Even by shinobi standards, Shibata Tomohiro was a nightmare made flesh. Even by Torture and Interrogation standards, Shibata was a scary, scary man. It wasn’t just the scars — though the twisting acid-splash pattern that had eaten one ear, half the mouth, part of the nose, and sealed the right eye clouded and nearly closed definitely took Raidou back to the worst parts of the last war, when Kirigakure had weaponized gas and poured it into the trenches. It was Shibata’s presence.

He wasn’t a tall man — the top of his head barely cleared Raidou’s nose; he was probably shorter than Kakashi — and he was built compactly, a wedge-shaped chest leading down to narrow hips, muscular without being overbuilt, but he carried himself like he’d carved confidence out of the world with bleeding hands and packed it into his bones.

Most people had a little trace of doubt, an edge of uncertainty; composure papered over cracks, and the hope that no one would notice.

Shibata had half a face and he wore it like a Hokage’s honor.

He also wore T&I greys and the long, black leather coat that was apparently standard-issue. It swept out behind him like dark wings as he strode down a network of corridors, winding his way through a path as unmarked and unmemorable as ANBU HQ’s hallways. He moved fast; Raidou had to stretch his legs to keep up.

Every door they passed was closed. The air still smelled like bleach, edged with lemon. There were no windows.

Without warning, Shibata paused at a door that — to Raidou’s eyes — looked exactly like every other door. A scarred hand turned the handle, releasing a flicker of chakra; the door opened. Shibata stood back to let Raidou enter first.

Tensely, Raidou stepped through.

And found a pleasant, well-lit room with warm apricot carpeting and neutral walls. Peace lilies and succulents bloomed in decorative pots. Tasteful art hung at accent points between bookshelves; landscapes of Konoha mostly, painted when the city was new. The books were a mix of scrolls and textbooks. Raidou’s baffled gaze fell on a title: PTSD and Combat: Coping in the Aftermath.

Two comfortable armchairs sat kitty-corner to each other. A table between them housed an elegant tea set and an array of flavored teas, along with a pitcher of water containing ice cubes. Condensation beaded down the sides. Next to the interior chair, a smaller table held Raidou’s completed paperwork; apparently Nene also had the ability to walk through walls.

There was also, Raidou noted, another bowl of mints.

“If this is a really elaborate genjutsu,” he said at last, “it’s a good one.”