The door closed behind her with a soft, final clack—the sound of a space being claimed.
Kurenai stood there for a moment longer than she needed to, her hand still resting on the cool wood of the handle. Her other hand hovered near her hip, a reflexive twitch of habit that refused to turn off just because she was home.
Nothing was wrong.
That was why her pulse spiked, a frantic, rhythmic drum against the base of her throat. There was no lingering chakra signature. No displaced air. No scent that didn't belong. Her apartment felt exactly the way it always did—quiet, dim, and private. The kettle was where she'd left it. The folded blanket sat on the couch. The faint, stale trace of Asuma's smoke lingered in the curtains, a heavy, sugary tobacco scent that never quite left no matter how much she aired the place out.
Domestic space. Safe space.
She exhaled slowly, the tension leaving her shoulders in a long, shaky breath, and slipped off her sandals.
Halfway to the kitchen, she stopped.
The window was open an inch.
The air coming through the gap was sharp and cool, smelling of damp earth and coming frost. She was sure she'd closed it.
Kurenai approached it carefully, each step measured and controlled. She didn't reach for a weapon; doing so would have meant admitting a breach before she truly understood it.
On the sill sat a paper flower.
It was origami, folded with almost reverent, terrifying precision. The pale blue paper was creased into sharp, clean edges. No explosive tag. No hidden seal array. Just paper.
Her stomach turned, a cold, oily sensation that made her skin crawl.
Asuma didn't do this. When he left things, they were careless—notes half-crumpled, gifts bought on a sudden impulse that smelled of the market. This was intentional. This was deliberate.
She didn't touch it.
Paper carried chakra differently than steel or stone. It remembered hands. It felt like her.
Konan.
The realization settled over her like a shroud of cold rain. This wasn't an attack. It wasn't even a warning. It was a visit. Her home hadn't been breached to kill her; it had been used as a stage. Someone had stood here, in her private dimness, and waited, leaving behind a piece of themselves just to prove that her walls were made of mist.
Kurenai sank onto the edge of the table, her eyes never leaving the blue flower.
Anarchy is not a lack of order, she thought grimly, her fingers gripping the edge of the wood until it bit into her palms. Anarchy is a lack of orders.
This hadn't been a soldier. No commander standing outside her door. No army massing at the walls. This was an automated threat—a system that didn't need permission or presence to destroy her.
Soft targets bled first. And homes were the softest targets of all.
"Again," Iruka said, his voice louder than he wanted it to be.
The classroom shuffled. Chairs scraped against the wooden floor—shre-eeeak—a sound that set his teeth on edge. Children moved where they were told, small hands clasped over their heads, backs pressed against walls that suddenly felt paper-thin.
"This is not a game," he continued, forcing a steadiness into his voice that his racing heart didn't feel. "You don't run unless you're told. You don't open doors. You don't look outside."
Udon's goggles were fogged with nervous breath. Moegi's hands shook so badly she couldn't keep them flat against her hair.
"I don't want to be brave," Moegi whispered, her voice barely a thread in the silent room.
Iruka heard it anyway. He felt a sharp, sympathetic pang in his chest, a weight of responsibility that felt like lead.
None of them wanted to be brave. Not really.
This drill wasn't about heroics. There were no flashy techniques, no winners, no losers. There were only procedures for when the world went wrong too fast to fix.
Ibiki Morino appeared at the doorway like a shadow given solid, scarred shape. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a word of comfort. He scanned the corners, the windows, and the ceiling joints with an efficient, clinical detachment.
"Perimeter clear," Ibiki said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble. "For now."
For now did a lot of heavy lifting.
Iruka nodded, his throat dry. "Thank you."
Ibiki was already gone, his heavy footsteps fading down the hallway—thump, thump, thump.
Iruka crouched down, lowering himself to the children's level. He softened his face, masking the exhaustion behind a teacher's smile, even as his lungs burned with a tight, anxious heat.
"You're doing well," he said. "Being scared doesn't mean you're failing, Moegi. It means you're paying attention."
He absorbed their fear like a sponge, letting the cold weight of it soak into his own bones so they didn't have to carry it. He'd take it home with him later. He always did.
Smoke curled into the evening air, thin and deliberate.
Asuma leaned against the rooftop railing, his lighter snapping shut with a sharp clack that carried too much force. His hand shook—just a tremor, a microbeat of instability. He pretended it was the wind.
Kurenai stepped beside him without speaking. The air around her smelled of the cold evening and a faint, floral scent that shouldn't have been there. She held out the paper flower.
Asuma stared at the blue creases for a long moment, then let out a humorless, dry breath.
"That's... thoughtful. In a deeply upsetting way."
"She was here," Kurenai said, her voice as flat as the horizon. "In my apartment."
He didn't ask who. He didn't need to.
"Not to fight," she continued. "Just to prove she could."
Asuma took a long drag, the cherry of his cigarette glowing a fierce, angry red. He squinted as he exhaled, the smoke stinging his eyes.
"Then we're looking at the wrong buildings."
Kurenai glanced at him, her brow furrowed.
"They don't want the tower," Asuma said, gesturing toward the Hokage's office. "They want the people who think they're safe. They want the places that make the village feel normal."
Morale. The invisible infrastructure. If you break the sense of home, the walls don't matter.
From the edge of the roof, a small figure shifted.
Konohamaru had been there the whole time, tucked behind a water tank. Asuma noticed him and didn't sigh, didn't snap. He flicked a bit of ash aside and beckoned with two fingers.
"If you're going to watch," he said, his voice softening, "watch properly."
Konohamaru approached, his eyes wide and far too serious for a boy his age. It was a look that didn't belong on his face yet—a heavy, aged stare.
Asuma crouched slightly, meeting the boy halfway.
"This is what adults do when they're scared," he said lightly, though the words tasted like iron. "We stand somewhere high and pretend we're just thinking."
Konohamaru swallowed hard and nodded, his small fists clenched at his sides.
Below them, the village carried on—shops shuttering their doors with a heavy thud, streetlamps flickering to life, children being ushered inside by parents who still believed in the walls.
Soft targets, still breathing. For now.