The Hell's Kitchen night was alive with the hum of the city—distant sirens, the low rumble of traffic, and the occasional shout echoing through the narrow streets.
Kakashi Hatake, masked as always, crouched on the edge of a fire escape, his single visible eye scanning the alley below.
His apartment, a modest base in this gritty neighborhood, was nearby, but tonight, he was on the hunt.
A faint puff of smoke materialized beside him, and Pakkun appeared, his pug face set in a serious frown.
"Boss," Pakkun said, his gravelly voice low, "the shinobi group is moving tonight. I've got the dogs of this dimension keeping tabs on them—regular mutts, no chakra, so they won't tip off any sensors. We don't know their sensory capabilities yet."
Kakashi's eye narrowed, his mind already dissecting the intel. "What's their move?" he asked, his tone calm but probing. "And how solid is your info?"
Pakkun sat back on his haunches, his ears twitching. "They're hitting a gang in a warehouse a few blocks from here. From what I've gathered, they're mercenaries, just like you're planning to be. Their client wants the gang wiped out—total elimination. The local dogs overheard some chatter, and I've been tailing their movements through their scents. They're organized, Kakashi. Too organized for a street crew."
"Mercenaries," Kakashi murmured, his fingers tapping idly on his knee. That complicates things. A group of chakra users operating as hired killers in Hell's Kitchen could be an opportunity—potential handlers for his own missions—or a threat if their goals clashed with his. "Any idea who's paying them? Or why?"
Pakkun shook his head. "Not yet. The dogs can only pick up so much, and I'm keeping my distance to avoid detection. But the gang they're targeting? Small-time, dealing in guns and drugs. Probably stepped on the wrong toes."
Kakashi nodded, filing the information away. "Their chakra—how do they use it? Any jutsu?"
"Nah," Pakkun said, his tone dismissive. "Just basic enhancement—speed, strength, that kinda thing. No fireballs or water dragons. They're not shinobi like you, boss. More like… amateurs who stumbled onto chakra and figured out how to flex it a bit."
Kakashi's lips twitched beneath his mask, a faint smile. "Amateurs with chakra are still dangerous. Lead the way, Pakkun. I want eyes on them."
Pakkun gave a curt nod and leaped off the fire escape, his small form darting through the shadows. Kakashi followed, his movements silent and fluid, a predator in his element.
They wove through Hell's Kitchen's maze of alleys, past overflowing dumpsters and flickering streetlights, until they reached a dilapidated warehouse on the neighborhood's edge.
The building was old, its windows boarded, but faint light leaked from cracks in the walls, hinting at activity within.
Kakashi crouched on a nearby rooftop, Pakkun at his side, and activated his Sharingan beneath his headband. The red glow sharpened his vision, piercing the darkness.
Below, figures moved—six of them, garbed in red shinobi shozoku, their faces obscured by masks. Not traditional shinobi attire, but close. They carried weapons: swords, chains, a sickle in one's hand, all gleaming faintly under the moonlight. No guns. They rely on blades and chakra.
"They're going in," Pakkun whispered, his nose twitching. "You want me to get closer?"
"Stay here," Kakashi said, his voice a low murmur. "I need to see their skills." He leaned forward, his Sharingan tracking every movement as the group split into pairs, scaling the warehouse walls with ease.
Their chakra control is decent. They moved silently, their steps light, adhering to the vertical surface without hesitation. 'Wall-walking's basic, but they've got it down.' Kakashi thought
The attack was swift and brutal. The red-clad figures slipped through a broken window, and Kakashi shifted to a better vantage point, his Sharingan catching the fight inside. The gang—eighteen men, armed with pistols and rifles—stood no chance. The shinobi moved like specters, their chakra-enhanced speed outpacing the gang's reflexes. One swung a sword, severing a man's arm before he could fire; another lashed out with a chain, wrapping it around a thug's neck and snapping it with a yank.
The sickle-wielder darted between two gunmen, their bullets missing as she blurred forward, her blade finding their throats.
Kakashi's eye narrowed, analyzing. Efficient. No wasted movements. The gang's firearms, deadly in this world, were useless against the shinobi's speed and training.
Within minutes, the warehouse was silent, the floor littered with bodies. The red-clad figures regrouped as they cleaned their weapons and checked for survivors.
Kakashi leaned back, deactivating his Sharingan to conserve chakra. "Subpar," he muttered, his tone clinical. Pakkun tilted his head, curious, and Kakashi elaborated.
"Their chakra capacity's low—genin-level at best, and that's being generous. Their control's decent; wall-walking and basic augmentation aren't easy without training. But no jutsu, no ninjutsu or genjutsu. Their taijutsu and weapon skills are their only real strength—maybe chunin-level, but nothing special."
Pakkun snorted. "You're a tough critic, boss. They just wiped out a gang in under five minutes."
Kakashi's lips quirked beneath his mask. "I've seen academy students with better form. But…" His voice trailed off, his mind snagging on something else. The way the shinobi had killed—without hesitation, without a flicker of emotion—unsettled him.
Their movements were mechanical, almost robotic, as if guided by instinct or conditioning rather than intent. No banter, no fear, no satisfaction. He'd seen that before, in the Root division of Konoha's ANBU, where Danzō's operatives were stripped of individuality, molded into tools.
'They remind me of Root shinobi. This is going to get troublesome if that's the case.:
The thought sent a chill through him. Root had been a shadow within a shadow, ruthless and loyal only to Danzō's vision. If this group was similar—trained to kill without question, bound to some hidden master—they could be a problem. Are they tools of a larger organization? Or just mercenaries with strict discipline? Either way, their presence in Hell's Kitchen raised questions. Who trained them? Where did their chakra come from?
Pakkun's voice broke his reverie. "You're overthinking it, Kakashi. What's the plan? Follow 'em or let 'em go?"
Kakashi stood, his silhouette sharp against the city's glow. "Neither," he said, his tone deceptively light. "I'm going to introduce myself." Pakkun's eyes widened, but Kakashi raised a hand to forestall protests.
"If they're mercenaries, they're my way into this world's underworld. If they're a threat, I need to know now. A polite hello should clear things up."
Pakkun muttered something about "reckless humans," but Kakashi was already moving, his body flickering down to the street.
The red-clad shinobi were regrouping in an alley near the warehouse, their masks still in place, their weapons sheathed but accessible.
Kakashi stepped into the alley, his hands in his pockets, his posture relaxed. "Evening," he said, his voice calm. The shinobi froze, their hands twitching toward their weapons, but Kakashi kept his eyes crinkled in a friendly squint.