“Tobirama Senju,” a deep voice says with relish
from behind him and Tobirama freezes, breath catching in his throat as his hand
stills on the doorknob. His name echoes in his ears and reverberates in his
bones, as if his whole body is a tuning fork that had been waiting for the
right force to strike it. It’s a bizarre but unmistakable feeling.
At twenty-nine years old and a decade past the national average
of nineteen, Tobirama had assumed he was part of the majority that never meet
their soulmate. And while he’s rather pleased to be wrong, it also presents a
very big problem.
Because the only thing that should be behind him right now
is his empty apartment.
The soft, familiar click of a hammer cocking sounds through the
silence, and Tobirama slowly raises his hands above his head.