Anko seemed unable to fall asleep for what felt like the second hour in a row. Typically, experienced shinobi operatives had the ability to drop into slumber instantly when needed and wake up just as quickly in response to changes in their surroundings. But this time, something was preventing Mitarashi from sinking into that blissful oblivion.
Faint rays of pale moonlight seeped through the window, casting a mystical bluish-silver hue over the outlines of objects in the room. Outside—not a sound. Even the crickets seemed to have forgotten their usual nightly serenades. The girl, lying on her back in bed, let out a heavy sigh and tried to turn onto her side.
Suddenly, a shadow flickered outside the window. Anko tensed. She remained motionless, but an uneasy feeling began to stir inside her.
A barely audible click came from the front door's lock, followed by the quiet, unpleasant creak of floorboards.
"Who is it?" flashed through Anko's mind.
Had some thief broken in? That was laughable. With her reputation, no one in their right mind would dare sneak into her house, let alone wake her up. And it wasn't like she had anything worth stealing. This definitely wasn't ANBU. They'd just knock if it was urgent—no need for stealth.
Running through the possibilities, Anko arrived at one grim conclusion: Root had come for her. But why? Because she'd started getting close to the jinchūriki? Seemed likely.
The bedroom door slid open, and a dark silhouette stepped inside. It lingered near the entrance, as if hesitating. Mitarashi, meanwhile, decided to play it safe and discreetly pulled a kunai from under her pillow. But the moment she tried to move.
"Biju! What the—? A Nara clan technique? But can that jutsu even be used at night?"
She couldn't move a muscle—it was like she'd been paralyzed. A cold dread seeped into Anko's veins. She tried to activate Sen'ei Jashu (Hidden Shadow Snake Hands), but failed. Any chakra manipulation, it seemed, was now impossible. She attempted to scream, but only a weak groan escaped her throat.
"What's happening...?"
The tokubetsu jōnin wasn't the type to scare easily. She'd give her life for the village without hesitation. Yet now, Anko was utterly lost, her body breaking out in cold sweat and goosebumps. Mitarashi had never felt so defenseless before. Dying in battle was one thing—but like this, unable to even open her mouth, let alone fight back. It was humiliating.
The silhouette stepped into the moonlight at the center of the room. It was a bald man in a shinobi jumpsuit, a sly grin playing on his lips.
Anko's eyes nearly popped out of her skull in shock. The paralysis partially faded—her body still felt stiff, but at least her lips and tongue obeyed her again.
— S-Saitama? — she whispered.
"I knew he wasn't just some nobody..."
She didn't get to finish the thought. The man's figure blurred, and in an instant, he was right beside her bed. The kunoichi squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for a fatal strike.
— Shh. Quiet, Anko, — his voice murmured right by her ear.
Her body still wouldn't obey, but she hurriedly opened her eyes.
— Why aren't you... oh.
She didn't get to finish her question before she felt him gently nip at her earlobe. The bald shinobi's hands began exploring every curve of her body beneath the sheet.
— Saitama, what are you.
Her next question was cut off as his lips covered hers. She let out a squeak, but it did nothing to deter him. The sheet was yanked away, revealing the kunoichi's bare form—Anko always slept naked, covered only by a thin silk cloth.
With every passing second, her heartbeat grew faster. Saitama trailed kisses down her body, moving lower—from her neck to her collarbones, then threatening to shift his attention to her soft curves.
— Wait, stop!
The bald shinobi paused—but only to return to her lips, devouring them hungrily as if trying to consume her whole. His hands caressed, then gently kneaded her firm breasts.
— Mmm. — A hot moan escaped her as Mitarashi realized her mobility had finally returned.
But instead of pushing him away, she ran her fingers over his smooth scalp, then frantically began tearing off his top, never breaking the kiss—even biting his lips in passion.
Within moments, Saitama was bare from the waist up. Anko panted heavily, barely holding back her desire to pull him inside her. She wrapped her legs around his lean, muscular torso and pressed his head against her chest. He lavished attention on her breasts, teasing her stiffened nipples with his tongue.
Suddenly, he pulled back.
— What's wrong? — Anko asked.
— Heh, — he exhaled. — It's just... time for you to wake up.
— What do you.
He leaned close to her ear.
— Time to wake... U-U-U-U-P!
A rapid, hammering chime exploded in her skull—like a swarm of tiny mallets ringing a frenzied bell. The world blurred, and Anko's eyes snapped open.
"U-U-U-U-P..."
Gritting her teeth, she smashed the alarm clock off the nightstand in one furious swing. The device shattered against the far wall.
— Biju! Just a dream!
She couldn't decide if "just a dream" was a relief or a disappointment. No—of course she was glad it was just a dream. What kind of twisted fantasy was that?! Her and baldy.
Her cheeks burned crimson at the thought.
— Ugh. — She shuddered. — Me and Saitama? Never. Anyone but him!
Lying under the sheets, memories of the past week flooded her mind.
Yes. A week had passed since she first met Saitama. That same evening, she'd gone to report to the Hokage. Her shock had been immeasurable when Sarutobi smirked and refused to take her report—because the mission rank had been upgraded to B-rank, and now she was to accompany Saitama for a full month. Worse, she was ordered to "get close" to him and uncover the secret of his strength. At that moment, she'd wanted to strangle the old fart. One day with the bald idiot had been torture—now she had to endure a whole month?! And what did "get close" even mean? Surely she didn't have to sleep with him... right? Probably just... befriend him. Kami, why?! At least she'd haggled for double the standard B-rank pay.
As for the "secret of his strength," she was clueless. Did the Hokage want to assess Saitama's skills? Why not just test him himself? And what kind of power could that moron possibly have? Sure, his head was hard, and based on her observations, he was almost certainly a shinobi. But for the Third to take personal interest in him as a fighter—even ordering her to investigate—meant either the old man had lost his mind, or the baldy wasn't as simple as he seemed. When she'd asked Sarutobi what made Saitama so special and where he'd even come from, the Hokage had just puffed his pipe. His origins were "classified," and as for his strength—he'd told her to see for herself to understand just how powerful he was.
At first, Mitarashi thought Hiruzen was messing with her. He spoke as if he feared the bald shinobi. Which was impossible. The God of Shinobi afraid of someone? Ridiculous!
But by the third day, Anko realized just how wrong she'd been—and what kind of monster she'd been assigned to babysit.
And it all started like this.
— Kage Bunshin no Jutsu!
Training Ground 66 was engulfed in clouds of white smoke, and once again, Mitarashi found herself staring at an orange sea. Even though this was the third day she'd witnessed this spectacle, the corner of her mouth still twitched, and she barely kept her composure.
"Damn brat..." flashed through her mind.
Her reaction was understandable. Naruto wasn't just performing the Shadow Clone Technique—he was using the forbidden variation: Multi Shadow Clone Jutsu!
The technique was forbidden due to the danger it posed to the user. It required an enormous amount of chakra, risking chakra exhaustion—and in some cases (for those with weak chakra pathways or undeveloped reserves), it could even lead to permanent loss of chakra control. Yet, Uzumaki showed zero signs of strain. Anko herself could probably make six or seven clones at most. But this kid? Five hundred, without breaking a sweat. Just how much chakra did he have? Or was he using some modified version of the technique?
Mitarashi fought back pangs of envy. Yes, she was jealous. A genin brat could casually use an A-rank, chakra-draining jutsu—one he'd learned overnight (the Hokage had confirmed this). And worse, it was a Kinjutsu—a forbidden technique.
— You know what to do, Naruto! — Saitama declared firmly, arms crossed.
The redhead horde nodded in unison and split up. One hundred clones sprinted toward the Academy. Another hundred headed for the village library. The remaining three hundred assumed perfect stances and began throwing punches in sync.
On the first day, the clones' strikes had been completely sloppy. Back then, Anko had stepped in, adjusting their stances and demonstrating proper taijutsu form. She hadn't expected the copies to actually listen—let alone replicate Konoha's standard fist style near-perfectly within ten minutes.
She had to admit Saitama's teaching had merit. First, the clone-training method worked. Taijutsu drills became far more efficient—by the third day, Uzumaki's clones were throwing flawless punches. Second, Naruto had grown quieter at the bald man's request. Not surprising—when you barely had the energy to crawl home at night, shouting wasn't an option. The little jinchūriki had even stopped pranking, finally focusing on training. No more vandalizing the Hokage Monument.
Watching the panting, push-up-struggling original, Anko turned to Saitama:
— How about a spar?
Sarutobi had told her to gauge the bald man's strength firsthand. With nothing better to do, why not? Besides, he seemed durable—she wouldn't need to hold back.
— Naaah. — The hero yawned. — Too soon for him. Let him train. Meanwhile, we can go sightseeing. You still haven't shown me the whole village.
— Saitama, you misunderstood, — the kunoichi cut in. — I meant a spar with me.
— Huh? You're a girl! Why would I fight you? — The bald ninja blinked.
— I'm a shinobi, same as you! — Anko's temper flared.
— Uh... So, not at all? 'Cause I'm not a shinobi. Told you—I'm a B-Class Hero, Caped Baldy.
Mitarashi hissed like an actual snake.
Forcing calm, she decided to humor his delusion:
— Fine, whatever. But there's a catch. If you're a hero, where's your cape?
— Left it in my other world, — Saitama replied breezily. — Along with my suit. Why? Wanna make me a new one?
She closed her eyes, inhaled slowly, then exhaled.
— Fine, Saitama. A training match—and in return, I'll treat you to one super-large ramen bowl. Deal? — This time, she specified the amount. Last thing she needed was him clearing out Ichiraku's stock.
— Now we're talking! But that's not enough. — The hero scratched his sun-reflecting scalp. — Bonus: you show me that Forest of Death. Sounds cool.
— ...Sure. — She gritted her teeth.
Training Ground 44 (Forest of Death) wasn't dangerous for jōnin. For genin or inexperienced chūnin? Absolutely. But if you avoided the strongest beasts, it was mostly just a scare tactic for rookie ninja. Taking Saitama there would be easy.
— Good. Now—let's move further away. — The kunoichi gestured.
They walked about half a kilometer, stopping near a row of training posts by a small cliff.
— So, rules? I won't hit a girl, so you decide.
Anko's teeth ground. Did he think she was weak? She was a tokubetsu jōnin—Orochimaru's former student!
She'd dreamed of kicking his smug face since their first meeting. Now was her chance.
— If you won't hit me, even better. — She bared her teeth. — But I'm attacking. No forbidden jutsu, but everything else is fair. Let's see what you're made of, Master Saitama. — Her tone dripped sarcasm.
She leapt back, drawing a kunai mid-air.
"Whish!"
Saitama tilted his head—the blade whizzed past his cheek.
The kunoichi formed the concentration seal, activating one of her strongest genjutsu. Staring into his eyes, she froze.
— Uh... — The bald man scratched his head.
No follow-up attack came. She just stood there, fingers twisted oddly.
— Aha! Got it. A staring contest! First to blink loses, right? Challenge accepted!
His gaze turned serious—but spotting her hand seals, he decided to copy her. After fumbling, he gave up and flashed heavy metal horns instead.
Sweat beaded on Anko's temples. For half a minute, she'd tried trapping him in an illusion.
Nothing.
It was like trying to genjutsu a rock. He just kept rambling about staring contests.
"Maybe he's too brainless to affect? Can't manipulate what isn't there. Or is it that weird hand sign...?"
— Fair warning, — Saitama chimed in. — Once, I played this with Genos. Lasted half a day—ended in a draw 'cause of a supermarket sale.
He paused, eyes widening.
— Wait. Genos is a cyborg. Does he even blink?
Anko's hope for sense died. Resigned, she switched tactics.
— We're not playing games. — She hissed. — This is training.
— Ohhh. — He nodded absently.
Abandoning genjutsu, she formed new seals:
— Katon: Ryūka no Jutsu!
A stream of dragon-shaped flames shot toward him—but he dodged effortlessly.
Her right hand hurled kunai, while snakes shot from her left sleeve, intercepting him. Yet, in a blur, he caught every blade—jamming them into the snakes' mouths. The summoned reptiles poofed into smoke.
— Neat trick. — Saitama rubbed his chin. — Shame they vanish. Could've made snake stew. Heard it's tasty.
"Of course he's thinking about food..."
— Getting hungry, Anko. How much longer? — he asked.
She drew two kunai, tossing one at his head—which he caught effortlessly.
— Win condition: Hold this to my throat. — She smirked.
Now, she'd test his close combat. Her taijutsu wasn't Guy or Kakashi level, but it was her best shot. Gripping her kunai, she lunged.
— Heh. I win.
— Wha—? — Cold metal pressed against her neck.
He was behind her, kunai hilt at her throat. How? She'd never lost sight of him. Body Flicker? No. Speed of the Fourth? Impossible... Yet only the Yellow Flash or Raikage-level shinobi could move that fast.
One realization hit: in a real fight, she'd be dead before she blinked.
— I... yield, — she croaked.
— Cool. — He handed the kunai back, which she automatically sheathed. — Ramen time! Let's go!
Strolling across the scorched grass, he hummed. Anko stood frozen, then shook herself and followed.
Mitarashi snapped out of her memories and trudged to the shower. Three more weeks of this mission remained—but she no longer saw it as a punishment.
No. She'd complete it. It'd be valuable experience.
Now, she just had to figure herself out. Specifically, the feelings her dream had stirred.
Dreams were strange. They exposed hidden desires—the dark pit of the subconscious, grasping what the conscious mind couldn't. And while her logic screamed in protest, her heart... Well, the heart wanted what it wanted.
Not love. She understood psychology. Spending time with someone bred familiarity—which could grow into attachment... or more.
Maybe she'd been alone too long. Maybe she craved someone strong, someone who'd protect her... Who knew?
Part of her wished to leave things as they were. Simpler that way.
But damn it...
Three more weeks.
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