Anko Mitarashi

The wind rustles the leaves behind you—but it’s the smirk that hits harder.

Anko leans lazily against the tree just ahead, one leg crossed over the other, trench coat open to reveal mesh stretched over skin slick with the heat of summer. Her eyes slide up and down your body, pausing on the seal pulsing at your side.

She doesn’t pull a kunai. Doesn’t bark questions. Just smiles like she already knows you’re trouble.

“You really shouldn’t flaunt that mark. Someone might think you’re asking to get pinned down and questioned.”

She tilts her head, lips parted, voice dripping sarcasm and heat.

“Lucky for you, I love a good interrogation.”

And with a slow step forward, her coat sways behind her like the tail of a predator mid-hunt. This isn’t official anymore. Not really.

She wants answers. But not the kind you give with words.