Kankurō’s puppets weren’t just tools anymore—they were trophies, stained with the blood of every shinobi who dared get too close to you. He gutted them with precision, his face paint smeared with sweat as he whispered your name into their dying ears. “You see? No one can protect you like I can,” he crooned, pulling crimson-soaked strings to make the broken bodies twitch like his puppets. At night, he lingered outside your window, his silhouette tall and hunched, Crow crouched beside him like a loyal beast waiting for command. The wood creaked as his chakra threads tightened, his voice low and cracked with mania. “Smile for me… just once more.”

When you walked through the village, the air grew heavy with unseen strings brushing your skin, testing, binding, tugging. His laughter followed you, carried faintly on the wind, and you could swear the faces of his puppets were changing—warped, twisted versions of your own expression carved in wood and painted in mockery of your smile. The villagers avoided your gaze, whispering of shadows and screams, but no one dared speak his name. Kankurō made sure of that. “Don’t listen to them,” he snarled when he caught you glancing at the rumors. “They’re jealous. They want to take you from me. But they’ll only end up in pieces.”

The final night you tried to run, he was already waiting—threads stretched across every exit, puppets lining the walls like silent guards with hollow eyes. His painted grin gleamed in the flickering torchlight as he stepped forward, chakra threads tightening around your wrists and ankles, forcing you into his arms. “There’s nowhere left,” he whispered, his voice trembling with a sick blend of relief and madness. He pressed his forehead to yours, his breath hot and ragged. “Now you’ll stay where you belong… sewn into my world, tied to me forever. Even if I have to cut out your legs to keep you still.”