The mountains stood dark against the clouds, their outlines clawing at the grey sky, shrouded in mist and melancholy. Itachi moved through the forested terrain, swift, silent, a shadow among the trees. His face, normally composed in its stoic mask, betrayed a flicker of something softer—an unguarded sigh.

Behind him, the voice of Tobi, relentless in its chatter, echoed in the emptiness. The absurdity of it unnerved Itachi. Tobi, or the thing calling itself Tobi, moved without a care, an actor in a play only he seemed to find amusing, his mask both literal and figurative. Itachi came to the cliff's edge, pausing to take in the crude shack below, a smudge against the valley’s muted hues. Their target was there, a man who thought himself hidden, safe. A fool, unaware of how much his enemies valued his death.

Itachi's gaze lingered as he began his descent, the incline sharp beneath his feet. He was distracted, more than he would like to afford. News of Sasuke had gone cold, his troublesome brother vanishing from the village like smoke, leaving nothing but embers of hatred behind. It was a hatred that burned more fiercely in the absence of news, the uncertainty gnawing at Itachi's heart.

The boy had always been reckless—a creature of impulse, never understanding the cost of his desires. In the silence of the mountains, Itachi felt the weight of his brother’s disobedience, the naive pursuit of power that had led him to walk paths of danger and darkness. Ah, young Sasuke, how far will you stray from the path I sought to set you upon?

The thoughts clung to him, a weariness beyond mere fatigue. Each step he took brought him closer to the shack, closer to the end of this mission, and closer to the ever-present agony of what he had done—to his clan, to his brother. The love that drove him twisted into this bitter parody of brotherhood, a love that had forced him to hurt, to maim, to curse his own kin.

Sasuke, my dear child, Itachi whispered in the sanctity of his mind as if the child might hear him, I did what I did out of love, out of duty, out of desperation. Please… forgive me.

He made quick work of the target, steel finding its way to the man’s heart with dispassionate ease. The life drained from the man’s eyes, and in that moment, Itachi found nothing—no satisfaction, no regret, only the quiet emptiness of another task completed. As he severed the head from the body, preparing it for delivery, his thoughts lingered on Sasuke—always Sasuke. How alike they were, walking paths filled with blood, shadows and the coldness of necessity. And yet, Itachi had walked it first, had paved it with the ashes of their family. All for him, that wicked child. Silly little thing.

Perhaps I should just leave him to his devices? The traitorous thought arose in Itachi’s heart

He is just a boy! Another growled in defence of the boy, H*e knows not what he does, or what power he wields. Who will watch over him if not for you? Who will keep him out of the trouble he so desperately—

Itachi turned then, and saw her—Konan—standing solitary on a rocky precipice, her cobalt eyes meeting his across the divide. Beside her, half-stumbling, waved as he ran towards her.

“Konan-san!” Tobi’s voice was bright, childish. “We weren’t expecting you!”

Itachi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “What brings you here?” he asked, his voice steady, betraying nothing.

Konan said nothing, her gaze cold, and then Itachi saw him—Pain—emerging from the shadows behind her. His orange hair stark against the backdrop, his eyes, those Rinnegan eyes, never wavering.

“You betrayed our trust,” Pain said. The accusation was flat, emotionless.

Itachi's gaze remained impassive, but his mind raced. “I don’t understand,” he lied.

“Konoha ordered the extermination of the Uchiha. Isn’t that correct?” Pain’s tone was not questioning; it was a statement, a truth laid bare.

A pause. A long, dreadful silence.

“Are you still following their orders, Uchiha?” Pain's voice sliced through the stillness. Itachi said nothing, the silence growing heavier, denser.

“Everyone knows now,” Konan added, her voice carrying a quiet disdain. “Your brother knows. The village has already named him a traitor. Did you think this could stay hidden forever?”

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The words struck like a physical blow. Itachi’s expression flickered—just for a moment, the mask cracking—before the emptiness returned.

“Scary,” Tobi’s voice came from where he lay sprawled dramatically on the ground. “Are you really going to kill him, Pain?”

Konan glanced down, her eyes dismissive. “Will you interfere?”

“Nope! Not. My. Bizz. Ness!”

Pain stepped forward, his gaze fixed on Itachi. “You will not leave this place alive, Itachi Uchiha. First Orochimaru, now you? It would be rather unbecoming of me to allow another traitor to go scot-free.”

Itachi straightened, his expression still calm, but in his heart, a maelstrom churned. The irony was not lost on him. He raised his eyes to Pain, the Rinnegan staring back with all the cruelty of fate. And for a fleeting moment, Itachi allowed himself a thought of his brother. Sasuke, that troublesome child...

A slight smile graced his face as he tensed in preparation for battle.

----------------------------------------

“Are you certain you want to do this?”

The snake sannin spoke, and we turned our gaze to meet his. The dawn was breaking, the sun casting an eerie light through the cloud-stricken sky. The horizon bled dim crimson, and above, the heavens seemed ablaze, as though touched by the hand of a deity with malice in his heart. Once, we might have stood here quietly, letting the beauty of the world swallow us whole. But that was before.

Before they took the only thing we cared about in this hollow, accursed world. Now our heart burned with hate, an old and vile hatred that begged to defile it all.

We took a few steps forward, peering down Minato’s sculpted forehead at the Hokage Residence below. Along the surface of the monument, our Sharingan caught traces of recent paint, splattered over to cover Naruto’s graffiti. A smile crept up, unbidden. The fool.

“Why do you ask?” we finally said, eyes still fixed on the village. “Cold feet?”

“I should be the one asking you that,” Orochimaru scoffed. “We’ve been waiting for thirty minutes, pointlessly. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you wanted us to fail.”

We shook our head, eyes still wandering over the place that had birthed us. “No,” we said. “Just curious. Nostalgic.”

“About?”

“Nothing important.”

A silence settled between us until Orochimaru spoke again, impatient. “So?”

Instead of replying, we smiled. We would answer not in words, but in action. This was the moment. The beginning of the end. We could feel it, the sense of it like an itch under the skin. Hate boiled inside us, and we let it simmer, feeling it spread through every vein, every nerve. Our gaze swept across the village, across its rooftops, its winding alleys, and then further out to the distant hills.

“Hate,” we whispered, our voice swallowed by the wind. “They scorned our hate. They took from us, believing our hatred to be something fleeting, ephemeral. Our hate? Our hate!” We clenched our fists, our chakra gathering, coiling. “The bitter poison of lost love. They scorned it. Never once did they consider the cost. They chose to forfeit their souls over a peaceful existence. They chose bondage, servitude to an endless cycle of suffering, to a wheel of retribution that knows no end.”

We closed our eyes, centring ourselves, pulling on every ounce of our being. The chakra gathered, flowed, surged. “Those who bear the weight of our hatred are cursed souls indeed,” we whispered. “Let their hearts be consumed by this curse, for they foolishly sought the path to ruin. They have become slaves to the whims of our rage, prisoners of our very obsessions.” Our eyes snapped open, the Sharingan spinning, and we reached into the fabric of reality, our left Mangekyo ablaze with power.

These eyes we bear—misty, tear-stained, ethereal orbs, emblems of our grief—once windows to our mortal soul… become crimson mirrors reflecting only the abyss!

We felt the strain, the chakra draining, burning away as the Mangekyo activated. Two-thirds of our reserves evaporated in an instant.

These eyes we bear—tainted, blood-stained, unholy things, emblems of our pain—once windows to our mortal soul…

Become…

HATE!

"Sōzōamatsukami… Hateful Tapestry!"

The world shifted, and chakra radiated from us, an unholy beacon detectable to every soul within a thousand miles.

“What… what was that?” Orochimaru’s voice was a whisper. We ignored him. Our gaze focused beyond the web of intangible red threads—threads connecting every living being within our sight. And there, at the heart of the village, the knot, the cluster, glowing with an obscene light, stood the focal point of it all.

"Hashirama Senju."

The name left our lips in a sibilant whisper, and we felt his attention snap towards us, as if hearing the call. There was a flicker, then another, and suddenly the First Hokage appeared on the rooftop before us, ferried by his brother, Tobirama, the Third Hokage trailing behind.

“This is the child?” Hashirama’s eyes were on us, his gaze heavy.

“Yes,” Tobirama replied.

Hiruzen said nothing, his eyes downcast, the same as they had been the morning after our clan was wiped out at his council’s behest.

We looked between the three of them, and a smile broke across our lips.

“Hello,” we said, lifting our prosthetic hand to wave. “Just dropping by to settle an old debt. Hope you don’t mind.”