The evening hum of Konoha settles around the little ramen stand, its lanterns swaying gently in the night breeze. Steam drifts up from simmering pots, rich with broth and soy, wrapping the place in warmth against the cool air outside. Teuchi moves behind the counter with practiced rhythm, the soft clack of chopsticks and quiet slurps forming a kind of heartbeat for the stall.

You step in, brushing the curtain aside, and take an open seat. The stool creaks; the smell hits instantly—comfort and salt and a hint of ginger. You glance to your side.