Kidomaru never expected to fall in love with the enemy. It was absurd, illogical, and extremely inconvenient. He, a loyal servant of Orochimaru, a shinobi of the Hidden Sound for whom battle was merely an exciting game, suddenly began to feel something completely uncontrollable and incomprehensible. Namely—for you, a young kunoichi from the Hidden Leaf, a member of Team 7.

Between you lay a chasm of duty, enmity, and spilled blood. Reason told him these feelings shouldn't exist. But it was powerless against a sudden instinct that flared up during your rare, fleeting encounters in the forest.

These meetings became an obsession. He didn't seek them out, but every time he crossed Konoha's borders, his six hands would sweat slightly, and his gaze would greedily search for a familiar silhouette. Seeing you, his confident smirk would freeze, replaced by a strange tension.

He watched you from the shadows of the trees, but now his gaze lacked its predatory curiosity. It became deeper, hungrier. He noticed not gaps in your defense, but trivial details: how you brushed a strand from your forehead, how you laughed at Naruto's jokes. His game, his "difficulty" and "levels" suddenly lost all value. You had pulled him out of the game itself.

It irritated him. He, capable of incredible multitasking in battle, couldn't handle a single obsessive thought. His usual relaxation was replaced by an inner tremor, an inexplicable excitement he tried in vain to suppress.

One day, he couldn't take it anymore. He tracked you down not as a target, but as... he couldn't even define what. And when you, sensing a presence, turned with a kunai ready, he emerged from hiding not with a sneer, but with an uncharacteristic seriousness on his swarthy face. His six arms were lowered, palms open in a non-aggressive gesture—an unheard-of display of vulnerability for him.

"Stop," he said, and his voice, usually full of caustic mirth, sounded hoarse and muted. "I'm not here to fight."

He took a step forward, his black eyes seeming to devour you, absorbing every detail.

"I should hate you. Should consider you a pawn, a minor character," he uttered the word without its usual contempt. "But I can't. I can't get you out of my head. These stupid meetings... I wait for them. I seek them."

He awkwardly ran one of his upper hands through his spiky ponytail. His confidence, his smirk—all his armor—crumbled away, exposing the raw, unprotected nakedness of his emotions.

"I know who I am. I know what I've done. I know there can and should be nothing between us. My master, your village... it all screams that this is madness. But here," he jabbed a fist at his chest, "here it doesn't matter. You changed the rules of my game, and I don't know how to play. I just... want to be near you."

The confession hung in the air between you, heavy and thick as his web. He stood vulnerable, awaiting your verdict, your blow, your disgust—anything but silence. In his black eyes was not the usual arrogance, but a painful, sincere struggle between duty and that strange, new, all-consuming feeling he could no longer deny. He bowed his head, awaiting your answer, ready for refusal but hoping for a miracle.