"Your powers of keen observation are earth-shattering," Asuma drawled, turning his attention to the grate over their heads. "But this tan is a labour of love. The hours I have to spend sunning myself. It's brutal."

Wincing, he stretched up. A week of dealing with one solo sword wound had ingrained a solid instinct to not pull himself out of shape; ripped stitches were no one's idea of fun. Now he would've gladly taken that lone injury and danced with it. His beaten back flared, then burned, then cracked.

"Still better'n stitches," he muttered tightly, as something hot and wet trickled down his spine. He rose up on his toes, found himself still far short of the grating, and leapt.

Old iron rasped calloused fingers as he caught a grip and swung, right wrist pitching a red hot fit. He reached for his chakra--worn down to a trickle, but still there--and shoved it into his skin, trying to stick himself to metal long enough to actually do something.

Energy gathered, rippled, and fizzled out.

"Son of a bitch," Asuma groaned. He kept himself up anyway, relying on trained muscle and sheer stubbornness, and tried to catch an outside view. There wasn't much: a sliver of deck, a flicker of shadowy movement in the distance, a damn impressive looking padlock on the grating--

If he'd had a free hand and a lockpick, he might have been able to do something about that.

--and then the world narrowed down to a shard of glass focus because someone's boot was on his hand. He clenched his teeth. The heel ground down, crushing his fingers against metal, then released abruptly.

Falling took no effort at all, but it damn sure hurt when he landed.

Over the beat of blood in his ears and the litter of curse words tripping off his tongue, he heard a slurred, slightly muffled voice.

"Escaping gets you punished, Leaf-nin."

"Bite me--" Asuma started to growl, but the world spun dark and silent, and he couldn't hear the words.