The carriage jolted into motion, the wooden wheels groaning as they began to turn against the uneven earth. Bana sat tall on the bench, his spine surprisingly straight for a man of his years. There was a quiet dignity in the way he held the weathered leather reins—not the rigid posture of a soldier, but the easy grace of someone who had long ago made peace with the world.
For a time, the only sound was the rhythmic clip-clop of the horse and the sighing of the wind through the high branches. Shikamaru watched the trees blur into a wall of green, the silence stretching until it felt natural to break it.
"You travel alone, then?" Shikamaru asked, his voice low, blending with the rumble of the carriage. "Just you and the road?"
Bana offered a small, knowing smile, his eyes fixed on the path ahead. "Aye. I've lived a full life, but these days, I find I prefer the company of the horizon. No wife waiting at home, no children to fret over. I drive this carriage to keep my joints from seizing and to see where the sun sets each evening. It's a simple existence, but a free one."
The old man turned his head slightly, his gaze drifting over Shikamaru's travel-worn clothes and the hidden tension in his jaw. "But what of you, lad? You're a long way from home, and you carry yourself like a man who's used to carrying the weight of a village on his shoulders. What's your story? Where do you hail from, and what do you do when you aren't wandering through lonely forests?"
Shikamaru leaned back against the wooden frame of the carriage, his eyes narrowing as he watched a hawk circle lazily above. He wasn't ready to speak of Konoha, of the shadow-stitched battles of his past, or the woman who had left his heart in ruins.
"I'm just a traveler from the Land of Fire," Shikamaru replied, his tone polite but carefully guarded. "I used to do some clerical work, a bit of planning for others. It was... a busy life. Too busy, I think. Now, I'm just looking to see the world before it gets any smaller."
Bana chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound that held no malice. "Vague words for a man with such sharp eyes. A planner, eh? Well, the world has a way of ruining even the best-laid plans. It's better to just let the road tell you where you're going."
The rhythmic sway of the carriage and the steady drone of their conversation acted as a hypnotic backdrop to the passing scenery. For an hour, they spoke of small things—the quality of the soil in this region, the changing weather, and the simple philosophies of the road. Shikamaru found a strange comfort in the old man's presence; Bana was like an ancient tree, deeply rooted and unbothered by the storms of the world.
Checking the position of the sun, which was now beginning its slow descent, Shikamaru shifted on the hard wooden bench. "How much longer until we see some signs of civilization?" he asked, his voice tinged with a faint restlessness.
Bana didn't look back, his hands steady on the reins. "Another two hours, give or take the horse's mood. She's a sturdy girl, but she doesn't like to be rushed when the shadows grow long."
Two hours. To a man whose mind usually moved at a hundred leagues a minute, the stretch of time felt like an eternity of "troublesome" stillness. Boredom, sharp and familiar, began to settle in his bones.
Reaching into his pouch, Shikamaru pulled out his lighter and a cigarette. He struck the flame, the small orange glow reflecting in his dark eyes for a fleeting second before he took a long, slow drag. The acrid, familiar scent of tobacco filled the air, drifting back into the forest behind them.
A raspy, melodic chuckle erupted from beside him.
"Ah," Bana said, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he reached into the folds of his dignified robes. "A vice we share, it seems."
The old man produced a long-stemmed pipe, packed it with practiced ease, and lit it. Soon, two distinct plumes of smoke were dancing in the air above the moving carriage, swirling together before being torn away by the breeze.
"You know, lad," Bana said, exhaling a thick cloud that smelled of dried cherries and old earth, "they say a man only smokes for two reasons: to find a moment of peace, or to keep his mouth shut so he doesn't say something he'll regret. Which one is it for you today?"
Shikamaru watched the smoke vanish into the trees, a small, tired smirk playing on his lips. "A bit of both, I think."
The sun had reached its zenith by the time the carriage rumbled over the cobblestones of the town's threshold. The heat of midday hummed against the stone walls, and the air was thick with the scent of baked bread, livestock, and the distant salt of a nearby river. It was a bustling place, far removed from the quiet melancholy of the forest paths.
Shikamaru hopped down from the carriage, his joints popping as he stretched his lanky frame. "I need something more substantial than smoke for lunch," he muttered, squinting against the glare.
Bana gave a knowing nod, already guiding the mare toward a nearby stable. "Go on then, lad. Find us a table with a bit of shade. I'll see to the girl and join you shortly."
Shikamaru wandered down a narrow alley until he found a modest restaurant tucked away from the main thoroughfare. It was a quiet spot, the wooden interior smelling of soy and cedar. He took a seat at a corner table, watching the locals go about their business, feeling like a ghost passing through a world that didn't know his name.
A few minutes later, the door creaked open, and Bana's dignified silhouette appeared. He moved with a slow, deliberate grace, nodding to the shopkeeper before sliding into the chair opposite Shikamaru.
"The horse is fed and watered," Bana announced, unfolding a clean handkerchief to wipe his brow. "Now, let's see what this town has to offer two hungry travelers."
A waitress soon laid out a spread of steaming bowls—thick noodles in a dark broth, grilled fish, and pickled vegetables. For a few moments, the only sound between them was the clatter of chopsticks and the ambient noise of the town outside. The tension that had followed Shikamaru from Konoha seemed to dull slightly under the weight of a warm meal and the presence of a man who asked for nothing more than his company.
Bana paused, lifting a piece of fish with practiced precision. "So," the old man said, his eyes twinkling over the steam. "Now that we've reached civilization, does the 'planner' have a plan for the afternoon, or are you still letting the wind decide your direction?"
Shikamaru chewed slowly, his gaze drifting to the window. "I haven't decided yet. Maybe a walk through the market. I need to replenish my supplies if I'm going to survive the next five years."
The sun was high and heavy, baking the dirt of the streets as Shikamaru stepped out of the cool shade of the restaurant. He leaned against the weathered wooden post of the storefront, squinting against the glare. His stomach was full, but his coin purse was feeling light—a troublesome reality of life on the road. If he was going to survive five years away from the village's payroll, he needed to find work that didn't involve official ninja scrolls.
Bana stepped out behind him, patting his belly with a satisfied sigh. He looked at the young man, noticing the way Shikamaru's eyes were already scanning the horizon, looking for an opportunity.
"You look like you want to find work," Bana said, his voice slow and easy, using plain words that lacked his earlier poetic flair. "This town has many shops. Some need help. Some need a strong back. Some just need a man who can think."
Shikamaru nodded absently. "I need to see what the people here need. Maybe someone has a problem they can't solve."
"I go to the market now," Bana said, pointing a gnarled finger toward the center of town. "I see you later. Do not get in trouble, lad."
With a final wave from the old man, Shikamaru began to wander. He moved through the narrow streets, observing the flow of the town. He saw a blacksmith's forge, a grocer, and a busy tailor, but nothing felt quite right. Then, tucked into a corner where the alleyways grew a bit darker and the air smelled of stale hops and spilled wine, he saw it.
A bar.
The sign above the door was faded, swinging slightly on rusted hinges. It wasn't the kind of place a tourist would visit; it was a place for locals, for weary travelers, and for people who had secrets to keep. Through the open windows, he could hear the low murmur of voices and the clinking of glasses, even in the middle of the day.
Shikamaru felt a familiar pull of curiosity. In a place like that, people talked. And where people talked, there was usually a job that needed doing—or a person who needed a bit of "planning" to get out of a mess.
He pushed the heavy door open, the dim interior a stark contrast to the bright midday sun. As his eyes adjusted to the shadows, he realized the bar was far more elegant than the outside suggested. And at the far end of the counter, sitting alone with a glass of dark liquid, was a woman who didn't look like she belonged in a dusty border town.
The dim light of the tavern swallowed the midday glare, leaving the room in a haze of amber and shadows. Shikamaru moved with a silent, feline grace toward the bar, his presence barely a ripple in the quiet atmosphere. He caught the bartender's eye and gave a small, subtle nod toward the woman sitting alone.
"Two," he said softly.
When the glasses were set down, he slid one across the polished wood toward her. The liquid inside was dark and rich, reflecting the low light of the room.
The woman didn't look at him immediately. She stared at the glass as if it were a strange artifact before finally turning her gaze toward him. Her eyes were sharp—seasoned by years of experience that a girl his own age could never possess. She arched a perfectly groomed brow, her expression a mask of elegant surprise.
"A bold gesture for a stranger," she said, her voice a smooth, low hum that vibrated in the quiet space. "What could possibly possess a young man like you to buy a drink for a woman you don't even know? Do you always throw your coin away so freely?"
Shikamaru took a slow sip from his own glass, his eyes remaining fixed on the counter. He leaned in slightly, his voice dropping to a low, barely audible murmur that stayed strictly between them.
"You don't look like someone who is just enjoying the afternoon," he said, his tone flat and observant. "You look like someone who is waiting for a storm to break. I've spent a lot of my life looking at people's faces, and yours says you're in a spot of trouble. I figured a drink was a better way to introduce myself than just asking what's wrong."
The woman's posture didn't change, but her eyes narrowed, a flicker of something—caution, or perhaps genuine interest—passing through them. She didn't reach for the drink, nor did she offer a name. In a place like this, names were heavy things that people only carried if they had to.
"Trouble is a dangerous thing to go looking for, traveler," she replied, her gaze intensifying as she studied the scars on his hands and the weary intelligence in his eyes. "Especially when you don't even know whose trouble it is."
Shikamaru gave a small, tired shrug.
"I've got nothing but time and a long road ahead of me. Sometimes, solving someone else's problem is easier than thinking about my own."
The woman took a long, steady pull from the glass Shikamaru had provided, the warmth of the alcohol seemingly giving her the strength to speak. She leaned in closer, the scent of her perfume—something subtle like sandalwood and rain—drifting into his space.
"My husband," she began, her voice brittle with a mix of exhaustion and simmering anger. "He is a man possessed by the dice. He has gambled away our savings, our pride, and now he is drowning in debts he can never repay. He fled our home weeks ago, but I followed the trail of his losses to this town."
She gripped the edge of the bar, her knuckles turning white. "I know he is here, hiding in some dark corner, probably losing the last of what we have. I came to catch him, to stop him before he ruins us completely, but this town is a maze of faces I do not trust."
Shikamaru listened with the practiced patience of a man who had heard a thousand mission briefings. He didn't offer pity; he offered a solution. He set his glass down with a soft thud and looked her directly in the eye.
"I can find him," Shikamaru said, his voice calm and certain. "If you can describe him to me—his face, his gait, any habits he can't hide—I can track him down for you. This town is small enough, and a man who is winning or losing that much money tends to leave a scent."
The woman looked at him for a long moment, searching for a hidden motive in his lazy gaze. Seeing only the steady focus of a professional, she nodded slowly.
"He is tall, though he stoops as if the world is too heavy for him," she whispered. "He has a scar that splits his left eyebrow, and he constantly fidgets with a silver ring on his pinky finger when he is nervous. His name is Daichi."
Shikamaru committed the details to memory, his mind already beginning to map out the most likely places a desperate gambler would hide. "Stay here," he instructed, sliding off the barstool. "And finish your drink. I'll see if I can't find your husband and bring him back to face the music."
Shikamaru moved through the town with the quiet efficiency of a predator. He didn't waste energy searching every corner himself; instead, he lingered near the communal wells and the shaded corners where children played, dropping a few coins and asking the right questions. Within the hour, the whispers led him to a dilapidated inn on the edge of the district, a place where the floorboards groaned under the weight of secrets.
He found the room easily. The air inside was stale, smelling of cheap sake and sweat. Daichi was sprawled across the bed, deep in a heavy, midday slumber. Shikamaru approached with silent footsteps, his eyes narrowing as he spotted the scar through the man's left eyebrow and the silver ring glinting on a restless finger.
Target confirmed, he thought.
With the fluid, practiced motions of a shinobi, Shikamaru pulled a length of sturdy rope from his pack. Before the gambler could even stir from his dreams, Shikamaru had him pinned and bound to the heavy wooden frame of the bed. The knots were professional—tight enough to hold a desperate man, but loose enough to avoid drawing blood.
Leaving the man to wake up to his new reality, Shikamaru returned to the bar.
"He's caught," he said simply, gesturing for the woman to follow.
When they entered the room, the woman's face transformed. Her eyes flashed with a cold, righteous fury as she looked at her husband, who was now awake and struggling against his bonds, his eyes wide with terror and confusion.
"You pathetic, cowardly man," she hissed, her voice trembling with years of suppressed resentment.
She turned to Shikamaru, her expression softening into something unreadable. "I am more grateful than I can say. You did what I could not."
Then, without a word of warning, she stepped into his space. Before Shikamaru's analytical mind could process the shift in her posture, she reached up and pressed her lips firmly against his. It wasn't a tentative kiss; it was bold, lingering, and performed with a deliberate grace right in front of her bound husband.
Shikamaru froze, his eyes widening in genuine shock. He had expected a reward, perhaps a bag of coin or a simple 'thank you,' but this—this was a different kind of complication entirely. The room suddenly felt much smaller, and the air much hotter.
The woman pulled back just an inch, her gaze flicking to her husband's distraught face before returning to Shikamaru. She gave a small, triumphant smile.
"I think," she whispered, her breath warm against his cheek, "that he finally understands what he has lost."
The air in the cramped, dimly lit room grew thick with a sudden, suffocating tension. Shikamaru stood perfectly still, his mind—usually ten steps ahead of everyone else—trying to process the sharp turn this conversation had taken. The woman's eyes were no longer just filled with anger; they were burning with a cold, calculated desire for vengeance that made even a veteran shinobi feel a chill.
"I want him to feel the weight of every lie he ever told me," she whispered, her voice like a blade being drawn from a scabbard. She looked at Shikamaru, her gaze tracing the sharp lines of his face. "Can you rid me of him? Permanently?"
Shikamaru's expression didn't flicker. He had seen the darker sides of humanity in the war, and death was a familiar shadow to him. "If that is what you truly want," he replied, his voice a low, clinical monotone. "I can end it. Quickly. Painlessly."
The woman let out a sharp, jagged laugh. "Painless? No. I don't want it to be painless for his soul." She stepped toward him, her hand reaching out to rest on his chest, right over his racing heart. She ignored her husband's frantic, muffled screams as he thrashed against the bedropes.
"I have an idea," she said, her voice dropping to a sultry, dangerous silk. "Before you finish your work, I want him to watch. I want him to see what a real man looks like—someone who takes what he wants and keeps his word. I want to give myself to you, right here, while he has no choice but to witness everything he threw away."
She began to unfasten the top of her elegant dress, her eyes locked onto Shikamaru's with an intensity that was both a plea and a command. The husband's muffled cries became more desperate, the sound of the wooden bedframe creaking under his panicked struggles filling the silence.
Shikamaru felt the weight of the moment. This wasn't a mission, and it wasn't a game. It was a raw, primal display of a woman pushed to her absolute limit. He looked at the woman—older, wiser, and filled with a terrifyingly beautiful rage—and then at the man he had bound.
"This is a dark path you're choosing," Shikamaru murmured, even as his own pulse quickened.
"I've been in the dark for years," she countered, her hand sliding up to the back of his neck, pulling him closer.
"Tonight, I just want to feel the fire."
A flicker of his old self surfaced for a fleeting second—the voice in the back of his mind sighing about how "troublesome" this had become. He had left the village for peace, yet on the very first day, he had found himself entangled in a web of betrayal, vengeance, and raw, unfiltered desire.
But Shikamaru was no longer the boy who hid in the shadows of the academy. He looked at the woman—her eyes wide with a mix of defiance and longing—and decided that some opportunities were too rare to cast aside.
With a slow, deliberate movement, he reached up and pulled the band from his hair. The dark locks fell about his face, softening the sharp, calculating lines of his features and giving him an air of dangerous, unrefined grace. He shed his tactical vest and shirt, revealing a physique forged by years of brutal shinobi training. His skin was corded with lean, functional muscle; his abs were defined, a testament to the endurance required to survive a world at war.
The woman's breath hitched. She hadn't expected the weary traveler to hide such power beneath his slouching posture.
Shikamaru didn't say a word. He turned his attention to the thrashing man on the bed. With effortless strength, he hauled Daichi off the mattress. The gambler hit the floor with a muffled thud, his eyes bulging with terror. Shikamaru dragged him to a heavy wooden chair in the corner of the room, positioned with a perfect, cruel view of the bed. He lashed the man to the seat with a few expert loops of rope, ensuring his head was forced upright.
"Watch," Shikamaru commanded, his voice cold and final.
He turned back to the bed where the wife waited. She had discarded the last of her inhibitions, her skin glowing like ivory in the dim, filtered light of the afternoon. As Shikamaru climbed onto the bed, the mattress groaning beneath his weight, she reached out for him, pulling him down into a searing embrace.
The room became a symphony of contrasts: the frantic, desperate muffled sounds of the husband in the corner, and the rhythmic, heavy heat of the two on the bed. Shikamaru leaned into the sensation, his hands finding the curves of her body as she arched against him, her cries of pleasure designed specifically to pierce her husband's soul.
In that moment, the "planner" was gone. There was only the heat of the woman, the scent of her skin, and the dark, intoxicating thrill of a revenge that he was now the primary instrument of.
The air in the room grew heavy and thick, saturated with the scent of sweat and the raw musk of their union. The woman was relentless, her eyes darting between Shikamaru's focused expression and the weeping, bound figure of her husband in the corner. She let out a breathless, mocking laugh, her voice dripping with a cruel satisfaction as she reached down to touch the point where their bodies met.
"Look at him, Daichi," she gasped, her fingers tracing the lean, powerful lines of Shikamaru's thighs. "Look at what a real man carries. You were always so small—small in heart, small in spirit... and so much less than this." She looked up at Shikamaru, her eyes glazed with a mixture of lust and vengeful triumph. "He's so thick... so much more than you ever were."
Shikamaru didn't respond with words; his breath was coming in rhythmic, heavy rasps. He shifted her into a classic missionary position, pinning her shoulders to the thin mattress. As he drove into her, the bedframe slammed rhythmically against the wall, a steady, brutal punctuation to her soaring cries. She arched her back, her fingers digging deep furrows into his shoulders, her screams echoing off the cramped walls to ensure her husband heard every note of her ecstasy.
The strategist in him was gone, replaced by a primal, driving force. He felt the heat of her skin against his, the friction of their bodies creating a fever that seemed to burn away the last of his village-bred inhibitions.
"More," she whimpered, her voice breaking. "Turn me... I want him to see everything."
Shikamaru complied with a rough, silent efficiency. He pulled her up, shifting her onto her hands and knees in a doggy-style position. He gripped her hips with hands that had held kunai and shadows, his knuckles white against her pale skin. From this vantage point, she looked directly at Daichi, her hair disheveled and her face flushed.
As Shikamaru resumed his pace, harder and deeper than before, the woman's cries turned into a rhythmic chant of liberation. She watched her husband's spirit break in real-time, his eyes rolling back as the sheer humiliation of the display finally shattered whatever was left of his mind. Shikamaru leaned over her, his chest heaving, his dark hair damp with sweat as he lost himself in the dark, intoxicating rhythm of the moment.