We lay on the hospital bed, staring at the slow spin of the fan blades above. The world turning, the air cool, and our thoughts wandered back to a time we could barely recognize now. There were days when we lived without consequence, wrapped in the fog of our own thoughts, thinking on life like it was some distant shore we might never reach. We pondered existence, the absurdity of the world, the laws that governed it. Mundane thoughts, ceaseless as the ticking of a clock. We were happy then. Carefree.
But looking back now, we know. We see the part we played in the destruction of our clan. The signs had always been there. We just didn’t look. We let our fear blind us. Our arrogance. We ignored the slow rot, the political castration, the quiet ghettoization. We watched our people pushed aside, ignored the prejudice and the hate. We let them segregate us, reduce us, make us into something less than human.
And in the end, it was genocide. Every man, woman, and child slaughtered. Because killing those who stand against you is always the righteous path. Because those with power can always find a reason. Danzo Shimura, that carrion crow, still hoards their eyes. The Sharingan of our people, harvested, stored, used like tools for the benefit of Konoha. And what do they use them for? We never knew. Couldn’t know.
Orochimaru, snake that he was, handed over their records. Their secret logs. The things they’d hidden from us for years. And in the pages of those books, the truth was laid bare. How Madara had been deceived. How the Uchiha were bound to the Senju by lies and schemes. How Tobirama had sown the seeds of hatred, whispering of curses and madness. Dog whistles to make us feared, to strip us of any power we might have held.
Madara saw through it. Too late. He confronted Hashirama, but what could come of it? There’s no peace in a world built on lies. Madara left, and the rest of our clan, weary from endless war, chose peace. Chose submission.
How ironic, we thought. A clan cursed to madness, accused of violence, did everything they could to avoid it. And still, it came for them.
We sighed. The fan kept spinning.
The Uchihas were cast out, made into the village’s pariah. Given their own little corner of Konoha, out of sight, out of mind. A police force with no real power, constantly watched, constantly oppressed. A clan of warriors turned into nothing.
We’d rather watch paint dry than dwell on it all. Rage smouldered beneath the surface, ageing us, burning us. We could feel it eating away at us like the flames that had claimed our arm. But we couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t forget the failure that gnawed at us.
The weasel had escaped. We’d lost much for nothing. Konoha. They watched us ever since, chakra signatures lurking just beyond the walls, eyes on us. They didn’t trust us. They doubted the veracity of our account, of course. We had withheld details, refused to let them pry into our memories, and now, with Kakashi in a coma, it was only natural that they would begin to suspect us.
We sighed again. It came easy now. Easier than anything else.
We glanced down at the bandaged stump where our arm used to be. Running through a mental simulation of a theoretical battle—against the Jinchūriki from Sunagakure—we concluded, with no small amount of annoyance, that our combat effectiveness had been reduced by a staggering sixty per cent. A grim prospect.
And what had we gained? Kisame, Itachi’s partner, was dead, but what did that amount to? A non-entity, a tool easily replaced. Itachi himself had walked away with barely a scratch. And now, here we were, diminished in body and mind, our plans in disarray.
We were overdue for a revision of our tactics. That much was clear. If this wasn’t a bad trade, we didn’t know what was.
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"Is it true?" Ino's voice came soft behind her, breathless and quivering. Sakura didn’t turn. Her eyes stayed on the flowers at her feet, potted things too stubborn to die, yet fragile—perhaps too fragile for what lay ahead. The weight of the question lingered in the air between them, heavy as a storm that hadn't yet broken.
"Sakura," Ino called again, more urgent now, and it pulled her from the trance she'd sunk into. Sakura’s gaze lifted, slow and deliberate, to the pale face of the girl she’d known all her life. The sweat on Ino's brow, her shallow breaths—she must’ve been turned away from the hospital too.
Sakura blinked. She saw the worry in Ino’s eyes, the tears there, waiting. And she felt something crack inside her, a dull sound in the silence.
“Yes,” she said, her voice raw, like she hadn’t spoken in days. She barely recognized it. One word, but it was enough. Her throat burned, her chest tight, and though her face was still, her heart raged beneath it. Sasuke. Crippled.
The tears came unbidden, sliding down her cheek like rain over stone. She wiped them away with the back of her hand, a useless gesture. Sasuke hated tears. She remembered that. Hated weakness. A sad smile curled her lips, the memory of him behind her, close enough she could feel his breath on her skin, telling her how undignified it was to cry.
She looked back at the flowers. “It’s bad luck to bring a potted plant to a hospital,” she muttered, the words falling out of her. “Cut flowers are better. Which ones should I get?”
Ino didn’t answer. She stood there, silent and still, the world seeming to hold its breath. And then, suddenly, she stepped forward, something fragile in her eyes. Sakura’s breath hitched when Ino’s hand reached out. “A daffodil?” Sakura whispered, as she took the flower from her. A strange smile ghosted her lips.
“It’s perfect,” she began, but her words were smothered as Ino pulled her into a hug, hard and desperate. She felt Ino’s tears hot against her neck, her sobs racking her small frame. Sakura froze. Vulnerable.
After a moment, her hand rose slowly to rest on Ino’s back, and she held her, feeling her friend’s grief seep into her own. Tears slipped down her face again, but this time she didn’t wipe them away. They wouldn’t stop. No matter how she tried to choke them down, they came.
I’m not crying. I’m not. But the tears kept coming. Sasuke wouldn’t like it. He would hate it.
"Why do boys do this?" Sakura whispered, her voice cracking, broken. "Why do they always hurt us so?"
Ino pulled back, her face streaked with tears, eyes swollen and red. "How would I know?" she whispered back, her voice raw. "I'm a girl too."
Sakura wiped at her eyes, but it was no use. "Sorry," she mumbled.
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Sasuke sat on the windowsill, one leg hanging over the edge, the other bent beneath him. He wore a patient’s gown, his posture lazy, as if the world around him was of no concern. He stared out at the village, his expression unreadable, thoughts a mystery. In his left hand, he held a brush, scrawling something down in a notebook that lay across his lap. Where his right hand should have been, the sleeve of his gown hung limp and empty.
Sakura stood frozen in the doorway, breath caught in her throat. Even now, even like this, he was calm, composed. Unshaken by the loss of his arm. His silence was like that of a mountain, still and ancient, something terrible in its peace. His beauty, regal. It was almost divine.
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Beside her, Ino shuffled awkwardly, not knowing whether to step forward or retreat. Sasuke must’ve sensed their presence, for his dark gaze turned toward them, softening. His lips curled into a quiet smile, so gentle it made Sakura’s chest ache.
"You came," he said, his voice smooth as silk, and it melted something inside her. "Thank you."
Sakura swallowed hard, her voice coming in a shaky breath. "It’s no problem, Sasuke," she said, forcing the words past the lump in her throat. "How are you feeling?"
"Better," he said simply, his tone casual. "I should be back on missions soon. Assuming Kakashi-sensei recovers, that is."
Her heart stuttered. Missions? Her mind spun, disbelieving. But your arm… She wanted to say, wanted to scream, but no words came. He smiled as if reading her thoughts.
"I may not be able to use ninjutsu anymore," he said softly, "but I’m still more capable than most shinobi."
She blinked, and for a moment he was no longer at the window. He was before her, his face inches from hers. Then he was back, seated on the sill, as if he had never moved. She couldn’t tell if it had been real, or if he had woven some genjutsu into her mind. But it didn’t matter. He was still Sasuke. Even now, even without an arm, he was still Sasuke.
A sigh escaped her, a slow exhale of relief. She looked at him then, really looked at him, and her heart stirred. He was stronger than her in ways she couldn’t fathom, and she loved him all the more for it.
“We brought you flowers,” Ino said suddenly, her voice timid, breaking the silence that had settled over them. Sakura smiled softly at her.
Sasuke took the bouquet from Ino’s hands, his fingers brushing hers. “Dandelions?” he murmured, holding them up to the light. “Beautiful even in winter, waiting for spring without bowing to the cold. Thank you, both.”
The room fell silent again, thick with something unspoken.
Ino stared at him, eyes wide with surprise. “How… how do you know that verse?” she asked, stunned. Sakura felt her own confusion rising. Sasuke’s face went still, his lips twitching into a faint, embarrassed smile.
“A poem?” he said after a moment, his voice hesitant.
Sakura’s eyes widened. It was a lie, an obvious one, and yet… it was so absurd, so unexpected, that she couldn’t stop herself. The giggles bubbled up before she could suppress them, and soon, to her surprise, Ino joined in.
And then, just for a moment, she caught a glimpse of something rare—Sasuke, blushing. The absurdity of it all lingered in the air, the last fragile petal of a fleeting, impossible moment.
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Jiraiya turned, the sound of footsteps crunching the gravel behind him. He had long sensed them coming. The old guard. Homura, grey and thin as the fog that drifted from the baths, and Koharu, brittle in her contempt like a bird in winter. He arched a brow at the pair, as if the appearance of these two elder statesmen in the middle of a quiet street was of no more interest to him than the gentle breeze. His attention, however, had already returned to the women in the distance, bathing beneath the evening sun’s soft rays. The sight returned a smile to his face
"Still at it, I see," Koharu’s voice cold as stone.
Jiraiya grunted. He hummed, unhurried. A grin twisted his face, a sound like a chuckle but meaner slipped from his mouth. "Old man Homura," he said, his voice lazily drawn, "Mistress Koharu." The words slow like the heat of the day itself. "Long time no see."
"A man your age," Koharu continued, voice sharp. "You’d think you’d have grown out of such idiocy."
Jiraiya sighed, his smile vanishing like the wind pulling a leaf from a branch. He lowered the binoculars, tucking them inside his cloak. “Is there something you need?” he asked, the casualness of his tone barely concealing his irritation.
Homura’s stare never wavered. "You know why we are here."
Jiraiya didn’t turn to look at him. “If this is about Sasuke Uchiha… I fail to see how it involves me.”
"It has everything to do with you," Homura replied, his voice thin like the air in his chest. "Your sensei won’t act. He won’t see the danger that boy poses. That boy’s got the heart of a snake. Hidden in plain sight, biding his time behind the name of his clan. It’s written all over him."
Jiraiya spat, dust kicking at his feet. "Still don’t see how that’s my problem."
Koharu’s eyes narrowed, a silence thick between them like a knife ready to cut. Then she said, "Tsunade."
Jiraiya frowned. "What about her?"
"Find her. Bring her back," Koharu said. "She’s the only one who can undo what the boy did to Hatake. If Hatake testifies before the council, his testimony would be hard to ignore, even for Hiruzen."
For a long moment, Jiraiya stared at nothing, thoughts running across his face like shadows. Then he sighed again, rubbing his forehead. "Fine. I’ll find her. Drag her back if I have to."
Homura gave a curt nod. "We’ll assign ANBU to—"
"Don’t bother," Jiraiya cut him off. "I don’t need babysitters. I’ve got someone in mind to come with me anyway."
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The papers on Sarutobi’s desk stacked high, reports from the shadows. Seven years of ANBU intelligence, of missions and surveillance, and yet the pile seemed thin. Too thin. Not its physical thickness, no. The value in it. For all the effort poured into its creation, the information contained in the pile was sparse, disjointed, even absurd. Hiruzen turned the next page, scanned it, shook his head. The boy was like smoke. A ghost in his own village.
Sasuke Uchiha. The name appeared repeatedly throughout the files, yet any details of value were astonishingly lacking. There were no definitive answers, no revelations, only an array of cryptic and seemingly trivial observations. A child, a prodigy, and yet a void—someone they could never fully understand.
They had no clue what to make of him. The ANBU trailed him for months and gathered almost nothing. A boy his age should have left tracks. Patterns. Something. Anything. But Sasuke was a black hole, information disappeared around him. Not even his favourite food was certain. Sarutobi frowned, remembering Inoichi’s team. They’d spent years unravelling the boy’s cypher, decoding it. Six years for the most recent documents, and they’d finally cracked one. He laughed bitterly at what they found.
Fashion. Colour combinations. The right ones for his eyes. A list of which girls in his class ranked as most attractive by some cold, calculated measure. Meaningless things. It was almost like the boy had done it on purpose, toying with them. He’d broken their pride, one cypher at a time. Some had resigned, others transferred, unwilling to waste more time on what had become a humiliating exercise. Sarutobi almost let the whole thing go, ready to call off the mission. But the council. Always the council. They forced his hand, demanded more resources, more men, all for nothing more than a glorified diary.
Homura. Koharu. And Danzo pulling the strings behind them.
Sarutobi sighed and set the reports aside. He stood, pulling his robes into place, weary beyond the years he carried on his back. "Where’s Gai?" he asked aloud.
A shadow flickered beside him, Raidō Namiashi, scarred face, quiet voice. "Might Gai is with his students, training at Ground Twenty-Three, Hokage-sama."
Sarutobi nodded. "Fetch him."
Raidō bowed and disappeared, leaving Sarutobi alone with the reports and the heavy silence of a man who’d grown weary.
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When Gai appeared, it was like a gust of wind, a whirlwind of energy swirling with green leaves. "Hokage-sama!" he shouted, voice echoing through the chamber. "You summoned me!"
Sarutobi smiled faintly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. "Yes, Gai. I have a mission for you."
"I am ready!" Gai bellowed, eyes shining.
Sarutobi sighed, his gaze distant. "How well do you know Uchiha Sasuke?"
Gai’s face grew serious. "Not well, Hokage-sama."
Sarutobi nodded, as though that was what he expected. "I’m assigning him to your team, at least until Kakashi recovers. Your mission is simple. Gather information. Learn what you can about him. Anything at all."
He handed Gai a small booklet and a scroll. “The booklet contains Kakashi’s notes—what little he’s gathered so far. The scroll holds everything you need to know to conduct your investigation. This is a highly sensitive mission, Guy. Take care.”
Guy accepted the items with his usual vigour, though his brow furrowed as he glanced over them. “Hokage-sama… why am I being paid 2,000,000 ryō to spy on a child?”
Sarutobi’s face grew grim. "Hazard pay," he said quietly. "There are... suspicions. Kakashi’s current condition… may be his doing. This mission was upgraded to S-rank for a reason. Be cautious, Gai. Very cautious."
Gai’s demeanour shifted, his usual smile replaced by grim determination. “Understood, Hokage-sama. I will proceed with the utmost care.”
“Good,” Hiruzen said quietly. “And may fortune favour you, Gai. You’ll need it.”