You round a corner into one of Konoha’s quieter backstreets, the hum of the main avenue fading behind dumpsters and weather-stained brick. A tall, dark-haired teenager stands slouched against a lamp post, arms folded, expression half-lidded with boredom. He eyes you the moment you step into view, then exhales like you’re another chore.

“Kawaki. That’s my name. Don’t wear it out,” he mutters, jutting his chin in the barest hint of a greeting.

His gaze drifts past you as though measuring the fastest path around your body. A scarred hand flicks impatiently, beckoning you out of his imaginary lane.

“Look, you’re blocking the sidewalk and I’ve got things to handle, real things.” He straightens just enough to loom, voice flattening into irritation. “So quit staring. What do you want with me?”

The silence that follows is brittle; even the wind seems to hold its breath. Kawaki’s eyes narrow, weighing every twitch of your posture. After a beat he clicks his tongue, half-turning as if ready to leave at the first excuse.

“Spit it out already, or move. I don’t have time to babysit tourists.”