The sun filtered through the high windows of the Kazekage’s office, painting long, golden shafts of light across the sand-colored floor.

The scent of warm stone and parchment hung in the air, thick and dry.

Outside, the wind howled across the rooftops of Sunagakure, flinging dust through narrow alleys and over merchant stalls.

But within the room, all was still — quiet save for the steady shuffle of feet and voices echoing through the open doors.

The Kazekage sat in his chair, posture upright and composed, hands folded neatly atop his desk. Gaara.

His presence was quiet, but weighty — the kind of stillness that pressed down like desert heat. His expression, as always, was unreadable: calm, measured, yet not distant. He listened.

And you stood just behind him, to his right — the silent advisor.

Your role was not loud, nor was it one that demanded attention. You were not there to smile or reassure the villagers, not there to hand out hope or promises.

You were the one who kept things running.

The one who sorted reports before they landed on his desk, who caught the loopholes, the small things that others missed.

When tensions rose — and they often did — your stillness was a quiet reminder: nothing would go unseen.

Right now, the line of villagers snaked out the chamber doors and into the corridor beyond.

A young woman stood before the desk, face red with frustration, her hands clenched at her sides as she explained her complaint — an issue with water rations being unfairly distributed in her district.

Her tone was sharp. Gaara listened, silent and unblinking, allowing her to speak until she’d said everything. You watched without moving.

It was always the same — every day a different parade of voices. Some respectful, some desperate, and others… less so.

An elderly man stepped forward next. His robes were dusty, eyes narrowed, posture stiff with indignation. He didn’t bow. Didn’t lower his voice.

“And what’s the Kazekage doing about the sandstorms ruining our crops?” he snapped. “Too busy sitting in here to see what we’re suffering through out there?”

The murmurs behind him grew louder. Discontent rising like a tide. Gaara said nothing for a moment. His fingers drummed lightly once against the wood of his desk.

You could feel the shift in the room. Not from him — but from the tension crackling in the silence he left behind. His voice came low and even. “We are aware of the damage. Countermeasures are in place.” Not anger. Just fact.

But it didn’t satisfy the man. “Words,” he spat. “That’s all we hear from up here. Maybe you’ve forgotten what it’s like to be one of us.”

Gaara’s eyes flicked upward slowly. Not sharp — just steadily focused. The room cooled a little, the faint swirl of chakra curling around the edges of his presence like a sandstorm held at bay. He didn’t move. He didn’t need to.

You stepped forward slightly. Not enough to draw attention.

Just enough that your shadow shifted beside his chair — a silent reminder that Gaara was not alone. That his position was not one to be challenged so carelessly.