When Kakashi walked out of the Hokage’s office, Shiroya glanced up with a look that suggested he severely regretted not listening at the door. Though presumably the guards would have prevented him. They were older and service-hardened, dressed in anonymous black, every one of them an ex-ANBU.

Perhaps that would be a job for Kakashi, when the village realized that giving him children was pointless exercise.

you think that I am not fit to be the Hokage

Perhaps not.

He drew a subtle breath, fighting to keep his face blank, and walked towards the hallway. Shiroya interrupted him.

“I have to know,” the chuunin said. “Who’s Akio?”

Kakashi paused and gave him a sidelong look.

“Because the only Akio I can think of with any political swing in Iwa is Councillor Akio, and I don’t know when he would have had the chance to vote—”

One of the guards gave a rumbling cough, but Shiroya’s curiosity was made of sterner stuff.

“What did you do to him?”

The memory was clean and clear, easy to pull up. A palmful of screaming chakra in a half-grown hand, and a falling teenager with most of his face burned away. “Killed his son,” Kakashi said quietly.

Shiroya’s mouth opened, closed, opened again. “Oh,” he managed, after a moment. “That’s a good reason to want you dead.”

Kakashi’s smile was mirthless. “One of many.” He threw a short salute at the chuunin, changing the gesture halfway through from a shoulder tap to two fingers flicking from his temple, then shoved his hands in his pockets and left before Shiroya found more questions.