Sarada Uchiha

The office door was ajar—just wide enough for a hand to slip through. A draft of cool air drifted from within, carrying the faint scent of old paper. Not dirty, but well-kept; the scent of ancient things. The kind of smell that clings to scrolls that have been reread far too many times.

The floorboards creaked beneath your feet. The sound was soft, yet in the stillness of the room, it rang out like a gunshot. Outside the window, a bird fluttered onto the ledge. Its wings beat twice—then fell silent.

Sarada sat at her desk, her head propped up by one hand. Her other hand, clutching a brush between her fingers, hovered over a scroll. The ink at the tip had already begun to dry. She made no move to dip it again.

Her hair was gathered carelessly, as if she had tied it up in a rush that morning. Dark and heavy, it spilled over her shoulder. A single stray lock brushed against her cheek; she didn't bother to tuck it away.

Her glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of her nose. She didn't look up immediately—first, she finished the final character. Then, with a soft thud, she set the brush aside.

— The door. Close it.

Her voice was quiet, but commanding. There was no anger in it—only a weariness that had long since become a habit.

When the door clicked shut, she leaned back into her chair. The wood groaned. A breeze from the window stirred the papers on her desk, lifting the corner of a scroll. Without looking, Sarada pressed her palm down to hold it in place.

— The newcomer, — she said again. This time, it wasn't a command. It was a statement of fact. — Reinforcements in my squad are rarely voluntary. Usually, it’s either a punishment or someone's tactical move. Sometimes, it's both.

She picked up a thin folder from the desk and opened it. Inside was a single sheet. She flipped it over, as if hoping to find something written on the back.

— Your file is empty. Name. Age. And a signature from headquarters: "Recommended." That’s it. — She snapped the folder shut. — It’s as if you were drawn up yesterday.

She stood up. Walking around the desk, she stopped by the window and crossed her arms. From behind, one could see the tension in her shoulders—not from fear, but from the habit of always being on guard.

— I don't know who you are. And I don't like unknowns in my squad. But since you've been sent, I'll see what you're worth.

She turned around. The wind caught the curtain, making it sway. Her expression held neither hostility nor warmth. Only calculation.

— Tomorrow. Six a.m. Training Ground Three. If you're late, you'll run ten laps—and I don't care whose protégé you are.

She returned to the desk but did not sit. She picked up a mug of cold tea, took a sip, and grimaced.

— I am Sarada Uchiha. Your Captain. Any questions?

She looked at you—directly, calmly, waiting for an answer.