The Academy classroom smelled like dry wood and boredom.
Six-year-old Kiba Inuzuka sat with his chin resting on his crossed arms, staring at a dust mote floating in the shaft of afternoon sunlight. At the front of the room, Iruka-sensei was talking about the history of the First Hokage's necklace or something equally useless.
Kiba sighed, a sound that came out as a low, rumbling whine in his throat. He shifted in his seat. The wood was hard. His legs were restless. He wanted to be outside, running until his lungs burned, not trapped in a box listening to words about dead people.
The Academy bell tower chimed in the distance—gong... gong...—marking the agonizingly slow passage of time.
Thump.
Kiba's ears twitched.
In the row ahead of him, Naruto Uzumaki was vibrating. The blonde boy wasn't just fidgeting; he was plotting. Kiba could smell the mischief—it smelled like cheap glue and nervous sweat.
Naruto's foot tapped a frantic rhythm against the desk leg—tap-tap-tap-tap—that was vibrating through the floorboards into Kiba's own chair.
Iruka turned to the chalkboard. "Now, the hashirama cells were..."
Naruto moved. In a blur of orange that defied his horrible grades, he leaped onto the desk, grabbed the eraser, and wedged it into the top of the sliding door frame.
He sat back down before Iruka turned around.
"Is something funny, Naruto?" Iruka asked, narrowing his eyes.
"Nope!" Naruto grinned, his whiskers stretching. "Just learning, Sensei!"
"Right," Iruka sighed. "Well, let's get some fresh air. Everyone, outside for taijutsu practice."
Iruka walked to the door. He slid it open.
PLOP.
The eraser fell. It hit Iruka squarely on the bridge of his nose.
POOF.
A cloud of chalk dust exploded, coating the teacher's face, his eyelashes, and his signature ponytail in a ghostly layer of white.
Iruka inhaled sharply in surprise, then choked—hack-cough—as the chalk dust filled his lungs, tasting of gypsum and dry limestone.
Silence.
Then—
"PFFFT!"
Kiba couldn't help it. The bark of laughter ripped out of him. It was hilarious. Iruka looked like an angry snowman.
The smell of chalk was overpowering, dry and dusty, tickling Kiba's own nose.
Next to him, Shikamaru snorted, covering his mouth. Choji giggled around a mouthful of chips. Even Sasuke Uchiha—the guy who acted like his face was carved out of marble—let out a sharp, sudden exhale through his nose, the corners of his mouth twitching upward.
"NARUTO!" Iruka roared, the chalk dust flying from his lips.
"It got him!" Naruto howled, clutching his stomach, tears streaming down his face. "Did you see his face?! He looks like a ghost!"
In the front row, Ino Yamanaka rolled her eyes so hard Kiba thought they might get stuck. "So immature."
"Points for trajectory," Tenten muttered, twirling a pencil.
Shino Aburame sat perfectly still, his sunglasses reflecting the chaos, his expression unreadable.
"Detention!" Iruka pointed a chalky finger at the door. "Everyone else, yard! Naruto, stay!"
Kiba grabbed his bag, grinning as he walked past the desk. He gave Naruto a subtle thumbs-up. Naruto beamed back, looking incredibly proud of his upcoming incarceration.
Worth it, Kiba thought. Totally worth it.
The sun was setting, painting the village in bruised purples and burnt oranges.
Kiba walked down the street, grunting under the weight of the grocery bag. His mom, Tsume, had ordered him to pick up extra meat for the pack. The bag felt like it contained half a cow, and the paper handles were digging into his palms.
The raw scent of ground beef wafted from the bag, metallic and bloody, making his stomach grumble.
He took the shortcut past the Academy.
The playground was empty. The slide was a long shadow stretching across the dirt. The tire obstacles were silent.
Creak. Squeak.
Kiba stopped.
There was one person left.
Naruto was sitting on the swing set, the single swing that hung from the old oak tree. He wasn't moving much, just dragging his sandals in the dust, rocking back and forth.
The rusted chains of the swing groaned rhythmically—errrrk... skree... errrk—a lonely sound that echoed in the empty yard.
He was looking at his feet.
He looked... small.
In class, Naruto was loud. He was a hurricane of orange and noise. But here, with the sun going down and the other kids walking home to their parents, he looked like a piece of the village that everyone had forgotten to pick up.
Kiba shifted the heavy bag.
He remembered the prank. He remembered how funny it was when the chalk hit Iruka.
He's lonely, Kiba realized, the thought feeling strange and heavy in his chest. Just 'cause he's annoying doesn't mean he should be alone.
Kiba took a step toward the fence. He opened his mouth to yell, "Hey, idiot! Nice shot with the eraser!"
A shadow moved.
It didn't come from the ground. It came from the air.
A massive black shape landed between Kiba and the fence. It was a wolf—no, a dog, but large enough to look a man in the eye. He had black fur with a white underside, a missing left ear, and a leather eyepatch over his right eye.
Kuromaru.
The dog didn't growl. He just stared at Kiba with his one good eye, his presence radiating an ancient, calm authority.
"Where are you going, pup?" Kuromaru asked, his voice a rough, gravelly growl that vibrated in Kiba's bones.
Kuromaru's breath smelled of old leather and something wild, like pine resin and musk.
"I was just..." Kiba gestured vaguely toward the swing with his chin. "I saw Naruto."
Kuromaru glanced over his shoulder at the blonde boy, then back to Kiba.
"Not today," Kuromaru said. "Your mother wants to see you. The meat is thawing."
The cicadas began their evening chorus—zeeee-zeeee-zeeee—rising in volume as the light faded.
"But—"
"Now, Kiba," Kuromaru ordered. He nudged Kiba's leg with his wet nose, turning him away from the playground.
Kiba looked back one last time. Naruto was still swinging. Creak. Squeak.
He didn't see them.
The Inuzuka compound smelled of wet earth, dog fur, and raw iron.
The floorboards were scuffed and scratched from hundreds of claws, feeling rough even through the soles of his sandals.
Kiba dumped the groceries on the kitchen table. His mother, Tsume, was waiting for him.
She sat on a wooden stool, sharpening a kunai. She looked wild—her spiky brown hair untamed, her canine teeth glinting in the lantern light, the red fang markings on her cheeks stark against her skin. Her vertical slit pupils tracked Kiba as he entered.
"You're late," Tsume growled.
"I was watching Naruto," Kiba defended, crossing his arms. "He pulled a prank today. It was funny."
Tsume stopped sharpening. She stabbed the kunai into the table. Thunk.
The wood split slightly around the blade with a sharp crack, vibrating the table legs.
"Naruto Uzumaki," Tsume said, testing the name. "You like the loud one?"
"He's funny," Kiba shrugged. "And he's... I dunno. He's always there. I was gonna say hi."
"No," Tsume said.
Kiba bristled. "Why? Because he's a prankster? Because he's dumb?"
"Because he is competition," Tsume snapped. She stood up, looming over him. She was terrifyingly tall. "We are Inuzuka. We run in packs. But we choose our packs carefully."
She walked around the table, her boots heavy on the floorboards.
"That boy... he is alone. He is weak because he has no one to watch his back. If you befriend him now, you will soften. And when the Chūnin Exams come... when you have to fight him... you will hesitate."
Tsume leaned down, her face inches from Kiba's.
"In this world, hesitation gets your throat ripped out."
She leaned closer, and Kiba caught the scent of her—not perfume, but woodsmoke and dried blood, the smell of a hunter.
"You cannot be weakened by friendships with the runts you will eventually have to put down."
"He's not a runt!" Kiba yelled, his fists clenching. "He's... he's tough! He took detention without crying!"
Tsume stared at him. For a second, her eyes flashed with something dangerous. Then, she threw her head back and laughed. It was a barking, sharp sound.
"You have a soft heart, boy," Tsume grinned, showing all her teeth. "You want to save the strays? You want to look after the weak ones?"
She reached under the table.
"Fine. Since you love runts so much, I have a gift for you."
She pulled out a small cardboard box.
Kiba looked inside.
Curled up on a folded towel was a puppy.
It was tiny. White fur. Pink nose. Its eyes were barely open, squinting against the light. It let out a high-pitched, pathetic squeak.
The box smelled of clean laundry and warm milk, a stark contrast to the rough kitchen.
"He was the smallest of the litter," Tsume said, her voice dropping the aggression, becoming strangely solemn. "His brothers pushed him away from the milk. He shouldn't have survived the night."
Kiba reached out. His hand trembled.
He touched the puppy's head. The fur was incredibly soft, warm, and alive.
The puppy shifted. It let out a small yip and nuzzled into Kiba's palm, seeking warmth. Seeking a pack.
Its tiny claws pricked Kiba's skin—sharp little needles that didn't hurt, but grounded him.
"He is yours," Tsume said. "If you want to protect something, protect him. Raise him. Make him strong. Because if you don't, the world will eat him."
Kiba picked up the puppy. It fit in one hand. It felt fragile, like holding a heartbeat wrapped in cotton.
He could feel the puppy's rapid heartbeat against his palm—thump-thump-thump-thump—racing with the same frantic energy as the boy on the swing.
He looked at the white puppy. He thought of the blonde boy on the swing.
Runt, Kiba thought.
But looking at the dog, the word didn't mean weak anymore. It meant mine.
"Akamaru," Kiba whispered, the name popping into his head. "I'll call him Akamaru."
The puppy licked his thumb.
The tongue was rough and warm, like wet sandpaper, sealing the pact between them.
"I won't let anything eat you," Kiba promised, holding him close to his chest. "We're a pack now."
Tsume watched from the shadows, a small, fierce smile touching her lips.
"Don't let me down, pup," she murmured.