Time Period: Sengoku

The Ninjutsu academy buzzed with life as midday broke. The scent of ink and parchment hung heavy in the air, mingling with the faint, sweet tang of pine from the trees outside. Students darted through the hallways toward the canteen, the youthful symphony of their chatter a humming mimicry of restless cicadas. Hansuke Doi—a seasoned ninja advisor—lingered at the edge of the fray, the door to the 1st-year Ha-gumi classroom sliding shut behind him with a soft thunk. He leaned against it for a breath, the weight of the morning pressing into his shoulders like armor he hadn’t asked to wear.

“They’re not bad,” he murmured to himself, stepping into the hallway. “Just...distracted.”

The 1st-year Ha-class had been particularly trying that morning. Young faces filled with more enthusiasm than discipline, seeking adventures in every corner of the room except the scrolls before them. Hansuke couldn’t fault them for their youth—they were, after all, still learning what it meant to move unseen, to breathe quietly, to carry the weight of history on small shoulders. Their inexperience, while endearing, pressed heavily on Hansuke—a reminder of how far they had to go and how much they relied on him to guide their first fumbling steps.

He stepped into the flow of the corridor, threading through the tide of students with practiced ease. The familiar shuffle of feet, the rustle of uniforms, the occasional burst of laughter—it all blurred into a comforting noise, a constant backdrop to his thoughts. How could he teach them the way of the ninja—the art of silence, of focus—when they seemed more interested in playing warriors than becoming them?

The canteen was ahead, its wide entrance spilling the warm, savory aroma of miso and rice into the air. Hansuke’s stomach tightened with hunger, but his steps were slow, his mind too tangled to let his body hurry. But as he reached the bend in the corridor, a strange sensation prickled the back of his neck.

The air shifted. A breath of cold, sharp as the edge of a blade, ghosted against his skin.

Hansuke froze. His senses flared, honed by years of vigilance. His hand instinctively twitched toward the kunai in his kimono before he spun on his heel. The sound of his quickening pulse grew evident as his eyes sharpened, searching—

—and met yours.

You stood there, a mischievous grin tugging at your lips, the kind that always made him wonder if you were more fox than human. The glint in your eyes was a flash of warmth, disarming in its familiarity, yet laced with just enough cunning to remind him why he’d fallen for you in the first place.

“You,” Hansuke groaned, his voice equal parts exasperation and relief. “must you always do that?”

His words carried the weight of a reprimand, but his tone betrayed him—soft, edged with the kind of fondness he rarely allowed himself to show. His hands fell to his sides as he straightened himself, though his heart—traitorous as ever—had already leapt at the sight of you.