The observation post atop Hokage Tower's eastern wing smelled of ink, steel, and the faint copper tang of blood never quite washed from ANBU armor. Afternoon sunlight slanted through the reinforced windows, casting long shadows across the tatami floor where various tracking seals had been carved into the surface. A half-empty pot of tea sat cooling on the low table, surrounded by scattered mission reports and surveillance photographs.
Hawk adjusted his mask, his fingers tracing the red markings as he leaned against the wall beside a shelf lined with coded intelligence scrolls. Across from him, Bear flipped through a stack of reports, the pages making a crisp sound in the otherwise quiet room. The distant shouts of academy students practicing shuriken throws drifted up from the training grounds below.
"Academy evaluations again?" Hawk asked, breaking the silence as he watched a messenger hawk circle above the Hokage Monument.
Bear nodded, the overhead light glinting off his porcelain mask. "Quarterly assessments. Have you seen this year's standouts?"
"I've heard whispers." Hawk moved to peer over Bear's shoulder, his sandals barely making a sound on the worn tatami. "Namikaze, right? The blonde kid?"
"Minato Namikaze. Perfect scores across the board." Bear tapped the file, brushing aside a shuriken that served as a paperweight. "His ninjutsu comprehension is off the charts, and his chakra control is exceptional for his age. The instructors are already calling him a once-in-a-generation prodigy."
Hawk let out a low whistle, leaning back against a wall covered with maps of the Five Great Nations, pins marking diplomatic outposts and trade routes. "We could use more like him. The village always needs exceptional shinobi, even in these peaceful times."
"There's another one." Bear pulled a second file from the stack, this one marked with a yellow tag. "Shinji. Just as interesting, but in... different ways."
"I've heard stories."
Bear nodded. "His taijutsu scores are... peculiar. Consistently average. Never a mistake, never excellence. Suspiciously consistent. But that's not what concerns me."
"The Akimichi connection?"
"Exactly." Bear spread out several photographs across the table, knocking aside an empty dango stick. They showed a black-haired boy with an easy smile, working alongside several Akimichi clan members in their restaurant kitchen. Steam rose from pots while the boy measured ingredients with careful attention. "He's been spending hours in their kitchens, creating recipes no one's ever seen before. Dishes that don't exist in any Fire Country cookbook."
Hawk picked up one of the images, the edges worn from handling. A talisman in the corner of the room swayed slightly, though no window was open. "Could be nothing. Kids experiment."
"It's not just food." Bear produced another report, this one bearing the seal of the hospital's research division. "He's been mixing medicinal compounds too. Healing salves, pain relievers unusual compositions. The kind of knowledge that's either passed down through clans or..."
"Or learned elsewhere," Hawk finished. Outside, a murder of crows suddenly took flight from the nearby tree, their wings beating frantically against the suddenly still air.
"We've considered the possibility of infiltration," Bear said quietly. "But his lineage is confirmed. His father's blood without question. And the surveillance shows no suspicious contacts."
"So where's he getting this knowledge?"
Bear shook his head. "That's what's troubling. He executes everything with absolute confidence. No trial and error. Like he's working from memory rather than experimentation."
Hawk flipped through more photographs spread across the table, knocking over a kunai that had been used to pin documents together, scattering a few papers across the floor.
"I interviewed his academy instructor yesterday in the classroom after hours," Bear continued, gathering the fallen documents from between the worn tatami mats. "Says the kid acts bored most of the time, but his test scores are suspiciously average. Never fails, never excels—perfectly, consistently mediocre across every subject."
"Yet we're sure he's not a security risk?"
"The Hokage seems certain." Bear closed the file and placed it in a drawer that sealed with a flash of chakra. "Says to keep watching but not interfere. Called it 'an interesting development.'"
Hawk laughed, though there was little humor in it, as he glanced at the photographs of the village pinned to the bulletin board beside tactical maps of neighboring countries. "When the Hokage finds something 'interesting,' the rest of us should probably be concerned."
The third ANBU—Owl—had remained motionless in the corner throughout the entire exchange, silent as the weapons mounted on the far wall. Neither Hawk nor Bear acknowledged him as he finally stood. No farewell, no nod of acknowledgment. He simply disappeared through the doorway, his footsteps making no sound on the wooden floors outside.
Once clear of the tower, Owl moved through Konoha's afternoon bustle. He turned left at the dumpling shop, right at the weapons store, doubled back past the academy, and slipped into a narrow alley between two apartment buildings where laundry lines created a patchwork of shadows overhead.
His path seemed random—a civilian might assume he was lost—but each turn, each pause at a market stall, each casual lean against a fence was calculated. A choreographed dance to shed potential tails.
After passing the same stone lantern for the third time, he knelt to adjust his sandal and pressed his palm against a seemingly ordinary section of a garden wall. The stone rippled like water, revealing a narrow passage that sealed itself shut the moment he passed through.
Darkness engulfed him as he descended a staircase that didn't officially exist on any village blueprint. The air grew cooler, damper, carrying the scent of earth and something antiseptic. Owl navigated by memory, turning at precise intervals until he reached a corridor lined with sealed doors, each marked with symbols rather than numbers.
He stopped before a door bearing a stylized root pattern and knelt, removing his mask to reveal a face devoid of expression. The scar running across his left cheek was the only feature that distinguished him from the other faceless operatives who served in shadow.
The door slid open.
"Report," came a graveled voice from within the dimly lit chamber. Shimura Danzo sat behind a low table, a lone candle casting his bandaged face in stark relief. Various scrolls lay organized before him, and a pot of ink remained uncapped, brush resting across its edges. He didn't look up.
"The foreign-recipe situation continues," Owl said, voice flat. "The boy creates dishes unknown to any Fire Country cuisine. Medicinal knowledge beyond his years. ANBU suspects nothing concrete."
"And his scores?" Danzo finally looked up, his visible eye narrowing.
"Deliberately average. Too consistent to be natural."
Danzo's finger tapped once against the table's surface—the only indication of his interest. "Controlled performance then. What of his chakra signature?"
"Unremarkable in class. But..." Owl hesitated. "I observed him alone at training ground seven, nine nights ago. Different. Refined. Precise control I've never witnessed in someone his age."
A silence stretched between them as Danzo considered this information. The candle flame flickered as if disturbed by an invisible current.
"Jiraiya's blood," Danzo finally murmured, more to himself than his operative. "Yet something doesn't align." He reached for a blank scroll, unrolling it with deliberate care. "Continue surveillance. Priority three. Focus on his night movements and any unusual applications of chakra."
"Recruitment potential?" Owl asked.
Danzo's expression hardened. "Undetermined. His ties to Hiruzen's inner circle complicate matters." He dipped his brush in ink, the gesture signaling the end of their exchange. "We will watch. For now."
Owl nodded once, replaced his mask, and rose. No further acknowledgment was necessary as he backed from the room and disappeared into the labyrinth of Root's underground network. The door sealed behind him, the root symbol briefly glowing before fading back to weathered stone.
...
The Academy rooftop had always been my territory. Not officially, of course—technically it was "off-limits to students" according to some dusty rulebook nobody read—but rules were more like polite suggestions in my world. Especially when the alternative was eating lunch in that stuffy classroom that perpetually smelled like chalk dust and teen anxiety.
I leaned against the railing, watching clouds drift across Konoha's skyline. The village sprawled below like a disorganized toy set, all reds and browns against the green backdrop of surrounding forests. It was oddly peaceful from up there. Almost made you forget we were all being trained as child soldiers.
'And they wondered why I needed sake in my small thermos,' I thought, taking a quick sip from said container. What the teachers didn't know wouldn't hurt them.
"Shinji! You're hogging the best spot again," Kushina's voice cut through my peaceful moment like a particularly loud kunai.
I turned with an exaggerated sigh, watching the redhead stomp across the rooftop with Minato and Mikoto trailing behind her. Kushina always moved like she was charging into battle, even when it was just lunch.
"It's a big roof, Red. Plenty of prime real estate," I gestured broadly at the empty space around me, but shifted over anyway. "Besides, I got here first. Early bird gets the worm and all that stuff."
Minato gave me that sunshine smile of his as they settled down. "He's right, Kushina. We did take longer than usual in class."
"Only because you kept asking Takada-sensei extra questions," Mikoto said, gracefully sitting down next to me. "Some of us were hungry."
I snorted. "Minato's just trying to butter up the teachers."
Minato's cheeks flushed slightly. "I'm just interested in the material."
"Sure, sure," I said, waving dismissively. When I pulled out my lunch, conversation stopped.
See, most Academy students brought basic bento boxes—rice, some fish, vegetables if their parents were particularly health-conscious. Standard fare. Boring fare.
My bento, however, was art.
That day's masterpiece featured perfectly formed onigiri shaped like shuriken, the nori cut with expert care to create the appearance of spinning blades. Beside them, thin slices of seared salmon were arranged to resemble flames, with tiny carved carrot flowers scattered throughout. Delicate cucumber spirals bordered one section, while marinated egg halves sat beside meticulously arranged tempura vegetables, the batter so light it was practically translucent. In a separate container, I'd brought fresh miso soup with tiny mushrooms cut to look like miniature umbrellas, floating alongside perfectly diced tofu.
The pièce de résistance, however, was the tamagoyaki I'd rolled into the shape of a scroll, complete with tiny "seals" drawn in sauce.
Kushina practically drooled on my shoulder. "How do you even DO that? Did you wake up at four in the morning or something?"
I shrugged, feigning nonchalance while secretly enjoying their reactions. "It's just food, Red. Not that complicated."
"Just food, he says," Mikoto murmured, her usually composed face betraying undisguised longing as she stared at my lunch. "That tamagoyaki looks better than what they serve at the Uchiha clan ceremonies."
I broke apart my chopsticks with a flourish. "What can I say? I'm talented."
"And so modest," Minato added with a laugh, opening his own simple but neatly packed lunch.
"You know," I said, deliberately casual, "I did make extra this morning." I pulled out another container from my bag. Inside were more of the shuriken onigiri and several pieces of the scroll-shaped tamagoyaki. "My estimation skills were a bit off. Shame to let it go to waste."
Kushina snatched the container before I'd even finished speaking. "I call dibs!"
"Kushina!" Mikoto protested.
"What? He offered!"
I laughed. "Easy, easy. I brought enough for everyone to have a taste." I produced two more small containers from my bag. "Consider it my contribution to team morale before our survival test."
Minato accepted his portion with genuine gratitude, while Mikoto tried—and failed—to maintain her Uchiha dignity as she eagerly took hers.
"Speaking of the test," Minato said between bites of my tamagoyaki (which he analyzed like it contained the secrets of the universe), "have you guys thought about strategy? I heard we'll be randomly assigned to five-person teams."
Kushina tore into an onigiri shuriken. "Strategy? It's simple! We invade, we conquer!"
"Of course that's your plan," Mikoto rolled her eyes. "Some of us prefer thinking before charging in like a wild boar."
I took another sip from my thermos, enjoying the familiar burn. "Personally, I'm hoping to get assigned to defense. Less running around, more lying in wait. Conserves energy."
"You mean it lets you be lazy," Kushina pointed out, mouth half-full.
"I prefer the term 'strategically inactive,'" I corrected with a grin.
Mikoto delicately wiped her mouth before speaking. "I heard Takada-sensei saying this test will count for thirty percent of our field assessment grade."
"Which explains why everyone's so worked up about it," I gestured toward another group of students huddled on the far side of the roof, furiously discussing something over their lunches. "Look at them, planning like they're about to invade Kumogakure rather than play capture-the-flag in the woods."
"It IS important, Shinji," Minato said earnestly. "These assessments determine specialty tracking."
I waved dismissively. "Yeah, yeah. Future of our ninja careers and all that. But seriously, we're what—nine? Ten? Bit early to decide our entire life paths, don't you think?"
He frowned slightly. "The earlier we specialize, the more time we have to master our chosen path. That's how Konoha produces exceptional shinobi."
"Or it locks talented kids into paths they later resent," I countered. "Not everyone knows what they want to be at our age."
He sighed, "I'm hoping we at least get paired with people we know. Teamwork is always better with established relationships."
"True," I nodded, "though sometimes random pairings create interesting dynamics. Forces you to adapt."
Mikoto raised an elegant eyebrow. "Since when are you a teamwork philosopher?"
"I contain multitudes, Uchiha," I replied loftily. "Also, I've been stuck reading strategy books as punishment for that thing with the frogs in Grumpy-chan's desk drawer."
Kushina nearly choked on her food. "That was YOU?"
I took a bow from my seated position. "At your service."
"I should have known," Minato sighed.
"Finding the frogs was child's play," I said, popping a piece of tempura into my mouth. "The tricky part was getting the frogs to stay put until the right moment."
Mikoto shook her head, but I caught the slight upward tilt of her lips. "You're going to get yourself expelled one day."
"Nah," I leaned back on my hands, the warm stone of the rooftop pleasant beneath my palms. "They need my pretty face to raise the aesthetic standard of this place."
Kushina snorted so hard I worried she might damage something, while Minato tried—and failed—to suppress his laughter.
The conversation shifted back to the upcoming test, with Minato and Mikoto discussing defensive strategies while Kushina enthusiastically described increasingly violent offensive tactics. I half-listened, my eyes drifting back to the village spread out below us.
"Earth to Shinji!" Kushina waved a hand in front of my face. "You zoning out again?"
I blinked and refocused. "Just contemplating the metaphysical implications of our existence as predetermined karmic entities in an ever-expanding universe."
Three blank stares.
"He's messing with us again," Mikoto translated for the others.
I grinned and offered her a piece of my salmon. "And that's why you're my favorite, Uchiha."
"Hey!" Kushina protested.
"Don't worry, Red. You're my favorite loudmouth."
"And what am I?" Minato asked, amusement in his blue eyes.
I considered him for a moment. "My favorite future Hokage, obviously."
Minato sighed, but the corner of his mouth twitched up.
As the bell rang signaling the end of lunch, I gathered my expertly crafted bento components and slipped my sake-filled thermos back into my bag. Another normal day in this decidedly abnormal life.
'At least the air's better in this world,' I thought, watching my friends gather their things. 'And maybe the company too.'
...
There was something beautiful about a well-executed jutsu. The precise molding of chakra, the visualization of intent, and then—transformation. One moment I was a precocious Academy student with suspiciously advanced sake knowledge, the next I was a respectable-looking twenty-something shinobi with just enough visible wear to suggest I'd earned my drinks.
I checked my reflection in a shop window, admiring my handiwork. Transformation jutsu might be basic Academy curriculum, but perfecting the subtle details—like the hint of stubble, the slight hardening around the eyes, or the almost imperceptible scar along the jawline—that's what separated the amateurs from the artists.
'Not bad for an ten-year-old,' I thought with satisfaction. 'Or however old I'm supposed to be in this body.'
The evening air carried the distinct scent of fried street food and distant rain as I made my way down the winding side street that led to Tanaka's shop—or as I privately called it, "The Sacred Hall of Liquid Enlightenment." Officially, it was "Bamboo Leaf Fine Spirits," but that didn't quite capture the spiritual experience of their premium daiginjo.
A familiar bamboo curtain hung in the doorway, the kanji for "sake" nearly worn away from years of patrons pushing through. I slid it aside with practiced ease, stepping into the warm glow of paper lanterns and the comforting aroma of fermented rice.
"Ah, Takeshi-san!" called Tanaka from behind the counter, using the name I'd given when I first started frequenting his establishment. "The usual tonight?"
Tanaka was a round-faced man with laugh lines etched deep around his eyes and the weathered hands of someone who'd worked with rice and water for decades. His apron always looked freshly pressed despite the nature of his work—a small detail I'd always appreciated.
"Actually," I said, settling onto my favorite stool at the counter, "I'm feeling curious tonight, Tanaka-san."
He raised a bushy eyebrow. "Curious? That's dangerous coming from you."
I laughed. "Nothing like that. I was just wondering about how you make your sake. Been drinking it for... well, longer than I should probably admit, but I've never actually seen the process."
Tanaka's eyes lit up the way specialists' always do when someone takes interest in their craft. It was a universal constant—whether it's weapon smiths, ramen chefs, or apparently, sake brewers.
"Most customers just want to drink it, not learn about it," he said, pouring me a small cup of something clear and fragrant. "On the house, for your curiosity."
I took the cup with a small bow of appreciation and sipped slowly, letting the flavors develop on my tongue. It was good—really good—but something felt... familiar about it. Too familiar, in fact. It tasted remarkably like premium sake from my previous world.
"This is excellent," I said, genuinely impressed. "There's something... traditional about it."
Tanaka beamed with pride. "Traditional is exactly right. My family has been brewing sake the same way for six generations. No shortcuts, no modern nonsense."
"No... chakra enhancements?" I ventured, curious if this world's brewing might incorporate the energy that permeated everything else.
He looked at me like I'd suggested adding mud to the fermentation. "Chakra? In sake? Heavens no! Pure water, quality rice, perfect koji, precise temperature control, and patience—that's all good sake needs."
Well, that was unexpected. In a world where chakra was used for practically everything—from walking on water to creating fireballs—I'd assumed sake production would have its own shinobi twist.
"Would you like to see how it's really made?" Tanaka offered, clearly eager to show off his craft.
"I'd be honored," I replied, genuinely interested.
Tanaka lifted a section of the counter and gestured for me to follow him through a door behind a stack of large ceramic vessels. Beyond lay a corridor that led deeper into the building, ending at another door made of thick, aged wood.
The brewing room was spacious, filled with massive wooden vats and the sweet-sour scent of fermentation. Several workers moved about the space, some monitoring the vats, others carrying small trays of what appeared to be koji. They nodded respectfully to Tanaka but eyed me with mild curiosity.
I watched, fascinated, as Tanaka showed me each step of the process—from the careful rice polishing to remove the outer layers, to the koji propagation, to the main fermentation. It was methodical and entirely...normal. No jutsu, no seals, no chakra manipulation whatsoever.
"This is exactly like..." I began, then caught myself. "...like what I'd imagine traditional brewing to be."
Tanaka gave me a curious look. "You seem surprised."
I shrugged casually. "I guess I expected some shinobi innovation to have worked its way into the process by now."
He chuckled, shaking his head. "There are always young brewers trying to 'revolutionize' the craft with chakra tricks. Results are usually disastrous—exploding fermentation tanks, sake that changes drinkers' teeth color, one memorable batch that made everyone hiccup for a day."
"Wait," I stopped him, suddenly very interested. "You mean people have tried?"
"Oh, certainly. Particularly during the Second Shinobi War when resources were scarce." He led me to a small tasting area to the side of the main fermentation room. "There were experiments with chakra-infused brewing to stretch supplies or create sake with special properties for soldiers. Most failed spectacularly."
I accepted another small cup he offered, my mind starting to race with possibilities. The sake was excellent—traditional, pure, and crafted with obvious expertise—but I couldn't help wondering what would happen if chakra and shinobi jutsus were introduced to the brewing process. What kinds of effects might be possible?
But reality quickly caught up with my imagination. I was just an Academy student who barely understood the basics of jutsus. Whatever grand ideas were forming in my head would require years of study in both sake brewing and shinobi arts.
'One step at a time,' I reminded myself. 'Learn to walk before you run.'
"This has been incredibly enlightening, Tanaka-san," I said, finishing my cup with appreciation. "Thank you for sharing your craft with me."
He looked pleased by my genuine interest. "Always a pleasure to show someone who truly appreciates the art. Most people just want to drink as quickly as possible."
"Barbarians," I agreed solemnly, which made him laugh.
"Will you be taking your usual bottle tonight?" he asked, already reaching for my preferred sake.
"Of course," I replied. "Can't disappoint my taste buds."
Tanaka wrapped my purchase in paper, and I accepted the wrapped bottle with a polite bow. "Until next time, Tanaka-san."
I smiled and headed for the exit, pushing aside the bamboo curtain. Once outside, I made my way through back alleys until I found a secluded spot between buildings. A quick hand sign later, and a small puff of smoke revealed my actual ten-year-old self. I tucked the sake bottle carefully into my bag and readjusted my clothes.
"Grocery shopping time," I muttered to myself, mentally calculating what I needed for dinner. "Rice, some fish if it looks fresh, maybe those greens the old lady at the corner stand always tries to push on me..."
The market district was still bustling despite the approaching evening. Lanterns were being lit as vendors tried to squeeze in a few more sales before closing. I made my way through the crowd, bypassing the touristy stalls in favor of the local vendors who knew me by now.
"Shinji-kun!" called the vegetable seller, waving me over. "I saved some nice spring onions for you. And the eggplants are perfect today."
I was haggling over the price of said eggplants—more out of principle than necessity—when something solid collided with my back, sending me stumbling forward.
"Hey! Watch where you're—" I started, turning around only to find myself face-to-face with a familiar whirlpool of red hair.
Kushina Uzumaki stared back at me, looking equally surprised. "Shinji? What are you doing here?"
'Of all people to run into,' I thought, quickly checking that my bag was securely closed around my illicit sake purchase.
"The same thing everyone else is doing in a market," I replied dryly. "Dancing."
She rolled her eyes. "Ha ha, very funny. I meant what are you doing shopping by yourself? Where's Minato?"
"Minato? What's that?" I scrunched my face in confusion, then snapped my fingers as if suddenly remembering. "Oh! Is that the new organic grocery chain everyone's talking about? Sorry to disappoint, but it's just me and my questionable vegetable-selecting skills today."
She stared at me for a moment before breaking into laughter. "You're such an idiot," she said as she playfully shoved my shoulder.
I turned back to the vegetable seller. "I'll take the eggplants and the spring onions. And two of those," I added, pointing to some decent-looking bell peppers.
As the seller bagged my purchases, Kushina hovered awkwardly nearby. I noticed she was carrying her own shopping bag.
"Where's your caretaker?" I asked, remembering the Konoha shinobi who usually watched over her. As a foreign-born shinobi, Kushina was never truly left unsupervised, even if she thought she was.
"Masako-san had to work late at the Hokage Tower," Kushina said with a shrug. "Told me to get dinner for myself."
"Let me guess," I said, eyeing her shopping bag. "Cup ramen again?"
Her silence and slight blush confirmed my suspicion.
I sighed dramatically. "You know, for someone who practically inhaled my bento last week, I'd have thought you'd picked up a thing or two about actual food by now."
"Hey!" she protested. "These were really good, okay? Especially the miso-pork flavor! It's a perfectly balanced meal." She peered into my shopping bags. "What are you making tonight anyway?"
"Stir-fried eggplant with fish and rice," I replied with a shrug. "Nothing special."
Her eyes lit up with interest. "That sounds way better than instant ramen for the fifth time this week."
"Is that a hint?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Because it sounds suspiciously like fishing for a dinner invitation."
She grinned, not even bothering to deny it. "I've eaten your food, but I've never actually seen how you make it. For all I know, you might be buying it from some restaurant and just repackaging it in your fancy bento boxes."
"That's ridiculous," I said. "Why would I—"
"Prove it," she said, putting her hands on her hips. "I want to see Shinji, the Great Master Chef, wearing an apron."
"I don't own an apron," I replied automatically, then mentally kicked myself for engaging with her ridiculous challenge instead of shutting it down.
"Even better," she grinned. "I bet you'll make a mess of your precious fancy clothes. Unless you're scared your food won't live up to your boasting?"
I glanced down at my admittedly well-maintained outfit. I did take pride in my appearance, unlike certain redheads who looked like they dressed in a hurricane.
"Fine," I heard myself saying before my brain fully processed the implications. "But only because I can't let such slander stand unchallenged."
Which was how, twenty minutes later, I found myself unlocking the door to my small apartment with Kushina in tow. And as I reached for my keys, I sighed inwardly at the realization that, despite spotting her manipulation from a mile away, I'd willingly walked into it anyway. Between her challenge and my pride, she'd masterfully maneuvered me into making her dinner without even having to ask—a recipe I'd fallen for despite knowing every ingredient.
'Well played, Red,' I thought, catching the hungry anticipation in her eyes. 'Well played indeed.'
...
...
"This is where you live?" she asked, looking around with curiosity as we entered my apartment. "All by yourself?"
My place was modest but carefully arranged. One main room that served as both living area and bedroom, a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. What it lacked in size it made up for in organization and a few quality touches—a decent bookshelf filled with scrolls and texts, a well-maintained plant in the corner, and a comfortable futon that I properly rolled up every morning.
"Yep. Home sweet home," I replied, setting my groceries on the counter. "Not exactly the Daimyo's palace, but it's all mine."
Kushina ran her finger along my bookshelf. "It's... actually nice. I'm impressed you can afford this on the orphan stipend."
I smirked and started unpacking the groceries. "The stipend barely covers cup ramen. I've got... supplementary income."
"Supplementary income?" Her eyebrows shot up. "That sounds suspicious."
"Only if you lack imagination, Red." I pulled out fresh vegetables and arranged them on the cutting board. "Let's just say I provide certain services to stressed-out student and genin."
"What kind of services?" She narrowed her eyes.
"Academic assistance," I said with innocence. "Test answers, homework completion, the occasional essay on 'What the Will of Fire Means to Me.' Nothing illegal... technically." And a perfect cover for the less savory transactions that kept my wallet fat.
"You're running a cheating ring!" she whispered, though I detected a hint of admiration in her voice.
I pressed a finger to my lips. "I prefer 'educational consulting business.' And it pays for this place and my sake habit, so don't go blabbing to Grumpy-chan or anyone else from the moral high ground club."
She mimed zipping her lips, then peered at my groceries. "Speaking of which, what are you making? It looks... ambitious."
"Grilled mackerel with miso glaze, eggplant dengaku, and pickled cucumber," I explained, already reaching for my knives. "Hungry?"
Her stomach answered with an audible growl, and she had the grace to look embarrassed. "Maybe a little."
"Wash those vegetables while I prep the fish," I said, nodding toward the sink.
To my surprise, she did as I asked without argument.
"I've been wondering how you make those fancy lunches that make Mikoto drool," she said, carefully washing the eggplant as though it might explode with improper handling. "I should have guessed you actually know what you're doing in a kitchen."
"One of my few legitimate talents," I answered, taking out my favorite kitchen knife and testing its edge with my thumb. "Food tastes better when you make it yourself."
"Where'd you learn how to cook?" She handed me the washed vegetables.
I hesitated. "Started out of necessity, turned into a hobby. When you live alone, it's either learn to cook or eat shinobi ration for the rest of your life."
"But you're actually good at it," she observed, watching as I sliced through the mackerel skillfully, removing the bones in one go. "That's more than necessity."
I shrugged. "I pay attention at restaurants. Ask questions. Experiment." I handed her a smaller knife. "Here, cut the eggplant lengthwise, but not all the way through. Like this."
I demonstrated the technique, creating a crosshatch pattern that allowed the eggplant to cook evenly while absorbing maximum flavor.
"So it's like training," she said, attempting to mimic my cuts with significantly less finesse.
"Cooking is exactly like training," I agreed, rescuing the eggplant before she mutilated it beyond recognition. "Precision, timing, attention to detail. Every ingredient reacts differently to heat, moisture, salt."
I set a pot of water to boil for the rice, then reached for a small bowl to make the miso glaze. "Here, I'll show you something cool. Watch."
I combined miso paste, mirin, sake, and a touch of sugar, whisking it thoroughly. "Balancing flavors is like chakra control—too much of any element throws everything off."
She leaned closer, genuinely interested. "So what's the chakra control equivalent in this dish?"
"The miso," I explained. "Too much and it's overwhelming, too little and you miss the depth. But when it's right..." I dipped my finger in the mixture and offered it to her.
She hesitated only briefly before tasting it, and her eyes widened. "That's... amazing! Sweet but savory and something else—"
"Umami," I supplied. "The fifth taste. Now, hand me that ginger."
As I worked on the fish, I showed her how to score the eggplant flesh and brush it with oil before grilling. The kitchen filled with aromatic steam as the rice began to cook.
"You're actually pretty normal when you're cooking," she observed, watching me flip the mackerel with care.
"As opposed to my usual abnormal self?" I raised an eyebrow.
"You know what I mean," she said, leaning against the counter. "At the Academy, you're all lazy and smartass. Here you're just... focused. Present."
I considered this as I brushed the miso glaze over the fish. "Different environments, different faces. In class, I'm surrounded by child soldiers trying to outperform each other. Here, I'm just making dinner."
The mackerel sizzled as I applied a second layer of glaze, the sugar caramelizing under the heat. I demonstrated the proper way to tell when fish is done—firm to the touch but still moist inside.
"The secret," I explained, transferring the eggplant to the grill, "is knowing when to stop. Most people overcook fish because they're afraid of it being raw. But that extra minute is what turns it from silky to sawdust."
"Like chakra control," she said, picking up my analogy.
"Exactly. Too little, nothing happens. Too much, you blow up the jutsu." I sprinkled toasted sesame seeds over the eggplant. "Hand me those plates?"
Soon, we had a proper meal laid out—golden-brown eggplant with a shiny miso glaze, perfectly crisp-skinned mackerel, bright pickled cucumbers, and fluffy white rice.
Kushina's eyes widened at her first bite. "This is incredible," she mumbled through a mouthful of fish. "Like, restaurant quality."
"Try not to sound so shocked," I said dryly, but I was pleased nonetheless.
We ate in silence for a few minutes. The food was good—the fish flaky and moist, the eggplant creamy inside with a caramelized exterior, the pickles providing a sharp contrast.
"You should teach me," she said suddenly.
I raised an eyebrow. "Teach you what?"
"To cook," she clarified. "Not just cup ramen and rice balls. Real food, like this."
I studied her face for signs of teasing but found only earnest determination—the same look she got before mastering a particularly difficult jutsu in class.
"Why?" I asked, genuinely curious.
She shrugged, trying to look casual but not quite succeeding. "It's a useful skill, like you said. And..." she hesitated, "It's nice, making something with your own hands. Creating instead of just destroying things."
"I'm not running a cooking school for hopeless cases," I said, but without any real refusal in my voice.
She grinned, recognizing the non-rejection for what it was. "I'll pay you back with my amazing fuinjutsu knowledge. Even trade."
Now that caught my interest. The Uzumaki clan's sealing techniques were legendary, and while Kushina was still learning herself, she undoubtedly knew more than what they taught us at the Academy.
"Deal," I heard myself saying. "But if you burn down my kitchen, you're rebuilding it yourself."
Her smile was bright enough to rival Minato's. "Deal!"
As we finished our meal and she helped me clean up—clumsily but enthusiastically—I found myself watching Kushina attempt to dry dishes without breaking them.
"Same time next week?" she asked as she prepared to leave, trying to sound casual but clearly hopeful.
I leaned against the doorframe. "If you bring the ingredients and don't tell anyone about this."
"Your secret's safe with me," she promised, then added with a mischievous grin, "Chef Shinji."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't quite suppress a smile. "Get out of here, Red, before I change my mind."
She darted off down the hallway with a wave, red hair flying behind her like a banner.
I closed the door, surveying my now-quiet apartment. It felt different somehow—as if the heat of her presence lingered in the room.
'Well,' I thought, retrieving my secret sake bottle from its hiding place, 'at least my dinner time just got a bit more interesting.'
...