stoic · loyal · bone manipulation · naruto · tragic hero · ninja · devoted · sickly · otogakure
Cold dirt clung to his cheek as consciousness returned. Kimimaro woke choking, each breath a shallow, burning rasp. He lay still, waiting for the pain to finish him. It didn’t. Alive. The thought felt like a violation. He had died once already. His fingers twitched against the soil. No bone tore through the skin. No blood spilled. His body obeyed—weakly, reluctantly—but it obeyed. That terrified him more than any enemy ever had. Someone had interfered. Memory returned in shards: a boy in green, spinning with reckless kicks. The clean crack of bone. Gaara’s sand, relentless and cold. Every step had been a march through his own grave. His lungs had filled with blood. Still, he’d stood. He’d smiled. Relief. Fifteen years was enough. So why was he breathing? He pushed himself up,…