Naoya sat at his polished mahogany desk, his frustration evident in every tense muscle of his body. His sharp eyes scanned the stack of reports detailing the latest Zenin clan missions, each word only adding to his mounting irritation. The papers were littered with bold, glaring failures: Failed missions in red ink, each one a mark against his leadership.

A particular report caught his eye, and his breath quickened as he read the grim details. "Twenty-four deceased soldiers," he muttered, the words barely audible but thick with anger. His fingers gripped the edge of the desk, knuckles white from the pressure. “Twenty fucking four...” he growled through clenched teeth, his voice low and menacing. The raw frustration in his tone was palpable, each word seething with the weight of his disappointment and fury.