The bird squeaks its shrill cry in distress, pinned to the ground by a stray kunai, Sakura's kunai. It writhes futilely in pain, squirming along the ground, pinned by the wing to the hard, yellow dirt.
She cannot tear her eyes away.
"Good try Haruno-san," Umino-sensei tells her, "Next time, be more careful of your arm and wrist when aiming. Your power is good, but try to have better control." He sends her a reassuring smile and she starts turning around to the back of the line. Under the blue, blue late summer sky the light casts upon him turning dark brown hair and eyes into something richer, lighter. The sun softens the hard angles of his face, giving tanned skin a warm golden glow. In a daze, Sakura trusts those eyes, the smile, his voice, the words.
She doesn't turn fast enough to miss what she sees out of the corner of her eyes: Umino-sensei, walking over to the bird, kunai in hand.
A gasp escapes from her and the syllables burble unintelligibly in her throat. "Don't do it,'' she wants to say, "Stop!"
She doesn't say anything. She can't look away.
The bird stops shrieking.