The rain tapped against the windows of the Hokage’s administration building, a steady rhythm that filled the quiet room. The bookkeeper sat hunched at his desk, a nondescript figure among many in the dimly lit records office. To anyone looking, he was just another faceless worker, a cog in the endless machinery of Konoha’s bureaucracy. His name was Tetsuya Fūma, and he wore his anonymity like a second skin.
Tetsuya thumbed through a ledger, his eyes scanning the neatly inked rows of numbers and names. He didn’t stand out—he had cultivated that talent well. Even in a room full of clerks and scribes, no one paid him a second glance. He was unobtrusive, deliberately forgettable, the kind of man who could blend into a crowd without effort. A perfect quality for someone tasked with gathering information.
As he worked, he noticed a small slip of parchment tucked between the pages of a stack of reports. The parchment was thin, almost translucent, its edges slightly crumpled as if it had been hastily hidden. He reached for it, the movement casual, and unfolded it beneath the cover of the ledger.
A code. Simple enough at first glance, a series of numbers scrawled in ink—something that could easily be mistaken for accounting figures. But Tetsuya knew better. He didn’t recognise the sequence, and that was enough to warrant suspicion. The rain drummed against the window as he committed the numbers to memory, his expression never changing. He folded the parchment again and slipped it back where he had found it, his fingers moving without a tremor.
He finished his shift without incident, leaving the building with the same unobtrusive air, his cloak pulled tight against the rain. He moved through the streets of Konoha, weaving between civilians, avoiding eye contact. His route was deliberate, a meandering path that led him away from the administration building and into the older, quieter part of the village. The alleys narrowed, the rain pooling in dark puddles along the cobblestones. He paused once, twice, looking over his shoulder, waiting in the shadows before moving on.
The house was unremarkable, tucked away at the end of a narrow lane. Tetsuya knocked twice, paused, then knocked once more. The door opened, and he slipped inside without a word.
Yakumi Uchiha stood by the window, watching the rain. He turned as Tetsuya entered, his dark eyes narrowing. Yakumi was a tall man, his presence commanding even in the sparse room. He wore the uniform of the Konoha Military Police Force, his expression sharp, the kind of man who was always assessing, always calculating.
“You have something for me?” Yakumi asked, his voice low.
Tetsuya nodded, pulling the hood of his cloak back. He moved to the table, picking up a piece of parchment and a quill. In silence, he wrote down the numbers he had memorized, his handwriting quick but careful. When he finished, he handed the parchment to Yakumi, who took it without a word.
Yakumi studied the code, his eyes scanning the numbers, his brow furrowing. He moved to the lamp on the table, the flickering light illuminating the parchment. He held it there for a moment, considering, before looking back at Tetsuya.
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“Do you know what it says?” Yakumi asked.
Tetsuya shook his head. “Only that it was hidden among the reports. It seemed urgent.”
Yakumi nodded, folding the parchment and slipping it into his vest. He turned back to the window, his gaze distant, the rain still falling in steady sheets beyond the glass.
“This could be important,” Yakumi said, almost to himself. He looked back at Tetsuya, his expression unreadable. “You’ve done well. Stay low. We may need you again soon.”
Tetsuya nodded, pulling the hood back over his head. He turned and left without another word, the door closing softly behind him.
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The underground chamber was dim, the air thick with the low hum of machinery. I waited, my eyes on the monitors as Yakumi made his way down the narrow staircase. He entered without ceremony, his expression serious. He approached, his footsteps barely audible on the cold stone floor.
“We have something,” he said, passing a strip of paper to me. I took it, scanning the contents. The sequence was unfamiliar which only served to make it more intriguing. I nodded, moving to one of the consoles. The operative beside me adjusted the settings, preparing the computers for decryption.
I inserted my arms into an interface, feeding my chakra into it. The Sharingan in my eyes emerged, linking my mind to the network, guiding the process. The room was silent, save for the hum of the machines. I could feel the strain on my chakra, the subtle tug of resistance as the data was processed, each brain in the system working in tandem, turning the cypher into meaning. Slowly, methodically, the message began to reveal itself.
I stepped back, the last of the sequence deciphered. I took the printout from Yakumi who retrieved it on my behalf, the message now clear—an arrangement, a meeting to take place in two days’ time. The participants unnamed, but the location coordinates unmistakable. A place on the outskirts, far from the eyes of the village. An opportunity.
“This is it,” I said, my voice even, measured. “Whoever these people are, we want to get to know them. Perhaps then we might finally begin to understand the full scope of what is at play.”
Yakumi read the message, his brow furrowed, then looked up at me. “What do you need me to do?”
I folded my arms, considering. “Assemble a squad. Four, no more. Discretion is key—we cannot risk this being traced back to us or the Uchiha. Our goal is to intercept, apprehend, and interrogate. Discretion is our priority.”
He nodded, his face a mask of determination. “Understood.”
I could see his mind already working, choosing the men for the job—the Jonins most suited for the task. “I’ll have the team ready,” he said in the end.
I nodded. He left then, disappearing up the narrow stairs, the weight of his mission clear in his bearing. I watched him go, the door closing softly behind him. The chamber fell silent once more, the only sound the rhythmic hum of machines and my thoughts churning in my head.
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The Kumo-nin had long ceased in his struggles, his breath coming shallow and uneven. Methodically, I delved into his memories, carefully piecing together the fragments, sifting through the clutter of his mind. It took fifteen minutes, perhaps more, before I realised we had found something of worth.
Yakumi’s voice came from behind, quiet but tense. "Well? What is it?"
I glanced back at him, then at the Kumo ANBU operative lying prone. "These men," I began, still processing, "they were sent here by the Raikage himself. They report directly to him.”