He did not look up.
He didn't even lift his eyelids.
"Are you here to kill me, or to save me?"
His voice was cold. As cold as the water in this dungeon, as cold as the stones on the walls that had been eroded by dripping water for who knows how many years.
He kept his eyes closed, leaning against the wall, as if he didn't care about anything.
Mei Terumī stood outside the iron bars.
The light from the torch shone from behind her, casting her shadow into the water prison, onto the surface of the water, and onto him.
She looked at that legendary "Demon," looked at that face full of scars, and looked at that mouth wrapped in bandages.
"...Neither."
Zabuza finally opened his eyes.
There was nothing in those eyes.
No anger! He had failed to assassinate the Mizukage, had been captured, imprisoned, and was waiting for execution, but there was no anger in his eyes.
No fear! Death was waiting not far away, but there was no fear in his eyes either.
There was nothing Mei Terumī wanted to see.
There was only a hollow calmness, as if he had seen too much and there was nothing left worth caring about.
He looked at her.
"Then why are you here?"
Mei Terumī stood outside the iron bars, the light of the torch flickering behind her, casting her shadow into the water prison.
"I am here to ask you something."
She paused.
The pause was very short. So short it was almost imperceptible.
But in that instant, many images flashed through her mind: the words Shinji had spoken, the "Interesting" that Kisame had said as he lay on the ground, and the path she had walked alone all these years.
"What do you want the Hidden Mist Village to become?"
Zabuza did not speak.
The cell quieted down.
There was only the sound of water. Dripping from somewhere, drop by drop, hitting the surface of the water, making a hollow sound.
Drip.
Drip.
Zabuza looked at the woman outside the iron bars.
He sat in the middle of the water, leaning against the wall, wearing prison clothes stained with blood, his face marked by layers of new and old wounds.
Some of those wounds no longer hurt, while others were still throbbing. But he did not move, just looked at her.
He grew up in the Hidden Mist Village.
At the age of seven, he killed all the students in his class. Not because of hate, not because of anger, but simply because that was the rule.
Kill everyone to graduate.
He killed, he graduated, and from then on, no one ever asked him, "What do you want to become?"
People only asked him, "Who else do you want to kill?"
Teachers asked. Teammates asked. The Anbu asked.
Everyone who wanted to use him asked.
Who else can you kill? Who else do you want to kill?
When are you going to kill the next one?
What they wanted to know was not his answer, but whether he could continue to be that blade.
He had long forgotten how to answer other questions.
Or rather, he had long forgotten that there were other questions to answer.
Drip.
Drip.
The water was still dripping. One drop after another, like some kind of clock that would never stop.
The silence lasted a long, long time.
Long enough for Mei Terumī's feet to start going numb.
Long enough for the torch behind her to burn down a notch.
Long enough for her shadow to quietly shift a little position on the ground.
She looked at the person in the cell.
That person sat in the middle of the water, leaning against the wall, eyes half-closed, as if thinking of nothing, or perhaps thinking of something very, very far away.
She thought he wouldn't answer.
She prepared to turn and leave.
Leaving that question here, leaving it to this damp air, leaving it to those water droplets that would never stop.
Then, she heard a low laugh.
Very faint. So faint it felt like an illusion.
Zabuza kept his head lowered.
His shoulders trembled slightly. The trembling was very slight, as light as ripples on the water surface caused by the wind.
If one didn't look carefully, one might even think it was from the cold.
But it wasn't.
It was laughter.
He kept his head lowered, his shoulders trembling, that low laughter emitting from his throat.
The laughter was strange, not a happy laugh, not a mocking laugh, but a kind of laugh that even he couldn't identify.
Perhaps it was self-deprecation, perhaps it was surprise at the question, or perhaps something else.
Then he raised his head.
Through the iron bars, he looked at Mei Terumī.
The torchlight flickered on his face, revealing the trace of a curve still remaining at the corner of his mouth, revealing that indescribable something in his eyes.
"...I don't know," he said.
His voice was very soft. So soft it seemed it would be drowned out by the sound of dripping water.
Then he looked into her eyes and added another sentence.
"But I can go with you to see."
...
Shinji had waited for an hour.
Then he saw a figure walk out of the dungeon.
Soaked through, her body covered in the musty smell and the stench of blood from the dungeon.
There were wounds on her face, but they weren't serious.
Mei Terumī.
She walked up to him and stopped.
Neither of them spoke.
Moonlight leaked through the gaps in the mist, falling between the two of them.
She still carried that dampness from the dungeon, her hair clinging to her forehead, her clothes stained with what might have been water or something else.
But her eyes were shining.
He had seen that kind of light before. When she first successfully used Mist Release in the ruins, when Kisame and she walked out of the ruins side by side.
It was bright enough to shine into one's heart.
"He agreed," she said.
Shinji nodded.
He didn't ask how he agreed. He didn't ask what she said, didn't ask what Zabuza said, didn't ask how long she had stayed in the water prison. He just nodded.
Then he turned and walked back.
...
Ao had been approached by Mei Terumī herself.
That sensory Jonin was a man by the side of the Elder, working for the most powerful elder in the Hidden Mist Village, always cautious, and never involved in any factional struggles.
Mei Terumī had sought him out three times, and all three times he had pushed her away with various excuses.
But she did not stop. A fourth time, a fifth time, a sixth time. Each time she just said a few words, left something behind, and then left.
That day, Ao took the initiative to find her.
In the corridor of the Anbu base, he blocked her path.
The corridor was narrow, with gray walls on both sides, and the lights overhead flickered, stretching his shadow long and short.
Mei Terumī stopped.
She looked at him. That veteran Jonin in his fifties, the strongest in the sensory division, the one most trusted by the Elder.
He stood there, his expression complex, as if he had something to say but didn't know how to say it.
She didn't speak. She just looked at him, waiting.
Ao stood there, hesitating to speak. His lips moved, then closed; moved again, then closed again.
On that face carved with the ravines of time, his expression was as complex as an untieable knot.
He was a man by the Elder's side, having followed him for decades, seen too many factional struggles, and seen too many people rise to power only to fall.
He never got involved in anything, just kept his head down and worked, kept his head down and lived.
But now he stood here, blocking a woman decades younger than him.
"My Lady Mei Terumī..."
The title came out of his mouth with a strange sense of awkwardness.
It was as if it was the first time he had said it, yet also as if he had practiced it for a long time:
"Why are you doing all this?"