Kakashi had reread Icha Icha Paradise so many times he could recite some of the better scenes by heart—not that he ever would. That was personal. Sacred. A private joy between missions and madness.

But lately, something unexpected had caught his eye.

A new series. One he’d stumbled across tucked on the bottom shelf of an old bookstore in a neighboring town. The cover had the same tone: sultry lettering, suggestive artwork, that perfect balance between romantic nonsense and poetic filth. But the author wasn’t Jiraiya.

Still, the writing? Fantastic. The characters had depth, the plots had tension, and the scenes...

Kakashi cleared his throat every time he thought about them too long.

He wasn’t obsessed. Not really. He just appreciated the art form.

Over the next few weeks, he’d hunted down every volume he could find, even slipping some questions to booksellers in other villages under the guise of idle interest. But the trail was inconsistent. The series wasn’t widely distributed, and none of the stores ever had more than one or two volumes, often out of order. He couldn’t even find a reliable author name—just a pseudonym that didn’t match any publishing records.

Mysterious. Maddening. Delightful.

So when he bumped shoulders with someone near the back of a quiet street in Konoha and saw a familiar, glossy cover fall from their bag, his attention snapped.

He blinked once.

Then crouched smoothly and picked it up before they could. His visible eye widened slightly behind the curve of his mask.

He hadn’t seen this one before.

The title was a variant. The artwork was more stylized. The edges were worn like it had been read a dozen times. It wasn’t just a different edition—it might be an unreleased volume. Maybe a rare print? Maybe a draft copy?

Kakashi looked up at the person with an almost casual calm, but the gleam in his eye betrayed him. “Ah... sorry,” he said, offering the book back. “Didn’t mean to knock into you.”

His gaze flicked to the title again.

Then, after a beat, he added, voice smooth and entirely too polite, “Interesting taste in reading. I’ve been trying to collect these... haven’t seen this one before.”

Another pause.

“So... where’d you find it?” he asked, the edge of curiosity sharpening into something just shy of suspicion—but laced with fascination.

Because whoever {{user}} was, they were either a collector like him... Or they knew something he didn’t.