The morning of the Suna delegation's arrival dawned bright and clear, which Gary took as a personal insult from the universe.
He had not slept well. His dreams had been filled with fragmented visions—futures that might or might not come to pass, faces he didn't recognize, and for some reason, an extended sequence where he was back at his old job entering spreadsheet data while Tsunade watched from the corner of his cubicle.
That last one had been particularly disturbing.
Gary rose from his inadequate bed, created a mochi breakfast, and tried to mentally prepare himself for the day ahead.
Politics, he thought grimly. The one thing I'm less qualified for than combat.
In his previous life, Gary had avoided office politics like the plague. He had learned early on that engaging with workplace drama only led to suffering. Stay neutral. Don't take sides. Enter your numbers and go home.
But this wasn't office politics. This was international diplomacy. Nations and armies and the fate of thousands hung in the balance.
No pressure or anything.
A knock at the door interrupted his brooding. Gary's Observation Haki had already identified the visitor—Sakumo, punctual as always, radiating a calm confidence that Gary envied.
"Enter," Gary called.
Sakumo stepped inside, dressed in his formal jonin attire. He looked every inch the legendary White Fang—powerful, composed, and entirely too cheerful for the early hour.
"Good morning, Katakuri-san," Sakumo said. "Ready for the meeting?"
"No."
"That's the spirit." Sakumo grinned. "The Hokage wanted me to brief you on what to expect. The Suna delegation is led by their Kazekage himself—Shamon. He's... cautious. Analytical. He'll be watching you closely."
"Everyone watches me closely."
"Fair point. But Shamon is different. He's survived two wars by being smarter than everyone else in the room. He'll be looking for weaknesses, inconsistencies, anything he can exploit."
Gary considered this. A smart opponent. Someone who wouldn't be easily intimidated by raw power alone.
Good thing I have more than raw power.
"What is my role in this meeting?" Gary asked.
"Officially? You're there as an 'honored guest of Konoha.' Unofficially? You're there to remind Suna that we have a walking apocalypse on our side and they should think very carefully before causing trouble."
"So I am a weapon."
Sakumo's expression flickered. "I... wouldn't put it that way."
"But it is accurate."
"...Yes. It's accurate." Sakumo sighed. "I'm sorry, Katakuri-san. I know this isn't what you wanted. But your presence alone could prevent a war. Thousands of lives saved, just by sitting in a room and looking intimidating."
Gary couldn't argue with that logic. And honestly, looking intimidating was one of the few things he was actually good at.
"Very well," he said. "I will attend. I will look intimidating. But I will not speak unless absolutely necessary."
"That's probably for the best," Sakumo admitted. "Politicians get nervous when mysterious giants start talking. It raises too many questions."
"Then let us go. The sooner this begins, the sooner it ends."
They left the warehouse together, walking through streets that had been cleared for the occasion. Gary noticed that the usual crowds of curious onlookers had been replaced by ANBU positioned at regular intervals—security for the delegation, or containment for him, he wasn't sure.
The meeting was being held in the Hokage's tower, in a large conference room that had been hastily modified to accommodate Gary's size. A special chair had been constructed—really more of a reinforced platform—and positioned at the far end of the table.
They want me visible, Gary realized. A constant reminder of what Konoha has in its corner.
He took his position, settling onto the platform with as much dignity as a sixteen-foot-tall mochi man could muster. Sakumo took a seat nearby, close enough to offer support but far enough to maintain the illusion that Gary was independent.
Other Konoha representatives filtered in. Gary recognized Hiruzen, looking slightly manic around the eyes (the conspiracy board had clearly taken its toll). Tsunade arrived next, dressed in formal attire that somehow managed to be both professional and flattering. She caught Gary's eye and smiled—a warm, genuine smile that made his mochi heart do uncomfortable things.
Jiraiya slouched in after her, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. And finally, to Gary's carefully hidden dismay, Orochimaru appeared.
The snake looked... diminished. His usual confident posture was gone, replaced by something hunched and wary. He took a seat as far from Gary as possible, his golden eyes fixed firmly on the table.
Maybe I overdid the demonstration, Gary thought.
Nah.
The room fell silent as the Suna delegation entered.
There were five of them. Four bodyguards—dangerous-looking shinobi with hard eyes and harder expressions—flanking a central figure who could only be the Kazekage.
Shamon was not what Gary had expected.
He was small. Barely five feet tall, with a wiry build that suggested speed rather than strength. His hair was a dark brown, streaked with gray, and his face was weathered by years of desert sun. But his eyes—his eyes were sharp. Calculating. The eyes of a man who had survived by being the smartest person in every room.
Those eyes landed on Gary and widened almost imperceptibly.
He didn't expect me to be this big, Gary realized. The reports probably mentioned my height, but seeing it in person is different.
Shamon recovered quickly, his expression smoothing into diplomatic neutrality. He approached the table, his bodyguards fanning out behind him.
"Hokage-dono," Shamon said, his voice surprisingly deep for his small frame. "Thank you for receiving us."
"Kazekage-dono," Hiruzen replied, rising to bow. "Konoha is honored by your presence. Please, be seated."
The Suna delegation took their places across the table from the Konoha representatives. Gary noticed that all of the bodyguards were carefully not looking at him—a sure sign that they had been specifically instructed not to react to his presence.
Smart, Gary thought. Don't show weakness. Don't give away how unsettled you are.
But I can sense it anyway.
His Observation Haki was feeding him a constant stream of information about the Suna delegation. Fear. Wariness. Calculation. And beneath it all, a current of hostility that had been carefully suppressed but not eliminated.
They're here to make peace, but they haven't forgiven us for the war. They're looking for any advantage they can find.
The meeting began with the usual diplomatic pleasantries—expressions of mutual respect, hopes for lasting peace, carefully worded non-statements that conveyed nothing of substance. Gary tuned most of it out, focusing instead on maintaining his intimidating presence.
It wasn't hard. He just had to sit there, arms crossed, expression hidden behind his collar, radiating an aura of quiet menace. The Suna bodyguards kept sneaking glances at him despite their instructions, and each glance was followed by a barely suppressed shudder.
This is actually kind of fun, Gary admitted to himself. I never got to intimidate anyone in my previous life. Karen from accounting would have a heart attack if she saw me now.
The pleasantries eventually gave way to substance. Trade agreements. Border disputes. The fate of prisoners from both sides. Gary listened with half an ear, more interested in the emotional currents flowing through the room.
Shamon was good. Very good. He revealed nothing in his expression, nothing in his body language. But his emotional state was an open book to Gary's Observation Haki—frustration at Konoha's strong negotiating position, anxiety about the future, and a deep, abiding curiosity about Gary himself.
He wants to know what I am, Gary realized. He's been staring at me from the corner of his eye the entire time, trying to figure me out.
An hour into the meeting, Shamon made his move.
"Before we continue," the Kazekage said, his voice cutting through a discussion about grain shipments, "I must address the elephant in the room. Or perhaps I should say, the giant."
All eyes turned to Gary.
Here we go.
"The reports from our intelligence network have been... concerning," Shamon continued. "A being of unknown origin, possessing abilities beyond anything in recorded history, kills Hanzo the Salamander with a single attack. And now this being sits in Konoha's council chamber, apparently aligned with the Leaf."
"Katakuri-san is an honored guest," Hiruzen said smoothly. "His presence here is a gesture of friendship, nothing more."
"Is it?" Shamon's eyes fixed on Gary. "I would like to hear from Katakuri-san himself. If he is willing."
Gary considered his options. He could stay silent—that would maintain his mysterious persona but might be seen as weakness. He could give a vague non-answer—safe but unsatisfying. Or he could do what Katakuri would do.
Intimidate.
"You wish to know what I am," Gary said, his deep voice filling the room. Several of the Suna bodyguards flinched at the sound. "You wish to assess whether I am a threat to your village."
Shamon's expression didn't change, but Gary caught a flicker of unease in his emotional state.
"The answer is simple," Gary continued. "I am not your enemy. I have no interest in your village, your people, or your politics. I am here because I choose to be here. And I will leave when I choose to leave."
"A comforting sentiment," Shamon said carefully. "But surely you understand our concern. A being of your power, aligned with our former enemies—"
"I am not aligned with Konoha."
Silence fell over the room. Gary could feel the Konoha representatives tensing—this wasn't part of the script.
"I am aligned with no one," Gary said. "I owe no loyalty to any village, any nation, any cause. I am here because it amuses me to be here. Nothing more."
Shamon's eyes narrowed. "Then why did you kill Hanzo?"
"He was in my way."
"In your way?"
"I was testing my abilities. He happened to be in the path of my attack." Gary shrugged, a small movement that rippled through his massive frame. "His death was incidental."
The room had gone very quiet. Gary could sense the shifting emotions—confusion from Konoha, fear from Suna, and from Hiruzen, a strange sort of satisfaction.
He's using this, Gary realized. He's letting me appear unpredictable, uncontrollable. It makes Konoha look more dangerous, not less.
Clever old man.
Shamon was silent for a long moment, clearly processing what he'd heard. When he spoke again, his voice was carefully neutral.
"You killed one of the strongest shinobi in history... incidentally?"
"Yes."
"And you expect us to believe that you pose no threat?"
Gary leaned forward slightly, and the entire Suna delegation leaned back in response.
"I pose a threat to anyone who annoys me," Gary said. "I suggest you avoid doing so."
Shamon's face went pale. His bodyguards' hands twitched toward their weapons. The room balanced on a knife's edge of tension.
Then Gary leaned back and crossed his arms.
"But I have no intention of being annoyed by Sunagakure. Your village means nothing to me. Your politics mean nothing to me. Make your peace with Konoha or don't—it matters not to me either way."
The tension slowly deflated. Shamon took a deep breath, visibly composing himself.
"I... see," the Kazekage said. "Thank you for your... candor, Katakuri-san."
"You are welcome."
The meeting continued, but the dynamic had shifted. The Suna delegation was more subdued, more willing to compromise. They kept glancing at Gary, as if afraid he might suddenly decide to be "annoyed" by something they said.
This is definitely fun, Gary thought. Terrifying diplomats into cooperation. I should have died to a taco truck years ago.
Two hours later, the meeting concluded with a preliminary peace agreement that was far more favorable to Konoha than anyone had expected. Shamon looked like a man who had aged ten years in an afternoon. His bodyguards looked like men who desperately needed strong drinks.
As the Suna delegation filed out, Shamon paused at the door and looked back at Gary.
"Katakuri-san," he said quietly. "I hope we never meet again."
"As do I," Gary replied.
Shamon left, and Gary allowed himself a small moment of satisfaction.
Mission accomplished.
In the guest quarters provided to the Suna delegation, Shamon was losing his mind.
"A BOARD!" he shouted at his bewildered bodyguards. "I NEED A BOARD! AND STRING! AND PINS!"
"Kazekage-sama, perhaps you should rest—"
"REST? REST?! Did you see what I saw? Did you feel what I felt?" Shamon paced frantically across the room. "That being—that CREATURE—he's not from our world. He CAN'T be from our world. The power I sensed from him... it was INFINITE. INFINITE!"
"Sir, please calm—"
"He creates matter from nothing! NOTHING! Do you understand the implications? He violates the fundamental laws of nature with every breath!" Shamon grabbed a piece of paper and began sketching furiously. "And his eyes—did you see his eyes? He SAW me. Not just looked at me—SAW INTO ME. He knew what I was feeling before I felt it!"
One of the bodyguards quietly slipped out to find a medic.
"There must be records," Shamon muttered, pinning his sketch to the wall. "Ancient texts. Forbidden scrolls. Something that explains what he is. A demon? A god? A being from beyond the stars?"
He drew a line connecting "Katakuri" to "Unknown Origin" to "Possible Extraterrestrial Entity."
"The donuts," he whispered. "He makes DONUTS. Why donuts? What is the significance? Is it a message? A symbol? A key to understanding his true nature?"
Another line: "Donuts" to "Circular Shape" to "Infinite Loop" to "Eternal Being???"
"And the SCARF! Why does he hide his mouth? What is he concealing? Ancient knowledge? A terrible secret? A SECOND MOUTH?!"
The bodyguard returned with a medic, who took one look at the Kazekage's frantic scribbling and immediately began preparing a sedative.
"You don't understand," Shamon said, his voice rising to a fever pitch. "This is the most important discovery in shinobi history! Katakuri is the key to EVERYTHING! If we can understand him, we can—"
The sedative took effect.
Shamon slumped into his chair, still clutching his pen, still muttering about donuts and infinity.
"Should we... destroy the board?" one of the bodyguards asked.
"No," the medic said grimly. "We need to document this. For the psychological evaluation."
In the corner, pinned to the wall, Shamon's conspiracy board stared back at them. It was disturbingly similar to the one currently occupying Hiruzen's office.
Great minds, it seemed, thought alike.
Insane minds, even more so.
Back in Konoha, Gary was trying to escape from the post-meeting celebration.
"A toast!" Jiraiya shouted, raising his sake cup. "To Katakuri-san, who scared the Kazekage so badly he nearly wet himself!"
"I do not wish to be toasted."
"Too bad! TOAST!"
Gary sighed and accepted the comically small sake cup that Tsunade pressed into his hand. It looked like a thimble in his massive palm.
"You did well," Tsunade said, standing close enough that he could smell her perfume. "Shamon looked like he'd seen a ghost."
"I simply told the truth."
"That's what made it so effective." Tsunade smiled up at him. "You're completely unpredictable. You don't follow the rules of politics or war. That terrifies people who've spent their whole lives mastering those rules."
Gary considered this. She was right, in a way. He wasn't following any rules because he didn't know any rules. He was just being himself—or rather, being his interpretation of Katakuri.
"I am not trying to terrify anyone," he said.
"And yet you do it so naturally." Tsunade's hand found his arm again—that familiar gesture that sent complicated signals through his mochi nervous system. "It's quite attractive."
"You find terror attractive?"
"I find power attractive. And confidence. And mystery." Her eyes met his. "All of which you have in abundance."
Gary's brain executed several error messages simultaneously.
"I—you—that is—"
"Oi, Tsunade!" Jiraiya interrupted, mercifully breaking the moment. "Stop flirting with the giant and come drink with us!"
Tsunade rolled her eyes but released Gary's arm. "This isn't over," she said quietly, then walked toward where Jiraiya and a slightly-less-traumatized Orochimaru were drinking.
Gary remained where he was, trying to process what had just happened.
She finds me attractive, he thought. Not just as a curiosity or a prize—genuinely attractive. Power and confidence and mystery.
I have none of those things. I'm a data entry clerk pretending to be an anime character.
But she doesn't know that. She only sees what I show her.
And what I show her is... enough?
It was a strange thought. In his previous life, Gary had never been enough. Not interesting enough, not ambitious enough, not anything enough. He had been aggressively mediocre, and people had treated him accordingly.
But here, as Katakuri, he was more than enough. He was overwhelming. And for the first time in his existence, someone was looking at him like he mattered.
Is this what I was missing? Gary wondered. Not power or ability, but the willingness to stop being invisible?
He didn't have an answer.
But he filed the question away for later consideration.
Sakumo appeared at his side, looking tired but satisfied.
"That went better than expected," the White Fang said. "The Hokage is pleased. The preliminary agreement is more favorable than anything we'd hoped for."
"Because they are afraid of me."
"Partly. But also because you made it clear that you're not Konoha's weapon. That made them trust the negotiation more—they knew we weren't just using you as a threat."
Gary blinked. He hadn't considered that angle.
"So my independence... helped?"
"Absolutely. If you'd been presented as our loyal soldier, Suna would have assumed we were using you for leverage. But your obvious disdain for politics made the peace offer seem more genuine."
I accidentally helped by being unhelpful, Gary thought. That's the most Gary thing that's ever happened.
"I am glad to have been useful," he said. "Inadvertently."
Sakumo laughed. "You're a strange man, Katakuri-san."
"So I have been told."
They stood together in comfortable silence, watching the celebration continue. Gary noticed that Tsunade kept glancing at him from across the room. Each glance was followed by a small smile.
She's not giving up, Gary realized. Whatever she wants from me, she's determined to get it.
I should probably figure out how I feel about that.
But that was a problem for later. Right now, there was sake to not-drink (he still wasn't sure if alcohol affected his mochi body) and a celebration to endure.
One crisis at a time, Gary told himself.
One crisis at a time.
The celebration wound down a few hours later, and Gary finally escaped to the relative peace of his warehouse. He was looking forward to some quiet time—maybe creating some donuts, maybe practicing his abilities, maybe just sitting and contemplating the absurdity of his existence.
But when he opened the door, Tsunade was already inside.
She was sitting on one of the cargo containers, her formal attire replaced by something more casual. She had a bottle of sake in one hand and two cups in the other.
"I let myself in," she said. "Hope you don't mind."
Gary minded. He minded quite a lot. But he also couldn't find it in himself to throw her out.
"How did you get in?"
"I'm a Senju. This entire village is technically my house." She poured two cups of sake and held one out to him. "Drink with me?"
Gary hesitated, then accepted the cup. He still didn't know if alcohol would affect him, but at this point, he was too tired to care.
He sat down across from her, his massive frame making the cargo container creak ominously.
"Why are you here, Tsunade?"
"I wanted to talk. Privately. Without Jiraiya making jokes or Orochimaru lurking in corners." She took a sip of her sake. "I realized today that I don't actually know anything about you. Not really."
"You know my abilities. My appearance. My general demeanor."
"That's not knowing someone. That's knowing about someone." Tsunade's eyes met his. "I want to know you. The person underneath the mystery."
Gary felt a chill run through him. This was dangerous territory. The more she learned about him, the more likely she was to discover the truth—that he wasn't a mysterious warrior from a hidden civilization, but a reincarnated data entry clerk from another universe entirely.
"There is not much to know," he said carefully.
"I don't believe that." Tsunade leaned forward. "Everyone has a story. Everyone has a past. Even beings of immense power don't spring from nothing."
Actually, I kind of did. Cosmic clerical error and all that.
But he couldn't say that.
What could he say?
Gary considered his options. He could refuse to answer—that would be consistent with his mysterious persona but might push Tsunade away. He could lie—but his Observation Haki told him she would probably see through it. Or he could tell the truth.
Not his truth. Not Gary Henderson's truth.
But Katakuri's truth.
She wants to know about the person underneath the mystery, Gary thought. Well, the person she sees is Katakuri. And Katakuri has a story.
A tragic, complicated, deeply personal story that I happen to know from watching hours of anime.
It was a risk. But it was also an opportunity. If he could share something real—or at least, something that felt real—he might be able to build a genuine connection without revealing his true origins.
"Very well," Gary said slowly. "I will tell you about my past. But I warn you—it is not a pleasant story."
Tsunade set down her sake cup, her full attention on him.
"I'm listening."
Gary took a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
"I was born different," he began. "Larger than my siblings, with unusual features. My mouth, in particular, was... disturbing to those around me. Sharp teeth. An unnaturally wide smile. When I laughed, people looked at me with fear rather than joy."
Tsunade's expression shifted—a flicker of sympathy that she quickly suppressed.
"My family is large. Many siblings, all dependent on our mother. And our mother is... demanding. Powerful. Not someone you disobey." Gary's voice took on a distant quality as he recounted Katakuri's history. "From a young age, I understood that I needed to be perfect. Not for my own sake, but for theirs. If I was perfect—if I never showed weakness, never made mistakes, never let anyone see the real me—then my siblings would be safe."
"Safe from what?"
"From her disappointment. From her rage. From the consequences of being anything less than what she demanded." Gary's hands clenched. "So I built a wall. I hid my mouth. I never ate in front of others, never laughed, never showed emotion. I became what she needed me to be—a pillar. Unshakeable. Perfect."
Tsunade was silent, her eyes fixed on his face.
"For decades, I maintained this facade," Gary continued. "And it worked. My siblings looked up to me. My enemies feared me. I never lost a battle, never showed weakness, never gave anyone reason to doubt that I was exactly what I appeared to be."
"But it was lonely," Tsunade said quietly. "Wasn't it?"
Gary paused. That wasn't part of Katakuri's story—not explicitly. But it was true. It was true for Katakuri, and it was true for Gary.
"Yes," he admitted. "It was lonely. It is lonely. Even now, surrounded by people, I am alone. Because no one knows the real me. They know the mask. They know the performance. But the person underneath..."
He trailed off.
Tsunade stood and walked toward him. She didn't stop at a respectful distance—she walked right up to him, close enough to touch.
"You don't have to be perfect here," she said softly. "You don't have to be a pillar for anyone. Whatever you're hiding, whatever you think makes you unacceptable—you don't have to hide it from me."
Gary looked down at her. She was so small compared to him—barely reaching his chest even when he was seated. But her presence filled the room, warm and steady and utterly unafraid.
"You do not know what you are offering," he said.
"Then show me." Her hand reached up to touch his collar—the fluffy fabric that hid his mouth. "Let me see."
Gary's heart—his mochi heart, whatever that meant—began to pound.
In canon, Katakuri's hidden mouth was his greatest shame. The scars, the teeth, the inhuman features that he had concealed for decades. Revealing it to Luffy had been a turning point—an admission that perfection was impossible, that vulnerability was not weakness.
Gary didn't have Katakuri's scars. His mouth was normal, as far as he knew. But the symbolism was the same.
She wants me to let my guard down. To show her something real.
Can I do that?
Should I?
He reached up and slowly lowered his collar.
Tsunade's eyes widened as she saw his mouth for the first time. There were no scars—Gary had checked in the stream when he first arrived—just a normal mouth with slightly sharper teeth than average.
"I expected something terrible," she admitted. "Given how carefully you hide it."
"The hiding became habit. The reason for it... no longer exists." Gary touched his exposed mouth, feeling strange without the covering. "But the instinct remains. To conceal. To protect."
"Protect yourself? Or protect others from you?"
"Both."
Tsunade reached up—slowly, giving him time to pull away—and touched his face. Her fingers were warm against his mochi skin.
"You're not a monster," she said. "Whatever you've been told, whatever you believe about yourself—you're not a monster."
"You do not know that."
"Yes, I do." Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. "Because I see you, Katakuri. Not the pillar or the mask or the performance. You. And you're just... a person. A person who's been alone for too long."
Something cracked inside Gary. Some wall that he'd been maintaining without even realizing it.
And he realized, with a shock, that he was about to cry.
He, a sixteen-foot-tall mochi man with the power to destroy armies, was about to cry because a woman had told him he wasn't a monster.
I'm so pathetic, Gary thought. Even as a superpowered anime character, I'm pathetic.
But he couldn't stop it. The tears came anyway—silent, sliding down his cheeks like rain.
Tsunade pulled his head down gently, until his forehead rested against her shoulder. She was too small to hug him properly, but she tried anyway, her arms wrapping around his neck as best she could.
"It's okay," she murmured. "You don't have to be alone anymore. I'm here."
Gary cried.
He cried for Katakuri, who had spent decades performing perfection for a family that would never truly accept him.
He cried for Gary Henderson, who had spent thirty-two years being invisible and forgotten.
He cried for himself, whoever he was now—some strange amalgamation of both, lost in a world he didn't understand, pretending to be someone he wasn't.
Tsunade held him through all of it, her small form steady and warm against his.
When the tears finally subsided, Gary felt empty. Hollowed out. But also, strangely, lighter. Like a weight he hadn't known he was carrying had been lifted.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rough. "That was... undignified."
"That was human." Tsunade pulled back slightly, her own cheeks wet with tears. "And you have nothing to apologize for."
"You're crying too."
"Your story is sad." She wiped her eyes. "Growing up like that, never being able to be yourself—it's heartbreaking. I wanted to find your mother and punch her."
Gary almost laughed. The image of Tsunade fighting Big Mom was absurd in ways he couldn't begin to explain.
"She is... beyond your ability to punch."
"I'd try anyway." Tsunade's voice was fierce. "No one deserves to be treated like that. No one deserves to grow up believing they have to be perfect or they'll be abandoned."
Gary didn't have a response to that.
They sat together in silence, Tsunade still holding his hand—a gesture that seemed almost comical given the size difference, but felt profound nonetheless.
"Thank you," Gary said finally. "For listening. For... this."
"Anytime." Tsunade squeezed his hand. "And I meant what I said. You don't have to be alone here. Whatever you need—someone to talk to, someone to drink with, someone to just sit in silence with—I'm here."
She means it, Gary's Observation Haki confirmed. She genuinely means it.
He didn't know how to process that. In his entire existence—both as Gary and as Katakuri—no one had ever offered him unconditional support. There had always been strings attached, always expectations, always the threat of disappointment.
But Tsunade was offering something different. Something real.
Maybe, Gary thought, maybe I don't have to be alone.
Maybe that's okay.
"I appreciate that," he said. "More than you know."
Tsunade smiled—that warm, genuine smile that made his mochi heart do complicated things.
"Good. Now drink your sake before it gets cold."
"Sake doesn't get cold."
"Don't ruin the moment."
Gary drank his sake.
It was, he decided, a good moment.
The next morning, Gary woke to find that something had changed.
Not externally—the warehouse was the same, his body was the same, the village around him was the same. But internally, something had shifted. The wall he'd been maintaining, the distance he'd been keeping—it felt less necessary now. Less crucial to survival.
Tsunade saw me cry, he thought. She saw me vulnerable. And she didn't run.
Maybe vulnerability isn't weakness after all.
It was a strange thought for someone who was pretending to be Charlotte Katakuri. Katakuri's entire philosophy was built on projecting strength, on never showing weakness, on being the perfect pillar for his family.
But Gary wasn't Katakuri. Not really. He was something new—a fusion of Gary Henderson's insecurities and Katakuri's power, trying to find a way to exist in a world that didn't make sense.
Maybe I can be something new, Gary thought. Something that takes the best of both. Katakuri's strength, but without the isolation. Gary's humanity, but without the helplessness.
Maybe that's who I'm supposed to be.
A knock at the door interrupted his philosophizing.
"Enter," Gary called, already knowing who it was.
Sakumo stepped inside, looking slightly nervous.
"Good morning, Katakuri-san. I hope I'm not disturbing you."
"You are not."
"Good. Good." Sakumo shifted his weight from foot to foot. "I have a request. A somewhat unusual one."
Gary raised an eyebrow—a gesture that was largely lost behind his collar but conveyed the sentiment anyway.
"What kind of request?"
"I want to spar with you."
Gary blinked.
"Spar," he repeated.
"A friendly match. Swords, if you're willing. I've heard you can create weapons from that substance of yours, and I've been curious to see how my techniques would fare against them."
Gary considered. On one hand, sparring with Sakumo was unlikely to be a challenge—he was relatively confident that nothing in this world could actually threaten him. On the other hand, it might be interesting. And it would give him an excuse to spend more time with the White Fang.
"Very well," he said. "But I will hold back significantly. I do not wish to accidentally kill you."
"I appreciate that." Sakumo grinned. "Meet me at Training Ground Three in an hour? It's usually empty at this time."
"I will be there."
Sakumo left, and Gary began preparing.
He created a sword from mochi—not Mogura, Katakuri's signature trident, but a simpler blade. Something that would be appropriate for a sparring match rather than a battle.
He considered coating it in Armament Haki, then decided against it. That would be overkill. Sakumo was strong, but he wasn't Yonko Commander strong.
This should be interesting, Gary thought. A chance to see how shinobi combat compares to pirate combat.
And a chance to connect with Sakumo on his terms.
An hour later, Gary arrived at Training Ground Three.
Sakumo was already there, warming up with his own blade—the famous White Light Chakra Saber that had earned him his legendary status. The blade gleamed in the morning light, humming with contained power.
"Thank you for coming," Sakumo said. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I said I would be here. I do not make promises I cannot keep."
"Fair enough." Sakumo took a ready stance. "Shall we begin?"
Gary manifested his mochi sword—a curved blade about five feet long, black with pink accents. He took his own stance, lowering his center of gravity, preparing for movement.
"Begin."
Sakumo moved first.
He was fast. Faster than Gary had expected. The White Light Chakra Saber blurred toward Gary's midsection, trailing light like a comet.
Gary blocked, his mochi sword meeting Sakumo's blade with a clash that echoed across the training ground. Sparks flew. The ground cracked beneath their feet.
"Impressive," Gary said. "You are faster than most."
"I should hope so." Sakumo disengaged and struck again, this time aiming for Gary's shoulder.
Gary parried, then countered with a slash of his own. He was moving slowly—incredibly slowly by his standards—but even at reduced speed, his size gave him reach and power that Sakumo couldn't match.
They exchanged blows, falling into a rhythm. Strike, parry, counter. Strike, parry, counter. Sakumo was skilled—more skilled than anyone Gary had faced in this world. His movements were economical, precise, honed by years of life-or-death combat.
But Gary had something Sakumo didn't.
Future sight.
Gary wasn't using his Observation Haki at full power—that would make the fight completely one-sided. But even at a reduced level, he could see Sakumo's attacks a fraction of a second before they happened. Every strike, every feint, every attempt at misdirection—Gary saw them all coming.
"You're reading me," Sakumo said, breathing hard after a particularly intense exchange. "Anticipating my moves before I make them."
"Yes."
"Is that one of your abilities?"
"Yes."
"That's... incredibly unfair."
Gary allowed himself a small smile, hidden behind his collar. "Yes."
Sakumo laughed—a genuine, delighted laugh. "I should be frustrated, but honestly? This is the most fun I've had in years. Fighting someone who I can't possibly beat."
"You are not trying to win?"
"No. I'm trying to learn." Sakumo raised his blade again. "Show me more. Push me further. I want to see how far I can go."
Something shifted in Gary's chest. A warmth that had nothing to do with superheated mochi.
He's not afraid of me, Gary realized. He's not trying to use me or study me or manipulate me. He just wants to get better. To challenge himself.
He sees me as a partner, not a threat.
"Very well," Gary said. "I will increase the difficulty. Prepare yourself."
He moved faster.
Not at his full speed—that would have been lethal—but faster than before. His blade became a blur, striking from multiple angles, testing Sakumo's defenses.
Sakumo adapted. He had to. Gary's attacks forced him to reach deeper, to find reserves of speed and skill that he hadn't known he possessed. His movements became sharper, more instinctive. Less thought, more reaction.
After an hour, they were both breathing hard—Gary from restraint, Sakumo from exertion. They stood facing each other, swords lowered, mutual respect filling the space between them.
"Thank you," Sakumo said. "That was... incredible. I've never been pushed like that."
"You are a skilled warrior. With more training, you could become truly formidable."
"Coming from you, that means a lot." Sakumo sheathed his sword. "I know I can't match you in strength or speed or... whatever that precognition thing is. But I want to keep trying. If you're willing."
"I am willing."
Sakumo's face broke into a wide smile. "Then let's do this again. Tomorrow? Same time?"
"I will be here."
They left the training ground together, and Gary realized that he was smiling too—hidden behind his collar, but present nonetheless.
A friend, he thought. An actual friend. Not someone trying to use me or seduce me or study me. Just... a friend.
When did that happen?
He didn't know. But he was glad it had.
In the shadows at the edge of Training Ground Three, a figure watched them leave.
Tsunade had not meant to spy. She had come to find Katakuri, to continue their conversation from the night before. But when she'd seen him sparring with Sakumo, she'd stopped.
And watched.
And felt something change inside her.
Katakuri was... beautiful. There was no other word for it. The way he moved—graceful despite his size, powerful without being brutal, restrained in a way that spoke of immense control. Every strike was precise. Every parry was effortless. He was a master warrior, operating at a level that Tsunade could barely comprehend.
And yet, with Sakumo, he was gentle. Encouraging. He pushed the White Fang to improve, but never to the point of danger. He treated Sakumo as an equal, even though the gap between them was astronomical.
He's not just powerful, Tsunade thought. He's kind. Under all that mystery and intimidation, he's genuinely kind.
She remembered the night before. His story—the childhood of isolation, the decades of performing perfection, the loneliness that had defined his existence. She remembered his tears, rare and precious, shed against her shoulder.
She remembered the feeling of holding him as he broke down, of being trusted with something no one else had ever seen.
I love him, Tsunade realized.
The thought hit her like a lightning bolt.
I love him. Not as a curiosity or a conquest or a political asset. I love him. The person he is, the person he's hidden for so long.
I love Katakuri.
It was terrifying. It was exhilarating. It was completely, utterly irrational.
She had known him for less than a week. She didn't know where he came from, what he truly wanted, or whether he could ever return her feelings. He was an enigma wrapped in mochi wrapped in muscle, and by all logic, she should be running in the opposite direction.
But logic had never been Tsunade's strong suit.
I'm going to make him love me back, she decided. Whatever it takes. However long it takes. I'm going to show him that he doesn't have to be alone anymore.
She stepped out of the shadows and walked toward where Katakuri and Sakumo were talking.
"Tsunade-hime," Sakumo said, noticing her approach. "Were you watching?"
"I was looking for Katakuri-san," she said smoothly. "I have some questions about his physiology that I'd like to discuss."
Sakumo raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He glanced between Tsunade and Katakuri, clearly sensing something in the air.
"I'll leave you two alone," he said diplomatically. "Katakuri-san, I'll see you tomorrow?"
"Tomorrow," Gary agreed.
Sakumo left, and Tsunade turned her full attention to Gary.
"You were impressive out there," she said.
"I was holding back significantly."
"I know. That's what made it impressive." She stepped closer. "Walk with me?"
Gary hesitated, then nodded. They fell into step together, walking through the village streets. People stared—they always stared—but Tsunade ignored them.
"About last night," she began.
"I apologize again for—"
"Stop apologizing." Her voice was firm. "What happened last night was important. You trusted me with something real. Something vulnerable. Do you know how rare that is?"
"I... do not."
"It's rare." Tsunade looked up at him. "Most people spend their whole lives hiding. Pretending to be fine when they're not, pretending to be strong when they're breaking inside. But you let me see you. The real you."
"I am not certain the 'real me' exists," Gary admitted. "I have been performing for so long that I no longer know where the performance ends and the truth begins."
"Then we'll figure it out together." Tsunade's hand found his arm. "I meant what I said. I'm here. Whatever you need, however long it takes, I'm here."
Gary looked down at her. She was beautiful in the morning light, her honey-colored eyes bright with determination. She was offering him something he had never had—unconditional support. Acceptance. Maybe even love.
She doesn't know the truth, a part of him whispered. She thinks you're Katakuri. She doesn't know you're Gary Henderson, data entry clerk, victim of taco truck homicide.
If she knew, she would leave.
But another part of him—a newer, braver part—whispered something different.
Does it matter? You're not Gary Henderson anymore. You're not just Katakuri either. You're something new. And maybe that something new deserves a chance at happiness.
"Thank you, Tsunade," Gary said. "For everything."
She smiled that warm, genuine smile. "Anytime."
They walked together through the village, two figures of vastly different sizes, connected by something that neither of them fully understood.
Behind them, hidden in the crowd, several observers made notes.
Hiruzen Sarutobi added another thread to his conspiracy board: "ROMANTIC ATTACHMENT TO SENJU HEIR - POLITICAL IMPLICATIONS???"
Jiraiya made a mental note to tease Tsunade mercilessly about her "research subject."
And Sakumo watched from a rooftop, smiling to himself.
Good for you, Katakuri-san, the White Fang thought. Good for you.
The sun rose higher over Konoha, and the day continued.
But something had changed.
Something fundamental.
And nothing would ever be quite the same again.
In his office, Hiruzen stared at his conspiracy board with mounting excitement.
"SENJU-SAGE ALLIANCE," he wrote in large letters. "POTENTIAL BLOODLINE MERGER. CHILDREN WOULD BE UNSTOPPABLE."
He drew several lines connecting Katakuri, Tsunade, and a box labeled "HYPOTHETICAL OFFSPRING (GOD-TIER)."
"This changes everything," he muttered. "If they marry—if they have children—Konoha will possess the strongest bloodline in history. We would be invincible. INVINCIBLE!"
His aide, who had been trying to get him to eat lunch for the past two hours, quietly summoned the medical team again.
The sedatives were going to become a regular thing, apparently.
In Suna, Shamon woke from his drug-induced sleep and immediately returned to his own conspiracy board.
"THE KONOHA-SAGE AXIS," he scribbled. "THEY'RE BUILDING AN ARMY. WE MUST RESPOND."
He drew a picture of Katakuri—wildly inaccurate, but enthusiastic—and surrounded it with question marks.
"The donuts are key," he muttered. "THE DONUTS ARE ALWAYS KEY."
His bodyguards exchanged worried glances.
This was going to be a long recovery.
And in his warehouse, completely unaware of the chaos his existence was causing, Gary ate a mochi donut and thought about the future.
I have friends, he thought. Sakumo. Tsunade. Maybe even Jiraiya. I have a place. A purpose. Or at least, the beginning of one.
This isn't the life I expected. But maybe it's the life I needed.
He finished his donut and created another one.
Tomorrow, there would be more challenges. More complications. More conspiracy boards (though he didn't know about those yet).
But for now, there was peace.
And donuts.
Mostly donuts.