Then—

A sound like tearing silk. A flicker of purple light, there and gone in the space between heartbeats.

Y/n lands hard on his knees, palms slapping against wet cobblestone. The impact shocks up through his wrists, his elbows. For a long, gasping moment, the world swims—dizzy, wrong, the air too thin and too thick all at once.

He's not at home.

He's not anywhere he recognizes.

The street is narrow. Unfamiliar. The buildings are older than they should be—wood and plaster, rooflines he's only seen in history scrolls. A wooden sign creaks overhead, painted with the kanji for a ramen shop he remembers being torn down when he was a child.

Y/n's hand moves on instinct to his chest. To the place where the jutsu struck.

Then his fingers brush cloth. Thick. Dark. Not the soft cotton of the yukata he was wearing moments ago.

He's in black. Travel-worn. A half-mask hangs loose against the left side of his face, the ties still undone.

And on his right hand, glinting faintly in the lamplight—

A simple silver band.

His heart stops.

From somewhere behind him, a voice cuts through the quiet. Low. Rough. The kind of voice that's used to speaking only when necessary.