The late afternoon sun cast long shadows through Konoha as Sayuri carefully arranged a display of formal haori jackets in the shop window. Each piece represented hours of precise work—the Kuroda family's signature blend of traditional aesthetics and practical durability. Through the glass, he watched villagers hurrying past, their pace suggesting the approaching evening rather than any particular urgency.
Three days until his birthday. Fifteen seemed simultaneously momentous and meaningless—a milestone only for those who would become genin, who would step into roles that had been prepared for them since birth. For Sayuri, it would be merely another day of precise stitches and careful measurements.
The bell above the door jingled harshly as three men pushed their way inside, their boisterous voices immediately filling the small space. Sayuri recognized them immediately—chunin who had been assigned to border patrols, recently returned if their travel-worn appearance was any indication. Their flushed faces and unsteady movements suggested they had started celebrating their homecoming early.
"Kuroda shop!" The tallest of the three announced unnecessarily, swaying slightly as he looked around. "Told you guys this place has the best stuff. My cousin got his wedding clothes here."
"Looks expensive," another commented, running calloused fingers over a silk kimono displayed on a wooden stand. His touch was careless, leaving smudges on the pristine fabric.
Hiroshi emerged from the back room, his expression transitioning smoothly from mild irritation to professional courtesy. "Welcome, shinobi-san. How may we assist you today?"
The third member of the group, a stocky man with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow, laughed too loudly. "We're not here to shop, old man. Just looking around." He picked up a folded hakama, unfolding it carelessly. "Celebrating our return. Three weeks on the eastern border watching for Sound infiltrators."
Sayuri tensed slightly at the casual mention of classified information. His father's expression remained unchanged, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his awareness of the situation—drunk chunin with loose tongues, potentially revealing sensitive information in a public setting.
"Perhaps you gentlemen would prefer one of the establishments more suited to celebration?" Hiroshi suggested gently. "We're preparing to close for the evening, and—"
"Are you turning away paying customers?" The tall one swung around, nearly knocking over a display of obi sashes. "That's not very good business, is it?"
"We're happy to serve you tomorrow, when we can properly attend to your needs," Hiroshi maintained his calm tone, though Sayuri noticed his right hand drop slightly to where a concealed blade was kept beneath the counter—not for attack, but for emergencies.
The stocky chunin wandered further into the shop, his movements becoming more careless. "You know, we spent three weeks sleeping in dirt to keep this village safe." His voice took on an edge. "Three weeks watching for enemies while civilians like you counted money and slept in comfortable beds."
"We appreciate your service to Konoha," Hiroshi began, but was cut off as the man knocked over a stack of newly completed kimono, sending them cascading to the floor.
"Oops," the chunin said without remorse. "Clumsy me."
Something shifted in the atmosphere—what had been merely uncomfortable now edged toward dangerous. Sayuri moved closer to his father, his mind racing through potential responses. These men were trained shinobi, capable of inflicting serious damage even in their intoxicated state. His father was a civilian with minimal combat training. The power imbalance was absolute.
The tall chunin picked up an expensive silk haori—commissioned by a prominent merchant for his son's coming-of-age ceremony—and examined it with exaggerated care. "Fine work. How much for this one?"
"That piece has been commissioned and paid for," Hiroshi explained, his voice still level. "Please set it down carefully."
Instead, the man stretched the fabric between his hands, testing its strength. "Seems fragile. Would probably tear if someone pulled too hard."
Sayuri felt his throat tighten. That haori represented two weeks of work, with hand-embroidered details that had kept his father working late into several nights. The disrespect being shown to their craft stirred something beyond fear—indignation.
"Please don't damage that," he said, his voice quieter than intended. "It's already spoken for."
Three pairs of eyes swiveled toward him, as if noticing his presence for the first time. The stocky chunin's expression curved into an unpleasant smile.
"Well, the tailor's boy has something to say." He approached Sayuri, deliberately invading his personal space. "What was that, kid? Giving orders to Konoha shinobi?"
Sayuri held his ground, though his heart hammered against his ribs. "Not orders. Just asking for reasonable courtesy."
"Sayuri," his father cautioned softly.
The third chunin, who had been relatively quiet, laughed. "Reasonable courtesy? Listen to this one. Talks like he's somebody important."
"I'm not important," Sayuri replied, struggling to keep his voice steady. "But our work is. That haori will be ruined if it's handled roughly."
The tall chunin looked at the garment in his hands, then back at Sayuri. A mean-spirited gleam entered his eyes. With deliberate slowness, he gripped the fabric and pulled, the sound of tearing silk cutting through the shop like a physical pain.
"Oops," he mimicked his friend's earlier false contrition. "Guess I don't know my own strength."
Something snapped inside Sayuri—not anger exactly, but a sudden, clarifying indignation that overrode his usual caution. Without fully considering the consequences, he stepped forward and reached for the damaged garment.
"That's enough," he said, his voice finding unexpected firmness. "You need to leave now."
The stocky chunin moved with speed that belied his intoxication. One moment Sayuri was standing, the next he found himself slammed against the wall, a kunai suddenly pressing against his throat. The cold metal bit into his skin, just shy of breaking it.
"Say that again," the chunin growled, sake-laden breath hot against Sayuri's face. "Tell me what I need to do."
Hiroshi moved forward, alarm replacing his professional demeanor. "Please, there's no need for this. He's just a boy—"
"A boy who needs to learn his place," the tall one interrupted, tossing the ruined haori aside. "Teaching moment, huh, Kazuo?"
The chunin holding Sayuri—Kazuo, apparently—increased the pressure of the kunai slightly, enough that Sayuri felt a warm trickle of blood running down his neck. "On your knees. Show proper respect to your betters."
Sayuri remained frozen, mind racing between defiance and self-preservation. The kunai pressed harder, the sting sharp enough to make his eyes water.
"Knees. Now." Each word punctuated with increased pressure.
Hiroshi's voice cut through the tension. "Sayuri, do as he says." The fear in his father's tone was what finally moved him. Not fear for himself, but fear for his son.
Slowly, humiliation burning through him like acid, Sayuri sank to his knees. The wooden floor was hard against his skin, but nowhere near as hard as the knowledge that he was powerless—completely and utterly at the mercy of men who had none to give.
"That's better," Kazuo said, moving the kunai away slightly but keeping it visible. "Now apologize for your disrespect."
Sayuri stared at the floor, words sticking in his throat. The future stretched before him in perfect clarity—a lifetime of these moments, of being forced to submit because he lacked the power to do otherwise. Because he had been born defective, incapable of the one thing that truly mattered in their world.
"I'm sorry," he managed, each syllable tasting like poison.
"Sorry for what?" the tall chunin prompted, clearly enjoying the spectacle.
"I'm sorry for disrespecting you," Sayuri recited mechanically, still not raising his eyes from the floor.
Kazuo finally stepped back, sheathing his kunai with an exaggerated flourish. "Lesson learned, I hope." He glanced around the shop, his gaze settling on a display case of specialized threads imported from Wind Country. With a casual motion, he swept his arm across it, sending spools clattering to the floor in a tangle of vibrant colors.
"Let's go," he said to his companions. "This place is boring anyway."
The other two chunin followed suit, each deliberately knocking over or damaging something on their way out. The bell jangled discordantly as the door slammed behind them, leaving a silence heavy with the aftermath of their destruction.
Sayuri remained on his knees, blood trickling down his neck, shame burning through every fiber of his being. His father's hand came to rest gently on his shoulder.
"Are you hurt?" Hiroshi asked softly.
"No," Sayuri lied, ignoring the sting at his throat and the deeper wound to his dignity.
Hiroshi helped him to his feet, his expression concerned as he examined the cut. "That needs cleaning. The kunai might not have been sterile."
Sayuri nodded mechanically, his eyes surveying the destruction around them. The ruined haori, scattered threads, toppled displays—physical manifestations of the powerlessness that had defined his existence from birth.
"I'll report this," Hiroshi continued, guiding Sayuri toward the small washroom at the back of the shop. "The Hokage won't tolerate this behavior from his shinobi."
"It won't matter," Sayuri replied, his voice flat. "Their word against ours. Despite everything we've done for the village.."
His father's silence was confirmation enough.
_______________________________
The hospital visit had been brief but humiliating—a medic-nin cleaning and healing the shallow cut with barely concealed impatience, as if treating a civilian for such a minor injury was beneath his skills. No questions about how it happened. No interest in the circumstances. Just a perfunctory healing and dismissal, leaving Sayuri with only a faint pink line where the kunai had pressed.
Night had long fallen by the time they returned home, the shop temporarily closed while they cleaned the mess left behind. Hiroshi had worked in silent efficiency, his practiced hands restoring order to their violated space. Sayuri had moved through the tasks mechanically, his mind elsewhere, replaying the afternoon's events in an endless, torturous loop.
Now, lying in his bed, sleep remained elusive despite physical exhaustion. Through his window, the waning moon cast silver light across his room, illuminating the clock that showed just past midnight. Officially his birthday, though he felt no desire to celebrate.
Fifteen years old. In another life—one where he'd been born normal, with functioning chakra pathways—this would have been a day of transition.
Perhaps he would have graduated from the Academy already, been assigned to a genin team, started down a path that offered protection from men like those who had humiliated him today.
Sayuri pressed his fingers lightly against the healed wound on his neck, feeling the slight ridge of new skin. The physical mark would fade completely in a few days, but the memory remained razor-sharp, every detail preserved with his usual perfect recall.
The weight of the kunai. The smell of sake and sweat. The casual cruelty in their eyes, as if hurting him meant nothing, as if he meant nothing. The cool wooden floor against his knees. The taste of forced apology.
He rolled onto his side, staring at the wall where moonlight created strange patterns. In his mind, he heard again Danzo's words from their earlier meeting: "True power isn't always visible. Sometimes it works best from the shadows, from unexpected places."
But what power did he have? What could he possibly do to ensure he never again knelt on a hard floor with a blade at his throat?
Intelligence without application was merely trivia. Observation without action was just witnessing. For all his supposed gifts, today had proven how meaningless they were when confronted with the brutal reality of power imbalance in their world.
And for that, he was angry. No, furious. He wanted revenge.
Sayuri's fingers curled into his pillow, gripping the fabric until his knuckles whitened. "Never again," he whispered to the empty room, the words carrying the weight of desperate conviction. "I will never be that powerless again."
Yes, he would.
The vow hung in the air, seemingly as insubstantial as breath. What options did he have? No Academy would accept him. No jonin would train someone who couldn't mold chakra. No technique existed to fix his fundamental defect.
Tomorrow—today, technically—he would return to his life of precise stitches and careful measurements. Of watching rather than doing. Of knowing things that made no difference.
The thought was so bitter he almost missed the first twinge of pain behind his eyes—a sharp, unexpected sensation that quickly intensified, spreading through his skull like liquid fire. Sayuri gasped, sitting upright as the pain crescendoed, his vision fracturing into kaleidoscopic patterns.
His room seemed to warp around him, reality bending in impossible ways as the agony reached levels that threatened consciousness itself. Something was happening—something beyond his understanding or experience. Through the haze of pain, a single coherent thought formed.
This isn't normal. Am I dying?
Then consciousness fled entirely, leaving only darkness and the echo of his earlier vow. The universe, it seemed, had been listening after all.