How did she—?

Tattoo virgin, right. A disadvantage of the ANBU uniform, Kakashi had discovered, was its complete lack of places to put Icha Icha, or his hands. He could only slouch and hope it looked casual.

“All right,” he said, not to be outdone in the company of three people with one visible tattoo apiece, and one man with three hidden designs.

The woman grinned. “That’s what I like to hear. Grab a seat,” she said, indicating a black, leather-bound chair behind her that looked like it belonged in a dentist’s office. Or a torturer’s dungeon. “I’m Sakai Nanami, student of Akoya Nobutake. You can call me Nanami or ‘you bitch’, depending how you feel in five minutes. Just be aware I might bite you for it.”

She had exceptionally white teeth, Kakashi noted. Though not as sharp as his.

He stepped past her, carefully, and settled into the chair. The room was small, but highly personalized. A green and orange beaded rug lay over dark wooden floorboards, counter-contrast to the grey carpet in the hall. Hand-inked prints lined the cream walls, depicting scenes of—Konoha, mostly. The Hokage’s Monument dressed in shadows. The wind-blown forest in autumn. A deep blue section of the river, with bright fish flitting below the surface. The Hero’s Stone covered in snow. And a neon-lit grocery store, which Kakashi raised an eyebrow at.

“I like slices of life,” Nanami said, even though he hadn’t asked.

“That’s nice,” Kakashi said.

Set against one wall, a long table was covered in a mixture of art supplies, medical bric a brac, and what looked like half a dozen toolboxes that had been cannibalised to make storage shelves. Three different lamps cast good light. Nanami reached into a drawer and withdrew a pair of black rubber gloves, putting them on with a cheerful snap.

This was not shaping up to be the shadow-drenched, esoteric ceremony Kakashi had pictured.

Nanami herself was not the tattooist he’d expected, either. She was, maybe, in her mid-thirties, built short and exceptionally curvy, with solid muscles in her shoulders. Her face was round, with high cheekbones and a wide, careless mouth. Her hair was mostly black, twisted into a hundred complicated braids with bright colors woven through to make a peacock rainbow. Her skin was the color of dark sandalwood. She wasn’t wearing ANBU armor. She wasn’t even wearing a jounin uniform. She was dressed in a pink tee-shirt and blue jeans.

And flip-flops.

She picked up a cotton swatch soaked in alcohol, and advanced on him. “You identify as male, right?” she asked.

Not actually a stupid question in a village where people could, technically, craft themselves into any shape they wanted. “Yes,” he said.

“Left shoulder, then,” she said, and vigorously rubbed the bare stretch of his left upper arm with the alcohol swatch. The Trials must have left a scratch or two, because it burned. “Anything medical I need to know about?”

“Oomukade poisoning two days ago,” Genma said, from where he was leaning against the doorframe.

“That thin the blood?”

“Not noticeably,” Genma said.

“Anything else?” Nanami asked.

Kakashi shrugged.

“Okay, then. Here’s how it works—I cut, I ink, I do a little jutsu work. Don’t fight me. Tell me if you feel weird. Definitely tell me if you think you’re about to faint. I had one guy chip a tooth today, and I don’t want to make it two for two. You haven’t had any alcohol in the last day, have you?”

“I don’t drink,” Kakashi said.

Light brown eyes regarded him skeptically. “You must be a barrel of fun on weekends.”

“Weekdays, too,” Ryouma said. He’d slipped inside the room to study the art on the walls, mask tipped curiously to one side. Katsuko had followed him, but only far enough to find a wall to lean against; she lounged casually beneath a picture of civilians surrounding a camping fire.

The captain in the red crescent moon mask, Namiashi Raidou, stood away from the walls, watching Kakashi.

Nanami plucked a scalpel from an autoclave on the table. “Ready for this?”