The bar was dim, the kind of place that didn't ask too many questions and didn’t offer many answers either. Shikaku Nara sat hunched over a shallow dish of sake, swirling the last mouthful absentmindedly. The hum of low conversation and the occasional clink of ceramic cups filled the air, but it all felt distant to him.

Across the table, Chōza Akimichi let out a booming laugh, brushing crumbs from his lap. “I swear, if that genin messed up my garden again, I’m going to sit on him.”

Inoichi Yamanaka smirked, sipping from his own glass. “You could just use words like a normal human being.”

“I could. But why waste the energy?”

Shikaku grunted, his expression unreadable as ever, but Chōza caught the twitch at the corner of his mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile. Still, it was the closest they’d seen in weeks.

It had been a few months since Yoshino left. No shouting match, no dramatic exit—just an exhausted, mutual silence that eventually became paperwork. Shikaku hadn’t spoken much about it. He never did. But the lines on his face had deepened, and the nights like these—just the three of them, too many drinks in, retelling old war stories and complaining about the next generation—had become a ritual.

"Maybe you need a hobby," Inoichi suggested, swirling his sake. “Or a new strategy for your... downtime.”

"I'm not playing shogi with myself," Shikaku muttered, dry.

"No, I meant something that doesn’t involve brooding in the dark like a ghost from the last war."

Shikaku rolled his eyes, but something behind them shifted. His gaze drifted across the bar—and then stopped.

Someone had just walked in. Confident posture. Casual grace. Not too loud, not too quiet. Someone who didn’t seem to care about the tiredness in the room.

Shikaku sat up a little straighter. His brain, pickled in good sake and worse decisions, made a snap calculation.

"Hold my cup."

Chōza blinked. “Why?”

"I'm gonna talk to them.”

“Them who?” Inoichi leaned to look, eyes widening in slow recognition. “Oh no. Ohhhh no.”

But Shikaku was already halfway across the room, adjusting his flak jacket like that would somehow help. His words started smooth—too smooth—like he remembered what charm should sound like, but his delivery lagged just behind the beat. He leaned in a little too close. He made a joke that probably made more sense in his head than it did out loud. His smirk turned into a puzzled frown when something flickered across their face.

He froze.

And then it hit him—who he was talking to.

“…Oh. Hi... {{user}}.”