The bell above the door jingled softly as another customer left the shop, bowing their head in appreciation. Hiroshi Kuroda smiled, wiping his hands on his apron before turning back to his current project—a formal haori jacket with the Sarutobi clan insignia delicately embroidered on the back. The afternoon sun filtered through the shop's front windows, catching on thousands of suspended dust particles and casting long shadows across the polished wooden floor.
"Sayuri, could you bring me the indigo thread? The special spool from the Land of Rivers."
From behind a half-wall dividing the shop floor from the workspace, a boy of fourteen appeared, already holding the requested item. His dark hair fell just past his ears, framing a face that hadn't yet lost all its childhood softness. What made people pause, however, were his eyes—dark and observant, missing nothing.
"Here, Father. I noticed you were nearly done with the outline." Sayuri placed the thread in his father's outstretched hand. "You'll need it for the inner clouds, yes?"
Hiroshi's eyebrows lifted slightly. "You've been watching again." It wasn't a question.
"The pattern requires seven different blue shades for proper depth." Sayuri gestured to the half-finished embroidery. "You always use the River indigo for the third layer of clouds when working on Sarutobi commissions."
The elder Kuroda chuckled softly, threading his needle with practiced ease. "Most boys your age can barely remember to wash behind their ears, yet you notice which shade of blue I use for specific clans."
Sayuri shrugged, perching on a nearby stool. "It's not difficult. The Sarutobi favor traditional imagery—mountains, forests, clouds. The Hyūga prefer geometric patterns, precise and mathematical. The Inuzuka want something that won't show stains from their ninken."
His father's hands stilled momentarily. "And the ANBU?"
"Reinforced stitching at stress points, no clan markings, fabric treated for silent movement." Sayuri met his father's eyes calmly. "The ones who come after midnight never give their names, but they always request the same modifications."
The two fell into comfortable silence, broken only by the soft whisper of thread through fabric.
...
...
.....
Kuroda Tailoring stood three streets removed from Konoha's main thoroughfare, nestled between a bookshop and a former teahouse that now sold medicinal herbs. Their location—not quite in the civilian district, not quite in the shinobi quarter—mirrored the shop's clientele: a perfect blend of both worlds.
The Kurodas had dressed Konoha's citizens for three generations, ever since the village's founding. Legend said that Hiroshi's grandmother had sewn the First Hokage's ceremonial robes. Whether true or not, what couldn't be disputed was the Kuroda reputation for discretion, quality, and an almost preternatural understanding of exactly what each client needed.
Today, like most days, a steady stream of customers moved through the shop: a civilian family commissioning festival clothing, a chunin needing uniform repairs after a difficult mission, a jonin commander quietly discussing security personnel uniforms for the upcoming Chunin Exams.
Sayuri moved through the afternoon with quiet efficiency. He recorded measurements in a leather-bound book, advised on fabric choices, and occasionally disappeared into the storeroom to retrieve samples. To casual observers, he appeared simply a diligent apprentice. Only his father noticed how the boy's eyes tracked each customer, cataloging details most adults would miss.
When the jonin commander mentioned supply routes being modified due to bandit activity near the northern border, Sayuri's hand paused imperceptibly over his notebook. When a civilian council member complained about increased prices from the Land of Rivers, he angled his body slightly to better hear the conversation while appearing focused on organizing thread spools.
The boy absorbed information like the fine fabrics around him absorbed dye—thoroughly and permanently.
As twilight descended and Hiroshi turned the sign to "Closed," Sayuri moved through the familiar closing routine. He swept the floor, organized the day's orders, and prepared the workspaces for tomorrow. Through the back window, the carved faces of the Hokage Monument caught the day's last light, stone eyes watchful over the village.
"Father," Sayuri said suddenly, pausing in his work. "If I'd been born with proper chakra, would you have sent me to the Academy?"
Hiroshi looked up from the ledger, surprise evident on his weathered face. It wasn't like Sayuri to ask hypothetical questions—the boy typically dealt in observations and facts.
"Why do you ask?"
Sayuri's fingers traced the grain of the wooden counter. "Hayato's father enrolled him yesterday. The last-minute admissions before the new term." His voice remained neutral, but Hiroshi knew his son well enough to hear the careful control behind it.
Hiroshi sighed, removing his glasses. "Would you want that life?"
Instead of answering, Sayuri moved to the window, eyes drawn to the distant training grounds where lights were appearing as evening sessions began. "I sometimes wonder what it would be like, that's all. To be something other than..." He gestured vaguely to himself.
"Other than extraordinary in your own way?" Hiroshi joined his son at the window. "Sayuri, I've watched you memorize difficult patterns after seeing them once. You can tell a person's profession by the wear on their clothing. You remember every measurement of every client who's ever entered this shop." He placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "There are many forms of strength in this world."
Sayuri nodded, but his eyes remained on the distant lights.
The bell jingled unexpectedly, causing both to turn. They hadn't heard the door unlock.
A man in a standard jonin uniform stood in the entrance, silver hair catching the fading light. One eye was covered, and a mask concealed the lower half of his face. Despite his relaxed posture, something about him suggested coiled readiness.
"My apologies for the intrusion," the man said, eye crinkling in what might have been a smile. "Hatake Kakashi. I believe you're expecting me about a custom order?"
Hiroshi straightened immediately. "Of course, Hatake-san. We received word you might be coming." He glanced at his son. "Sayuri, please bring the special fabric samples from the back room."
As Sayuri moved to comply, the jonin's visible eye followed him with subtle interest.
"That's your son? He has good instincts. Didn't startle when I appeared." Kakashi's tone was conversational, but Hiroshi didn't miss the assessment in it.
"Sayuri has always been... observant." Hiroshi began clearing space on the counter.
"Hmm." Kakashi's gaze lingered on the doorway where the boy had disappeared. "How old is he?"
"Fourteen." Hiroshi's hands stilled momentarily. "Though he won't be attending the Academy, if that's what you're wondering. Medical assessment when he was young showed an underdeveloped chakra network. Essentially non-functional."
Kakashi nodded thoughtfully. "A shame. In some ways." His eye crinkled again. "Though perhaps not in others. The life of a shinobi isn't for everyone."
Sayuri returned with a wooden case containing fabric swatches, his expression carefully neutral. If he'd overheard their conversation, he gave no sign of it.
"The reinforced weaves are on top, Hatake-san," he said, placing the case on the counter. "The blue-black blend is our newest. Absorbs light rather than reflecting it—useful for night operations."
Kakashi's eyebrow raised slightly as he inspected the samples. "You seem knowledgeable about shinobi needs for someone who..." He let the sentence hang.
"We serve many ninja." Sayuri met the jonin's gaze directly. "I listen."
Something flickered across Kakashi's visible eye—surprise, perhaps, or interest. Then it was gone, replaced by his casual demeanor.
"The blue-black will do nicely." He tapped the sample. "Though I'll need additional reinforcement around the shoulders and arms."
"For your dogs," Sayuri said without hesitation.
Both adults looked at him.
"Your ninken," he clarified. "The wear pattern on your current uniform shows distinctive claw marks where they grip to maintain position during coordinated attacks. Most likely at least one large breed, given the spacing."
A moment of silence followed before Kakashi chuckled softly. "Well, well. Your father wasn't exaggerating about your observational skills." He leaned forward slightly. "You would have made quite an interesting shinobi, Kuroda Sayuri."
For the briefest moment, something like longing flashed across the boy's face. Then it was gone, replaced by the polite mask of a shopkeeper's son.
"I'll note the reinforcement requirements in your order, Hatake-san." He picked up a pencil and began writing in the ledger, his handwriting precise and orderly.
As the jonin and his father discussed details, Sayuri continued his notes, seemingly absorbed in his task. Only someone watching very closely would have noticed how his eyes occasionally drifted toward the window, where the lights of the training grounds now blazed against the darkening sky.
Outside, the stone faces of the Hokage watched over Konoha, their expressions unchanging. Inside, a tailor's son with impossible dreams and extraordinary eyes continued to observe, to learn, and to wait—for what, even he couldn't say.