Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

They say only the dead have seen the end of war—that it does not determine who is right, only who is left. And as the cacophony of battle roared in her ears, Sakura bitterly agreed.

The air reeked of blood and burning flesh, a suffocating mix of iron and smoke that clung to her lungs. Each step was deliberate, careful—one misstep and she’d crush the fingers of a fallen comrade or slip in an ever-growing pool of blood. She inhaled shallowly, her lips pressed into a thin line.

It was devastation.

Everywhere she looked, bodies littered the ruined earth—some twisted in unnatural angles, others torn apart as if monstrous hands had ripped them open. Shattered ribs jutted from collapsed chests, and intestines coiled from split bellies in tangled clumps on the ground. Faces frozen in terror, in agony, in their final gasps of life, unblinking eyes stared unseeing at the crimson sky.

A strangled gurgle to her left made her halt, she stumbled forward, dropping to her knees beside the broken body of a soldier, his clothing the familiar colors of a Suna nin.  His hands grasping weakly at a wound that could no longer be closed. His lips moved soundlessly, blood bubbling at the corners, his wide eyes locked onto hers—pleading.

She reached for him with steady hands, her chakra flaring to life in a soft, green glow. But deep down, she knew. Knew that no matter how desperately she wanted to save him, no matter how fiercely her heart screamed at her to try, it would be futile.

To heal him would be to waste the precious chakra that could save others—those with a fighting chance. And the battle was not over. The enemy still lurked beyond the smoke and blood-soaked earth. She needed to be ready.

It was the grim reality of war.

Her logical mind understood the necessity of sacrifice. A single life weighed against many others. A cold, cruel equation. No matter how she ran it through her brain, her heart could not understand it, knowing did not make it hurt any less.

With slow, deliberate movements, she sank to her knees beside him, taking his trembling hand in her own. His fingers, slick with blood and cooling quickly, curled weakly around hers. She rubbed her thumb in slow, soothing circles over his bruised knuckles, her touch featherlight, offering him what little comfort she could.

A hum rose from her throat—a melody from childhood, soft and familiar, one her mother used to sing when the world was kinder. Her chakra pulsed gently, not to heal, but to ease his passing. A warmth in his final moments, a promise that he was not alone.

His ragged breathing slowed. The terror in his brown eyes ebbed, replaced by something softer. Acceptance. Gratitude.

A small squeeze of her hand.

Then nothing.

Sakura exhaled shakily, eyes slipping shut for the briefest moment, allowing herself that single second of grief before a hand settled on her shoulder—not forceful, not demanding, just present.

Kakashi.

Her sensei stood beside her, silent but understanding.

The battle was not over.

And there were so many more still waiting for help that might never come.

She folded the soldier’s hands gently against his chest, pressing them together as if in prayer. With a delicate touch, she smoothed her palm over his face, closing his unseeing eyes. A futile kindness amid so much cruelty.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled away, the warmth of his skin already fading.

Even as an experienced medic, death was never something she had grown numb to. It was far too intimate—far too personal.

She was the last face they saw, the final touch they felt before slipping into nothingness. A fleeting warmth in their final moments, a witness to their last breath.

No matter how many lives she fought to save, there were always those she couldn’t. Another failure under her name.

A gust of wind carried the acrid scent of charred flesh through the air, stinging her nose, but she didn’t flinch. She just stood there, motionless, staring down at the nameless man she could not save.

She let Kakashi pull her away, her feet moving on instinct, though her heart remained behind.

She appreciated him in moments like this, when words held no meaning, and silence carried more comfort than empty reassurances. The weight of his presence was enough.

As they walked, the chaos of battle faded into the background, the screams and clashing steel merging into a distant, indistinct roar. Smoke stung her eyes, the scent of blood and burnt earth thick in the air, but she barely registered any of it.

Not until she saw them.

Her gaze landed on Naruto first—his golden hair matted with sweat and grime, but his grin, as always, unwavering. Unshaken. A defiant beacon of light in this grey, crumbling world. She let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding and offered him a small smile in return.

Veridian eyes clashed with obsidian, her heart clenched at the sight of him— Sasuke Uchiha—stoic, impassive, a living statue amidst the wreckage. Yet when his smoldering onyx eyes met hers, dark and unreadable, it carried the weight of a thousand unsaid things.

To anyone else, he would seem perfectly unbothered, an unshaken force against the chaos around them. But she wasn’t just anyone.

She had known him too well, too deeply, for too long to be fooled by the mask he wore.

She exhaled softly, tearing her gaze away just long enough to give Kakashi a small pat on the back. He glanced down at her, his lone grey eye crinkling with a quiet smile—one she gratefully returned. No words were needed. He understood. With a small nod, he moved on to speak with Naruto.

Her attention returned to Sasuke.

This time, she moved toward him with the quiet confidence of someone who knew her worth, who knew her place in this world—not just as a medic, not just as a teammate, but as someone who had walked beside him through years of pain, growth, and survival.

She had once worn the title of his number one fan with pride, and time had not failed her.

The slightest furrow of his brow. The near-imperceptible tension in his jaw. Tells only she would notice.

He was in pain.

And she would always know.

For a moment, his gaze held hers—steady, unwavering—before he looked away, almost reluctantly.

Though he’d never say it aloud, there was unspoken gratitude in the quiet shift of his stance, in the way he subtly inched just a little closer, making it easier for her to reach him.

Sakura rolled her eyes, a small huff of exasperation escaping her lips. Some things never changed.

Without a word, she reached out, pressing her fingers against his forearm with deliberate ease. No real care, no softness—just the familiarity of someone who had done this too many times before. Warmth surged from her fingertips, her chakra flowing seamlessly into him, knitting together a cracked rib and soothing the deep ache of a bruised femur.

Sasuke said nothing.

But he didn’t pull away.

And for now, that was enough.

Her gaze shifted once more, this time to the fourth and newest addition to their team.

A face she had only recently come to know, hidden behind that garish orange mask, yet somehow not entirely unfamiliar.

Obito Uchiha.

Her sensei’s old teammate—the young boy in the picture neatly placed by Kakashi’s bedside, now a man marked by scars and stories untold.

A ghost of the past standing amidst the wreckage of the present. Once a hero, turned traitor, and now... an unexpected ally?

He was seated on the ground, comfortably situated between Naruto to his right and Kakashi to his left. Obito had slipped into their lives as effortlessly as he had into their formation—like a missing piece suddenly found. Literally. It wasn’t that they had forgotten the weight of his role in all of this or the scars of their past run-ins, but during the chaos, his presence was no longer such a foreign thing.

Sakura could see it in the way Naruto laughed a little too easily at Obito’s dry humor, how Sasuke’s usual cold distance softened in his kin’s presence.

Even Kakashi, though ever watchful, had allowed Obito’s place on their team, as if the years of separation had been nothing more than a passing shadow.

Obito was no longer the masked figure of mystery he once had been. He was a part of their team now.  A complex, fractured part of it, but nonetheless, one of them. Thanks to Naruto’s inane ability to knock sense into even the most hard-headed ninja, the “talk-no jutsu” as Sai lovingly put it.

She watched him from beneath her pink lashes, tracing the scars that stretched along the left half of his body. He really should have been dead. The scientist in her itched to know how such a medical anomaly was possible—beyond the healing abilities of her own Byakugou no In. As she traced his features, Sakura couldn’t help the huff of exasperation that escaped her lips. The man was annoyingly handsome, despite the flaws that marred his once-perfect face. Scars and weariness only emphasized the sharpness of his features—strong cheekbones, a jawline that could cut glass, and those deep, dark eyes that were all too familiar.

It was maddening how every Uchiha man seemed to be cursed with the same striking beauty. Even as time had hardened his features, the raw, rugged strength of his lineage was clear—Obito’s face was an unmistakable reflection of his clan.

Why was it that every Uchiha had to be so impossibly handsome?

As if he heard her thoughts, she felt his gaze settle on her, a silent pull that beckoned her closer. He gave a subtle motion, a quiet invitation for her to approach. Not that she needed his permission to join her own team, but something about him made her feel oddly more at ease observing from a distance. She had known him far less than the others, and in that uncertainty, a hesitance lingered—one she couldn’t quite shake.

But then, she realized with a jolt, she’d been staring—caught in the sharp lines of his face and the strange magnetism that radiated from him. A tinge of embarrassment crept up her neck as she quickly looked away with a pout. Of course, Obito seemed to notice, his lips tugging up at the corners and his mismatched eyes glinted knowingly.

“Smug bastard,” she grunted under her breath, moving closer until she plopped down in front of him, her foot brushing against Naruto’s sprawled-out form.

As she settled in, trying to shake off the lingering awkwardness, Obito’s voice broke the silence.

“You know, you don’t have to look away so quickly. I don’t bite.”

The light teasing in his tone made her glance up, caught off guard by the soft gleam in his eyes. She almost rolled her eyes but stopped herself, wondering when exactly Obito had slipped so seamlessly into their group. Her teammates, oblivious to the exchange, continued chatting among themselves as if he’d always been a part of the team.

But then, just as quickly, the playfulness faded, replaced by a quiet, distant sadness.

“You remind me of someone,” he muttered quietly, almost to himself. “Someone I used to know... back before all this.”

Sakura’s brow furrowed, but before she could respond, he continued, his voice tinged with a sorrowful nostalgia. “Rin… she was like you in some ways. Caring in a way that made you forget the world was falling apart around you.”

The mention of Rin brought a wave of quiet sadness that settled in the air. To her left, Sakura could see Kakashi’s lazy demeanor shift into something a little sharper, his posture subtly more rigid. So, he was listening after all, she mused to herself.

 Obito shift slightly, now favoring to lean back heavily into a small boulder behind him, revealing a vulnerability that she felt only she could sense in that moment. She said nothing, simply letting him speak, giving him the space he rarely took.

Obito’s purple eye darkened slightly, a heaviness weighing his words. “But… even she couldn’t escape the consequences of our choices. And now…” He paused, a flicker of determination crossing his face as he regained his composure. “Now I’ve chosen to fight for something better. To stop Madara, to stop the madness that took her from me. I won’t let it destroy more lives.”

There was an underlying anger there, but also a sense of resolve that had slowly but surely replaced the despair of the past. Obito shifted his gaze back to her, softer now. “I guess, in the end, we’re all cursed by fate. But we can choose to fight against it, right?”

Sakura said nothing for a moment, the weight of his words settling in her chest. She didn’t have the answers, but in that brief exchange, she understood something about him. Something that bound him to the rest of them, despite his past and the weight of the Uchiha curse.

Obito wasn’t supposed to be here, really. He had died long ago, a victim of fate and his choice to sacrifice himself to protect his loved ones. But somehow, through a twisted turn of events, he had been given a second chance at life, only to be manipulated by Madara into hating the very reality they all fought to protect. She may have been a little foggy on the specifics, but Sakura heard enough of the story to understand how much Obito’s choices had been shaped by loss, grief, and the poisonous influence of Madara, no, black Zetsu.

Kakashi’s rule—that no matter how far someone fell, no matter how dark their path became, he would protect them—had always stuck with her. “I’m not gonna let you die. I will protect you, even if you’re scum.” It had always seemed strange, that sentiment, but now it made sense. Obito, once a friend and teammate to Kakashi, had become the very thing that Kakashi had sworn to protect. Scum. Even after everything Obito had done—his choices, his rebellion against everything they held dear—Kakashi still held to that promise. That, Sakura realized, was the bond that connected them all. Kakashi, despite the betrayal, was committed to Obito’s redemption, just as much as the rest of them had chosen to fight for one another. Just as much as she and Naruto had fought for Sasuke

Here he was. Not as a villain bent on destruction, but as a broken man trying to redeem himself. Sakura had always known that people were shaped by their choices, but Obito’s choices had been clouded by loss, grief, and the manipulation of someone equally as broken. Despite that, the same blood ran through his veins as Kakashi, and the same fire burned within him that burned in them.

The Will of Fire.

Sakura glanced at the others. Kakashi, whose eyes had seen the same painful history, whose bond with Obito went deeper than words could explain. Naruto, who, despite everything, had found a way to believe in others, even those who had lost their way. And Sasuke, whose path was similarly shaped by loss and conflict, yet still, at the end, stood by their side.

They were all bound by the choices they made, by the pain they had endured, and by the unspoken understanding that, in the end, they were fighting for the same cause. Obito had been manipulated, lost to a bitter path for so long, but now, in the presence of those who had also suffered, he was learning to find his place again.

And in that moment, Sakura realized—this wasn’t just about fighting alongside Obito, it was about him finding redemption within the team. He wasn’t just an ally or a product of his past actions. He had chosen to fight with them, and they had chosen to fight with him. It wasn’t just about the past, it was about moving forward, together.

Obito had chosen them, just as much as they had chosen him. It wasn’t just about the past or the pain—it was about the future, and the fight they all shared. That was the thread that connected them, the silent bond that tied their destinies together.

What ties you, Sakura? a small voice whispered in the back of her mind. She paused, momentarily lost in thought, wondering how someone like her had become so entangled in this web of fate, surrounded by such powerful men. She had always been just an ordinary civilian girl, she wasn’t even supposed to make it past genin—yet here she was, standing side by side with shinobi who shaped the world.

Her mind wandered to her younger self, when she first dreamed of becoming strong, of finding her place among the greats. She had always been in the shadow of the men around her—Naruto, Sasuke, Kakashi, even Obito now—but somewhere along the way, she had found her own strength. It wasn’t something she had sought out, but perhaps, in the end, it was the bond between them all that had forged her path.

She had grown far beyond her initial doubts, and though she sometimes still felt out of place, she understood now. It was the choices they all made—their commitment to protect, to fight, to rise above their pasts—that had bound her to them. That was the real thread that connected her to this world of shinobi, and maybe, just maybe, it had always been her destiny.

Sakura grabbed the hand extended toward her, offering a quiet thanks to Sasuke as she adjusted her fingerless gloves. Madara's looming presence suffocated them, his chakra growing stronger, more frenzied. The reanimated Hokage had been holding him off—for now—but one by one, their chakra signatures were being snuffed out. Dead.

 Well, dead-dead, re-dead? she thought, momentarily questioning herself.

Shaking her head, she steadied her stance, her resolve hardening as she stood shoulder to shoulder with her teammates. No, her family.

She couldn’t slack off now.

This was her destiny—her boys, her home.

And she’d be damned if she didn’t give this fight her all.

“Here he comes!” Kakashi shouted, and Sakura braced herself, the pounding of her heart thundering in her ears.

Then, nothing.

Chapter Text

Madara was dead.

They should have been celebrating. Shouting, laughing, ringing the bells of victory.

Instead, they stood in frozen horror, paralyzed by the sight before them. Madara’s ashen form, once so full of strength, split apart—not by their doing, but by something far worse. A sickening crack echoed in the air, and from the ruins of his shattered body, a being—an impossibility—began to rise.

A goddess. No, something beyond human comprehension. Something older. Her skin was unnaturally pale, almost glowing with an unholy light, and her eyes—those eyes—were not just the soulless, pitiless gaze of the Hyuga. They were hollow. Empty.

And they were staring at them.

Her gaze pierced through the very fabric of existence, raking across them, shattering every ounce of hope, of resistance. It felt like the very air around them was being sucked away, as if her presence alone could erase everything they were. The ground trembled beneath them; the atmosphere thick with an overwhelming pressure that threatened to crush them under its weight.

It wasn’t just fear. It was existential dread—the kind that froze your blood and suffocated your thoughts. She could feel it, could taste it in the air, clinging to her skin, twisting in her gut like a physical pain. This was not a battle. This was the end.

Her heart pounded erratically in her chest, the rhythm so loud she thought it might deafen her. Her legs shook, her mind screamed to run, to escape, but she was rooted to the spot. Every breath felt like it was the last, each inhale burning her lungs, each exhale a futile prayer to God.

Before Madara’s demise, his presence had been the death of their hope, but this? This was the death of everything. A god had risen, and they were nothing.

The world no longer felt real, but instead, it felt as though it were closing in on them, a crushing weight they could never hope to escape.

By some miracle, Obito-broken, barely alive, but still clinging to consciousness-looked up through his one remaining eye, the rinnegan torn from his eye-socket by Madara earlier. It was a desperate, painful effort, but he knew this was their last chance.

With a deep, ragged breath, Obito forced his battered body into motion, the pain searing through his every limb as he activated the Mangekyō Sharingan with a ferocity born of the primal desire to survive. His eye locked onto Naruto and Sasuke, and with a desperate, swift motion, he grabbed them both, zipping through the chaos toward Kakashi and herself.

Her heart hammered in her chest as everything around them blurred—the battlefield, the nightmare of Kaguya’s presence, the fear in her teammates’ eyes. It was all happening so fast, too fast.

The last thing she remembered was the deafening scream of the goddess—a terrifying sound that seemed to reverberate through her very bones—followed by the look on Kaguya’s face, her cold, empty eyes fixed on them, as if she could see into their souls. And then, as if in slow motion, a massive wooden stake—cruel, unrelenting—barreled straight at her, its sharp tip aimed for her heart.

In that brief, frozen moment, she thought it was the end.

But then—

Just as the inevitable approached, Kakashi moved.

Without hesitation, Kakashi stepped directly in front of her. His body absorbed the full force of the wooden spike, the sharp point sinking deep into his chest. The impact was brutal—his body jerked with the force, and a sharp breath of pain escaped his lips. His vision blurred, but his eyes still found hers, focused with painful clarity. Blood began to seep through his clothing, staining his jacket, his movements growing weaker by the second.

She watched, paralyzed, as he staggered from the blow, but he didn’t fall. Instead, his hand reached out, instinctively grabbing onto her, pulling her close.

“Sensei!” she cried, her voice choked with disbelief. But Kakashi’s face remained composed, though pale and strained from the pain.

“I’m fine.” His voice was barely above a whisper, strained, but steady. His hand tightened around hers. “I’ll protect you... always.”

Before she could even process what had happened, Obito’s voice snapped her back to the present, urgent and demanding.

“Now!”

With no time to spare, Obito activated Kamui. The world around them seemed to twist and fracture, the space warping like glass shattering. The battlefield, the fear, the overwhelming presence of Kaguya—all of it disappeared as the rift opened wide.

They were pulled into the distorted world of Kamui’s dimension, the weight of the chaos lifting in an instant.

As the swirling blackness of the Kamui realm settled around them, the sense of safety was immediate, but it didn’t last. Kakashi’s injury was undeniable. His body, still standing but trembling with each shallow breath, was covered in blood, the wooden spike lodged deep into his stomach. The skin not covered by his tattered mask was pale and she could see that a light sheen of sweat was starting to build.

Her heart pounded with the rush of fear and guilt. He had taken the blow for her, shielded her from certain death.

“Kakashi-senesi...” she whispered, her voice cracking as she tried to steady him.

He gave her a faint, reassuring smile despite his blood soaking them both. “We made it... we’re okay...” His words were soft, but there was a weight to them—a finality.

“What kind of hell is this?” she thought blearily, the world around her twisting and distorting as reality folded in on itself, pulling them deeper into this dimension. She felt Naruto collapse beside her, dry heaving, his body betraying the harsh transition.

The shift from the tangible world to this twisted void was disorienting—like a sickening lurch in her stomach, her senses warped as the laws of physics and logic unraveled. Nothing made sense here, and the familiar feeling of the ground beneath her feet disappeared, leaving her dizzy and disoriented.

A fit of hacking coughs broke her thoughts, pulling her back to the grim reality of the moment. The wooden stake was driven deep into his abdomen, not quite puncturing through, but dangerously close. She carefully maneuvered him onto his back, blinking treacherous tears from her eyes at his muffled groan.

Her heart was clenched, but her mind remained sharp. Focus.

Barking quick orders at Sasuke and Naruto to hold him still. Her hands worked quickly to cut off any offending material, carefully disinfecting the area and efficiently removing the foreign object as she quickly activated her seal.

A sudden warmth bloomed in the center of her forehead, spreading outward into sharp, glowing lines. The intricate pattern of the seal shifted and twisted, pulsing with power beneath her skin. The lines began to spread, each angle more pronounced than the last. It felt as if the energy had a life of its own—like a force awakening deep within her. The pressure of chakra built, flowing through her veins, until it surged like a torrent, rising just beneath her skin.

The seal crawled down her temple, then over her jaw, neck, and crisscrossing over her chest before it snaked down her arms. Each line pulsed with heat, almost painful in its intensity, like veins of molten lava lighting her path. The glow reached her fingertips, and for a fleeting moment, time itself seemed to stretch, slowing as the seal enveloped her sensei.

She felt the chakra wrap around Kakashi’s battered form, cocooning him in a soft, greenish glow. Her eyes narrowed in intense concentration, the sensation of raw power surging through her as it flowed into him, stitching the torn flesh back together. Her breath hitched slightly as she watched in morbid fascination, as the wound began to heal. The jagged edges of muscle and fat knitted themselves seamlessly, the injury closing inch by inch, until all that remained was the faintest scar where the wooden stake had been. Normally an operation of this gravity would have taken hours even for the most skilled medic, but with her seal, it was a matter of minutes.

The price of such miraculous healing? A few years off her life. A small price to pay, if she dared say so herself.

As the seal's energy began to retract, the intricate lines zipped back up her arms with a final, sharp pulse. The diamond on her forehead shimmered faintly, pulsing once, twice, before settling back into its usual state.

Exhaustion washed over her like a tidal wave. She slumped back, her body shaking—though, she couldn’t quite tell if it was her own trembling or Naruto’s, his form pressing against hers in a silent show of support. For a brief moment, the chaos around them faded into a dull hum, and she allowed herself a single, shaky breath.

She had saved him, a precious person.

She wanted to cry, to scream, to break under the weight of it all, but when her gaze flicked to Sasuke—his body trembling, his face hollow, one eye torn away—and then to Obito, barely clinging to life, a raw, bitter cold clawed at her chest. Her fists clenched so tightly her nails bit into her skin, forcing herself to swallow the tidal wave of grief that threatened to consume her. No. Not yet. Not until they had won this goddamn war.

The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end, a primal sense of dread creeping up her spine. Her eyes darted around, taking in her teammates, their faces tense, their bodies poised, ready. They could feel it too—

Then, without warning, the air crackled violently. Sakura’s hair lifted around her as if the very fabric of the atmosphere had been charged with an electric pulse. Her eyes widened in alarm, and she spun toward her teammates, their expressions mirroring her own growing panic.

Space itself seemed to be contorted, as if reality were folding in on itself. The ground beneath them splintered, the very fabric of time and space warped violently. Obito’s Kamui activated again as a violent ripple cascaded outward, tearing through the atmosphere like paper being ripped apart, and with it, they were swallowed whole by the blackness of the jutsu’s dimension. The world around them shattered.

Kaguya’s ghostly figure appeared before them; mouth open in a shrill scream as she clawed her way through the void. Before Sakura could even react, the world around them shifted again, violently pulling them forward, yanking them from one dimension to another. The sensation of falling, of being swept into something far worse than the void, clawed at her senses. Her stomach churned, the unsettling pull from behind her navel telling her everything she needed to know—they were being sucked into a new world.

“Hold on!” Obito’s voice rang out, barely audible through the chaotic sounds of their surroundings. But the words felt distant, as though they were being drowned out by the force of the dimensional collapse. Kakashi, battered and struggling to stay conscious, barely managed to stay on his feet as the fabric of reality bent around them.

For a fleeting instant, there was nothing but silence. No sounds, no screams, no war. Just the raw, unsettling pull of Kamui’s dimension, stretching them through the darkness. She could feel the intense, unnatural pressure of the Uchiha’s kekki genkai, like they were being squeezed through a needle, a suffocating force that ripped at the edges of her mind.

And then, the relief—the sudden, crushing relief. Her breath caught as the world around them solidified once more. The scent of earth and sand filled the air, grounding her in the reality of their new surroundings. They weren’t on that cursed battlefield anymore, nor were they lost in the bleak gray expanse of Obito’s mind. This time, they had landed in a sandy terrain. A vast, empty stretch of desert. As she looked around, the endless dunes seemed to stretch for miles, the horizon broken only by jagged rocks that rose from the earth like skeletal remains. It faintly reminded her of Sunagakure, but there were no intricate buildings carved into the caves here. This was a barren, desolate place, nothing like the brilliant city she’d come to love.

Sakura's mind raced, struggling to reconcile the last few hours of her life and still reeling from the shock of Kamui’s pull. The terrifying pressure, the suffocating blackness, all of it seemed to pulse in the back of her thoughts. But as her mind settled, reality came crashing back in. The harshness of their new surroundings, the exhaustion on Obito’s face, Sasuke’s missing eye and the visible strain on Kakashi’s body—all of it snapped her back to the present.

With a heavy sigh, Sakura squared her shoulders, cracking her knuckles as she moved closer to her squad. Her sense of duty, her pride as a medic, outweighed every ounce of exhaustion in her body. This is what she had trained for and now it was time to heal.

I

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I

Obito’s body was barely holding together. The strain of his sharingan had taken its toll, his once-imposing presence now slumped under the weight of his drained energy. His usually calculating, sharp eyes had dulled, and the faint tremor in his hands made it clear that he was close to collapsing.

The moment Obito’s Kamui was triggered, it felt like they had been pulled through the very fabric of space itself. The air around them felt wrong—alien. But it was safe, for the time being at least. Obito’s chakra was running dangerously low, and his body was trembling, weak from the exertion of even opening the portal. He could barely keep his consciousness intact, but he had done it.

They had gotten away—for now. But Obito could feel the weight of the cost. Kamui was no ordinary ability; it wasn’t just a jutsu—it was a powerful force that allowed them to slip through the very fabric of time, but at the risk of both mental and physical incapacitation. Every use of it further drained Obito, pushing him closer to the edge of exhaustion. His body was breaking down.

They had escaped for now, but the war was far from over, and Kaguya was still out there looking for them. The crushing weight of their situation hung over them like a suffocating cloud. Kamui had bought them time—but only that.

He had to think quickly.

 They had to prepare. They had to regroup.  In that moment of brief relief—there was a fleeting, fragile hope blossoming inside his chest as he stared at Sakura fretting over the Uchiha boy. Perhaps…

 It was a crazy thought, but maybe, just maybe they might somehow survive this.

Given that he could already hop between dimensions, who's to say that traveling through time isn't within the realm of possibility?

I

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I

Time itself became an elusive concept when wielding Kamui; what felt like mere minutes in one dimension could stretch into days in there’s. It was a disorienting paradox — a cruel reminder of the distortion that space and time could endure under the power of such an unfathomable technique. Obito stood apart from the group, his gaze distant, focused on something only he could see. His hands were clasped tightly in front of him, as if holding onto a thought that threatened to slip away.

Sakura, Naruto, and Sasuke were huddled together now around their sensei, the bond between them palpable in the quiet, fragile moments that followed. Tears of relief and joy streamed down Sakura’s face as she gently clasped Kakashi’s hand, her voice trembling with emotion. Naruto, usually brash and full of energy, was unusually quiet, his own tears glistening as they fell, the weight of their near loss finally hitting. Sasuke, ever stoic, stood a little apart, but even he couldn’t hide the relief that softened his expression.

“Baka-sensei!” Sakura sobbed, her voice thick with relief as she wiped at her eyes, trying to stem the tears that wouldn’t stop flowing. “Don’t ever do that again!” she cried, her hand coming down sharply on his silver head, the sound of the hit almost comical in the tension-filled air.

Kakashi winced, but there was a warmth in his eyes, the faintest smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “Maa maa, Sakura-chan,” he said, his voice teasing but filled with a grateful sincerity. “Is this how you thank your Sensei for saving your life?” He squeezed her hand gently, the soft pressure a silent promise that he was truly okay, despite the chaos that had almost taken him from them.

Sakura's eyes softened, her tears mixing with the laughter that bubbled up despite the overwhelming emotions. "Idiot," Sakura muttered, though the affection in her voice was unmistakable, her frustration fading as relief took its place. Naruto, never one to hold back, joined in with a grin, "Yeah, Sensei, you seriously need to stop doing stuff like that!"

“Look who’s talking, dobe,” Sasuke chimed in quietly, rolling his eyes just slightly, a rare expression of annoyance that was more amusing than anything else.

Naruto, never one to let a comment like that slide, immediately exploded. "WHAT? I'M THE DO—" His voice was cut off by a loud, exasperated "SHUT UP!" from Sakura, who had had enough of their endless bickering.

“Both of you! Can’t you just be quiet for one second?!" she shouted, her face red with frustration. She then muttered under her breath, "Honestly, you two act like kids."

Kakashi chuckled weakly at the familiar chaos, his smile warm and genuine despite the weight of the battle they had just fought. "Guess I’m surrounded by a bunch of troublemakers, huh?" he teased, his eyes scanning the scene, finally landing on Obito’s lone figure. In the middle of his students’ back-and-forth, Kakashi’s gaze lingered on the man he had once called a friend.

Obito, who had been silent up until now, suddenly broke the tension, his voice low but heavy with an intensity that silenced them. "I’ve been thinking…" His words hung in the air, drawing their attention.

“How we can truly stop this war. Not just win it….. but prevent it. It’s about changing the future. Changing the very course of history."

The moment shifted. The bickering faded, and Naruto’s brow furrowed in confusion, the weight of Obito’s words not lost on him. “Change the future? What do you mean, Obito?” he asked, the seriousness in his tone cutting through the earlier levity.

Obito’s eye narrowed as he turned to face them fully, his gaze settling on each of them in turn. “It’s the Uchiha curse,” he began, his voice thick with emotion. “It all started with the death of Madara’s brother, Izuna.”

Sakura’s heart skipped a beat at the mention of Izuna Uchiha, a name that echoed through her memories. She had heard it briefly growing up, during her academy days when they studied the history of the Uchiha clan. It was a subject often whispered about in the corners of the classroom—those parts of Uchiha history that weren’t spoken of loudly, a dark legacy that few dared to delve into. She remembered the way the instructors would lower their voices when they mentioned his name, as if the very mention of it carried a curse. Izuna's story, filled with power and tragedy, was one of those parts of history that remained shrouded in shadow, leaving behind only fragmented whispers. Her thoughts momentarily drifted back to the ancient stories, unsure of where Obito was going with this.

The elder Uchiha nodded, his expression darkening. “Izuna’s death is the catalyst that set Madara on the path to madness. If we can stop it, if we can save him before it happens… Madara would never fall into the darkness. He wouldn’t have the rage that consumed him, and he wouldn’t go on to destroy the Uchiha clan, start the Fourth Shinobi World War, and create the conditions that led to everything we’re fighting against.”

There was a long pause as everyone absorbed the enormity of what Obito was suggesting. Sakura blinked, trying to make sense of it.

“But… changing the past? Is that even possible?” she asked, her voice filled with uncertainty.

Obito turned to her, his expression both determined and pleading. “You have the ability to heal,” he said, his tone leaving no room for doubt. “Not just to fix wounds, but to restore life. Your chakra control is so precise, Sakura, you could reverse the damage. You could save Izuna before his death. And in doing that, you could save Madara from his fate, from the curse.”

Sakura felt a chill run through her. The weight of Obito’s words sank in. She was being asked to do something far beyond her capabilities—to alter the flow of time itself, to save a man from death who had been gone for decades.

“I… I don’t know if I can do that,” Sakura said, her voice shaking slightly. “I mean, we’re talking about time itself. About undoing something that’s already happened. I wouldn’t even know where to start!”

Obito stepped closer, his lone charcoal eye locking onto hers with an intensity that made her falter. “If anyone can do it, it’s you,” he said, voice heavy with resolve.

“I just saw you heal a man at the brink of death.” He gestured toward Kakashi, still recovering but alive none the less.

“Your chakra can reach into the very fabric of life. If you save Izuna, you stop the chain of events that led Madara down his dark path. You stop the curse of the Uchiha, and you stop this war before it even begins.” Obito’s voice grew almost fanatical, his words thick with conviction. He motioned toward Sakura, eyes alight with a feverish intensity.

Sakura recoiled slightly, her rosy brows furrowing as the full weight of Obito's words began to settle in. Understanding dawned on her, his words rattled around in her mind, leaving her feeling unsettled, the weight of his suggestion pressing down on her.

Sasuke’s voice cut through the air, sharp and immediately perceptive. He knew exactly what Obito was implying, and he didn’t like it.

Not one bit.

 He stepped forward, subtly positioning himself between Sakura and Obito, his body instinctively shielding her. Before she could speak, Sasuke’s voice cut through the tension, sharp and deliberate.

“No.”

Obito’s gaze shifted to Sasuke, his face hardening. “I’m not asking you to blindly follow me. I know the risks—”

Sasuke's single eye flashed red, cold and calculating, as it locked onto Obito's. He scowled, his voice dripping with mocking disdain. “Do you, though?

Sasuke stepped forward, a few inches shorter than the other man, but no less intimidating.

“You’re talking about sending her into a time where women like her don’t survive. You think the Uchiha clan will welcome her as an ally? They’ll see her as a threat because she’s a woman with chakra, unsealed, unclaimed.”

Sakura’s chest tightened at his words.

“A woman like her.” She caught the slight edge in Sasuke’s voice, the way he phrased it—like she was somehow different, weaker. She wanted to protest, to remind him that she wasn’t some fragile thing in need of protection. But as the weight of his statement settled in, her defense faltered, her shoulders slumped.

She had heard stories about the brutal, patriarchal society of the warring state Uchiha. Women weren’t just oppressed—they were suppressed. Their abilities were shunned, their existence diminished. In that era, a woman with chakra would be nothing more than a target, especially one who was unclaimed and unprotected, as Sasuke said. She’d be seen as a weapon, a potential threat, or worse, something to control.

The thought chilled her.

Could I survive in a world like that?

The fear gnawed at her, but the weight of the present reality was heavier.

“They'll kill her the moment she steps in front of them….”

Sasuke’s words hung in the air, stark and blunt.

“And she’d be lucky if that’s all they did.” He hissed in finality.

 The danger to Sakura’s life wasn’t just about the battle—it was about the fact that in the warring era, a woman with power like hers wouldn’t stand a chance against the god-like shinobi of that era.

“This is ridiculous!” Naruto shouted; his fists clenched at his sides. It had taken him a moment, but now that he understood the full extent of Obito’s suggestion, his face twisted with frustration.

He took a step forward, his eyes burning with indignation, bumping shoulders with Sasuke and shielding their female teammate further. Obito huffed, exasperated and entirely unaffected.

 “Sakura’s not some tool for you to throw around! We’ll beat Kaguya, together! And we’ll end this stupid war as a team!”

Sasuke’s sharp gaze met Naruto’s for a moment, his expression unreadable, but there was an unspoken agreement between them. Neither of them was willing to risk Sakura’s life and if they were going to die, they’d die together.

Kakashi watched the exchange in silence, the outline of his lips pulled into a frown the only indication of the conflict inside of him. He wanted to shout at Obito, wanted to side with his students’ righteous fury, but a part of him understood the grim reality. Their backs were against the wall. The world was on the brink of destruction, and this might be their only chance to change the course of history.

He couldn’t let his personal feelings cloud the urgency of the situation, no matter how much it hurt to see his team so vulnerable. He knew all too well that hope and blind optimism wouldn’t save them now.

“We can’t afford to be stubborn,” Kakashi thought, his gaze turning to Obito, who had become the focal point of the debate.

 His heart twisted at the thought of sending Sakura into that kind of danger, but if there was even the slightest chance this could save them all…His fingers twitched slightly, the familiar weight of his old comrades’ loss pressing heavily on him.

“Naruto, Sasuke” Kakashi finally spoke, his voice quieter but filled with the weight of responsibility, “I understand how you feel, but sometimes... sometimes we don’t have the luxury of choice.”

They all snapped their heads towards Kakashi, now slumped against a crumbling slab of stone.

“It’s dangerous…” His voice faltered slightly. The words were heavy, loaded with the emotion he had been suppressing. “But Sakura… If anyone can pull this off, it’s you.”

Naruto’s fists clenched tighter, his azure eyes flashing with fury. “What the hell, Kakashi?! You can’t seriously be suggesting this!” He took a step forward, anger burning in his voice. “You’re not sending her there! Not all alone!”

Sasuke’s voice chimed in low but sharp. “This isn’t about whether she’s capable or not,” he said, his eye narrowing. “It’s about survival. You can’t just throw her into that era without thinking about the consequences. You know what they’d do to her.” His eye flicked to Sakura, his expression unreadable, but the protective instinct was there, sharp and clear.

Sakura’s head was spinning. She could hear their words, but they felt like they were bouncing off her. She knew they were only trying to protect her, but she also knew the truth. Her thoughts raced as the heated argument filled the air, each voice climbing over the other, each trying to argue their way out of the impossible situation they found themselves in.

It wasn’t that she didn’t understand where they were coming from—she did. But their bickering felt so... futile. As if they could argue their way out of the situation, as if they could simply wish their way to victory.

As the four men bickered back and forth, voices climbing over each other in an effort to be heard.

Sakura clenched her fists, teeth gritted, and with a frustrated sigh, she snapped.

“Will you guys just shut up for a second?!”

Her voice echoed with a sharpness that cut through the noise of their heated argument. Both Naruto and Sasuke fell silent, their surprised glances momentarily meeting hers.

“I get it,” she continued, her voice carefully steady.

“You’re worried about me. But this isn’t about me. This is about all of us, about the world we’re fighting to protect. I’ve been listening to you two argue for minutes, and we’re still no closer to a solution.” She shook her head in disbelief, frustration boiling over. “Do you really think we’re going to survive this by standing here and bickering? We can’t afford to be so naïve.”

Sakura took a deep breath, her voice lowering, her gaze hardening as she finally acknowledged the reality. “We’re facing something bigger than ourselves, something none of us are prepared for. And if this is the only chance we have to change it, then I’m going to take it.”

Sakura took a deep breath, her mind racing as she processed the enormity of what she was being asked to do. Save a man who had died long before she was even born. Change the course of history. It felt impossible, a weight too great for her shoulders, but she knew Obito wasn’t asking her lightly. He believed in her. He believed she could do it.

“I’ll do it,” she said finally, her voice steady despite the doubt in her heart. “I’ll save him. If it means stopping Madara from falling into darkness, if it means preventing this war… I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Obito’s shoulders slumped for a moment, as if he had been carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders and a flicker of gratitude crossed his face.

“Thank you, Sakura”.

The weight of the moment hung in the air, and the team stood in a tense silence. Sakura’s mind was still reeling, but there was no turning back now. Obito’s theory had planted a seed of hope, and it was now her responsibility to see it through.

I

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I

After what felt like a few hours later, the group had rested some and munched on protein bars Sakura had packed. The tension between them still strung tight, but the pinkette would not budge in her resolution. Uncharacteristically, Naruto had been the one to suggest switching dimensions every hour or so to keep Kaguya off their trail. Sakura felt a small flicker of pride for her long-time friend, but also a pang of sadness at his newfound maturity. The war taketh and it giveth, and not even her bright and sunny boy was immune to its cruelty.

They now found themselves in a dense forest with large, ancient trees that almost seemed to be pulsating with energy. Their branches stretching high, with leaves so densely woven together that not a sliver of the sky could peak through. There was a deep, undeniable power here—an ancient, primal force that seemed to radiate from the very roots beneath her feet. It was as if the forest had witnessed the rise and fall of countless generations, its heartbeat intertwined with the flow of time itself. The air hummed with a low, resonant energy, and every breeze that rustled through the leaves carried a whisper from ages long past.

 Obito and Kakashi had spent the last stretch of time huddled together, their faces etched with concentration as they figured out how to send Sakura back to the past.

Obito’s chakra was still unstable, flickering with exhaustion, but his mind was sharp, and so was Kakashi’s. Together, they had begun to piece together the delicate threads of time and space. The Kamui had proven its power—too much power, in fact—and now they needed to adapt it, to send Sakura not just through the void, but into a world that existed before their own.

“The key is to adjust the dimensions just right,” Obito murmured, almost as if he was pulling invisible threads in the air, his fingers twitching with practiced precision. His eyes were narrowed in concentration, scanning the swirling energy of the rift before them.

“If we can stabilize the rift, she’ll be able to step through without risk of being lost in the process.”

Kakashi nodded, his eyes narrowing as he continued to run calculations in his mind. “We’ll have to switch dimensions a few times to avoid Kaguya’s reach. If she’s close enough, the dimension warp might be detected, and the last thing we need is her tracking Sakura down before she’s even had a chance.”

Obito’s brow furrowed. “It won’t be easy. The rift we’ll create is delicate. We have to make sure she’s not trapped between dimensions when we send her through.”

Sakura, still standing by the side, couldn’t help the nervous energy coursing through her. Her left pinky twitched, the only indication of her internal strife. The uncertainty gnawed at her, the weight of the mission pressing down like an anchor. She was about to step into a past she barely knew, all while the future of her loved ones remained uncertain. Her mind raced with a thousand thoughts, each one more overwhelming than the last.

She started as a sudden warmth enveloped her hand. She looked down to find Naruto’s tanned fingers entwined with her own, his grip firm and comforting, as though he were grounding her in that moment of chaos. His hand, so much larger than hers, held hers tightly, a welcome distraction.

Sakura’s breath caught in her throat and her lower lip quivered, her chest tightening with a wave of emotion. His presence, his steady, unwavering confidence—calmed the storm within her. The world might be falling apart around them, but for now, this simple touch grounded her.

For a brief moment, she allowed herself to savor the warmth of his hand, a familiar comfort before the uncertainty of the unknown. With a small, grateful smile, she squeezed his hand back, gazing at the rift ahead.

Naruto gave her a soft but determined look, his eyes shining.

“We believe in you,” he said, voice low but full of conviction.

Her heart fluttered in her chest. “Thank you, Naruto” she whispered, her voice stronger than she felt. “I’ll do it—for all of us.”

I

.

I

Several tense hours later, the team had prepared. Obito, having briefly recovered some of his chakra, and Kakashi stood at the center, their eyes locked in mutual focus. They were ready.

“Alright, Sakura,” Obito said, his voice low but steady. “When we send you through, you’ll have a split second to step into the past. We’ll be manipulating the dimensions, but the rift will only be stable for a short time.”

Kakashi gave her a meaningful glance, his usually masked expression softer now, more vulnerable. “We’ll switch dimensions a few times while you’re in transit. Stay focused. If Kaguya’s power starts to interfere, we’ll try to move you as quickly as possible.”

His voice was calm, but there was an underlying tension in it, the silent weight of the trust he placed in her. She knew Kakashi would do everything in his power to protect her, but the reality of what lay ahead was something no one could shield her from.

Sakura nodded, her heart pounding against her ribcage, the rhythmic thudding deafening in her ears. Her eyes shone with unshed tears, but she blinked them away before anyone could see. There was no time for weakness now, no room for fear. Still, the lump in her throat threatened to choke her as she glanced from Kakashi to Obito, and then to Naruto and Sasuke.

Her shoulders trembled slightly, betraying her inner turmoil, but she straightened them, pushing down the wave of emotion that surged within her. "I understand," she said, her voice barely above a whisper, but resolute, determined. She had to be strong—not just for them, but for the world they were fighting for.

Naruto stepped closer, his gaze soft but unwavering. There was no shouting, no grand speech, just a quiet strength in his eyes. He reached out and took her hand, his warm touch, his fingers tightly entwined with hers. The contact sent a wave of comfort through her, though her stomach twisted with the weight of their unspoken words.

Sakura's breath hitched as she looked at him, the raw fear in her chest threatening to overwhelm her. Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to smile, even if it was small and shaky. "I'll be back," she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. "I promise."

Naruto squeezed her hand one last time before releasing it, his face set with determination, though his eyes glistened with unshed tears of his own.

Sakura stepped closer to the rift, her heart hammering in her chest as she turned to face the team one last time. The weight of the moment was suffocating, but the fear gnawing at her was still overshadowed by her resolve. She couldn’t falter—not now.

Her gaze briefly flicked toward Kakashi and Sasuke. There was something in her chest that twisted when she saw them, standing there, silently watching her with unreadable expressions.

Kakashi’s gaze softened when he saw her looking at him, and he took a step towards her. His usual laid-back demeanor was gone, replaced with something more serious, more vulnerable. He opened his mouth to speak but faltered for a moment, as though the words were caught in his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than usual, heavy with emotion.

“Sakura…” His voice wavered slightly, but he steadied it, meeting her gaze with an intensity that cut through the distance between them.

 “You’ve come so far. I’m so proud of you…. And I know you’ll find a way to do this.”

She could feel the lump in her throat as she blinked back the threat of tears.

“I won’t let you down, Kakashi-sensei,” she whispered, the words barely escaping her lips.

Kakashi smiled gently, though there was a glint of sadness in his eye. His hand reached out, resting on her shoulder—a simple, grounding gesture—but it felt like the weight of a thousand unspoken emotions. “You never could, Sakura. You never could.”

With a shaky breath, Sakura turned to move into the rift, she felt the weight of the moment pressing on her. Her pulse quickened, the fear in her chest threatening to overwhelm her, but she forced herself to stay steady. Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him move. Sasuke.

He didn’t speak at first, only watching her with those dark eyes that seemed to understand everything without the need for words. She could feel the air between them shift as he took a step closer, just enough to close the distance without crowding her.

Sasuke just looked at her, his expression as stoic as ever, but there was something there—something raw that he wasn’t willing to voice aloud. His gaze flickered down to her hand, and for a brief moment, Sakura thought he might reach out.

But instead, he spoke, his voice quiet, almost too soft for her to catch.

“Come back.”

Sakura froze. It was one word, but the intensity behind it made her chest tighten. No promises, no assurances. Just that—Come back.

Her throat tightened, and she met his gaze, her heart racing. She wanted to say something, to tell him she would, but the weight of his words settled deep inside her. It was the way he said it—no questions, no conditions. Just a single command, almost like he knew what was at stake.

Her lip wobbled, and before she could stop herself, she breathed low enough for only him to hear, “I’m scared.”

In this moment, all of her bravado fell away, and Sakura pressed the palms of her hands against her eyes, trying to staunch the tears that threatened to spill. She wasn’t sure if she could do it—if she could carry the weight of the world on her shoulders. Her chest tightened, and the uncertainty wrapped around her like a heavy fog. She had always been strong, always the one to hold it together, but now... the fear was too real, too close.

Sasuke was silent, his gaze steady and unwavering. For a moment, it felt as if time itself had slowed, the tension thick between them. He didn’t speak. His presence alone was a silent comfort, a weight that steadied her when her world felt like it was about to crumble.

Then, without a word, Sasuke stepped closer. His movements were quiet, deliberate, and when he reached her, he tapped her forehead lightly—just a gentle touch, but one that startled her nonetheless. Sakura’s breath caught, her heart skipping a beat as the unexpected contact made her flush. She looked up at him, eyes wide with surprise, but his gaze held her in place, like gravity itself.

For a brief second, his dark eye softened. It was subtle—so subtle, most might have missed it—but it was there. Something that didn’t need to be said aloud. In that moment, she knew. Even in his silence, his presence spoke volumes.

No words of false reassurance. No promises of safety. But it didn’t matter. What Sasuke gave her was something far more valuable, the quiet strength of someone who believed in her without question. The understanding that, no matter the fear or uncertainty, she could face it. She would face it.

Sakura’s chest tightened again, but this time, it wasn’t with fear. It was with the warmth of something unspoken but deeply felt. She nodded once; her throat too tight to say anything else.

Sakura took a shaky breath, feeling the weight of his trust in her more than any words could ever convey. She held his gaze for a moment longer, feeling her heart steady just a little bit.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

Sasuke gave a brief nod and said nothing more, but his eye lingered. And for a moment, it felt like the world held its breath. Then, without another word, he stepped back, returning to his place, his expression closing off once more.

Sakura took one last glance at him, her heart carrying the weight of his unspoken trust. As she steadied her breath, a quiet rustle of movement caught her attention. Obito. He stood in front of her now, his gaze lingered on her solemnly, but it wasn’t just from the impending task. It was something else, something that she couldn’t quite name.

Without a word, he reached out and gently ruffled her hair—just a simple, almost absent gesture, but one that made her chest tighten with an unfamiliar, bittersweet emotion. It was something about the softness of his touch, the fleeting connection that spoke of a time long past—a time he’d lost, a time he couldn’t change.

His eyes softened, the briefest flicker of something vulnerable flashing through his usually guarded expression, and then he spoke, his voice quieter than she expected.

“Be careful. And… don’t forget yourself.”

Sakura blinked, her throat bobbing. She nodded, a quiet response that didn’t need words. She understood the weight behind his gesture, understood the quiet echo of memories he wasn’t willing to let go of.

"I won’t forget," she whispered, her voice steady despite the turbulence within her.

Obito’s hand fell back to his side, the moment over as quickly as it began. He stepped back, a silent acknowledgment passing between them.

With a quiet resolve, she strode forward, one foot stepping into the rift. The cool air swept around her, but she stood tall, her thin shoulders squared, her head held high as if daring fate itself to challenge her. She didn’t look back—she couldn’t afford to—yet the pull of her team, her family, was undeniable.

She glanced back once more, catching the eyes of her teammates behind her. Naruto’s bright gaze. Sasuke’s steady presence. Kakashi’s silent strength. Obito’s quiet expectation. They were all part of this, part of the story she was about to change. A soft smile tugged at her lips, filled with love, pain, and determination.

And then, with one final breath, she was swallowed by the darkness.

The rift closed behind her, leaving only the quiet echo of the world she was leaving behind.

I

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I

The air around them seemed to hum with energy as Obito and Kakashi began to weave the jutsu, the space around them warping, reality flickering and stretching. The ground beneath them cracked as they opened the first rift, sending them spiraling into a new dimension.

But even as the darkness closed in, a flicker of Kaguya’s presence sent a shiver through them.

“We need to move, now!” Kakashi ordered, and Obito, though barely able to stand, reached out with his remaining chakra. The world shifted again, the sensation of time itself bending, the pull of the rift becoming more intense. Every time they felt Kaguya’s proximity, they adjusted, flipping between dimensions like a carefully orchestrated dance, always one step ahead. But they couldn’t keep this up for long.

And then, with a final surge of chakra from both of them, the rift stabilized. The blackness swallowed the pinkette whole.

Kakashi fell back, knees hitting the ground as he panted harshly, Obito dropping to his side moments after. The boys stepped behind them, watching as the void that had engulfed their teammate knitted back seamlessly. Now all they had to do was survive and wait—though beneath the fragile hope they carried, their worried glances spoke volumes about the fate of their Sakura.

Chapter Text

Sakura moved carefully through the dense foliage, the towering trees casting long shadows in the fading light. She had been wandering for days, her body aching from both exertion and the unfamiliarity of this new world—a world that would one day become Konoha, but for now remained wild and untamed.

The landscape was eerily familiar, yet so vastly different. Landmarks she had known in her time were missing, and the few she could recognize were younger, untouched by the hands of generations yet to come. It was disorienting, like walking through a half-forgotten dream, and she was keenly aware of how out of place she was.

Her stomach twisted in hunger as she crouched by the underbrush, her sharp eyes catching sight of a small camp by the river’s edge. The smell of baked fish and vegetables wafting in the cooling air. A young couple, clearly civilians, were laughing softly as they waded through the shallow water. The woman’s clothes were neatly folded by the edge of the river. They looked clean and well-maintained—something Sakura desperately needed if she had any hope of blending in.

Guilt gnawed at her as she waited for the right moment. As soon as the couple turned away, distracted by each other, she moved quickly, snatching up the folded garments from a nearby rock and retreating into the trees before they could notice her presence.

Sakura silently traveled further downstream, the river seemingly stretching down for miles until she found a secluded area hidden by thick foliage. With a sigh, she stripped off her worn clothes and unwound the bindings that had tightly bound her chest, allowing her body a moment of relief. Her nose wrinkled as she caught a whiff of them, holding them far from her body.

 Definitely overdue for a wash.

 Gross, she thought. 

She pressed one arm against her breasts to shield them from the biting night air, scanning the ground where her discarded clothes lay in a heap. Half of her wanted to leave them behind, but that could be risky. If someone stumbled upon them, it might raise questions she wasn’t ready to answer. With a soft sigh, she pressed her fingers into a "V" against her lips, inhaling deeply. She closed her eyes, visualizing herself reaching deep within, past her lungs, past her diaphragm, searching for that core of warmth nestled deep in her stomach.

It wasn’t like the Uchiha’s fiery infernos—no roaring fireballs, no swirling dragons of flame—but it was something. A small ember, coaxed to life with care and patience.

She exhaled slowly, her chakra guiding the heat up her throat. The air around her seemed to tremble as a thin stream of fire flickered past her lips. It sputtered at first, weak and hesitant, but with a focused effort, it caught on to the fabric. The flames licked hungrily at the cloth, curling the edges into blackened embers before devouring them whole, leaving nothing but smoldering ashes.

Sakura watched in silence as her old identity turned to ash, the last remnants of who she had been dissolving into the night. If she was caught, there would be no trail leading back to her—only whispers of fire and smoke. With a soft sigh, Sakura bent down, grabbing her new garments and positioning them high over her head. The fabric fluttered slightly in the breeze as she stepped forward, wading into the cool water.  Now showered in the dark water, Sakura dropped the arm covering her breasts. The cool night air prickled against her damp skin, and a shiver ran up her spine as the water lapped gently at her body. Still, she pushed forward, her movements silent and deliberate, cutting through the stream with practiced ease. The water deepened as she made her way toward a larger boulder nestled off to the side, partially hidden by the overhanging branches. The stone was smooth beneath her fingertips, worn down by years of flowing water. With a quiet sigh, she grabbed her bindings, submerging them into the stream. She rubbed them carefully against a smooth, jutting corner of rock, the sound of the fabric against the stone a rhythmic lull in the quiet night. The water was cold, but it was cleansing in its own way, washing away the grime of her journey.

Once she was satisfied, she laid the bindings on another dry patch of rock, leaving them to dry in the cool night air. It was a small task, but every little thing she could do to feel somewhat clean, somewhat human, helped restore her sense of control in this familiarly unfamiliar place.

She lingered for a moment, feeling the contrast between the cold water swirling around her and the solid, unmoving presence of the boulder beneath her fingertips. The night air ghosted across her damp skin, sending a ripple of goosebumps along her arms. A light giggle bubbled from her lips—soft, unexpected.

The cool water, despite its initial bite, made her feel strangely giddy, almost weightless. It was a rare moment of levity, a fleeting sensation of freedom in the midst of everything she had left behind. For a second, she allowed herself to revel in it, to let the night wash over her like a whispered secret as she floated, humming a soft tune quietly.

The moon was high in the sky. A waning crescent, Sakura thought absentmindedly. In her mind, it almost looked like the sky was slyly smirking, the stars winking at her as if they knew something she didn’t.

She exhaled loudly, a frustrated sound, floating on her back, eyes locked onto the celestial expanse above. The vastness of it made her feel small, insignificant—just another wanderer beneath the endless sky. Her fingers skimmed the water’s surface, disrupting the reflected starlight as she righted herself, now massaging her scalp, washing away weeks’ worth of dirt and filth that had accumulated.

She needed a plan.

Waltzing into the Uchiha encampment and demanding to see this Izuna wasn’t an option. She didn’t even know what he looked like, let alone if he was still alive. Anyways, they’d probably think she was some sort of witch and try to have her burned. Sakura snorted at the thought, for such an intelligent clan, they sure were stupid. Or maybe sexist was the right word.

 The Uchiha, with all their power and might, were really just a silly group of insecure men, as her Shishou would put it. Before parting ways, Sasuke had filled her in on their patriarchal ways during this era. Women merrily being the fairer sex, their sole purpose to share their beds and cook their meals.

He graciously called it the three “S’s” as he explained—submissive, silent, and servile. And she had scoffed in disbelief at his serious gaze.

Then again, it was a different time, and the constant threat of war had made it easy for everyone to slip into their designated roles. Right or wrong didn’t factor into society when everything was a matter of life or death.

In a world where survival was the ultimate goal, there was little room for questioning traditions or defying the status quo. The harsh realities of war had shaped everything, even their perception of gender and power. For the Uchiha, as for many others, it was easier to cling to their old ways and hold tight to what they knew, than to challenge a system that had endured for generations.

As she neared the boulder, noting with faint surprise how far she had floated, Sakura wondered if it would be easier to start with the Senju. Surely, they were more open-minded and accommodating than their dark-haired counterparts.

A fleeting image crossed her mind— The Shodai Hokage, Hashirama Senju, all warmth and boundless energy, grinning as he welcomed her with open arms, excited at the prospect of peace. He had always seemed so different from Madara, his idealism and sincere desire to end the war made him easily the more approachable of the two.

But the Senju were still a clan of battle-harden warriors, still bound by the politics of the era. Just because they weren’t Uchiha didn’t mean she could trust them outright. And if they saw her as a potential asset rather than a person, well… being welcomed didn’t mean being free.

Sakura sighed, brushing wet strands of hair from her face. Whichever path she took, she’d have to tread carefully. As her fingertips brushed the wet stone, her skin prickled with feverish awareness; she rubbed her arms, pretending to ward off the chill as a shiver ran down her spine. She wasn’t alone.

Not wanting to give away her knowledge of their presence, Sakura kept her movements slow and unbothered, letting herself appear as nothing more than a carefree civilian girl caught in a late-night dip.

She silently cursed her carelessness; had they been watching her for some time? Had they seen her burn her clothes with a katon? Her stomach twisted at the thought, that single act alone would shatter any pretense of her just being a civilian.

Keeping her expression carefully neutral, Sakura made her way to the boulder. She grit her teeth, not at all pleased to be giving some lecherous creep a show, but any attempt to cover herself might tip them off that she was aware of their presence.

She was exhausted from her wary travels, her body aching from the strain she had put it through. But even in this state, she could still kick ass if need be. The question was whether she should—whether a fight was necessary, or if slipping away unnoticed was the better option.

And so, with all the grace and elegance she could muster, Sakura stood straight. Let them look. Let them underestimate her. The cool air nipped at her exposed skin, a shiver running through her as rosy peaks stood firm in attention.

If they wanted to gawk, let them. It would be the last thing they ever saw if they made a wrong move. The bushes near the edge of the stream rustled and Sakura held her breath, holding her garments close to her chest, muscle strung taunt.

Then as if taunting her, a small rabbit leapt out, pausing to meet her narrowed gaze before darting off into the underbrush. Sakura exhaled sharply, laughing lightly under her breath as her stomach grumbled at the sight of the small creature. A reminder that hadn’t had a proper meal in ages.

Hurrying out of the water and shaking her head dry, Sakura quickly wrapped her breasts with her old bindings, now dry after laying on the rock for some time. She hastily pulled on her new yukata, relishing how soft the fabric felt against her skin. Noting with some guilt, that it must have cost a pretty penny in this world. Shaking off her lingering unease, Sakura adjusted the fabric and smoothed her pink locks back into a low bun. As she set off deeper into the forest, a new, much more attainable goal clear in mind.

She had to find food, money and shelter.

If there was any hope of changing the course of history, she definitely couldn’t do it on an empty stomach.

I

.

I

The night had crept up on him uneventfully, the moon now dangling in the sky like a broken plate, casting a soft glow over the quiet forest. A young man lounged high in the trees, his figure a shadowy silhouette barely visible behind the leaves. His body was perfectly relaxed, one arm was draped lazily across a branch, while the other rested across his chest, fingers barely brushing the bark beneath him. His legs hung loosely, one knee slightly bent, the other extended down, giving him an air of effortless dominance, like a predator lounging in its territory.

The moonlight filtered through the canopy above, casting shifting shadows over him and highlighting the sharp features of his face. His dark, shoulder-length hair framed his face in a wild, untamed fashion, falling across his forehead and the nape of his neck. The world was still around him—distant sounds of the forest, the occasional rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the fading echoes of his earlier spar with Hashirama still ringing in his ears even hours later.

It had been a playful match—well, for Hashirama, anyway. Madara smirked to himself at the thought of his loud, boisterous rival, always the cheerful one in their strange little rivalry. Despite the bloodshed between their clans and the underlying tension, there was something almost comfortable about their clashes. Their meetings were always a delicate balance—an unspoken understanding that despite being enemies, they shared an odd camaraderie. They’d been on the battlefield countless times, yet here they were, quietly maintaining this... fragile alliance. It had to be kept secret, of course. The world couldn’t know that the Uchiha and Senju were anything more than bitter enemies.

 The thought made Madara’s lips curl into a smirk as he shifted lazily, enjoying the stretch of his body as his eyes flickered open, now wide awake as the sound of water splashing reached his ears, the soft ripple breaking the otherwise serene silence.

At first, he didn’t react, simply flicking his gaze toward the sound. The movement caught his attention, but he had no immediate reason to care. There were always travelers passing through the forest, sometimes even the occasional animal foraging for food in the stream. Besides, if it was someone with more…nefarious purposes, one look of his eyes would quickly send them running.

But then, a flash of pink, a glimmer of color against the dark backdrop of the forest. His eyes narrowed as he followed the brief movement, his curiosity piqued.

A light melody drifting through the night air, almost like a private little tune, carried by the breeze. The sound was delicate, almost playful, an unexpected contrast to the stillness of the forest. It pulled at him, tugging his interest with a kind of subtle force he wasn’t accustomed to.

He turned his gaze downward, onyx eyes bleeding red as he strained to get a better look, not wanting to give away his position quite yet.

‘Oh..” he thought, a lazy grin stretching across his face, ‘…a woman’

And a pretty one at that.

There, in the stream beneath him, was a woman—gloriously naked, her body bathed in moonlight as she waded through the water. At first, it should have been a fleeting glance, easily dismissed by a man of his stature. Madara was no stranger to the finer pleasures’ life had to offer, and such things rarely held his attention for long. As the next in line to lead the Uchiha clan, he held himself to a standard far above the base instincts that guided most men. Yet, despite this, something about her presence lingered, subtle but undeniable, as if she were more than a mere passing distraction—something worthy of his notice, if only for a moment longer. He was still a man, after all, he reminded himself and she, a woman.

A very pretty woman.

Her skin was pale, almost ghostly under the moon’s glow, and her hair, just barely grazing the tips of her breasts, shimmered almost white in the light, giving her a surreal, ethereal quality. The way the moonlight danced across her form, highlighting lethal curves softened by the gentle current, made it impossible for him to ignore her. It was a vision so delicate, so unexpected, that it drew him in without effort. His interest was no longer passive; he was fully awake now, the slumbering part of his mind long gone, replaced by something far sharper.

Madara’s Sharingan spun almost lazily as he studied her, every detail searing itself into his mind with quiet intensity. Not an Uchiha, he thought, his eyes narrowing slightly. A Senju? But he dismissed the thought just as quickly.

 Their women weren’t nearly as pretty as this one. Besides, he would have definitely remembered this one.

Her hair, for one, was unmistakable—bright and pink, a startling contrast to the typical dark hues of his clan. It shimmered in the moonlight, soft and almost iridescent. Her features, too, were unlike anything he was used to—delicate, refined, and utterly feminine. As she unwittingly turned toward him, Madara’s gaze lingered, drawn to the elegant slope of her cheekbones, the gentle fullness of her lips, the way moonlight kissed the curve of her jaw. But it was her eyes that truly held him captive. Lowered almost protectively, as if her eyelids were shielding her vivid shade of emerald gems—deep and luminous—from his greedy gaze. Madara couldn’t help but marvel. He would swear on his life now that he had never witnessed such raw, unguarded beauty. She was unlike the women of his clan, whose beauty was veiled behind layers of practiced modesty, their gazes always lowered, their presence always restrained. This woman was something else entirely. There was a quiet power in the way she carried herself, an allure that was not coy nor practiced but effortless, unspoken yet undeniable. And for reasons he couldn’t yet place, Madara found himself utterly enthralled.

Madara's gaze never wavered as he studied her, his eyes drinking in every detail with slow, deliberate precision. In comparison to his clanswomen, whose bodies were built for fertility—full breasts and wide hips designed to bear heirs, this woman was different. Her body, though soft, had a lean strength to it, the kind that suggested power hidden just beneath the surface. The moonlight caught her form in such a way that her muscles—toned and elegant—seemed to shimmer beneath the water's surface. Her breasts were small but perfectly shaped, and as she stood, his breath caught as he took in the curve of her waist —slim and impossibly defined—before flaring into hips that were round, firm, and utterly enticing. A balance of strength and softness, as though her body had been sculpted with careful intent, each line and contour drawing his eye, commanding his attention.

 Her movements, fluid as she raised her arms to wash her hair, revealed the muscle in her back shifting under the smooth skin, a subtle display of strength. His gaze lingered on the curve of her backside, firm and heart-shaped, arching attractively as she moved—completely unaware of the silent observer in the shadows above.

Madara's eyes narrowed slightly, his casual observation turning into something more focused. What kind of woman was built so perfectly, so….so…lethally, his brain supplied. It was a question he couldn’t shake, one that gnawed at him with an unfamiliar edge. He had seen countless beautiful bodies in his time, had bedded many women of high status and unmatched allure, but none had the same raw, dangerous grace as this one. There was something about her, an undeniable strength that lay hidden beneath the softness of her form, something he couldn’t quite place.

For a brief moment, a fleeting thought passed through his mind—a sense of caution, the faintest suspicion that something was... off. The way she moved, the fluidity in her movements, her taut form. Could she be...? But no, the thought was quickly brushed away as her delicate features came back into view. Madara focused on her hands, his Sharingan picking up every detail: the smoothness of her fingers, the absence of calluses, not a single blemish—so unlike the hands of those accustomed to a life of combat. The softness of her skin, the gentle curve of her form, all belied the possibility. No.

The suspicion lingered for only a heartbeat before he dismissed it entirely, too captivated by the sight before him. There was no reason to concern himself with such trivialities when the woman before him held his full attention.

“What are you doing out here?” he mused silently, his eyes tracking her every movement. The way she moved with such ease, such freedom was almost foreign to him. In the midst of war and bloodshed, such peaceful dalliances seemed like a distant memory.

She had to be a civilian, no clan affiliated woman would be caught dead out in the open like this. So vulnerable and exposed. At first glance, she seemed to have no fear of being watched, completely unaware of his presence. As he continued to observe her, for a brief moment, a fleeting thought passed through his mind—a sense of caution, the faintest suspicion that something was... amiss. The way she moved, the subtle way her shoulders tensed, as if she were listening. Could she have noticed him?

Madara’s smirk deepened as he watched her closely, taking in the careful way she ran her fingers through her hair, the slow stretch of her arms as she stood, fully revealing herself to the moonlight. Feigning ignorance, are we?” he mused, intrigued by the quiet performance. He had seen enough shinobi feign weakness to lure in prey, but rarely had he seen a woman—one so delicate, so deceptively soft—attempt such a thing. He would have missed it entirely had his sharingan been off.

Amused, he shifted, ready to make his presence known, just to see what she would do. But before he could, the bushes below rustled, and the woman’s entire body tensed. Madara’s gaze sharpened as a small rabbit darted out, its tiny frame freezing beneath the weight of her narrowed gaze before it scurried off into the night.

Then, a slow exhale. A sharp sigh of relief.

Madara’s smirk faded, replaced by something darker. So, she didn’t know. She had been wary, but not of him. The idea both pleased and irritated him.

Dropping down skillfully from his perch, Madara observed in silence as she hastily gathered herself, the unspoken tension dissolving as quickly as it had come. The game was over before it could even begin. He’d let her slip away for now, but his curiosity had been unexpectedly piqued.

His sharingan flickered off, now watching her with curiosity as she clothed herself, taking in the way she handled her garments with practiced ease. The fabric was fine, of considerable quality, suggesting she was no common civilian. A merchant’s daughter, perhaps? His eyes narrowed slightly as he considered the possibility. It was a subtle clue, but one that only added to the mystery.

He decided he wasn’t quite ready to reveal himself anymore. The night was still young, and the days were long. There was no rush.

For now, he would savor the image of her—the pale glow of her skin beneath the moonlight, the gentle yet unmistakable strength in her form, the curves that had held his attention far longer than they should have. He had committed every detail to memory, burned them into his mind like an afterimage.

He sighed, glancing down at the unmistakable evidence of his excitement, a wry smirk tugging at his lips. Running a hand through his thick mane of hair, he exhaled sharply, shaking his head as if to dismiss the fleeting disruption.

He supposed another round of cardio would be a sufficient way to end the night. Stretching again languidly, he cast one last glance in the direction the mysterious woman had disappeared, his grin widening as he turned in the opposite way.

A dip in the hot springs and an equally hot body to sink his teeth into—yes, that sounded like the perfect way end his night.

Chapter Text

What a peaceful night, Sakura sighed happily as she bit into the skewer of rabbit meat . The rich, smoky flavor filled her mouth, and she hummed in satisfaction, chewing slowly. There was something particularly rewarding about this meal, a quiet triumph that warmed her more than the fire at her feet.

She stretched her legs out, letting the night air cool her skin as she savored another bite. The irony wasn’t lost on her, though she kept that amusement to herself. The rustling in the bushes earlier, the paranoia that had sent her pulse racing—she really had been on edge.

But in the end, the night was hers. Calm, quiet, and wholly uninterrupted.

It was an odd feeling, Sakura surmised—that unmistakable prickle of awareness, the quiet instinct that something was watching. There was an edge to it, something almost predatory in nature, and it left a ghost of unease crawling up her spine.

She shivered at the thought but chose not to dwell on it. She was exhausted, and the mind sure had a way of playing tricks.  In her case it was in the form of rather cute, yummy rabbits.

With a content exhale, she finished the last bite of her meal and flicked her stick aside, listening as it landed softly in the grass. The darkness pressed in around her—calm, undisturbed, with the soft chirping of the night life to keep her company.

 Perhaps she really had been imagining things.

"Yosh," she muttered, rising swiftly to her feet. She dusted off her yukata, then kicked dirt over the small fire, watching as the bright embers slowly faded, taking their orange glow with them. Now, only the pale moonlight remained, casting long shadows in its wake, her only source of light in the pervasive shadows consuming her figure.

Despite the weight of exhaustion pulling at her, she knew sleep wouldn’t come to her tonight, just as it hadn’t since her arrival. And perhaps it was for the best. Her mind was constantly plagued with thoughts of her team’s fate. In the harshness of her own judgment, she lamented her own cowardice. Unable to shake the fear of her own dreams and what images they’d conjure in their wake.

And so, she found herself walking alongside the same stream from earlier, the sounds of water softly splashing with the wind was oddly comforting. She knew if she traveled alongside the riverbank, she was bound to find signs of life.

"Where water flows, humans follow," Kakashi sagely once said in a rare bout of wisdom.

Sakura rolled her eyes fondly at the memory, recalling how young Team 7 had followed their sensei, trusting in his jounin experience as he led them along a similar stream. Naruto, who had suspiciously held onto his complaints for far too long, exclaimed:

” Man!  The sound of all this water makes me really want to piss!”

And with that he bolted behind a bush, not even a minute later, he was running out with his pants hopelessly tangled around his ankles, an enraged mama bear and her cubs hot on his heels. Naruto was practically flying through the air, a golden stream of liquid arcing above him like a ridiculous, glowing rainbow. Kakashi, stunned by the spectacle, mumbled in awe, “This is… unreal”

The stream shimmered in the sunlight, twinkling almost knowingly, as if it too were enjoying the chaos, before splashing down in all its golden glory right as the bears pounced after him.

Sasuke, the closest to the screaming blond, stood off to the side with his arms crossed, an unimpressed frown plastered on his face as he watched the chaotic scene unfold. He couldn’t help the slight furrow of his brow as he watched Naruto flailing like an idiot.

“Dobe,” he muttered, rolling his eyes in pure exasperation.

They had laughed about it for weeks afterwards, to this day Naruto still has three small vertical slashes on his left butt-cheek, courtesy of one wet cub.

Sakura’s smile faltered for a moment, her chest tightening with a familiar ache. She missed those days—she quickly shook her head, forcing herself out of the moment. Her hand instinctively reached up to brush a pink lock back where it had fallen out of her bun and tickled her collar bone.

 Not now, she whined inwardly, slapping her cheeks lightly, willing the softness of the memory to fade. She couldn’t afford to get all sappy now. There were more important things to focus on. Still, a small, wistful smile tugged at her lips as she continued walking, the weight of the past quietly lingering in her heart.

Roughly half-an hour into her walk, the trees began to thin, the sharp scent of the forest gave way to a faint, comforting aroma of cooking spices. The atmosphere felt different now—livelier, almost electric. The soft rustle of leaves and the silence that had surrounded her for so long were replaced by the hum of voices, the clatter of carts, and the warm glow of lanterns hanging outside buildings. Sakura gingerly stepped out of a thick cluster of branches, careful to avoid making any unnecessary sounds; her olive eyes wide as she took in the sight before her.

She stepped out of the dense forest and into a world brimming with color and movement. A market sprawled before her, a patchwork of mud-brick stalls and wooden carts, their faded awnings flapping gently in the evening breeze. Oil lanterns swayed above, casting golden pools of light that flickered against the dirt pathways, illuminating the swirling fabrics, gleaming trinkets, and stacks of exotic spices displayed like treasure.

Laughter rang out over the hum of bartering voices, the clatter of wooden sandals against the ground, the occasional bark of a merchant shouting deals to passing customers. Children darted through the crowds, their laughter a bright contrast to the hardened warriors who walked among the civilians, hands never straying far from the hilts of their weapons.

A merchant’s stall loomed just ahead, its weathered red canopy sagging under the weight of hanging charms. She ducked behind it, pressing herself into the worn wooden frame for the briefest moment—just long enough to adjust. With swift precision, she formed the hand signs and cast a small henge over herself.

In an instant, her vibrant pink locks dulled into long, mousy brown hair, falling just past her navel. Her vibrant green eyes deepened to a shade darker, blending more seamlessly with her new appearance. The rest of her features stayed virtually the same, save for one subtle detail: a light dusting of freckles over her nose.

The key to a good henge was making small, undetectable changes. You couldn’t change your bone structure, and one odd feature out of place could break the whole illusion. A few minor alterations, nothing too drastic ensured she blended in without raising suspicion.

With a quick glance at her reflection in a nearby puddle, she nodded to herself, satisfied. The woman mirrored back was ordinary, inconspicuous. No one would give her a second glance.

She stepped back out, merging with a passing crowd of chattering people. She adjusted her stride to match the pace of the strangers around her and kept her head slightly down, neither too meek nor too bold—just another faceless traveler lost in the tide. Only when she was certain—certain that no one had followed her, certain that no one looked twice—did she lift her head.

And that’s when it hit her.

The mouthwatering scent of sizzling meat, ripe fruit, and freshly steamed rice clung to the air, making her meager meal of unseasoned rabbit an afterthought as she breathed in the heavenly aroma.

Her stomach gurgled embarrassingly loud and she noted a few surprised looks shoot her way. Flushing uncomfortably, Sakura hurried along, taking in each and every stall she passed with practiced aloofness.

She passed a fruit stall first—piles of plump peaches (her favorite) and deep-red persimmons stacked haphazardly atop a worn cloth. The vendor was busy arguing with a customer over the price of a bundle, voice rising above the din of the marketplace. Sakura barely needed a second.

A shift of her sleeve, a flick of her wrist—two peaches from the bottom plucked quietly. Tucked neatly into the folds of her loose garments as she strolled past without breaking stride.

Next, a street-side grill, where meat skewers glistened under the glow of the oil lanterns ahead. The vendor, an older man with a stern brow, had his back turned, rummaging through a crate of fresh ingredients.

Sakura exhaled slowly, stepping into the press of bodies near the stall.

A casual reach, a seamless motion—her fingers closed around two skewers. She twisted her wrist as she pulled away, nestling one against the inside of her sleeve while the other slid naturally into her palm, as far as anyone knows, she bought them.

A breath later, she was moving again.

No hesitation. No second glances. She couldn’t help but think of the times Naruto had dragged her into his harebrained schemes, his unrelenting insistence on taking shortcuts that usually ended in chaos. He’d always told her, with that grin of his, that the trick was confidence.

‘And trust me, Sakura-chan,’ Naruto whispered, a mischievous gleam twinkled in his blue eyes as they passed a fruit stand piled high with vibrant, red apples.

‘A good thief makes it look like they don’t care about being caught.’

Before she could respond, he casually slipped a juicy apple into her hands, his own hands resting behind his head

His eyes were still trained forward, but his grin, infectious as always, gave way to his mirth.

 She’d laughed then, bopping him over his blond head in mock admonishment. But the way he did it—so confident, so carefree—it was so him.

Now, as she casually made her way through the crowd, the subtle rush of excitement from pulling off another unnoticed swipe felt oddly nostalgic. Maybe Naruto’s reckless spirit had rubbed off on her more than she cared to admit. She glanced down at the skewers in her hand, a small, quiet smile tugging at her lips. Thanks for the lessons, Naruto, she thought fondly. She took a bite only when she was certain she was clear of watchful eyes, the burst of seasoned meat against her tongue sending a ripple of warmth through her and she felt more satiated than ever.

Guilt tugged at her chest, but she silenced it swiftly, promising to pay back the vendors she swiped from as soon as she could afford to.

Sakura's footsteps slowed as the weight of exhaustion finally began to take hold. The day’s events had drained her more than she realized, and the insistent tug of sleep felt impossible to ignore. She needed a place to rest, and soon.

As the hustle and bustle of earlier quieted, she scanned her surroundings for any potential refuge. Her eyes caught sight of a row of modest inns tucked away from the main street, their wooden signs swaying gently in the evening breeze.

A thought formed, sharp and deliberate

Stepping up to the nearest inn, she adjusted her posture, letting her shoulders relax just enough to give off an air of vulnerability. She bit her lip, glancing around nervously, her cheeks flushing ever so slightly, as though caught in a private moment.

She took a slow, deliberate breath and approached the entrance, letting her eyes wander to the innkeeper with a hint of shy hesitation. Her every movement was calculated, a delicate balance of seeming innocent while maintaining the air of a woman looking for some private respite. The blush on her cheeks deepened ever so slightly as she lowered her gaze, hoping to sell the act.

The innkeeper, an older woman with graying hair, gave her a curious look, but Sakura lowered her voice, putting on the sweet, demure tone she had perfected. “I’m looking for a room for a few days... it’s for my husband and I. We’re hoping for somewhere quiet to... enjoy some time alone.”

The innkeeper’s expression softened, the suggestion of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “We have a few rooms available, dear. How long do you plan to stay?”

Perfect, she thought, a small, satisfied smile tugging at her lips. Now to make it believable.

Sakura hesitated just long enough to appear thoughtful, then asked, “I’ll need a room for about ten nights. I’m hoping for something private. Quiet. Away from the other guests... with a balcony, if possible?”

The innkeeper nodded, though a slight wrinkle formed between her brows. “A room with a balcony, you say? We do have one, but it’s in the back, away from the main hall. It’s a bit secluded... perfect for what you’re asking, but—”

Sakura quickly interjected, keeping her voice light and innocent. “That’s exactly what I’m looking for. I’d like a room with the balcony. I don’t want to disturb anyone, and the privacy would be ideal. How much is it?”

The innkeeper rattled off a price, and Sakura’s mind raced. NOW REEL HER IN.

 She nodded, her smile softening. “That sounds just right. But... I don’t have the full amount at the moment. My husband and I will stop by again in the next few days…”

Before Sakura could finish, the innkeeper quickly offered to hold the room for her, giving the pinkette a sly wink. “I’ll hold the room for you, dear. No need to worry about the payment now. Just come back with your husband, and I’ll make sure it’s all set up for you two. It’s a quiet room, perfect for your needs.”

Sakura’s lips curled into a small, practiced smile, her eyes glinting with a mixture of satisfaction and amusement. Hook, line, and sinker.

The innkeeper nodded, clearly satisfied with the arrangement. “I’ll keep it reserved for you until then. Don’t worry—no one else will take it.” She leaned in slightly, her voice lowering in a conspiratorial tone. “Just be sure to keep it discreet. We wouldn’t want any trouble.”

With a sudden grin, the innkeeper gave Sakura a small, playful pat on her bum, laughing lightly. “Ah, the power of youth,” she mused, her tone reminiscent of a certain bushy-browed ninja who had once shared similar sentiments.

Sakura froze for a split second, caught off guard by the unexpected gesture. But she quickly masked her surprise, offering another demure smile in return. Youth indeed, she thought humorously. Though she didn’t let it show, the innkeeper’s jovial attitude was slightly infectious.  

“Thank you,” Sakura said, her voice smooth, masking the brief discomfort. “I’ll make sure we come by as soon as we can.”

With one last grateful smile, Sakura turned and walked away. Once out of sight, she moved swiftly to the back of the inn, her footsteps soundless in the growing darkness. The evening air brushed against her skin, cooling her as she neared her room for the night.

She glanced around quickly, ensuring no one was watching. With one swift, chakra-powered leap, Sakura landed silently on the balcony, her landing as quiet as a whisper. She pushed open and closed the bamboo door in a flash, the soft sound of wood against wood barely noticeable. Inside, the room was relatively empty, a small wooden dresser and a tatami mat shoved off into the corner.

With a deep sigh of relief, Sakura leaned against the wall for a moment, savoring the solitude as she dropped her henge. She shed her clothing, allowing the weight of the day to fall away with it. She strode forward, footsteps deliberately light so as not to alert anyone below of her presence. Her body sank into the softness of the mat below, relishing its softness in comparison to the hard forest floor. Her eyes fluttered closed, the exhaustion from her countless hours of sleeplessness immediately seizing her. The hushed stillness of the room, broken only by the occasional creak of the building and the distant hum of shops closing, owners making their final bid to sell.

Sakura’s breath slowed, a soft rhythm pulling her deeper into relaxation. Thoughts of the day began to fade, her mind, always alert, finally allowed itself to drift as she surrendered to the call of sleep.

Tomorrow would come soon enough and with that a new goal ahead.

She did not dream that night.

I

.

I

It happened by pure chance.

She was wandering aimlessly through the market, having dropped her henge days into her stay. At first, she had kept it up out of habit, unwilling to draw attention to herself in a time and place she didn’t belong. But maintaining it constantly had proven to be a pointless drain on her chakra—especially when no one seemed to care about her appearance beyond the occasional leering glance of a drunkard.

It was riskier anyway, she thought idly, sidestepping the wandering hand of a local pickpocket with practiced ease. Should a talented shinobi happen upon her, they might notice the steady flow of chakra threaded through the mop of her candy-floss hair, subtly altering its length and color. Or, in the right light, her eyes, no matter how she disguised them, might still betray their sharp emerald hue. Better to blend in naturally than risk being unmasked. Here, she was just a nameless woman. For now.

With the scent of sizzling meat and spiced broth teasing her nose, something glinting under the harsh sun catches her eye—a small navy-blue sack lying abandoned near the edge of a wooden stall. It was partially hidden beneath a discarded cloth, as if someone had dropped it in a hurry.

She glanced around, half-expecting to see a frantic noble patting their robes in search of lost wealth, but no one seemed to notice. The market hummed with life—merchants calling out deals, children darting between carts—yet the little sack remained untouched. Unnoticed.

Curiosity getting the best of her, she crouched down, fingers brushing over the soft fabric, and immediately, she knew this was no ordinary bag.

It felt luxurious beneath her fingertips, the fabric impossibly soft yet sturdy, as if woven from the finest silk. At the top, embroidered in sleek black thread, a small crow perched with its head turned just so—one beady eye seeming to peer directly at her. The craftsmanship was exquisite, too perfect for some run-of-the-mill merchant’s purse.

Sakura hesitates.

A twinge of guilt twists in her gut. Someone must have lost this. Someone wealthy, judging by the feel of it. Maybe she should return it? Maybe—

Her stomach grumbles, cutting through her fleeting self-righteousness like a kunai through parchment. Right. Morality was a privilege of the well-fed. She sighs, deciding she’ll just take what she needs. No harm in that.

As she dips her fingers inside to grab a couple of coins, the crow seems to glower at her, its gaze almost judgmental.

She scowls at it in return. "Oh, shut up," she mutters under her breath.

The scent of sizzling food leads her to a bustling stall where skewers of glazed ikayaki glisten under the warm sun. The second she steps up; the shop owner barely spares her a glance—until she retrieves the sack from her sleeve.

The moment the gold coin clinks against the wooden counter, the man nearly faints. His face drains of color before flushing a deep, mortified red as he stares at her in horror, then awe.

“Most kind,” he stammers, voice nearly breaking, as if he’s just witnessed the heavens’ part before him. “A-angelic, truly! I always knew your clan was the most generous—”

Sakura blinks. My clan?

Weird. Before she can press him on what he means, a group of women, dressed in flowing silks, descend upon the stall in a flurry of excited chatter. They wave their bills at the shop owner’s face, calling out orders with practiced ease, and he is quick to scurry away, grateful for the distraction.

Amused, Sakura plops down on a nearby bench, chewing thoughtfully on her skewer. The savory-sweet glaze coats her tongue, the tender squid melting in her mouth. Her gaze flits over to the women waiting for their food, and she realizes just how done up they all are.

Their faces are painted stark white, lips stained a deep crimson, and their hair twisted into elaborate styles that must have taken hours. They remind her of the noblewomen she’s seen in textbooks, refined and delicate in their traditional dress—until one of them, a statuesque blonde, lets out a loud, scandalous laugh.

Sakura nearly chokes on her food as the woman, in the most casual tone imaginable, begins to describe—in vivid detail—her most recent bedroom encounter.

Heat creeps up Sakura’s neck, turning her ears red. The words coming out of this woman’s mouth would make even a battle-hardened shinobi blush. She’s almost reminded of her own blonde best friend when the woman turns around, and Sakura finds herself staring into baby-blue, pupil-less eyes.

Her breath catches.

“Ino…” she whispers, heart stuttering in her chest.

But no—no, that’s impossible.

As Sakura studies the woman more closely, she notices the subtle differences. The beauty mark just beneath her right eye. The slight upward tilt of her nose. The way she carries herself—not with Ino’s familiar sharp, confident stride, but something slower, more measured, like someone used to being observed.

And then there’s her figure—taller, fuller, like she actually enjoyed eating, unlike her best friend, who had spent half her youth on diets in pursuit of the ‘perfect kunoichi form.’

Sakura swallows, suddenly feeling like a stranger in someone else’s dream.

She isn’t in her time anymore.

The woman’s gaze lingers on her, curiosity flickering across her elegant features, and for a moment, Sakura wonders—could she be a great-great-grandmother?

The resemblance is undeniable. And one thing is certain—the woman before her is undoubtedly of the Yamanaka clan.

The woman’s pale eyes linger on her, a quiet curiosity flickering across her elegant features. Then, with a graceful tilt of her head, she offers a knowing smirk.

"Like what you see?" she teases, voice lilting with amusement.

Sakura startles, choking on the last bite of her skewer. She coughs into her fist, cheeks burning as the woman laughs—a rich, confident sound that only deepens the eerie sense of familiarity curling in Sakura’s chest.

"I'm sorry," Sakura manages, still thrown by just how much this woman reminds her of Ino.

"You just look... really familiar."

The blonde raises a perfectly shaped brow, her smirk widening. "Do I now? How interesting. I don't believe we've met before, but I would have remembered someone as striking as you."

Sakura snorts—definitely an Ino thing to say.

"Inohana," the woman finally introduces herself, tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear. "Inohana Yamanaka, heiress of the Yamanaka clan. And you are?"

Sakura barely registers her own name leaving her lips, too fixated on the weight of that introduction. Inohana. Hana for flower, Ino for pig.

Her lips twitch and she barely holds back a laugh.

She coughs lightly, schooling her features into polite neutrality as she takes the woman’s offered hand. Once a pig, always a pig, huh Ino?

Before she can fully process it, Inohana loops an arm through hers, seamlessly pulling her into the fold.

"Come, sit with us," she insists, guiding Sakura back toward the group of noblewomen. "You must be new here, I’d remember someone with hair like yours. Unless you're just terribly shy?"

"Something like that," Sakura hedges, allowing herself to be dragged along.

The conversation flows effortlessly after that. If she closes her eyes, she can almost pretend she’s back home, sitting at a dango shop with Ino, enduring whatever gossip she found juicy that day. Inohana is just as quick-witted, just as sharp-tongued, and just as effortlessly charming.

And just like that, Sakura finds herself smiling, feeling lighter than she has in days.

Maybe, just maybe, she isn’t as alone in this time as she thought.

I

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I

The sun had long since dipped below the horizon, casting the market into the warm glow of lantern light. The other noblewomen had departed hours ago, retreating to their homes, but Inohana remained, comfortably lounging beside Sakura as if they'd been lifelong friends.

Sakura had expected stilted conversation, the kind dictated by etiquette and social standing, but Inohana shattered every preconception she had about noblewomen of this era. She spoke freely—boldly—about life as an heiress, the expectations placed upon her, the delicate dance of politics between clans. The Yamanaka, she explained, were valued for their mind-reading abilities, among other things, yet even they had to tread carefully. And while noblewomen were afforded more liberties than she’d imagined, the topic of chakra-wielding women was another matter entirely.

"Unapproved use of chakra—especially by a woman—can be seen as a challenge to a clan’s authority," Inohana mused, absentmindedly twirling a lock of golden hair around her finger. "If my father hadn’t sanctioned my training, I’d have been punished for it. Fiercely."

Sakura frowned, but pressed forward, "Punished how?"

Inohana flicked her gaze toward her, eyes alight with something knowing. "Exile, for some, the lucky ones. Others are forced into marriage arrangements that ensure their bloodline remains useful but... restrained." She sighed dramatically, stretching her arms. " Personally, I think men are just afraid of what we could do if given the same training they are. Take the Uchiha for— "

 Sakura perked up slightly, her interest piqued.

"The Uchiha?"

Inohana smirked, “Oh, they're something else entirely. Stubborn, secretive, always playing their own game. My father says it’s a miracle they still bow to the Daimyō at all."

Sakura hummed, biting her tongue. That much hadn’t changed, then.

"Still," Inohana continued, "they are useful allies if you can win them over. Powerful, prestigious, and, well…" She waggled her brows. "Devastatingly handsome."

Sakura nearly choked, "Excuse me?"

Inohana paused, realizing with a slight shift in her expression that Sakura wasn’t familiar with the name. She leaned back slightly, giving the strawberry blonde a more thoughtful look. "Right, you probably wouldn’t know much about them," she said, tone shifting a bit as she provided more context. The Uchiha clan… they’re one of the most powerful and feared families in the Land of Fire. It was once led by Tajima Uchiha, but since his recent passing, his eldest son has taken the role of clan head. His younger brother, meanwhile, commands their shinobi forces."  

"They’re both known for their strength, their fire, and their ruthless ambition…."

She leaned in a little, lowering her voice.

 "Among other things!” the heiress purred in delight; eyes gleaming with mischief.

At Sakura’s blank expression, Ino huffed in feigned exasperation.

"Oh, come now. You can’t tell me you’ve never seen one! You haven’t heard the rumors about Madara Uchiha? Izuna?!" She said dreamily, with an exaggerated wave of her hand.

Sakura blinked, reigning in her surprise "Izuna Uchiha?"

"Yes, yes, Madara's little brother. Well—not so little, apparently." Inohana gave her a pointed look, waggling her done up brows again suggestively.

Heat immediately crept up Sakura’s neck, her mind scrambling between implications of Izuna Uchiha still being alive and the image Inohana was very clearly trying to put there.

"I—uh," Sakura coughed, averting her gaze. "I see."

She would tuck that little tidbit of information away for now, glad to hear that her mission was made a little easier. Izuna was still alive and clearly, thriving if she could go off of anything the heiress said.

Inohana laughed, oblivious to Sakura’s plight and clearly delighted by her flustered reaction. Sakura, desperate to steer the conversation elsewhere, opened her mouth—

“So,” she started hastily—

"How do you keep your skin so flawless?" Inohana interrupted, leaning in with sudden intensity, completely derailing Sakura’s attempt at escape.

The pinkette’s brow twitched.

Oblivious—or simply unbothered—the blonde continued to scan her face with narrowed, scrutinizing eyes, as if attempting to uncover some great beauty secret hidden in her pores.

"You're not wearing any makeup, are you?"

Sakura barely had time to answer before Inohana was already fishing out a small, ornate tin from her sleeve. She popped it open, revealing a fine, pale powder inside. "This is what we use," she explained, passing it over. "A bit of it, and you’ll have the perfect, porcelain complexion."

Curious, Sakura lifted it to her nose and inhaled lightly—only to freeze.

Arsenic.

Her stomach twisted. She had read about this in textbooks, how women in certain historical periods had unknowingly poisoned themselves with lead- and arsenic-based cosmetics, all in pursuit of beauty.

"You put this on your face?" she asked, appalled.

Inohana rolled her eyes. "Of course. What else would we do with it?"

Sakura exhaled sharply, shaking her head. "I could make you something better," she mused, already running through potential formulas in her mind. "A cream that actually improves your skin…”

Instead of slowly killing you, but she wouldn’t say that part out loud.

Inohana’s eyes lit up. "Truly? And you have it with you now?"

Sakura winced, raising her hands in a placating gesture, as if trying to temper the heiress’s growing excitement. "Not exactly. I’d need to gather the right ingredients, but—"

"Say no more." Inohana stood abruptly, grabbing Sakura’s wrist with surprising strength.

"We’re going shopping."

Before Sakura could protest, she found herself dragged through the bustling night market, Inohana sparing no expense in purchasing every single herb, oil, and ingredient she so much as mentioned. The woman was relentless, insisting she needed the remedy immediately and that if Sakura’s cream truly worked, she’d never let anyone else touch her face again.

I

.

I

As they stopped by their final stall for the night, Sakura enjoyed the familiar thrill of haggling and negotiating with the vendors, her hands busy with a bushel of fresh yomogi, licorice root, and a couple of other herbs she could use for various maladies. A satisfied hum escaped her lips as she waited for the attendant to package her purchase, absently fiddling with the tip of her hair, lost in the satisfaction of the evening’s success.

"You dress well, you speak well, you even know how to haggle with the civilian’s…" Inohana’s voice broke through her thoughts, and Sakura glanced up, surprised.  “Are you from a shinobi clan yourself?"

Sakura hesitated. Her gaze shot to her new friend, caught off guard by the question.  The heiress’s tone was more curious than judgmental, laced with a genuine interest.

"I…" Sakura hesitated, swallowing the lump in her throat. "Not anymore."

Inohana’s sharp eyes softened. "Oh," she whispered. "The war?"

Sakura glanced away, her fingers gripping the edge of her sleeve tightly. "Yes," she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper. "Something like that."

She couldn’t help but sheepishly think to herself that it wasn’t like it was a complete lie, anyway.

Inohana exhaled, nodding in understanding before linking their arms once more. "Well," she said lightly, as if trying to lift the weight from Sakura’s shoulders, "Who you are doesn’t matter to me. What does matter is that you’ve just found a very dear friend. And, my dear Sakura, I have a feeling you’re about to become very popular among the nobility."

Sakura let out a small breath, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.

I

.

I

Sakura hadn’t planned on selling skincare, but when Inohana flaunted her new regimen to the other noblewomen, the demand was immediate. One by one, they lined up, eager to get their hands on whatever mysterious cream the Yamanaka heiress had discovered.

What started as a single request quickly spiraled into something much bigger. Weeks passed in a blur, and she and Inohana became thick as thieves—an odd yet effortless friendship forged over shared laughter, whispered gossip, and late-night experiments with various herbal concoctions.

Word of Sakura’s miraculous creams and remedies spread like wildfire among the noblemen and women, and soon, she had more clients than she knew what to do with. The demand kept her hands busy, but more importantly, it provided her with something invaluable—money. Enough that she could discreetly slip a few coins here and there, quietly repaying the vendors she had once borrowed food from without them ever realizing their debts had been settled.

With her newfound wealth, she formally took up residence at the same inn she had once snuck into, handing over more than the asking price without hesitation. The innkeeper, pleased with the generous patronage, welcomed her without question, entirely unaware that Sakura had once slipped through the halls unnoticed, occupying a room meant for a couple that would never come.

Still, despite her growing success, she kept the small sack of gold she had found weeks prior. It remained untouched since she’d first found it, stitched securely into a hidden pocket in the hem of her yukata. No matter how tempting, she refused to spend it and even returned what she could when budget allowed. That money wasn’t hers, and until she found its rightful owner, it would stay exactly where it was.

But the more she dwelled on it, the more curious she became.

As she acclimated to the new environment, she quickly realized that the coins inside weren’t the standard currency used by nobles like Inohana or even the wealthier civilians. The weight of them, the fine etchings along their surface, these weren’t common pieces one might casually spend at a market stall. They were something else entirely, far more valuable than anything she’d seen exchanged in the streets.

Which begged the question—who in their right mind could afford to carry that kind of money and not panic after losing it?

Whoever they were, Sakura had yet to hear so much as a whisper of someone searching for it. And that, more than anything, made her uneasy.

Quickly dismissing her cumulating thoughts, Sakura thought back to her new occupation. It wasn’t much, but it was something. A way to balance the scales in a world that had forced her to give more than she was comfortable with.

And if she happened to enjoy the perks—a soft bed, warm meals, and the kind of company that made her forget, if only for a moment, that she didn’t belong in this time—well, that was just a bonus.

As Inohana examined a bolt of silk at a vendor’s stall, running her fingers over the fabric with a practiced eye, Sakura wandered a few steps away to inspect some herbs displayed in neat baskets. The vibrant colors and enticing scents filled the air, but her attention was split, constantly drifting back to the heiress.

So,” Inohana’s voice broke the silence, her tone suddenly shifting from casual to focused, causing Sakura to glance back at her. "Forehead-chan," she continued with that teasing tone, and Sakura couldn't help but sigh internally.

She had really hoped that nickname would fade away with time, but no such luck. It seemed no matter where she went, or lifetime for the matter, there was always some version of Ino’s teasing hanging around.

“Are you really going to keep calling me that?” Sakura grumbled, narrowing her eyes at the blonde with a half-hearted frown.

Inohana’s lips twitched into a smirk, and she lightly bumped her shoulder against Sakura’s with a teasing little laugh, before continuing her thought, “You’ve been awfully quiet lately. Something on your mind?”

Sakura huffed, but her lips curled despite herself. She had been so lost in her own swirling worries about the mysterious pouch and its potential danger that she hadn’t even noticed how quiet she’d become.

“Nothing you need to worry about,” she replied, hoping her tone would be enough to dismiss Inohana’s question.

But the blonde wasn’t having it. Inohana tilted her head, her bright eyes narrowing in on Sakura with an almost predatory curiosity. “Hmm... You sure about that? You’re acting all secretive, like you're hiding something from me.”

Sakura's fingers instinctively brushed against the fabric of her yukata, touching the small pouch she had tucked there hidden from view. She glanced away, trying to act casual, but her heart was pounding. “Really, it’s nothing. Just... thinking about things.”

Inohana raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t push further for the moment. Instead, she leaned closer with a mischievous glint in her eye. “Well, if you’re hiding something, you know I’ll find out sooner or later. I always do.”

Sakura couldn’t help but chuckle lightly, she was starting to realize just how much Inohana reminded her of Ino, with that same endearing, yet relentless attitude.

“Like I said, nothing to worry about,” Sakura replied with a little more confidence, brushing off the discomfort she felt. “Just... been a long day. I’ve been very busy thanks to you.”

Inohana hummed in acknowledgment, clearly still skeptical but deciding to let it go for now. “Well, if you say so, Forehead-chan. But you’re going to have to spill the beans eventually” flashing her with a knowing smile, one that sent a jolt of nervousness through Sakura.

Shaking her head with a small sigh, wondering how she ended up in the same position again: constantly having to fend off Ino’s unrelenting curiosity, even in a new world. But, in some strange way, it felt oddly comforting knowing someone cared about her here.

With a reluctant sigh, Sakura hoped she wouldn’t regret this. “Come with me,” she said defeatedly, tugging on the heiress’s wrist and weaving through the bustling crowd, leading her to the modest room she’d been renting.

Inohana’s eyes lit up with victory, her lips curling into a smug smirk. She hmphed with triumph, clearly pleased to have finally cracked Sakura’s quiet façade. Her clan wasn’t known for their prowess in intelligence gathering for nothing. "I knew you were hiding something!" she squawked, practically glowing with pride. "You can’t fool me, Forehead-chan."

Sakura shot her a pointed, exasperated glance but didn’t respond, her pace quickening as she reached the door to her room after greeting the innkeeper hurriedly. The thought of showing the pouch to Inohana made her feel slightly uneasy, but she needed answers.

Once inside, Sakura immediately closed the door behind them, securing the room. She paused for a moment, breathing in deeply, before pulling the pouch from the hidden pocket in her yukata. She hesitated, eyeing Inohana carefully before finally extending it toward her.

Inohana raised an eyebrow at the small, delicate pouch. "What’s this?” she asked curiously.

Sakura didn’t respond, but instead slowly untied the string and opened the pouch to reveal the coins, dropping the pouch into Inohana’s outstretched hands. She carefully unfolded it, revealing the engraving that marked the fabric— a symbol that was completely unmistakable.

Inohana’s breath hitched, and for the first time, her usual playful demeanor faltered. Her eyes scanned the fabric, her fingers brushing against the cool material as she leaned closer, her expression turning serious.

“Sakura this is-”

Before the blonde could finish, a sharp scream, followed by frantic cries of panic and the hurried steps of wooden sandals smacking against the ground, echoed through the small room.

Inohana’s eyes widened, her posture stiffening in alarm. Without hesitation, she and Sakura exchanged a quick glance and without a second thought, the two women sprang up, Sakura just barley tucking the pouch back into her pocket. They tumbled over their clothing as they darted toward the inn door. Their footsteps pounded against the floorboards as they rushed through the narrow hallways, the distant cries of panicked civilians growing louder with each passing second.

Sakura and Inohana pushed through the crowd, their eyes darting about, searching for any clue as to what had sparked the commotion. The voices grew louder as they neared the center of the courtyard, and the air seemed to thicken with tension. Finally, they arrived at the source of the chaos.

At the heart of it all stood a tall figure, surrounded by murmurs and stares from the onlookers. His presence alone commanded attention. The moment Sakura laid eyes on him; she felt her breath hitch.

From his broad shoulders to his sharp jawline, accentuated by a furrowed brow and a crimson gaze that could freeze a man where he stood—everything about him was striking. Stark white hair, spiked and untamed, only added to the severe presence he carried, and the red markings on his face—two thin vertical stripes on his cheeks, one trailing down his chin—cut through his pale skin.

Sakura’s mouth went dry. She knew that face.

Before she could stop herself, the title slipped from her lips in a hushed breath.

"Nidaime-sama…"

The grip on the struggling man did not loosen, but Tobirama’s gaze flicked toward her as if he heard her.  Assessing. Razor-sharp. For the briefest moment, it felt as though he were peeling back her skin, seeing straight through her. Then, just as quickly as it came, his attention dismissed her, shifting back to the matter at hand.

Sakura swallowed hard, pulse thundering in her ears.

The poor soul—whom Sakura vaguely recognized as the pickpocket from earlier—struggled weakly in Tobirama’s unyielding grip. With effortless strength, he lifted the thief off the ground, his fingers tightening around the man’s throat as though he were no more than a ragdoll.

“Stealing from me?”  Tobirama’s voice was low and controlled, but there was an unmistakable edge that made the hairs on her neck stand on end.

"You should know better than to tempt fate."

Inohana, standing next to her, eyebrows drawn in concern, her teeth worrying into her bottom lift began to tug on the other girl’s sleeve,

“Sakura” she murmured urgently, “let’s get out of here!”

But Sakura was stuck, eyes trained to the scene unfolding before her. Tobirama, having clearly found whatever was taken, threw the man down with a scoff and for a moment, everyone seemed to hold their breath.

The stillness shattered in an instant. Without warning, Tobirama’s hand moved like lightning, and with a sickening swish, his blade, which seemed to materialize out of nowhere, sliced through the air. The thief’s scream was cut off by the sharp crack of bone and flesh parting, and before anyone could fully comprehend what had just happened, the man’s hand hit the ground with a wet thud.

Blood sprayed in a crimson arc, splattering across the dirt path, and the severed hand twitched in the dirt momentarily.

The thief, now breathless and wide-eyed, stared in disbelief, his mouth wide in a silent scream.

Tobirama’s gaze remained unwavering, the same cold, emotionless expression on his face.

" It seems you’ve lost your hand," Tobirama said flatly, his voice devoid of any warmth.

"Think carefully before you take something that isn’t yours again."

Sakura watched the gruesome scene in silence, her face a mask of calm, though her mind raced. Neither disturbed nor perturbed by the events that just took place, after all she was no stranger to gore. No, what unsettled her, however, was the identity of the person who had caused such violence.

In her youth, the Senju clan had always been painted in a benevolent light. They were the heroes, the peacekeepers—known not only for their unmatched strength but also for their unwavering sense of justice.

But was this just?

To see one of their own act with such cold brutality... and not just anyone, but the renowned Second Hokage—the man she had admired since childhood for his dedication to the village and his countless scientific contributions to the Shinobi world. The weight of the moment had her reeling.

In that moment, a sudden memory hit Sakura like a wave, sharp and overwhelming. She remembered standing beside her Shishou atop the Hokage mountain, the two of them looking out over the sprawling village below. It was a day of celebration, marking the end of her rigorous training, and the warmth of everyone’s congratulations still lingered in her mind.

Tsunade had turned to her then, her expression fond, and for a fleeting moment, Sakura had felt like the future was wide open before her.

"I'm proud of you, Sakura," Tsunade had said, her voice steady and sincere. "You've come a long way."

Afterward, they had sat together on the mountain peak, right above the 4^th Hokage’s head, a flask of sake passed between them. The alcohol, warm and smooth, had loosened the tension in her shoulders as she looked at her Shishou, the sting of Team 7’s disbandment felt distant, she stretched her arms out in front of her and she looked back at the village between splayed out fingers.

"Did you know," Tsunade had begun, her voice softer than usual, words slightly beginning to slur, "that history is always written by the victors? That’s how it works, Sakura. This village…Konoha... it's no different. Those in power shape the stories. They make sure the narrative is written their way." She had taken another long swig from the flask, her eyes half-lidded drifting out over the village below.

Then, her tone had shifted, almost bitter, as she added, “Just because something is told one way doesn’t mean it’s the truth, you know.”

There had been something in her voice then—something Sakura couldn’t place, like a secret woven between those words, a truth Tsunade hadn’t yet shared.

At the time, Sakura had laughed it off, assuming her Shishou’s words were nothing more than the ramblings of someone who’d had too much to drink. It was the kind of thing that sounded profound in the moment, but in her youthful optimism, Sakura had shrugged it off, figuring it was just Tsunade being… well, Tsunade.

But now, standing in the marketplace with the severed hand at her feet, her eyes fixed on the cold, calculating figure of Tobirama Senju—Sakura understood, or at least began to. The unease stirring in her stomach, the strange dissonance between what she had been taught and what she was witnessing, all made sense in a way that left her unsettled.

Tsunade’s words now felt more like a warning than a passing comment, a subtle truth that had slipped past her understanding at the time.

"History is written by the victors," Tsunade had said, “if you want to hear the truth, ask the ones that lost”.

The sharpness of her memory now matched the sharpness of the scene unfolding in front of her. Was this what Tsunade meant? The power to write history, to shape the narrative, to make sure Konoha, its protectors, and its Hokage’s were painted as unwavering heroes? And now, after this, it felt like the veil was being pulled back.

Sakura’s heart pounded in her chest as she struggled to process it all. How much of Konoha’s history was really the truth, and how much of it had been molded to fit a story they wanted everyone to believe?

Sakura took another breath, pushing aside the growing knot of unease in her chest.

As the younger Senju turned his back, the crowd parted like the sea to let him through, his cold, stoic figure cut through the throngs without a glance. Sakura’s gaze shifted, and her heart raced. She couldn’t just stand there. She couldn't let that man’s actions go unchallenged, not when there was something she could do. Adrenaline quickly waning, the thief began shaking violently, his form sprawled in the dirt, his screams beginning to echo in the thick air.

In a heartbeat, Sakura rushed forward, the medic in her instinctively pushing aside any lingering doubts. Even through the chaos, she was careful not to use her chakra—there were too many risks, too many unknowns in this situation. But she could still help. She had to.

"Bring me the strongest alcohol you got!" she called, her voice commanding, cutting through the murmur of the crowd. There was no time for hesitation. Every second counted.

"I need a sterile needle and thread!" she barked again, her eyes scanning the area for anyone with any medical knowledge or supplies.

"Move it people!" she ordered, pushing through the crowd that had gathered, some still shocked, others watching with morbid curiosity and knelt beside him. 

 His breath was coming in ragged sobs, his wide eyes glazed with fear. Despite the blood soaking into the earth beneath him, Sakura’s focus was unwavering.

“You heard the lady! MOVE!” Inohana snapped, shaking herself out of her daze. Her voice was sharp with authority, and the crowd parted quickly at the urgency in her tone. She began ushering people aside, clearing a path, and making sure Sakura got the supplies she needed. Sakura glanced at her friend gratefully, relieved.

In the back of her mind, a faint memory of Tsunade’s voice flickered: Strength isn’t just about what you can do with your hands or your chakra. It’s about what you choose to see... and what you choose to believe.

For the first time in a long while, those words felt more like a question than advice. What was she seeing right now?

Was this violence, this cold ruthlessness, really part of the story they’d been told?

I

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I

Taking advantage of everyone’s distraction, Tobirama perched himself atop a neighboring roof with a direct view of the chaos he left in his wake.  Arms crossed against his chest, his expression unreadable. His crimson gaze tracked every movement, every gesture of this girl at work. Rushing to save a mere thief as though she could undo the consequences of their actions.

He scoffed.

To him, this was an affront. He’d been raised on the hard truth that every action had its consequence. Mercy had its place, sure, but it was often a weakness left best unindulged. And yet, here was this pink haired woman, acting as though she had the right to challenge this established order.

Tobirama's gaze lingered on her for a moment longer than necessary. There was something almost reckless in her focus, as if she hadn’t even considered the repercussions of her actions. It was that reckless boldness that struck a nerve. He had seen it before—in his brother, Hashirama, who also shared a similar idealism, believing that kindness and mercy could change the world.

‘But this isn’t a fairy tale’, Tobirama thought, working his jaw.

A faint tickle of suspicion ran through him as he watched her, the precision in her movements almost too seamless. A faint flicker of something cool and soothing brushed along the edges of his senses. Tobirama narrowed his eyes, trying to hone in on the feeling, but before he could explore it further, a sudden sensation tugged at the back of his mind. He was being summoned.

Without hesitation, he got up silently, his movement a blur, and with a Shunshin, he was at the Senju compound. The wind swirled around him as he landed, greeting the guards with a grunt as he swiftly made his way to the main house, where he and his elder brother resided.

Fleetingly, he wanted to see how far she’d go, how much her idealism would hold up when faced with the true realities of the world they lived in. He wondered how long her belief that mercy and kindness could change the world would survive in the face of the harsh truths that they all had to accept.

It was a curiosity that pulled at him, but one he didn’t have time to indulge. With quick, measured steps, he moved through the familiar halls, his mind already shifting focus. He began searching for his brother’s chakra signature, the pull of duty growing stronger. Pushing aside the thoughts of strange pink-haired women and misplaced ideals, he reminded himself that there were more pressing matters awaiting him.

Chapter Text

"Sakura-channnnn, hurry up! Old man Teuchi promised me two free bowls of miso pork ramen when we get back! Free!! "

Naruto’s voice rang through the trees, impatient as always, his bright orange jacket a blur against the dense green canopy. He was already yards ahead, leaping effortlessly from branch to branch, while Sasuke trailed behind him, moving with that quiet, effortless grace he always had.

Sakura was trying to keep up. She really was.

Her chakra control had improved since their first few missions, but fatigue was starting to weigh down her limbs, and the sharp sting of a fresh cut on her knee wasn’t helping. She had tripped—just a small misstep, barely enough to matter—but her skin had scraped against rough bark, and the shallow wound pulsed angrily.

"Tch. Clumsy" Sasuke muttered when he noticed she’d fallen behind. His voice was laced with impatience, but his gaze flickered to her knee before he looked away. He didn’t offer to help, but he didn’t keep running either.

"You okay?"

She looked up. Naruto was already there, crouched low in front of her, his bright blue eyes scanning her leg. His grin was softer this time, not teasing, just warm.

Sakura had bristled, embarrassed. "No, it’s nothing!"

"Pfft, looks like something." Naruto plopped down in front of her and, without hesitation, shoved his hand toward her face. His palm was covered in tiny half-healed scratches, some scabbed over, others fresh. He grinned. "See? I get hurt all the time, and I don’t cry about it!"

She had glared at him, her frustration warring with amusement. "I wasn’t crying, bakka."

“Potato, tomato!” he exclaimed, reaching into the pouch at his hip and tugging out a crumpled cloth. "Lemme see."

“You are an idiot” Sasuke deadpanned, his nose faintly crinkling at the rumpled, dirty cloth Naruto had produced.

“Here.”

Sasuke said, shoving a clean roll of bandages in her face.

Sakura blinked, not expecting Sasuke of all people to share.

 "You guys don’t need to baby me, you know." She huffed; cheeks tinged with a faint pink flush.

"Yeah, but…" Naruto shrugged, wrestling the roll from Sasuke’s hands and he gently began to dab at the blood, Sakura thought that she’d never seen Naruto be so focused.

"It’s kind of nice, sometimes, right? Not doing everything alone." Naruto said brightly, a shy grin now gracing his lips.

Her eyes flicked to Sasuke then—just for a moment. He was standing a few paces away, arms crossed, but not looking annoyed anymore. Instead, he was watching them with that unreadable expression of his, something wordless flickering in the way his gaze lingered.

She’d gone quiet after that, letting him finish. When he was done, he stood and extended his hand to pull her up.

"After this mission, we’ll go to Ichiraku," he added, attempting to be casual, but the small blush blooming on his whiskered cheeks gave him away.

"I’ll even give you the first pork slice Sakura-chan!"

Sakura, feeling less embarrassed now, beamed at Naruto—for the first time since they’d become a team—and slipped her hand into his. He pulled her up with ease.

Now standing between her two boys, Sakura looked between them mischievously, eyes twinkling.

“Race you there!” she grinned, leaping onto the next branch in a burst of motion.

Sasuke let out a small, exasperated huff but was already in the air half a second later, effortlessly gliding past her without a word—just a smug glance over his shoulder that said catch up, if you can.

“Hey, that’s cheating, teme!!” Naruto yelled, flailing briefly before launching after them with a wild grin.
"Wait up, Sakura-chaaaan! I still want my free ramen!"

Their laughter echoed through the trees then, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the wind at their backs as they raced home.

The smell of ammonia hit her nose and Sakura blinked, the memory quickly fading away like mist and reality rushed back in.

Now, the only sound Sakura heard was the ragged wheeze of a dying man.

The hot blood beneath her knees, a severed wrist trembling under her hand, and the growing silence of a crowd too afraid to breathe.

Her fingers hovered over the torn flesh gently, torn between two choices: the sterile needle clenched in one hand… and the chakra surging warm and ready beneath the other.

She could do it manually—clean the wound, cauterize the vein, stitch it shut. Crude. Brutal. A stump he’d carry for the rest of his life. It would be enough. It should be enough.

Safer, certainly. Easier to explain.

Because in this time, a woman using chakra without her clan’s approval wasn’t just unusual—it was dangerous. Forbidden. A challenge to order. To power.

But she had seen Tobirama’s face—so cold, so clinical, as if slicing off a man’s hand was no more consequential than cutting parchment.

Her jaw tightened.

Tobirama’s voice echoed in her head, calm and cold:

“Stealing from me? You should know better than to tempt fate.”

Something inside her twisted.

She dropped the needle and instead lowered her palm slowly.

She let her chakra bloom. Soft and steady, warm as memory.

"You’re lucky," she whispered, voice steady now, despite the knot of defiance in her chest. "I believe in second chances.”

And with that, the healing began.

Sakura exhaled slowly, her fingers curling around the severed hand lying in the dirt beside her. It was still warm. Still viable. She inspected it quickly—no rot, no signs of necrosis yet.

She had time. Barely.

“I need a clean cloth,” she said tightly. “Alcohol. Bandages. Now.”

Inohana was already moving, barking orders at stunned bystanders, her presence commanding enough to snap the crowd out of their stupor. She shoved a roll of clean linen into Sakura’s waiting hand, followed by a ceramic jug.

“You’re not—” Inohana began, eyes wide as she realized what Sakura was about to do. “Sakura you—”

“I can,” Sakura cut in, her tone low and sharp, final.

She placed the severed hand gently against the stump, aligning it perfectly—its fingers twitched in response, as if the body remembered itself. Her palms pressed around the wrist, glowing faintly with a warm green light that pulsed like a heartbeat.

Chakra surged.

Sakura shut out the world.

She sank deep into her mind, her senses narrowing to a single thread of purpose. She mapped the muscle fibers, the frayed nerves, the bone was thankfully clean cut. With exacting care, she began stitching them together—chakra fine as thread, weaving through layers of flesh.

Veins realigned. Nerves danced to her will, twitching faintly under her control. Bone fused with a crackle of pressure, and when the chakra burst softly outward, the skin began to seal.

The thief groaned—loud, hoarse—but it wasn’t pain anymore.

It was feeling.

She didn’t stop.

Sweat beaded on her brow as she coaxed his fingers to curl—one by one—restoring not just structure, but function.

When the glow finally faded, the thief’s hand lay whole once more. Shaking. Bloodied. But his.

Sakura sat back on her heels, chest rising and falling, the rush of chakra leaving her skin tingling. The sun now sat low in the sky; she’d guess that four hours have passed by now.

For a moment, no one said anything.

Then:

“You... put it back on.”

It was the thief, dazed, his voice rough with disbelief. His newly healed fingers twitched against the dirt, like they didn’t yet believe they were real.

Inohana stared at her in a mixture of awe and something else Sakura couldn’t quite place, but she was too tired to analyze further.

The crowd was dead silent.

I

.

I

Time had a strange way of folding in on itself.

It had been nearly two months following the incident in the square, Sakura found herself suspended in a rhythm she hadn’t expected—she was neither hunted nor embraced, simply… watched.

The villagers kept their distance at first. Not out of malice, but unease. There was a tension that clung to the air like smoke, subtle but heavy. People didn’t meet her eyes. Conversations fell quiet when she passed. No one asked for help, but no one told her to leave either.

She understood.

They weren’t afraid of her, exactly. They were afraid of what it meant to need her—afraid of what it meant to accept a woman who used chakra without the protection of a clan name.Her display in the square had left a mark—not just on the man she’d saved, but on the people who had watched her do it. A woman wielding chakra in such a bold, unsanctioned way… it wasn’t just unnatural. It was dangerous.

Even the merchants hesitated. Word had spread quickly, and though no one barred her outright, many found excuses not to sell to her. “We’re closed.” “Come back tomorrow.” “Out of stock.” The reasons changed, but the message stayed the same—fear still clung to them, thick as fog. Sakura didn’t blame them. She really didn’t.

Only Inohana remained steadfast.

Lips painted crimson and voice sharp as a blade, she stood by Sakura’s side with arms crossed and chin high. She dared anyone to question Sakura’s place, demanding—loudly—that someone of her talent should be serviced properly, as though Sakura were a noblewoman and not a clanless nobody. In those moments, Sakura was reminded of her own Ino, hands on her hips, boldly defending her from her bullies as a child. Only at night did she allow herself to weep, she missed her home.

But not everyone turned away.

The thief—because that’s what she still called him in her mind—never spoke in her defense. He didn’t stand in front of a crowd or shout down the gossiping vendors. But he helped in other ways. Quietly.

She began waking up to food on her balcony: bundles of wild herbs, dried fruit, a crusty loaf of bread still warm from a hearth. At first, she thought it was Inohana. It felt like something she’d do— as she’d always loudly, dramatically, proclaim how she needed to eat properly.

But one night, long after the market had gone quiet and the lanterns were snuffed out, Sakura heard the faint creak of wood and the rustle of movement just outside her balcony. She didn’t move. She waited.

And there he was.

The same young man whose hand she had sewn back on. Dirty blond hair falling into his eyes, a rope clenched between his teeth as he hauled himself up awkwardly, his healed hand trembling slightly with the effort. He landed hard on the balcony, wincing as he caught his balance, then gently placed a cloth bundle by the door—flatbread and fruit, she’d later find.

He didn’t linger. Didn’t knock. Just pulled the rope back over the railing and disappeared into the night.

Sakura stayed frozen where she sat, hidden in the shadows.

So that’s who it’s been, she thought, her fingers curling around the edge of her bedding.

She still didn’t know his name. But she knew enough.

And then there was the innkeeper.

A shrewd woman with graying hair and sharp eyes who had once patted Sakura’s backside with a wink and a teasing comment about “young love.” In the days after the incident in the square, she had watched Sakura with an unreadable look—less amused now, more cautious. But she never asked Sakura to leave.

Instead, Sakura began to notice a quiet shift. Her room was always cleaned before she returned. A small oil lantern was left burning on the windowsill each night—soft, steady light waiting to welcome her home. 

The innkeeper never said a word. But her silence had changed. It was no longer heavy with suspicion—it was something else now.

Respect, maybe. Or quiet protection.

Either way, Sakura was learning that trust didn’t always come with words.

Sometimes it came in warm soup.

In a lantern lit before sunset.

In fresh linens folded neatly at the end of her bed with no explanation.

And then, one night—after a particularly long day of being shunned, Sakura returned to find the innkeeper waiting at the top of the stairs. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed.

“Ignore them,” the old woman said simply, jerking her chin toward her room.

Then she turned and walked off without saying another word.

Sakura blinked, too tired to smile, but something in her chest tugged unexpectedly warm.

It was enough.

I

.

I

And then, a couple more weeks passed, the same as the other ones.

It wasn’t until a pounding came at her door in the middle of the night one evening that everything changed.

A man and woman—frantic, barefoot, half-dressed—clutching a young boy burning with fever. His lips were blue. His breathing shallow and wheezing, each gasp like knives in his chest.

Sakura knew the signs. Pneumonia.

They didn’t ask about chakra. They didn’t ask about permission. They just begged.

And she saved him.

The next day, another child was brought to her. Then an old man with a split head. Then a butcher with a deep knife wound.

The dam had broken.

I

.

I

The tent wasn’t there at first.

It had appeared one morning, stitched together from mismatched canvas, its poles carved from sturdy cedarwood that still smelled faintly of sap. Its location was perfect, nestled just far enough from the bustle of the main vendors to give her space, but close enough that she remained part of the village.

A gift, they told her.

She hadn’t known where she was going that morning, not until a group of children tugged on her hands, chattering and insistent, their small fingers curling tightly around hers. They led her down a winding dirt path, past the noise of the morning crowd, until they reached a small, cleared patch of land at the market’s edge.

And there it was.

The tent stood quietly in the light of early day—stitched with uneven seams, patched with dyed scraps of fabric, but upright and waiting.

The children let go of her hands all at once, stepping aside like they were unveiling something grand. Sakura blinked.

A small crowd had gathered near the edge. Villagers—some she recognized, others she didn’t—stood quietly, watching her reaction.

And then she saw them.

The mother. The father. The boy she’d saved.

Daisuke was his name she faintly recalled.

His cheeks were pink now, flushed with health. His eyes were wide and bright. He smiled at her, clutching a toy carved from wood in one hand. His mother’s hands were pressed together, eyes wet with something she hadn’t had the chance to say that night.

Sakura’s chest tightened. She looked away quickly.

“After that night,” one of the older women murmured, stepping forward, “we saw you… running from house to house. No place to sit. No time to sleep. Always carrying someone’s pain on your back.”

The woman reached into the folds of her shawl and placed a bundle of kindling into Sakura’s arms. “You need a place,” she said softly. “A real one. Let the sick come to you now.”

Her eyes prickled with unshed tears, the weight of it all settling in her chest—heavy, warm, and just a little bit overwhelming.

So she smiled.

And bowed, deeply, in gratitude.

Inohana had shown up that same morning—dressed in silk too fine for carpentry, sleeves rolled high, and still bossing everyone around. Her clan’s flower shop had given her an uncanny sense for herbs and where to find them, and though she grumbled about dirt and splinters, she stayed through the whole setup, hands deep in soil and sacks of dried grass as they built a small greenhouse next to the tent.

“I’m not hauling cedar for free, Forehead,” she’d sniffed, but when a beam sagged, she was the first to try and fix it.

Inohana also brought something less tangible, but just as vital: information. She had a natural talent for prying loose gossip from unsuspecting patients, her sharp tongue and knowing smile making people forget they were saying too much.

Through her, Sakura heard things—shifting tensions between the Senju and Uchiha, quiet murmurs of clan politics, who was being watched, and who was being left alone.

And when Sakura asked how she knew so much, Inohana had only winked and said, “People are flowers, Forehead. You just have to know which ones to water… and which ones to pluck.”

Children ran to her now with scraped knees and split lips. Mothers brought feverish babies bundled in cloth. Farmers limped in after falling from carts. Craftsmen with smashed thumbs. A fisherman with a deep gash across his thigh. A man who had fallen from a roof and cracked his skull open—who’d walked out of her tent the next day with all his thoughts still intact.

They whispered about her now.

The pink witch with kind hands.

The angel.

The woman with no clan.

Some whispered in awe, some with fear and judgement

But most, in quiet, reverent gratitude.

Even the nobles came—slipping in beneath the cover of dusk, cloaks pulled low, never using names. They never stayed long, and they never said thank you. But they left behind money, fine silks, and rare herbs in carefully wrapped bundles.

She never asked questions. She only healed.

And through it all, the man she had saved never strayed far.

She noticed him before she ever spoke to him again, lingering just beyond the tent’s edge, never stepping inside.

At first, she thought it was a coincidence. He always seemed to be passing by—arms full of something or pretending to study the fruit stalls. But it happened too often to ignore.

He never spoke. Never made eye contact.

Just… lingered.

Sometimes he stood by the edge of the crowd when she treated someone in serious condition. Watching with a look that was hard to read—part caution, part curiosity, part something else.

Sakura didn’t acknowledge him. Not at first.

But she began to notice things. Her herb baskets were never empty, even when she forgot to restock. Packages left near the flap. Water buckets refilled. Once, she caught him walking away after dropping off a bundle of yomogi, and he nearly bolted when he saw her looking.

She called out to him.

“You could at least let me say thank you,” she said simply.

He froze. Then turned—slowly, reluctantly.

Up close, he looked younger than she remembered. Dirty blond hair still unkempt, a faint scar long-since faded beneath his left cheekbone. He didn’t meet her eyes.

“Still twitches,” he muttered, holding up the hand she had reattached.

Sakura tilted her head. “Then it’s working.”

He gave a crooked sort of smile—wry, sheepish. “Could use someone to run errands,” she added after a beat. “Herbs. Deliveries. Lifting crates when I’m too tired.”

He blinked. “…You’re hiring?”

“I’m trusting.”

He stared at her for a long moment before nodding, slowly. “I can do that.”

And that was that.

His name, she’d learn later, was Renga.

He was maybe only a year or two older than herself, though the grime and desperation had aged him. Once cleaned up, with his matted hair trimmed back and the dirt scrubbed from his skin, he’d surprised her with a crooked, boyish smile and startlingly soft hazel eyes.

“Looks better, right?” he’d said, holding up the hand she’d reattached, no longer bruised or swollen.

“Still twitches funny sometimes, but that might just be me.”

She smiled.

Now he ran errands for her—fetching herbs from the mountainside, delivering salves and tinctures to patients too weak to walk. He was quick, clever, and surprisingly charming when he wanted to be.

The children adored him.

“Oi, Doc,” he called once, leaning through the tent flap with a bundle of bitterroot under his arm. “Got your favorites. Even managed not to get chased by that spice vendor this time.”

“Good,” she replied dryly, not looking up from her mortar. “Maybe next time you won’t flirt with his daughter while you're haggling.”

“No promises,” he grinned, cheeks dimpling.

I

.

I

It was supposed to be a simple errand.

Sakura had slipped away from the tent just past midday, basket on her arm, list in hand. Renga had taken off toward the mountain edge in search of dried wolfsbane, leaving her with the more mundane part of their needs—onions, eggs, ginger, fresh greens. She adjusted her grip on her basket, mentally ticking off her list.

Inohana was busy, tied up with the Yamanaka flower shop and due to train with her father before sundown— which meant Sakura was left to brave the market alone. Not that she minded. It gave her a rare moment of stillness, of normalcy.

The crowds were thick, and the sun hung heavily in the sky, warm enough to draw sweat along the back of her neck beneath her collar; the strap of her basket cutting uncomfortably into her shoulder.

Still, the rhythm of the market was familiar; vendors calling out their wares, the crisp snap of vegetable stalks, the rich scent of miso and grilled fish drifting on the breeze.

A small red-haired boy, no more than five, ran up to her then. His cherub cheeks smeared with dirt, tear tracks streaking through the muck on his face. He pointed to his knee with a hiccupping wail, lower lip trembling.

Sakura crouched down with a soft smile.

“Ohayo, Momo-kun,” she murmured gently. “Don’t cry, look, look—”

She swiped a glowing mint-green finger across the scraped skin, chakra flickering like a breath of wind.

“See all gone!” Sakura exclaimed jovially, pinching his flushed cheeks.

The boy blinked, saw the wound vanished, and lit up like a sunny morning.

“Arigatou, Sakura-nee!” he squeaked, and then he was off—waddling after his friends with the kind of single-minded joy only children knew.

Sakura rose, brushing off her knees, and turned back toward the market stalls.

She weaved her way through a pair of gossiping matrons, her mind half on her list and half on Renga’s missing delivery from the day before. She could’ve sworn some of the merchants mentioned they’d handed it to him directly.

Weird.

She scratched her head, distracted, turning the corner toward the produce stalls—eyes scanning for the tomato cart—when she slammed headfirst into something.

No—someone. Solid and unmoving.

Her breath hitched as the force jolted her backward. Her basket slipped, vegetables scattering. A tomato launched into the air like a bullet.

A hand snapped forward, gripping her arm just below the elbow, firm and steady.

The other hand moved just as fast, catching the tomato before it could burst against the ground.

“Careful,” came a calm, amused voice, “your fruit has a death wish.”

Sakura blinked, startled. Her first instinct was to mutter an apology—until she looked up.

For one terrifying moment, her heart stuttered.

Sasuke-kun.

Her mouth opened and closed, eyes wide in shock, her words lodged into her throat.

She stared, searching his expression for the edge of a frown, the flicker of recognition. But it wasn’t there.

Not Sasuke.

But damn close.

Same sharp cheekbones. Same strong jaw, same pitch-black hair—though longer, pulled back in a loose tail at the nape, with a few strands that fell soft across his face. His lips were a little fuller. His posture, more relaxed.

And his eyes—

They didn’t carry the cold, closed-off distance that haunted Sasuke’s.

His eyes were warm. Curious.

And he was smiling.

Openly. Easily.

Sasuke never smiled like that.

Sakura’s face flushed hot as she quickly stepped back. “Sorry—I wasn’t paying attention.”

“So I gathered” he said, not unkindly, examining the tomato before offering it to her like a recovered heirloom.

 “Still intact. A miracle.”

She took it cautiously. “You’ve got quick reflexes.”

He shrugged, the corner of his mouth quirking higher. “Tomatoes are sacred. Especially good ones.”

Sakura gave him a sideways look. “You sound oddly passionate about produce.”

“I have my convictions.” He said, almost solemnly.

She bent to scoop up her fallen goods, and he crouched to help, handing her a ginger root and she took note of his callused fingers, not all that suspicious for men of this era, but still….

“I haven’t seen you before,” she said idly, brushing dirt from a scallion. “And I know most of the faces that pass through this market.”

“Maybe I’ve got a forgettable one,” he replied, straightening up.

“Not likely.” She glanced at him, then looked away too fast. “You look like someone I knew.”

He studied her for a moment, something flickering behind his gaze. “Is that a good thing?”

“…The jury’s still out.”

He laughed. A low, rich sound that made her stomach flutter.

“What about you?” he asked. “You don’t exactly blend in, you know.”

Sakura raised a pink brow. “I’m the woman with the blood-stained sleeves and a line of crying children at her door. Of course I don’t blend in.”

“Ah,” he said, as if that answered something for him. “you’re the witch.”

She tilted her head, guarded now. “You say that like it means something.”

“Only that people talk.” He gestured loosely toward the crowd. “Hard not to notice when someone reattaches a hand and starts treating nobles like they’re farmers.”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s not exactly common knowledge.”

“I never said I was common.”

Sakura narrowed her jade eyes, unsure if she was being teased or tested.

“You're awfully bold for someone who hasn't given me a name.”

He tilted his head, lips twitching into a smirk. “And you’re awfully charming for someone who just body-checked me in front of a tomato cart.”

She opened her mouth with a sharp retort—but stopped when he plucked a tomato from the stall and turned it in his hand like it held secrets.

“Izuna,” he said at last, still admiring the tomato.

A beat passed.

Then his dark eyes met hers.

“Uchiha.”

The name landed like a jolt in her spine.

Of course he was.

I

.

I

The market was louder than he preferred.

Too many voices. Too many smells. And far too many people who didn’t know how to keep their eyes—or their mouths—to themselves.

But Izuna walked it anyway, unhurried, head low, fingers loose at his sides. Not in disguise—he didn’t care to hide—but quiet enough to be forgotten once he turned a corner. That had always been his gift.

The Uchiha didn’t send him here.

Not officially.

But rumors had a weight of their own, and this one had passed through too many mouths to be ignored. A civilian healer reattaching limbs. Treating nobility like farmers. Using chakra—chakra—freely, without a clan’s blessing.

Unthinkable.

Unless it wasn’t.

He’d heard it first in passing, in a tea house frequented by merchants who liked to pretend they weren’t middlemen. Someone whispered about a red-haired woman with blood on her sleeves and chakra in her hands. The same night, a noble’s wife slipped the name again during an offhand complaint—her nephew had been treated discreetly, away from clan medics, and “frankly, I don’t care if she’s unorthodox, he’s walking again, isn’t he?”

And then he’d heard Tobirama’s name.

Only once. Only in a clipped sentence between two Senju guards behind a closed door. But once was enough.

Izuna didn’t trust the Senju. Never had. Never would.

But if Tobirama was keeping an eye on something, anything, it meant the rest of them should, too.

So, he came.

And he found her.

He’d been walking its edges of the market for the better part of an hour, slipping in and out of view, memorizing routes, watching the way she moved.

He didn’t need to ask which woman she was.

She stood out, even without trying.

People moved for her. Not obviously, not with reverence, but with a kind of respect he rarely saw outside of clan halls. She didn’t bark orders. She didn’t wear robes of status. She wore no symbols. No clan. She walked like someone used to doing things herself—and tired of waiting for permission.

That alone would’ve made her worth watching.

But no, it was the hair. Rumor called it red—fools. It was pink, the pale shade of a magnolia just before bloom. Startling in its softness, like cherry petals blooming out of season. It should’ve looked ridiculous in this drab place.

But it didn’t. It suited her.

It held his gaze the same way a flower that bloomed out of season would. 

Her hair caught the light like silk, moving with her as she passed from stall to stall, offering short greetings, trading for roots and greens.  

He watched as a child limped up to her with a scraped knee, face streaked with dirt and tears. Sakura crouched low, speaking gently, brushing a mint-green glowing finger across the skin—barely a whisper of chakra.

And just like that, it was healed.

No hand seals. No chants. Not even concentration.

Controlled.

The kind of control that didn’t come from accident. It was pure talent and discipline.

Which made her dangerous.

He didn’t like unknowns.

Especially not ones whispered about in tea houses and behind paper doors—ones tied to nobles with secrets, to commoners with loose lips, and worst of all, of interest to the Senju.

Izuna narrowed his eyes.

So, when she turned toward the tomato stall, head down, mind elsewhere— he stepped into her path.

Just slightly. Enough to make it look like an accident.

She crashed into him.

There was a soft gasp, the rush of breath between them, and her basket tilted. A tomato flew through the air.

He caught her elbow first—firm, steady.

Then, with ease, plucked the fruit from its arc before it could burst against the ground.

“Careful,” he murmured, letting the corner of his mouth curve slightly. “Your fruit has a death wish.”

She looked up—really looked.

She has pretty eyes….

And Izuna froze, just for a breath.

Her eyes were green. But not the dull, leaf-toned green common among peasants and farmers. No—hers were clear and sharp, like polished glass, like jade struck in sunlight and they were framed by long pink lashes, just a hint darker than the mop of hair on her head.

They were the kind of eyes that saw everything—and felt everything, too.

And in that split second, something passed behind her pretty gems.

Recognition.

But not of him.

Of someone else.

She was seeing a face that wasn’t his. Searching it. Reeling inward.

Then she blinked, too fast and her eyes were suddenly guarded, wary.

He smiled. Smart girl.

But those eyes—they hadn’t learned to lie yet. At least not by his standards.

“Sorry—” she said, her voice deceptively light, but her face flushed and he thought it was quite charming

 “I wasn’t paying attention.”

“So I gathered,” he retorted warmly, inspecting the tomato like it was made of glass before handing it back.

She glanced down, beginning to collect her fallen produce. He crouched to help, handing her a ginger root with callused fingers. She noticed. He could tell.

They bantered. Lightly at first. Then sharper. She was clever. Observant. She asked why she hadn’t seen him before. He deflected; said he had a forgettable face.

But hers…

Hers would be hard to forget.

“What about you?” he asked. “You don’t exactly blend in.”

“I’m the woman with blood-stained sleeves and a line of crying children at her door,” she replied. “Blending in’s not really an option.”

“Ah. You’re the witch.”

Her expression cooled. “You say that like it means something.”

“Only that people talk.” He responded lightly.

She tilted her head and he wanted to laugh at how cute she looked.

“That’s not exactly common knowledge."

“Well I’m not exactly common” he purred back.

Her eyes narrowed. “You’re awfully bold for someone who hasn’t given me a name.”

He smirked. “And you’re awfully charming for someone who nearly flattened me in front of a tomato cart.”

Before she could reply, he reached past her and picked up a tomato, turning it thoughtfully in his palm.

“Izuna,” he said at last.

A beat passed.

He watched her from the corner of his eye.

“Uchiha.”

He watched the shift ripple through her like wind through leaves. The name landed like steel.

Good.

Chapter Text

Sakura held his gaze a moment longer, the weight of his name still pulsing faintly between them like a skipped heartbeat.

Uchiha.

Of course he was.

Before she could say anything else—before she could ask why he was here or what he wanted—Izuna stepped back, the smirk softening at the edges.

“I should go,” he said, brushing a speck of dust off his sleeve. “Wouldn’t want to keep your tomatoes waiting.”

She blinked, caught off guard by the ease of his tone. “You came here for tomatoes?”

He shrugged. “No. But I’m leaving with one.” He held one up like a trophy, winked, and added, “A good one.”

Sakura rolled her eyes but couldn’t help the faint curve of her lips.

As he turned to go, she called out without thinking, “You’re not going to ask my name?”

He paused mid-step but didn’t turn. His voice was light—too light.

“I already know.”

And with that, he disappeared into the crowd, a dark thread slipping effortlessly into the weave of the village.

Sakura stood there for a moment longer, tomato still in hand, watching the spot where he’d vanished. The noise of the market returned slowly—laughter, haggling, footsteps crushing the dirt beneath them—but something had shifted in the air.

She didn’t know what game he was playing.

But she had a feeling it was only beginning.

I

.

I

The first time Sakura saw him again was two days after the stall incident, he was leaning against the tent pole like he’d always belonged there.

Arms crossed. Posture lazy. Eyes sharp.

Izuna Uchiha didn’t look like a man with errands. Or injuries. Or reasons. Just one of those annoying men who loitered with confidence and expected the world to excuse it.

She stared at him from the stool she was crouched on, halfway through wrapping a boy’s ankle. “You’re in my light.”

He tilted his head as if considering that. “You’re doing it wrong.”

Sakura narrowed her eyes. “You know how to treat a sprain, now?”

“No,” he said, “but I know what a crooked wrap looks like.”

The child snorted. Sakura sent him a look. Traitor.

“You sure have a lot of opinions for someone who doesn’t even have a limp.”

“I have eyes,” Izuna countered, stepping closer. “And a low tolerance for mediocrity.”

She finished the bandage with an unnecessarily sharp tug, then patted the boy’s foot a little harder than necessary. “Try walking on it now.”

The boy stood, tested it with a small hop, then beamed. “It doesn’t hurt!”

Izuna raised a brow and raised his hands in defeat, “Lucky him”

Sakura stood up slowly, dusted off her palms, and fixed him with a smile. “You have a real talent for being annoying.”

“I train daily.”

A beat. She looked him over — the way he stood like he owned the dirt beneath his boots, the way his cloak fluttered just enough to show the Uchiha crest. And then her gaze dropped to the paper-wrapped bundle in his hand.

“You brought food.”

“I was told you get… moody when you forget to eat.”

“By who?” she asked suspiciously.

He just smirked. “I’m very resourceful.”

She snatched the parcel from his hands, unwrapped it, and blinked. “Plum rice balls?”

“I heard you like sour.”

“You’re a smug bastard.”

“You’re welcome.”

And then — for a moment — their eyes met, and the warmth in his gaze caught her off guard. It wasn’t mocking. It wasn’t even flirtatious.

It was curious.

Like she was a puzzle, and he’d only just begun to find the edges.

Sakura cleared her throat, suddenly too aware of the way her sleeves were rolled up, smudged with blood and herbs. “I have patients.”

He stepped back with a casual flourish. “Then I’ll watch.”

“Don’t you have someone else to bother?”

“I did,” he said. “They got boring.”

I

.

I

By the fifth day in a row of seeing him, Sakura started referring to him privately as the watchdog.

He never spoke when he first arrived. Just leaned somewhere—against a fruit cart, a stone fence, the frame of her tent—arms crossed, expression unreadable, eyes quietly tracking her every move.

For a fleeting moment, she entertained the notion that maybe this was fate’s way of delivering the catalyst for her world’s unraveling straight to her doorstep. Perhaps, if he was already here, she wouldn’t have to worry so much about preventing his death.

That thought didn’t last long. Not after she watched the dark-haired man sniff a particularly fragrant batch of herbs and gag, recoiling like she'd just handed him poison.

Maybe it wasn’t her world fate intended to crumble. Maybe it was just trying to hasten her own end.

At first, she assumed he was one of those bored shinobi—the kind who lingered around the wounded, not out of malice, but for lack of anything better to do. The sort who dramatized their suffering between wars, desperate for some sliver of normalcy in a world that rarely allowed it.

But Izuna Uchiha didn’t look bored. He looked... calculating. Like a man dissecting something complex.

He never came with a wound. Never with a question. Never with a reason.

Just... showed up.

“You’re here again,” Sakura commented on the sixth morning in a row that he graced them with his presence, not looking up from the split knuckle she was cleaning.

“I like your tent,” he replied blandly.

“You’re not even in the tent.”

“Exactly.”

She glanced at him, only to find him holding something between his fingers, a piece of mint leaf from her herb pile. He sniffed it thoughtfully and wrinkled his nose. “This smells like foot.”

“It’s antiseptic.”

“You’re an antiseptic.”

“Are you always like this?”

“Only when I’m fascinated.”

She blinked. He gave her a slow, infuriating smirk.

“You’re not like the others,” he added. “People either talk about you like you’re a miracle or a curse. You don’t even have a crest.”

Sakura stiffened just slightly at that.

“No clan,” he said casually, circling the edge of her tent like a wolf deciding where the meat was softest. “No husband. No backing. But you use chakra like it answers to you.”

She didn’t respond and then looked at him sharply, “Because it does answer — to me”

Izuna stepped closer, brushing a finger over the rim of her water basin as if inspecting it. “A woman with healing chakra,” he murmured, half to himself. “I didn’t even think that was possible outside of maybe two people, Senju” He sneered, spitting out their name,

“And yet…”

She cut him off, voice even but biting. “Are you going to report me?”

He paused. Their eyes met.

Then he smiled.

“No,” he said. “You’re far too entertaining.”

I

.

I

On the seventh day, later in the afternoon, is when things began to shift—after a long day of treating cuts, burns, and one foolish boy who tried to pet a wild boar.

Izuna had appeared at her side somewhere between her lunch break and her third patient, pretending not to loiter.

“I’m escorting you,” he said, unbothered, as they walked together toward the eastern edge of the market where Sakura had mentioned a shipment of dried poppy bulbs was due.

“I don’t need an escort.”

“You’re right. You need a keeper.”

She groaned. “Do you just talk to hear your own voice?”

“No,” he said. “But if I don’t follow you around, you might heal someone important and make me obsolete.”

“Are you admitting I’m more useful than you?”

“I’m saying that if you reattach another man’s arm again, I’m going to have to start bribing people to forget your name.”

She chuckled under her breath—and Izuna pretended not to notice the warm tug in his chest at the sound.

The cart was already half-unloaded when they reached the poppy vendor. Old wheels. Poor construction. Someone had overloaded the front end without distributing the weight properly.

Sakura was mid-conversation with the merchant when the wheel popped—loud and sharp like a snapped bone—and the cart tipped forward.

There was a child beneath it.

Izuna moved on instinct, chakra already coiling through his feet.

But Sakura got there first.

Not with hand signs. Not with seals. She just stepped forward—lightning quick—and caught the entire front half of the cart as it dropped. Her hands planted against the wooden frame, feet braced, back bowed in a fluid arch as the full weight of barrels and wood slammed down—

And stopped.

Izuna stopped too. Completely frozen.

The crowd gasped. One of the vendors shrieked.

Sakura didn’t flinch.

Muscles corded down her arms and shoulders, but her face was impassive—just a flicker of strain at her jaw as she hoisted the cart back high enough for the child to crawl out, scraped but whole.

And then she lowered it—slowly, gently—as though she’d only been lifting a crate, not half a cartload of goods.

Dust settled. The street was dead quiet.

Sakura dusted her hands, turned to check the child’s arm, and muttered, “Not even bruised. Lucky.”

Izuna stared at the cart. Then her.

His mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

“…You just lifted—”

“Cart was going to crush him,” she replied simply, as if that explained everything.

“But—how—why are you—” He squinted. “You’re a healer.”

“I’m also not an idiot,” she replied coolly. “Strength is useful when men won’t move fast enough.”

Izuna’s brain, Uchiha heir though it was, had clearly short-circuited.

He watched her walk away toward the child, calling gently to soothe him, her hands already glowing.

“…That shouldn’t be possible,” he muttered under his breath.

And for the first time since he met her, he realized, his gut churning with heat:

He might be in trouble.

Pretty, pink-haired, chakra-wielding trouble.

I

.

I

Later that evening, long after the cart incident had faded into whispers and wide-eyed gossip, Izuna found himself circling the outskirts of Sakura’s tent again.

He wasn’t even pretending to have a reason this time.

Sakura was alone, kneeling in the dimming light, packing dried herbs into jars with meticulous fingers. A soft lantern flickered beside her, casting her in amber and shadow. Her sleeves were stained with the day—blood, dirt, crushed petals—and her hair clung to her neck with sweat.

She looked exhausted.

She looked like she’d keep going anyway.

Izuna watched from the edge of the tent flap until she finally noticed him.

“Oh,” she said, a bit hoarse. “You again.”

“You always sound so thrilled to see me,” he replied dryly, stepping inside uninvited. “I might take it personally.”

“I might start charging you rent.”

“I’d pay it. Generously.”

That startled a short laugh out of her. She rubbed at her temple. “God, I’m too tired for whatever game this is.”

“It’s not a game,” he said, softer now. “You haven’t eaten.”

She didn’t answer right away.

Just stared at her hands. “There wasn’t time.”

“There’s always time,” he said — then reached into his cloak and pulled out a bundle.

Warm rice, still slightly fragrant. A sliver of pickled daikon. A sweet dumpling, barely squashed from travel.

“You brought food?” she asked, blinking.

He shrugged. “You lifted half a cart with your bare hands and then healed three people without blinking. It felt insulting not to bring a tribute.”

“I’m not a goddess.”

“Could’ve fooled me.”

She looked up at him then, and for a moment, the tent was very quiet.

“I’m used to doing this alone,” she said finally.

Izuna crouched down beside her, unbothered by the dust, and handed her the food. “You don’t have to be.”

She stared at him. Her heart clenched. He looked so achingly familiar—those deep obsidian eyes, the sweep of sooty lashes, the sharp, aristocratic cut of his features. Like a ghost stitched together from memory and moonlight.

She bit her lip and looked away, only to glance back before she could stop herself.

He hadn’t looked away.

Something in her chest moved then—subtle and strange. Dangerous.

She took the food.

Their fingers brushed.

He smiled.

I

.

I

“You don’t think it’s strange?” Inohana asked one afternoon, her voice low as she rearranged a bouquet at the back of the tent. She’d insisted on bringing flowers—claimed the patients deserved something prettier to look at than peeling canvas and mismatched stitching.

“Think what is strange?” Sakura murmured, barely looking up from the patient’s swollen leg she was treating.

“The fact that you have your own watchdog,” The platinum blonde replied pointedly, nodding toward the tent flap.

Izuna leaned there in his usual position—arms crossed, expression neutral, gaze pinned on Sakura like she was a battlefield map. He hadn’t spoken much that day. Or the day before. Or the day before that.

“He’s just curious,” Sakura said.

“Oh, honey.” Inohana’s tone was dry. “That man is never ‘just’ anything.”

Sakura didn’t answer, but a faint smile tugged at her lips.

Not that she’d ever admit it, but somewhere between running into him and the weeks quietly bleeding together in his presence, she had come to… enjoy him. His silence. Even his occasional banter was welcomed as the memories of her own time suffocated the silence of her own mind.

Her eyes flicked toward Izuna—and she startled, caught off guard to find him already watching her.

For a heartbeat, she forgot what she’d been doing. The air between them shifted—soft, but weighted, like the calm before a storm or something far more dangerous. She looked away, pretending to fuss with the bandages in her lap, but her fingers had stilled.

It wasn’t just his silence that unnerved her.

It was the way he looked at her.

I

.

I

It started like most stupid things did — with whispers.

And they didn’t come immediately, like thunder before the rain. No.

They crept like smoke.

Soft and curling at first, seemingly harmless. Almost curious.

“Did you hear about the pink-haired healer?”

“She lives in that tent near the edge of the market.”

“They say she reattached a whole hand. With chakra.”

“She did! I saw it with my own two eyes!”

“No clan name. No husband either.…”

They started like that. Observations. Hushed awe.

But awe has a short shelf life.

And soon, awe turned into questions.

“How does she walk around like that?”

“You know what they say—chakra’s fine in a wife. But a woman who uses it on her own?”

“No clan, no man, and chakra in her hands. What kind of woman is that?”

Barely audible over the buzz of the market. Slippery things—half-formed and muttered beneath the breath.

“She doesn’t sleep.”
“She heals nobles for coin. Or maybe something else...”
“Did you see what she was wearing last week?”

Sakura didn’t hear them.

Not because they weren’t loud enough—because she wasn’t listening.

Her days bled together in a rhythm of healing, fetching, mixing, stitching, burning her hands on too-hot pans of boiled cloth. Her nights passed in snatches of dreamless sleep. In between, she scoured the edges of conversations for names like “Senju,” “Uchiha,” and “Tobirama.”

The villagers could say whatever they liked. She didn’t have time for petty gossip.

But Inohana heard.

And so did Izuna.

I

.

I

Inohana heard it all.

The gossip flowed to her like water to roots. Women came to her for salves and remedies and left her with fragments of things they “overheard” — loud enough to be offers, not secrets.

“She’s pretty, I’ll give her that,” one woman whispered over her tea. “But power like that? It doesn’t sit right on a woman. Especially not one who doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“She’s like a pretty vase with poison inside,” said another, half-laughing. “You want to look, but not touch.”

“She doesn’t even act grateful,” a young merchant said. “She walks like she owns the path under her feet.”

Inohana smiled through it all, her expression mild, pleasant.

But her jaw ached by the end of each day.

She began to notice things — harder bargaining from vendors, more eyes following Sakura when she crossed the market. A little boy who hesitated before letting the pinkette touch his bruised shin.

The villagers were no longer afraid of Sakura’s power.

They were afraid of her freedom.

And that, Inohana thought, was arguably worse.

I

.

I

Sakura, of course, noticed none of it.

Not really.

She heard the whispers in passing, sure, but she was too deep in village politics, chakra fatigue, and carefully eavesdropped Senju-Uchiha murmurs to care what bored civilians thought about her shoes or sleeves.

She didn’t realize how fast they were turning.

But Izuna did.

He passed through the market often now, enough to be predictable. Sometimes he bought things. Sometimes he said nothing at all.

But he watched.

He heard the whispers too. Felt the shift in tone.

He didn’t like it.

She was becoming the witch in silk.

He stood beside Inohana once, just outside the tent, while Sakura was bent over a splintered shin bone, her fingers glowing soft green. Inohana was grinding herbs near the entrance. A few villagers passed close behind them.

“She’s pretty,” one man said casually. “But someone needs to tame that mouth before she starts thinking chakra makes her more than a woman.”

Another chuckled. “I can think of a few ways…”

A bark of laughter.

“That’s how you get burned. Think she’ll marry into a noble family? Bet she’s aiming high.”

Inohana’s hand paused mid-herb cut.

Izuna didn’t flinch. But his jaw ticked. Once.

He turned to Inohana slowly.

She met his eyes.

Her eyes flicked toward Sakura — still bent over her work, oblivious to the world spinning teeth around her — then back to Izuna.

The look was simple. Hard-edged.

Do you hear what I hear?

Izuna gave the smallest nod.

Yes. And I don’t like it.

He stayed. Not hovering. Just watching. Quietly measuring every word he caught from outside.

Something was going to give.

And when it did, he intended to be standing right here.

I

.

I

It was late one morning when the storm finally came. Literally and figuratively.

The rain hadn’t let up for three days and on the fourth, they thought they were in the clear. Yet, they were caught off guard, a sharp, snapping storm that soaked her washing line and sent the herbal powders she set outside to dry into a frenzy. Renga had rushed to help, knocking half the tent sideways in his frantic effort to grab drying cloth. Sakura had laughed at first, breathless with frustration, before sighing and setting everything back in order.

By morning, her hands were still stained with dry herbs and earth. Her only clean yukata hung untouched on the back hook: plum silk, pale blossoms embroidered in silver. A garment she had worn only three times since the day she stole it from the riverside. It hung from a peg in the corner, uncreased and quiet, the silver-threaded blossoms shimmering faintly in the morning light. She’d been avoiding it. Too fine. Too noticeable.

She stared at it for a long moment. Then dressed without a word.

It had felt soft when she pulled it on. Familiar. Maybe it was exhaustion, but she hadn’t thought much about the way it clung to her, or how delicate the stitching looked in daylight.

She should have.

She was already outside when Inohana returned from the flower shop, a wrapped bundle in her arms.

"That's brave," Inohana said mildly.

"Everything else is wet," Sakura replied.

Inohana said nothing.

But her eyes lingered on her friend's back a little longer than usual. And when she spotted Izuna already waiting nearby, arms crossed and expression unreadable, she shot him a look.

He met her gaze. Held it.

Said nothing.

But the corners of his mouth twitched, not in amusement — in warning.

I

.

I

The scent of damp earth clung to the air as she made her way down the winding path toward the market. Morning bustle greeted her—voices rising, carts clattering, life pressing forward despite the mud. A basket balanced in one hand; her plum silk yukata swayed with every step.

It wasn’t her favorite. Just the cleanest.

She didn’t think about how fine it looked in daylight.

She didn’t think about how long it had been since she’d heard the whispers.

Outside of Inohana, Izuna, the innkeeper, and a few scattered loyalists, only Renga—scruffy, cocky, and eternally grinning—still treated her the same.

He handed her a basket of dried yarrow with his usual swagger, flashing a crooked grin.
“You know,” he said, eyeing the plum silk, “you look kind of noble in that thing, Boss.”

She raised a fine brow. “It’s the only thing that wasn’t soaked.”

“I mean, I wasn’t complaining.”

He winked and jogged off after a tipping barrel, leaving her laughing quietly behind him.

But further back, just beyond the square, Izuna didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even blink.

That boy.

There was something about him.

His arm — the one Sakura had reattached — was moving just fine now. Almost too fine. No stiffness, no ache. The kind of recovery only chakra-enhanced healing could produce.

Izuna tilted his head.

And then it clicked.

Tobirama.

A report, months old now—buried in paperwork and battlefield chatter—resurfaced in his mind. A thief. A Senju supply run. A kunai. A severed arm.

Izuna had laughed for a week over it—hell, he still did. Never one to pass up a chance to mock the Senju, especially when someone like Tobirama got bested by a no-name street rat.

He chided himself for not making the connection sooner.

He filed the observation away. Quietly. For now.

He closed his eyes, crossed his arms and resumed following Sakura.

I

.

I

It began the moment she passed the tea vendor’s stall.

 She was thinking about medicine. About the boy with the cough. About the way Senju patrols had been pushing west, and how Uchiha scouts had started sleeping in the trees.

“She’s wearing silk again.”
“Of course she is.”
“Think she charges extra if you’re rich enough?”
“No crest, no husband, no shame. Walks around like she owns the dust she steps on.”

She walked on.

But the words followed her like shadows.

Sakura delivered herbs to an injured field hand — and the wife didn’t meet her eyes.

She offered to help a merchant’s son with his sprained wrist — and he flinched before she touched him.

She paused, confused, but didn’t ask.

She was too tired to chase shadows.

She didn’t hear the square fall quiet behind her.

Not until a voice rose — loud, sharp, and clear.

A woman stood at the edge of the market crowd; her pale lavender robes pulled tight over her figure like a sheath. Her hair was pinned in elaborate gold combs. Her cheeks were powdered. Her smile was all sharp teeth and careful paint. Sharp eyes. Tense jaw. Wealthy. Confident.

She didn’t look angry.

She looked pleased.

Like a spider that’s found something wriggling in her web.

Sakura’s eyes flickered left, then right, dimly noting that she was, in fact, surrounded by people. Vendors leaned out of their stalls. Villagers stood half-turned. Watching. Waiting.

Behind the woman, her husband stood awkwardly, his face strained, lips pressed into a line of discomfort — but not enough to intervene.

“I know that design,” the woman said, lifting her chin.

“I—excuse me?” Sakura asked carefully.

“Plum silk. Silver-threaded blossoms. My husband bought me one just like it.”

She took a step forward.

 And it was stolen from me. While I was bathing. Three months ago. Near the river bend west of the inn”

Sakura blinked once. Her fingers curled around the basket’s handle.

The woman didn’t falter.

“I was bathing with my husband,” the woman went on. “By the river. When we returned, it was gone. And now it’s on you.”

She took a step closer. Even more confident as the crowd around her whispered, pointing fingers accusingly.

“You don’t even deny it?!”

Sakura said nothing.

Because the truth still lingered in the back of her mind, the bite of cool night air, the hollow twist of hunger in her gut, the guilt that clung as she’d snatched the folded bundle and fled.
Her breath had fogged as she pulled the yukata over her skin.

Soft. Fine. Too fine for someone like her.

She had known.

But then the days bled together, healing, surviving, enduring—and somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten.

Not purposefully.

Just... necessity.

Until now.

The crowd held its breath.

Sakura didn’t speak.

She couldn’t.

Because she remembered that night.

The weight of the fabric. The river’s coolness against her skin. The laughter echoing from the couple in the water. And the shame that still lodged beneath her ribs like a splinter.

Her silence was answer enough.

Whispers bloomed like rot around her.

The woman stepped forward again, voice louder now, feeding the crowd.

“What else have you stolen? You pretend you’re a humble healer — but you walk like a noble. Do you think silk makes you better than the rest of us?”

Whispers started behind her.

“She never explains where she’s from.”

“She’s not denying it.”

“Thought she was too proud to steal.”

“Maybe she seduced someone for it. You’ve seen the way she walks.”

“Too strong for a woman. It’s unnatural.”

“She’s not one of us.”

Sakura took a breath getting ready to respond—

But the woman cut in, her voice rising, eyes gleaming with something almost gleeful.

“You walk around dressed finer than the merchant wives, healing nobles, accepting coin—and what else? You think a woman like you wears silk for free?”

The murmurs rose.

“No clan name.”

“She never bows.”

“Who is she to wear a gift meant for wives?”

“Maybe she earned it on her knees.”

Sakura’s face flushed with heat—rage, shame, grief all at once. Her mouth opened again and closed—what could she say?

The heat in her throat burned like acid. Not from shame.

From knowing.

That they would always find a reason to hate her.

Even if she gave them nothing.

Especially if she gave them everything.

“Say something,” the woman snapped, her voice curling with triumph. “Or are you just going to keep pretending you earned it?”

Sakura clenched her hands.

Still silent.

Still standing.

And then—

The air cracked.

It was not loud. Not obvious.

But something shifted.

The hair on the villagers' arms prickled. Breaths caught.

And then—his voice, smooth as silk, cut through the crowd like a blade unsheathed:

“That yukata was a gift.”

Heads turned.

Izuna stood at the edge of the square, posture loose, hands clasped behind his back. His smile was polite. His tone? Almost playful.

And yet—

The air around him trembled.

“Uchiha Silk” he said lightly.

“Commissioned from Uchiha silkmaster Saeko,” he continued, strolling forward with quiet elegance. “Only four of that pattern exist. I gave two away.”

He stopped just short of the couple.

“One to your husband.”

His eyes slid to the man.

The husband paled. His knees buckled slightly. He stepped back behind his wife without a word.

Izuna’s gaze moved on.

“And one,” he said, eyes now resting on Sakura, his voice dropping to something soft and final, “to her.”

He stopped at her side, close enough that the fabric of his sleeve brushed hers, his body tall and broad, almost shielding hers.

His eyes, sharp and unreadable, flicked once more to Sakura — then pinned the accusing woman where she stood.

The woman stiffened. “You—”

The smile vanished.

His eyes bled red.

The tomoe spun once. Slowly.

Not a threat.

A promise.

“Are you calling me a liar?” he asked smoothly, daring her to continue.

Silence.

Absolute.

Someone choked on a gasp. A stall vendor dropped a bowl. No one moved.

The woman trembled and kept her gaze lowered fearfully.

“You were quick to shout,” he murmured, voice like velvet lined with venom. “But far slower to think.”

Izuna stepped forward once — just one step — but the weight of it made the whole square lean back.

“You’ve all forgotten your place,” he said, louder now, each word clipped, precise.

The silence was absolute.

“You speak with loose tongues. You spread filth like it’s the truth. And you do it while she heals your children, binds your wounds, and bleeds for your ungrateful lives.”

He turned his icy gaze on the woman.

“You will not speak to her again.”

She flinched.

“And you,” he said, voice soft now — almost like a threat whispered in a lover’s ear, low enough that only she could hear “will remember that if you raise your voice against her again, it will not be words I answer with.”

He needn’t say more.

The woman bowed stiffly, trembling. “I… I was mistaken.”

“No,” Izuna said, deadly calm. “You weren’t. You were simply foolish.”

She fled. And the rest followed like sheep behind her.

When they were gone, Sakura remained frozen.

She finally looked at him.

“…Why did you do that?” she asked softly.

Izuna turned toward her. His expression was unreadable.

“I don’t like liars,” he said. “But I hate vultures more.”

“But it wasn’t a lie.” Sakura murmured urgently, “I—"

He held her gaze a moment longer and swiftly interrupted her.

“Then,” he said evenly, “should be more careful what you wear.”

She blinked; her throat oddly dry.

“It was the only thing clean,” she murmured back, suddenly self-conscious. She tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear, tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip subconsciously.

“I know,” he said, she missed the way his gaze followed the movement.

Then he turned—fluid as shadow—and walked away without another word.

Sakura exhaled, unsure when she’d started holding her breath. Around her, the market resumed like a machine stuttering back to life. Carts shifted. Shoes scraped. No one met her gaze.

She didn’t notice.

Didn’t realize what they were seeing.

Didn’t see the looks passed behind her back—not of suspicion anymore, but wariness.

Not at her.

At the man who’d stepped in front of her like a drawn blade.

She adjusted the basket in her arms, eyes down, and walked on with a sigh.

Unaware that the story was already changing.

That from now on, no one would speak her name without remembering how an Uchiha silenced a crowd for her.

She just wanted to get home.

I

.

I

She didn’t hear the whispers this time.

But Izuna did.

He always did

Izuna had known it was going to happen too.

He’d felt it building all morning, the way the market shifted when Sakura passed, the way voices dipped and sharpened the moment she was out of earshot. He caught the glances. The stiff backs. The smiles with too many teeth.

And the yukata—of all days, she wore the silk.

He hadn’t said anything when he first saw her in it, though something in his chest had gone tight.
It clung to her like moonlight, that plum silk. Pale blossoms threaded in silver. Delicate. Expensive.
Too fine. Too dangerous.

She wore it like it meant nothing.

Not in arrogance.

Not in vanity.

Just in exhaustion.

That’s what made it worse.

She didn’t see the way they looked at her now. How awe had curdled into something sour. How reverence had twisted into offense.

She wasn’t supposed to wear silk like that. Not without a name behind her. Not without a crest. Not without permission.

And when the woman stepped forward—coiled and painted like a blade unsheathed—Izuna already knew what was coming.

The yukata.
The river.
The theft.

It was all a performance. The woman’s voice rang out like she’d been waiting for this moment for weeks. Her eyes shone with the thrill of it. Of being right. Of catching someone wrong.

And Sakura—she didn’t even deny it.

She stood there, still as stone, fingers tightening around her basket.

Not panicked.
Not even angry.

Just... resigned.

Like she’d already accepted their verdict.

Like she’d always known it would come.

And that—that’s what made something old and unnamable in Izuna’s chest twist.

He remembered, suddenly, a different silk.
A different girl.
A long hallway in the Uchiha compound.

He must have been thirteen—barely taller than the doorframe. His cousin had come to the estate for a marriage negotiation. Pretty. Quiet. Proper.

She had walked too confidently.

Worn too much red.

Later, he'd overheard the elder’s murmur: "Too proud for a wife. Too bold in the way she walks."

They hadn’t even let her speak for herself.

By morning, the deal was dissolved.

She never came back.

The market blurred. The woman's voice droned on, feeding the crowd’s appetite.

And Sakura—gods, she was still standing there. Still silent.

He moved without thinking.

Not fast. Not loud.

Just enough for them to feel him before they saw him.

Enough to remind them whose blood he carried. What clan his silence had protected until now.

The words came easy. Measured.
His voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.
He saw the panic bloom behind the woman’s eyes. The man beside her shrink like he wanted to vanish.

Good.

Let them remember what it meant to speak out of turn.
Let them remember what his mercy looked like.
Let them fear what it might look like when it ran out.

He turned to Sakura only once—just a glance.

She was still staring straight ahead. Still braced for judgment.
Still not understanding what he’d just done.

She thought it was a favor.

She didn’t see what it cost.

He hated that.

But what he hated even more is that she thought she had to take it.

So, when she looked at him, quiet and confused, asking why—

He gave her the only answer he could trust himself to say.

“You should be more careful what you wear.”

Then he turned and left.

And behind him, the market held its breath.

He didn’t look back.

But in his mind, she stayed—
barefoot in the dust, wrapped in silk, stubborn, quiet, burning at the edges.

He hadn’t meant to decide so quickly.

But something inside him had already settled.

He lingered at the edge of the square, eyes sharp, back turned.

And when a low voice muttered behind him, still too bold—

“Did she really deserve—”

His head turned. Just slightly.

One eye, coal-black, flashed red.

The sharingan spun, slow and deliberate.

The voice died mid-breath.

Izuna’s smile was slow. Glacial. Almost bored.

“Finish that sentence,” he said softly, voice like velvet over steel.

“Go on.”

No one did.

He turned back toward the road, eyes following Sakura’s retreating figure.

His expression gave nothing away.

But beneath the surface, something dark stirred.

Not affection.

Not entirely.

He didn’t name it, not yet.

He simply watched her go.

And didn’t look away.

Chapter Text

Sakura didn’t bring the yukata back into the tent.

She left it folded over the wash line behind the herbs, hoping the next rain would do what she couldn’t—scrub the moment out of the fabric.

She hadn’t said anything to Inohana about what happened. She didn’t need to.

The tension in the air had already told her everything.

The whispers had gone quiet. But not in the way she expected.

No snide comments. No passive glances. Just a brittle sort of stillness when she entered the square—like a glass teacup balanced on the edge of a table.

They didn’t look at her the same way now.

They looked... carefully.

Measured.

She didn’t understand it.

Not really.

It hadn’t even been that dramatic—Izuna had spoken, the woman backed down, the crowd dispersed. And then it was done.

She kept expecting someone to come back. To press the issue. To demand an answer. But no one had.

She’d adjusted to that quiet judgment, knowing that it wasn’t malicious, just wary. The lingering stares. The disbelief that clung to her presence like fog.

But this wasn’t that.

This was a different kind of silence.

Not indifference.
Deference.

Measured. Watched.

And she didn’t know why.

She was used to being tolerated. So far, she had learned to adapt to living with a certain kind of distance. No longer the Godiame Hokage’s beloved apprentice, a humble civilian girl that rose above all expectations, a dear friend, a loving daughter, a loyal teammate.

She was nobody here.

For the first time since arriving in this world—

Sakura didn’t know how to stand tall.

Because she wasn’t just being watched anymore.

She was being weighed.

I

.

I

That night, while packing herbs in glass jars by lantern light Sakura caught herself smiling, just barely, thinking again about what he’d said.

Then frowning.

Then pressing her fingers hard into the table, as if she could shove the thought back where it belonged.

You should be more careful about what you wear.

 Low and even, the memory of the deep tenors of Izuna’s voice left goosebump in its wake. Delivered with that same effortless confidence that always accompanied Uchiha men who knew people listened when they spoke.

It had stung a little, if she was honest.  Maybe a little more than she wanted to admit.

She hadn’t worn the silk to be noticed.

She’d worn it because everything else was soaked through, because she was tired, because she hadn’t thought—

She hadn’t thought he’d intervene.

She hadn’t thought anyone would.

And maybe that was the part she kept circling back to.

It should have irritated her.

It should have sparked something sharper—indignation, anger, pride.

But instead…

It made her stomach flip.

Just a little.

In her time, a comment like that might’ve earned a roll of her eyes. A piercing retort and maybe, depending on who said it, a sharp smack to the back of the head. A warning not to mistake her body for an invitation.

But here?

She couldn’t quite tell what it meant.

It wasn’t teasing.
It wasn’t kind.
It wasn’t flirtation.

It felt like...well she wasn’t exactly sure.

But he hadn’t touched her. Hadn’t leered. He hadn’t even looked at her with hunger.

Only with that cool, sharp gaze.

As if she’d done something reckless.

As if she were his to correct.

Sakura swallowed thickly, willing the rising flush on her face to cool. She shouldn’t have been thinking about it. Not while her fingers were stained with crushed valerian.
Not while her hands ached from sorting roots and cutting poultices until the lantern flickered low.

But she couldn’t stop.

That moment—

The way Izuna had spoken.

Like a blade being drawn in defense of something already his. Part of her still felt it, that nauseating flutter in her stomach. That thrill.

Something girlish and awful and alive.

It twisted low in her stomach. That old yearning. The part of her that had once begged silently for Sasuke to look her way.

To see her. Choose her. Want her.

And now—

Here was another Uchiha.

Older. Sharper. More dangerous.

But he had seen her.

She stared down at the row of jars, hands still and eyebrows furrowed in thought as she tried not to think about red eyes and a voice that curled low behind her ears.

Trying not to remember the slight heat in her chest when he’d said it.

You should be more careful about what you wear.

It shouldn’t have stuck with her.

But it had.

She’d been alone for so long, even in her own time—untethered, unacknowledged, unseen.

And now?

Someone like him—someone sharp and beautiful and cold—had seen her.

Had stepped forward.

Had spoken.

And even if she knew it was dangerous—even if she knew it was complicated—

Part of her had liked it.

Too much.

A sudden movement interrupted her feverish thoughts.

Inohana.

She entered without a word, brushing past the flap, damp from the evening mist. Her blonde hair was tied back, her shawl clutched tight. She didn’t ask about the yukata. Didn’t ask about the market.

She just walked over and set a steaming cup of tea beside Sakura’s elbow. Chamomile, from the smell.

A beat of silence passed. The kind that settles soft but heavy.

Inohana reached out and gently touched Sakura’s shoulder. Just once.

Her voice was quiet.

“Be careful.”

Sakura blinked at her. “I’m fine.”

Inohana didn’t smile. Didn’t banter. Just looked at her in that way she did—like she was pulling petals off the truth until the center bled.

“No,” she said. “You’re not.”

She sat on the edge of the cot, hands folded in her lap, eyes distant.

“You don’t understand,” Inohana continued, not unkindly. “They were silent before because they didn’t know what you were.”

She hesitated.

“They’ll be bolder now that they do.”

Sakura opened her mouth—but no argument came. Sakura lowered her gaze to the tea, watching the steam curl in the cool night air.

She hadn’t even thought of that.

 Inohana was silent for a minute, then continued.

“Word will spread. It always does. Especially when an Uchiha makes a spectacle in public. The nobles will hear. The council wives. The clan daughters. And the men—” she trailed off, her jaw tightening. “They’ll want to know why he spoke for you.”

Sakura looked away.

“They’ll start asking where you came from,” Inohana murmured. “Who taught you. Who your people are.”

The pinkette looked away, her fingers fiddling with the frayed edge of her blanket.

Not out of shame.

But because for a moment—just a breath—she’d liked it.

She’d felt protected.

Visible.

Chosen.

Her voice dropped even lower.

“They’ll ask who you belong to.”

Sakura didn’t answer, because she didn’t know how.

Because she didn’t belong to anyone.

Not here.

But the thrill of being wanted—even in passing—still lingered somewhere deep and stupid in her chest.

Inohana lingered for a moment longer, scanning the tent like she was trying to memorize its shape. Its safety.

Then she stood, eyes sharper than before.

“Whatever happens next,” she said, “don’t make the mistake of thinking you’re invisible anymore.”

And then she was gone

I

.

I

Sakura sat alone again.

She didn’t know what to make of it.

Didn’t realize that the moment Izuna had stepped forward, the village had redrawn its lines around her.

Didn’t see the weight behind his words, or the eyes that had watched him speak to them.

Didn’t know she’d been claimed—
Not just as property.
But as territory.

And that some part of the Uchiha had already decided:

She was no longer unprotected.

She was no longer alone.

She just thought the whispers had stopped.

She didn’t realize the silence had teeth.

With a sigh, she turned to the small lantern near her cot and let out a small breath watching the flame flicker and fade, leaving her in darkness.

I

.

I

The night swallowed her gently.

At first, it was warm. Familiar. Almost comforting, like her mother’s embrace.

She stood in the Konoha sun, the wind lifting strands of her hair. Laughter rang out from the trees beyond the training field—bright, familiar.

Naruto, charging in with ramen-stained confidence.
Kakashi, one hand in his pocket, pretending to read his porn.
Sasuke, standing across from her in shadow, his eyes unreadable but present.

They were whole.
Together.
Smiling.

Sakura exhaled. A breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Sasuke turned to her then. Just slightly.

His voice was low, distant.

“You’re not invisible, you know.”

She blinked.

The words didn’t match his mouth.

Didn’t belong in this light.

The sky dulled.
The sun bled into ash.
Laughter died.

Kakashi’s book fell soundlessly.
Naruto blurred—his outline softening, his voice smothered.

Even Sasuke…

He was still there, but wrong.

Too tall. His hair too long, his eyes too friendly.

His eyes weren’t black anymore.

They were red.

Not angry.

Not wild.

Just watching.

She took a step back—and her heel touched stone. The grass was gone. So was the training field. She stood at the center of a square, a lantern flickered beside her. A pouch of gold sat at her feet, blood smeared her palms.

The crowd returned—faceless, silent, lined in shadow.

No words. Just judgment.

And behind her—

A hand touched her shoulder.

She didn’t turn. She didn’t have to look.

She felt it- nimble fingers trailing upward up. Slow. Intentional. She could feel his callouses grazing the soft skin underneath, leaving her breathless.

They reached her face.

And then—

He.

 “Izuna”, she mouthed silently, startled, cupped his palm over her eyes.

Not roughly. Not cruelly.

Gently.

Intimately.

The action left her skin flushed; her lips open in surprise.

As if shielding her.

As if claiming her.

Like someone whispering you don’t need to see anymore.

Her skin flushed where his touch lingered. Her lips parted—surprised, breath caught in her throat as he touched more and more.

His breath touched her ear.

A whisper.

“You should be more careful about what you wear.”

She froze.

She couldn’t speak.

Couldn’t see.

The hand didn’t tighten.

But it didn’t let go.

Her own reached up, slow, shaking—fingertips brushing skin that should have been there.

Nothing.

Just air.

I

.

I

She sat up—too fast—palms planted against the cot as if she could anchor herself back to reality.

Her skin felt hot.
Not fevered—just touched.
Everywhere his hand had been: her jaw, her cheek, her throat.
A phantom heat bloomed there, low and traitorous.

She dragged a hand over her face, trying to rub the feeling away.
It didn’t work.

There was no chakra in the tent. No presence nearby.
Nothing but her.

And still—
Her thighs pressed together beneath the sheet.
Tightly.

The ache wasn’t sharp. It wasn’t even urgent. Just there, insistent and wrong.

It was a dream, she told herself.
Just a dream.

Her breath stuttered as she tried to banish the pulse that had taken root between her hips and she fell back into her cot, vision blurring as fatigue overtook her.

Outside, the wind whispered against the canvas, and somewhere beyond the trees—

Something watched.

I

.

I

It started that morning.

A man came to the tent around midmorning—older, well-dressed, with oil in his hair and the kind of polished sandals worn by men who spoke often and said little. Claimed he was there about a burn on his nephew’s leg.

But his questions weren’t about healing.

“Unusual chakra work,” he said, voice too smooth. “Are you by chance related to the Senju?”

Sakura didn’t look up. “No.”

“Self-taught?” he asked lightly.

“Impressive. Most girls your age have... domestic training. Or clans behind them.”

"Mine are dead," she said tersely.

“My condolences,” he said, still smiling. “perhaps you’d appreciate my offer—"

Sakura’s brow twitched.

Inohana appeared before the man could finish.

She didn’t carry flowers this time—just a cloth-wrapped jar of crushed bitterroot and a look that had no softness left in it.

“Oh, we’re terribly overbooked,” she said brightly, stepping between them. “So many nobles trying to have war conversations without bleeding too much, it’s exhausting. But I’m sure your nephew can wait for an appointment. We’ll put you on the list.”

The man paused. His eyes slid over to her.

She smiled wider.

Then sharper.

“Unless,” she added, voice soft, “you’ve come for something else.”

A beat.

He dipped his head—slightly. “Another time, then.”

And left.

Later, when the tent was still, Sakura noticed the flowers were gone.

The lavender bundle Inohana had arranged behind the patient’s cot. The vase of bluebells by the water basin. The bowl of floating camellias near the front flap.

Vanished.

All of them.

She turned, confused. “Ino? Where are the flowers?”

“They were starting to say things,” Inohana murmured, not looking up from the pestle she was grinding. “Didn’t want anyone thinking we were trying to look inviting.”

Sakura stared at her.

“You think someone sent him?”

“I think that man already knew the answers to the questions he was asking,” she said flatly. “And I think this tent is going to stop being a secret.”

Sakura snorted. Didn’t seem like much of a secret to begin with.

A moment later, Renga burst through the flap, arms full of damp cloth and a grin too wide. “Boss! You should’ve seen the way that guy skulked off. Thought Ino was gonna stab him with a flower stem.”

Inohana didn’t smile.

Instead, she walked up to him, dried her hands on a rag, and tugged his collar straight with surprising firmness.

Her voice dropped.

“Don’t wander alone anymore,” she said.

Renga blinked. “Wait—why?”

“Because some men look at you and see a boy who shouldn’t be that healed,” she said, eyes sharp on his reattached arm. “And if they start asking who fixed you, I don’t want you answering with her name.”

Renga’s smile slipped.

He swallowed. “...Okay.”

Inohana turned to Sakura next.

“You’re being watched now,” she said, quiet and deadly serious. “Not just by him.”

She didn’t have to say who he was.

Sakura opened her mouth—but whatever she’d meant to say fell apart under the weight of Inohana’s gaze.

“Don’t make it easy for them.”

I

.

I

The yukata was folded neatly on the edge of her washbasin. She hadn’t worn it since, she couldn’t bring herself to look at it.

The tent was too quiet. The air too thick. The silence of the villagers had gone from sharp to smothering. No more open suspicion. No more pointed remarks.

Just space. Careful, measured distance.

Like she was a dog on a too-short leash. Like they were waiting to see who was holding it.

As if searching for something in the shadows she cast.

Inohana had changed, too.

She still teased. Still slipped her arm through Sakura’s and held her chin high as they walked the market path. But her hand lingered longer on Sakura’s forearm. Her steps were more deliberate. Her voice quieter.

Her smiles were still there.

But they didn’t reach her eyes as often.

She brewed tea with sharper movements, arranged herbs like she was building defenses. She glanced toward the flap too frequently, her head tilted as if listening not for footsteps—but for shifts in the wind.

She never said it outright.

But everything in her posture had changed.

Her voice dropped. Her eyes started darting.

She began listening more than she spoke.

She started bringing home information folded in pleasant conversation.

Which merchant wives were meeting behind shuttered stalls.
Which men had passed the tent twice in the same hour.
Which clan colors had been seen on the edges of the market.

All spoken with a smile.

All loaded.

And then, one evening as they tucked away the herbs, she whispered:

“Do you know what it means?”

Sakura looked up, blinking.

“What does?”

“That he defended you. In front of everyone.”

Sakura’s hands paused over a bundle of dried mugwort. “I assumed... he was just stopping a lie.”

Inohana didn’t flinch. But her eyes darken into something much colder.

“No, Sakura,” she said. “He wasn’t stopping a lie.”

She turned back to her tray, tying the knot in a bundle of sage. Her voice dropped to something harder.

“He was making a statement.”

Inohana’s expression didn’t change. But something in her eyes went flat.

He was making a statement.

Sakura’s fingers tightened around the ceramic bowl she was holding.

“A statement?” The question came out light. Too light. Almost dismissive.

Inohana didn’t answer right away. She just turned back to her work.

And said, low:

“Yes, the kind that can start wars.”

Sakura rolled her eyes, trying to mask the growing ache in her chest.

 “He was just defending me Ino-pig.”

She smiled as she said it, trying to push the weight of the moment off her shoulders with a breath of old familiarity.

But Inohana didn’t return it.

Didn’t tease her back.

Didn’t say a word.

Only stared at the cloth in her hands for a moment too long.

Then said, soft but flat:

“No.”

She looked up then, her pupilless gaze locking Sakura in place.

And there was no warmth left in her voice.

“He was claiming you.”

I

.

I

Sakura didn’t understand.

Not truly.

Not yet.

She’d seen war. Fought in war. She had watched gods bleed and villages burn and men turn on their comrades.

But that was a different kind of war.

It had structure. Teams. Chain of command. Purpose.

This?

This was older. Dirtier.
A web of bloodlines and power, where a look could draw blood and a single gesture from the wrong man could make a woman a pawn before she ever realized a game had begun.

A war where one act of kindness could sound like a declaration.

Where silence, from the wrong man, could be a promise.

And now?

Now the whole village was listening.

I

.

I

Inohana didn’t say anything more after that.

She just finished folding the herbs, wrapped the dried bundles in linen, and offered Sakura a tired smile that didn’t quite settle in her cheeks.

“I’ll head home,” she said softly, brushing her hands on her skirt. “There’s still stew leftover from the morning. I’ll bring you a bowl tomorrow.”

Sakura nodded, returning the smile.

“Thanks, Ino-pig.”

That earned a snort. A soft one.

Then she was gone, her shawl tugged over her shoulders as the flap of the tent whispered shut behind her.

Sakura stood alone.

The quiet wrapped around her again. Dense. Too thick. Like the air hadn’t moved in hours.

She crossed the room and picked up the bowl she’d left sitting on the table. Still empty.

Still uncracked.

Her fingers brushed its rim, gentle now.

Claiming her.

Her thoughts from the day before came rushing back and Sakura pressed a damp hand to her cheek, willing away the heat that crept up.

The words echoed. Inohana hadn’t said them with malice. She had said them with dread.

But—

Surely, Izuna hadn’t meant it like that.

He’d been sharp. Certainly. Dangerous. Of course. But he hadn’t touched her. He hadn’t said anything possessive. He didn’t bark commands at her or corner her.

He just—

Stepped in.

That’s all.

Stopped a lie before it spiraled. Protected her, maybe. In a way that surprised even him.

That didn’t mean it was a statement.

It didn’t mean she was his.

Sakura set the bowl down and crossed her arms.

She wasn’t some merchant’s daughter being dragged into backdoor politics. She’d fought on battlefields older than this village, hell, the village didn’t even exist yet. She’d stitched together broken bones with a chakra flow so tight it could sever nerves from muscle without nicking a vein.

She could take care of herself.

She didn’t need someone to protect her from… what? A look? Some gossip?

This wasn’t war. Not the kind she knew anyways.

She exhaled.

She said it out loud, as if that would make it true.

“He was just defending me.”

But her hands had started to shake again.

She pressed them to her thighs.

Tight.

Until they stopped.

She turned away. Crossed the tent to check her supplies.

One by one, she counted the tinctures, the salves, the wrappings. Checked the clay jars even though she already knew what was in them.

She did it because she needed to move.

Because the quiet had grown teeth.

Because if she stood still too long, she might—

Her chest tightened.

She swallowed.

Tried to breathe in.

It caught.

No. Not now. Don’t start now.

She sat down. Slowly. Knees drawn up.

She pressed her palms into the floor.

The world was tilting again. Quiet, slow—like a boat about to capsize.

“He was just defending me,” she whispered again, a little more frantic this time.

“He didn’t mean anything by it.”

Her breath hitched.

“I’m fine.”

She closed her eyes and breathed deeply.

In.
Hold.
Out.

Once.
Twice.

Then she lifted her hands and pressed her fingertips together, middle fingers forming a triangle, thumbs brushing gently.

It was a trick Tsunade had taught her in the days when chakra control and emotional discipline were one and the same.

“If you can’t breathe through it,” Tsunade had said, “hold it still long enough to survive it.”

It was part pressure point, part chakra channeling. The triangle anchored her, focused her energy, forced her heartbeat to slow just enough.

Her fingers trembled, but she held the shape.

Focused on the warmth in her core. The quiet push and pull of her breath.

It worked.

A little.

She stripped slowly.

Folded her clothes with more care than necessary. Rubbed her hands down her arms to banish the chill. Her cot groaned as she sank onto it, curling beneath the rough blanket, facing the wall.

The silence was back. It pressed against her like hands.

She was so tired.

And her body hurt. From working. From holding it all in. From pretending none of this was unraveling her from the inside out.

Just sleep.

She repeated it like a mantra.

Just sleep. Sleep and tomorrow you’ll feel fine. Tomorrow you’ll laugh about this. Tomorrow you’ll feel normal.

But her chest wouldn’t unclench.

And her eyes didn’t close.

The minutes bled into hours.

At some point she drifted—but it wasn’t rest. It was something thinner, twitching at the edges of dream and dread.

She dreamt of her sensei’s hand on her head.

Of Naruto’s laughter echoing through trees that weren’t there.

Of Sasuke standing at her back like a shadow she could never reach.

I

,

I

She woke that morning with a gasp, a sharp exhale of breath that left her shuddering. Her skin was pale and clammy.

 The air was still.

Too still.

Like the world had stopped breathing.

Her head pounded. Her eyes burned. She hadn’t truly slept. Not deeply. She knew it the moment she tried to sit up.

Her limbs felt like iron.

She swung her legs over the side of the cot, rubbed her face, and tried to gather herself, clumsily pulling on her clothes.

It didn’t work.

The moment her feet touched the ground—

It started again.

The pressure. The tightness.

The bone-deep ache.

Something inside cracked and she didn’t know where the leak was coming from—but she felt it.

She stood too quickly. Knocked over the basin. Water spilled—she stared like it had betrayed her. Her legs buckled and she dropped to her knees on the floor, hands gripping the blanket still tangled at the edge of the cot. Her forehead pressed to the cold wood.

Her breath came in hiccups. Sharp. Incomplete.

She squeezed her eyes shut and curled in tighter, trying to fold herself small enough to disappear.

No chakra in the world could fix this. She stood up again, legs wobbly and made her way to her table.

Her heart was racing.

And this time—
It didn’t stop.

She tried to hold onto something. Anything.

The jars. The shelves. Her own breath.

But her hands were trembling too much now.

Sakura was unraveling.

Sakura felt it all closing in on her. Like being wrapped in silk and buried alive.

The world felt like it was pressing down on her chest—hot, humid, suffocating. She stared at the same tincture for too long. Ground the same root to dust. Her hands trembled just enough that she spilled the antiseptic.

She sat behind the flap of her tent, fingers twitching over the same bundle of gauze for the third time, and realized with a jolt that her breath was stuck in her throat. Her heartbeat thundered behind her eyes. Her vision was narrowing.

She gripped the table’s edge—too tightly. Her pulse wasn’t slowing.

This wasn’t fatigue.
This was fear.
This was panic.

Her body had been on the battlefield. Had fought God-like shinobi, a real damn goddess. Had watched her comrades die. She knew what it meant to drown without water.

Her mind screamed: Move.
Her hands wouldn’t listen.

She barely registered Inohana’s gentle hand on her shoulder, and didn’t even notice her coming in.

 “Sakura.”

She blinked rapidly, the touch startling her and her throat bobbed as she choked down a sob. Something snapped in her chest—not loud, but hollow.

And then—

Memory struck her like a kunai to the chest.

A fire.
Crackling.
Naruto snoring loudly. Sasuke sharpening a blade. Kakashi leaning back against a tree, book in hand, eye visible just enough to show that he was watching them.

Watching her.

“Get some sleep, Sakura,” he had said, his lone eye crinkling in that way when he wanted to smile without really smiling.

She remembered the way the stars looked through the trees.

She remembered thinking: This is the safest I’ve ever felt.

A sudden, stupid thought cut through the static, a silly thought that made her feel like a child again:

I want my sensei.

Cool, calm Kakashi-Sensei. Who could make anything feel manageable just by standing there. Who knew how to pull her out of her spirals without needing her to explain a word.

Her hand clutched her chest like she could rip the ache out with her nails.

“I don’t want to be strong right now,” she thought desperately.

A sob punched out of her before she could stop it.

She slapped a hand over her mouth, curled in on herself. She was going to lose it.

“I’ll be back,” she gasped.

 “I need—just for a little bit. I need air.”

She didn’t wait for permission, didn’t want to see Ino’s pained, worried expression.

She bolted.

She shoved the tent flap open. The early morning mist was cold against her skin.

Her gaze flicked past the yukata—stupid, soft thing—

Her eyes landed on the laundry line.

She grabbed the first thing she could find from the laundry pile—a pair of worn male trousers that had once belonged to Renga before his late-night dumpling habit caught up to him.

They were too big at the waist but tight across the hips and legs. She yanked them on and tied a thick rope through the loops to cinch them tight.

She peeled off her dull sleeping yukata, stripped to her chest wrap, bound tight across her ribs. Her stomach bare. Her body lean and corded from years of pushing past limits. She caught her reflection in the water basin next to the laundry line.

She didn’t look like a noblewoman. She didn’t look like anyone from this era. She didn’t even look like a proper healer.

She looked like a weapon.

I

.

I

She fled.

No explanation, no destination. Just motion—fast, fierce. She ran until the trees swallowed her whole, until the sounds of market stalls and murmurs and careful politeness all faded behind a wall of green.

Branches whipped against her skin. Her sandals skidded in the dirt. She pushed herself harder, faster, until her legs burned and her lungs screamed and the cold sliced through the heat behind her eyes.

She didn’t stop until the trees gave way to a clearing. Wide. Empty.

She fell to her knees again, panting, fists against the moss.

The panic came fast. Like a vice around her ribs.

I can’t—breathe—

Her fingers curled into the earth. Her breath shuddered, hitched. She stared down at her lap, trying not to fall apart. But everything pressed in—

This time.
This place.
This loneliness.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she said into the wind. “I don’t even know who I am here.”

There was no answer.

For a long moment, she didn’t move. Just sat there, broken open, trying to breathe through the crack in her ribs where grief lived. Tears spilled freely now. She let them.

She wiped her face, stood slowly, and closed her eyes.

In.
Hold.
Out.

She did it three times.

Her eyes opened.

And there was something colder in them now. Sharper.

The forest whispered around her. Damp. Still. Expectant.

Sakura looked down at her fists, flexing them once.

Then she moved.

She stepped to the center of the clearing. Shoulders square. Chest exposed to the wind; her makeshift belt cinched tight across her hips.

Her hands moved instinctively. She pressed her palms together and sent a pulse of chakra outward, sharp and clean—like a sonar wave laced with warning.

It passed through the trees. The stones. The undergrowth.

No chakra signatures.

Only wildlife.

She was alone.

Good.

She inhaled once more.

And then she struck.

She lunged forward and slammed her heel into the ground—BOOM. Earth cracked in a perfect circle. Dust scattered. She twisted mid-motion, chakra threading down into her fists as she launched into a brutal barrage.

Every strike was a command.
Every pivot, a scream unsaid.
Every leap, every drop, a refusal to break.

She spun low, sweeping the ground, then shot forward again, shattering the trunk of an old, rotted tree with a single rising uppercut.

CRACK.

Bark splintered. Leaves rained down.

She exhaled sharply, chakra roaring under her skin. Her heartbeats to a rhythm of violence and control.

She threw herself into the air, spun—once, twice—and drove her foot down in a meteor drop.

The clearing exploded.

Dirt flew in waves. A boulder to her left ruptured. The crater she left behind hissed with energy.

Sakura landed in a crouch, panting, eyes wild.

And smiling.

And still—

Still she kept moving.

Because it was the only thing that kept her from unraveling.

She laughed, wild, her eyes half-lidded in mirth as she did it all again.

I

.

I

She felt it hours later.

When she had exhausted herself and pressed her palms to her thighs. Chest Falling. Rising. Falling.

And for a moment—

She had felt peace.

A thread of it, anyway. Thin and fleeting. But it was there.

Her throat ached. Her ribs burned. But the pressure inside had finally cracked and spilled out across the earth with the tremors she left behind.

This was what her body needed.

Not silence.

This.

Movement.
Motion.
Destruction.

A shiver went down her spin and her eyes snapped up, scanning the treeline.

A breath that didn’t belong.

The hairs on her arms rose. Her chakra quivered.

Someone was here.

Sakura stood slowly, fingers flexing again.

The peace she’d earned evaporated. The weight returned.

The clearing held its breath and Sakura with it.

I

.

I

He watched from the trees, breath shallow. He had been watching for five minutes.

Five minutes of precision violence that made his stomach twist with something he refused to entertain.

He hadn’t meant to follow her. Not consciously. But when her chakra flared through the forest like a beacon, controlled and dangerous, he couldn’t ignore it.

He expected something volatile. Sloppy. Raw.

What he found—

Was her.

He recognized her now. The girl from the market. The one with whispers at her back. The one he had dismissed.

That had been a mistake.

A rare one.

One that gnawed at him.

He recalled it now—the brush of chakra he’d sensed weeks ago. Faint. Precise. Familiar and foreign all at once.

He hadn’t followed up.

He always followed up.

But then came his brother’s summons. Clan negotiations. A Senju outpost under Uchiha pressure.

The mistake he should never have made.

He trailed it this time.

And what he found?

What he saw?

Made his blood run hot, hotter than any battlefield ever had.

A woman.

No clan.

No authorization.

No structure.

And this power.

Her chakra was a blade, her body honed to lethality, moving like death in bloom.

She wore trousers.

Trousers.

And a chest wrap soaked in sweat. Her stomach bare. Her waist narrow. Her hips—his jaw tightened—the muscles in her legs flexed as she dropped low, pivoted, and rose in a vertical strike that sent a tree splintering from the roots. His crimson gaze slid down—took in the tight pull of the fabric across her thighs, the glint of sweat on her skin. The way her hips rolled with each pivot.

He had seen men train for decades and never move like that.

And she moved like it cost her nothing.

Every punch was deliberate. Every breath measured. There was rage behind her, yes—but not chaos.

Refinement.
Training.
Discipline.

Things he recognized. Things he admired.

His jaw clenched.

He didn’t want to admire her.

He wanted to catalogue her. Contain her. Control her.

But watching her destroy the clearing like a living weapon, he couldn’t help it—a flicker of something passed through him.

He clenched his jaw and focused on the cold morning air in his lungs.

He wasn’t a fool.

He didn’t want her.

He wanted to know who trained her.
Who gave her chakra that precise.
Who let a woman become a blade without sheath or master.

Because that meant someone had broken the system.

And Tobirama had built his entire life around systems.

His fingers twitched against the hilt of his blade.

A familiar thought flashed through him:

Disable it or kill it.

He watched her exhale, backlit by sun and ruin, something else coiled beneath his ribs and he was reminded of something from the past.

Once, long ago, when he was barely taller than his own spear, he’d asked his father:

“Why do the Uchiha smile when they lose?”

His father hadn’t looked up from sharpening his blade.

“They smile because they know the chaos they leave behind.”

That day, Tobirama had gone out and created a signal system on the Senju perimeter defense wall. Alone. Without asking.

He didn’t believe in smiling through blood.

He believed in preventing the wound.

He believed in control.

Something dark and twisted coiled through him—slow, suffocating.

Not curiosity.

Not lust. Not entirely.

No.

It was colder than that.

It was a clinical sort of hunger, the kind that curled behind his ribs and whispered of variables and fault lines. The kind that demanded order.

He stared down at the young woman below.

Oblivious.

To the consequences of her presence. Her movement. Her power.

To the weight of what it meant to exist like this, unclaimed, unsanctioned, untrained—and worse—

He almost wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all.

She moved like a weapon.

But had no idea she was being measured like one.

She wore the wrong clothes. Spoke with too much certainty. Took up space like no one had taught her to shrink.

She was dangerous.

Not just because of her strength.

But because she didn’t know who was watching.

Or what her power looked like to men like him.

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed.

He had spent his life building systems to hold the world in place.

And here she was—a rupture. Soft skin and brutal fists, framed by sunlight and ruin.

She shouldn’t exist.

And yet she did.

He would understand her.

That was what this was.

Understanding.

Nothing more.

To understand something was to disarm it.

To name it.

To bind it to rule and consequence.

If he could understand her, he could control the ripple.

Contain the fallout.

Catalog the anomaly.

He had no interest in her. Only in what she represented.

That was all.

His fingers twitched once against his thigh.

Tobirama stepped back, silent as a ghost. His mind was already calculating.

If she was Senju, she would be his responsibility.

If she was Uchiha, she would be his enemy.

If she was neither—

Then she was a problem.

And he would solve it.

Then he was gone.

A flicker. A blink. Nothing left but the trees.

I

.

I

She didn’t speak of the forest. Not to Inohana. Not to Renga.
At the time, she’d even glanced around when she returned, relieved not to sense Izuna’s presence.
It had just been a bad morning, she told herself.

But sometimes, when she stepped out of the tent before sunrise, the mist clung to her skin like breath.
And sometimes, when the wind shifted, she’d swear it carried something with it.
Not chakra—just awareness.
A weight behind the trees.
An intelligence behind the stillness.

Not fear.
Not quite.

But she moved her cot away from the flap that night anyway.
Just in case.

She was sure it wasn’t something to worry about.

I

.

I

But it wasn’t nothing.

He hadn’t left for long.

Thirteen days had passed since the clearing. Since she’d cracked the earth open like a fault line and screamed without sound. He told himself he’d only returned once—to confirm the anomaly. To see if it had been a fluke.
But then there had been twice. Then four times. Then every day.

He didn’t approach again.
Not yet.

Instead, he circled the outskirts of the tent she returned to.

He watched from rooftops. Tree lines. Cracks in shadow.

And each time, the knot in his chest pulled tighter.

He knew the shape of her morning now.

How she touched the basin with the back of her fingers before using it.

How she hummed to herself when the silence became suffocating.

How she smiled when she thought no one was looking.

She had a pretty smile. A dimple on her left cheek.

Sometimes he would catch her staring at nothing, her face pinched in distress. Like she was thinking of something unpleasant.

He watched the way she healed.

Tobirama told himself these were tactical observations. Behavioral patterns. Chakra behavior under neutral stress.

More importantly, it gave him the opportunity to watch the way the Uchiha hovered nearby.

Izuna Uchiha.

Not as reckless as his brother. Not as loud.

But worse in his own way.

Quieter. More calculated.

Like a wolf that had already chosen its prey and was only waiting for the wind to shift.

There were moments—small ones—when Izuna appeared beside her with no sound, no warning.

But his hand always went to his blade when Izuna appeared.

He wasn’t always around though.

Not always.

But enough that it made his stomach twist with something sharp and sour.

And just as quickly as he’d appear, he’d vanish.

There were moments when Tobirama had nearly been seen.

Moments when he wondered who was watching whom.

He hated it. Not because he didn’t expect their kind to circle anomalies, but because the young Uchiha’s eyes lingered on her the way his did.

And once—only once—did Tobirama get the distinct, unsettling sense that Izuna looked past her and saw him.

That he smiled.

I

.

I

But it wasn’t just Izuna.

Tobirama noticed him too.

More and more.

The boy.

The thief.

The rat who had tried to rob him, nimble and arrogant. Tobirama had relieved him of a hand for it—cleanly, without pause. He hadn’t thought of him since.

He'd assumed the brat would die from blood loss.

But now—

Two arms.

Both moving.

Perfectly.

The little snake lingered too long at the edges of Sakura’s camp. Moved little too fast when eyes turned his way. Smiled too wide.

At first, Tobirama thought he was just a mutt clinging to his healer’s grace.

But then one day, he saw it.

The hesitation.

The sleight of hand.

The way the boy palmed objects when no one was watching. The way he hoarded coin. The way, when he believed himself alone, he didn’t look relieved.

He looked proud.

Tobirama decided then he’d track him one evening—silent through the canopy, shadows wrapping around his shoulders like armor.

He watched from the trees as the boy met with a merchant behind a longhouse. Watched the glint of something gold trade hands. Watched the way the boy’s eyes scanned the shadows like he knew he was doing something wrong.

Tobirama’s smile was razor thin. It didn’t reach his eyes.

You want chaos, he thought, stepping down from the tree, cloak settling silently behind him.

I’ll give you order.

I

.

I

Renga leaned against the side of the longhouse, tossing a gold coin in the air and catching it with a smirk.

“Nice haul,” he muttered. “Maybe I’ll buy a whole basket of dumplings this time.”

He didn’t hear the shift behind him.

Didn’t see the blur of white and red until it was already too late.

A hand slammed him into the wall, lifting him off the ground, another seized his wrist with surgical force.

The coin clattered to the dirt.

Tobirama’s voice was ice.

“Funny,” he said. “Last time I saw you, you were screaming and bleeding in the dirt.”

Renga’s eyes bulged. He thrashed wildly in his grip, feet seeking purchase as they dangled.

Tobirama twisted the boy’s arm just enough to remind him of pain. A whisper of what he could do—if he wanted to.

“I cut that arm clean off,” he said.

His voice dropped.

“So, tell me—who put it back?”

Of course, he already knew.

But sometimes, even he enjoyed playing with his food.

No answer. Just the sound of Renga choking on his own fear

Tobirama’s eyes narrowed, and he pinned the with a look that dared him to try anything.

He bent slowly, crouching.

Picked up the coin.

Turned it over once between his fingers.

The light hit just right.

The Uchiha crest gleamed back at him.

“Well,” he murmured. “This just keeps getting better.”

He grabbed Renga by the collar and dragged him forward.

 Unhurried. Unmerciful.

“Let’s see what your little healer has to say for herself.”

I

.

I

The midday quiet was soft around her tent.

She was restocking her salves, fingers working through the repetition with practiced ease. Renga was late again—but that wasn’t unusual. He always came back with excuses and snacks and some new scrape he’d picked up being foolish.

She didn’t even look up at first.

Not until her stomach twisted.

She paused. Her fingers stilled over the gauze. Her eyes flicked to the tent flap.

A chill, sudden and unnatural, crept down the back of her neck like frost under the skin. Her breath caught.

Chakra.

But not just any chakra.

This wasn’t the wild surge of a panicked child trying to find their footing. It wasn’t the hot-blooded flame of her Uchiha watchdog either.

This was colder.

Sharp. Exacting. Bitter.

It slithered past her defenses—not violently, but like a surgeon’s scalpel pressing into exposed nerve.

Invasive.

Smothering.

And coiled with intent.

The kind of chakra that had weight behind it. Purpose.

The kind that knew what it was doing.

Her hand moved before she thought about it—reaching for her belt pouch, her knuckles tight around the small knife she used for cutting herbs.

She turned slowly, just as the shadow fell across the tent flap.

Then the flap opened—torn aside.

Renga stumbled in first, dragged by the collar, eyes wide and pleading.

Behind him, tall and composed, a figure stepped into the light like judgment given form.

White hair.

Blue armor.

Eyes like fresh blood and older fury.

He didn’t shout. He didn’t snarl.

He didn’t have to.

The room charged with his presence.

Sakura’s eyes locked on him, heart pounding now.

The last time she had seen him was months ago, when Renga’s hand had been butchered. He had been a few feet away then; the growing crowd had put space between them.

Up close, Sakura thought, he was worse.

Not in appearance—he was almost elegant in the way predators were elegant.

It was the way he filled the space.

His chakra didn’t press. It pinned. Like a palm held over her mouth, not quite choking, but threatening the idea of it.

Not loud.

Just... inevitable.

She straightened anyway.

Not because she wasn’t scared, but because something deep inside her refused to kneel.

Her voice was steady when it came.

“Put him down.”

Chapter Text

At her command, Renga hit the ground like discarded meat, shoulder first. His arms twisted awkwardly beneath him, a hiss of pain escaping as he landed beside the cot she’d once let him sleep on. The breath rattled in his lungs—sharp, panicked.

Sakura didn’t move.

Her eyes locked on his face. Dirt-streaked. Pale. Familiar.

Her heart twisted—hot, angry, wounded.

Her lips parted, breath shallow, rage already curling on her tongue like flame. She’d been ready to lash out. To demand an explanation. To shout—

But the universe had other plans.

Not a second too soon, something landed beside him; a soft sound.

Thmp.

A pouch hit the ground and every angry retort she’d lined up crumbled to ash in her throat.

Her eyes dropped and her chest cinched tight in surprise.

Midnight blue silk glinted back at her, unmarred by wear, as perfect as the day she found it. The stitching was impeccable—threaded with purpose, sealed with quiet, practiced power. A black crow sat perched across its surface; wings tucked, tight and ready, like blades yet to be drawn. Its eye, a single polished bead, shimmered red in the fractured sunlight spilling through the tent’s patchwork seams.

As if watching.

Sakura stared and felt her stomach drop.

She knew that pouch.

She’d found it tucked near the base of a merchant stall, hidden in shadow, months ago. She thought it was a stroke of luck, something valuable simply lost in the chaos of a busy square. She’d wrapped it in linen. Hidden it carefully in a concealed pocket, then elsewhere, where no one would find it. She told no one of its location. Not even Inohana, who had thankfully forgotten about its existence after the incident in the market square.

And now—here it was.

Not in its hiding place.

In front of her.

And noticeably lighter.

There’d been weight in it once. Wealth. Promise. She had barely touched it herself, only once, when hunger gnawed her belly so violently it felt like knives—and even then, she’d taken only what she needed, and replaced it in full. She had meant to return it. She meant to make it right.

And now it sat on the floor. Ransacked. Handled. Violated.

A quiet grief slipped through her before she could catch it.

The ache bloomed hot behind her breastbone. Her fists clenched without realizing it.

She had tried. She had protected it.

She had protected him.

And this—this—was what she received.

A thief at her feet and consequence at her door.

I

.

I

The tent barely shuddered, but the midday sun filtered through its mismatched seams, casting long, fractured shadows across the worn canvas. It was a tent built from gratitude and desperation—patched layers of dyed cloth stitched with uneven hands, gifted scraps from villagers and merchants alike.

Light leaked through like slivers of judgment.

And the silhouettes cast on the walls danced in erratic shapes, two bodies circling.

One looming.

One braced.

Predator. Prey.

The pouch hung between them like a weight. The crow’s beady eye glinting in the filtered light, almost warningly.

Sakura had told herself it was temporary. She had told herself she would return it when the time was right. She had told herself she was being careful.

Now it lay exposed.

The man who brought it stepped forward.

White hair. Blue armor. Red eyes that held no warmth. No hesitation.

Tobirama Senju.

She didn’t know him—not truly—but she knew of him. From stories. From the tight-lipped reverence of elderly shinobi. From scrolls she had once studied in a future now far behind her.

Cold. Measured. Impossibly present. He was control incarnate. Cold justice. A blade that cut the weak to keep the strong in line.

Then his voice came.

“I believe this belongs to someone else.”

He looked at her like she was something pinned beneath glass.

“You recognize it,” he said, voice low. Leveled. Almost deceptively light.

Sakura didn’t answer. Her fingers twitched near her belt—fingers dancing over the small knife tucked in its pouch. Her only anchor.

She licked her dry lips and nodded once. “Yes.”

He hadn’t glanced at Renga once.

His gaze was for her. Only her.

Sakura felt a cold bead of sweat trickling down her neck. She swallowed thickly.

Tobirama’s eyes caught the movement and something in him shivered darkly. He stared at her for a moment longer. Studying. Calculating. His head tilted to the side almost childishly, before understanding dawned on him.

“But you don’t know what it is.”

She blinked, taken back. “I found it in the market. I didn’t know—”

“No,” Tobirama said quietly, almost musing. “You didn’t.”

Not a question. A conclusion.

She frowned, confused. Of course she knew what it was—it was a pouch full of gold.

Or… it was.

Her eyes shifted bitterly to Renga. The dirty blonde was still curled in on himself, as if trying to make himself smaller. Her lips thinned into a frown, stung by his betrayal.

“I found it,” she repeated firmly. “In the market. Months ago.”

“And you assumed it had no owner?” Tobirama quipped, hands clasped behind him, back straight. Ever the soldier.

“I meant to return it!” Sakura bit back, frustration leaking into her voice.

“Eventually,” he replied, with all the finality of a guillotine, white brow cocked elegantly.

He took a step forward. The patchwork walls darkened briefly as his shadow swallowed hers. Sakura, feeling crazed, briefly wondered if this was foreshadowing

“You hid it,” he said simply.

“I was being careful.”

“Careful?” he echoed, beginning to circle her. “And how, pray tell, were you being careful?” Tobirama tilted his head, examining the pouch with a scholar’s interest. “Where did you keep it, I wonder? Somewhere very safe, I hope. Not in, say—” a pause, “—the floorboards beneath your cot?”

Sakura flinched.

Barely.

But his eyes caught it.

He straightened, huffed a single breath of disbelief—a sharp, amused sound—and raked a hand back through his thick pale hair.

“Unbelievable.”

They stood there in silence for a brief moment, her cheeks flushed hotly under Tobirama’s burning gaze. Shame and fury warring in her chest.

“You don’t understand,” she said through clenched teeth.

“No,” he agreed. “Clearly I don’t.”

Another step.

He didn’t loom—he didn’t need to.

He simply stood, presence unfolding like frostbite.

“You house thieves,” he said. “Hide stolen property. And allow a boy with quick fingers and a history of bleeding to parade through the markets with it.”

Sakura opened her mouth, indignation coursing through her like heartburn—but he cut her off.

“You didn’t even know whose it was, did you?”

She clenched her jaw. “No.”

“You hid a stitched silk pouch of this quality in this embarrassment of a tent. Under your cot no less. How predicable” He sneered. Lips curled. Teeth glinting. “You wrapped it. You touched it You hid it. And yet you never once wondered whose mark it bore?”

Her gaze flicked again to the crow.

“I didn’t recognize the crest,” she said quickly, head spinning and embarrassed. She wished—briefly—that she’d taken Inohana up on those lessons in clan symbology. “There are so many, I—”

“Then you have poor instincts,” he cut in sharply. “Or perhaps… selective ones.”

She pursed her lips shut, jaw tensed, before retorting, “If I thought it was stolen, I would’ve returned it sooner.”

Tobirama crouched and lifted the pouch delicately. The crow’s eye caught the light again—a dying ember. A warning.

“Oh, it wasn’t stolen,” he murmured. “It was lost. Or perhaps… deliberately misplaced.”

She frowned. “What does that mean?”

He didn’t look at her. He knelt—not reverent, not kind—and turned the pouch with two fingers.

“This doesn’t belong to a merchant,” he said. “Or a farmer. Or a noble wife passing through. The craft is old. The stitching, precise. The seals—” he traced a finger across the seam, and the thread lit faintly beneath his chakra, “—custom-bound.”

His crimson gaze lifted, sharp as flint.

“A pity you couldn’t catch on.”

She flushed.

“Then who does it belong to?” she asked hotly, flustered and quickly growing agitated.

He stood again; expression unreadable.

“You tell me.”

She blinked. “What?”

He stepped closer.

“Think, healer.” He said almost mockingly.

“The crow,” he said finally, “is not just ornamental. It’s a crest. One of two. One I’ve had the displeasure of seeing more times than I care to count.”

His face may have been unreadable, but his eyes were so knowing.

“It belongs to the Uchiha. More specifically…”

Her blood went cold.

In that moment Tobirama decided then he liked the way her eyes followed his lips, aching in suspense. Anticipating his every breath, completely focused on him. He watched her under his lashes, catching the way her nimble fingers clenched around the fabric of her medical apron as he let the silence draw between them.

That feverish, desperate, glint in her veridian eyes.

He smiled—bitter and cruel.

“Who lingers at your side just long enough to make others step away? The one that circles you like a vulture waiting for its tasty meal.” He said finally.

Her breath caught.

“You don’t mean—”

“Ah.”

“Him. Izuna.” He spat his name out like it was something rotten.

Her shoulders slumped in realization, cold and heavy as if they were being weighed down. Her hands, now trembling, uncurled from their clenched state and she braced herself against the table.

She looked at the pouch, before averting her gaze with a shudder.

She had held it. Cleaned it. Hidden it beneath her cot like a secret.

All this time—Izuna had been circling her, watching her, acting as if he was her friend.

She blinked. “I—”

“Come now,” he drawled, eyes gleaming. “You didn’t think all those convenient appearances were fate, did you? That he just happened to arrive when someone dared look at you too long?”

Sakura felt sick and she pressed a clammy hand to her forehead as if assessing her temperature.

Tobirama watched her eagerly, almost delighted to see her so shaken.

“Mm,” he hummed. “You really didn’t know.”

She stared at the pouch again. That stupid stitched crow. That glinting red eye.

How could she be so dense?

“I didn’t,” she whispered back almost defeatedly.

“Fascinating,” he murmured, pleased. “And somewhat tragic.”

She took a half-step back, finally noticing how close he’d gotten. Her face was nearly level with his clavicle now, the sharp scent of forest flooding her senses.

“Why would he leave it behind?” she asked tersely, feebly attempting to conceal her growing pain and ire, “Why wouldn’t he just ask for it?”

“You’ll have to ask your keeper,” Tobirama tossed up a hand elegantly, feigning exasperation.

He regarded her coolly then, “considering how protective he’s been, I assumed there must have been… some agreement.”

She looked up, sharp, both fists now curled at her sides. “Excuse me?”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

“Are you sleeping with him?”

The question hit like a slap. “What?!”

“Is this how you earned his protection?” Tobirama asked, voice like silk-wrapped steel, dangling the pouch between his fingertips as if it was a filthy thing.

“Or are you bartering chakra for touch? A healer’s tent for a clan’s favor? I’m only trying to understand the… arrangement.”

The implication landed like ash in her mouth, his taunting tone snapping her final straw.

“You bastard,” she breathed, her chakra surged hot. Indignant. Feral.

Tobirama’s expression shifted.

He didn’t move. He didn’t have to.

His chakra snapped forward like frost racing across a pond, coating the air in something lethal.

Sakura froze, her pulse stumbled as his chakra wrapped around her like cold hands, slipping down her spine, locking her joints. Her breath hitched; her limbs refused to move.

“You dare flare at me,” he said, soft with menace.

She said nothing. Her tongue felt heavy. Her lungs full of stone.

“You,” he continued, eyes sharp as blades. “A woman who keeps Uchiha filth company and raises chakra like a challenge. You think you’re safe because one of them hovers like a rutting mut?”

She shook her head weakly, breath ragged. “You don’t understand—it’s not like—”

“I understand enough,” he snapped. “You don’t wear clan colors. You walk like a weapon. You fight like someone trained in silence, not ceremony. And your chakra—”

He leaned in.

“It isn’t wild. It’s measured. Disciplined.”

Her eyes widened.

He inhaled once.

“Thirteen days ago. The clearing east of the village.”

Her mouth parted, he needn’t say more as understanding dawned on her.

It was him at the clearing.

He knew.

Not everything—but enough.

“You were angry,” he said. “You moved like you were trained—”

Sakura swallowed; throat dry and she interrupted swiftly attempting to divert the conversation.

“You were stalking me.”

He tilted his head, he knew what she was doing, distracting him. He huffed, allowing it.

“I observed.” He corrected, as if he was offended at such a low accusation.

Like there’s a difference, she thought angrily. Her eyes rolled almost indignantly, but she caught herself as his narrowed back daringly. She licked her bottom lip again, voice cracking “Why?”

His gaze cooled now, calculating as he watched her.

“Because women like you,” he said deceptively soft, “disrupt my order.”

The tent shuddered as Tobirama shifted, his chakra coiling back to him, not retreating, but re-centering.

He exhaled once through his nose, his eyes now lit with something darker.

“How bold,” he said, voice gone flat. “A woman, flaring chakra like that.”

His own spiked again without warning and the air turned to ice.

Pressure slammed into her chest—not enough to crush, but enough to remind her that it could. That it would, if she ever dared again.

She shivered.

He leaned down, their noses briefly touching as she stared into his eyes. She could see every individual flick of red, the lighting causing some to shimmer golden like a raging fire.

The fabric walls hissed almost in response to the growing tension.

“You don’t get to snarl at me…” he said softly, lethal.

 “Not when you’re the one that let a rat in through your floorboards.”

Sakura’s voice caught and she shivered as his cool breath fanned across her cheeks, she unconsciously shrinked back in response, but he grabbed her elbow, reeling her back.

Tobirama lowered his voice to a whisper, now tickling the shell of her ear.

“This,” he said, gesturing to the pouch, to the boy, to her, “is what mercy breeds.”

I

.

I

Sakura didn’t move.

She couldn’t.

But she didn’t lower her gaze either.

Not even as Tobirama’s chakra pressed against her skin like an unseen hand, not even when her breath caught again in her throat. She kept her eyes on him. Her spine straight.

The silence between them stretched.

She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

His words rang in her ears like the toll of a bell—This is what mercy breeds.

Maybe it was.

But she’d rather bleed for mercy than withhold it and rot from within.

She didn’t say it aloud, but her eyes did.

And Tobirama saw it.

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile. Something more primal. Something like curiosity, or disdain, or maybe a dangerous mix of both.

Then—

A soft rustle behind them.

The tent flap stirred.

Tobirama didn’t blink.

Didn’t glance away from Sakura’s face.

He simply reached up—and with a flick of his wrist, a kunai whistled through the air.

A cry rang out. Sharp. Guttural.

Renga.

Sakura jerked her head toward him.

The boy clutched his hand to his chest, blood blooming between his fingers.

The kunai had pierced straight through the web of his palm, pinning it to the wooden crate he’d tried to brace against.

Tobirama’s voice was quiet.

“I didn’t give him permission to leave.”

Sakura’s breath caught again, but she said nothing.

And for once, she didn’t rush to help.

I

.

I

Inohana adjusted the strap of her satchel as she rounded the last bend toward the tent. She was still half-dusting pollen off her sleeves, the scent of pressed lavender and wild plum clinging to her hands from the morning harvest.

She’d meant to arrive earlier. She always did but today had proven to be a challenging day. A particularly irritable noblewoman had arrived at the shop just as she’d finished tying off the last bundle of summer lilies and refused to leave without personally inspecting every single sprig. Inohana had smiled. Bowed. Said all the right things while fighting the urge to shove a fern down her throat.

She sighed now, still annoyed, adjusting her satchel again.

The things I suffer for coin and camellia...

“Sorry, forehead,” she muttered under her breath, rehearsing her greeting. “The shop was chaos again, but at least I brought you something to—”

Her voice cut off as her steps did.

Because something shifted.

The air.

The wind.

The silence.

The tent flaps swayed faintly in the breeze, but no one emerged. No soft hum of Sakura’s voice. No clink of vials or rattling herbs. No giggling Renga popping his head out to tease her with some ridiculous new nickname.

Just stillness.

A strange, sick stillness.

She took one more step, and the flap of the tent parted just slightly—just enough.

And through the narrow crack, her gaze locked onto something that rooted her to the spot.

Renga.

Slumped. Pale. Breathing too fast.

His hand—pinned. A kunai through the palm, blood blooming around the base like crushed petals.

His eyes—those honeyed hazel orbs that always held a flicker of mischief, blown wide with fear, locked on hers with a desperation so naked it made her breath catch.

Not the kind of scared that came from one of the pinkette’s infamous scoldings. Not the kind soothed by teasing or a carefully crafted salve.

This was something else.

Something feral.

Her chest tightened, heart hammering against her ribs like a warning bell. and she turned on her heel immediately.

Didn’t run.

Didn’t sprint.

But her steps were quick and careful, just like her father had taught her. A flower-petal footfall. Light as breath. Fast as warning.

Her purple robes snapped behind her, catching wind and dirt as she slipped back into the trail, vanishing between trees—racing to the only person she knew that could help.

Because something was very wrong.

And Inohana didn’t need to see blood to know it.

I

.

I

The Uchiha district was quiet this time of day.

Afternoon sun soaked the main-branch courtyard, where silence reigned like a second language. It was a place carved from stone and shadow, refined over generations to mirror the discipline of the clan itself. Flat flagstones traced elegant, interlocking paths beneath the eaves. Polished, dark wood bordered every walkway—lacquered to mirror the light and meticulous in its placement.

At the center stood a shallow stone fountain, its water long since still, as if even the koi beneath its surface knew better than to disturb the peace. It made no sound—only reflected sky and petals.

Along the perimeter, thorned rose bushes rose in orderly rows, blooms the color of fresh blood bursting proudly between their dark leaves. No gardener would dare prune them unevenly. A single broken branch could bring shame.

In the eastern corner, a weeping willow drooped low over a patch of mossy earth, its green tendrils swaying faintly with the breeze. It was a rare, foreign softness in a garden built from steel-spined elegance—one allowed to remain only because the clan head had once stood beneath it in meditation.

And above it all, framing the courtyard like watchful sentries, stood the sakura trees.

Their blossoms shifted in the branches, full and lush—too delicate, some had said once, too sentimental for a warrior’s garden.

But Madara had allowed them to stay.

No one had dared ask why.

He lay reclined beneath their shade now, stretched across a woven tatami mat on the open porch of the main estate. His yukata hung loosely around his frame, exposing the hard lines of his chest, one arm tucked behind his head in idle rest. A long pipe rested between his fingers, its stem nestled between his lips, smoke curling upward in lazy, ghostlike spirals.

He didn’t smoke often.

Only when the air felt too still. When thought came too easily.

Above him, the breeze stirred again.

The sakura branches trembled, showering the estate in a haze of pink reminiscent of a rain shower, fluttering down and dusting the fountain’s surface, the stone paths, the shoulders of statuses that stood in silent vigil.

One blossom drifted slower than the rest—spinning lazily, its trajectory unhurried. It twisted through the haze of pipe smoke and landed gently at the edge of his mat.

Madara followed it with half-lidded eyes.

His gaze lingered.

He exhaled through his nose, slow, contemplative.

His fingers reached out, pinching the edge of the blossom and began rubbing it between his calloused fingers.

So soft.

Honestly, he expected it to tear, after all most petals did, being too delicate and fragile to withstand his battle-harden hands. But it didn’t.

It held.

Delicate. But not weak.

His thumb brushed across it.

He was reminded, suddenly, of her.

The girl with pastel hair and skin gleaming like fresh morning dew, sinewy muscles flexing deliciously under the moonlight. Dangerous. Beautiful.

He hadn’t seen her since that night, months ago, now. A flicker of curiosity that became an itch. A face that bloomed in his memory at odd hours. He had returned to that clearing once. Then twice. Then for some time after, pretending he was just passing through. But she never came back.

And then—

Then his father died.

And all of it—her, the searching, the memory—fell behind a veil of duty and blood.

The elders had wasted no time. The ink on the cremation records had barely dried before they descended like vultures, demanding he take a wife. Secure the line. Provide heirs. Stabilize the clan.

Madara snorted, pulling the pipe from his mouth.

They didn’t care if he was still mourning.

They only cared that the Senju’s numbers were growing, and their own people needed assurance.

And now there was this temporary truce—fragile as rice paper—born from the fact that Hashirama’s father had taken a mortal wound in their last, unexpected skirmish. The same one that ended his own father's life.

Madara should hate the symmetry of it.

He should hate Hashirama.

He didn't.

He could never quite bring himself to.

Their friendship had been built in secret, long before names like Uchiha and Senju had any weight between them. And even now, standing on opposite ends of history, he couldn’t forget that boy beside the river. The one who shared his dreams of peace.

Madara turned the sakura petal in his fingers again.

Maybe—

Just maybe—

This was their chance.

His thumb pressed harder. The petal bent but still did not break.

He smiled faintly.

A flicker of memory sparked behind his eyes—glistening skin, breathless power, and the pink strands that clung to her damp collarbone.

Madara’s smirk deepened.

She, at least, hadn’t bent so easily either.

He'd meant to forget her.

Had.

Until now.

And suddenly, beneath the serenity of the afternoon, something hot coiled under his skin.

A spark.

A hunt.

He shifted onto his elbow, about to rise—

"—IZUNAAAAA!"

A shrill, high-pitched voice rang out across the courtyard, dragging through the air like a blade on stone.

Madara blinked once, then twice.

The pipe sagged slightly from the corner of his mouth.

Another shrill cry demanding for his otouto, closer now. Another voice responded—this one male, anxious, muffled:
“Miss, please—you can’t just—this is the Uchiha main compound—”

“I don’t CARE who lives here! GET HIM! NOW!”

Madara let out a slow laugh, shoulders shaking, the sakura petal fluttering from his fingers.

“Well,” he drawled aloud to no one, “looks like your fan club’s back, little brother.”

A few moments later, Izuna appeared, moving with crisp, silent footsteps onto the porch. His long hair was tied half-up, his robes perfectly arranged. He bowed low, eyes flicking to Madara in quiet deference, but his eyes—dark and sharp—carried that particular expression only siblings understood: if you laugh, I will kill you.

Madara raised one elegant brow in response.

Izuna’s jaw twitched.

“A lover, perhaps?” he asked idly, feeling nosy.

“No.” The young man bit back, working his jaw for a moment in thought, “She is… a friend.”

Madara huffed a short, amused breath. A friend huh?

“I didn’t know friends scream your name loud enough to shake the trees.”

Izuna didn’t respond, but the tips of his ears burned and Madara laughed again at his expense. It seemed his baby brother still had much to learn about the ways of women.

From beyond the gates, further now, a distant shout:

“I SWEAR TO THE SAGES, IF YOU DON’T COME OUT HERE RIGHT NOW—!”

Izuna’s eyes cut to the source of the shrieking, and with a put-off sigh, he turned sharply on his heel and disappeared around the corner of the house.

Madara returned to his reclining position, thoroughly amused, his hand still stained with the softness of that petal. The pipe returned to his lips.

His thoughts, however, no longer lingered on flowers.

They lingered on her.

The girl who had caught his interest.

The girl who had vanished.

But not for long.

A slow smirk curled across his lips—

—and then, somewhere in the back of his mind, a stray thought wandered in:

Wait. Since when did Izuna have friends?

He blinked, sitting up straighter.

The petal slipped from his fingers.

And then—another feminine cry, sharp and shrill:

“—IZUNAAAAA!”

I

.

I

The young Uchiha guard shifted awkwardly in front of the main compound’s entryway, caught somewhere between maintaining protocol and trying not to stare.

He was handsome, maybe twenty at most, with short, wavy black hair, and a proud posture that hadn’t quite hardened into stiffness. His eyes, wide and unexpectedly expressive, flicked between the tall woman pacing just out of reach and the sealed entry behind him.

Inohana was not pacing gracefully.

She huffed, arms crossed tightly beneath her chest, foot tapping with growing irritation. Her usual sense of theatrical flourish was absent, her normally teasing tone buried beneath a furrowed brow and lip chewed raw.

“I didn’t realize the Uchiha clan took joy in manhandling women,” she snapped, not quite under her breath.

The young man flinched, his face flushing instantly. “M-my apologies, Lady Yamanaka—I didn’t mean to offend. It’s just… protocol, and—”

His voice trailed off as she turned to face him fully, her arms pressing tighter across her chest. His gaze dropped reflexively—too reflexively—and the red in his face deepened as he caught a glimpse of soft skin peeking through the edge of her robes.

Under different circumstances, Inohana would have smirked. She would’ve teased, leaned in, asked if Uchiha boys always blushed so easily.

But now, she barely noticed.

Her fingers tugged at her sleeve, twisting fabric.

Her lip was plump and bitten raw, anxiety rippling off her in waves as her eyes scanned the entrance again.

Where was he?

Where was—

Footsteps.

Sharp. Measured.

Izuna.

He rounded the corner with perfect posture and the long stride of someone too used to emergencies to be surprised by them. His robes swayed behind him, clean, immaculate, as if he hadn’t just been summoned by shrieking across the courtyard.

His gaze landed on her. Not fearsome, but definitely annoyed. Irritated that it was her, relieved it wasn’t actually a scorned lover, mortified that his aniki had heard.

“Inohana-san,” he said curtly, his tone clipped but even. “What in the world do you think you’re doing?”

His eyes flicked briefly to the guard, and Inohana could practically feel his internal prayer that no one else had heard her yelling like a banshee.

The platinum blonde gave him a look—eyebrow raised; lips pursed.

Then her eyes slid meaningfully to the poor guard still rooted at his post.

Izuna’s jaw twitched.

With a long-suffering sigh, he waved a hand in dismissal. “You’re excused.”

The young man nearly saluted in relief before stumbling backward in an awkward half-bow and disappearing faster than anyone could question him.

They were alone.

Inohana exhaled and stepped closer.

“I think Sakura’s in trouble,” she said, voice low and shaking, no longer confident.

Gone was the shrieking. Gone was the drama. This was something else.

Izuna stiffened. The shift was subtle—just a minute tightening at the corners of his eyes. His arms stayed folded behind his back, but his entire posture grew still.

“Trouble,” he repeated flatly. “What kind of trouble?”

“I don’t know exactly. I—I saw her assistant, the boy, Renga,” she said quickly, her fingers gesturing as she spoke, as if painting the picture might ease her racing thoughts. “He looked terrified. Pinned. Wounded. Something happened. Someone’s inside that tent with her. I didn’t see who.”

She swallowed hard.

“But he looked at me like I was their last chance.”

Izuna’s expression didn’t change.

But his silence did.

It stretched. Tightened. Grew sharp.

His gaze dropped to her hands, watching the way they trembled ever so slightly.

Then back up to her eyes.

“Where?” he asked.

Inohana willed away her tears, “Her tent.”

He was already moving. Not running, but still dizzyingly fast.

His strides were long, purposeful, each footfall nearly silent. He was still within the compound, still bound by the invisible rules of the main estate—until he passed beyond its main exit gates, he could not afford to alert anyone to where he was going, or why.

The moment his urgency became visible, it became political.

So, he held it in his spine, in the taut pull of his shoulders, in the barely restrained tension of every movement.

Each step precise, as if he didn’t trust the earth not to betray him.

Behind him, Inohana followed—her robes whispering with motion, her fingers clenched around her satchel like a second heartbeat.

I

.

I

Uchiha Compound Gates → Lower Market

Izuna moved like a shadow breaking formation.

Still not running, but fast enough that Inohana had to lift the hem of her robes to keep pace. The moment they passed the outer gate, the manicured stone path gave way to packed dirt and market noise, the clatter of wooden wheels, a baby crying, the faint barking of dogs near the river.

None of it touched him.

His eyes were fixed ahead, and even with his spine held straight and mouth set into its usual grim line, something about him was off. Not agitated. Not angry.

Coiled.

She didn’t dare interrupt.

Not when his chakra—normally contained, clean—seeped out in small, sharpened pulses like the tip of a kunai brushing against cloth.

A woman selling spices opened her mouth to greet them—Inohana caught her sleeve and shook her head. They kept moving.

Down the hill. Past the cracked clay wall. Toward the familiar canvas silhouette near the edge of the lower market.

Toward Sakura’s tent.

I

.

I

The tent was quiet now.

Still.

The wind had died down, and the only sound was the soft groan of Renga from the cot in the corner—small, pained whimpers that filled the space between drawn breaths and unspoken words.

Sakura sat at her worktable; hands curled around the edge of the wooden surface as if grounding herself. A half-filled jar of salve sat beside her, untouched.

Across from her, Tobirama leaned casually against one of the central beams, arms crossed, ankles loose, as though the storm from moments earlier hadn’t come from him.

He watched her.

Unmoving.

Unblinking.

His expression was unreadable—cool and distant, but the silence between them hummed like a live wire.

Sakura kept him in the corner of her eye, posture tense but trying to appear calm. Her shoulders had slumped slightly with relief when he’d finally stepped back—putting space between them—but her muscles hadn’t fully relaxed.

She could still feel his presence in her skin.

Like frost that hadn’t melted.

She glanced at him now—only to find his gaze already on her.

And it wasn’t the cold scrutiny from earlier.

It was something else.

His eyes—crimson, yes, but more complex up close than she’d realized—flicked down, briefly, over the line of her figure. Her yukata had loosened from her anxious fidgeting, slipping slightly off one shoulder. Her pale skin was exposed, almost luminous in the tent’s shadowy light, the curve of her collarbone catching what little sun filtered in through the canvas.

Her pink hair spilled down one side, draped over her chest and brushing the soft dip of her neck. She hadn’t fixed it since he arrived.

Tobirama’s jaw shifted once.

Almost imperceptibly.

He looked away.

But not before she saw it.

Not before he saw that she saw.

Color crept up her cheeks.

But her chin lifted.

“You’ve been staring for a while,” she said quietly. “You find something fascinating, Tobirama-sama?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then—he huffed. Barely a sound. Almost a laugh. “I’m still debating,” he said.

Her eyes narrowed, the flush in her face deepening—not just from embarrassment, but from the audacity of him.

“Charming,” she muttered, turning back to her salve with a glare. “You’re really giving your clan a warm, inviting image.”

“And you’re giving yours a mystery no one asked for.”

Her fingers paused. She looked back at him, slow and deliberate. “You think I’m lying about something.”

“I think,” Tobirama said, pushing off the beam with ease, voice smooth but weighted, “that people don’t fall out of the sky with that kind of chakra control and no history.”

His steps were slow, deliberate—not close, not like before, but enough to keep tension stretched between them like a pulled string.

“Maybe you should consider,” she said coolly, “that not everyone is born into scrolls and bloodlines. Some of us have to earn our survival.”

He tilted his head at her, arms still crossed, but she could feel the shift in his attention—less of an interrogator now. More… curious.

“Even so,” he said, “survival doesn’t usually come with that much poise. Especially for a…. woman such as yourself.”

Her lips parted slightly, a retort forming—but she faltered at the way he was watching her now. Not cruelly. Not even hungrily. Just… intensely.

As if he couldn’t quite figure her out, and it annoyed the hell out of him.

Like a puzzle with one corner piece missing.

She looked him right in the eyes then—cheeks still flushed, but her spine straight.

And she didn’t flinch.

Didn’t look away.

“Stop trying to intimidate me,” she said. “It won’t work again.”

Something flickered across his face at that.

Maybe surprise. Maybe amusement.

He didn’t answer, didn’t need to in that moment, because outside, a sudden gust hit the canvas wall and a voice rang out, sharp, distant, but watery, and utterly feminine:

“Sakura! Forehead—I swear, if you’re dead, I’m never forgiving you!”

The tension snapped.

Tobirama turned slowly toward the flap, one silver brow arching.

“…Forehead?” he echoed, deadpan.

Sakura exhaled through her nose, dragging a hand down her very warm face. Leave it to Ino-pig to make a tense situation somehow more unbearable.

“Don’t ask,” she muttered hotly.

I

.

I

Not a second later, the flap whispered open.

A shadow poured through.

Sakura’s breath left her in a rush—shaken, shallow.

Izuna.

The darkness wrapped around him like a second skin, moving with him, not behind. He didn’t break stride. Didn’t speak. Didn’t need to.

The pressure in the tent spiked instantly. The air twisted tightly, sharp like a wire pulled to its breaking point.

His eyes swept the room—swift, predatory.

Renga. Slumped. Bleeding. A smear of red across his sleeve, his chin trembling.

Sakura. Rigid by the table, face pale, lips pressed so tightly they’d lost their color. Her shoulder bare—exposed.

Izuna’s chakra flared, quiet but feral.

His gaze darkened.

Then—the pouch.

Discarded carelessly on the floor, its silk belly split open, gold spilling out like entrails. The red glass eye of the crow stared up at him—judging, maybe even mocking.

And finally, the last rot in the room: Tobirama.

Leaning against the beam like he owned the place. Arms crossed. At ease. Like nothing in this tent was worth his full attention.

He straightened a little. Not to show respect. No, just enough to pretend Izuna wasn’t completely beneath him.

“Well,” he said, dry as dust. “I was wondering when you’d show.”

Izuna didn’t answer. Not yet. His eyes dropped to the pouch again and the crow’s eye gleamed. Still watching, its face almost exasperated.

He blinked.

Alright. Maybe he hadn’t been entirely honest.

He hadn’t just stumbled into her orbit. Hadn’t just noticed her.

No—he remembered exactly when it began.

The night his brother returned late. Quiet. Unsettled. His pipe hung forgotten between his fingers, smoke curling lazily into the rafters. His robe smelled faintly of sakura wood and something else—something softer. His gaze distant. Lips curved, barely, like an old song was stuck in his teeth.

Izuna had never seen that expression on Madara. Not since they were boys. Not since Madara first met Hashirama in secret, ideals of peace still running rampant in his aniki’s daydreams.

He grew curious. Even more so when his brother would return late every night for weeks.

So he followed him. Stunned to find him sitting in a tree, watching a stream, night after night.

He’d scratched his head at that, wondering what could have possibly been keeping his brother’s mind so occupied in the midst of such turbulence.

So he looked into it further, using his brother’s distraction as an opportunity, and tracked it like a scent trail. Like prey.

Until he found her. Too careful. Too graceful. Too new. A woman out of turn. A woman out of place.

And suddenly—too far under his skin.

He watched her long before the market. Long before she knew his name. Long before he forced that first conversation into being.

He knew she had the pouch. Watched her hide it. Knew she’d only taken a few coins. Knew she’d planned to return it.

He’d let her.

Let her believe it was fate.

He should have demanded it back. Should have called it theft.

Instead, he lied. Let it linger. Let it fester. Told himself he’d confront her later, when she was ready to be his. When he could make her see reason. Offer her a place at the compound.

And now?

Now he was standing in a blood-hot tent across from the man he hated most.

He didn’t blink.

Tobirama’s gaze flicked toward the pouch, dismissive. “Your crest wandered.”

A beat of silence.

Then—like acid—taunting.

“Or maybe it was deliberately misplaced.”

Izuna’s jaw tightened. Barely. He didn’t reply.

Tobirama’s gaze flicked to Renga—slouched, barely conscious, a smear of filth and blood. “If it were up to me,” he said, calm as winter frost, “the boy would already be dead. He stole from a clan heir. That’s treason. Punishable by blade.”

Sakura shot upright.

“No—”

Izuna moved. Just a shift in his weight. Just enough to cast a shadow.

“That’s always the Senju answer, isn’t it?” he said. “Cut it. Burn it. Salt the earth.”

Tobirama’s smile vanished. “Efficiency isn’t cruelty. It’s clarity.”

“And you think yourself clear?” Izuna stepped forward, measured, slow, deliberate. “You come here, uninvited. You threaten a boy. You terrify her. And now you want thanks?”

He didn’t expect an answer.

But Tobirama gave one anyway.

His eyes slid to Sakura. Just for a breath.

She was trembling.

Her hands were curled in her lap, clutching her yukata so tightly the seams strained. Her mouth parted—but no sound came.

Yet when Tobirama’s gaze touched hers—

She didn’t flinch.

“I wanted to see what mercy looks like in motion,” he said.

Sakura recoiled like she’d been slapped.

Renga let out a choked sob.

The tent shrank inward.

“He’s a thief,” Sakura said, voice trembling. “Not a killer.”

Tobirama’s stare sharpened. “And where’s your line? A few coins today—your trust tomorrow? Your life the next?”

Her fists clenched tighter.

“He made a mistake.”

“He’s a man,” Tobirama replied. “Not a child. Old enough to know how to hurt you.”

Behind her, Renga whimpered again.

She didn’t look.

“He was starving,” she said. “And I won’t let you execute hunger.”

Tobirama exhaled—slow and sharp.

“And that is why mercy festers,” he murmured. “It rots everything it touches.”

Izuna stepped forward again, gaze glittering.

“I wonder what you’d be without your bloodlines, Senju,” he said. “Without your trees to hide behind. Without your brother’s name to soften your cruelty.”

Tobirama didn’t so much as blink.

“I wonder what you’d be,” he said, “without your eyes. Without your brother burying your failures in diplomacy.”

Sakura’s heart was pounding. Loud. Violent.

The tent felt like a noose.

And then—

“Sakura!”

The flap burst open.

Inohana stormed in like a summer storm, breathless, wind-tossed. Her robes clung to her legs, twisted at the knees. A satchel swung wildly from her arm. Her hair was plastered to her temple with sweat—but her eyes were clear. Cold. Blue fire.

She didn’t speak.

She crossed the tent in three strides and wrapped Sakura in her arms, pulling her in so tightly the medic sagged like wet paper.

Sakura let out a single, strangled sound—then collapsed.

Inohana’s chin lifted over her head. Her voice, when it came, was low and lethal.

“If either of you touch her again,” she said, “I will personally crush your ribcages and use them as planters.”

No one replied.

Tobirama’s lips curved. Barely.

Faint. Amused. Dangerous.

He turned. Slowly, his feet carrying him swiftly to the exit, then he paused at the flap.

He turned his head ever so slightly—his gaze fell one last time on Sakura.

From the mess of pink hair, to the hollow of her throat and to the raw curve of her lips, now red and swollen from being chewed.

His stare dragged over her like fingers. Sakura felt it. A burn. A brand.

Her stomach twisted—hot, nauseous, and something else she didn’t dare breath life to.

Tobirama didn’t speak, but his message was clear.

You’re not done with me yet.

And then—

He vanished.

I

.

I

The silence that followed Tobirama’s departure was suffocating. The tent smelled of blood and burnt tension.

Sakura sat on the cot now, shoulders slumped, trying to gather the splintered pieces of herself before they scattered completely. Her head leaned lightly against Inohana’s side. She hadn’t spoken since the young Senju left and Inohana, bless her, hadn’t pressed for details, opting to run her manicured nails through Sakura’s hair comfortingly.

Renga sat on the ground near the flap, wrapped in silence, hand now bandaged, eyes on the dirt. The faint, sickly stench of sweat clung to him, thick with panic. . She should’ve been angry. She should’ve yelled at him, demanded to know why he’d betray her trust so easily.

But strangely, she couldn’t summon the strength.

It wasn’t his betrayal that hollowed her chest, her eyes slid to the fourth occupant in the tent. He shoulders broad and tight with tension, the Uchiwa fan on his black glinted in the fading sun light. It was Izuna’s lie.

Izuna turned from the door.

The light caught on the sharp edge of his jaw, glinting against the metal of his chestplate as he cast a shadow across the tent.

His voice was deceptively calm.

“You,” he said.

Renga flinched like a kicked dog.

“You’d better be gone by the time I turn around.”

Renga swallowed thickly in response.

Izuna didn’t wait for acknowledgment. He turned back to Sakura, gaze slipping down to her face. Her mouth was parted slightly, eyes rimmed with exhaustion, but steady.

“I meant what I said,” he told her.

She blinked.

“About not hurting him.”

It sounded real.

Solid.

But his eyes didn’t soften.

She nodded. Not because she believed him, but because she wanted to, maybe he thought she’d let it slide. And she would. For now.

Because the weight in her chest wasn’t fury.

It was hurt.

She didn’t know why it stung more—why she’d let herself believe he was different. Maybe it was the way he watched her with a quiet reverence, or how he didn’t flinch when she wielded chakra. Maybe it was how he stood in front of her, not behind, like so many others had. But somewhere between his teasing remarks and fierce protectiveness, she’d let her guard slip.

And now she wondered if that was all part of the act.

Did he know?

Her fingers curled into her sleeve.

Did he suspect why she was here—why she’d really come to this cursed, war-wracked era?

Was this all a careful manipulation?

Her thoughts twisted in on themselves like brambles, snagging against old ghosts. Sasuke had lied too. Sasuke had worn the same haunted expression, the same quiet obsession with justice, with power. Izuna didn’t have that same darkness—but gods, they were still too similar. Cold. Controlled. Capable of cruelty when it suited them.

It made her chest ache.

And still…

The warmth of Inohana’s presence beside her grounded her. The other girl didn’t speak even as Sakura’s shiver wracked her body. She just continued to gently comb Sakura’s hair back with deft fingers, murmuring something soft about its messy state. Sakura let herself lean into the touch, let her lashes flutter shut as the tension slowly bled from her shoulders.

The cot beneath her beckoned.

Renga shifted, wincing as he stood. She heard the faintest rustle as he slipped toward the flap.

Sakura didn’t stop him.

And Izuna—still by the tent’s entrance—said nothing either. His eyes followed the boy, but he made no move. Not yet.

Instead, his gaze slid back to her, softer than she expected. Not possessive. Not pitying.

Just…watching.

She didn’t have the energy to read him anymore.

The afternoon had long since passed. Twilight draped its violet fingers across the village and crept inside her tent, cool and quiet. Sakura gave in to the weight pulling at her limbs and let herself doze off.

Her final thought before sleep stole her was simple.

I hope I don’t regret this.

I

.

I

The village slumbered beneath a velvet sky, its pulse slowed to a hush.

A low fog had settled in, coiling around the roots of huts and wagons like a lazy predator. Lanterns flickered here and there, dying embers of the day’s warmth. Somewhere, a dog barked once. Then silence again.

A shadow moved between buildings.

Renga’s breath steamed faintly in the cold; his thin fingers clutched tight around a small pouch that jangled softly with each step. He winced, palm pulsing in pain and pressed it closer to his chest.

He hadn’t meant to take that much.

Well—no, that was a lie.

He had.

He told himself it was owed. Payment for the humiliation. The way they looked at him like he was nothing. Like he’d ever been anything but disposable. Sakura, for all her kindness, had humiliated him worse than the rest—pity always cut deeper than cruelty.

And Tobirama.

That bastard.

He spat onto the dirt and trudged faster, heart pounding as he neared the village edge, where the trees grew thicker and the mist swallowed the path whole.

Just a few more steps. A few more—

“You really thought I’d let you off this easy?”

The voice came like a ripple through the fog—smooth, deliberate, unhurried.

Renga froze.

His eyes darted around. “W-who’s there?”

Silence.

And then—laughter.

Not loud. Not mocking. Just quiet. Patient. Like a man humoring a child who’d told a clever little lie.

Renga turned on his heel.

There—just behind him, standing where there had been nothing—Izuna.

The fog curled around him like it obeyed him, his silhouette cut clean from the dark itself.

Renga’s blood turned to ice.

“I—I wasn’t—I was just—” he stammered, backing up, hand tightening around the pouch. “It’s just a few coins.”

Izuna didn’t move. Not yet.

“That’s the second time you’ve tried to run,” he said, voice low. “You’re consistent, I’ll give you that.”

“I didn’t take much!” Renga snapped, trying to sound bold, but his voice cracked. “I saved her. Back then. When no one else did. That should count for something!”

Izuna’s gaze darkened. The amusement bled out of him like heat from a dying flame.

“You saved her,” he repeated, as if tasting the words. “By stealing from her? Selling her out to a man like that?”

Renga’s lip curled. “Better than being her lapdog.”

Wrong answer.

Izuna stepped forward, and the fog shifted with him.

Renga stumbled back, but didn’t get far. Fingers closed around his collar, yanking him off his feet like he weighed nothing.

“I tried to be merciful,” Izuna murmured. His voice had no warmth—only precision. “Sakura wanted you alive. She thinks you’re redeemable. That makes her kind.”

A pause.

“It makes her naïve.”

His eyes bled red with the Sharingan, tomoe spinning slowly—cruelly—as they captured every twitch of fear across Renga’s face. Every contortion of horror. Every gulp of disbelief. Burned into memory. Etched into justice.

Izuna relished it.

He realized then, without surprise, that he didn’t like seeing Sakura cry.

He hated the way her hands shook when she healed someone too far gone. The way she blinked fast and turned away when she felt helpless. The way her mouth trembled when she forced a smile.

And though he’d rather slit his own throat than admit it aloud—Tobirama had been right.

Mercy bred rot.

And he would not let it fester.

Renga gasped once—eyes catching something in the mist, something behind Izuna’s shoulder, like he thought someone might come for him.

No one did.

Izuna leaned in close, voice soft and final.

“She would’ve forgiven you.”

Then—

He twisted his hand.

Quick. Clean.

And when the body hit the ground, the fog swallowed the sound whole.

I

.

I

Back in the heart of the village, the fog thinned, curling at the edges like smoke drawn from a dying fire.

The flap of the healing tent shifted gently in the breeze.

Inside, the lantern had long since burned out, leaving only shadows and the slow, rhythmic sound of breathing.

Sakura slept.

Her brow was furrowed, even in rest. One hand remained loosely curled against her chest, the other resting over the cot’s worn blanket. Inohana had tucked her in before slipping out, careful not to disturb her.

A quiet murmur escaped her lips—soft, shapeless. A name, maybe. Or a memory.

She didn’t hear the footsteps returning, soft as dusk, pausing just beyond the canvas flap.

Didn’t sense the lingering chakra that clung to the air like smoke.

Didn’t know that somewhere, just outside her world of dreams, justice had been carried out with surgical precision.

Sakura stirred then, her breath catching as sleep pulled her deeper still.

And just like that, she was back under that old bridge.

____

The stone was cracked and sun-warmed beneath her, the sound of the river babbling beside them, and a summer wind rustled the tall grass around the training field.

Naruto lay sprawled on his back, arms stretched out wide, a dandelion stuck in his hair.

Sasuke sat a few feet away, arms crossed, back rigid with barely veiled irritation.

And Kakashi stood between them, hands tucked in his pockets, head tilted thoughtfully as he watched the two boys argue—again—over something ridiculous.

"You’re both missing the point," Kakashi said, his voice lazy but firm. "It's not about who’s right."

Sakura sat up straighter, brushing dirt from her knees. "Then what is it about?"

Kakashi’s eye creased a little. Smiling, maybe. Or something sadder. It was hard to tell with his mask covering half his face.

“In our world,” he said, “you’ll spend half your life choosing between justice and peace.”

Naruto frowned. “What’s wrong with choosing both?”

Kakashi crouched then, plucking the dandelion from Naruto’s head and spinning it between his fingers.

“Because justice without mercy is revenge,” he said. “And mercy without boundaries is self-destruction.”

Sasuke scoffed under his breath. “Mercy is weakness.”

Kakashi paused, meeting his gaze.

“No,” he said. “Forgiveness is strength. It’s not about forgetting the wrong. It’s about choosing not to become it.”

Sakura hadn’t understood it then.

But now—

She turned her head, looking toward the place where Sasuke had once sat.

He was gone.

So was Naruto.

Only Kakashi remained, standing in the shifting light, that worn orange book tucked into his pocket instead of in his hand.

He looked older. Wearier. But somehow, still gentle.

"You’re doing fine," he said, as if he knew.

She opened her mouth to ask—am I really?—but the wind picked up, scattering the scene like dust.

______

She woke slowly.

No gasping. No panic.

Just a soft ache behind her eyes and quiet heaviness in her chest.

The tent was dark, the lantern long since died.

Outside, the world was still sleeping.

She lay there, hand resting on her heart, and whispered into the hush:

“…I miss you, sensei.”