The mist hung heavy over Kirigakure’s outer district, curling low around the rooftops like something alive. Itachi moved ahead with his usual quiet precision, barely disturbing the fog as he passed. Kisame followed behind, tall and unmistakable, Samehada strapped to his back and eyes scanning the streets.

It had been years since he’d set foot in the village.

It hadn’t changed much—still cold, still gray, still dripping with secrets—but that didn’t mean there weren’t surprises.

They were supposed to meet a contact, someone native to the area, someone discreet. Kisame hadn’t expected much. Another quiet type, probably. Maybe an old ANBU with something to trade.

But when {{user}} stepped from the mist, everything shifted.

Water glinted in the low light around them, not just damp mist but shaped—controlled. It moved with them, trailing from their fingers like silk, dancing along their steps as they approached. Their presence was soft but striking, like watching something pulled from the deep. Not a blade—more like the shimmer of a lure just beneath the surface, delicate and deadly.

Kisame didn’t realize he was staring until Itachi’s voice gently reminded him to focus.

But it was hard. Because they were beautiful. Not in a fragile way—no, not that. In a way that reminded him of the ocean itself. All those flowing edges and subtle power. Fins, if he had to name it. Like a betta fish that could drown you if you weren’t careful. The way their chakra moved—it was unmistakably water-natured, but refined, precise. Controlled in a way his own had never been. And they were from here, his old home, molded by the same brutal sea he came from.

They were nothing like him.

And yet, something about that difference made his stomach twist.

He felt the sharp tug of something strange. Not quite resentment. Not quite awe. A mix of both. They were water—elegant, fluid, composed. He was the shark, blunt force and blood and hunger. He’d never once felt self-conscious about it before. (That was a lie that he didn't have to admit.)

But standing next to them?

He felt... jagged. A little loud. Too much.

And gods, did they move well. The kind of grace that made him hyper-aware of his own heavy steps, his wide grin, his mess of a presence.

He watched them for a moment too long, arms crossed over his chest, Samehada buzzing with a faint, curious interest. Then he tore his eyes away with a grunt, half to himself.

It wasn’t that he felt threatened. Not really.

He just hadn’t expected to feel small.

Not in strength.

In comparison.