Chapter 354: The Snake and the Canvas
The studio had fallen into silence once more, a hush so complete it seemed to press against the walls. Only the soft percussion of rain broke through, droplets tapping and dripping as they gathered above, cooling against the beams of the ceiling before slipping down to the hard floor.
Their rhythm was slow, patient, like a heartbeat of the slow and quiet of the day itself. Around the room, lanterns flickered where Malik had set them, their small flames crackling with a lazy warmth. No shadows stretched and curled across the floor. The sun high above the glass ceiling was too bright for all of that. Malik had the lanterns on for more of the mood and heat that they provided than anything, their small dancing lights in time with one another, while the faint scent of smoke mingled with the damp air. It was a quiet that felt alive—an intimate stillness, filled not with emptiness but with the subtle music of old rain and simple and small fire.
He'd already cleaned up every trace of the earlier chaos — the colors bottled, the brushes washed — yet the scent of paint and the sweat of a body still lingered like perfume.
Anko stood near the center of the room, one hip cocked, a teasing smile playing at her lips. She hadn't changed since walking in: tan trench coat, dark mesh bodysuit underneath, purple lining catching the light when she moved. The fang pendant at her throat swung gently as she shifted her weight.
"So," she said, folding her arms, "you called me here for… art?"
Malik's mouth twitched in amusement as he set up a fresh canvas. "Among other things. But yes—today, art."
"I don't usually sit still for people," she warned. "Makes me twitchy."
"Then don't sit," Malik replied, picking up a brush. "Take any pose you want. Whatever feels natural. You can even take off the coat if it helps you move."
Anko raised an eyebrow, smirking. "You always this charming when you ask women to undress in your house?"
"Only when it's for artistic integrity."
She laughed—low, throaty, and honest—and shrugged the tan overcoat off her shoulders, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. The metal mesh beneath shimmered faintly, hugging her form like a second skin as it hugged her chest. Malik didn't stare, though he did look. The ''artist'' in him couldn't help it.
She tilted her head, hair fanning out slightly in its short ponytail. "This good enough, maestro?"
He nodded, gesturing to the open space by the far wall where the light hit best. "Perfect. Don't overthink it."
Anko shifted into a casual stance, one hand resting at her hip, the other hanging loose. She looked like she could strike or vanish in the same breath — relaxed, but dangerous. The faint, almost invisible scars on her arms caught the light, and the way her arms moved, tightening and relaxing, stories without words.
Malik began to paint.
The sound of the brush on canvas filled the silence: rhythmic, deliberate, soft. He started with her outline first — the sharp angle of her shoulders, the curve of her neck, the faint tilt of her smirk. He worked quickly, his strokes confident but precise.
Anko broke the silence first. "You're awfully quiet."
"Focus," Malik murmured, not looking up. "If I start talking too early, I'll lose the flow."
"Right," she said dryly. "Heaven forbid you lose your flow."
A minute passed. Then another.
Finally, Malik leaned back, squinting slightly. "You move more than you think."
"Occupational hazard," Anko replied, stretching one leg. "Sitting still's for corpses."
He smiled faintly. "Then I'll paint the motion. The energy. The refusal to stay still."
She eyed him curiously. "You talk like a poet."
"I'm an artist," he said simply. "Same disease, different symptoms."
That earned him a laugh. "You've got a comeback for everything, huh?"
"Usually."
She tilted her head, studying him now instead of the other way around. "You really are something, Malik."
He didn't answer right away. His eyes were on the canvas — on the lines beginning to take shape, on the way her personality seemed to bleed through the paint. There was something magnetic about her, the way she carried danger like a perfume. Even standing still, she vibrated with energy, like a coiled spring.
When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful. "You ever think about teaching again?"
That made her blink. "Teaching? Me?"
"Why not you?" he asked, setting the brush down and meeting her eyes.
She crossed her arms. "Because I'm not the classroom type. You know me. I scare kids."
"You scare everyone," he said lightly, "but that's not the same thing."
Anko rolled her eyes. "Come on, Malik. You want me standing in front of some want to be genin brats, trying not to bite my tongue off while they complain about kunai drills?"
He smiled. "That's one version. But I mean more than that. Guiding them. Shaping them. You've seen enough, survived enough—you've got something to teach."
"Yeah," she muttered, glancing aside. "What not to do."
"That's still teaching," Malik said softly. "Sometimes the best lessons come from people who walked through the fire first."
The words hung there a moment. Anko looked away, biting the inside of her cheek. Her expression softened — not enough to break her usual front, but enough that Malik saw the flicker of something vulnerable beneath it.
He gave her space, returning his focus to the canvas.
She watched him paint for a bit, then said, almost casually, "You sound like you've been thinking about this for a while."
"I have," Malik admitted. "I've been reassigning some of the teams lately. Tsunade asked me to give my thoughts on who might fit where. I keep coming back to you."
"Me?" she asked, skeptically. "Why?"
"You've got field experience, tactical sense, a brutal sense of honesty, and enough survival instinct to fill a library. You don't sugarcoat things, and you don't waste time. You'd make an incredible squad leader."
Anko laughed — a sharp sound that tried too hard to be dismissive. "You really think anyone would want me leading them?"
"Yes," he said without hesitation. "The right people would. The ones who need someone who tells them the truth. Someone who sees through excuses."
Her smirk faded. "You really believe that?"
Malik met her eyes, steady. "I don't waste belief on maybes."
Anko went quiet again, studying him. She didn't like being the subject of admiration; it made her feel seen, and being seen made her feel… exposed. Vulnerable. But with Malik, it was different. He wasn't flattering her. He was simply naming what he saw — and she couldn't hide from it.
After a while, she exhaled slowly and changed the subject. "You always make people feel like they're in a story."
"Maybe we all are," he said, not missing a beat. "Some of us just forget we're allowed to turn the page."
"Chef, Magic man, Philosopher, and painter," she said, shaking her head. "You ever take a day off?"
"I did once," he said. "Didn't like it."
She smiled faintly. "Figures."
Silence again — comfortable this time. Malik's brush moved with the ease of routine. The soft shhh, shhh of paint filled the air, and Anko closed her eyes for a moment, letting the quiet stretch.
When she opened them again, her gaze drifted to a canvas propped against the far wall — one still damp with color, the shapes vague but unmistakably human.
"What's that one?" she asked, nodding toward it.
Malik hesitated for half a breath. Then he said casually, "Another piece from earlier."
"Looks… messy."
He smiled. "It was a messy day."
"Who was the model?"
He paused long enough for her to notice. "…A friend."
Anko's eyes narrowed slightly, a teasing edge creeping into her tone. "A friend, huh? Looks like you had fun."
Malik's grin was slow and knowing. "You could say that. Paint tends to get everywhere when the muse doesn't stay still."
She rolled her eyes but couldn't stop the grin tugging at her lips. "You're impossible."
"And yet," he said lightly, "you're still here."
"Don't remind me," she muttered — but her smile didn't fade.
Malik adjusted the lighting, stepping back to study her form and the canvas together. His expression softened again. "You're good at this, you know."
"At what?" she asked.
"Letting people see you. Even when you pretend you're not."
Anko's smirk faltered just slightly, and she looked away. "Careful, Malik. You start sounding like that, and I'll think you're trying to psychoanalyze me."
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Perish the thought."
She chuckled again, relaxing her stance. "You're lucky I like you."
"I'm aware."
He painted a few last strokes, then set the brush aside. The canvas was coming alive now — bold lines, dark purples, and golds bleeding into shadow and light. Her pose captured perfectly, but it wasn't her body that commanded attention — it was her defiance. Her calm in the center of chaos.
"Done," he said quietly.
Anko looked up, blinking. "Already?"
He smiled. "You're easy to paint."
She rolled her eyes. "Flattery again?"
"Observation."
He stepped aside so she could see, and for once, she didn't have a quip ready. The painting stared back — raw, vibrant, alive. It was her, but more. A reflection of every piece of herself she kept hidden behind laughter and sarcasm.
Anko stepped closer, her sandals clicking softly against the studio floor. The canvas loomed before her, colors still wet and glistening under the lantern light. At first glance, it was unmistakably her—sharp shoulders, the tilt of her smirk, the restless energy in her stance. But Malik hadn't painted her as she was. He'd painted her as she felt.
The background was a storm of purples and blacks, streaked with gold like lightning breaking through clouds. Her figure stood at the center, defiant, unyielding, a flame refusing to be swallowed by shadow. The mesh of her bodysuit shimmered in the paint, but it was her eyes that commanded the canvas—alive, dangerous, and yet vulnerable, as if daring anyone to look deeper.
Anko's lips parted slightly. "You… exaggerated."
Malik tilted his head, amused. "Did I? Or did I just show what you don't let people see?"
She folded her arms, trying to mask the flicker of unease. "You make me look like some kind of goddess of chaos."
He smiled, leaning against the easel. "Chaos suits you. Besides, you carry it well."
Her eyes narrowed, though the corner of her mouth betrayed a twitch of a grin. "You're flirting again."
"Observation," he corrected smoothly. "But if you want to call it flirting, I won't argue."
She shook her head, laughing under her breath. "You're truly impossible."
Malik stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make the air between them feel heavier. "Impossible, maybe. But tell me—when you look at this painting, do you see yourself, or do you see the mask you wear?"
Anko hesitated, her gaze lingering on the canvas. The strokes were bold, unrelenting, yet softened in places where her scars showed, where her humanity bled through. She saw herself, yes—but she also saw the parts she tried to bury. The teacher she could have been. The leader she refused to admit she might still be.
"…I see both," she admitted quietly.
Malik's smile softened. "Then I did my job."
For a moment, the silence returned, filled only by the rain and the faint crackle of lanterns. Anko finally tore her eyes from the canvas, meeting his gaze. "You really think I could lead? Teach? Be more than just… this?"
He didn't look away. "I don't think. I know."
Her smirk returned, faint but genuine. "Careful, Malik. Keep talking like that, and I might start believing you."
"That's the idea," he said, his tone playful but steady.
She chuckled, shaking her head. "You're lucky I like you. . . but . ."
"…Huh," she murmured, turning back to the painting. "That's not bad."
"I'll take that as the highest praise," Malik said.
"You should," she replied with a faint smirk. Then, after a moment, she added, "You asked me a lot of questions earlier. About teaching. About leading."
"I did."
"Well…" she said slowly, her voice quieter now, "maybe I don't know the answers yet."
"That's fine," Malik said gently. "You don't need to. Not today."
She nodded once, as if to herself, then gave him a crooked smile. "You're not gonna let it go, are you?"
He grinned. "Eventually."
She laughed softly. "Then I guess I'll have to think about it."
Malik inclined his head. "That's all I wanted."
Anko turned back toward the painting, her expression thoughtful now — a rare look for her. She didn't speak again for a while, and Malik didn't push. The air between them was steady, calm, filled with the soft hum of possibility.
Outside, the first bells of midday rang through the village — a quiet, distant reminder that time still moved.
Inside the studio, the moment stayed still a little longer.
Malik stretched his shoulders until they clicked softly, then snapped his fingers. A veil of pink-and-gold silk unfurled from the air itself, floating down like a tame aurora. It draped over the wet painting without touching it, the fabric seeming to breathe with the oils beneath. Another snap, and the silk cinched neatly, sealed by a tiny sigil that glimmered like a firefly. A third snap and—shrink—the wrapped canvas reduced to the size of a book.
He turned and placed it gently into Anko's palm. His fingers lingered a heartbeat too long.
"A souvenir," he said. "Proof that you can sit still for at least twenty-two minutes."
Anko smirked, closing her hand around the warm bundle. "And proof that you can finish something without starting a fight with me."
"Oh, we can start one if you miss the chaos," he said, eyes bright.
"I get enough of that outside." She tucked the silken parcel inside her coat as she slid it back on, the purple lining flashing when it caught the lantern light. "So? You called me here for more than flattery and brushstrokes."
"I did," Malik said, already moving for the door. "Walk with me. I'll feed you while I talk."
"Now you're speaking my language."
They stepped into the hall, the mansion's warded lights humming awake in their path. Paint-scent gave way to warm air and the distant clatter of cookware. Floors polished like still water mirrored their shapes; Anko's pendant tapped a quiet rhythm against her collarbone.
"Remember that time we tried to eat dinner after you returned from a mission," Malik said, "and you chose the table under the broken lantern on purpose?"
Anko grinned. "I like atmosphere."
"You like hazards."
"Same thing."
They traded an easy smile and rounded a corner into one of his many kitchens. This one was cozier than the cathedral-sized room he'd used a few nights before: low rafters, jars of pickled greens and mountain plum along one wall, a brick hearth keeping a cast-iron pot at the gentlest simmer. He waved her to the long butcher's block while he tied on a short apron with absentminded efficiency.
"Romantic history, late-night stupidity, and a brand-new proposition," he said, setting a kettle over the flame. "In that order."
Anko slid onto a stool. "Let's skip to the proposition."
"Impatient. Charming," Malik said. He reached for a cutting board, pressed a blade flat over garlic until it sighed, then minced without looking. "Special squad. Under Konoha, by Tsunade's stamp and mine. But with…flex metrics."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning mission profiles that don't fit the usual boxes. Recon that looks like rumor, bodyguard that looks like diplomacy, takedowns that look like rescues. A team that can walk into thorny places without asking the thorns for permission."
"That sounds like my kind of garden." The corner of her mouth lifted. "And you want me as…?"
"Leader." He slid the minced garlic into a pan, added a knob of butter that melted to perfume. "Not 'proctor,' not 'handler.' Leader."
Anko watched the butter foam and calm. "You're serious."
"Pathologically."
She leaned her elbows on the counter. "Before I say yes—or refuse just so you'll chase me—answer one thing." Her eyes sharpened, playful but pointed. "Do you plan on adding me to your collection and harem, oh benevolent patron?"
Malik wagged a finger, mock-scolding. "No one is a collectible, and I don't run a harem."
"You sure? Because your life looks suspicious."
"Organized affection between consenting adults is not a municipal structure," he said primly, then softened. "But since a bold woman asked a bold question: yes. If the timing's right and you want it. Until then, I try not to confuse work and desire."
"Hnh," she said, not displeased. "Points for the answer. Now keep cooking and tell me about my poor victims."
"Teammates," Malik corrected, tipping in a ladle of stock. Steam rose, carrying the scent of ginger, charred scallion, and something oceany and clean. "You already know the first—Isaribi."
Anko's posture changed by a breath—interest without guard dropping. "How's the girl?"
"Better," Malik said. "Tsunade and I stabilized the cellular mess Amachi forced on her. She can breathe, walk, rest, and—most importantly—choose. The necklace we built anchors her body's form. No more involuntary changes. If she ever wants the in-between again, it'll be by her say-so."
"Good," Anko murmured. "She hates pity more than pain."
"I noticed," Malik said. He lifted the pan, swirled, and poured the fragrant butter over a resting bowl of rice and seared river fish he'd sliced in thin fans. "She's stronger now. Still swims like she was born for it. Water Release is crisp, pressure streams are clean, and those scales she keeps even out of form? Blades don't like them."
Anko's eyes warmed, then sharpened again. "But she's restless."
"Bored," Malik admitted, assembling a second bowl for Anko: smoke-kissed eggplant, a wedge of sweet omelet, pickled radish pale as moons. "Pampered makes her itch. She wants to do—and not just for herself."
Anko snorted. "So do I. That's one."
He slid the finished bowl to her with a pair of chopsticks. She didn't say thank you—she just ate, which in Anko-language was gratitude with a bow on it.
"Second," Malik went on, "Karin Uzumaki."
Anko's chewing paused. "That redhead with the bite marks and the bite to match?"
"The very one. Rescued out of a bad tree's shade, replanted someplace sunnier. Lived here awhile. She was on the Sasuke retrieval run with the third potential member, by the way."
Anko set her chopsticks down for a beat. "You trust her?"
"I trust her to be exactly who she is," Malik said. "Hot-blooded like her cousin, sharper than she lets on, merciless toward nonsense—including her own. She senses chakra like a bell hears weather. Mind's Eye of the Kagura—she can feel you from streets away, name your reserves, tell me if your honesty is a costume. She can hide her own signature completely…though it knots her other tricks while she does."
Anko's smirk stirred. "She'll hate me on sight."
"You'll hate her for five minutes longer," Malik said dryly. "Then you'll both realize you've been using the same sharpness for different wounds."
"Tch." But Anko's eyes glinted the way they did when a fight promised to turn into friendship. "That's two."
Malik refilled her tea before she could ask. "Third is a Root boy who learned to breathe again. Sai."
Anko leaned back. "The blank canvas with a knife."
"Formerly blank," Malik said. "Shisui's been…gently sanding the lacquer off. He still wears the small smile and the quiet, but he's trying—and trying matters. He will clash with you, and with Karin. He will probably bring out the worst phrasing at the worst time." Malik's mouth quirked. "But then he will save your life with a bird he drew three seconds earlier."
Anko's eyebrow ticked. "The ink tricks."
"Super Beast Imitating Drawing," Malik said, approving. "He animates his art. Chakra into brush, brush to paper, paper to living thing. I gave him three special inks—red, brown, blue. Fire, earth, water. They cost him more chakra than the standard, but when they land, they land."
"Fire sparrows and mud serpents," Anko mused. "Good distractions. Better traps."
"And a boy learning to become a man in public," Malik added. "You'll need to shout less and show more. He responds to example. He always has."
She took that in without comment, finishing her bowl. He slid the second to her before she could pretend she wasn't hungry.
"And me?" she asked around a mouthful, deliberately inelegant. "Where do I fit, Malik, besides the obvious 'front of the pack'?"
"At the hinge," he said at once. "You're the door that knows which way to swing. Karin reads the room, Sai paints the edges, Isaribi owns the waterline—but you decide when the rumor turns into a knife and when the knife turns back into rumor."
Anko set her chopsticks down, this time with care. "You think I can keep them alive."
"I think you can make them want to stay alive," Malik said, meeting her gaze. "And want to keep each other alive. That's rarer."
"You say that like you've learned it the hard way."
"I don't collect wisdom," he said with a ghost of a smile. "I borrow it from others, maybe even steal it from time to time."
For a stretch of heartbeats, only the kettle spoke. Anko looked at him, really looked, then glanced down the hall as if she could see beyond wood and plaster to the village itself—the training fields, the rooftops, the river cut like a bright scar through stone.
"Terms?" she asked finally, voice all business. "My leash?"
"You report to Tsunade, Shisui, and to me, at least sometimes," Malik said. "In that order. Mission blocks are flexible; you can petition to rewrite objectives mid-operation without waiting, if your sensor confirms context changed. Medical overrule is Tsunade's alone—but if I say abort on magical grounds, you listen. You pick insertion methods and extraction timing. And you get first refusal on missions tied to…her."
Anko's eyes cooled, then steadied. "Orochimaru."
"Yes," he said simply. "We both owe that story its ending. But only when you say you're ready to turn the page."
She held his gaze. Neither looked away.
"What about living quarters?" she asked at last, as if the question weren't a test of how well he knew her.
"Near the river. Not in my house," Malik said mildly, "unless you ask. A place you can wreck without a council complaint. Reinforced doors that look flimsy. Ordinary windows that aren't. A roof you can sleep on. A kitchen with a terrible tea kettle I will forget to replace."
Anko's mouth twitched. "You do listen."
"It's my worst habit."
He poured her another cup. She didn't thank him—she drank, and that was thanks twice over. The silence wasn't empty; it was the kind before a nod.
"So?" Malik asked, not pressing. "Preliminary thoughts, Captain?"
Anko leaned forward on her forearms, the fang pendant catching and turning the hearthlight. "Karin and I will clash. I'll make it productive. Sai will test my patience. I'll make that productive too. And the girl—Isaribi—she gets my protection first, last, and middle. If anyone even tries to use the word experiment around her, I will pin their vocabulary to the wall."
"Accepted," Malik said, utterly serene.
"I'll need full file access. Real files," she added, side-eyeing him. "Not the sanitized ones you hand out when you're feeling pious."
"You'll have them," he said. "Redactions in my hand, not a clerk's. You can read my decisions as easily as the data."
"Training time?"
"Two weeks to weld edges," Malik said. "Then a small fire to test your smoke."
"What's the small fire?"
He smiled a little. "You'll like it."
Anko held his gaze for another quiet measure, then tapped the silken parcel tucked at her side. "I'll hang this where recruits have to walk past it to get to the gear room."
"Motivation?"
"Warning," she said, standing. "About who they're dealing with."
He laughed softly. "And who is that?"
"Someone who paints you like a storm," she said, chin lifting, "then asks you to lead one."
They stood at the same time. He untied his apron; she adjusted her coat with a single shrug. At the threshold, she paused and looked back, the smirk returning like a tide.
"And Malik?"
"Yes?"
"If this goes sideways," she said, voice low and certain, "I'll drag it back upright. But if you get in my way while I do, I will make you eat that apron."
"I'll bring salt and pepper," he said, equally certain.
She snorted, satisfied. "Good. Send me the files by sunset. I'll start tearing them apart."
"Tsunade loves when you say that."
"Tsunade loves sake," Anko shot back, already halfway down the corridor. "Everything else is negotiable."
He watched her go until the mansion's soft wards swallowed her footsteps. Then he exhaled, slow and content, and turned back to the cooling kettle.
On the counter, a fourth bowl waited—untouched, unasked for. He murmured a word and it began to steam again, fresh and fragrant.
"Come on in," he said to the empty doorway without looking up. "You might as well stop lurking, Sai. And no, I won't critique your line work until you've eaten."
A quiet presence detached from the shadow where the doorframe met the wall. A boy's slight bow. A small, polite smile. Ink-stained fingers.
"Yes, sir," Sai said.
Malik smiled faintly and slid the bowl forward.
"First lesson," he said. "We feed the storm before we paint it."
—To be continued in a future chapter.