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[NNSS] Chapter : 19
🕑 Added 2025-09-26 19:35:20 +0000 UTCAfter meeting Itachi, Roshi’s next stop was Anko Mitarashi. She lived in one of the Village’s Ninja apartments in the center of Konoha—basic, no-frills housing provided to Shinobi. One room, one kitchen, one bathroom. Simple, cheap, and just enough for a single person.
Anko had no parents. Like many of her generation outside of the great clans, the endless wars had left her an orphan. Such children were raised in the Village orphanage, then moved into these apartments once they were old enough for the Academy. Rent was free during their studies, and once a month the administrative staff came by with allowances, check-ups, and the bare minimum of care.
But in the past three years, these apartments had become overcrowded, filled with young Shinobi trying to survive.
“Thump, thump.”
The sound of knocking echoed down the corridor. A dragging shuffle followed, then a muffled, weary voice from behind the door:
“…Coming… who is it…?”
The door creaked open a crack. The girl behind it was nothing like the lively-eyed face in her mission file photo. Fourteen-year-old Anko Mitarashi looked worn out. Her purple hair stuck out in messy tangles, and she wore a loose black mesh shirt with faded shorts. The stale air that spilled out carried the cloying scent of rotting sweets, unemptied trash, and long-stale room air.
She squinted against the corridor’s light, focusing on the figure outside. The face looked familiar—especially the eyes and brow that stirred old memories of their academy days.
“Roshi…? Roshi?” she asked hesitantly, her frown showing both confusion and recognition. “What are you doing here?”
The boy she remembered had always stood apart—cold-eyed, sharp, like someone carrying a burden heavier than his years. But the one in front of her radiated a calmer, steadier aura that made the contrast jarring.
“The Village should’ve sent you a notice,” Roshi said evenly, his gaze taking in her exhausted state. “You’ve been assigned to my squad.”
Anko scratched her tangled hair, blinking like someone dragged out of a long daze. “Ah… maybe I did hear something about that.” She stepped aside, waving a hand with half-hearted casualness. “Come in. But don’t expect much. It’s… just like this.” She didn’t even bother to make excuses.
Roshi nodded once and stepped inside. His eyes swept the cramped apartment. Empty ramen bowls littered the tatami, a half-eaten dango skewer had hardened to stone on the floor, and soda cans were scattered around the low table. It wasn’t a complete disaster, but clearly no one had cleaned in weeks. The air itself felt heavy with neglect.
Without a word, Roshi crossed the room, rolled up his sleeves, and picked up the broom in the corner. He began sweeping with practiced ease, every movement calm and natural, as though it were the most ordinary thing in the world.
Anko blinked in surprise, then yelped when he moved to sweep away the old dango.
“Hey! Don’t touch that! I—I wasn’t done with it yet! You can’t just… that’s rude!”
“Go boil some water,” Roshi replied flatly, not even looking up. “When a guest visits, the least you offer is hot water. Tea, if you have it. Plain water will do.” He flicked several cans neatly into the trash bin without missing a beat.
“You…” Anko’s words caught in her throat. She stared at him, unsettled by the sight. How could the top student from the Academy, the one who always seemed so untouchable, be… cleaning her apartment like some domestic husband? And worse—acting as though it was the most natural thing in the world. In the end, all she managed was a muttered, “Fine, fine…” before trudging off to the kitchen.
The sound of a kettle clinking onto the stove drifted out. Meanwhile, Roshi worked quickly—trash gathered, bowls stacked, curtains yanked open. Fresh air and sunlight spilled into the room, sweeping away the stale gloom in an instant.
When Anko returned with two steaming cups, the space already felt different—lighter, livable. She set a cup in front of Roshi, kept the other for herself, and sat cross-legged across from him. Her expression was conflicted, caught somewhere between embarrassment, annoyance, and the strange warmth of being cared for.
Roshi reached into a paper bag and slid it across the table toward her. Inside were several skewers of glossy, sugar-glazed three-color dango, still warm, their sweet aroma filling the air.
Anko’s eyes lit up, only to narrow with suspicion a moment later. “…What’s this? Trying to bribe me? You… you were never like this before.” Her voice carried both wariness and confusion.
“I bought them on the way,” Roshi said simply. He pulled out a skewer, bit into it, and closed his eyes briefly in satisfaction. “Mm. Soft, chewy, sweet. Much better than that dried-out rock you were chewing on.” His tone was light, casual—like he was simply sharing food with a friend.
Anko stared at him, then at the tempting dango. Her stomach growled audibly, betraying her. She hesitated, chewing her lip, but finally reached out. Taking a skewer, she bit carefully into it.
Warm, chewy mochi and sugary glaze melted on her tongue, and a long-forgotten sweetness spread through her senses. Her eyes half-closed in pleasure, a small sigh slipping out before she could stop it.
“…It’s good,” she muttered, cheeks faintly pink as she ate, sneaking sideways glances at Roshi all the while.
The young man in front of her sat calmly, eating dango, with a faint trace of dust still clinging to him from cleaning the room. Something about that sight made her feel both strange and unfamiliar.
“You’ve been living off these all this time?” Roshi tilted his chin toward the instant noodle cups and snack bags littering the floor. His tone wasn’t accusatory, more like he was confirming what he already knew about her situation.
“What else?” Anko muttered around a mouthful of dango, her words slightly slurred with apathy. “No missions, eating out’s expensive, and I can’t be bothered to go outside…” She didn’t add the truth—that she couldn’t bear the sympathetic, scrutinizing, or wary stares waiting for her beyond her door.
“Border skirmishes have eased up. Plenty of missions piled up: merchant routes, rogue ninja cleanup, caravan escorts, border patrols. C-rank, D-rank, take your pick. The Village hasn’t assigned you any?” Roshi swallowed before speaking again.
Anko froze, her gaze fixed on the glossy bamboo skewer in her hand. “They did. Fetching pets, pulling weeds. I didn’t take them.”
Her voice fell to a whisper. “…It’s boring.”
“Boring, or is it that you can’t bring yourself to care?” Roshi’s calm eyes dropped to her hand, gripping the skewer so tightly her knuckles whitened. His voice stayed steady.
Anko’s head snapped up, irritation flashing in her eyes at being read so easily. But beneath it was something heavier—weariness, confusion. “Does it even matter? Whether I care or not? It’s all the same anyway.”
She turned her face toward the sunlight spilling through the window. “Back then… with him, I always had a goal. To grow stronger. To learn. Now…” Her lips curled into a bitter smile, mocking herself. “Now it feels like my bones have been stripped out. I can’t bring myself to do anything. Orochimaru… sensei… why…” Her words broke off into a harsh gasp, choked with hatred and despair.
Roshi listened without interrupting, offering no comfort, no false wisdom. He only reached for another skewer of dango, chewing unhurriedly, giving her space to bleed her emotions out. The room filled with the sound of her uneven breathing, punctuated by the faint chirping of birds outside.
That quiet, unpressured presence made her chest feel a little lighter.
“Anger, hatred… it’s normal,” Roshi finally said once her breathing steadied, his voice as even as if he were commenting on the weather. “But life doesn’t stop. Locking yourself away, rotting on instant noodles and stale dango—what good does that do you?”
He dropped the empty skewer and looked at her directly, his words blunt. “Even the dullest missions pay enough for fresh meals and dango that isn’t hard. Missions keep your body moving and your head busy. That’s better than wasting away in here.”
Anko stared at him. From anyone else, those words would have felt shallow, ignorant of her pain. But Roshi—who had quietly cleaned her room and brought her fresh food—spoke with a grounded weight she couldn’t ignore.
No sympathy. No lecturing. Just the plain truth: life must go on.
“You… really have changed the way you talk.” Anko’s lips tugged in a faint pout, her tone complicated. Yet the dullness in her eyes had softened. She glanced at the fresh sugar glaze glistening on her half-eaten dango, its sweetness catching the sunlight. Fresh really did taste better.
Abruptly, she shoved the rest into her mouth, chewing fiercely as if to swallow something deeper along with it.
“…But you’re right.” She swallowed, wiped the sugar from the corner of her lips, and looked up. Pain still lingered, but there was a faint spark now—fragile, but real. “I can’t just rot here. It really is pointless.” She hesitated, then asked with a flicker of her old spirit, “Captain… when’s the next mission? C-rank? B-rank?”
The corner of Roshi’s mouth twitched upward. “I won’t let you sit idle. As for the mission, wait for the notice. In the meantime…” He rose, scanning the room that, though tidied, still felt empty. “…thoroughly clean this place again. Next time I come, I want it kept this way. And—hot tea.”
“Ugh, you’re so demanding! Fine, fine!” Anko groaned, though her tone lacked true resistance. Watching Roshi’s back as he headed for the door, the protest almost sounded… alive.
As he slid the door open, she blurted, “Hey, Roshi!”
He glanced back.
“…Thanks.” Her voice dipped, eyes shifting away. After a beat, she added, “…for the dango. And the cleaning.”
Roshi only nodded, silent as ever, and stepped out.
When the door shut, the quiet pressed in again. Yet it felt different now—lighter. The sweet aroma of dango and the scent of fresh sunlight lingered in the air.
Anko looked at her empty hands, then around the clean room. Sunlight spilled across the floor in warm, unbroken patches. She drew in a long, deep breath of fresh air through the open window… and slowly exhaled, as though expelling something stale from her chest.
Her eyes fell on the broom leaning in the corner. She walked over, gripped it tight, and this time—on her own—began sweeping up the last of the trash.
