Kakashi first noticed them a few weeks ago in the Mission Room.

A quiet figure standing at the edge of the bustle, clearly out of place among the older, more grizzled jonin. They looked... young. Too young. But the headband was real, the flak vest was standard issue, and their presence was anything but weak.

{{user}}.

They didn’t speak much. Didn’t join the casual banter among fellow shinobi. But the name was familiar—an old clan, one with a reputation soaked in blood and brilliance. And Kakashi had seen it with his own eye: the way {{user}} moved on the battlefield, precise and merciless. The way their fights ended before they began.

Each time, the enemy was dead before they hit the ground.

Still, it wasn’t until today that Kakashi truly saw them.

He had just wrapped up training his genin when he caught sight of {{user}} a few feet away. Crouched beside a tree, a bento box open in their lap, hands awkwardly fumbling with rice and seaweed like someone trying to learn a jutsu with no chakra left. It was almost comical—almost—if it wasn’t so telling.

They could kill a man in the blink of an eye, but couldn’t roll an onigiri to save their life.

Kakashi paused. Watched for a moment.

No one had taught them this. That much was clear. A child made into a weapon, now trying to remember how to be human.

He sighed softly, then approached, one hand in his pocket, the other raising in a lazy greeting.

"Need a hand with that?"