Chill

The fat lady had sung.

Today, the day was not of celebration, or hard work, hell, he wasn’t even cooking. He had come to a neat little shop, had himself a sandwich full of sliced ham, warmed goupy cheese, some vegetables, and a bottle of sake to go with it. The sake wasn’t low in alcohol, for he didn’t mean it just as a digestive, but also as a lone companion for the chunnin. He did wear the new flak vest he had been awarded, for a ninja must be ready at all times, but his swords were tucked away in his storage displacement pocket dimension. His eyepatch kept the Byakugan hidden, whereas the Sharingan’s crimson was kept at bay by the darkness of the iris.

Sitting on the tables set on the sidewalk, Kaito enjoyed the view of the village. His village. No, not his. Not in any way that mattered to anyone who wasn’t himself. He drew a cigar from the inner pocket of the vest, brought it up to his nose to feel the rich scent of the rolled filterless tobacco. Fang Country might be under trade sanctions, but the smugglers took their pretty penny to bring these precious beauties past patrols.

He lit it up with a match after cutting off the tip of the cigar, and drew a drag onto his mouth, the flavors of the cigar playing along his tongue and gums for a second before he retrohaled it from his mouth and into his nose. Today was about relaxing.

And that’s what he’d do.