Fight back

The room pulsed with tension, the air heavy with the copper tang of blood and the flickering heat of the candle’s dying flame. Kurenai’s senses flared as two male villagers surged from the shadows, their rough hands grasping for her arms, their red-tinged eyes gleaming with blind obedience. She twisted sharply, her Jonin instincts kicking in—years of combat honed to a lethal edge—and slipped through their grip like smoke. One stumbled forward, off-balance, and she drove her elbow into his jaw, the crack of bone sharp in the stillness, while the other’s outstretched arm met only air as she ducked low. Time was a blade at her throat; Mirai’s soft whimpers from Naomi’s arms fueled her urgency, and she couldn’t afford hesitation. Her hand flicked to her pouch, a kunai gleaming between her fingers, and with a snap of her wrist, she hurled it at the innkeeper’s scarred brow, her aim precise—a Shinobi’s deadly reflex.

The blade struck true, burying itself deep with a wet crunch, and the innkeeper’s body jerked, her red eyes widening before glazing over. She slumped backward, collapsing onto the blood-smeared floorboards with a lifeless thud, and for a fraction of a second, silence reigned. The villagers froze, their movements halting like broken marionettes, and Kurenai exhaled sharply, preparing to lunge for Mirai—but then something unnatural erupted. From the innkeeper’s corpse, a slithering silver mass burst forth, twisting in the air like living mercury, a liquid predator unbound. It moved too fast, lunging at her face with serpentine precision, and before she could raise her arm, it slammed against her cheek, cold and slick, forcing its way past her defenses.

Kurenai gagged, her throat constricting as the silvery tide poured down, a parasitic flood that clawed at her senses, seeking entry through her mouth, her eyes, her very pores. She staggered back, hands flying to her face, nails digging into her skin as she clawed at the invasion, but the two men were on her in an instant. Rough hands seized her wrists, slamming them to the floorboards with bruising ****, and she thrashed, her body arching, legs kicking wildly as the silver sank deeper, coating her lungs, her veins, her soul with its icy tendrils. “Oh, you’re a fighter,” Baby’s voice hissed, a velvet taunt echoing in her skull, “such a pretty struggle, darling—but you can’t fight me.” Her vision blurred, the room tilting as his essence rewrote her, threading through muscle and marrow with meticulous cruelty. Her chest heaved, a ragged scream dying in her throat as her air was stolen, her red-rimmed eyes darting to Naomi—Mirai still cradled tight—and a final surge of defiance flared. But it was too late.

Her body jerked violently, limbs stiffening before relaxing into a steady rhythm, a shudder rippling through her as Baby settled in. Her once-**** fingers went limp at her sides, and her crimson eyes reopened, burning with an unearthly glow. The men released her, stepping back as she rose, her movements fluid and deliberate, no longer her own. Baby smirked, rolling Kurenai’s shoulders, running her slender hands over her curves—tracing the taut line of her hips, the swell of her breasts beneath the torn robe, the smooth expanse of her throat where her pulse once fought him. “Exquisite,” he purred through her voice, smooth and intoxicating, a command laced with seduction. “This body is mine now—every inch of your strength, every shred of your soul.” He tilted her head to catch her reflection in a cracked shard of glass, admiring the fluid grace of a kunoichi, the deadly precision of a Jonin, now his to wield.

He sank into her memories, a predator prowling through the shadowed halls of her mind. The Village Hidden in the Leaves unfurled before him—its spiraling streets, the Hokage’s tower, the faces of comrades: Naruto’s brash grin, Kakashi’s quiet steel, Asuma’s steady gaze—all a map of power he could exploit. He lingered on her training, her genjutsu weaving illusions like silk traps, her battles leaving bodies in her wake, up to her arrival here—the unease prickling her spine as she sensed the villagers’ unnatural stares, their too-synchronized movements. “Foolish,” he chastised himself, the word a hiss through Kurenai’s lips. She’d caught on almost immediately, her Shinobi instincts piercing his clumsy web. He’d been too careless, and it had nearly cost him.

Baby adjusted his grip, refining his mental tether over the infected. He reached out through Kurenai’s form, his essence threading back into the villagers—Naomi, the mother, the fallen men—rewiring their devotion with a subtler hand. Slowly, their vacant stares softened, their movements easing into a natural flow, their expressions regaining life and emotion. The red faded from their eyes, replaced by a quiet, fervent loyalty—to him, to the Tuffle cause, to his creeping plans. The men groaned upright, their allegiance unshaken, and Baby smirked, Kurenai’s lips curling with dark delight. “Better,” he murmured, stroking her own cheek with her hand. “Now you’ll play your parts perfectly—my sweet, obedient puppets.” The village would hum with life again, a mask of normalcy hiding his dominion, and Kurenai’s body would be his blade, cutting deeper into the Leaf with every step, Mirai still cradled in Naomi’s arms as a silent promise of his triumph.