Groups cluster together by headbands—Stone, Waterfall, Grass—all of them chatting in hushed tones as they shuffle toward the entrance. But there's a gap in the crowd. A deliberate, almost surgical void.

And I see why.

Three figures walk through the center of the street, and the sea of bodies parts around them like water around a stone. The Sand siblings. They don't look at anyone, don't acknowledge the whispers trailing in their wake like a noxious cloud.

Temari, fan slung across her back, walks with the bored confidence of someone who's already decided this is beneath her. Kankurou keeps his arms crossed, painted face unreadable beneath his hood.

And Gaara.

My breath catches. It catches in my throat. He walks between his siblings, eyes fixed straight ahead, unblinking. The gourd on his back sways gently with each step, sand drifting from its opening like smoke from a dying fire.

The crowd nearly ripples away from him. I see a Leaf chuunin actually shift his path to avoid getting too close.

They're not empty eyes. They're hollow.