14: Sakura

The night market was coming to life.

Lanterns blinked on along the main street, one after another, and the foot traffic had thickened—families out for an evening stroll, stalls hawking grilled skewers and sweet dumplings, the low hum of Konoha winding down into something comfortable and warm.

Shin walked a few steps behind Kiba, hands in his pockets.

“Hey,” he said. “Kiba.”

“Hm.”

“You said you’d be home for dinner.”

“I’m not hungry yet.” Kiba had both hands laced behind his head, moving at the leisurely pace of someone who had nowhere to be. Akamaru dozed on top of his head, unbothered. “What’s the rush?”

Shin said nothing.

You’ve got some nerve.

“Your mom’s going to be upset.”

“I’ll tell her you dragged me out to train.” Kiba glanced back at him, one eye half-lidded. “And you better not blow my cover.”

Shin let it go. There was no point arguing when Kiba had already decided, so he fell back into silence and followed him through the lantern-lit street.

Then—voices, drifting toward them from up ahead.

“C’mon, Genma-senpai, please. Just show me the basics—”

“No.”

“Senpai—”

“I said no.”

“Senpai, be reasonable—”

“You can’t even throw shuriken straight. You want to learn senbon?”

Three figures came into view around the bend, walking in the opposite direction. The moment Kiba spotted them, he slowed.

“Hey. Aren’t those Hana’s teammates?”

He was right. Two of the three were familiar faces—Zeri Kano and Ryoto Ninomiya. The third was a man Shin didn’t recognize.

Ryoto caught sight of them first. His face split into an easy grin. “Hey! Aren’t you two Hana’s little brothers?”

“Evening,” Shin said, and bowed. Kiba did the same.

Zeri noticed them a beat later. So did the third man.

“Who are they?” he asked.

“Let me introduce everyone.” Ryoto spread his arms in a theatrical gesture. “This right here is a tremendously, incredibly powerful jonin of the Hidden Leaf—Genma Shiranui.”

“Special jonin,” Genma corrected flatly.

He looked to be in his mid-twenties. Not bad-looking, with a deep blue headband worn backwards across his head and a senbon needle tucked in the corner of his mouth like it had always lived there.

“What’s the difference?” Ryoto waved a hand. “Senpai’s strength isn’t any less than a jonin’s.”

“Stop flattering me and it might actually work one day.”

Shin and Kiba bowed.

“And these two,” Ryoto went on, pointing, “are Hana’s little brothers. Kiba Inuzuka and Shin Takami.”

“Nice to meet you,” Genma said, with a nod. Then his gaze settled on Shin and stayed there a moment longer. “So you’re Shin Takami.”

“You know me?” Shin asked.

“Yeah.” Something shifted in Genma’s expression—not quite a smile, not quite grief. Something caught between. “I knew your father.”

My father.

The words landed strangely. Shin had almost nothing—a name, a rank, the knowledge that both his parents had died as shinobi. Tsume never said much when the subject came up, and when she did, it was only a sentence or two before she moved on. He’d never thought to push.

“How did you know him?” he asked carefully.

“Tsukasa-san was our team leader.” Genma tilted his head, the senbon catching the lantern light. A faraway look crossed his face. “Back then the war wasn’t over yet. I was a genin, he was chunin. He looked after me.”

Shin pressed his lips together.

“What kind of shinobi was he?”

“Strong.” The word came out without hesitation. “If he hadn’t died—he probably would’ve made jonin team leader. Shikaku thought highly of him, too.” Genma paused, then exhaled through his nose. “It’s a shame.”

Strong. Team leader. Shikaku respected him.

Not much to build a picture from. But something settled in Shin’s chest anyway—some unnamed thing that he hadn’t known was sitting uneasily until it stilled.

“Forget it,” Genma said, shaking his head. The faraway look dropped away. “No use dwelling on the past.”

“Shin.” Kiba’s voice, quiet. He’d been watching Shin from the side, and now he said his name like a question.

“I’m fine.” Shin looked over at him and shook his head. The smile came easily enough. Whatever it looked like from the outside, it was the truth—or close enough to it.

Kiba studied him for a moment, then smiled back.

“So what are you two doing out this late?” Ryoto cut in, breaking the mood with his usual impeccable timing. “Just wandering?”

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“We just finished training,” Kiba said, with the face of a perfect angel. “On our way home now.”

“Woof?”

Shin kept his expression neutral.

You’re really committing to this.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Ryoto said approvingly.

“You’ll be glad you put in the work,” Zeri said. It was the first time he’d spoken. His voice was quiet and unhurried, but it had a weight to it that made Shin pay attention.

Genma glanced at both of them. “It’s late. Get home.”

“Yes, sir.” They said it together, bowed, and turned to go.

Behind them, Ryoto’s voice floated back through the night:

“Senpai, about the senbon—”

“No.“

Shin stepped through the door and let it fall shut behind him.

The house was quiet. He stood in the dark entryway for a moment and didn’t take off his sandals.

He was tired.

Not in his muscles. That kind of tired he knew how to carry. This was something else—a heaviness behind the eyes, a feeling like too many things had happened in a single day and the mind hadn’t had time to put any of them away yet.

Today.

He listed it out, the way he sometimes did when things felt tangled. Shisui in the western training ground. The genjutsu. Everything it had shown him.

The man with golden hair, a black cloak lined with red clouds swirling at the hem. The stone faces carved into the Hokage Rock, faces he hadn’t recognized—fifth, sixth. A future, maybe. Or a version of one.

The masked man in the same black cloak.

The same organization? Whoever they are.

And the woman’s voice, calling out—

Shin stopped that thought before it went further.

He didn’t know. He couldn’t know. His parents were buried in the Heroes’ Cemetery. The bodies had been recovered, examined, laid to rest. He’d been told this. There was no reason to doubt it.

So why did she call out to me like that?

He stood in the dark entryway and didn’t have an answer.

Eventually he moved. He washed his face, and lay down on top of his blankets without bothering to change. The ceiling swam a little. The thoughts kept moving—his father, Tsukasa Takami, the man Genma had described in a few short sentences—strong, looked after people, would have made team leader if he’d lived—

He hadn’t expected it to feel like anything. He wasn’t sure what it felt like now. Not grief. Something more distantly aching than that, like pressing on a bruise you’d forgotten you had.

The room blurred at the edges.

Shin Takami.

Shin Tachikawa.

The names sat side by side in whatever was left of his waking mind.

“…I’m clean,” he murmured to the ceiling.

“I’m not going back to that.”

“Sakura, your flower bloomed!”