Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

'Train wreck, there ain't nothing left
I'm on the brink of destruction
I can't think, I can't function
New eyes, I don't recognize me'

He’s about four or five years old when his mind finally catches up, when the memories—his memories, yet not—come crashing down on him all at once. And holy fuck, does it suck.

Because he’s Sasuke, but not Sasuke. A child, yet burdened with the knowledge of a past life he was never meant to have. And worst of all, he knows what’s coming. The Uchiha Massacre isn’t some distant possibility—it’s a countdown, ticking away toward the inevitable slaughter of his family.

Mediocrity will get them killed. Complacency will sign their death warrants. Staying quiet, acting like the naïve little brother everyone expects him to be, won’t save a single soul.

There has to be a way out. Some loophole. Some legal technicality he can exploit. Danzo manipulated the situation, backed the Uchiha into a corner using isolation tactics so that when the time came, their deaths would be seen as necessary. Acceptable. But Konoha wasn’t built on land that belonged to just the Senju. The Uchiha had just as much claim to it. So what right did the village have to push them aside? To force them into the shadows?

That’s how it works, isn’t it? Out of sight, out of mind. Push them far enough away, and when they’re gone, no one will care.

But no one pays attention to a bright-eyed, naive little Sasuke. No one looks too closely at the second son of the clan head, the boy perpetually standing in his older brother’s shadow. And that’s an advantage.

Konoha has an archive. If the original Senju-Uchiha treaty still exists, it has to be there. If there’s even one clause, one line of legal text that contradicts the forced relocation, it could be the crack he needs to start unraveling this entire mess.

But to get into the archive, he needs access. And access means authority.

The Uchiha clan signet—the symbol of the clan head’s power—sits in his father’s office. A small, easily overlooked object. An easy thing to steal for someone with close access like Sasuke. And with it, he can enter the archives without question.

So he moves. Small feet silent against the floors of the compound, hands steady despite the weight of what he’s about to do. A few people glance at him, some curious, some indifferent—but none stop him.

Why would they? He’s just the clan head’s second son. The spare heir. The overlooked child. The one who will never outshine his prodigious older brother.

And that makes him the perfect person to slip through the cracks unnoticed. 

Itachi is away on an Anbu mission, his father is occupied at the Military Police headquarters, and his mother—distracted by the luncheon she’s hosting for her circle of mom friends—only spares Sasuke the occasional glance.

The perfect conditions. The perfect opportunity.

No one is watching too closely. No one expects anything from the quiet, obedient second son.

It’s time to make his move.

The streets of Konoha are a patchwork of ramshackle buildings and cozy storefronts, giving the village a warm, lived-in charm. But beneath the surface, a dictatorship is still a dictatorship, no matter how much you dress it up in nostalgia and whimsy.

Living in a ninja village has its quirks—idyllic on the outside, suffocating once you look too closely.

Maybe this Sasuke should be more cynical about Konoha. Given everything he knows, he has every reason to be. But after a lifetime of watching Naruto the anime in another world, he can’t help but have a soft spot for the village—even if he knows better.

Still, a part of him sees Konoha as his. The Uchiha helped build it, their hands just as vital to its foundation as the Senju’s. No matter how the village treats them now, it will always be their legacy, too.

Sasuke looks up at the Hokage Rock, a monument as excessive as the village it looms over.

Hashirama, the so-called God of Shinobi, was nothing more than an overgrown child with reckless mood swings and a gambling addiction—not that the propaganda ever mentions that. That being said as goofy as a certain side of Hashirama is the man still makes Sasuke shudder while imagining all those enemies he must have impaled on trees. 

Then there’s Tobirama, the infamous Uchiha hater, too preoccupied with shaping Konoha’s institutions to ever reproduce. Good riddance, Sasuke thinks.

The Third Hokage comes next—a sentimental fool wrapped in the illusion of wisdom. The Professor. Sasuke almost sneers at the title, yet for reasons beyond his understanding, his mother saw fit to name him after Hiruzen’s father.

And finally, Minato. The Fourth Hokage. The Yellow Flash who like lightning was gone too soon.

His small feet eventually take him past the Academy, where the laughter of children echoes through the training yard. For a moment, he slows, watching as students practice their basic drills, their lives still untouched by the weight of reality.

It’s almost funny. Some of these kids will grow up to be shinobi, will live and die for a village built on sacrifice and buried truths. After all for the Will of Fire to burn it needs fuel and maybe that fuel is the commodity of cannon fodder thrown on a funeral pyre. Others will simply never make it to genin and move on with their lives.

But Sasuke doesn’t have time for sentimentality. He keeps moving, slipping past the Academy’s gates and deeper into the village, his goal set firmly in mind.

The Konoha Archive sits near the abandoned Senju district, a quiet reminder of a clan that once stood at the heart of the village but has long since faded into obscurity. War thinned their numbers, time scattered their legacy.

Many married into other families, their name lost to history, while the last true Senju—Tsunade—couldn’t bear to remain in a place that... no longer felt like home.

The weight of the past, the memories of a clan that had once been so vital, had become too much for her to bear. She left, unable to stay in a district that felt like a ghost of what it once was—its streets empty, its legacy forgotten by all but the oldest of the village's elders.

Now, the Senju district is little more than a quiet, decaying shadow of its former glory, a place forgotten by most, save for a few lingering remnants of a lost era. And nestled at the edge of it all, the Konoha Archive stands as a final, silent sentinel to a history that Konoha itself seems eager to bury.

A handful of Anbu stand watch, their presence silent and imposing.

Yet Sasuke flashes the Uchiha signet with practiced ease, a subtle but undeniable display of his clan’s authority. The Anbu guards barely spare him a second glance, knowing better than to question the second son of the Uchiha clan head.

They likely assume he’s been sent by his father on a simple errand, one of those Konoha traditions where children are entrusted with small tasks as a rite of passage. A cultural phenomenon, of sorts, where the youngest members of prominent families are given small responsibilities to carry out, signaling their entry into the community of Konoha.

The Konoha archives are dusty and dimly lit, the air heavy with the musty scent of old paper and forgotten history. Rows upon rows of scrolls and brittle books line the shelves, some in disarray, others carefully organized but all of them a silent testament to the village’s past.

It’s the kind of place that feels frozen in time, where secrets are hidden in plain sight, waiting to be uncovered. And so, Sasuke starts poking around, his small hands deftly brushing over the spines of ancient scrolls and brittle pages.

He moves with quiet purpose, his eyes scanning for anything that might lead him to the information he needs. His mind races, carefully avoiding any obvious mistakes as he inches deeper into the archive’s labyrinth of forgotten knowledge, searching for that one thing that might turn the tide.

With his back turned, he’s too absorbed in the task at hand, eyes scanning the brittle parchment before him, fingers brushing over faded ink. The weight of the archive presses in around him—heavy with dust, with the scent of old paper and something else, something colder. The silence is thick, broken only by the occasional creak of wooden shelves as they settle under years of history.

Then—

A hand clamps down on his shoulder.

Sasuke freezes.

The grip isn’t rough, but it’s firm—solid, real. And yet, he hadn’t heard anything. No footsteps, no whisper of movement. Nothing. His body tenses, heart hammering against his ribs as his mind races to process the sheer impossibility of it.

Slowly, cautiously, he turns his head.

Behind him stands a girl.

She’s taller than him, probably marginally older, and wrong in a way he can’t immediately explain. Her complexion is ghostly pale, almost sickly. The dim lantern light does nothing to warm her skin—instead, it only makes her look more unreal, as though she belongs to the shadows more than the world of the living.

Her hair is short and spiky, almost silver but definitely white, sharp strands falling just past her ears. It doesn’t suit the traditional elegance of her kimono, a muted thing with long, flowing sleeves that only add to the eerie contrast. She should look refined. She doesn’t. There’s something about her that feels too still, too quiet, as if the air around her refuses to shift.

And then there are her eyes.

Red—not like the familiar crimson of the Sharingan, but deeper, darker. Colder. Like dried blood in the moonlight, like something ancient and unfathomable staring back at him with quiet intensity. They don’t just look at him—they assess, weigh, judge.

"You’re not supposed to be here," she murmurs, voice soft but cutting through the silence like a blade. It doesn’t waver, doesn’t rise in question. It’s a statement, a fact.

Sasuke’s fingers twitch at his sides, instincts screaming at him to move, to react—but something about her presence roots him in place. He prides himself on his awareness, on knowing what's going to happen.

But she—

She had snuck up on him.

And that?

That’s impossible.

Senju Akemi had inherited the albinism of her great-grandfather, a rare and unmistakable trait that set her apart even among the dwindling remnants of her once-great clan.

Her complexion was ghostly pale, her hair a shade so light it was nearly white, and her eyes—keen, discerning, and always quietly watchful—were overly sensitive to the sun. The bright daylight was a nuisance at best, a genuine hindrance at worst, forcing her to seek shade and cool interiors whenever possible.

It made life as a shinobi inconvenient, to say the least. On one hand, she possessed an uncanny gift as a sensor; her awareness stretched far beyond what most could manage, allowing her to read chakra like a second language, to feel disturbances in the air before they happened, to know the moment someone stepped within range of her attention. It should have made her invaluable. Should have.

But on the other hand, sunlight drained her like a leech on skin, leaving her sluggish and exhausted after too long outdoors. She burned far too easily, her skin quick to turn red and raw if she lingered in direct sunlight for more than an hour.

Training under the harsh glare of the sky was out of the question. Fieldwork sounded miserable. She had no interest in covering herself head to toe in layers just to endure a lifestyle that didn't suit her.

Technically there was a certain technique Tobirama had invented to counteract his own sensitivity to the sun and water. It was a jutsu that wrapped him in a thin veil of mist, cooling his skin and diffusing harsh light. Yet that required the chakra control of a trained ninja. 

And so, she didn’t.

With the Senju clan reduced to nearly nonexistence, there was no real pressure to live up to a legacy that had all but faded into history. No brothers or sisters, nor cousins to compare herself to. No elders looming over her shoulder with expectations she had to meet. No clan head demanding she train harder or carry their name into the next generation.

She was, for better or worse, free.

Or adrift, depending on who you asked.

Her honorary uncle, Sarutobi Hiruzen, had his own opinions on the matter. He thought she should do something with her life. Put her talents to use, contribute to the village, step out of her self-imposed seclusion. There were plenty of paths available to her, he had said, gently at first, then more insistently when she failed to act. He reminded her that she had too much potential to let it waste away.

Akemi, however, found no particular urgency in the matter.

Why rush toward a purpose she didn’t want?

She preferred the quiet solace of Konoha’s archives, where the scent of old parchment and ink filled the air, where knowledge slumbered between dusty scrolls and forgotten texts, waiting to be rediscovered.

The archives were peaceful, tucked away from the village’s usual bustle. The world outside moved fast, full of people chasing something—power, prestige, duty, ambition. In contrast, the archives remained untouched by the passage of time. It was her sanctuary. A place where no one expected anything of her.

Comfortable. Predictable.

And then came the Uchiha brat.

A disruption.

This little ember, burning far too hot in the stillness of her routine.

Akemi had noticed him long before he ever noticed her—how could she not? His chakra was sharp-edged and stormy, like a brewing tempest waiting to be unleashed. Even when he was still, he radiated a quiet intensity, the kind of simmering potential that promised he would one day become something formidable. He was quiet, yes, but not calm. There was an impatience in him, an urge to prove himself, to seek, to understand.

It was a contrast to her own existence.

She was still water; he was the stone that disturbed the surface.

And when he finally did notice her, his reaction was almost amusing.

His shoulders tensed, muscles coiling like a startled stray, his chakra spiking in alarm. He was reactive and bristling, like a spicy kitten that had just been flicked on the nose—trying to look intimidating but only making himself seem more ridiculous in the process.

Akemi simply tilted her head, watching him with mild curiosity, her lips curling ever so slightly in amusement.

This could be interesting.

Chapter Text

'How did we get here
When I used to know you so well?
How did we get here?
Well, I think I know'

Sasuke tensed. How had she gotten so close without him noticing?

“What?” he snapped, sharper than intended.

The girl didn’t react. If anything, she just… watched. Lazily. Like she had all the time in the world. Like she had already figured something out about him and found it vaguely amusing.

Then, after a long pause, she shrugged.

Sasuke’s eye twitched.

He didn’t like that.

Didn’t like her looking at him like that—like he was some startled kitten arching its back. Didn’t like that she had been so close without him realizing. And he especially didn’t like that she was still there when she clearly wasn’t doing anything.

“What?” he demanded again, irritation creeping into his voice.

The girl tilted her head slightly, considering. Then, as if stating something obvious, she murmured, “you’re loud.”

Sasuke bristled. “I wasn’t—” He cut himself off, his scowl deepening.

Her lips curved—just a little. Not quite a smirk, but close.

Sasuke felt his irritation spike.

Who was this girl? And why was she acting like she belonged here more than he did?

“Hmph.” He turned away with a scowl, snatching up a scroll. Hopefully this one would hold what he was looking for. 

She didn’t move. Didn’t leave.

She just kept watching.

Like she had all the time in the world.

Sasuke plunked down in a secluded corner, his back pressed against a dusty shelf. He unfolded the scroll in his hands, but his mind was elsewhere. The girl—who the hell was she?

Her presence lingered in the back of his mind, a whisper that refused to fade. The way she watched him, like she was seeing something hidden behind his facade, something he didn’t want anyone to see.

It irritated him, more than he cared to admit.

The soft rustle of paper barely broke the silence around him. He tried to focus on the information in front of him—something about the early days of Konoha’s founding, a map of alliances that might hint at the Uchiha’s place in the village's history. It should have been enough to drown out everything else.

But she was still there.

Sasuke glanced up, his eyes narrowing as he searched for her in the dim light. She hadn’t moved an inch. She was standing by the entrance, looking at nothing in particular but still somehow watching.

It was almost like she didn’t care about being seen.

Sasuke wasn’t sure why, but that unsettled him. He had been trained to notice things—patterns, inconsistencies, anything that could give him an edge. He had learned to watch and calculate, to blend into the shadows and make people forget he was there.

But she wasn’t like that.

Sasuke felt his muscles tense again, but this time, he didn’t snap at her. Instead, he just stared, trying to understand her, to figure out what made her so… strange.

The girl finally moved, but not in the way he expected. She didn’t approach him, didn’t walk away. She simply shifted, her eyes still locked on him, but her posture relaxed, like she was perfectly at ease in this ancient, forgotten space.

He could feel her gaze weighing on him, and something in him responded to it—an instinct, a flare of irritation mixed with curiosity.

“What do you want?” Sasuke asked, his voice cutting through the silence.

Her gaze flickered briefly, then returned to its piercing focus. “I’m not sure,” she said, her tone almost thoughtful, as if she hadn’t expected him to ask.

Sasuke frowned. He was getting tired of these cryptic answers, these vague responses that didn’t make sense.

“Why are you here?” He needed to know—no, wanted to know—what the hell she was doing in his personal space, because he was allergic to people who weren't part of his immediate family.

She didn’t answer right away. Instead, her eyes seemed to scan him more intently now, like she was reading him with a precision that unsettled him.

“I could ask you the same thing,” she finally replied, her voice still calm, but there was a flicker of something in her eyes—something almost knowing.

Sasuke’s brow furrowed.

The nerve of this girl.

He gritted his teeth and turned back to the scroll in front of him, but his focus was completely shattered. Her presence was a constant, undeniable weight pressing down on him.

Why was she still here?

"That's an advanced scroll you're reading," she remarked, her tone laced with a mix of curiosity and mild amusement. "Why does a brat like you need to be reading up on ancient history?"

Sasuke didn’t flinch at her words, though a faint flicker of annoyance sparked in his chest. He looked up from the scroll, meeting her gaze with a steady, calm expression. "Out of personal curiosity," he replied, his voice low and even. "I'm curious about the Senju-Uchiha treaty. After all, it’s the foundation for how the two of us are here in the first place."

The girl tilted her head, eyes narrowing just slightly as if contemplating his words. She took a step closer, her footsteps soft against the floor of the archive, her presence calm but somehow unsettling. "The treaty, huh?" she repeated, as if testing the weight of the words on her tongue. "You mean the agreement that kept the peace between those two clans after generations of war? The same treaty that helped keep the Uchiha from destroying everything in sight?"

Sasuke didn’t answer right away, but a faint clenching of his jaw was the only outward sign of how her words landed. She was right, in a sense but definitely biased—his clan had been bound by the treaty, forced to live in peace with their rivals, the Senju, after years of bloodshed.

Some Uchiha were never fully comfortable with that peace, always suspicious, always watching for the first sign of betrayal. It wasn’t the way of warriors to simply stop fighting, stop competing.

But still, the treaty was important—and it was the reason for everything that came afterward. The foundation of Konoha. The reason he was here, trying to find answers, trying to understand the broken legacy of his family.

"Why are you interested in it?" she asked, her voice almost too soft, as though she already knew the answer. "The history of your clan, I mean. It's not like it's... well, a pleasant story."

Sasuke looked at the scroll again, the faded ink and brittle paper reminding him of the weight of his heritage. "I need to understand my clan's rights," he said, his voice steady but tinged with an unspoken intensity. "After the Nine-Tailed Fox incident, my family... they were forced to relocate. We were pushed to the edge of the village, like we are outcasts, shoved into a corner like we didn’t matter." 

The girl sighed, "You're not going to find what you're looking for there, here try this one instead."

Sasuke’s fingers tightened around the new scroll that was given to him. His instincts screamed at him to ignore her, to brush off the unsolicited advice. But there was something in the way she said it—so casual, so certain—that made his skin prickle.

He narrowed his eyes, studying her. “And how would you know?”

The girl’s lips twitched, the almost-smirk returning. “I’ve read it before.”

Sasuke snorted. “Sure you have.”

Without waiting for a response, he unraveled more of his scroll, his eyes running over lines of text. But the words bled together, their meaning lost beneath the weight of her presence. He could feel her gaze, sharp and unyielding, pressing against his skull.

His patience snapped. “If you’re just here to mess with me, you can leave.”

She didn’t move. Didn’t even blink. “If I was here to mess with you, you’d know.”

Her voice was still soft, still calm, but there was an edge to it now. Something beneath the surface, a ripple in still water.

Sasuke forced himself to look away, focusing on the scroll. His knuckles were white against the brittle parchment. “Then what section of this scroll should I be looking over?” he muttered, the question barely more than a growl.

Before he could react, her hands moved, fast but gentle. Suddenly, he was lifted off the ground, his feet dangling. She picked him up like a doll, as if he weighed nothing at all, and carried him deeper into the archives.

“Wait—put me down!” he snapped, but she only hummed, the sound oddly soothing despite the absurdity of the situation.

She settled against a stone pillar, her back against the cool surface, and shifted him into her lap. Sasuke’s body went rigid, his cheeks burning with embarrassment and anger, but she held him firmly in place.

“Relax,” she murmured, her arms loose but present around him. “You wanted answers, didn’t you?”

He squirmed, every instinct telling him to get away, to reassert his autonomy, but the old scroll remained in his grip, and her hold wasn’t forceful—just… patient. Her warmth seeped into him, the steady rise and fall of her breathing a strange anchor.

She reached over, her pale fingers brushing against the edge of the middle of the parchment. “Right there.”

Sasuke hesitated, his pulse thrumming beneath his skin. The scroll’s seal was faded, its paper material worn with age. He forced himself to focus, to push down the flutter of discomfort at being held like this, and took back the scroll from her hand.

The old document seemed like it would crumble under his touch, and as he ran a finger across the kanji, the parchment crackled like old bones. The first lines of text sent a chill down his spine. It was an account—handwritten, detailed—of the early days of Konoha. This was raw. Uncensored.

A quiet hum of agreement. “Not all histories are meant to be remembered. But that doesn’t mean they’re gone.”

His breathing steadied, though his heart still pounded in his ears. “Who are you?”

Her head tilted, her red eyes distant. “No one important.”

He didn’t believe her.

“Then why show me this?” he asked, the question more fragile than he intended.

She was quiet for a long moment. “Because you asked. And because knowing the truth is the first step to changing it.”

Her words wrapped around him, sinking deep. Sasuke’s shoulders sagged, the tension bleeding out of him as he turned another page.

The two of them remained there, cocooned in the shadows of the archive. She didn’t push him, didn’t rush him—just read alongside him, her presence a constant, steadying weight.

The scroll's parchment crackled under Sasuke's fingers as he smoothed it open further, his eyes narrowing as he deciphered the faded ink. The more he read, the deeper the unease settled in his chest. Each line unraveled another strand of the tightly wound history he thought he knew.

The provisions were explicit. The land upon which Konoha was built was not simply ceded by the Senju or claimed by conquest. It was a joint endeavour, a union between the Uchiha and Senju, sealed in ink and blood.

The document bore the signatures of both Hashirama Senju and Madara Uchiha, their names flanked by clan seals that had faded to ghosts of their former vibrancy.

The terms were clear: The Uchiha and Senju held joint stewardship and ownership over the land. Their agreement was not merely a gesture of peace but a binding contract—one that ensured their shared responsibility and rights over the growing village.

It established that the other clans, those who joined Konoha later, would not owe taxes to the Uchiha or Senju as long as they contributed to the village’s governance and development. The Aburame, Nara, Yamanaka, Akimichi, and others had all ratified the agreement, their clan leaders’ marks scratched into the parchment alongside their ancestors.

The logic was sound—practical, even. The fledgling village needed unity, not feudal systems of tribute. The Uchiha and Senju had relinquished their claim to tax or tithe from those who served Konoha's ideals, who bolstered its defenses and economy. It was a promise of equality, of shared purpose.

Sasuke’s lips curled into a dangerous smirk as the realization settled over him. This scroll wasn’t just a relic—it was leverage. A bargaining chip sharp enough to cut through Konoha’s tangled web of lies. His pulse thundered in his ears, every beat a reminder that this time, he held the power.

The scroll detailed not just the land agreement but the original governance structure—a promise of parity between the founding clans, of shared leadership that had been quietly erased from history. The Uchiha weren’t meant to be watchdogs on the village’s fringes. They were meant to be equals, architects of Konoha’s future.

But somewhere along the way, that vision had been swallowed by bureaucracy. Policies and edicts had paved over the Uchiha’s place in the village, until their name was synonymous with suspicion. And at the center of it all, he could almost see Danzo’s shadow, his pale, bandaged face twisted in the mockery of a smile.

Sasuke could practically hear the old warhawk’s voice, cold and calculating: The Uchiha were always a threat. But now, Sasuke had proof that the threat had been manufactured—not by the Uchiha, but by those who feared them.

His grip tightened around the scroll, and he allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. Take that, you fuck face, Danzo. 

"Have you found what you needed? If so I'll escort you home." She remained perfectly at ease, her red eyes sharp and unblinking.

Sasuke glanced up. Her voice had pulled him out of his thoughts, the weight of history momentarily giving way to the present. His eyebrows furrowing in disbelief. “Why do I need to be chaperoned by someone who’s also a kid?”

Her lips twitched into a grin. "Sure I'm the kid but you're the one who's the freaky smart toddler."

Sasuke scowled at her. "I'm not a toddler."

"You sure look like one."

"I don't even know your name!" He huffed, his cheeks flushing slightly.

She paused, her gaze thoughtful. "Akemi," she murmured, her voice softer now. "Senju Akemi."

Sasuke froze.

The name rattled around in his head, sending a chill down his spine. He stared at her, his eyes wide.

She was a Senju. Various preconceived notions Sasuke had about the state of Konoha went out the window.

Chapter Text

'Life goes on, it gets so heavy
The wheel breaks the butterfly, every tear a waterfall'

The late afternoon sun bathed the village in warm hues of amber and gold as Itachi moved through Konoha’s quiet streets. Shadows stretched long across the rooftops, and the lingering heat of the day clung to the air. The mission had been efficient, quick and decisive, as expected.

Hatake, as always, had been an adequate Anbu captain. His approach lacked subtlety, but perhaps that was by design. His unpredictability threw their enemies off, forcing them into mistakes that Team Ro could exploit. It was reckless, but it worked.

Not that it mattered now. The mission was over. Itachi's mask was tucked away, and all that remained was the quiet pull of home.

His mind had already wandered to the thought of something far more pressing, dango. The idea of biting into the sweet, chewy treat was enough to make his steps unconsciously quicken, but reality tempered the temptation just as quickly.

He should have lingered long in the Anbu locker room to clean up. He knew that with the dried blood still in his hair and the faint metallic scent clinging to his frumpy clothes—his mother wouldn’t be pleased.

It wouldn’t be the first time she scolded him for coming home in such a state, and it wouldn’t be the last. But after days away, the thought of lingering any longer in that cold, impersonal space was unbearable. He just wanted to step through the gates of the Uchiha district, hear the familiar sounds of home, and—most of all—see Sasuke.

Sasuke would be waiting for him. He always was.

Even when he tried to act composed, there was always that unmistakable flicker of excitement in his younger brother’s eyes whenever Itachi returned. Sometimes Sasuke would rush to greet him at the entrance, eager to share every detail of the past few days. Other times, he would stubbornly pretend he hadn’t been waiting, only to hover at Itachi’s side moments later, peppering him with questions.

It was a small thing, but it was one of the few constants Itachi could rely on. No matter what shadows clung to him after a mission, Sasuke’s presence had a way of grounding him.

But as he stepped through the compound gates, an unsettling silence met him.

No hurried footsteps. No eager voice calling his name.

Sasuke wasn’t there.

Itachi’s stride slowed. His senses stretched outward, searching for the familiar flicker of his brother’s presence, but the compound felt… off. Not empty, but quieter than it should have been.

Where was he?

The exhaustion that had weighed on Itachi moments ago faded beneath a sharper awareness. He had expected to return home to the usual routine—to his mother’s mild irritation and fussing, to his father’s solemn nod, to Sasuke waiting for him.

But Sasuke wasn’t here.

And that was enough to put Itachi on edge. Maybe, just maybe, he was overthinking it. The shift from mission mode to normalcy always took a while, the clash of mentalities jarring and hard to shake off.

But then his mind just had to rationalize every shadow, every whisper of wind. Logic clawed its way in, dissecting the mundane for hidden threats, an unshakable remnant of mission mentality that refused to let him fully settle. A small deviation in routine was not to be ignored. 

Because when it came to the things he loved, being cautious was second nature, an instinct carved deep into his bones. Love, not hatred after all, was the curse of the Uchiha, a flame that burned too hot, turning devotion into danger and affection lost into agony.

Itachi’s hand twitched, a subtle gesture that belied the calm expression on his face. His Sharingan flared to life, crimson and onyx pinwheels spinning as he took in every detail of the compound. The shadows seemed deeper than usual, the air heavy with an unspoken tension.

He moved silently, his footsteps muffled against the worn stones of the courtyard. His gaze swept over the windows of the main house, but the curtains remained still. No soft silhouettes behind shoji screens, no laughter or the faint clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Just silence.

Itachi’s mind raced through possibilities. Sasuke might be training, he often lingered at the edge of the compound, stubbornly practicing his shuriken techniques. But even then, his mother or a distant cousin should have been around. The Uchiha district, usually so full of life, felt hollow.

He resisted the urge to call out. Instead, he reached out with his chakra, a quiet ripple through the stillness. It came back muted, tangled with the remnants of old emotions—faint traces of frustration, anxiety, and something colder beneath.

A soft rustle drew his attention. His hand moved to the kunai at his hip, but he didn’t draw it. Instead, he turned slowly, eyes narrowing.

Tora the Cat, well... The fifteenth in a long lineage of cats named Tora emerged from the shadows. That same menace of a cat had escaped once again, leaving some unlucky genin team to deal with the inevitable task of cat retrieval. Itachi exhaled, a slow and controlled release of tension, but it did little to ease the tightness in his chest.

Where are you, Sasuke?

He moved deeper into the compound, his pace quickening. The training grounds were empty—shuriken embedded in targets, kunai scattered in the grass. Signs of practice, but no sign of his brother.

He reached the engawa of the main house and slid the door open. The cool air inside smelled of incense and home, but it did nothing to settle his unease. A quiet, domestic scene. But there were no voices. His mother’s shoes were by the door, neatly placed. 

“Itachi?”

His head snapped to the side, Sharingan bright. His mother stood at the end of the hall, her face drawn with worry. Her hair was slightly mussed, a few strands falling out of place—a rare sight for someone as meticulous as the Uchiha matriarch.

“Mother,” he said, his voice even, though the tension coiled beneath the surface. “Where’s Sasuke?”

Makoto exhaled, the relief in her voice unmistakable, though her expression remained composed. “Good, you’re home.”

She stepped closer, hands folding in front of her as if to steady herself. It was subtle, but Itachi noticed—the way her fingers gripped the fabric of her sleeve, the faint crease between her brows.

"Your father just sent out a search warrant."

The words landed like a shuriken to the chest, sharp and immediate.

Itachi’s posture stiffened. A search warrant meant this wasn’t just Sasuke dawdling on his way home. His father didn’t act on trivial concerns, and the fact that he had mobilized the clan meant something was truly wrong.

"Why?" Itachi asked, his voice even, but his senses stretched outward, already seeking an answer.

Makoto hesitated, glancing toward the dimly lit hallway as if debating how much to say. “He disappeared around lunchtime.”

Lunchtime. That meant Sasuke had been missing for hours.

Itachi’s fingers twitched at his side, the only outward sign of his growing unease.

Makoto swallowed, pressing her lips together before continuing. “I was hosting a luncheon with the other mothers.” There was a waver in her voice now, quiet and full of self-recrimination. “We were just talking, laughing. I didn’t think—” She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. “I didn’t realize he was gone until much later.”

Itachi processed that quickly. A clan gathering, casual conversation—nothing unusual. No reason for her to have been on high alert.

But Sasuke wasn’t reckless. He wasn’t the type to wander aimlessly or sneak off on a whim. He was a well-behaved child, always mindful of his actions, as if he carried the weight of expectation on his small shoulders.

How could he have disappeared?

“I asked around,” Makoto continued, shaking her head. “No one saw anything. No one remembers him leaving. One moment he was here, and then—” She exhaled, looking away. “Then he wasn’t.”

A weight settled in Itachi’s chest, cold and unrelenting.

There was no sign of a struggle. No hasty reports of an intruder. Just an ordinary afternoon, a quiet day, and then Sasuke was gone.

Itachi met his mother’s gaze. “I’ll find him.”

Makoto nodded, but her hands were still clenched at her sides, the weight of guilt heavy in her posture.

There was no time for reassurances. No space for comfort.

Without another word, Itachi turned and stepped back into the stark evening, the glow of home fading behind him as his mind honed to a single, unshakable focus.

Find Sasuke.

Sasuke wasn’t entirely sure why he had allowed himself to be escorted home by a kid who looked only a year or two older than him. Maybe it was shock, maybe exhaustion, or maybe he just didn’t have the energy to argue.

Whatever the reason, he found himself being led through the village by a girl who bore an unsettling resemblance to the Second Hokage. The same sharp features, the same perpetually serious expression that, depending on the angle, made it unclear whether Tobirama Senju was eternally stoic or just perpetually constipated.

And yet, despite the resemblance, Akemi’s features were softer, less severe, lacking that air of barely restrained authority. Had this random Senju ever existed in the Naruto anime or manga? Certainly, she was never mentioned in the canon of a narrative Sasuke remembered enjoying in another life.

Maybe she was a person deemed unimportant to be included in Kishimoto’s creative vision, or perhaps she had one of those vague, off-screen deaths that so many faceless cannon fodder characters suffered. A name in the margins, a shadow that never stepped into the light.

But thanks to some whatever butterfly effect, Sasuke and Akemi crossed paths. She was here, alive, and gripping his hand like it was the only thing that mattered, showing no signs of ever letting go.

She moved with purpose, her posture unwavering even as they passed wary villagers who cast cautious glances in their direction. To them, the sight of a Senju leading an Uchiha by the hand was likely a spectacle, one that would no doubt fuel the village gossip mill for weeks to come, giving the wary onlookers something to whisper about in their otherwise dull lives.

But Akemi paid them no mind. She never faltered, never glanced back at Sasuke to make sure he was still following. It was as if she simply expected him to.

Thinking too much about the logistics of it all made Sasuke’s head hurt, so he decided it wasn’t worth the effort. What mattered was that she wasn’t an enemy—not exactly. If anything, she seemed largely uninterested in the world around her, as though everything was more of a passing inconvenience than something worth paying attention to.

Even as they walked beneath the setting sun, she carried an oil-paper umbrella, shielding herself from the light, while her free hand remained firmly wrapped around his.

And Sasuke, for his part, clung just as tightly to the Senju-Uchiha treaty. If nothing else, it was the only thing keeping this whole situation from veering completely into the absurd.

Or maybe, he was the absurd one.

Akemi’s pace never slowed, and Sasuke, despite his inner grumbling, kept up without so much as a word of protest. The sun had dipped below the horizon, casting a soft, golden glow on the village that clung to the edge of twilight.

The gentle rustling of the trees filled the air, the only sound that seemed to accompany their silent journey. Sasuke found himself hyper-aware of the way her fingers remained curled around his, an unyielding grip that spoke volumes, though she hadn’t said a word about it.

But as the silence stretched on, her voice finally broke through, cutting the air with a calm, almost casual remark.

"Your hand's getting clammy and sweaty. Do you mind?" she asked, her tone completely neutral, as if discussing the weather.

Sasuke blinked, caught off guard for a brief moment. He hadn’t even realized how much his hand had begun to sweat. The Land of Fire lived up to its name, with scorching days that felt like an oven and warm nights that barely offered any relief during the summer heat.

He wanted to snap back, to make some sarcastic remark about her not needing to hold onto him so tightly, but the words caught in his throat. Instead, he took a deep breath and shot her a flat look.

“Do I mind?” he repeated, as though the words themselves were too absurd to fully process. “You’re the one who won’t let go.”

Sasuke quickly yanked his hand free from Akemi's grasp for a split second, just long enough to wipe the clamminess on his shorts. But before he could even fully process it, her hand was back in his, as if nothing had changed.

Akemi didn’t react immediately, her gaze steady ahead, her expression still unreadable. But then, with a small, almost imperceptible sigh, she gave his hand a gentle tug, loosening her grip slightly.

“You’re right,” she said, her voice carrying that same detached quality. “I just... didn’t want to risk losing you in a crowd.”

Sasuke’s brow furrowed, unsure if she was being serious or just trying to make him uncomfortable. He glanced at her hand, still holding his—just barely now, her fingers hovering over his but no longer pressing into him with the same intensity.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Sasuke muttered, feeling acutely awkward because of the situation. “I can take care of myself.”

Akemi gave a small hum of acknowledgment, but her gaze remained fixed ahead, unfazed by his words. Sasuke couldn’t shake the feeling that he was just a pawn in a game with rules he hadn’t been taught.

He had expected her to make some kind of witty retort or at least show some sign of embarrassment for her earlier comment. Instead, she simply continued as if nothing had changed, her presence unbothered by his floundering.

They walked on in silence for a while longer, the tension between them only growing thicker as time passed. Sasuke could feel the weight of her words in his mind, even if he didn’t fully understand them. Why had she said that? Why had she kept holding his hand like that?

Finally, just as they neared the outskirts of the defunct Senju district, Akemi spoke again, her voice quieter this time. “I don’t like to lose things,” she said, as though it explained everything.

Sasuke couldn’t help but glance at her out of the corner of his eye. Her face was still unreadable, but there was something in the way she spoke, something vulnerable hidden beneath her usual mask of indifference.

The as he opened his mouth to say something the words didn’t come. Instead, he simply nodded, unsure of what else there was to say. She didn’t let go, and for some strange reason, neither did he.

Chapter Text

'I got a bit too caught up in all of my ghosts
Sometimes I forget that’s all they've ever been
I understand now the world will not leave me behind
But it will not wait up'

Nara Shikaku let out a deep sigh, feeling the weight of the afternoon pressing down on him like an unwelcome storm cloud. It had been one of those days where everything seemed to pile up, one after the other, each issue more tedious than the last.

As the jounin commander, head of the Nara clan, and a family man with obligations to both his clan and his village, there was never a shortage of responsibilities. But today, it felt like the universe had decided to throw everything at him at once.

The Uchiha clan, unsurprisingly, was in an uproar. It seemed that whenever Uchiha Fugaku, the clan leader, was in a bad mood, his entire clan followed suit. When Fugaku wasn’t happy, no Uchiha was happy.

Shikaku had learned to steer clear of the Uchiha’s internal squabbles, but it was impossible to ignore the tension that seeped into every corner of the village. The Uchiha were breathing down the Hokage’s neck, demanding assistance, and the air was thick with the kind of animosity that could easily ignite into something far more dangerous.

Then there was Shimura Danzo, whose usual gruff demeanour had turned into outright irritability during the morning’s meeting. He was snapping at everyone, his eyes sharp with suspicion and barely concealed disdain. Shikaku had grown used to Danzo’s constant brooding, but today it felt like the man’s patience was thinner than usual, fraying with every passing moment.

Somewhere in the village, Uchiha and jonin alike were fanning out, quietly but urgently searching for a certain missing Uchiha heir.

Meanwhile, for Shikaku, the current meeting was shaping up to be a complete and utter shit show. He had to actively stop himself from reaching for a cigarette—if only because the Hokage would scold him for it. It wasn’t as though Hiruzen was some paragon of restraint; the old man could out-smoke him any day of the week and often did during less tense briefings. But this meeting had the veneer of decorum, and everyone was walking on eggshells to maintain it.

Fragile peace was the phrase of the day. The Uchiha sat stiff and bristling, their expressions a hair’s breadth from open hostility. Even the faintest wrong word could tip the balance. The old paranoia from the Hyuga Affair still lingered—Hyūga Hizashi sent off as a “sacrifice” to stave off war with Kumo. The memory was still raw in the collective mind, and the political fallout had never entirely settled. If the Uchiha suspected Kumo of being involved again, things could spiral into another Great War.

Shikaku doubted it. The probability was low, too low, unless Kumo’s leadership had truly embraced idiocy. Then again, sometimes stupidity was a strategy. Still, his instincts told him the cause of the second Uchiha heir’s disappearance lay elsewhere.

All the major clan heads were present, along with the Hokage’s inner circle of advisers. One seat stood conspicuously empty: the chair reserved for the Senju clan head, a ceremonial relic given the position had been vacant for years.

And of course, Danzo had to open his mouth. “I found it necessary to speak up. Allowing a clan heir to wander like that is... imprudent, to say the least. One would expect the Uchiha matriarch to exercise greater oversight over her own blood. Unlike her, I have maintained constant vigilance over my children—all of whom have reached adulthood without incident. Naturally, that vigilance extends to my grandsons and esteemed granddaughter, whose safety and whereabouts are never in question. Vigilance is not a matter of choice, it is an obligation.”

The jab was obvious, and Shikaku couldn’t help thinking there was a sliver of truth to it. Women got distracted, especially the high-born clan wives with their luncheons and gossip circles. A little less tea-drinking and a little more paying attention might’ve spared everyone this mess.

They just couldn’t handle certain responsibilities... But Shikaku knew his wife Yoshino was different from the rest. Stronger, sharper, not like those other women caught up in trivial distractions. She had a steadiness that set her apart, a clarity that he trusted even when others doubted.

Fugaku Uchiha’s expression, however, darkened into something that promised violence, the faintest flicker of Sharingan red made manifest. The clan head looked one heartbeat away from tearing Danzo’s head off, but he reined himself in. Barely. “And yet, despite all your ‘vigilance,’ Shimura, I’ve never known you to protect anything without first weaponizing it. My wife needs no lecture from you—if you believe my second child’s potential kidnapping warrants your sanctimony, then perhaps your definition of ‘incident’ is as narrow as your understanding of my clan."

Then an Anbu messenger appeared from out of the shadow like a wisp of smoke, the faint rustle of their armour the only sound to mark their arrival. They knelt smoothly at the Hokage’s side, the stylized mask tilting forward in deference before a low voice—carefully modulated, stripped of all inflection—broke the heavy quiet of the council chamber.

“Lord Hokage. Uchiha Sasuke has been located,” the Anbu reported, their words clipped, precise. “He was last sighted leaving the Konoha Archive approximately fifteen minutes ago. The boy should be unharmed and still within the village perimeter. However—” The pause was deliberate, and though their mask betrayed nothing, the slight dip of their chin made it clear the next part was the real concern. “His exact location remains unknown.”

The words landed like a spark in dry brush. Even before the inevitable murmurs began, Shikaku caught the shift in the air, the relaxing shoulders of the Uchiha present, the faint sharpening of Danzo’s gaze, the Hokage’s subtle inhale as though bracing himself.

It was a relief to know the brat hadn’t been abducted, but the implications were unsettling. Sasuke had orchestrated this—slipping out unnoticed, obtaining the signet, accessing a restricted archive. That kind of planning from a child was… disquieting.

Not that Shikaku would ever say it aloud, but for once, Danzo might have had a point: what were Mikoto and Fugaku raising here? Itachi was already a once-in-a-generation genius. Could the same be said of their younger son? Or worse, was this boy shaping up to be even more dangerous? Something that could hide behind a mask of harmless innocence, biding its time, only to reveal a mind colder and more calculating than anyone suspected—that was far more frightening than a genius who flaunted his intellect in the open.

Most people see the Nara clan’s laziness as just that, laziness. But it’s often more of a carefully crafted illusion, a kind of smoke screen. Behind that laid-back posture and slow speech, the mind never really stops. It’s impossible to truly unwind when your thoughts are always two steps ahead, weighing every possible move. Of course, not all of it’s a show. Sometimes they’re genuinely taking a breather, a rare luxury in a world that never cuts anyone slack.

Based on what he knew second hand about Sasuke, Shikaku couldn’t help but think the boy might be playing a similar game. Cultivating that air of innocence, blending into the background like some shadow no one notices.

It’s a clever defense, the kind of invisibility that’s hard to see through but even harder to trust. Maybe Sasuke was learning to wield that quiet camouflage like a weapon, waiting for the right moment to strike.

Or maybe it was all a fluke. Just one odd, isolated incident.

Shikaku leaned back in his seat, unconsciously glad that his son Shikamaru was… normal. Normal by Nara standards, anyway: smart, good at shōgi, and perfectly content to cloud watch the day away. 

A lazy genius was manageable. Predictable. Definitely not some unpredictable little Uchiha with too much motivation. Also, it was a relief that it wasn’t his problem to deal with.

They didn’t just let anyone stroll into Konoha’s archives. You needed clearance—actual, legitimate clearance—not the “I wandered in by accident” kind. Which begged the question: had the brat done something he wasn’t supposed to?

Whose kid was he, anyway? He clearly wasn’t the heir; that spot belonged to someone named Itachi. A name Akemi recognized but deliberately avoided. Not because she was shy, but because the kid’s resemblance to Madara’s brother was unnervingly close. And Tobirama—her great-grandfather—had basically killed that guy. The times two weasel naming conventions in that family… oof. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it. 

So how had this small fry managed to get his hands on the Uchiha clan signet from Crazy Eyes himself? Yes, she called Uchiha Fugaku “Crazy Eyes,” even though his official reputation was “Wicked Eyes.” She preferred her version. It felt truer. That would be a fun disaster waiting to happen: Fugaku finding out some clever little branch-family kid had swiped it. Out of sheer sympathy, she figured she’d be willing to back the boy up if it came to that.

Of course, getting involved with—or even being seen with—a mere Uchiha could be scandalous. Not that Akemi cared. Her great-grandfather might roll in his grave over it, but then again, he had trained an Uchiha student once upon a time. Her extended relatives, not considered Senju would be split, half disapproving, half gossiping for sport.

Either way, she had her excuse ready: she was just doing what Great-Uncle Hashirama would do—fostering “amicable relations” between the two founding clans. Very diplomatic.

If the boy had been a stereotype, she probably wouldn’t have bothered. A typical Uchiha—arrogant, haughty, intense, and one bad day away from tumbling into the Curse of Hatred—wasn’t worth her time. Uchiha were like that: the more bad stuff that happened to them, the stronger they got, like trauma was some kind of illicit performance enhancer. You could cram a lot of emotional baggage into those bad boys, like overpacking kunai into a sealed weapons scroll—and they’d still find room for more.

But this one? This one was different. While most kids were outside playing ninja, dreaming of becoming Hokage, or—if they were a specific type of civilian girls—fantasizing about becoming a “Real Clan Housewife of Konoha,” this boy was in the archives digging through history. He was, Akemi thought with a faint spark of amusement, just like me for real.

Also, his face had the softness of mochi. Those cheeks looked dangerously squishable. Not that she would admit it aloud. Ahem.

And so Akemi continued escorting the Uchiha brat back to his house. She wanted to keep the whole thing discreet, because if word got back to Uncle Hiruzen, he’d pester her about it until she regretted every choice she’d made that day. So she relied on her sensor abilities, charting a route that kept them well clear of shinobi patrols and nosy villagers.

“Oh, right,” she said at one point, glancing down at him. “You never actually introduced yourself. Obviously you’re an Uchiha, but you didn’t give me your personal name. So… what is it?”

He blinked at her, looking almost caught off guard. just a flicker of embarrassment before his expression shifted into a small, thoughtful frown. It was the sort of pause that suggested he wasn’t struggling to remember his name, but rather deciding how to give it, as if introductions were a puzzle that required careful assembly.

Not that it mattered to her. Akemi had already judged him, of course. First impressions were her specialty, and from their brief interaction alone she’d decided she knew his general measure: deliberate, sharper than he let on, carrying a focus far too intense for a child his age. The name was just a formality at this point, a label to match the file.

At last, he spoke. “Sasuke.”

Simple, neat. Plenty of possible kanji combinations—bravery, help, cleverness, even martial references depending on the choice. Uncle Hiruzen sometimes liked to ramble about his old man, another Sasuke entirely, some famed shinobi from decades past, though Akemi could never tell if he was being nostalgic or simply indulging himself in another long-winded story.

The Uchiha small fry was interesting... Confident, or at least confident enough to appear so—but something about the way he said it made her wonder if she was overthinking. There’d been a fractional hesitation, like he had to remind himself yes, that’s my name. As if he hadn’t quite grown into it yet… or perhaps didn’t fully believe it belonged to him.

It was the kind of pause people had when their name felt more like an expectation than an identity. Being a Sasuke might be its own kind of burden. Maybe at home he had a nickname, something softer, or maybe there was simply no one who called for him often enough for the sound to feel familiar.

Finally, Akemi reached the mouth of the Uchiha district with Sasuke in tow. From here, it was just a matter of him pointing out which house was his. Easy.

And no, she absolutely was not mentally bookmarking that address so she could show up later, drag him back to the archives, and indulge in some much-needed intellectual back-and-forth with someone her own mental speed. Definitely not. She was nothing if not discreet.

She let herself think they were in the clear. Maybe that was her first mistake.

Because apparently history did like to repeat itself, and now she was in a situation that felt eerily familiar: staring down a weasel-like adversary, just like her great-grandfather had once done. Only this time, she didn’t have Hiraishin no Jutsu to bail her out.

The Uchiha heir in front of her looked… wrong. Not merely weary from a mission, but radiating an edge that prickled at the senses. Red eyes, too bright, too sharp, glowed against the faint, dried streaks of blood in his hair. The metallic tang of it clung to him in the cooling air. Thin trails of crimson leaked from the corners of his eyes like tears, and his chakra roiled, unstable, a wildfire straining against its own containment.

Akemi refused to believe this was how she died. She didn’t buy into fate or cosmic retribution—not when she had personally done nothing to wrong an Uchiha. Her forefather’s actions weren’t hers to atone for.

So why was this Itachi looking like he’d stepped out of a nightmare?

Before she could decide on a survival strategy, Sasuke wrinkled his nose and spoke with casual bluntness: “Aniki, you need a shower first. Don’t hug me—you’re still covered in grime from your mission.”

The transformation was immediate. Itachi’s expression softened into something startlingly serene, the red fading from his eyes like embers cooling to ash. Relief smoothed the sharp lines from his face.

And then, ignoring the request entirely, the older brother closed the gap and fussed over Sasuke as though nothing else existed. Akemi stayed still, taking in the whiplash change in his demeanour.

Once satisfied that his brother was in one piece, Itachi’s attention flicked to her. His head tilted, eyes narrowing slightly—not in suspicion, but in that precise, weighing way predators looked at things that might matter.

“Did you make a new friend?” he asked Sasuke, his tone deceptively mild. Then, without missing a beat: “Otōto-yo, our parents are going to want to see you. And we’re going to have a big long talk about the dangers of wandering off without telling anyone. Especially because bloodline thieves would want to snatch you up…”

Akemi’s spine tightened at the reminder. Right. The Hyuga Incident. That Hizashi guy sent off as a “peace offering” to avoid war. She had kept her head low through that storm, but she hadn’t forgotten. Some events branded themselves into the village’s collective memory.

And then it hit her.

Itachi was Sasuke’s older brother. Sasuke was the second son of Crazy Eyes, Uchiha Fugaku.

And she—Senju Akemi—had just waltzed into the middle of a political minefield wearing a big, fat target labeled “complication.”

Worse still: somewhere along the way, Sasuke had stopped being just some Uchiha brat, a disruption in the archives. He’d become… her friend. There, she admits it.

The admission landed like a stone skipped across water.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck.

Maybe the so-called Curse of Hatred wasn’t just about grudges or revenge. Maybe the problem was that Uchiha loved too much, too fiercely, too possessively. And now, somehow, she was something to an Uchiha.

That thought was terrifying.