Hinata gets suspicious

The streets of Konoha thrummed with the midday bustle, villagers weaving between stalls laden with vibrant fabrics and steaming food, the air rich with the mingled scents of jasmine and fresh bread. Hinata moved through the crowd, her lavender eyes scanning absently until they settled on a familiar figure—Kurenai, her crimson gaze half-hidden beneath a loose scarf, walking beside Naomi. Both women carried woven baskets, their contents shrouded by cloth, but something in their demeanor pricked at Hinata’s senses. Kurenai’s steps were hurried, distracted, lacking her usual poised confidence, while Naomi’s posture was stiff, her hands clutching her basket too tightly, her expression a **** mask of calm.

“Kurenai-sensei,” Hinata called softly, stepping forward, her voice gentle but laced with curiosity. Kurenai paused, turning with a slow grace that felt rehearsed, her lips curving into a smile that didn’t reach her distant eyes. “Hinata, how nice to see you,” she said, her tone warm but oddly flat. Naomi barely acknowledged her, offering a curt nod before lowering her gaze to her basket, her fingers twitching against the handle.

Hinata’s instincts hummed. She’d trained under Kurenai, knew her rhythms—the steady calm of a seasoned kunoichi, the maternal softness when she spoke of Mirai. Today, that warmth was absent. “Where’s Mirai?” Hinata asked, tilting her head, her voice light but probing. “It’s unusual to see you without her.”

Kurenai’s eyes flickered—a fleeting hesitation—before she answered, too quickly. “She’s with some of Asuma’s relatives today. They wanted time with her, so I let them have the afternoon.” The words were smooth, reasonable, but they rang hollow to Hinata’s ears. Mirai was Kurenai’s shadow, rarely parted from her side, and Kurenai’s voice lacked its usual fondness. Naomi shifted beside her, her basket creaking under her grip, her silence amplifying the unease.

“That’s nice,” Hinata replied, her smile polite, masking the suspicion coiling in her gut. “Where are you two headed?”

Kurenai’s pause was subtle, barely a heartbeat, but Hinata caught it. “The market,” she said, her voice too careful. “Naomi needed a few things, and I thought I’d keep her company.”

Hinata nodded, giving nothing away, but her Byakugan itched to flare, to peel back the layers of this strangeness. Instead, she murmured a farewell and stepped aside, watching as the two women continued down the street, their baskets swaying with each distracted step. The crowd swallowed them, but Hinata lingered, her unease solidifying into resolve. Kurenai’s bogus answer, Naomi’s tension—something was off, and she couldn’t let it go.

With the silent grace of a Hyuga, Hinata slipped into the flow of villagers, her presence fading into the throng as she trailed them, determined to uncover the truth.

Hinata shadowed Kurenai and Naomi through Konoha’s lively streets, her unease deepening with every step. The afternoon sun bathed the village in golden light, but a chill lingered in her chest. She couldn’t shake the suspicion gnawing at her—Kurenai’s hollow excuse, Naomi’s tense silence, the strange weight of their baskets. Her fingers brushed her temple, and she whispered, “Byakugan.” Veins flared around her eyes, her vision sharpening into a radiant web of chakra flows.

She focused on Kurenai first, and her breath caught. Her sensei’s chakra signature—once a steady, crimson pulse of warmth and strength—was fractured, threaded with silvery tendrils that writhed like something alive, something foreign. Naomi’s was identical, her softer aura tainted by the same invasive sheen. Hinata’s heart thudded against her ribs. This wasn’t natural. This wasn’t them.

Keeping her distance, she trailed them as they wove through the crowd, their baskets swaying with purpose. They stopped first at a schoolteacher, a wiry man lingering outside his classroom. Kurenai handed him a small, nondescript box from her basket, his tired smile masking a chakra signature that pulsed with that same silvery corruption. Next, a shop owner—a plump woman behind a noodle stand—took another box from Naomi, her aura similarly marred. Finally, a shinobi—Hayate, leaning against a wall with a muffled cough—accepted the last, his red-tinged eyes glinting as he tucked it away, his chakra laced with the alien thread. Hinata’s mind raced. These weren’t random exchanges; they were deliberate, a network of corruption threading through Konoha’s veins.

Their path led to Shikamaru’s house, its quiet exterior a stark contrast to the tension coiling in Hinata’s gut. She slipped onto a nearby rooftop, her Byakugan piercing through the walls as Kurenai and Naomi stepped inside. They entered a bedroom, setting their baskets down before shedding their outer clothes. Hinata’s breath hitched as they revealed shiny lingerie—Kurenai’s black and sleek, Naomi’s a scandalous red—their forms gleaming in the dim light. They moved toward Shikamaru, seated casually on the bed, and wrapped their arms around him, their bodies pressing close as they began to dance. The movements were slow, seductive, their hips swaying in hypnotic unison, their hands trailing over him with a reverence that felt unnatural.

Hinata’s stomach twisted, but she **** her focus deeper. Shikamaru’s chakra flared under her gaze—and she froze. Two signatures pulsed within him: his familiar shadow-laced energy, sluggish and steady, entwined with a second, silvery flow, alien and dominant, mirroring the corruption in Kurenai and Naomi. Her lips parted, a gasp caught in her throat. Possession. Something—someone—else was inside him, controlling him.

She had to act, to warn someone—but before she could move, a sharp sting pierced the back of her neck. Her hand flew to the spot, fingers brushing a dart embedded there, its tip slick with a fast-acting toxin. The one place her Byakugan couldn’t see. Her vision blurred, the chakra lattice fading as her knees buckled, the rooftop tilting beneath her. She collapsed, her body limp against the shingles, her last glimpse Shikamaru’s head tilting toward the window, a knowing smirk curling his lips as if he’d sensed her all along. Darkness swallowed her, the truth slipping beyond her grasp as unconsciousness claimed her, the dart’s source a shadow lurking just out of reach.