Renjiro walked without hurry, his hands in his pockets, his gaze fixed on the shadows ahead. He rounded a corner and stopped.
Kushina stood in the middle of the corridor, her red hair bright against the muted wood and stone. Beside her, his posture relaxed, his expression neutral, stood Renjiro's shadow clone. They had been walking toward the main hall, toward Minato, toward the celebration that was still unfolding. But now, both of them had turned to look at the original.
The clone's eyes met Renjiro's. A flicker of understanding passed between them—the particular connection that existed between a man and his duplicate, a shared consciousness that transcended words.
"It seems my work here is done," the clone said, and there was something almost like relief in his voice. He raised a hand in a casual salute, and then—poof —he dispelled, dissolving into a puff of smoke that dissipated into the still air.
The memories hit Renjiro like a wave.
Not painfully—shadow clone transfer was always clean, always precise—but with the force of accumulated experience. He saw himself sitting at Kushina's kitchen table, discussing the bijuu-powered seal concept. Heard his own voice explaining the theory, answering her questions, navigating her scepticism. Felt the moment of interruption when the memories from the council had arrived, the shock of the nomination, the decision to send a clone to inform Kushina personally.
And then the conversation. The bad news and the worse news. The look on Kushina's face when he had told her she was now the wife of the Fourth Hokage.
Renjiro blinked, processing. The transfer was complete. He was himself again—whole, informed, present.
Kushina studied him, her dark eyes sharp, missing nothing. She had known him for years, had fought beside him, had seen him at his worst and his best. She could read the tension in his jaw, the shadows behind his eyes.
"You're in a mood," she said. It was not a question.
Renjiro's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a grimace. "I've had an interesting day."
"I heard." Kushina crossed her arms, leaning against the wall. "Nominated for Hokage. That's not nothing, Renjiro. You should take it as a compliment."
He looked at her, genuinely confused for a moment. Then the memories surfaced—the clone telling her about the nomination, her reaction, her dismissal of it as not bad news. Of course. She knew.
"The clone told you," he said.
"He did." She tilted her head. "And I stand by what I said. Being nominated for Hokage, even if you didn't ask for it, even if you withdrew—that's recognition. People see something in you. That's not nothing."
Renjiro was silent for a moment. The words were kind, genuine. But they missed the point.
"I can take compliments," he said finally. "I actually welcome them. When they're earned. When they're honest." He met her eyes. "But not when they're ploys disguised as compliments. Not when someone uses my name to play political games without my consent."
Kushina's brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"
"Backhanded compliments are better," he continued, his voice flat. "At least they're honest about their intent. 'You're smarter than you look.' 'I didn't expect you to handle that so well.' Those are insults wrapped in praise, but you know where you stand. You know the person doesn't respect you." He paused. "But a ploy disguised as a compliment—a nomination that's meant to serve someone else's agenda, that's designed to manipulate and test and probe—that's worse. Because you don't know who's behind it. You don't know what they want. You don't know when the blade will fall."
Kushina's expression had shifted, the playfulness draining away, replaced by something more serious. "What happened, Renjiro?"
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I talked to the neutral faction. With the woman who nominated me. I asked her why."
"And?"
"They wanted to involve me in their petty politics." He shook his head. "They wanted to assert their independence from the major clans, to show that they couldn't be pressured or strong-armed. So they put forward my name. Without asking. Without warning. Without any consideration for what it would mean for me."
Kushina was silent for a long moment. Then she pushed off from the wall and began walking again, gesturing for him to follow.
"Come on," she said. "You look like you could use a distraction."
Renjiro fell into step beside her. They walked in silence for a while, the sounds of the celebration growing louder as they approached the main hall.
The hall was still crowded, though the intensity of the celebration had dimmed. Small clusters of shinobi remained, their conversations low, their postures relaxed. Minato stood near the front, surrounded by a group of well-wishers—jōnin and clan representatives who had stayed to offer their congratulations in person.
Kushina's face lit up at the sight of him. She quickened her pace, leaving Renjiro's side without a backward glance, and moved toward her husband with the particular eagerness of someone who had been waiting for this moment.
Renjiro watched her go, a strange feeling settling in his chest. Not jealousy—he had never wanted what they had, not in that way—but something like longing. For connection. For simplicity. For a world where politics did not intrude on every moment of human interaction.
He turned away.
The Uchiha section was still occupied, though many of the clan's members had already left.
Renjiro walked toward them, his steps unhurried, his expression neutral. The other Uchiha noticed his approach—shifts in posture, exchanged glances, the subtle tension of people who were not sure whether to welcome him or ward him off.
"Fugaku-sama," Renjiro said, stopping a respectful distance away. "I'd like to speak with you. When you have a moment."
Fugaku's eyes, dark and depthless, flickered toward him. For a moment—just a moment—something passed between them. An acknowledgement, perhaps, or a warning.
Then Fugaku looked away.
"Not now," he said, and his voice was flat, dismissive. "I have nothing to say to you, at least not now."
The words landed like a slap. Renjiro's expression did not change, but something behind his eyes hardened.
'He's angry,' Renjiro thought. 'About the engagement. About the nomination. About everything. And he's taking it out on me.'
He inclined his head, a shallow bow that was more formality than respect.
"As you wish."
He turned and walked away, leaving the Uchiha section behind. He could feel their eyes on his back—Nakada's, Mikoto's, the elders'—but he did not look back. There was nothing there for him. Not anymore.
The hall felt different now. The celebration, which had seemed vibrant and alive, now felt hollow—a performance that had lost its meaning. Renjiro moved toward the exit, his steps carrying him away from the crowds, away from the noise, away from the politics that had consumed his day.
"Renjiro!"
The voice was familiar, warm, carrying an edge of surprise. He looked up.
Jiraiya stood near the door, his massive frame blocking the exit. His expression was curious, almost amused, but there was something beneath it—a sharpness, an awareness that belied his casual demeanour.
"I didn't expect to see you still here," the Toad Sage said. "Figured you would have disappeared the moment the votes were counted."
"I was detained."
"By what?"
Renjiro met his eyes. "Politics."
Jiraiya's lips twitched. "The worst kind of detention."
They stood in silence for a moment, the sounds of the celebration fading behind them. Jiraiya's gaze was thoughtful, assessing—the look of a man who had seen too much to be fooled by easy answers.
"It was a surprise," Jiraiya said finally, "hearing your name among the nominations. You've got people talking, kid."
"Shinobi train their whole lives," Renjiro replied, his voice flat, almost tired. "They hone their skills, perfect their techniques, and prepare for the battles that will define their legacies." He paused. "But Danzo works even harder. Stabbing them in the back."
Jiraiya's expression froze. The casual amusement drained from his face, replaced by something harder, more focused. He understood. He had spent years watching Danzo's machinations, had seen the damage they caused, and had fought against the shadows that the old war hawk wrapped around himself like a cloak.
"He was behind it," Jiraiya said. It was not a question.
Renjiro met his gaze without flinching.
"Yes."
The word hung in the air between them, heavy with implication. Jiraiya was silent for a long moment, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. Then he stepped aside, clearing the path to the door.
"We need to talk," he said. "Not now. But soon."
"I know."