Stealthily

The restaurant perched on a quiet corner of Konoha’s bustling heart, its wooden facade unassuming, its lanterns casting a warm, amber glow across the empty tables. Temari stepped inside, the door sliding shut behind her with a soft thud, muffling the village’s hum. Her teal eyes narrowed as she scanned the room—rows of cushioned seats vacant, the air heavy with the scent of soy, grilled fish, and matcha, yet eerily still. The workers moved like shadows behind the counter, their hands deftly chopping, stirring, wiping surfaces with mechanical precision, but their eyes never lifted, their faces blank as if she were a ghost passing through their world. She frowned, her fan resting against her hip, its weight a familiar comfort as unease prickled her skin, the silence feeling unnatural despite the clatter of their tools.

Baby sat at a low table near the back, Kurenai’s form poised with an elegance that belied the predator within. Her crimson eyes glinted beneath the soft light, her lips curving into a warm, welcoming smirk that Kurenai had perfected over years of comradeship. “You’re early,” he said smoothly, her voice a soft caress laced with just the right hint of familiarity, gesturing to the cushion beside her with Kurenai’s characteristic grace. Naomi sat obediently at his side, her auburn hair framing a serene face, Mirai cradled in her arms, the infant sleeping soundly. Temari hesitated only a moment before approaching, her boots clicking against the polished floor, and slid into the seat, her posture relaxed but alert, the warrior’s instinct never fully dormant.

“Thought I’d indulge you,” Temari replied, returning the smirk as she took her fan off her back and set it against the chair, though something about Kurenai’s demeanor felt too precise, too rehearsed. A worker slid a tray of tea and grilled fish onto the table, eyes downcast, and retreated without a word—no nods, no polite smiles, just indifference. Temari’s gaze flicked to the worker, then back to Kurenai, her brow creasing faintly. “Where’s Shikamaru?” she asked, her tone dry. Baby chuckled, Kurenai’s laugh a melodic ripple pulled from her memories. “He sent his regrets—something about a troublesome nap he couldn’t avoid,” he lied, her voice dipping with playful mockery Temari would recognize. “It’s just us tonight. Better this way—less whining to interrupt.”

The conversation flowed naturally, Baby wielding Kurenai’s voice and mannerisms with masterful ease—each word a polished stone plucked from her memories. They talked about Temari’s life with Shikamaru, the struggles of adjusting to Konoha’s structured systems, the differences between Suna’s and Konoha’s ways. Her sharp wit parried his probing questions about Suna’s defenses, her laughter a dry gust when he teased her about Gaara’s latest decrees. It should have been comforting, but the longer they spoke, the more Temari felt something was off. Kurenai’s words were perfect, too perfect, her tone warm but her expressions lacking their usual depth, like she was mimicking emotions rather than feeling them. The workers’ silence gnawed at her, their refusal to acknowledge her presence tightening the thread of unease coiling in her gut.

She reached for her tea, the porcelain warm against her fingers, and brought it to her lips, the earthy scent of matcha grounding her for a fleeting second. The liquid touched her tongue, smooth and bitter, when something shifted—a subtle, alien ripple that slithered from the cup into her mouth. It was cold, slick, a silvery tendril of Baby’s essence disguised in the tea’s warmth, and her throat tightened as it darted past her lips, burrowing down with a lover’s insistence. She slammed the cup down, the porcelain shattering against the table, and clutched her neck, her eyes widening in horror as the intrusion spread. “Kurenai, what—” she rasped, her voice cracking, her hand flying to her fan, but Baby was already rising, Kurenai’s form looming with a grace turned sinister, her smirk widening as the trap snapped shut.