Konohagakure
The hospital room was quiet—too quiet. Only the soft beep of the medical monitor and the faint rustle of curtains stirred by a wandering breeze. Golden sunlight spilled through the window, warming the sterile walls, but it couldn't cut through the heaviness hanging in the air.
Rei stood frozen just inside the doorway, her body tense, her hands curled into fists so tight her knuckles whitened.
Her breath came slow, controlled—forced. She didn't trust herself otherwise.
Five years.
Five years of surviving. Of pushing forward. Of burying the girl who used to dream about this moment.
And now it was here.
She moved without thinking, her boots scuffing quietly against the floor as she crossed the room. Her gaze locked onto him instantly—Takeshi.
Alive.
Awake.
Real.
He sat upright in the hospital bed, thin and pale, a blanket draped loosely over his lap. His frame looked frailer than she remembered, the sharpness of his cheekbones unfamiliar against the memory of his vibrant, older-brother strength.
But his eyes—
His eyes hadn't changed.
Sharp. Steady. Watching her with a clarity that cut through every wall she'd built.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The weight of five lost years pressed between them.
Finally, his voice, hoarse but certain:
"Rei."
Her throat tightened painfully. She swallowed it down, forcing a crooked smirk onto her lips. "Took you long enough," she said lightly, though her voice was rougher than she wanted.
Takeshi huffed a quiet breath—something halfway between a chuckle and an exhale. His gaze traveled over her slowly, taking in the new angles of her face, the streak of red burning bright in her hair, the faded scars winding down her forearms like ghostly threads.
"You've changed," he said finally, his tone even but heavy.
Rei shifted her weight onto her back foot, crossing her arms in front of her.
"Yeah," she said simply. "Things don't stay still forever."
Takeshi's expression didn't change, but his eyes lingered a little longer—too perceptive for her liking.
She hated that he could still read her.
"How are you feeling?" she asked quickly, shoving the conversation forward before it could turn into something she wasn't ready for.
Takeshi leaned back slightly against the pillows, grimacing faintly. "Like the world kept moving without me," he said. "And now I'm trying to catch up to a life that doesn't fit anymore."
Rei's chest tightened, but she forced herself to nod, pretending she understood.
Pretending she hadn't spent every waking second feeling the exact same way.
"Yeah," she said gruffly. "I get that."
The silence stretched. Not heavy like before—but uncertain, fragile.
Rei cleared her throat, glancing toward the door. "I'm gonna head out," she said abruptly. "Need to grab some stuff from my place."
Takeshi's brows pulled together, a faint line creasing his forehead.
"Your place," he echoed.
Rei shrugged one shoulder, feigning nonchalance. "Been living closer to the center," she said. "Easier that way. Missions. Work. You know."
She felt his eyes on her—sharp, cutting straight through her casual words.
Takeshi had never needed much effort to see the truth behind her masks.
"Easier," he repeated quietly, tasting the word like it didn't sit right.
Rei looked away, pretending to study the window. "No point wasting ryo now that you're awake," she said flatly. "I'll move back."
A beat passed. Takeshi's hands tightened slightly around the blanket.
"You don't have to do that for me," he said, his voice low.
Rei stiffened, her hands curling into fists again at her sides. She turned halfway, standing framed in the doorway, her silhouette sharp against the sunlight.
"I'm not," she said, her tone clipped. "It just makes sense."
Takeshi watched her carefully, something unspoken flickering behind his steady gaze.
"Just... remember," he said, softer now, "the house isn't just mine, Rei. It's yours too. Always has been."
The words lodged somewhere deep in her chest. She wanted to laugh it off, to crack a joke, to say something sharp and easy—but her throat felt too tight.
She settled for a smirk instead, cold and thin.
"Sentimental already? Must be the meds," she muttered.
Takeshi huffed a breath—something dangerously close to a sigh—but he didn't push her further.
Rei turned fully toward the hall, her hand lingering on the doorframe for half a second too long.
"I'll be back before you're discharged," she said. "Try not to start a revolution from your bed."
A faint, tired smile ghosted across Takeshi's lips.
"No promises," he said quietly.
Rei nodded once—sharp, mechanical—and slipped out the door.
The click of it closing behind her sounded too loud in the stillness.
Inside the room, Takeshi stared at the spot where she'd stood, the golden light slanting across his face.
There was something in his eyes that hadn't been there before—a quiet, aching sadness.
The hospital hallway felt strangely cold as Rei stepped into it, the soft click of the door behind her sounding louder than it should have.
She stood still for a moment, her hands slack at her sides, the buzz of fluorescent lights humming quietly above her.
Takeshi's voice still echoed in her mind.
"The house is yours, too. Always has been."
She swallowed against the tightness building in her throat and forced her legs into motion, her sandals tapping briskly against the floor as she made her way out of the hospital, into the burning afternoon light.
Her apartment was stuffy when she returned, the faint, stale scent of forgotten tea leaves lingering in the air. The curtains were still half-drawn from that morning, letting in only narrow blades of sunlight that cut across the cluttered room.
For a moment, Rei just stood in the doorway, staring at it all—the untouched books, the training scrolls gathering dust in the corner, the half-finished set of armor repairs she'd abandoned three missions ago.
It all felt distant.
Wrong, somehow.
She kicked off her sandals and crossed the room, her movements slow, mechanical. On the kitchen counter, a chipped teacup sat forgotten, the faint stain of cold chamomile tea drying at the bottom. She stared at it longer than necessary, her hands twitching slightly at her sides.
This place had been her sanctuary once—her proof that she didn't need anyone. That she could be strong enough alone. But now... now it just felt like an empty shell she no longer fit inside.
Her gaze shifted toward the low shelf near the far wall. A photo frame sat there, buried halfway under a discarded mission report.
Rei crossed the room and pulled the report aside with two fingers, revealing the photo underneath. It was old—older than she'd realized—faded from the sun.
She and Takeshi stood together, side by side, their smiles crooked and imperfect. She couldn't have been more than five years old in the picture, clinging to his hand, her hair wild and unkempt. Takeshi's other hand rested on her head, ruffling her hair with a teasing grin.
She hadn't even remembered putting the photo there.
A tight knot twisted in her chest as she stared down at it. She barely recognized that girl anymore—the reckless smile, the wide-open hope. It felt like looking at a stranger.
"You've changed," Takeshi had said.
No judgment. No anger.
Just fact.
And somehow, that stung worse than if he'd yelled at her.
Rei's hands clenched slowly into fists, her nails pressing into her palms. She couldn't feel the pain—she never could—but the gesture grounded her.
"I'm still me," she muttered under her breath, the words sounding hollow in the cramped room.
"I'm still me."
But even as she said it, doubt gnawed at the edges of her mind.
Was she?
She thought about the things she'd done—the missions she couldn't talk about, the way she'd started to move through Konoha like a ghost, the people she'd pushed away one by one.
Anko's voice surfaced, unbidden.
"One day you're gonna look back and realize you were running toward something that wasn't worth it."
Rei pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead, squeezing her eyes shut. The tightness in her chest expanded, suffocating and sharp, but she refused to let it break her. She refused.
With a sharp breath, she pulled away from the photo, moving toward the center of the room. She grabbed the empty travel bag from the closet and started stuffing her belongings into it with stiff, jerking movements—scrolls, kunai, the few clothes she bothered to keep clean.
She was leaving this place behind.
It was just an apartment. Just a stepping stone.
It didn't matter if she felt like she was losing a part of herself in the process.
It didn't matter.
She moved methodically, gathering everything she could carry, refusing to stop long enough to think.
By the time she zipped the bag closed, the sun had shifted lower, casting long shadows across the floor.
Rei stood in the center of the room, the packed bag slung over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the apartment one last time.
The abandoned teacup.
The dusty training scrolls.
The forgotten photograph still lying on the shelf.
Slowly, without letting herself think too hard about it, Rei walked back to the shelf, picked up the photo, and tucked it carefully into the inner pocket of her jacket.
Then, without looking back, she stepped out the door, pulling it shut behind her with a quiet, final click.
She didn't lock it.
She didn't need to.
She wasn't coming back.
The streets grew quieter as Rei made her way through Konoha, the weight of her bag pulling at her shoulder with every step. By the time she reached the familiar path leading to her old home, the sun had dipped lower, casting long shadows that stretched across the worn dirt road.
The house looked smaller than she remembered.
Older.
The wooden porch sagged slightly under its own weight, the paint on the windowsills peeling and cracked. Weeds pushed up stubbornly along the path, untamed and indifferent to the passing seasons.
Rei shifted the bag higher on her shoulder and approached the front door. She hesitated—not out of fear, but from a strange, reluctant familiarity—and then pushed the door open.
The creak of old hinges split the silence like a kunai through parchment.
Inside, the house was heavy with the smell of dust and disuse. Shafts of fading sunlight streamed in through half-shuttered windows, illuminating tiny particles floating in the air like lazy fireflies. The wooden floors groaned under her feet as she stepped inside, her movements cautious without meaning to be.
The furniture was still arranged exactly the same way it had been five years ago.
The kitchen table.
The worn couch.
The rack where her father used to leave his weapons after missions.
All of it was coated in a fine layer of dust, as though time had settled into the house and decided to stay.
All of it, except one thing.
At the far end of the room, tucked neatly on a low pedestal, sat the Hisatsume—the heirloom of the Arakawa clan. Its lacquered surface gleamed in the fading light, utterly untouched by the grime and dust around it.
It was pristine.
Polished.
Waiting.
Rei's stomach twisted at the sight of it.
For a moment, she stood frozen, her bag sliding from her shoulder to land on the floor with a dull thud. Her gaze remained locked on the Hisatsume, the way the crimson glow from her hair seemed to almost catch on its surface when she moved.
It hadn't aged.
It hadn't changed.
Unlike her.
She exhaled slowly, forcing her feet to move past it without touching it, without acknowledging the heavy pull she felt just by looking at it.
Her eyes drifted toward the hallway—and the study.
The door was still closed, though not from disuse anymore.
She and Kakashi had broken that boundary months ago, stepping into the place where all the Arakawa clan's carefully buried truths had been hidden.
Rei could still picture it:
The scrolls lined up neatly, their ink faded with age.
The yellowed photographs tucked between dusty tomes.
The old scent of paper and ink and something older than memory.
She hadn't dared step back inside after that night.
Standing in the hallway now, she felt the weight of it again—the knowledge they'd uncovered, the things that had no easy answers. The things she still wasn't sure she wanted to fully face.
Rei tightened her jaw and pulled her gaze away. She wasn't here to relive the past. Not tonight.
Instead, she moved toward the living room. She stripped the dust covers off the old couch and sat down heavily, the frame creaking under her weight.
For a long moment, she simply sat there, staring out the window at the darkening sky.
She could hear the village beyond the walls—the distant laughter of children, the shouts of late-night merchants calling out their wares—but it felt far away.
Removed.
She leaned back against the couch, folding her arms behind her head as she closed her eyes briefly.
Tomorrow would be another day.
Another mission.
Another chance to prove that all of this—all the distance, the sacrifices, the changes—had been worth it.
That she hadn't lost herself somewhere along the way.
Her breathing evened out as the night crept closer, swallowing the last light from the sky.
The Hisatsume glinted silently from its place across the room.
Waiting.
Rei lingered in the hallway, staring at it for a long moment, the silence around her pressing heavier against her chest. She thought about the study upstairs—how she and Kakashi had once snuck inside during those two restless weeks years ago, when Sakumo and Takeshi were away.
They had touched the past then, pulling old scrolls and photographs from the shelves with the kind of reckless curiosity only children had.
Now, though, the study's door was closed. Locked. Like a memory she wasn't ready to unearth again.
Rei turned away. She didn't want to look at the past tonight.
She had a mission to focus on. She had no time to remember who she used to be.
That night, elsewhere in Konoha...
The hospital room was cloaked in a soft, muted stillness. Outside, the village had settled into its nightly rhythms—shadows stretching across rooftops, lanterns flickering along the narrow streets. But inside, it was calm, almost sacred in its quiet.
Takeshi sat upright against the hospital bed's stiff pillows, his body still frail but his mind sharpening more with each passing hour.
Across from him, perched in one of the room's wooden chairs, Sakumo Hatake leaned forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, a battered cup of tea cooling in his hands.
It had taken a while for the conversation to drift here, into the quiet spaces where truths were harder to avoid.
"You've missed a lot," Sakumo said, his voice low but carrying a warmth that softened the edges of the words. He offered a faint smile, one that didn't quite reach his eyes. "The village is... different now."
Takeshi chuckled dryly, shifting against the pillows. "I figured. Five years doesn't pass without leaving scars."
Sakumo nodded, the ghost of agreement in his expression. "I'm not a field shinobi anymore. The Third made me his senior advisor two years back." He spoke it plainly, as though it was just another assignment—another mission—but Takeshi heard the heaviness tucked between the words.
"You hate it," Takeshi said with a faint smirk.
"I hate sitting behind a desk," Sakumo admitted, allowing a rare flicker of amusement to pass over his face. "But it's needed. Especially now."
Takeshi's smirk faded, sensing the shift in Sakumo's tone.
"There's been tension with Iwagakure," Sakumo continued, setting his untouched tea aside. "Border skirmishes. Diplomatic talks that go nowhere. Nothing official yet, but... it's like we're standing on thin ice, and everyone can hear it cracking."
Takeshi's brow furrowed. "War again?"
"Maybe. Maybe worse." Sakumo hesitated. "There are whispers about Arakawa survivors living across the border. Some defectors."
Takeshi stiffened instinctively, his fingers tightening around the blanket.
"I didn't think any of us survived outside Konoha," he said slowly.
"They did," Sakumo said. "And now... some of them have taken an interest in Rei."
Takeshi's head snapped up at that, alarm flashing across his features. "What do you mean?"
Sakumo leaned back slightly, his face shadowed in the dim light. "There are shinobi among Iwagakure's ranks who once carried your name. Koji and Mayu."
He didn't speak their names bitterly—but with a kind of weary sadness, as if it hurt to say them aloud.
"They crossed paths with Rei once. Didn't attack her. Didn't even report her. From what our ANBU gathered... they want her. They're hoping she'll leave Konoha and join them."
Takeshi absorbed the words in silence, a thousand questions racing behind his still expression. He'd never met Koji or Mayu—not really. They were just names in the old stories. Names his parents had whispered when they thought the children weren't listening.
"But why her?" Takeshi asked finally, voice rough with the effort to keep it steady. "She's... just a kid."
Sakumo's gaze was steady, unflinching. "Because she reminds them of Raiden."
The founder of the Arakawa clan.
A name that still carried weight even now, decades after his death.
"There's a fire in her they recognize," Sakumo continued, his voice low. "Something that calls to them. And it scares the council more than they want to admit. They're not worried because of Kakashi. They're not even worried because of her strength."
He paused, letting the weight of his next words sink in.
"They're worried because she's an echo of something they couldn't control the first time."
Takeshi sat there for a long moment, staring at the far wall.
Guilt gnawed at his gut—guilt that he hadn't been there. That while he'd been trapped in his own mind, Rei had been fighting battles she shouldn't have had to fight alone.
"And Orochimaru?" he asked finally, his voice quieter.
Sakumo's face darkened almost imperceptibly. "He's... complicated."
He exhaled slowly, as though the admission tasted bitter on his tongue.
"He sees her potential. But not in the way you or I would. He sees a chance to mold something powerful. Something dangerous."
Takeshi's hands curled tighter into fists under the blanket.
"She chose him," Sakumo said gently, "because she thinks he's giving her something the village never would. Answers. Power. Control."
"And we're just... standing here?" Takeshi demanded, his voice sharpening, though it lacked strength.
"If we push too hard," Sakumo said heavily, "we'll only drive her farther away. She has to choose her path herself."
A beat passed.
"But we can be there to catch her if she falls."
Takeshi stared at him, something raw flickering behind his tired eyes.
"And if she doesn't fall?" he asked.
Sakumo looked away, his gaze drifting toward the small window and the dark horizon beyond.
"Then we pray," he said quietly. "And we hope we were wrong."