in the rest:

Times they close up.

Who they follow with their eyes.

Which ANBU routes they are always “accidentally” near.

How one of them flinched when a kid’s sparkler crackled like lightning.

He doesn’t say “Kumo” out loud. He doesn’t really need to. The hush in his voice when he says, “Their chakra feels… wrong, like the air before a storm, but it keeps flattening again,” is enough.

Between her aunty network and his roof-goblin surveillance, the picture is very neat:

Origin: almost certainly Kumo. Behavior: recon, testing routes, mapping civilian patterns. Location: her market. His routes. Their village.

Kushina’s smile sharpens.

“Don’t tell Minato yet,” she says.

Obito blinks. “What? Why?”

“Because,” she says, “if we tell him now, he’ll vanish in a flash, forget he has a meeting about road budgets, and reappear three hours later with blood on his cuffs and missing signatures. Then Shikaku will glare at him until his soul leaves his body. We are preventing suffering 'ttebane.”

“Oh,” Obito says. “…Oh. That’s fair.”

She squeezes his shoulder.

“We’ll hand him a clean, finished job 'ttebane,” she says. “Neatly wrapped.” Her eyes glint. “And then we’ll laugh about it”

Obito beams. “Uzumaki Patch,” he says, equal parts reverent and mischevious.

“Exactly.”

------🍥------

The war room is the Uzumaki-Namikaze kitchen.

It smells like tea, ink, and the ghost of burned miso from last week. The table is scarred and mismatched, its surface buried under a hand-drawn map of the market sketched on the back of an old requisition form, three big Xs in red ink, crumbs, two kunai stabbed straight through the Kumo routes, and a jar of pickles someone put there and then apparently forgot.

Around it stands Konoha’s self-proclaimed disaster management squad.

Kushina has her sleeves rolled up, chopsticks pinning up her hair instead of metal clips. Obito fidgets with a dumpling skewer like it’s a kunai. Kakashi has his chair tipped back, arms folded, mask in place, his eyes sharp and tired in that way that means he’s already six steps ahead. Rin sits with her notebook open, taking calm, precise notes like this is just another clinic briefing.

Gai vibrates hard enough to make the tea in the cups tremble. Kurenai is quiet and attentive, fingers unconsciously sketching genjutsu patterns along the table’s edge. Asuma balances his chair on two legs, cigarette smoke curling lazily out the cracked window.

Tsunade is only here because she arrived for tea, heard the phrase “Kumo spies sniffing around Minato,” and simply never left.

Kakashi taps one of the red Xs with a gloved finger.

“Three primary operators,” he says. “Possibly rotating backup behind stalls, but these three write the pattern.”

His voice is flatly professional; the edge underneath is anything but.

Kurenai traces routes lightly. “They’re testing time windows,” she murmurs. “Where patrols thin. Where civilians block sight lines. Their routes avoid our fixed surveillance points just a little too neatly.”

“Subtle,” Asuma says, blowing smoke. “Not subtle enough.”

Obito jabs at the map. “This one,” he says, “always turns his head when someone says ‘Hokage sama’ near the dumpling stall. Doesn’t matter who. He tracks the word.”

“And this one,” Kakashi adds, tapping another X, “never looks at the Monument. Everyone else glances at it at least once. He acts like it doesn’t exist.” His eye narrows. “Which means he’s already logged it and doesn’t want to be caught staring.”

Kushina lets them lay it out, proud and fond in equal measure.

Then she claps her hands once.

“Roles,” she says. “This is not a mission from the tower. This is Konoha running a background update while the Hokage is trapped in a meeting 'ttebane.”

Gai straightens like someone just pulled a string.

“Kumo agents daring to STALK OUR HOKAGE’S STEPS,” he declares, then visibly wrestles with himself, drags his volume down, “is a heinous affront to the FLAMES of this village.”

Everyone looks mildly impressed. That was almost restrained.

“Gai,” Kushina says, pointing. “You’re bait. You will carry fake scrolls and look like the worst idea Kumo ever had.”

He beams. “MY YOUTH SHALL BE THE LURE that reveals their UNYOUTHFUL INTENTIONS!”

“Indoor voice,” half the room says automatically.

“Kurenai,” Kushina continues, “you’re net. Soft genjutsu, nothing that hurts civilians. Tilt the crowd, nudge feet, make one alley seem more inviting than another. If something goes loud, civilians remember ‘a crate fell’ and nothing else.”

Kurenai nods, red eyes distant, smile sharp, already weaving threads in her mind.

“Asuma,” she says, “you’re the end-of-alley wall. If anyone slips past the first hit, they hit you next.”

Asuma flicks ash neatly into an empty cup. “Guess I’m the quality control,” he says. “Fine by me.”

“Rin,” Kushina says, “you and I handle snare and medic. I’ll bring the chains if it comes to that; you make sure our guests don’t die before T&I and Tsunade get their fun.”

Rin smiles sweetly in a way that is not reassuring at all. “I’ll prep suppression seals that don’t fry their nervous systems,” she says. “And something for if Obito trips over his own feet again.”

“Why is that automatically part of the plan?” Obito protests.

“Empirical pattern,” Kakashi says.

Kushina points at him next. “Kakashi. Rooftops. You track all three, watch our flanks, and call if there’s a fourth we missed.”

He nods once. “Copy. I’ll log routes for T&I too. No point catching them if we can’t prove what they were doing.”

The kettle on the counter clicks as it cools. Somewhere in the house, a floorboard pops as it settles. Nobody moves.

“And me?” Tsunade asks, lifting an eyebrow over the rim of her cup.

The room goes the kind of quiet that feels like a held breath. Obito freezes with the dumpling skewer halfway to his mouth. Gai pauses mid-vibrating, like a wind-up toy someone has grabbed by the collar. Asuma’s chair drops from two legs to four with a soft thunk. Rin’s pen stops dead above her notebook. Even Kakashi’s eyes flick up from the map and to Kushina, wary in a way that says you are playing with forces beyond your pay grade.

Kushina’s grin turns feral, chakra giving a pleased little ripple in her gut, as if replying I was playing with those before you were born.

“You,” she says, “are the post-capture experience, ’ttebane.”

Obito shudders out loud. “They’re so dead,” he mutters.

Asuma smirks, smoke curling out the corner of his mouth. “Here we go,” he says, like he’s seen this exact disaster coming and has decided to enjoy the view.

Kurenai looks like she’s watching a rare predator do something fascinating in a very small enclosure. Gai’s eyes are shining with the kind of horrified admiration reserved for natural disasters and excellent training injuries.

Tsunade sets her tea down very gently. The cup makes the softest click against the table, and somehow that’s the most threatening sound in the room.

“Elaborate,” she says.

“We snag them,” Kushina says. “We wrap them, tag them, and deliver them to T&I with a bow. You greet them in your lab coat with that thing you do where you describe bones like line items on an invoice.”

Rin’s pen pauses. “Oh,” she says softly. “That.”

Gai slams his fist into his palm. “AN ENEMY WHO THREATENS OUR HOKAGE,” he proclaims, “MUST ALSO KNOW THE TERROR OF OUR HEALERS--”

“Indoor voice, Gai,” everyone choruses.

Tsunade considers this for all of three seconds.

“Kumo,” she says slowly. “Sniffing around Minato. In my village. After I spent years keeping that blond brat alive long enough to put on a hat.”

Tsunade’s smile is very small and very sharp. It looks harmless in the way scalpels do - clean, precise, and invented for regret.

“All right, menace,” she says at last, eyes flicking from Kushina to the map and back. “You bring me three. Alive. With notes. I’ll handle the part where they understand what it means to come after my cousin Hokage and his idiot chakra pathways.”

Obito makes a faint dying-whale noise in the back of his throat. Gai looks like someone just promised him front-row seats to the apocalypse. Asuma mutters, “Remind me never to miss tea at your house again.”

Kushina grins, bright and vicious, and slams the kunai down dead-center on the alley scribble. The map jumps; pickle brine sloshes in the forgotten jar.

“Uzumaki Patch 01,” she declares. “Market Sweep. Move out.”

------🍥------

The next day, the market wakes up as usual.

Almost.

The same fishmonger slaps down silver fish. The same old man shouts about knives. The same children weave between stalls until an aunty grabs one by the ear. The same wind carries the same mix of soy, charcoal, wet stone, and vegetables.

But if you could see chakra, the air would be full of faint threads.

Kurenai’s work lies over the street like fine gauze - bare shifts in color and sound. A corner seems darker than it is, so people don’t go there. Another path looks just a bit more crowded, so they take the quieter one instead.

To civilians, the day feels normal.

To shinobi, there’s a subtle tension, like the last breath before a leap.

Gai strides through the main lane in full Might Gai Jōnin glory, green jumpsuit an insult to subtlety, arms loaded with scroll cases and a bag of leeks.

Every scroll case is fake.

“AH, SUCH A YOUTHFUL DAY TO CARRY IMPORTANT DOCUMENTATION!” he declares. “IF ONLY SOMEONE WOULD TAKE ADVANTAGE OF THIS GLARING SECURITY--”

“Gai!” Obito yells from across the way, waving a sheaf of obviously stamped papers. “You’re taking those annotated guard rotation scrolls to the south gate planning meeting again? At exactly the same time as yesterday?”

Civilians roll their eyes.

Three specific men do not.

The cloth-seller’s shoulders tighten. The spice vendor’s hand pauses over a jar. The bland man near the alley glances up, just once, and his chakra does that telling little Kumo spike - dry and sharp, gone a heartbeat later.

On the rooftops, Kakashi crouches low, cloak tugged close against the wind, eyes narrowed. He tracks micro-adjustments: chin tilts, weight shifts, who looks at what and who pretends not to.

“Target A closing stall,” he murmurs, voice barely above the rustle of his own breath. “Target B ‘going for tea.’ Target C shadowing Gai from fifteen meters back.”

Static crackles faintly in his ear as Asuma replies, “Copy. I’ll keep the door open.”

At a herb stand, Rin buys actual herbs. The aunty fusses and stuffs extra in her bag. Kurenai walks by appearing as unremarkable as possible, her chakra working hard around the edges - nudging, shunting, making the alley she wants just a bit more appealing.

Kushina ambles with her basket and the aura of someone thinking only about daikon. Underneath the soles of her sandals, her chakra hums in low, steady loops, waiting.

The three “merchants” move like normal men with normal errands. They are not. The cloth seller folds his wares and “heads to storage,” the spice vendor covers his jars and “goes for a break,” and the bland man drifts along behind Gai as if he’s just taking a harmless shortcut.

They all slide, almost lazily, into the same narrow lane - into the funnel Kurenai has been nudging them toward all morning. The alley they choose is a little quieter, a little cooler, the noise of the market thinning behind them. Stone walls on either side hold echoes; somewhere, water drips in a slow, offbeat rhythm that makes the whole space feel like it’s holding its breath.

Kurenai’s genjutsu thickens: to anyone without a shinobi’s focus, the alley is nothing special. To the three men, it looks like the logical, convenient path toward the south side.

“Asuma,” Kakashi murmurs into the mic. “All three in your lane. Five seconds.”

At the far end of the alley, Asuma leans against the wall, cigarette ember glowing orange in the shade. He looks like boredom in flak and a forehead protector.

“I see them,” he says lazily. “Try not to break the nice paving stones.”

Obito barrels into the alley mouth from the other side, perfectly on cue, and executes the same fall he’s been practicing in Kushina’s kitchen.

It is, objectively, excellent.

He stumbles, flails, and crashes to the ground, scattering “documents” everywhere - pages with big, obvious headings like “SOUTH GATE PATROL - ANNOTATED” and “HOKAGE ROUTE SCHEDULE”

“Oh NO,” he wails, voice echoing off the bricks. “My VERY IMPORTANT and ACCURATE GUARD ROTATION NOTES!”

The sandal seller’s eyes drop.

The spice vendor’s chakra tightens.

The bland man hesitates, just a fraction too long for someone “passing by.”

Kushina feels the decision click in the air like the moment lightning chooses its path. Chakra hums under her skin and somewhere, Kurama lifts one lazy, amused brow.

The Kumo agents step forward.

The alley floor lights up.

Chains of molten red-gold chakra explode from the stone with a crackle and the smell of hot metal, coiling around ankles, wrists, torsos, slamming them to a halt.

There is a sound like metal bars slamming shut.

Kushina steps out of a recessed doorway, sleeves rolled up, hair pins glinting, eyes bright.

“Hi,” she says cheerfully over the snap and sizzle of her seals. “You’re trespassing 'ttebane.”

The cloth seller curses in an accent that doesn’t belong to Fire Country, hand twitching toward a hidden kunai; Asuma is suddenly there, forearm pinning the man’s chest to the wall.

“Don’t,” Asuma says around his cigarette. “She spent time on those seals.”

The spice vendor starts a lightning-based jutsu - Kushina feels the faint rasp of Kumo nature in the air - but Rin’s suppression tag hits his collarbone with surgical precision. The crackle cuts out with a painful whine.

“I wouldn’t,” Rin says sweetly, patting the tag flat. “I know exactly how your nervous system works.”

The bland man does the sensible thing and bolts backward.

...and rebounds off Gai.

Gai doesn’t move an inch.

It’s like running face-first into a particularly motivated wall.

“IT IS DEEPLY UNYOUTHFUL,” Gai bellows, “TO SNEAK INTO ANOTHER VILLAGE AND LURK AFTER OUR HOKAGE LIKE A COWERING INSECT!”

His voice shakes dust from the eaves.

“Indoor voice, Gai,” Kushina says, but she’s laughing.

On the rooftop, Kakashi drops down behind them with no more sound than a settling tile, checks each binding, and taps one of the chain nodes with his knuckles.

“Three Kumo signatures, suppressed,” he reports coolly. “Minimal collateral. Zero market panic. One Obito, voluntary floor sample.”

Obito, still sprawled artistically over his fake documents, gives a thumbs up from the cobblestones.

Within minutes, it’s done.

Kurenai’s genjutsu peels back in soft layers. The alley returns to normal: slightly scuffed stones, a knocked-over crate, a lingering smell of singed ozone and dango.

By the time someone wanders past and peers in, all they see is an empty lane where nothing interesting has ever happened, and Obito trotting after Gai with an armful of “rescued” papers.

“Kids,” the passerby mutters.

The patch has been installed.

------🍥------

T&I, interrogation room three, smells like metal, ink, and old antiseptic.

The light is deliberately too white, bouncing off the steel table. The chairs are just uncomfortable enough to keep a person from relaxing. The air is cool enough to make sweat stand out.

The three Kumo agents wake up one by one, wrists bound to the bolted chairs, suppression tags humming along their tenketsu. Their chakras feel like gutted thunderheads - storm nature pinned under a wet blanket.

They have just enough time to realize they are not dead before the door opens.

Heels on concrete. A soft rustle of fabric.

White lab coat. Clipboard. Perfectly controlled chakra that feels like a pressure system moving in.

Senju Tsunade walks in like she owns the building.

To be fair, medically, she does.

Her hair is tied back, leaving her face uncovered. Her coat is spotless except for a faint dusting of chalky white at one pocket. Her eyes are the exact color of “don’t bleed on my floor.”

She closes the door with a soft click and smiles.

It is not a reassuring smile.

“Good afternoon,” she says, voice smooth and almost warm. “I’m Senju Tsunade. Head of Konoha’s medical corps. I will be supervising your… stay.”

The sandal seller swallows, throat bobbing against the collar of his flak.

“We’re prisoners,” he says hoarsely. “Not patients.”

Tsunade tilts her head.

“That,” she says, “depends a lot on how the next hour goes.”

She flips open her clipboard. The faint scratch of paper sounds very loud in the room.

“There are two main pathways from here,” she continues, conversational, as if listing menu options. “Option A: interrogation. You answer questions clearly, quickly, and truthfully. I monitor your vitals, make sure nothing unfortunate happens, everyone goes home with all their parts where they started.”

She taps the left side of the page.

“Option B: interrogation plus corrective medical education.”

She taps the right side.

She starts walking slowly behind their chairs, the heel-clicks methodical. Her chakra presses down just enough to make breathing feel like a conscious decision.

“We have very good anesthetics in Konoha,” she says thoughtfully. “And very good ways of not using them. Did you know the bones of the hand are quite forgiving? You can crack several of them without compromising overall function, as long as you know what you’re doing.”

Her fingers brush the sandal seller’s knuckles lightly on her way past. He flinches like she burned him.

Behind the one-way glass, Obito whispers, “Oh kami.”

Rin leans forward a little, taking notes like this is a lecture. Kurenai has her arms folded, expression fascinated. Asuma exhales a thin stream of smoke and looks smug.

Kakashi, hands in his pockets, deadpans, “Told you she hasn’t even started yet.”

Inside, Tsunade stops behind the spice vendor.

“Target selection,” she says cheerfully. “You picked Konoha. Specifically, you picked my Hokage.”

She pats his shoulder. The sound of bone under her hand is very, very clear.

“In my hospital files,” she continues, voice softening, “he is categorized as an idiot patient with a high risk of self-sacrificing behavior, one (1) chronic tendency to overextend his chakra, and a spouse who will throw furniture if I let him die.”

She leans down between the man’s ear and shoulder and smiles where only he can see it.

“When you target him,” she murmurs, “you target my patient.”

The room temperature drops ten degrees. Her chakra spikes - not wildly, but with the precise, awful weight of a storm sitting directly overhead.

“I do not,” she says, straightening, “lose patients. Especially not Hokage brats who steal my beds and then get promoted into hats.”

Her pen clicks as she retracts it.

“So,” she says briskly, moving back to the front of the table. “Let’s get the basics out of the way. Village. Command structure. Mission parameters. Reporting channels. You are from…?”

Silence.

The sandal seller clenches his jaw. The spice vendor stares straight ahead. The third agent glares at a spot above her shoulder, face carefully empty.

Tsunade sighs.

“All right,” she says. “Option B it is.”

She flips her clipboard around so they can see.

On it is a beautifully detailed anatomical sketch of the human nervous system. Each major cluster of nerves is labeled. Some labels are underlined. Some have small neat notes next to them: “HIGHLY RECOMMENDED” and “DO NOT TOUCH (MORTALITY)” and “PAIN: EXCELLENT, RECOVERY: GOOD.”

“On this side,” she says, tapping the left column, “I have the parts of you I absolutely must keep intact if I want you to live long enough to be useful.”

She taps the right.

“On this side, I have the parts that relate to comfort. Fine motor skills. Sleep. Interesting responses to electrical stimulation - Kumo should appreciate that.” Her smile shows teeth. “Some of these are… negotiable.”

The spice vendor starts sweating in earnest now. The air smells faintly of metal and fear.

Tsunade looks at the sandal seller.

“I imagine,” she says, “as shinobi of Kumo, you’re proud of your ability to endure pain. Lightning release. Toughness. All that.”

She shrugs.

“Endurance makes you better subjects, not safer.”

There’s a tiny, traitorous noise from the bland man. She turns her gaze on him like a scalpel.

“And you,” she says. “You’ve been the calm one. The quiet one. Good at watching. Good at remembering. I’d hate for anything to… interfere with that. Optical nerves are such delicate things.”

Her gaze lingers on his eyes for a heartbeat too long, like she’s already tracing the nerve paths in her head. The harsh overhead light catches the metal edge of the table and throws a thin white bar straight across his pupils.

He pales.

Behind the glass, Obito presses both hands to his mouth. “She’s worse than T&I,” he whispers, voice cracking.

Rin hums, not looking away. “She’s more efficient than most T&I.”

Asuma exhales a lazy stream of smoke and holds his hand out without taking his eyes off the room. Gai groans, digs around in his flak vest, and drops a coin into Asuma’s palm.

“I told you she’d go for nerves before bones,” Asuma says, smug.

“I BELIEVED SHE WOULD CHOOSE THE PAINFUL PATH OF FRACTURES,” Gai loudly whispers back, scandalized. “Her versatility is truly FEARSOME.”

Kushina watches Tsunade’s reflection in the glass. Yeah, she thinks, warm and viciously proud. Picked the perfect nee-chan for this job, 'ttebane.

Inside, Tsunade closes the clipboard with a sharp little snap that makes all three men flinch.

“Last chance,” she says. “Option A… or we spend a very long time finding the exact point at which Kumo ‘elite’ starts begging.”

She folds her arms, lab coat rustling.

The sandal seller cracks.

“Lightning Country,” he blurts. “Kumo. We’re from Kumo.”

The spice vendor hisses, “You idiot--”

Tsunade looks bored. “Yes,” she says calmly. “We figured that out from the way your chakra kept trying to behave like a storm and then got sat on by Kushina's seals.”

She tilts her head.

“Everything else,” she says, “you’re going to tell us slowly. So we can write it down neatly.”

Behind the glass, Kakashi jot notes: Senju, Tsunade – interrogation multiplier; minimal physical contact required; strong psychological deterrent. Recommendation: do not make her file more paperwork than necessary.

Kushina just smiles, sharp and proud.

“Kumo picked the wrong blond 'ttebane,” she murmurs. “Ours is very well defended.”

------🍥------

That night, when the corridors of the tower are mostly quiet and the sky outside his window is a deep, indigo blue, Minato finally has his office to himself.

The desk smells like ink, paper, and wood polish. His shoulders ache from sitting through a three-hour discussion about gravel.

He notices the file immediately.

It’s in the middle of his desk, slightly crooked, with what looks suspiciously like flour on the corner and a faint dango smudge near the top.

He sits down, flips it open, and finds:

Uzumaki Patch 01 – “Market Sweep” – Bug: Kumo agents using civilian market to map Hokage routes, guard rotations, and ANBU habits. – Fix implemented while Hokage was trapped in a council meeting about road maintenance. – Lead: Uzumaki Kushina.

He keeps reading:

– Participants: – Hatake Kakashi – rooftop overwatch; route logging; annoying level of competence. – Nohara Rin – medic; suppression tags; made sure nobody died or had an excuse to complain about side effects. – Uchiha Obito – bait; decoy intel; dramatic falling; minor bruising (self-inflicted). – Maito Gai – scroll mule; distraction; volume crimes. – Sarutobi Asuma – end-of-alley wall; blade; smoking habit used for dramatic effect. – Yūhi Kurenai – environmental genjutsu; crowd redirection; civilian memory smoothing. – Senju Tsunade – post-capture “consultant”; produced extremely motivated cooperation via medical discussion.

– Outcome: – Three Kumo agents captured alive. – Zero civilian casualties. – Damage: one crate, minor scuffing on cobblestones, Obito’s pride. – T&I notes “remarkably swift and detailed confession,” suspect cause: “presence of Senju Tsunade (lab coat).”

Below that, in Kushina’s smug red ink:

– Lessons learned: – Market aunty network = Early Warning System v1.0. Increase tea budget. – Hokage does not need to personally body-check every infiltration attempt. That is why he has a village. – Kumo agents are tough, but not tougher than Tsunade describing elective nerve damage.

Under that is Rin’s precise script:

– Medical note: suppression talismans and restraint seals worked as intended; no long-term harm to detainees. – Hokage’s medical file unaffected (this time).

And Kakashi’s messier handwriting:

– Tactical recommendation: – Formalize “civilian & informal intelligence channels” (market, clan gossip, aunty network) in internal security protocols. – Assign Jōnin liaison (suggest: Yūhi Kurenai) so future Uzumaki Patches come with fewer legal gray areas.

There is also a small doodle in Obito’s messy hand:

A stick-figure Hokage with a tiny hat, standing behind a wall of stick-figures labeled wife, Jōnin, kids, and terrifying doctor lady with demon horns, facing three little storm clouds labeled “Kumo.” The storm clouds are crying.

Minato presses his fingertips over his mouth and just laughs.

It bubbles out of him - quiet at first, then helpless - until the weight he’s been carrying all day shifts just a little and he nearly slips off his chair.

When he can breathe again, he picks up his brush and adds, under everyone else:

– Yondaime comment: While I was arguing about gravel, Konoha: – detected a Kumo infiltration attempt in the civilian sector, – neutralized it with zero civilian panic, – leveraged the market aunties, – delivered three prisoners + full intel to T&I, – and updated my patch file. – Conclusion: it is not just my job anymore. Good. – Action items: – 1) Schedule formal “Civilian & Informal Networks” briefing with Shikaku. Pretend this was absolutely my idea all along. – 2) Bring Kushina dango before telling her she is technically not allowed to hijack my version numbers. – 3) Ask Tsunade ane politely not to file “optional bone removal plan” in my official medical record.

He sets the brush down, leans back, and stares at the ceiling for a moment, listening.

Outside, the village hums - a hundred different chakras beating against the night, warm and alive.

Somewhere:

Market aunties are still gossiping about “that loud Gai boy” and how “Kushina chan’s friends” seemed busy today.

Kurenai is adjusting genjutsu routes on a blank sheet of paper, thinking about crowd behavior.

Asuma is on a quiet patrol, hand in his pocket, pretending this was all in a day’s work.

Gai is telling anyone who will listen the story of “THE GLORIOUS DEFENSE OF THE MARKET OF YOUTH!”

Kakashi is writing a very dry report with one line of silent sass and trying not to turn it into a comic book.

Rin is double-checking tags and thinking about how to make the next batch gentler on Kumo nervous systems (but not too gentle).

Obito is bragging to the dumpling stall aunty about “classified missions” and getting extra dumplings for it.

Tsunade is back in the hospital, filling out forms and admitting to Shizune that she enjoyed terrifying enemy shinobi. Shizune is reminding her that she terrifies regular people on a regular basis by default.

Kushina is probably already drafting Uzumaki Patch 02 in her head.

Minato closes the file, fingers resting on the cover.

Day 37: the village patched itself while the Hokage did paperwork.