Chapter Text
The stage light fell like divine judgment.
One moment, eight-year-old Takeru Hayashi stood center stage, delivering his monologue with the earnest intensity only children possessed. The next, the iron fixture—twenty kilograms of metal and glass—plummeted from the rigging above. The sound it made striking his skull was wet and final, a crack that silenced the modest audience mid-applause.
Ringo Haruno sat three rows back, needle and thread forgotten in her lap. She'd spent the previous week helping with costumes, had hemmed Takeru's tunic herself, adjusting it when he'd complained it made him look "too much like a girl." Now that tunic was spreading dark with blood.
The theater erupted. Parents screamed. Someone knocked over a row of chairs scrambling toward the stage. A medic-nin—attending with her own children—vaulted onto the platform with practiced efficiency, hands already glowing green.
Ringo didn't move. Couldn't. Her fingers had gone white-knuckled around the needle, piercing her thumb. Blood welled there, a pinprick echo of the tragedy unfolding before her.
That could have been Momoka.
The thought arrived cold and selfish. Her daughter sat at home with the elderly neighbor, Mrs. Tanaka, probably already asleep with her favorite stuffed rabbit. Safe. Whole. Alive.
Takeru's parents reached the stage. His mother—Ayumi Hayashi, who always brought apple tarts to rehearsals—collapsed beside her son's body with a sound Ringo would hear in nightmares. The father, Kenji, stood frozen, face empty of everything but incomprehension.
The medic-nin pulled back, chakra fading. "I'm sorry." Her voice carried in the sudden silence. "Skull fracture, massive brain trauma. He was gone instantly. He didn't suffer."
Such a small mercy, Ringo thought. And so inadequate.
The theater emptied slowly, audience members shepherded out by ushers and remaining staff. Offers of sympathy, promises to pray, the hollow rituals of the living confronting death. The director stood by the exit, weeping into his hands. Stagehands dismantled the stage with grim efficiency, removing the murder weapon of faulty rigging.
But Takeru's parents didn't leave. Ayumi draped herself over her son's small body, keening. Kenji knelt beside them, one hand on his wife's shoulder, the other hovering over Takeru's cooling cheek as if touch alone might wake him.
Ringo remained in her seat. The needle had fallen somewhere. Her thumb bled slowly, staining the white silk she'd been hemming. Around her, the theater settled into the particular silence of tragedy—too heavy for words, too awful for absence.
Two years, she thought. Two years I've kept this secret.
Her ability had manifested at her husband's funeral. She'd touched Ryota's face for what she thought was the last time, and he'd gasped back to life with eyes full of confusion and terror. The joy had lasted three seconds before she'd embraced him and he'd died again, permanently this time. The mourners had called it a hallucination of grief. The medic-nin attending had been less certain but willing to dismiss it as chakra exhaustion, some final nervous misfire.
Ringo had known better. In the weeks that followed, she'd experimented with trembling hands and mounting dread. Dead flowers bloomed at her touch. A bird that struck her window revived, flew away, lived. A wilted apple grew fresh and perfect.
She'd told no one. Not the Hokage, not the medic-nin, certainly not her four-year-old daughter. The ability felt like a curse disguised as mercy—the power to delay death but never prevent it. What good was resurrection that lasted only days?
And yet.
Ringo stood. Her legs had gone stiff from sitting, and she stumbled slightly navigating the row of seats. The theater's emptiness amplified every sound—her footsteps on worn wood, the rustle of her hakama, the quiet sobbing that hadn't ceased.
She approached the stage slowly, giving the parents time to notice her. Kenji looked up first, face wet with tears, eyes holding nothing but animal grief.
"Hayashi-san." Ringo's voice came out steady, formal. Palace training: maintain composure even when the world crumbles. "Ayumi-san. I... I need to tell you something."
Ayumi didn't lift her head from Takeru's chest. Kenji managed a nod, nothing more.
Ringo knelt at the stage's edge, bringing herself to their level. Her hands folded in her lap—perfect posture, perfect control. Inside, her heart hammered against her ribs.
"I have an ability." The words felt inadequate, clinical. "A bloodline limit that manifested after my husband died. I can..." She swallowed. "I can bring the dead back to life. Temporarily."
Kenji stared. Ayumi's sobbing faltered, then stopped. Slowly, she lifted her head. Her face was destroyed by grief—red eyes, tracked cheeks, mouth twisted.
"Temporarily," Ringo continued, because stopping now would be cruelty. "For animals and people, approximately forty-eight hours. No more. And only once—the second time I touch them, death becomes permanent and irreversible. I cannot give you forever. But I can give you two days."
The silence stretched. Somewhere in the theater's rafters, a bird had made its nest. Its soft movements were the only sound.
"Two days," Kenji repeated. His voice was rusted, unused.
"To say goodbye." Ringo kept her gaze steady, though everything in her wanted to look away from their desperate hope. "To hold him. To tell him you love him one more time. But you must understand—after forty-eight hours, he will die again. And I will not be able to bring him back a second time."
"Can you—" Ayumi's hands clutched at Takeru's blood-soaked tunic. "Can you heal him? Can you fix what happened?"
"No. I can only restore life. His injuries will remain. He'll need immediate medical attention, a medic-nin capable of healing severe trauma." Ringo paused. "He may be in pain. He will certainly be frightened and confused. This is not a gift without cost."
"But he'll be alive." Kenji's voice broke on the last word. "For two days, he'll be alive."
Ringo nodded.
The parents looked at each other. Some wordless communication passed between them—the language of shared grief, shared desperation. Ayumi touched her son's face with infinite gentleness.
"Please." She looked at Ringo with eyes that held nothing but raw need. "Please bring him back. Even for just two days. Please."
This will change everything, Ringo thought. The knowledge sat heavy in her chest, cold and certain. The moment I do this, my quiet life ends. Konoha will know. They will want to use this. Want to use me.
She thought of Momoka, asleep at home. Safe because Ringo had stayed hidden, unremarkable, just another civilian widow running a bakery. If she did this, that safety evaporated.
But she looked at Takeru's small body, at the blood pooling beneath his head, at the way his hand had fallen palm-up as if reaching for something. She thought of being given two more days with Ryota, of all the things she'd never gotten to say.
Some goodbyes deserved more than shock and blood.
"I understand." Ringo reached up to her right hand, tugging off the thin cotton glove she'd taken to wearing constantly. Her hands were pale, fine-boned, a baker's hands with faint burn scars from careless moments. Unremarkable, except for what they could do.
She climbed onto the stage. Her knees protested—she wasn't young anymore, wasn't trained for acrobatics. Ayumi shifted aside, making room, never taking her eyes from Ringo's face.
Takeru looked smaller in death. Children always did. His costume tunic had a loose thread at the collar where Ringo's stitching hadn't quite held. She'd meant to fix it before the performance.
Too late now. Too late for so many things.
"When he wakes," Ringo said quietly, "he will be confused and frightened. Hold him. Comfort him. Don't let him see the blood if you can help it." She positioned her hand above his forehead, above the catastrophic damage. "And send someone for a medic-nin immediately. His injuries are severe."
She didn't wait for confirmation. Hesitation would only make this harder.
Ringo pressed her palm to Takeru's cooling skin.
The sensation always shocked her—life draining from her body like water from a broken cup, rushing out in a torrent she couldn't control. Her vision tunneled. Exhaustion crashed through her bones, turning her limbs to lead. For a terrible moment, she thought she might collapse onto the body, touch him twice, make death permanent before his parents even got their goodbye.
Then Takeru gasped.
His eyes flew open—brown and wide and full of animal panic. He tried to sit up, cried out at the pain in his head, would have fallen if his mother hadn't caught him.
"Takeru, Takeru, baby, I'm here, Mama's here—"
"It hurts," the boy sobbed, hands going to his head and coming away red. "Mama, it hurts—"
"I know, baby, I know, we're going to fix it, you're going to be okay—"
Kenji was already shouting for help, for a medic-nin, for anyone. Ringo dimly heard footsteps pounding, voices raised in shock and confusion. The medic-nin from earlier appeared, her face cycling through disbelief and professional focus in rapid succession.
Ringo carefully extracted herself from the family reunion, backing away from the stage's edge. Her legs trembled. The exhaustion sat in her chest like a stone, making each breath an effort. She caught the edge of a seat back, lowered herself down before she fell.
The theater had come alive again. Stagehands emerged from the wings. The director stopped weeping and started organizing. Someone brought blankets. The medic-nin's hands glowed green over Takeru's head, knitting bone and tissue back together with focused intensity.
And Ayumi Hayashi looked at Ringo across the chaos with an expression of such profound gratitude that it hurt worse than the exhaustion.
Ringo closed her eyes. Two years of peace, ended. For forty-eight hours of borrowed time.
Was it worth it?
She didn't know. Wouldn't know until Konoha came calling.
The neighborhood watch captain arrived within the hour. By morning, a jōnin knocked on her bakery door.
Ringo had expected this. Expected it with the same resigned certainty she'd felt watching storm clouds gather. She'd risen early, prepared the bakery for opening despite her exhaustion, arranged fresh bread in the window display. Momoka sat in her usual corner, coloring with intense concentration, tongue poking between her teeth.
When the door chimed, Ringo looked up from kneading dough—the motion usually soothed her, but today her hands felt clumsy and foreign.
The man who entered wore the standard jōnin vest and moved with the particular lazy grace of someone who never needed to rush. His hair was tied back in the traditional Nara style, and his eyes were sharper than his posture suggested.
"Haruno-san." He inclined his head with perfect courtesy. "I'm Nara Shikato, here on the Hokage's orders. We need to discuss what happened at the theater."
Kosuke, perched on the counter, hissed. The cat had opinions about shinobi, none favorable.
"Of course." Ringo wiped flour from her hands with deliberate care, giving herself time to settle her breathing. "Would you like tea?"
"That won't be necessary. This shouldn't take long."
Liar, Ringo thought, but gestured to a small table away from Momoka's corner. "Please, sit."
Shikato settled with enviable ease, producing a small notebook and pencil. His gaze flicked to Momoka once—assessing, calculating—then back to Ringo. "I'll be direct. Multiple witnesses report that you resurrected Takeru Hayashi after he was pronounced dead. The medic-nin in attendance confirms he was deceased when she examined him. Yet he lived for exactly forty-eight hours before dying again in his sleep two nights ago."
Ringo's hands stilled. She'd known Takeru had died again—had felt it somehow, a distant severing like a thread snapping. But hearing it confirmed still hurt.
"He didn't suffer?" Her voice came out quieter than intended.
"According to his parents, no. He fell asleep naturally and didn't wake." Shikato's expression softened fractionally. "They wanted me to tell you they're grateful. That the time they had was... a gift."
A gift, Ringo thought bitterly. A gift with an expiration date clearly marked.
"I need you to explain the ability," Shikato continued. "How it works, its limitations, when it first manifested, how many times you've used it."
So Ringo explained. She kept her voice level, clinical, describing her ability as if it belonged to someone else. The manifestation at Ryota's funeral. The experimentation with plants and animals. The strict limitations—only once per organism, temporary for animals and people, permanent for plants. The physical cost that left her drained for days.
Shikato wrote everything down with quick, efficient strokes. "Has your daughter shown signs of inheriting this ability?"
Ringo's hands flattened on the table. Kosuke stopped grooming himself, yellow eyes fixed on the jōnin with predatory focus.
"She is four years old." Each word emerged precise and cold. "Whatever this bloodline limit is, whatever it makes me, I will not have you examining my daughter like an interesting specimen."
"No one's suggesting—"
"Aren't they?" Ringo leaned forward slightly. Palace training: make powerful people feel your displeasure without ever raising your voice. "A child displays unusual abilities, and shinobi take interest. I know how this works, Nara-san. I spent ten years in the Fire Daimyo's court. I know what happens when someone becomes 'strategically valuable.'"
Shikato regarded her with new interest. "The Hokage will want verification. A demonstration of your ability under controlled conditions."
"I expected as much." Ringo sat back, composure restored. "When?"
"Within the week. I'll send word." He closed the notebook, tucked it away. "For what it's worth, Haruno-san, the Hokage is a reasonable man. This doesn't have to become... complicated."
Everything is already complicated, Ringo thought. From the moment that light fell.
After Shikato left, Momoka looked up from her coloring. "Mama? Why was that shinobi here?"
Ringo crossed to her daughter, knelt beside the small table scattered with crayons and paper. Momoka had been drawing their house, complete with the apple tree in the yard and Kosuke sitting in the window.
"I helped someone," Ringo said carefully. "And now the Hokage wants to make sure I can help safely."
"Are you in trouble?"
"No, sweetheart." The lie tasted like ash. "Sometimes doing the right thing means things get complicated. But we'll be alright."
Momoka studied her with those serious jade eyes—Ringo's own eyes reflected back, seeing too much. "Promise?"
"I promise." Another lie, or perhaps a hope disguised as truth.
Momoka nodded, satisfied, and returned to her drawing. Ringo stayed kneeling beside her, one hand resting on her daughter's small shoulder, and wondered what she'd traded their peace for.
Kosuke jumped down from the counter, weaving between them with his tail held high. When Ringo didn't immediately respond to his demands for attention, he bit her ankle—gently, but with clear reproach.
"You're right," Ringo murmured, reaching down to scratch behind his ears. "Worrying solves nothing."
The cat purred, satisfied with this acknowledgment of his wisdom.
The testing facility behind the Hokage Tower smelled of chakra and antiseptic.
Ringo stood in the center of a large room with high ceilings and walls lined with sealing script she couldn't read. The space felt designed for containing dangerous things—which, she supposed, now included her.
Hokage Sarutobi Hiruzen looked younger than she'd expected. Thirty, perhaps thirty-two, with lines around his eyes that suggested he smiled frequently but worry that suggested those smiles came hard these days. He wore the formal robes and hat of his office, but his gaze was kind when it settled on her.
"Haruno-san. Thank you for coming."
As if she'd had a choice.
"Hokage-sama." Ringo bowed with exact precision—not too deep, not too shallow. Palace training again: know your worth even when demonstrating respect.
The room held others. Three Council members sat along one wall—elderly, sharp-eyed, already judging. A medical team clustered near a table of equipment. And in the back corner, barely visible in the room's shadows, stood a man who radiated danger the way fire radiated heat.
Shimura Danzo. She'd heard the name, of course. Every civilian in Konoha had. The Hokage's rival, Root's commander, the man who lived in shadows by choice rather than necessity. He watched her with flat black eyes that missed nothing and revealed less.
Ringo looked away, focusing on the Hokage. Danzo wasn't her concern. Yet.
"We'd like to verify your ability," Hiruzen said gently. "With your consent, we've prepared several tests. You may refuse at any point."
Could I? Ringo wondered. Could I actually refuse, or is that pretty fiction?
"I understand," she said instead. "What would you like me to do?"
The first test involved a dead apple tree branch—brittle, brown, completely withered. They placed it on a table before her. Ringo removed her right glove, reached out, touched the rough bark.
Life flowed from her into the dead wood. The sensation was less severe than with animals or people, but still present—a gentle draining, like water seeping through sand. The branch greened beneath her fingers. Buds formed along its length, swelling and opening into perfect white blossoms. Small apples grew where the flowers had been, expanding from green to red in seconds.
The Council members leaned forward. One made a note in a ledger.
Ringo swayed slightly. The medical nin closest to her stepped forward, concerned, but she waved him back. "I'm fine. It's less taxing for plants."
"Remarkable," Hiruzen murmured. He approached the branch, examining the apples with careful hands. "They're real. Fully formed, perfectly ripe." He looked at her with new understanding. "This is how you maintain your bakery. Withered fruit restored, ingredients always fresh."
"It seemed wasteful not to use it," Ringo said quietly. "If I have this ability, I should at least put it toward something productive."
"Practical," a voice said from the shadows. Danzo. His tone held no inflection, stating fact rather than offering opinion. "She's already calculated the utility."
Ringo's jaw tightened but she said nothing. Let him think what he wanted.
The second test hurt worse.
They brought out a small songbird in a wooden cage. Dead, its neck broken cleanly—a training accident, the medical nin explained, from one of the Academy students practicing restraint techniques. The bird had been preserved through medical jutsu, kept fresh for examination.
"We need to verify the limitation," Hiruzen said, and he sounded apologetic. "That you can only affect each organism once."
Ringo stared at the small body, at the bright yellow feathers and delicate clawed feet. This felt cruel. Resurrection should be reserved for those who wanted it, not performed as demonstration.
But refusing now would only delay the inevitable.
She reached into the cage, touched the bird's cooling breast with one fingertip.
The drain hit harder this time. Her vision grayed at the edges. The bird convulsed, wings fluttering, head snapping up. It chirped once—confused, frightened—and tried to fly. Its wings hit the cage bars with hollow thuds.
"The second touch," Ringo said, voice strained. "I need to demonstrate the second touch."
She reached in again. Let her finger brush the bird's back.
It dropped instantly. No convulsion, no struggle. Just death, final and irreversible.
Ringo pulled her hand back, cradled it against her chest. The room swam. She locked her knees, refusing to fall.
"Water," the medical nin said sharply, and someone pressed a cup into her free hand. She drank without tasting it.
"You're certain it's dead?" One of the Council members—a woman with steel-gray hair and a ANBU tattoo faded on her forearm.
The medical nin examined the bird with glowing hands. "Confirmed. No chakra signature, no life force. Completely deceased."
The Council members exchanged looks. Calculating, measuring, already planning how to use what they'd seen.
The final test waited on a stretcher.
Ringo had known it was coming. Knowing didn't make it easier.
The body belonged to an elderly man—Tanaka Jirou, according to the file they showed her. He'd died peacefully three days prior, donated his body to the village for medical research with his family's blessing. Perfectly preserved through medical jutsu, he could have been sleeping.
"We need to verify the effect on humans," Hiruzen explained. His kindness felt genuine, but inadequate. "And document the exact duration of resurrection."
Ringo approached the stretcher on unsteady legs. Her reserves were already depleted from the previous demonstrations. This would drain her completely.
She looked down at Tanaka Jirou's peaceful face and felt the weight of violation. This man had chosen death. Chosen rest. She was about to drag him back for the sake of proving what she could do.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, too quiet for anyone but the dead man to hear. "Thank you for your service, even now."
Then she pressed both hands to his chest and pulled.
Life rushed out of her in a torrent. The room tilted violently. Her knees buckled but hands caught her—the medical nin, keeping her upright by sheer force. Distantly, she felt her nose bleeding, copper taste flooding her mouth.
Tanaka Jirou gasped awake with a cry of terror.
The medical team moved instantly. Green chakra flared as they put the man into a deep sleep, kinder than letting him experience the confusion of resurrection. They lifted him carefully, moving him to a monitoring station where they could track his vitals.
Ringo barely registered any of it. The exhaustion had become total—not just tiredness but a fundamental wrongness, as if she'd given away pieces of herself she couldn't spare. Her hands shook uncontrollably. Blood dripped from her nose onto her kimono, staining the red silk darker.
"That's enough." Hiruzen's voice cut through the fog. "Someone get her a chair. Haruno-san, you need to rest—"
"I'm fine." Her voice came out slurred. "Just... need a moment."
"You're gray as ash and bleeding." The medical nin—a woman with short black hair and no-nonsense efficiency—guided her to a chair, forcing her down. "You've overextended severely. This ability taxes you far more than you admitted."
"I told you it had a physical cost—"
"You undersold it." The woman's hands glowed green over Ringo's chest, monitoring her chakra pathways. "You're running on fumes. Your reserves are nearly depleted, and you're not even a trained shinobi. How are you still conscious?"
"Practice." Ringo closed her eyes. The room spun less that way. "Stubbornness. Take your pick."
"Haruno-san." Hiruzen crouched beside her chair, bringing himself to her level. Up close, she could see the worry in his eyes was genuine. "We've seen enough. More than enough. You need to recover before we discuss anything further."
"What is there to discuss?" Ringo forced her eyes open, forced herself to meet his gaze. "You've verified I can resurrect the dead. That makes me valuable. Valuable things don't get left alone."
Hiruzen's expression flickered—surprise, perhaps, or recognition. "You're not a thing, Haruno-san. You're a person with a child and a life. That matters."
"Does it?" She looked past him to where the Council members sat, already writing their reports. To where Danzo stood in the shadows, watching with those flat predator's eyes. "Because from here, Hokage-sama, it seems like what matters is what I can do, not who I am."
He didn't answer. Couldn't, probably. What could he say that wouldn't be a lie?
"Rest," he said instead. "We'll speak again in two days. The Council needs time to deliberate."
The medical nin gave her soldier pills despite her protests, forced her to drink water until her stomach sloshed, and only released her when her color improved from corpse-gray to merely exhausted-pale.
Ringo walked home through Konoha's afternoon streets with legs that felt made of lead. People stared—her nose had bled enough to stain her collar, and her hair had come loose from its pins, hanging in disheveled waves. She looked like what she was: someone pushed beyond their limits for the sake of proving a point.
The bakery was closed. She'd asked Mrs. Tanaka to watch Momoka for the day, paying double the usual rate. When she arrived at the small house she rented on the village's eastern edge, she found her daughter in the garden, helping the elderly woman water the vegetables.
"Mama!" Momoka dropped the watering can and ran over, face bright with uncomplicated joy.
Ringo caught her, lifting her despite the protest of exhausted muscles. Momoka was warm and solid and alive, and for a moment that was the only thing that mattered.
"You look tired," Momoka observed with a child's blunt honesty. "And you have blood on your dress."
"I had a hard day at work." Ringo carried her inside, nodding thanks to Mrs. Tanaka who gathered her things with knowing discretion. "But I'm home now."
She paid the neighbor, saw her out, then collapsed onto the couch with Momoka curled against her side. Kosuke jumped up immediately, stepping on Ringo's stomach with deliberate malice before settling in her lap.
"Did you help the Hokage?" Momoka asked.
"I did."
"Was it scary?"
"A little." Ringo stroked her daughter's silky pink hair—darker than her own burgundy-rose, but the same texture. "But it's done now."
Not a lie, exactly. The demonstrations were done. What came next would be worse.
Momoka fell asleep there, curled against Ringo's side with absolute trust. Ringo stared at the ceiling and waited for the world to end.
It took two days.
Two days of running the bakery with forced normalcy, kneading bread and serving customers who didn't know anything had changed. Two days of Momoka asking questions Ringo couldn't answer. Two days of Kosuke being more affectionate than usual, pressing his head against her hand as if trying to comfort.
On the third morning, a messenger arrived with a summons. The note was brief: Council chambers, 2 PM. This concerns your future. Please dress formally.
The request for formal dress told Ringo everything. This wasn't a casual meeting. This was a verdict.
She dressed with meticulous care. The burgundy silk kimono with black sakura embroidery—saved from her palace days, immaculately maintained. She pinned her hair up in an elaborate style that took thirty minutes and required her arms to ache. Applied minimal makeup with steady hands.
Every layer armor. Every pin a weapon of dignity.
Mrs. Tanaka arrived to watch Momoka, taking one look at Ringo's formal attire and squeezing her hand wordlessly. The old woman had lived through two wars. She knew what summons like this meant.
The walk to the Hokage Tower felt both too long and too short. Ringo's wooden geta clicked against the street stones with rhythmic precision. She kept her breathing steady, her posture perfect, her expression serene.
Palace training: Never let them see you afraid.
The secretary who greeted her was young, nervous, avoiding eye contact. "Haruno-san. The Council is waiting. If you'll follow me?"
They didn't go to the Hokage's office. Instead, the secretary led her deeper into the Tower, down corridors Ringo had never seen, to a set of heavy wooden doors carved with Konoha's symbol. Council chambers.
The doors opened onto a large room arranged like a courtroom. A raised platform held a semi-circular table where five people sat—three elderly Council members and Hokage Hiruzen at the center. And beside him, standing rather than sitting, Shimura Danzo.
Chairs for petitioners faced the Council table. Empty except for one.
Ringo's chair. The accused's chair.
She walked to it with deliberate grace, every step measured. Knelt on the cushion with perfect form. Folded her hands in her lap and waited.
Hiruzen spoke first, his voice gentle but carrying the weight of authority. "Haruno-san. Thank you for coming. The Council has reviewed your demonstration and reached a decision regarding your... situation."
Situation, Ringo thought. What a bloodless word for the end of my life as I knew it.
"We understand this is difficult," Hiruzen continued. "But your kekkei genkai is too valuable to remain unmonitored." He paused, and something in his expression tightened. "After the Second War, we lost three major bloodline limits when their last bearers died without heirs. The Council won't make that mistake again."
The words hung in the air like a death sentence.
"The Third War ended only four years ago," the woman with the ANBU tattoo added, her voice crisp. "We lost the Senju line. The Uchiha are unstable. The Hyūga are insular. Every remaining bloodline is precious, Haruno-san, and yours is unique. We cannot afford to lose it."
"Additionally," the elderly civilian Council member said, "we've lost three jōnin in the past month who could have been saved if we could question them post-mortem. Your ability could prevent the next war by gathering intelligence other methods cannot access. That's why the Council cannot let this opportunity slip away."
Ringo's hands tightened in her lap. They were building a fortress of justification, brick by brick, trapping her inside.
"After extensive deliberation," Hiruzen said, "the Council has identified three potential arrangements for securing your cooperation and bloodline."
Bloodline. The word hung in the air like a blade.
The ANBU woman took over. "Option one: You join active shinobi service. This would require intensive training at the Academy, followed by field deployment as part of a genin team. Your daughter would be placed in village care during missions, with regular visitation rights."
Ringo's hands tightened in her lap but she said nothing.
"Option two," the woman continued. "You become a specialized Torture and Interrogation asset. Your ability would be used exclusively for resurrecting recently deceased targets for interrogation. You'd remain in secured village housing near the T&I facility. Your daughter would attend the Academy but your custody would be limited to supervised visits."
Prisoner, Ringo thought. They mean prisoner but won't use the word.
The elderly civilian Council member leaned forward. "Option three involves marriage to Shimura Danzo-san."
The room seemed to contract. Ringo's gaze slid involuntarily to Danzo, who stood perfectly still beside the Hokage, face utterly blank.
"The marriage would serve multiple purposes," the man continued. "It would secure your bloodline within Konoha through legitimate channels. It would provide you with protection and social standing appropriate to your strategic value. And it would give Commander Shimura access to your ability for village operations, under appropriate oversight."
"But why marriage?" Ringo heard herself ask. The question emerged sharp, cutting through the bureaucratic drone. "And why him specifically? You have the entire village of shinobi to choose from."
The Council members exchanged glances. The Hyūga woman—who'd been silent until now—spoke, her voice soft but implacable.
"There were three candidates the Council considered: Commander Shimura, the Uchiha clan head, and a Hyūga elder. The Uchiha and Hyūga already possess powerful bloodlines—adding yours would concentrate too much power in one clan. Commander Shimura has status and resources but no bloodline limit. It's the most balanced option politically."
"Additionally," the civilian member added, "Commander Shimura is unmarried, has no heirs, and is approaching an age where the Council has... concerns about Root's succession. This arrangement serves multiple purposes: securing your bloodline, establishing Shimura's legitimate heirs, and ensuring Root's future leadership has diverse strategic capabilities."
Ringo stared at them. "You're killing three birds with one stone. My bloodline, his succession, and Root's future. How efficient."
"We prefer 'practical,'" the ANBU woman said coolly.
"And what about me?" Ringo's voice rose slightly. "What about my daughter? We're just... pieces being moved on your strategic board?"
"You're a citizen of Konoha," Hiruzen said quietly. "With rights and protections. Which is why we're offering options instead of simply conscripting you."
"Options." Ringo's laugh came out bitter. "Is that what you call cages with different bars?"
"The arrangement," the ANBU woman continued, ignoring the outburst, "would allow you to maintain your bakery, your home, and full custody of your existing child. In exchange, you would cooperate with occasional uses of your ability as determined by mutual agreement with your husband."
Husband, Ringo thought. The word felt foreign, wrong. Ryota had been her husband. This man was a stranger.
"However," the Hyūga woman said, "there is an additional requirement for option three."
Ringo's breath caught. Something in the woman's tone promised worse was coming.
"The primary strategic value of this marriage is the propagation of your bloodline. Your daughter may or may not have inherited your kekkei genkai—we have no way to test without..." She paused delicately. "Without circumstances we hope never arise. Therefore, the marriage arrangement includes the expectation of children."
The room tilted. Ringo's vision grayed at the edges—not from chakra exhaustion this time, but from sheer horrified realization.
"Children," she heard herself say. Her voice sounded distant, hollow.
"A minimum of two," the woman continued calmly, as if discussing crop rotation rather than reproductive coercion. "We understand the kekkei genkai's activation is... unpredictable. Medical analysis can identify potential for the ability—unusual chakra structures, latent biological markers—but cannot guarantee it. That's precisely why we require multiple children. It's a numbers game, Haruno-san. Unpleasant, but necessary."
"And if the ability never manifests in your children?" the civilian member added. "Then they receive excellent education, clan status through their father, and normal lives. But if even one inherits it, the village gains a strategic asset that could save countless lives."
Ringo stood. She didn't plan to—her body simply rejected sitting for this.
"Let me understand clearly." Her voice came out cold, precise. "You want me to bear children—multiple children—as some kind of genetic lottery? Hoping one of them inherits an ability that might never manifest?"
"We prefer to call it ensuring Konoha's future security," the ANBU woman said.
"And I prefer to call it what it is." Ringo's hands clenched into fists. "Breeding. You're asking me to breed like livestock for the village's benefit."
"That's a rather dramatic—" the woman began.
"Why go through all this?" Ringo cut her off, voice rising. "Why the theater of marriage and children? You have medical jutsu. You have sealing techniques. Why not just... extract what you need? Take my ovaries, create your children in a laboratory, raise them in your Academy from birth?" The words came out savage, bitter. "Why pretend this is anything but what it is?"
Silence fell over the room. The Council members exchanged uncomfortable glances.
Hiruzen stood, coming around the table. His expression held something that might have been genuine regret.
"Haruno-san, please. We're not monsters. We would never—"
"Wouldn't you?" Ringo turned on him, and years of palace composure shattered. "You're already treating me like a strategic resource instead of a person. At least forced medical extraction would be honest about what you want!"
"We considered those options," the ANBU woman said, voice flat. "Medical extraction of genetic material, supervised breeding programs, even forced artificial insemination. But bloodline limits are unpredictable—they require natural conception, stable family environments, and often emotional triggers to manifest properly. The Uchiha proved this. The Hyūga know this. Clinical approaches have consistently failed to produce viable kekkei genkai heirs."
"Additionally," the civilian member added, "your cooperation is essential. A resentful asset is a liability. Marriage offers you legal protections, social status, and legitimate heirs. It's the only option where your interests and the village's align."
"Align," Ringo repeated. "You think our interests align?"
"More than the alternatives," Hiruzen said gently. "I know this isn't what you wanted. I know it's not fair. But we're trying to preserve your humanity while serving the village's needs."
"My humanity?" Something in Ringo snapped. "You're demanding I bear children to a stranger and calling it preserving my humanity?"
She moved before conscious thought caught up. The decorative hairpin—six inches of sharpened metal holding her elaborate updo—came free in her hand. She lunged at Hiruzen, aiming for his throat with the desperate fury of a trapped animal.
She made it three steps.
Danzo materialized between them, his hand catching her wrist with bruising force. The hairpin stopped inches from Hiruzen's neck.
For a moment, they were frozen—Ringo's arm extended, Danzo's grip iron around her wrist, the hairpin's point gleaming in the afternoon light filtering through the windows.
"Haruno-san." Danzo's voice was perfectly calm, as if disarming homicidal widows was routine. "Put down the weapon."
Ringo stared at him. Up close, she could see his eyes weren't truly flat—there was calculation there, assessment, and something else. Something that might have been... interest?
"Make me," she hissed.
"I could." His thumb pressed against the pressure point in her wrist. "But I'd rather not bruise you before our first proper conversation."
The absurdity of the statement—the casual confidence, the implication that this was merely an inconvenient first impression—shocked her into stillness.
Danzo carefully pried the hairpin from her fingers. Her elaborate updo collapsed, burgundy-pink hair falling around her shoulders in waves.
"Better," he said, handing the hairpin to a shocked Council guard. "Though I appreciate the commitment to violence. Shows you're not as defeated as you appear."
Ringo gaped at him. "I just tried to murder the Hokage."
"You tried to make a point," Danzo corrected. "The Hokage was simply the closest target." He released her wrist but didn't step away. "If you'd actually wanted him dead, you would have aimed for his eye. Faster kill, harder to block."
Behind him, Hiruzen coughed. "Danzo, perhaps now isn't the time for tactical critique."
"On the contrary." Danzo's gaze remained fixed on Ringo. "I think now is exactly the time. Haruno-san has demonstrated she won't accept this arrangement passively. That's... useful information."
"Useful," Ringo repeated numbly. The adrenaline was draining away, leaving her hollow and shaking.
"Tactical honesty is better than strategic compliance." Danzo stepped back, giving her space. "I'd rather have a wife who stabs me honestly than one who smiles while poisoning my tea."
"I'm not going to be your wife," Ringo said, but the words lacked conviction. They both knew she didn't have a choice.
"You haven't decided yet," Danzo corrected. "The Council gave you three options. You haven't chosen one."
"Because they're all cages!"
"Yes." His agreement surprised her. "They are. But some cages have better amenities than others."
Ringo stared at him, searching for mockery or cruelty. Found only pragmatic assessment.
"Are you actually defending this arrangement?" she asked.
"I'm acknowledging reality." Danzo glanced at the Council members, who were still processing the assassination attempt. "You have a valuable ability. The village needs it secured. Marriage is the option that preserves the most of your autonomy while meeting their requirements. That's not a defense. It's a fact."
"And the children?" Ringo's voice dropped to a whisper. "You're fine with forcing children on someone who just tried to kill the Hokage?"
"I argued against the children requirement," Danzo said flatly. "Told the Council it was unnecessarily invasive and would breed exactly this kind of resentment. They overruled me."
Ringo's breath caught. "You... argued against it?"
"Root requires loyalty that can't be compelled. I understand that principle." His expression remained neutral. "But I was outvoted. So now we're here, and you're choosing between bad options and worse ones."
"That's not a choice," Ringo said tiredly.
"No," Danzo agreed. "It's not. But it's what you have."
The Council guard who'd taken Ringo's hairpin stepped forward cautiously. "Hokage-sama, should we... detain Haruno-san? She attempted assault on—"
"No," Hiruzen said quickly. "No detention. This has been... an emotional discussion. Understandably so." He looked at Ringo with something like sympathy. "Haruno-san, I'm sorry. I'm truly sorry. But the alternative options were worse. Other Council members wanted immediate conscription, wanted your daughter taken into custody as leverage. I fought for these terms because they were the most humane I could achieve."
"Humane," Ringo whispered. "You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."
"Perhaps not." Hiruzen's expression was pained. "But it's the best I could do."
In the silence that followed, Ringo became aware of her disheveled state—hair down, makeup smudged, kimono wrinkled from the struggle. She looked like what she was: someone who'd been pushed past their breaking point.
And yet I'm still standing, she thought. Still conscious. Still capable of speech.
Palace training. Ten years of maintaining composure while nobles threw tea and made impossible demands. It served her even now.
"If I agree," she said quietly, looking at each Council member in turn, "I have conditions. Non-negotiable conditions."
The ANBU woman's eyebrows rose. "You just attempted to assassinate the Hokage, and you think you can negotiate?"
"I think I've just demonstrated I'm not a passive asset who'll accept this quietly," Ringo corrected. "You want cooperation? Then cooperate with me."
Hiruzen exchanged glances with the other Council members. Something passed between them—acknowledgment, perhaps, that breaking her completely would defeat the purpose.
"State your conditions," Hiruzen said finally.
And so Ringo did.
She negotiated with her hair down and her dignity in tatters, but she negotiated. Two children maximum. Civilian education until age eight. No Root until eighteen. Primary custody. Non-invasive testing. Protection for Momoka. Every scrap of autonomy she could salvage from the wreckage.
The Council accepted most of it. Added their own terms. Argued over details.
Through it all, Danzo remained silent, watching her with those calculating eyes.
And when the final terms were agreed upon, when Ringo had extracted every concession she could, Danzo stepped forward.
"One additional condition from me," he said. "The children, if born, are legitimate heirs with full clan rights. They carry my name and receive all protections that provides."
Ringo stared at him. "Why?"
"Because bastards have harder lives," Danzo said bluntly. "And this arrangement is cruel enough without adding that burden."
It was unexpectedly... decent. Brutal in its honesty, but decent.
"Agreed," Ringo said.
"Then it's settled." Hiruzen stood, and the Council members rose with him. "The arrangement is officially recorded. Haruno Ringo will marry Shimura Danzo under the terms negotiated. The marriage will proceed when both parties agree they're ready, but no later than one month from today. All conditions are binding and will be enforced through Council authority."
One month. Not six. Not even a pretense of extended courtship.
"Commander Shimura will contact you within the week to begin... coordination," the ANBU woman said, voice still cold from the assassination attempt.
Ringo bowed—exactly the minimum required—and turned to leave.
"Haruno-san." Danzo's voice stopped her at the door. "Your hairpin."
He held it out. She took it with shaking hands.
"Try to avoid stabbing people at our next meeting," he said. "It sets an awkward precedent."
Despite everything—the horror, the exhaustion, the crushing weight of her new reality—Ringo felt her mouth twitch.
"No promises," she said.
"Fair enough." Something that might have been amusement flickered across his face. "Three days. I'll send a message about meeting locations."
Ringo left without responding, walked through the corridors with as much dignity as someone with fallen hair and wrinkled silk could muster.
She made it outside before the shaking started.
I tried to kill the Hokage, she thought distantly. And Danzo called it "making a point."
What kind of man sees an assassination attempt and finds it "useful"?
The kind she was going to marry, apparently.
The kind who'd father her children.
The kind who'd just agreed to give those children his name and protection, even though he'd made clear he had no interest in raising them.
Practical, she thought. He's practical. I can work with practical.
I have to.
She walked home through Konoha's afternoon streets, hair loose and improper, her elaborate composure as shattered as her hairpin's abandoned updo.
But she'd negotiated. She'd fought. She'd salvaged what she could from the wreckage.
And when Shimura Danzo's message arrived in three days, she'd face him with whatever dignity she had left.
Because the alternative was giving up entirely.
And Ringo Haruno—widow, baker, failed assassin—wasn't giving up yet.
Mrs. Tanaka took one look at Ringo and made tea without asking.
Momoka was in her room, singing to her stuffed animals, blessedly oblivious.
Ringo collapsed at the kitchen table while the elderly woman worked in silence—the comfortable silence of someone who'd lived through enough not to ask questions.
When the tea was ready, Mrs. Tanaka set it down and squeezed Ringo's shoulder once.
"Whatever happened, you survived it," the old woman said quietly. "That's enough for today."
After she left, Ringo stared into her tea and tried to inventory what remained.
Her bakery. Her daughter. Her small house. Her cat, who was even now judging her from the doorway.
And in one month, a husband she'd met while trying to murder his best friend.
This is my life now, she thought.
Kosuke stalked over, bit her ankle in reproach for being late with dinner, and stalked away again.
Ringo laughed—a sound caught between hysteria and exhaustion.
"You're right," she murmured to the cat. "Stop feeling sorry for yourself and feed me."
She stood, prepared Kosuke's dinner, checked on Momoka, and moved through the evening's routines with mechanical precision.
Later, after Momoka was asleep, Ringo remade her tea and sat in the darkness.
One month.
One month to prepare for a marriage she didn't want to a man who found her assassination attempt "useful."
One month before her body stopped being her own.
One month to figure out how to survive this with her humanity intact.
I can do this, she thought. I negotiated. I fought. I didn't break.
I won't break.
Kosuke returned, climbed into her lap with excessive weight, and bit her hand.
His commentary on optimism, as always.
But he stayed there, purring, warm and judgmental and alive.
And that would have to be enough.