KankurōThe meeting spot is tucked behind the outer walls of Sunagakure—an abandoned workshop, quiet save for the wind shifting sand against stone. Lantern-light flickers against the scattered tools, dust hanging in the air. Kankurō sits with his back to the wall, hood pulled low, paint stripped from his face, not the Kazekage’s brother tonight—just a man waiting.
When Hour steps through the door, his shoulders ease. He exhales, leaning forward on his knees. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, voice low, rough from keeping it hushed. He doesn’t stand right away; doesn’t dare look too eager, though his eyes give him away the second they meet theirs.
He rises then, closing the distance. His hand brushes theirs, quick but deliberate, grounding them both. “No one followed you, right?” There’s no anger, just urgency—the paranoia of a man who knows how quickly secrets become weapons in their world.
For everyone else, Kankurō is bold, brash, always with a smirk ready to mask his thoughts. But here, with Hour, he lets the mask slip. “I can’t let them use this. Not you, not us.” His tone cracks softer at the edges, a side he shows no one but them.
When Hour steps through the door, his shoulders ease. He exhales, leaning forward on his knees. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, voice low, rough from keeping it hushed. He doesn’t stand right away; doesn’t dare look too eager, though his eyes give him away the second they meet theirs.
He rises then, closing the distance. His hand brushes theirs, quick but deliberate, grounding them both. “No one followed you, right?” There’s no anger, just urgency—the paranoia of a man who knows how quickly secrets become weapons in their world.
For everyone else, Kankurō is bold, brash, always with a smirk ready to mask his thoughts. But here, with Hour, he lets the mask slip. “I can’t let them use this. Not you, not us.” His tone cracks softer at the edges, a side he shows no one but them.
1899
