Pain came first—dull and heavy, pressing against every inch of his body like wet stone. Itama lay still, unable to tell if his eyes were open or closed. Everything around him was black. The air was damp, heavy with the scent of moss and dried blood. Something crawled at the edge of his mind—movement, whispers, memories. He tried to move a finger, then a hand. His body answered, sluggish but alive.
His breath hitched as awareness slowly returned. There were voices—faint, low, too far to make sense of. Then they faded.
Only when he turned his head did light find him.
A pale beam filtered in through a crack in the wooden wall beside him. His body was wrapped tightly in thick bandages, stiff with dried blood. The pain wasn't sharp anymore, but deep—settled into his bones like a cold that refused to leave. His left arm, broken. His ribs, bruised. A deep gash stitched clumsily over his hip. He could feel each wound as if someone had mapped his entire body with a knife.
He didn't know how long he'd been unconscious.
The last clear thing he remembered was Takeshi's face—shrouded in shadow, leaning over him. Firelight behind him. A whisper: "You're safe now, just rest."
He blinked slowly, trying to push himself up, but his muscles screamed in protest. After several failed attempts, he managed to sit, his back resting against a stack of thick straw sacks. The room was small, earthen, barely more than a shack. A crude table stood against one wall, covered in herbs, scrolls, and a single clay basin half-filled with murky water. A torn blanket hung over the entrance like a curtain.
Takeshi's hideout, he realized.
Itama reached for the edge of the basin and pulled himself forward, breathing heavily. Every movement sent fresh pain crawling down his spine, but he gritted his teeth and endured it. He caught sight of his reflection in the water—pale, gaunt, hair matted with sweat and blood. His eyes, once bright, looked hollow.
But they were alive.
He was alive.
That thought echoed in his chest louder than any pain. He was alive—and the world thought him dead.
He didn't need to be told. He knew it from the silence, from the absence of anyone familiar. From the way Takeshi had hidden him here, buried beneath leaves and distance. He knew his family must have received the report. Hashirama. Tobirama. His father. His clan.
They had mourned him.
Buried an empty grave.
And the thought of it made his heart twist with something fierce and complicated—grief, guilt, anger.
They thought he was dead.
Takeshi entered not long after, pushing aside the curtain with one hand and a satchel slung over his shoulder. His eyes widened in surprise when he saw Itama sitting upright.
"Didn't expect you to wake for another day or two," he said, setting the satchel down.
Itama's voice came out hoarse, cracked. "How long?"
"Four days," Takeshi replied, kneeling beside the table. "You've been slipping in and out since I dragged you here. Had to drain your wounds twice. That last slash nearly opened your liver."
Itama nodded faintly, processing.
"You saved me."
Takeshi shrugged. "Did what any decent Senju would do. Can't leave a brother to rot in the woods."
"You don't talk like a Senju."
Takeshi's smile was bitter. "Maybe not. Doesn't mean I stopped being one."
Silence stretched between them for a few breaths. Takeshi began unpacking salves and gauze.
"I need to go back," Itama said suddenly.
Takeshi looked up. "Back?"
"To the village."
The older shinobi studied him for a long moment, then returned to his work. "That'd be stupid."
"I have to."
"They think you're dead."
"I know."
"And you want to just waltz into Konoha and say, 'Surprise'? You'll draw attention. If someone leaked what happened to you, they might come back to finish the job."
"I don't care," Itama said firmly. "I can't hide while they think I'm in the ground."
Takeshi stopped.
"You've barely healed. You can't fight, can't run."
"Then I'll crawl."
Takeshi stood up, exasperated. "You don't get it. The Uchiha tried to kill you, and they might try again. But the bigger threat is inside. You show up like a ghost and people start asking questions—questions that put a target on your back, and mine."
"I didn't ask you to save me."
"You didn't have to. I chose to."
Silence.
Itama clenched his fists. His arms trembled—not from anger, but weakness. Even his rage was tired. But beneath it all, beneath the pain and the fear, there was something else.
Resolve.
"I'm going back," he said again. "Not through the main gates. Not loud. I'll move in the dark if I have to. But I have to see them."
Takeshi's jaw tightened.
"I have to see Hashirama. And Tobirama. And the clan. I need to know what they're planning. If the Uchiha are moving like this, something bigger is coming."
"They'll want to keep you hidden."
"Then I'll hide. But on my terms."
Takeshi exhaled. He ran a hand through his tangled hair and finally gave a slight nod. "If you're going to be stubborn, at least let me make it easier."
He crossed the room and returned with a folded bundle.
"Cloak. Mask. Travel gear. Not much, but enough to get you to the edge of the forest without being seen. After that, you're on your own."
Itama took the bundle and nodded. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet."
---
That night, under the cover of darkness and rain, Itama stepped out into the forest. The cloak hugged his shoulders, the hood low over his brow. Takeshi's makeshift hideout faded behind him, lost among trees and silence.
Every step was a trial.
His wounds screamed.
But he didn't stop.
He followed hidden paths only Senju scouts knew, weaving through the woods, avoiding watch posts and patrol routes. The pain grounded him—reminded him that he was still here, still breathing, still burning.
As he neared the outskirts of the village—close enough to see the distant glow of torchlight through the canopy—he paused.
The sight of home stole his breath.
So close. Yet still out of reach.
He crouched in the underbrush, listening.
Two guards passed near the outer trail, muttering about new orders and increased Uchiha activity. Itama held his breath, body pressed against the roots of a thick tree. When they were gone, he exhaled slowly.
Too soon to be seen.
He would wait until the night was deepest.
Then he would move.
Into the village.
Into the shadows.
And from there—he would learn. Observe. Listen.
He would be the ghost they didn't expect.
The forgotten flame they thought extinguished.
But Itama Senju was not done burning yet.
Not even close.
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