Relief washes over me in a slow, uncertain wave. The kind of relief that doesn't settle—like waiting for the other shoe to drop, but pretending it already has.
The questions I should've been hit with… they never came. No suspicious looks. No offhand comments. No explosion of red hair and rage.
System: "You're welcome," says the soft, pleasant voice of the system, chiming in just a second too late to be comforting.
"Thanks for that, System," I mutter under my breath, trying to sound casual. "Really appreciate it."
My feet carry me down the stairs one at a time, but my mind is spinning. I still remember. Not clearly, but… enough. A slam. A shout. A flash of crimson hair. Kushina kicked my door in this morning—she definitely did. But now it's like that moment's been erased, patched over with something more peaceful.
The system replaced her memory. And probably mine too. But I'm not sure how deep that edit went. What if she remembers any of it? What if I say something wrong and jog it loose?
My hand brushes the railing, sweaty and cold, as I hear a voice call out from the kitchen.
"Good morning, sleeping beauty!"
I freeze for just a second before forcing a smile onto my face and turning the corner.
Sakura stands by the stove, her back straight, sleeves rolled up, flipping pancakes like this is some lazy Sunday morning. She looks up and beams at me with the kind of warmth you can't fake.
She shouldn't be able to do this.
She's always working—meetings, reports, clients, missions. Her phone barely stops ringing. She could have a chef on call or a housekeeper to handle mornings like this. But somehow, she's still here. Still flipping pancakes and greeting me with a smile like I'm her entire world.
It stuns me sometimes—how much effort she puts in. And not just for Kushina. For me, too.
I'm not even her real son. I'm adopted. I know that. But not once—not once—has she ever made me feel like I wasn't hers.
"Morning," I mumble, trying not to sound too awkward.
Sakura tilts her head with that gentle mom-smirk of hers. "Someone must've had a late night," she says lightly, though her eyes scan my face like she's checking for cracks.
I let out a weak laugh and scratch the back of my neck. "Yeah, couldn't sleep."
A lie. A thin, shaky one.
Her eyes narrow just a bit, but she lets it slide. "Well, I'll let it go this time. But you know how I feel about you staying up late. You need rest to be your best."
"I know." I nod quickly, eager to escape the scrutiny.
She steps aside with a little flourish and gestures toward the table. "Anyway, I made you breakfast. Go on—eat while it's hot."
"Thanks," I say, and I mean it more than I can express.
I sit down, still kind of in awe. I don't know how she does it. She's up before everyone, cooks for two stubborn kids, handles more stress than I'd survive in a lifetime—and she still smiles. Still cares. Still makes me feel like I belong.
I glance down at the plate and—
There she is.
Kushina.
Already at the table, hunched over her mug like a dragon guarding treasure. Her hair is a mess, spiked and wild, and her eyes are only half-open—but that makes it worse.
She's awake. And she's dangerous even when she's sleepy.
I hesitate. My heart does a weird, panicked flutter as I hover beside the chair. My cheeks heat up like I'm back in that room again—door swinging open, caught off-guard, completely exposed.
She might not remember.
But what if she does?
What if she's just pretending she doesn't?
I suck in a breath, force myself to move, and try not to look like I'm bracing for impact.
"G-good morning, Kushina."
She lets out a yawn so wide I can practically hear her jaw crack, then slowly turns her head to look at me. Her eyes squint like she's still deciding if she's awake or dreaming.
Then, flatly: "Morning."
Just one word.
But it hits harder than a whole interrogation.
I nod too fast and take my seat like it's a tactical retreat. My face still feels like it's on fire. I pretend to focus on my food, trying to act normal. Trying to breathe normal.
She didn't say anything else. No snarky comments. No glares. No "Hey, remember that time I kicked in your door?"
But her silence is loud.
And deep down, I know—I didn't dodge anything.
This is just the calm before the storm.