The pain slowly seeped in. Despair right behind it, crawling in the bones. Rage came after, thick and black as oil, coursing through our veins as a writhing stream of corrosive chakra. A shuddering exhale escaped our lungs, slow and ragged, realization falling over us like a shroud. Something dark kindled in the corner of our mind. A cold flame licking at the fringes of our very being.

“Why?”

The question slithered out of our maw like something dead, a guttural rasp. The accursed weasel just stared, his red eyes blank as stone. Itachi. Always wondered why Father named him after such an ignoble thing. Tenjō no kotowari o shōakuseshi hitomi—Heavenly eyes that see the truth of all creation, they said. The myths about the Mangekyō clairvoyance—maybe they weren't myths after all.

“Why?” We asked again, our mortal form struggling to express the full extent of our ire. The rage clawed at the inside of our skull, a headache splitting open like a wound. A certain hollowness in the guts, afflicting us as a daemonic malediction. A pounding at the nape, and then something hot, like the sparks of a nascent flame, shooting up our spine and concentrating behind our temples. A warmth unlike that of tears wriggled and squirmed within our eyes. The world bled red and the sparks became an inferno, tearing through flesh and bone. Our eyes, the core of the blaze, burned like the heart of a dying star.

“Curiosity,” the beastly thing said. His voice was still, the chakra in him calm. “I wished to measure my vessel; my worth.”

Our breath caught, and the laugh came, escaping our maw. Cold, sharp. Laughter without joy. Cackling. “Your worth?” We let go of Mother's hand, cold and stiff now. Woe onto us, stalwart lover of mortal things. The foul thing we once called brother stared blankly at us; we stared back with a hopeless heart and hollowed soul.

Our eyes itched. Tears came hot, streaking down our cheeks. Our intent heaved, heeding our call; the universe heaved back in protest. They were not coming back. Not Mother, not Father, not Oba-san Uruchi with her penchant for gifting snacks nor her genial husband. Gone. All of them. Forever.

Clawed fingers struck forwards, the air screeching as it was parted cruelly by our chakra-coated digits. With a harsh crack, we disintegrated a wooden pillar across the room. Itachi watched from the corner, his eyes never leaving us. Mocking.

“Little brother,” he said. “You’re weak. Pathetic. You want to kill me? Settle for hating me instead. Hate me, and live like the failure you are. Continue clinging unto your worthless existence for as long as you can; this little I grant you for the sake of my own amusement."

We lunged, fist flying for his head, but the weasel, true to his name, was gone before the strike could land, flickering to the door. Our eyes met, and only at that moment did we realise the extent of our folly. Crimson spun, twisting, morphing as it birthed a three-bladed shuriken.

“Tsukuyomi,” the weasel whispered. The world melted, sloughing off like old skin drenched in acid, leaving behind some perverted replica of its essence.

“Kai!” We screamed, trying to break the Genjutsu. Alas, it held fast, the illusion wrapping tighter.

“Sasuke!” We turned, heart pounding, to see Mother on her knees, Father beside her, silent and still. “Run—” The blade flashed, and blood sprayed from Mother's neck, her head sliding to the ground with a morbid thud: Father's followed immediately after.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

We blinked, struck senseless by the inexplicable suddenness of it all. A cold gasp; we blinked again, eyes watering as we fell to our knees. Lies. A clinical portion of our ego reminded us. They were already dead. Then, mockingly, the bodies disappeared, replaced by another caricature.

The weasel was toying with us, we realised.

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How long has it been?

“Pathetic.”

How many times had it been now?

“Sasuke! Run!”

“Mikoto!”

Measure my vessel; my worth, he said. Curiosity, he called it.

Steel.

Blood.

Bile.

Tears.

Spiralling crimson.

Rinse.

Repeat.

…

Repeat

Repeat

Repeat

Endlessly, the caricature played. With a hint of dramatic flair, it evolved with each new iteration, mocking us. Mocking our inadequacy. Our resolve. But the first memory remained, the original untainted by his filth. The swaying—ruined—Uchiha logo hanging from Oji-san Teyaki's vandalised senbei shop; the cold corpses, young and old, littering the district streets; rivulets of the noblest blood pooling in the gutters. Our parents, murdered by a weasel.

The Weasel.

The door creaked open. A woman in white stepped in, dark-haired and small. A nurse, her face pale. She stood frozen halfway into the room with a tray of medication in her arms.

“Otousan,” she whispered, her tray slipping from her hands. With a metallic clatter and the tinkling peal of broken glass, it hit the floor. We looked at her, into her, past her—at our reflection in her wide eyes. Worn, broken. Unrecognizable. Undignified.

“Leave me.”

The mortal fled, and soon after the masked figure appeared in the window, an ANBU crouched there, kunai drawn.

“Sasuke?”

“Leave,” we rasped. The words scratched our throat. The rage still burned inside, unabated, but we were too tired to let it out.

A pause.

“Very well,” he said, and vanished into the night.

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“Sasuke.”

“Yes?” The Hokage’s voice cut through the fog in our mind. “Are you listening?”

“Yes.”

“Your brother, Itachi—”

“Murdered my clan,” we said. “To measure his worth, he said. His vessel.”

A pause. “He’s been marked an S-rank criminal,” the Hokage said. “To be brought in dead or alive.”

“Is that all?”

“Itachi will face justice,” the Hokage promised. “For his crimes. I assure you.”

“And how am I to believe that?” We turned to him then, curious. “You couldn’t protect them. My clan, slaughtered on Konoha’s soil. How am I to trust you with justice when you couldn’t save them? What use is the fanciful Kasa you wear on your head if even an entire clan is not safe in your care?”

The Hokage grimaced. We stared at him, disappointment in every line of our face. Pathetic.

“Don’t trouble yourself, Hokage-sama,” we said. “I’ll handle it.”

“Forgive me, Sasuke-kun,” he said with a sigh. “I wasn’t strong enough. I know you’re hurt. But remember, no matter what you do, if you live and die as you like, the village always comes first.”

Not strong enough. The words stung. We turned away, looking out the window at the rain falling hard. The scent of cleaner fluid, of petrichor—undertones of copper and salt

It tasted of blood. Our blood.