The sun was low behind the trees when I finally stopped to catch my breath. I'd been out here for hours — just me, my kunai, and the quiet that only the forest could give me. It's funny how silence can be louder than any crowd. Out here, every little sound stands out: the wind in the leaves, the distant chirp of birds, the soft clink of metal when I spin a kunai in my hand.
I looked at the targets I'd set up: old tree stumps, logs, bits of bark nailed to trunks. One flick of my wrist and six kunai were in the air, spinning in the fading light. For a heartbeat, they hung above me like tiny falling stars.
I drew a seventh kunai from my pouch. Exhaled. Threw.
Clang.
One strike, and all six blades snapped into new paths — each one burying itself dead center in a different mark. Six dull thuds. Six perfect hits.
No Sharingan. Just me.
I couldn't help but smirk. Not bad.
Then I heard it softly, like a footstep behind a tree. Most people wouldn't have caught it. But I've been living in shadows since I can remember. My hand went to my kunai pouch again, just in case.
"Who's there?" I called out. Calm. Flat. Just enough edge to make sure whoever was watching knew they were caught.
Nothing. For a second, I thought maybe it was just a stray animal. Then a figure stepped out from behind the thick oak — and it wasn't an animal at all.
She was small — probably two years younger than me, if I had to guess. She wore an academy uniform that looked a size too big for her thin shoulders. Her hair was dark, straight, falling just past her chin, with a fringe that almost covered her wide, red eyes.
She looked at me like she'd seen a ghost. Or maybe like she'd seen something she didn't believe was possible.
I didn't lower my kunai just yet. "You gonna stand there all day?" I asked.
She flinched. Her hands squeezed the hem of her sleeves so tightly that her knuckles went white.
"I'm sorry!" she squeaked. Her voice was soft, careful. "I didn't mean to— I was just— passing by."
I tilted my head. She was lying badly. I could read it all over her face.
"You were watching me."
Her cheeks turned pink. She shook her head too fast. "No! I mean… maybe. I didn't mean to spy. I just… I saw you, and… you were amazing."
I blinked. That caught me off guard. Compliments don't usually follow spying.
I lowered my kunai, slipping it back into its pouch. She didn't look dangerous — just curious. Or maybe lost.
"What's your name?"
She hesitated, eyes darting to my kunai, then back to my face. "Kurenai," she said finally. "Kurenai Yūhi."
I let the name roll around in my head for a second. Kurenai. Red. Fitting, with eyes like that.
"Pretty name," I said before I could stop myself.
Her face went redder. She dropped her eyes to the ground, mumbling something I couldn't catch. Cute.
I stepped closer. Just enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at me. I watched her eyes widen, then flick nervously to my kunai pouch.
"What's an academy kid like you doing out here? Shouldn't you be home practicing your kunai throws on a straw dummy?"
She lifted her chin, trying to look brave — or at least pretend she wasn't terrified. "I was on my way home. I like walking here. It's quiet. Then I heard… well, you."
She glanced at the targets — six perfect hits, each one dead center. I could almost see the gears turning in her head.
"Did you use your Sharingan for that?" she asked.
I laughed — short and low. Not mocking. Just amused. I liked the way she said it, like it was the only explanation.
"No Sharingan, I don't need it."
Her mouth made a small "o," but no sound came out. I wondered what she was thinking. I could guess — How? Why? The same questions everyone asks when they see something they can't do.
"You want to try?"
She jerked back like I'd thrown a kunai at her instead of words. "W-what?"
I stepped past her, yanked two kunai from the nearest log, and tossed one toward her. She fumbled, dropped it, scrambled to grab it off the dirt, then held it like it might bite her.
I tried not to laugh. "You've thrown one before, right?"
She nodded so fast her hair bounced. "In class. But I'm… not good."
I smirked. "Show me."
She stared at me like she thought I was joking. When she saw I wasn't, she sucked in a shaky breath, squared her shoulders or tried to — and lifted the kunai.
It was obvious she was too stiff. Her wrist locked up, elbow was too high. She pulled her arm back and threw — the blade spun once, twice… and landed in the dirt a meter short.
She froze. Her shoulders slumped. "Told you," she muttered, barely louder than the rustle of leaves.
I stepped up behind her, so close I could see the way her hair shivered against her neck when the wind shifted. She didn't turn around. She probably didn't dare.
"Here," My voice came out lower than I expected. "You're trying too hard."
I put my hand on her arm —light enough she could pull away if she wanted to. She didn't. Her skin was warm under my fingers.
"Relax, this," I said, nudging her shoulder down. "Elbow here. Wrist loose."
She nodded, but I could feel her tense all over again. She probably hadn't noticed she was holding her breath until I leaned closer.
"Breathe," I murmured. I felt her shiver not from cold. I almost laughed. Almost.
She picked up another kunai with her free hand. I let go, stepped back just enough to give her space. She drew a slow breath, exhaled, and threw.
The kunai stuck off-center, but in the target. Better than the dirt.
Her gasp was small but bright. She turned to me with wide eyes and a smile she didn't seem to know she was making.
"I did it!" she said. Her voice was soft, but the pride in it made it louder than any shout.
I crossed my arms, smirking. "Not perfect, but better."
She beamed at me like I'd just handed her the Hokage's hat. Cute. Dangerous, too, the way she made me want to keep watching her try.
"Thank you, Izuna-san,"
I frowned. "San? Really?"
She blinked, confused. "What should I call you then?"
I stepped closer again, enough to see the way her cheeks flushed pink under the fading light. "Just Izuna, only special people get to call me that."
Her eyes went wide. She pressed her lips together to hide a smile, but it slipped through anyway.
She looked away first, staring at the kunai still quivering in the log. I wondered what she was thinking — but only for a second.
"So, what now? You gonna run home and tell all your friends you saw me in the forest?"
She laughed — a small, soft sound. I liked it more than I expected. "No. I think I'll keep it a secret."
I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Why's that?"
She looked up at me through her fringe, shy but bold at the same time. "Because… if I tell, maybe you won't train me again."
I couldn't help it — I laughed. Not loud, but real. She surprised me. Not many people do that.
"Who says I'll train you again?"
She pouted and looked away like a child who didn't get her candy. "You will. I saw the way you smiled when I hit it."
Smart. Sharp. I liked that, too.
"Maybe, bring your kunai next time."
She giggled — quiet, breathy, like she didn't want the trees to hear. "Next time."
The sun was almost gone now. The forest was turning to shadows. She looked back at the path, then at me again.
"I should go," she said. Her voice dropped back to that soft tone that made her sound smaller than she was. "It's getting dark."
I just nodded. She turned and started walking, slow at first, then faster when the shadows swallowed her steps.
When she was about to leave, she turned back — one last look over her shoulder. Her eyes caught what little light was left.
"Goodnight, Izuna."
"Goodnight, Kurenai."
Then she was gone. And I was alone again, just me, my kunai, and the quiet.
I looked at her first kunai, still stuck in the dirt where it fell short. I walked over, pulled it free, and turned it over in my hand.