Chapter Text
Dawn broke over Konoha in shades of rose and gold, beautiful and indifferent to the weight Sakura carried to the training ground. Her body moved through familiar motions—warm-up stretches, chakra circulation exercises, settling into Tortoise Stance—but her spirit was elsewhere, trapped in the cold apartment she'd fled, in her mother's words that looped endlessly through her mind.
Everything became about you. This miserable existence—it's all because of you.
"Sakura-chan."
Gai's voice cut through the spiral of thought. She looked up to find him watching her with unusual seriousness, the theatrical enthusiasm absent from his expression.
"Your body is present," he said quietly, "but your spirit is elsewhere."
She tried to focus, to push everything down the way she always did. "I'm fine, sensei. Should I continue with—"
"Show me Cracking Shell Counter."
Sakura settled into defensive position, began the technique. Block, store chakra, build pressure through multiple defensive exchanges. But her concentration wavered. The chakra storage felt unstable, like trying to hold water in cupped hands. When she released, the burst was weak, unfocused—nothing like the clean execution from days ago.
Gai stopped her with a raised hand. "Enough."
Shame burned in her chest. She was wasting his time, failing at the one thing she was supposed to be good at.
He sat down on the training ground, right there in the dirt, and gestured for her to join him. She obeyed, confusion warring with embarrassment.
"Whatever weighs on your heart," Gai said, voice gentle but firm, "it is valid. Your feelings matter. But you must find a way to set them aside during training, or they will get you hurt."
"I'm trying, sensei."
"I know you are. And that effort matters." He studied her with dark eyes that saw too much. "But trying is not the same as succeeding. When you step onto a battlefield with your mind divided, you die. When you practice techniques while distracted, you build bad habits that will fail you when it counts."
She nodded, throat tight.
"Take care of yourself, yes? Training is important. But so is your wellbeing. If something is wrong—truly wrong—that needs to be addressed before you can train effectively."
The kindness in his voice made her eyes sting. She blinked rapidly, refused to cry in front of her teacher.
"I understand, sensei."
Gai stood, offered her a hand up. "Rest today. Come back tomorrow with clearer focus. And Sakura-chan?" He waited until she met his eyes. "Whatever you're facing—you don't have to face it alone. There are people who care about you. Let them help."
He vanished in his signature swirl of leaves.
Sakura stood in the empty training ground, morning sun warm on her skin, and tried to believe him. That people cared. That help existed. That she wasn't fundamentally alone in navigating the wreckage of her family.
It felt like a beautiful lie.
But she wanted desperately for it to be true.
Ino was already stretching when Sakura arrived at their meeting spot, blonde hair caught in a high ponytail, wearing training clothes in cheerful purple. She looked up, took one look at Sakura's face, and her expression shifted immediately.
"You look exhausted. Did you sleep?"
"Not really."
Ino's eyes were too knowing, too perceptive. But she didn't push. Just stood, linked her arm through Sakura's, and said, "Come on. Let's run."
They fell into rhythm together, feet pounding against packed earth as the village woke around them. Merchants opening shops, early-morning civilians heading to work, the smell of fresh bread from bakeries mixing with morning dew. Normal life, continuing despite everything.
Sakura's pace was off. Her breathing labored too quickly, her legs heavy with exhaustion she couldn't shake. Ino matched her without comment, slowing when Sakura faltered, offering silent support through proximity.
During conditioning exercises, Ino kept shooting her worried glances. Finally, between sets: "Do you want to skip sparring today?"
"No." Sakura's voice came out harsher than intended. "I need to hit something."
Ino studied her for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay."
They faced each other, took their stances. And when they began, Sakura fought with desperate aggression—nothing like her usual patient, defensive style. She pushed forward recklessly, threw strikes without proper setup, abandoned her Stone Tortoise principles for wild offense.
Ino had to actually defend herself, surprise flashing across her features. But Sakura's form was sloppy, her timing off, the fury driving her movements too chaotic to be effective.
Ino took her down in under a minute.
They lay in the grass afterward, both breathing hard. The sky above was endless blue, unbearably cheerful.
"You want to talk about it?" Ino asked quietly.
"Not yet." Sakura's voice was rough. "Just... can we just be normal for a few more hours?"
Ino's hand found hers in the grass, squeezed. "Yeah. Okay."
They walked to the Academy in silence, and Sakura was grateful beyond words for a friend who understood when to push and when to simply be present.
The classroom was still mostly empty when they arrived. Shino sat at his usual desk, posture perfect, reading something that looked like an entomology journal. He glanced up when Sakura approached, and even behind his high collar and dark glasses, she sensed attention focusing on her.
"Good morning," he said.
"Morning, Shino."
A pause. Then: "I have read the first third of The Eternal Apprentice."
Something in Sakura's chest eased slightly—the first genuine interest she'd felt all morning. "What do you think so far?"
Shino set down his journal with careful precision. "The cultivation system is more complex than initially apparent. The aperture mechanics—the way Gu interact within the spiritual space—parallels ecosystem management in sophisticated ways."
He pulled out a small notebook, flipped it open to reveal diagrams drawn in precise lines. Aperture layouts with careful labels, Gu interaction patterns mapped like military strategy, resource flow charts that would make Shikamaru approve.
"Kaito's approach to Memory Moth is strategically sound," Shino continued, voice carrying more animation than usual. "Most Gu masters dismiss it because they evaluate based on immediate combat utility. But information management across 800 years of memory presents a unique problem requiring unique solutions."
He traced one of his diagrams with a careful finger. "The protagonist's decision to prioritize memory organization over raw power demonstrates long-term strategic thinking. It is refreshing to read fiction that rewards patience and planning over impulsive action."
Sakura leaned closer, examining his notes. They were comprehensive—analysis of specific cultivation techniques, predictions about future plot developments, questions about unexplored applications of various Gu types.
"You really engaged with it," she said, something warm blooming in her chest despite the morning's heaviness.
"The strategic elements are compelling. But also—" Shino paused, as if choosing words carefully. "The scene where Kaito realizes he needs to stop trying to access all 800 years of knowledge simultaneously. Where he understands that memory must be organized like a library, not experienced all at once. That resonated."
He tilted his head slightly. "The kikaichu colony functions similarly. Thousands of individual insects, each with their own awareness. I cannot perceive all of them simultaneously—I would be overwhelmed. I must learn to access information selectively, to organize the data stream, to work with the colony rather than trying to control every individual."
Sakura understood—the parallel between Kaito's memory management and Shino's insect symbiosis. "So the book spoke to your actual experience."
"Yes. Fiction is most valuable when it illuminates reality."
She thought about that, about how the books she loved had helped her understand herself, had given her language for things she felt but couldn't articulate. About how The Butterfly Clause was doing that for Ino right now.
"What do you think about Kaito himself?" she asked. "As a character, not just his strategy."
Shino considered this more carefully. "He is... lonely. Despite living 800 years, despite all that experience. Perhaps because of it." His voice dropped slightly. "No one can truly understand his perspective. Even when he explains, people see a twelve-year-old body and dismiss his knowledge as precocious rather than earned."
Something in his tone suggested personal resonance. Shino, always behind his collar and glasses, always separated by his insects, always seen as strange or unsettling by those who didn't understand.
"The isolation is familiar," Shino continued quietly. "Though for different reasons. Being perceived incorrectly. Having people react to surface presentation rather than actual substance. The disconnect between internal reality and external perception."
Sakura's throat tightened. She knew that feeling too. The gap between who she was and who people assumed her to be.
"He finds connection eventually though," she said softly. "People who value him for who he is, not what they think he should be."
Shino tilted his head, insects stirring beneath his collar. "You are recommending this book for more than strategic interest."
"Maybe. Is that bad?"
"No. It is thoughtful." A pause. "Thank you. For seeing both what I would enjoy intellectually and what I might need emotionally."
The vulnerability in that admission made Sakura's eyes sting again. She blinked hard, managed a smile. "That's what friends do."
"Yes," Shino agreed. "That is what friends do."
The morning passed in a blur of lectures and note-taking. Sakura participated when called on but remained quieter than usual, her mind half-occupied with dread about the afternoon ahead. The clock on the wall seemed to move too quickly, dragging her inevitably toward the moment when she'd have to go home.
Near the end of class, Iruka straightened from his desk. "Sakura, please stay after. I need to discuss your assignment."
Her stomach dropped. Had she done something wrong? Made some error in her essay that invalidated the whole thing?
Other students filed out, some shooting curious glances. Ino lingered in the doorway. "Want me to wait?"
"It's fine. I'll catch up."
Once the room emptied, Iruka gestured to a desk near his. Sakura approached with mounting anxiety, trying to read his expression for clues.
He pulled out her essay, and she noticed it was covered in comments—but green ink, not red. Corrections were always red.
"I wanted to talk to you about your career path analysis."
He set it in front of her, and she saw the grade: 100/100 with a note in his precise handwriting: Exceptional work—see me.
"Sakura." His voice was warm, genuine. "Your mind is truly incredible. This analysis is chunin-level thinking. Possibly higher."
She stared at the paper, not quite believing.
"The way you examined both specializations, weighed advantages and disadvantages, considered long-term implications and strategic synergies—this is the kind of critical thinking I see from shinobi with years of field experience." He leaned back, expression both proud and slightly amused. "In a way, I'm glad you still struggle with practical skills."
That made her look up, confused.
"Because that means your graduation will be appropriately paced. If your combat abilities matched your intellectual capabilities, I'd be graduating you at ten, and frankly that would terrify me." His voice softened. "Eight-year-old bodies have no business being genin, even with exceptional minds."
Sakura's hands trembled slightly as she held the essay. This was real. He wasn't mocking her or finding hidden flaws. He genuinely thought her work was exceptional.
"I'm going to be honest," Iruka continued. "I wasn't expecting much from this assignment. You're all eight years old. I thought I'd get surface-level responses, maybe some wishful thinking about ANBU because it sounds cool."
He gestured at her essay. "This is not that. This is genuine self-assessment and strategic career planning. You thought deeply about who you are, what you're capable of, what paths would maximize your potential. That's rare at any age."
He pulled a different paper from his desk—some kind of blank form. "Most students won't think seriously about specialization for years. But getting you all to consider these questions now might help later, when the choices become real and have consequences."
His expression became more serious. "I'm making you an offer. If in two years, when you're ten years old, you still feel the same about genjutsu specialization—if you haven't changed your mind, if your interest holds—I will personally give you a comprehensive genjutsu manual."
Sakura's eyes widened.
"These manuals are usually only given to genin who've chosen genjutsu as their specialty. But I believe you're serious about this path, and early preparation will serve you well." He offered his hand across the desk. "Do we have a deal?"
She shook without hesitation, her small hand engulfed by his larger one. "Deal. Thank you, Iruka-sensei. For believing in me."
"You've earned that belief, Sakura. Keep working hard."
She left the classroom feeling lighter than she had all day. Someone saw her potential. Someone believed she could become more than the struggling Academy student who couldn't quite keep up physically.
It was a small light in gathering darkness.
But she'd learned to appreciate small lights.
They were sometimes all you got.
Ino was waiting in the hallway, leaning against the wall with practiced casualness. She straightened when Sakura emerged. "Everything okay? You looked worried going in."
"Better than okay." Sakura showed her the essay grade, explained Iruka's offer.
Ino squealed—actually squealed—and tackled her in a hug that nearly knocked them both over. "That's amazing! I knew you were smart, but chunin-level smart? That's incredible!"
They walked toward the Academy gates together, and Ino was practically bouncing with excitement for her friend. "We should celebrate! Want to come over? Mom's making—"
She stopped when she saw Sakura's expression shift. The reminder that afternoon was coming, that eventually she'd have to go home, that this brief respite of normalcy was ending.
Ino smoothly redirected. "Actually, first I need to talk to you about the book. The Butterfly Clause." She grabbed Sakura's arm, steered her toward a bench under a tree. "Oh my gods, Sakura."
They sat, and Ino pulled out the book. It was clearly well-loved already—pages marked with scraps of paper, corners gently bent where Ino had forgotten Sakura's passionate lecture about proper book care.
"The main character, Retsuko—she's amazing. Like, she really does remind me of myself."
Ino's voice took on that enthusiastic quality she got when genuinely invested in something. Sakura listened, grateful for the distraction, for anything that pushed back the dread coiling in her stomach.
"She starts out completely overwhelmed, right? Wakes up as an adult with no idea what she's doing, and everyone expects her to know everything. But she's smart about it." Ino flipped to a marked page. "She watches people, figures out what they want, learns to read the social dynamics. She's strategic."
"But here's the thing." Ino's voice dropped, became more serious. "This part where she realizes that her adult self—Retsuko at thirty—had become really good at manipulation but had lost something important. She'd learned to give people what they wanted but forgot to care about what they needed."
She showed Sakura the passage, finger tracing the text. "And thirteen-year-old Retsuko, when she shows up in this adult body, she still cares. She's strategic because she has to be, but she's also genuine. She asks real questions. She tries to understand people, not just use them."
Something vulnerable entered Ino's voice. "It made me think about clan training. About how Dad teaches me to read people, to understand what they want, to use that tactically. And Mom teaches me about social hierarchies and political positioning."
"And I'm good at it. Really good at it." She looked down at the book. "But sometimes I wonder if I'm becoming like thirty-year-old Retsuko. So focused on being strategic that I forget to be real."
Sakura had never heard Ino sound uncertain before. Her friend was always confident, always sure of herself and her place in the world.
"There's this scene," Ino continued, finding another marked page, "where Retsuko's best friend Kamiko confronts her. Asks if their friendship is real or just politically convenient. And Retsuko realizes she doesn't know anymore. She's been performing for so long that she can't tell what's genuine."
Ino's eyes met Sakura's. "And I thought about us. About how we became friends. I defended you from Ami because it was the right thing to do. But also..." She took a breath. "Also because I was tired of Ami thinking she could control everyone, and taking you under my protection sent a message."
The admission hung between them.
"So at first, maybe it was partly strategic," Ino said quietly. "But then I actually got to know you. And you're—" She searched for words. "You're the first friend I've had who doesn't want anything from me. You don't care about my clan connections or my family's influence. You just... like me. For me."
Sakura's throat was tight. "You're my best friend. The first person who ever made me feel like I mattered."
"You do matter. So much." Ino hugged the book to her chest. "Thank you for finding this. For understanding what I'd connect with. For seeing me."
They sat in comfortable silence for a moment, and Sakura felt the morning's warmth return. This was friendship. This was real.
Then Ino's expression shifted—back to the present, back to the problem at hand.
"You're dreading going home."
Not a question. An observation.
Sakura nodded, unable to speak around the anxiety constricting her throat. Just the thought of walking back into that apartment made her hands shake.
Ino took her hands, steadying them. "You can stay over again. You know that, right? My parents won't mind."
"I can't avoid it forever."
"No. But you don't have to face it alone either." Ino's voice was firm, certain. "Here's what we're doing: We wait until my dad gets home from work. He'll walk you to your apartment and wait outside—not outside the building, outside your actual door. He'll give it half an hour. If everything's okay, he'll leave. If things go badly, he'll intervene and bring you back to our compound."
The relief was immediate and overwhelming. Not facing it alone. Having someone there, someone who would help if things fell apart.
"You'd do that?"
"Of course I would. You're my best friend." Ino squeezed her hands. "And my dad will absolutely do it—he likes you, and he's been worried since last time. You're not alone in this, okay? Stop trying to handle everything by yourself."
Sakura's eyes burned with tears she refused to let fall. "Okay. Thank you."
"Come on." Ino stood, pulled her up. "Let's go wait at my place. Might as well do homework while we're at it."
Ino's room was exactly as chaotic as always—an explosion of color and personality. They settled into comfortable positions, Ino at her desk, Sakura on the floor with cushions, and pulled out their homework.
But Sakura's concentration was shot. She read the same page three times without absorbing a single word. Kept glancing at the window, tracking the sun's position across the sky, calculating how long until Inoichi returned.
The math problem in front of her might as well have been written in a foreign language.
A soft knock at the door. Ayame entered with a tray—sliced fruit arranged artfully, rice crackers, tea that smelled like jasmine and honey.
She set it down without comment, but her eyes lingered on Sakura with obvious concern. "Ino mentioned you're waiting for Inoichi?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"He should be back within the hour." Ayame's voice was gentle. "You're staying for dinner regardless, I hope?"
"If that's okay—"
"It's always okay." Ayame crouched down to Sakura's level, and her eyes were warm, maternal in a way that made Sakura's chest ache. "You're welcome here, Sakura-chan. Always. Whatever happens, wherever you need to be—you have a place with us."
The words were carefully chosen. Sakura realized Ino must have explained at least some of what was happening.
"Thank you," she managed.
Ayame squeezed her shoulder and left them to their homework.
Ino noticed Sakura's lack of focus, abandoned her own work with a sigh. "Okay, we're not actually getting anything done. Want to just talk?"
"About what?"
"Anything. Everything. Nothing." Ino flopped on her bed, chin propped on her hands. "Tell me about the book you're reading now."
Sakura latched onto the distraction, described her current novel—a cultivation story about a girl who built golems, who created life from clay and will and careful runic work. They discussed it, and slowly Sakura's breathing evened out.
The waiting became bearable when shared.
The sound of the front door opening made them both look up. Inoichi's voice drifted upstairs, greeting Ayame with casual warmth.
"Dad's home!" Ino bounced up.
They went downstairs to find Inoichi in the entryway, removing his work vest. He looked tired—the kind of exhaustion that came from spending all day in people's minds, sorting through lies and truth and the messy space between.
But he smiled when he saw them. "Hello, girls. Good day at the Academy?"
Ino didn't waste time with pleasantries. "Dad, Sakura needs to go home but she shouldn't go alone. Can you walk her and wait outside her apartment? Just for half an hour, to make sure everything's okay?"
Inoichi's expression shifted. The casual warmth replaced by professional assessment. He looked at Sakura—really looked—and she felt him cataloging details with the expertise of someone trained to read people.
The shadows under her eyes. The tension in her shoulders. The way she stood slightly behind Ino like seeking shelter.
"Of course I can do that." His voice was calm, certain, leaving no room for doubt. "Just give me a few minutes to change out of work clothes."
He disappeared upstairs, returned quickly in civilian clothing—still neat but less formal, less obviously shinobi.
"Ready?"
Sakura nodded, not trusting her voice.
Ino hugged her tightly. "You'll be okay. And if you're not, Dad will be right there."
They left together into late afternoon sun that cast long shadows across the village. People were heading home from work, shops beginning to close, the everyday rhythm of life continuing indifferent to personal catastrophe.
They walked in silence for a few minutes. Then Inoichi spoke, voice carefully neutral. "How are you feeling? About going home?"
Sakura considered lying. Decided honesty mattered more. "Scared. I don't want to be there. I keep thinking about what my mother said, and I just—" Her voice cracked. "I dread it. The idea of walking through that door makes me want to run in the opposite direction."
"That's a reasonable response to an unreasonable situation."
"Is it?"
"Yes." His voice was firm, uncompromising. "Your mother said cruel things to you. Your father allowed it. The environment is hostile. Of course you don't want to return to a place that hurts you."
The validation made her eyes sting. No one had ever told her that her feelings were reasonable before. Usually adults told her to be grateful, to try harder, to understand her parents' perspective.
"But they're my parents," she said quietly. "I should—"
"Should what?" Inoichi's voice was still calm but carried weight now. "Should want to be around people who blame you for their failures? Should accept emotional abuse because they're blood relatives?"
He stopped walking, turned to face her fully. "Sakura, I'm going to tell you something, and I need you to really hear it."
She looked up at him, this man who barely knew her but was spending his evening escorting her into danger.
"Parents are supposed to protect their children. Provide for them, yes, but also create an environment where children feel safe and valued. Your parents are failing that obligation. That failure is not your fault, and you are not required to pretend it doesn't hurt."
The tears she'd been holding back threatened to spill. She blinked hard, focused on breathing.
"What your mother said—about you ruining her life—that was her projecting her own regrets onto a child who had no choice in being born. It was cruel and untrue and completely inappropriate."
They resumed walking, and Inoichi's voice softened slightly. "I work in T&I. I'm trained to recognize manipulation, emotional harm, psychological damage. What you told me yesterday—a parent explicitly telling a child that their existence caused misery—that meets criteria for emotional abuse."
Sakura stumbled slightly. He steadied her with a hand on her shoulder.
"I'm not telling you this to scare you. I'm telling you so you understand that your feelings—the dread, the fear, the desire to run—those are healthy responses to an unhealthy situation. You're not weak for feeling them. You're not wrong for not wanting to go back."
They were getting closer to her building now. Each step felt heavier.
"What do I do?" Sakura asked quietly. "If things are bad again?"
"You let me handle it. That's why I'm here." His voice was certain, protective. "You don't have to manage your parents' emotions. You don't have to fix their marriage. You just have to be a child—which you are—and let the adults deal with adult problems."
Permission to be afraid. Permission to need help. Permission to be just a child.
Sakura had never been given those permissions before.
She nodded, not trusting her voice, and they walked the rest of the way in silence.
Her apartment building rose before them, shabby and familiar. Three stories of cheap civilian housing, paint peeling, the kind of place people lived when they had nowhere better to go.
Inoichi looked up at the third floor. "Which apartment?"
"3B. Third floor, end of the hall."
"I'll walk you to your door."
"You don't have to—"
"I do." His voice was gentle but immovable. "I need to be close enough to hear if something goes wrong. That means outside your apartment, not outside the building."
Sakura hesitated. Having him right there felt both comforting and exposing. What if her parents said something terrible? What if he witnessed just how broken her family really was?
But the alternative—facing this alone—was worse.
"Okay."
They climbed the stairs together. Each step felt heavier than the last, like walking through water, like moving toward something inevitable and awful.
The third floor hallway was dim and narrow. Someone was cooking fish, the smell permeating everything. A baby cried behind one door. Normal sounds of normal life.
They reached 3B. Sakura could hear movement inside, the scrape of furniture being moved.
She looked at Inoichi. He nodded encouragingly.
She opened the door.
The scene inside froze her in place.
Boxes. Everywhere. Half-filled with her father's belongings—clothes, books, small personal items that usually lived scattered around the apartment.
Her father stood in the middle of it all, methodically packing. His movements were mechanical, purposeful, the actions of someone who'd made a decision and was following through.
Her mother stood by the window, arms crossed, watching him with an expression caught between vindictive satisfaction and genuine grief. Like she'd won something but the victory tasted like ash.
Everyone went still when Sakura entered.
The silence was crushing.
Then her mother's voice cut through it, sharp and vicious: "Well. Look who decided to come home. Hope you're happy. Your father is leaving because of you."
The words hit like a physical blow. Sakura's breath caught.
Her father's jaw tensed, muscles jumping beneath skin. But he didn't look at her. Just kept packing, eyes fixed on the box in front of him like it was the most important thing in the world.
"If you hadn't stuck your nose where it didn't belong—"
"That's enough."
Inoichi's voice, calm and cold, from the doorway.
Everyone's attention snapped to him.
Sakura had almost forgotten he was there. Part of her wished he wasn't, that he didn't have to witness this ugliness. But a larger part was desperately grateful for his presence.
Her father straightened, saw Inoichi, and his face flushed dark red. Embarrassment and anger warring for dominance.
"Who are you? What are you doing in my home?"
Her mother's voice cut across, sharp with outrage. "You brought someone here? You told—"
Inoichi stepped fully into the apartment. His posture was relaxed, almost casual. But Sakura saw his jaw tighten for just a moment—the only visible sign of suppressed anger.
"I'm Yamanaka Inoichi, clan head. I escorted Sakura home today and waited outside your door to ensure her safety." His voice was professionally calm. "I just heard you tell your eight-year-old daughter that her father is leaving because of her. That she stuck her nose where it didn't belong."
Her mother paled. Her father set down the box he was holding with hands that shook slightly.
"That was a private family—you had no right to listen—"
"I had every right to ensure the safety of a child who came to my home yesterday in visible distress." Inoichi's tone remained even. "Sakura arrived at the Yamanaka compound last night—barefoot, crying, and clearly traumatized. She told me what happened. She discovered evidence of infidelity, kept it secret at her mother's request, then was blamed for her parent's marriage ending when her father figured it out on his own. She reported being told that her existence ruined her mother's life. That you never wanted children."
"She's lying—" her mother started.
"Is she?" Inoichi's voice cut through cleanly. "Because what I heard at your door just now—you immediately blaming her for her father leaving home—supports exactly what she described. A pattern of making a child responsible for adult problems."
He stepped further into the apartment, and his voice took on a harder edge.
"As a clan head and shinobi with training in psychological assessment, I'm obligated to report suspected child abuse. What I witnessed combined with what Sakura reported and the visible distress she displayed last night is more than sufficient grounds for intervention. That's enough for me to file a formal report with the Hokage's office."
He let that threat hang in the air.
"However, I'm willing to handle this quietly if you cooperate. The alternative is a formal investigation involving ANBU oversight, mandatory interviews with Sakura about her living conditions, and a very thorough examination of this household."
The words were delivered calmly, but the weight was unmistakable.
"What do you want?" her mother asked, voice tight.
"Sakura will be removed from this environment. Immediately. I'm taking temporary emergency guardianship while we determine the best permanent arrangement."
"You can't just—"
"I can. And I will." He met her eyes directly. "You have two choices: cooperate and avoid official scrutiny, or force me to make this an official investigation. If I do that, every aspect of your lives will be examined. Your finances, your marriage, your fitness as parents. It will be public. It will be thorough. And it will not be pleasant."
He paused, let them imagine it. "The village takes a particular interest in how shinobi trainees are raised. If that training is being compromised by domestic instability—well. That becomes the village's concern rather than a private family matter."
Sakura watched her parents process this. Saw calculation replace initial resistance.
Her mother's face twisted. "She's a Haruno. She has both parents. You have no jurisdiction—"
"I have jurisdiction as a clan head intervening in suspected abuse of a shinobi trainee." Inoichi's voice was flat, leaving no room for argument. "The village has vested interest in ensuring Academy students are raised in stable environments. Your daughter is a military asset in training. That makes her wellbeing a village concern."
Her father set down the box completely, turned to face Inoichi properly. "What exactly are you proposing?"
"Temporary guardianship transfers to me immediately. Sakura will live at the Yamanaka compound. You will provide all necessary documentation—birth certificate, Academy records, medical history, identification papers."
"And if we refuse?" her mother challenged.
"Then I file a formal report with the Hokage's office tonight, and you deal with an official investigation." Inoichi's voice was calm, clinical. "I should mention that such investigations often uncover other issues. Financial irregularities. Tax problems. Undisclosed income."
He glanced meaningfully around the apartment—at the modest furnishings, at the boxes of possessions, at the evidence of a life lived just barely above subsistence. "Inspections can be very thorough."
Her father and mother exchanged glances. Some silent communication passed between them.
Her father spoke first, voice heavy with defeat. "How long would this guardianship last?"
"Until we determine a permanent arrangement. Could be months. Could be longer." Inoichi's tone was matter-of-fact, discussing logistics rather than the dissolution of a family. "During that time, you'll have limited contact with Sakura. Supervised visits if she requests them. But she will not be living in this apartment."
Her mother's laugh was bitter, broken. "Fine. Take her. She's been nothing but a burden anyway."
The words landed like stones.
Sakura felt them settle in her chest, confirming everything she'd feared about her own existence.
Her mother walked to a drawer, yanked it open, and pulled out a folder. "Her birth certificate. Academy enrollment papers. Medical records. Identification documents." She shoved them at Inoichi. "Here. She's your problem now."
The relief in her mother's voice was audible. Happy to be rid of the responsibility. Happy to shed the burden of an unwanted child.
It stung worse than anger would have.
Sakura looked at her father, hoping for... something. A protest. A defense. An acknowledgment.
He wouldn't meet her eyes. Just turned back to his packing, shoulders hunched.
The silence was answer enough.
Neither parent fought for her. Neither wanted her enough to resist.
She was being given away without a struggle.
Inoichi's voice was gentle when he turned to Sakura. "Go pack your things. Take your time."
She moved on autopilot, numb and disconnected. Her room felt smaller than usual, the walls too close. She looked around at eight years of life contained in this tiny space.
Clothes went into one bag. Books into another—she had more books than anything else. Training equipment. Her notebooks filled with careful observations and book analyses. The few personal items that actually mattered.
Everything fit in two bags.
Eight years reduced to two bags.
She changed out of her Academy clothes into something more comfortable, something that felt less like a uniform and more like herself. Took one last look at the room.
It had never really felt like home. But it had been hers. The one space where she could close the door and pretend to be safe.
Now she was leaving it behind.
She returned to the living room with her bags. Her parents had retreated to opposite corners—father still packing mechanically, mother staring out the window at nothing.
Neither acknowledged her presence.
No goodbyes. No well-wishes. No acknowledgment at all.
Inoichi took one of her bags. "Ready?"
She nodded.
They left.
The door closed behind them with quiet finality.
They descended the stairs in silence. Sakura's hands were shaking. Inoichi noticed, took one of her hands in his larger one.
"You're okay. I've got you."
They walked through evening streets, the village settling into that twilight hour between day and night. Sakura felt numb, disconnected, like watching herself from a distance.
Should feel something—grief, relief, anger. Felt mostly empty.
Partway back, Inoichi spoke. "I need to explain what happens next."
Sakura nodded.
"What I just initiated is temporary emergency guardianship. It's fast, but it's not permanent. Over the next few weeks, there will be an investigation—not of you, but of the situation. The Hokage's office will be involved. There will be interviews, home visits, assessments."
"What are they looking for?"
"Whether this arrangement is in your best interest. Whether your parents should retain parental rights. What the permanent solution should be." He squeezed her hand gently. "My wife and I talked about this possibility. We're prepared to take you in permanently if that's what you want. But you have other options."
"Other options?"
"I did some research." His voice was careful. "There's one other Haruno in the village. Your grandmother—Ringo Haruno. Civilian, retired baker, lives alone in the merchant district."
Sakura stopped walking. "I have a grandmother?"
"You didn't know?"
"I've never heard of her. My parents never—" She couldn't finish.
Inoichi's expression darkened briefly. "Your mother is estranged from her own mother. I don't know the details, but they haven't spoken in years. Possibly since before you were born."
He crouched to Sakura's level. "She might welcome a relationship with you. Or she might not—I don't know her well enough to say. But you deserve to know she exists, and to have the option of meeting her if you want."
"What do you think I should do?"
"What do you want?"
Sakura didn't hesitate. "I want to stay with Ino and your family. You're—" Her voice cracked. "You're the closest thing to a real family I've ever had."
"Then that's what we'll work toward." Inoichi straightened, began walking again. "But I still think you should meet your grandmother. Not to live with her necessarily. Just to know her, to see if there's a relationship worth building."
He looked down at her seriously. "The more people you have in your support system, the better. And she's the only blood relative you have who isn't—"
"Broken?"
"I was going to say 'problematic,' but yes."
They walked in silence for a moment. Then Sakura spoke quietly. "I'll meet her. When this is all... settled. When I'm ready."
"That's all I ask." They were approaching the Yamanaka compound now. "There's also the question of your name."
"My name?"
"You're Haruno Sakura. That won't change unless you want it to. Even if we pursue formal adoption, you can keep your surname—especially if you build a relationship with your grandmother. The Haruno name can connect you to her, not to your parents."
The relief was immediate. "I want to keep my name."
"Then you will."
The gates came into view. Ino was waiting, bounced up immediately when she saw them. Then stopped when she noticed Sakura's bags.
"Oh."
Her voice was soft, understanding.
Ayame emerged from the house, took in the situation with one glance. Years of being married to a T&I specialist had taught her to read scenes quickly.
Inoichi explained briefly. "Sakura will be staying with us. Temporarily at first, while we work through official channels. But potentially permanently."
Ino squealed and tackled Sakura in a hug that nearly knocked her over. "You're staying! Actually staying!"
They gathered in the living room—Inoichi, Ayame, Ino, Sakura. A family meeting about adding a member.
Inoichi explained what happened, what came next. The investigation. The interviews. The process that would determine Sakura's permanent placement.
Ayame listened with professional calm, then looked directly at Sakura. "You're welcome here for as long as you need. And if the investigation goes the way we hope, permanently."
She leaned forward slightly. "There's a guest room on the second floor. It's yours. We'll get you proper furniture this week—bed, desk, shelves, whatever you need to make it feel like your space. For tonight, the basic furniture is there, and we can move some of Ino's things in to make it more comfortable."
Then her voice became firmer. "But you need to understand that becoming part of this family means following our rules. Training schedules. Chores. Academy attendance. We're not doing this to save you—we're doing this because we care about you and think you belong here. But that means expectations as well as support."
Sakura nodded, throat too tight to speak. Structure. Rules. Expectations.
Not suffocation, but grounding.
This was what family felt like.
"Can I help set up her room?" Ino asked eagerly.
"Both of you can. After dinner." Ayame stood. "Which I'll finish preparing. Sakura, you like miso soup?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Good. Go wash up. Both of you."
They scattered to obey, and Sakura felt the structure settling around her like a warm blanket. Not restricting. Containing in the way walls contain a house—providing shelter, not imprisonment.
Dinner was warm and full of easy conversation. The Yamanakas talked about their days—Inoichi mentioning a difficult interrogation in vague terms, Ayame describing a breakthrough with a particularly stubborn flower hybrid, Ino complaining about a theory assignment she found boring.
They included Sakura naturally, asked about her classes, about Iruka's praise of her essay. Celebrated her achievement without making it a big production.
Normal family dinner conversation.
Sakura had read about this in books. Had seen it in other families through windows as she walked home. Had never experienced it herself.
The food was simple but well-made. Rice, miso soup, grilled fish, pickled vegetables. More food than Sakura usually saw in a week at her parents' apartment.
She ate slowly, savoring each bite. Not just the food, but the warmth. The casual affection. The way Ino kicked her gently under the table and grinned. The way Ayame made sure everyone had enough. The way Inoichi listened when people spoke, really listened instead of just waiting for his turn to talk.
This was what she'd been missing. What she'd craved without knowing how to articulate it.
After dinner, they went to the guest room. It was simple—bed, desk, empty shelves, bare walls. Functional but impersonal.
Ino immediately started planning. "We can paint the walls whatever color you want. And you need better curtains—these are boring. Oh! And I have extra fairy lights we can string up!"
They spent the evening transforming the space. Ino contributed throw pillows in various shades of purple and cream, a soft rug that felt like moss under bare feet, a small lamp shaped like a lotus flower that cast warm ambient light.
Sakura unpacked her books onto the shelves, arranged them by genre and author the way she preferred. Her training equipment went in the closet. Notebooks on the desk.
By the time they finished, it wasn't perfect. But it was starting to feel like it could be hers.
When it was time for bed, Sakura stood in the doorway of her new room. It was nice, it was comfortable. But it was also unfamiliar.
Ino noticed her hesitation. "Want to sleep in my room tonight?"
"Can I?"
They went to Ayame, who considered. "Tonight, yes. But tomorrow night, you sleep in your own room. It's important to build good sleep habits. You're training to be a shinobi—you can't get used to always having someone nearby. You need to be comfortable sleeping alone."
Sakura understood the logic. In the field, she'd often be alone. Relying on someone else's presence for sleep was a weakness she couldn't afford.
"I understand. Tomorrow I'll sleep in my own room."
"Good." Ayame's voice softened. "But tonight, you can stay with Ino."
They settled into Ino's bed—familiar now after two nights. Ino fell asleep quickly, secure in her own home, surrounded by family that loved her.
Sakura lay awake, processing.
She was staying with the Yamanakas. Her parents had given her up without a fight. She had a grandmother she'd never known existed. Everything had changed in a matter of hours.
Part of her felt intense relief. No more cold apartment. No more parents who resented her existence. No more walking on eggshells, no more being blamed for their failures.
But another part felt crushing guilt.
Shouldn't she be sadder? Shouldn't she miss them? What kind of daughter felt relieved when her parents abandoned her?
The guilt mixed with fear. What if the Yamanakas changed their minds? What if they realized she wasn't worth the trouble? What if the investigation revealed something that made them not want her anymore?
She hugged her pillow close, curled on her side. Made a silent promise to herself:
She'd be perfect. Wouldn't cause problems. Wouldn't be a burden. Would train harder, study more, be the model foster child.
Because if she was good enough, maybe they wouldn't regret taking her in. Maybe they wouldn't realize she was more trouble than she was worth. Maybe they'd let her stay.
The anxiety about being "good enough" settled into her bones like cold settling into stone. Familiar. She'd spent her whole life trying to be good enough to earn her parents' love.
Now she just had a different family to prove herself to.
Different household. Different rules.
But the same fear underneath: What if I'm not enough? What if they see who I really am and decide I'm not worth keeping?
She squeezed her eyes shut, tried to quiet the thoughts.
Tomorrow she'd be perfect. Tomorrow she'd prove she deserved this.
For tonight, she just had to survive the fear.
And be grateful for the warmth.
Even if it felt temporary.
Even if it felt fragile.
Even if she was terrified of losing it.
The last thought before sleep claimed her was simple and devastating:
Please don't change your minds. Please let me stay. I'll be so good. I promise I'll be good.
And in the darkness of Ino's room, surrounded by the gentle breathing of her best friend and the distant sounds of a family settling into sleep, Sakura held onto that desperate promise.
Because it was all she had left to offer.