(PU) NARUTO UZUMAKI

Taylor Hebert watched with thinly veiled disbelief as the man strolled into the gym like he’d just stumbled off a beach in Maui. Flip-flops slapped against the scuffed floor with each step, and his Hawaiian shirt looked like it had lost a fight with a box of orange highlighters. Shorts hung loosely from his hips, showing off tanned legs that definitely didn’t belong in Brockton Bay at this time of year.

His sun-bleached blond hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, strands escaping in all directions, and his jaw was peppered with the kind of stubble that said I’ve given up, but I’m trying to look like I haven’t.

And then there was the grin.

Wide, unapologetic, and absolutely beaming, it belonged to someone who either had no idea where he was or simply didn’t care. It radiated such absurd cheerfulness that Taylor half-expected him to start offering free hugs or passing out flower crowns.

She blinked. 

He clapped his hands once, the sound oddly authoritative despite everything else about him.

“Yo! Name’s Uzumaki Naruto, and I’ll be your new gym teacher!” he announced, his voice somehow louder than it had any right to be—like a human megaphone with no off switch.

His accent caught Taylor’s attention. It was definitely foreign, maybe Japanese, but not quite. She wasn’t an expert, but Brockton Bay had plenty of Asian communities, and she’d heard enough casual conversations to know his speech was off. Some syllables were too crisp, others drawn out in a way that didn’t match any dialect she recognized. 

His stance was wide, hands on his hips like a superhero striking a pose. The definition in his arms and chest, just barely visible beneath the ridiculous shirt, was a definite sexual assault case waiting to happen—but this was Winslow after all, so Taylor wasn't holding her breath.

The class was silent, too shocked to laugh, too confused to talk. Even Emma, oddly quiet ever since the incident, looked momentarily stunned, her lip glossed mouth slightly agape.

It took Taylor longer than she liked to realize that this wasn’t a prank or some elaborate social media stunt. No one came to correct or escort him out. No one else entered. 

This was real. 

This was happening.

The rumors had been swirling ever since Mr. Gladly had, allegedly, been ‘temporarily reassigned’ after Sophia had been caught with garbage bins and uncollected waste in the school’s halls. Some said it was a prank gone wrong. Others claimed he’d had a breakdown mid-class after one too many late assignments and the sudden realization that his students were either future inmates or accessories. Whatever the case, Gladly had vanished and the school hadn’t said much beyond we’re handling it.

Apparently, this was what handling it looked like.

Naruto-sensei—because that’s what he’d insisted they call him—dug into his pocket (or maybe his shirt? Taylor wasn’t sure) and pulled out a book.

Not a syllabus of some kind. A novel.

Taylor squinted. Her eyes caught the details.

The dark color and cover art was distinctive enough for most to recognize it. The name only solidified their guesses.  

Fifty Shades of Grey.

Silence reigned.

Utter, gobsmacked silence.

Even Madison’s phone had stopped clicking.

It was such a jarring, surreal sight that Taylor almost missed the way the man—book still in hand, face buried in the pages—promptly fell asleep where he stood. And snored. Loudly. Like he had not a care in the world and absolutely no comprehension of the soul-sucking misery that was Winslow High.

She glanced at the door, half-expecting Principal Blackwell to barge in screaming. But no help came. Just the awkward shuffle of sneakers on gym flooring and the sound of Naruto’s content, nasal snorts and grunts.

This was supposed to be their teacher. For the rest of the semester.

Taylor wasn’t exactly the most engaged student when it came to gym—her last positive memory of physical activity had died sometime in middle school—but she still felt her jaw tightening. Not because she wanted to be doing laps or playing dodgeball, but because this was one more piece of evidence that the system had stopped pretending to care.

Winslow was a holding pen for the broken, forgotten, or inconvenient. She’d known that before she knew what a cape was, and now it just felt like the universe was rubbing it in.

And this man—this joke in flip-flops—was part of the punchline.

What kind of teacher was this?