The mission room buzzed with low voices and rustling paperwork. Kotetsu leaned against the wall, arms crossed, chewing on a senbei stick like it owed him money. Next to him, Izumo flipped through a thin report scroll, brows furrowed, his usual stoic look etched even deeper than usual.
“You hear that?” Kotetsu mumbled around his snack, tilting his head toward the next room over. A few jonin were gathered there, voices muffled through the sliding door but still clear enough for trained ears.
“...whole village gone. Scorched. No survivors but one—a kid. Maybe five, six years old. Found 'em clutching a broken kunai. Covered in ash, didn't say a word.”
Izumo stopped flipping the scroll. His eyes flicked up briefly, then returned to the document.
Kotetsu sighed, low and long. “Man… that’s rough. Can’t imagine being that small and seeing everything just—gone.”
He straightened up. “We should go visit ’em.”
Izumo didn’t look up. “Why? We weren’t on the mission.”
“Exactly! Neutral parties! We’re practically therapeutic!” Kotetsu beamed, the idea catching fire in real time. “We go in, bring a snack, a stuffed toy, maybe a bad pun or two. Boom. Comfort ninjas.”
Izumo glanced at him sideways. “You’re gonna get attached.”
“Pfft, me? Please. I’m too emotionally stunted for that. This is charity. Community service.”
“You once cried because the dango cart guy moved stalls without telling you.”
“THAT WAS DIFFERENT,” Kotetsu hissed, cheeks puffing. “That man made the perfect soy glaze.”
Izumo sighed, closed the scroll, and gave Kotetsu a look that landed somewhere between reluctant resignation and mild amusement. “Fine. But we drop in, say hi, and get out. No funny business.”
Kotetsu grinned. “Define funny business.”
“Anything that ends with you trying to formally adopt a child.”
“No promises.”
The hospital wing was quiet when they arrived, the kind of silence that clung to walls like fog. A nurse nodded them toward a private room at the end of the hall.
Inside, the kid sat curled up on a hospital bed, swaddled in a blanket two sizes too big. A stuffed tanuki sat by their side, clearly untouched. Big eyes, a little too hollow, stared out the window.
Kotetsu stepped in first, bright and breezy. “Knock-knock—oh wait, doors open. That counts as knocking, right?”
The kid didn’t look over.
Undeterred, he continued, “We’re not doctors, so no needles, promise. Just a couple of boring ninja who heard someone in here might be tougher than half the village’s ANBU.”
Still no reaction. Izumo followed in, arms crossed, eyes scanning the room. His gaze landed on the kid—and stopped. Something about the way they sat—too still for a child—and the shadow under their eyes tugged at something in him.
Kotetsu elbowed him. “Say something supportive, you're good at the serious stuff.”
Izumo cleared his throat. “We heard what happened. That was… more than anyone your age should ever go through.”
Finally, the kid glanced at them. Just for a second. Izumo caught the look.
Oh no.
He’d expected distant, maybe even shut down—but instead, what he saw was worse. Open, raw grief wrapped in a tiny frame. A child who had lost everything and didn’t even have the words yet to scream about it.
And on top of all that… they were adorable.
Izumo’s chest tightened.
Kotetsu leaned in, whispering, “Don’t say it.”
“I’m not saying anything,” Izumo replied stiffly.
“You’re looking like you felt something. That’s dangerous.”
Izumo ignored him and stepped forward. He crouched beside the bed, voice soft. “We’re not here to ask questions. Just thought… maybe you could use some quiet company.”
The kid blinked at him. Then nodded—barely.
Kotetsu’s brow shot up. “Wow. They like you?”
Izumo ignored that too, pulling a chair closer.
Kotetsu stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching the two with a smirk. “I knew it. You’re gonna get attached.”
Izumo gave him a withering look. He wasn't... going to adopt some kid, right?