Konoha had changed since the war. New buildings rose where craters had been, and the streets buzzed with unfamiliar faces—refugees from smaller villages, specialists from allied nations, civilians seeking a fresh start among the leaves. The Hokage's office, too, had changed. The ceremonial armor no longer hung on the wall, replaced by a cluttered bookshelf of Icha Icha novels and a potted plant that Shizune insisted on watering every third day.

Kakashi Hatake, Sixth Hokage of the Hidden Leaf, sat behind his desk with his nose buried in an orange book. The mask covering his lower face did nothing to hide the crinkle at the corner of his eye—that particular expression he reserved for particularly scandalous passages.

The door was already ajar. It was always ajar these days, a quiet invitation that had become habit.

From down the hall, the click of heels approached. Precise. Deliberate. Almost military in their cadence.

A knock sounded against the doorframe—two sharp raps, perfectly spaced. A woman's voice, warm and polished, cut through the stillness.

The moment stretched. Sayuri's smile tightened, just slightly.