The Uchiha Police Department had withstood the catastrophic attack of the Nine-Tails. While the fiery demon swept through entire districts, turning Konoha's streets into a blazing inferno, the southern sector remained untouched. The Uchiha buildings, constructed with stubborn precision, stood firm— as if the very force of nature respected the oldest of the village's great clans.
One building stood out in particular: a two-story police station near the district's main square. With its beige stone façade and the emblem — a four-pointed star centered around a blazing red fan — it wasn't just a place of duty, but a symbol of the clan's authority and responsibility. The Uchiha protected Konoha not with the sword, but with the law.
And Fugaku had agreed to that decision. Without question.
The Sharingan was not merely an eye that saw truth. It was a tool of justice — capable of detecting the smallest details, analyzing traces, sensing residual chakra, seeing lies written on faces. Where ordinary investigators faltered in speculation, an Uchiha uncovered the truth. Efficiency. Cold reason. Precision.
And yet, even so, not all within the clan shared his conviction. The younger ones, mostly. They whispered among themselves that the Hokage had deliberately assigned the Uchiha the role of sentinels — keeping them away from power, from real decision-making, from true relevance. To them, patrolling the streets, chasing down petty crimes, conducting interrogations — all of it was nothing more than a leash to keep a proud clan under control.
Fugaku would smirk to himself. Such foolishness.
"What could be more important," he thought, "than protecting the children of shinobi while their parents fight for Konoha on some distant front? What could be more noble than ensuring the safety of those who cannot defend themselves?"
In his past life, in that other world, Fugaku had been Thomas Wayne — mayor of Gotham. And if decades in that grim, broken city had taught him anything, it was that law and order were the bedrock of everything. He had cleaned Gotham's police force of corrupt rats, purged the rot from the system, and replaced it with men and women of integrity and resolve. He knew the price of corruption well. And now, in this world — a world where shinobi could cleave mountains and walk on water — he had to find out: were the Uchiha truly worthy of wearing the badge?
He walked the empty morning streets of the clan, stepping across smooth stone tiles. His footsteps echoed dully, as if the silence itself parted before him. He wore the standard shinobi uniform — a dark suit with a khaki flak jacket, and on his left shoulder, a patch bearing the police emblem: the same blazing fan.
The station appeared ahead — austere, functional, almost ascetic, like everything else in Uchiha life. A flag bearing the clan symbol fluttered proudly from the rooftop. This place wasn't just a headquarters — it was the heart of their duty.
From behind the heavy door came the murmur of voices — hurried whispers, laughter, quiet conversations. But the moment he pushed the door open and stepped inside, everything fell silent.
He entered a wide reception room where the desk sergeant usually logged detainees. Behind the man stood a wooden rack with keys to the temporary holding cells. They were empty now. No drunk merchants, no pickpockets. The calm before the storm.
Men and women in navy uniforms — most with the same stern faces and dark eyes — turned to look. The whispering ceased. They recognized their captain.
Fugaku didn't need a formal greeting. He walked deeper into the room without slowing his pace.
"Meeting room," he said, voice firm as stone. "Now. All of you."
He strode between rows of desks, cluttered with paperwork, reports, and folders filled with photographs. Some officers were already rising, others downed the last of their tea in a hurry. He paid them no mind.
He knew how to speak. He knew how to lead. And he had a goal — to make this police force not just an extension of the clan, but the shield of the village.
They entered the spacious conference room. Nearly all station officers had taken their seats around the long wooden table. Over thirty Uchiha — young and old, men and women. Their faces were serious. Everyone waited for their captain to speak.
Fugaku closed the door behind him and turned to face them.
"Kunoichi and shinobi," Fugaku's voice cut through the silence like a blade, "I'll be frank with you."
He swept his gaze over the room — a gaze without warmth or mercy. There was only one thing in those dark eyes: expectation. Demand. And disappointment.
"I am not satisfied."
It was as if someone had dropped the temperature in the room. Muscles tensed. Backs straightened. Even the chairs creaked under shifting weight, as if trying to excuse themselves. Men and women who had survived war, who had fought shoulder to shoulder with other clans, now felt like children under a father's wrath.
"You performed honorably in the last war. The Uchiha proved their valor, and no one in the village dares call us cowards. For that, I am grateful."
His voice softened — but only for a moment. Then the steel returned.
"However, battlefield glory does not excuse failure in service. And as police officers — you failed. Completely."
The silence was now heavy as stone. No one dared to move.
"Dozens of incidents of hooliganism across the village. Everywhere. Walk the streets, speak to the people — every second person will tell you they were beaten up as children. Where? Not on missions. Not in some cave. Here. In Konoha. On the streets you swore to protect."
Someone swallowed. Another averted their eyes. No one dared speak.
"Who's in charge of the park?" he barked, his voice crashing down like a hammer.
"Ahem..." One of the officers stood reluctantly — Uchiha Yashiro. His face was sullen, but his eyes flicked sideways, betraying unease. "What exactly is the issue?"
Fugaku narrowed his eyes. There was no anger in his gaze — only a cold, predatory analysis. He looked at Yashiro the way a pathologist examines a cadaver.
"Nothing. Unless you count that a week ago my son was nearly mugged in that very park."
His voice dropped lower — which only made it more terrifying. He didn't raise it, but each word sliced like a scalpel.
"Middle of the day. On our turf. Hooligans."
Yashiro paled. Sweat beaded along his neck, a drop rolling beneath his collar. He swallowed loudly, almost painfully. Fugaku didn't look away.
"Your carelessness reflects not just on you, but on the entire clan. That is unacceptable. You're assigned two extra shifts. No discussion. And believe me, Yashiro, if I come and don't find you at your post — you'll learn what true disgrace feels like."
"U-understood, Captain…" Yashiro collapsed into his seat more than sat, his eyes darting like those of a cornered animal.
Fugaku turned his gaze on the rest, and now there was a spark in it.
"I've been working on a reorganization plan for some time," he said slowly, placing his palms on the table and leaning forward. The loud thud of his hands striking the wood made several officers flinch. "The war is over. But now we enter a far more dangerous era — a time of suspicion, schemes, and hidden threats. And we must be ready."
He straightened up.
"I need a name. Who's investigating the Nine-Tails incident?"
A pause hung in the air. Then Inabi, the young of the group, spoke:
"Fugaku-sama, the Uchiha police are not involved in the investigation. All case files have been handed over to ANBU."
Yashiro immediately jumped in, louder, with force — like he'd been waiting for a chance to redeem himself after the earlier humiliation.
"Just like always! The Hokage's administration has never trusted us!" Yashiro's voice was gaining steam like a pressure boiler. "Once again, we're being pushed out of the decision-making process! To them, we're nothing but a tool—convenient and silent..."
"They made the right call," Fugaku cut in, and the air in the room turned brittle. "Everyone who was there saw it. The Kyūbi's eyes held the Sharingan. I saw it myself. Someone was controlling it."
The room froze. Not even a breath was heard.
"Fugaku-sama… are you saying…" Inabi looked at him with concern, "you suspect one of us?"
"In any investigation, the most important thing is motive," Fugaku said with the focused simplicity of a lesson learned long ago in Gotham. "And so far, I see no motive among those sitting in this room. I cannot say the same about those outside it."
"Konoha's administration doesn't see it that way!" Yashiro barked again. "We weren't sidelined out of caution—they're afraid of us! They believe we'd cover for the culprit if he turned out to be Uchiha!"
"Let them investigate however they wish," Fugaku said coldly. "But we'll begin our own. Quietly. Thoroughly. No one outside this room must know."
He looked around at everyone present.
"Starting today, I want personal reports from each of you. Everything that's happened over the last month—where you patrolled, what you saw, in detail. Even what seems insignificant."
"Fugaku-sama, with respect," spoke Uchiha Sasami quietly, "this will take time. We're expected to assist with the city's cleanup. Hokage's orders..."
"Not a priority," he cut her off before she could finish. "One word you all must learn: priority. The Hokage has his. I have mine. He wants you visible. I want you useful. You are Uchiha first. And you will follow my orders—as your captain, and as your leader."
He paused. Looked at them from the height of his will, his experience, his belief that order could be imposed—if someone had the strength to enforce it.
Some began to nod. Inabi — firmly. Yashiro — with poorly concealed satisfaction. They sensed that Fugaku was taking on not just power, but responsibility. It earned respect. Or fear. Sometimes, they were the same.
Fugaku turned toward the door.
"I want those reports on my desk by nightfall," he said over his shoulder. "Meeting's over."
And he left. The door slammed shut behind him — and only then did the people around the table start to breathe again.
///
Thick darkness cloaked Konoha like an oil-soaked blanket. The windows of the police station reflected only the distant glimmer of street lanterns.
Fugaku sat at a massive desk. The only source of light was a metal-shaded desk lamp. Its warm yellow glow cut into the gloom, illuminating his stern, haggard face — eyes shadowed with fatigue — and the uneven stack of reports piled before him.
He read in silence, swiftly, eyes slicing through the lines like scalpels. The irrelevant — discarded. The questionable — marked. The useful — underlined with quick, precise strokes of his pen. On the table, two tidy piles were forming: one of discarded clutter, the other of potential truth.
The Sharingan glimmered faintly in his eyes, casting a soft red glow. His clan's unique gift wasn't only for battle — in investigation, it was just as invaluable. When Fugaku looked at a report, it was almost as if he could see the events through the writer's own eyes. Every patrol officer, trained to precision, wrote in perfect, uniform script. Their attention to detail was remarkable. Some had even activated their Sharingan during patrols, committing to memory faces, gestures, the smallest slips of speech — and now poured all of it onto paper, page after page.
The stack of papers kept growing. Time kept ticking. The clock already showed ten p.m.
The station had long since emptied. Only the watch officer at the entrance remained—along with Captain Fugaku. The rest had gone home, some to their families, some to the bar. But Fugaku couldn't afford the luxury of rest. He knew too well the rhythm of panic, the weight of politics, and the price of delayed action.
He'd learned that the hard way in Gotham: if a suspect wasn't caught within the first twenty-four hours, the chances of finding them dropped sharply.
The clock struck eleven. The third day had begun. The Kyūbi was gone. The village was shaken. The enemy—still unseen. And the Hokage was already preparing a response. Fugaku could feel it in his skin and bones, the way an old sailor senses an oncoming storm.
He yawned, leaned back in his chair, and reached for the cup that held the cold remnants of long-forgotten coffee. A sip. Bitter. Cold. But there was no better remedy when sleep wasn't an option. He stifled another yawn and bent back over the papers.
He hadn't let the Wayne name be broken, even when Gotham stabbed him in the back. And now, despite suspicion and whispers and schemes, he wouldn't let the Uchiha honor be torn apart. Not by the Hokage. Not by ANBU.
A knock at the door. Quiet. Almost respectful.
Fugaku glanced at the clock. Midnight.
"Come in," he said coldly, just a touch louder than usual.
The door opened without a sound. A woman stood in the doorway—slender, graceful, with straight black hair flowing down her shoulders. She wore a simple lilac dress that emphasized her waistline, but was far from flashy. Her movements were careful, almost ghostlike.
Uchiha Mikoto. His wife.
Fugaku stared at her silently. And something inside him stirred again. Faint, uncertain… maybe a memory. Maybe regret.
Everything about her appearance was proper. The ideal wife of a clan leader. A loyal mother. Modest, well-mannered, unknowable.
He had never quite adjusted to that feeling. There was something in her… broken? Hollow? Or simply buried too deep to reach. He didn't know.
Fugaku had believed in love—once. Before Martha died. After that, love became too costly a luxury. No woman in Gotham had ever replaced Martha. And even when he'd had power, wealth, and an army of admirers—he remained a widower. By choice. By conviction.
But Konoha was different. Here, he hadn't chosen. His marriage to Mikoto had been arranged by the elders. A cold agreement. A contract. Strong genetics, reliable clan, perfect children.
Itachi and Sasuke—that was the reason the marriage made sense.
He respected Mikoto. For her loyalty. For her willingness to follow the will of the clan, even if she didn't agree with it. She had given up her career as a kunoichi the moment Itachi was born. Not because she couldn't manage both—they could have afforded nannies, guards, a personal medic. She simply complied.
A mission-woman.
But she lacked the fire that had burned in Martha—when she laughed, argued, fought for truth. With Mikoto, everything was quiet. Peaceful. Cold.
And now, standing in the doorway of his office, she looked like a ghost. She brought no danger. No warmth. Just a reminder that Fugaku had a family. Formally.
He took another sip of coffee and said:
"It's late. Something happened?"
Mikoto lingered at the threshold like a shadow, careful not to cross into his personal space, as if she still had no right to it.
"You left early this morning and didn't come back," she said softly. No reproach, just a fact. But in her eyes—when they met his, just for a moment—something fragile flickered. Disappointment? Sadness? It vanished as quickly as it came. "I thought you might want to eat."
She stepped forward and placed a neat little box on the desk. The food was prepared with the meticulous precision Mikoto was known for—thinly sliced vegetables, slivers of meat, a perfectly rounded ball of rice. A faint trail of steam still rose from the box, meaning she hadn't just reheated something old—she had cooked. Cooked now. At night. While others slept. While he worked.
"Thank you," Fugaku replied shortly, his expression unchanged. He slid the box to the edge of the desk. "I'll eat once I'm done."
He returned to the reports, eyes scanning lines, underlining, striking through—but Mikoto remained standing in front of the desk. He noticed her fingers fidgeting with the fabric of her dress, as if unsure what to do with her hands.
"Do you need something else?"
"I went to the hospital today," she said carefully, her voice almost timid. "Stopped by the maternity ward…"
Fugaku looked up sharply from the papers.
"Is something wrong with Sasuke?"
"No, no," Mikoto shook her head quickly, trying to reassure him. "Our boy is fine. It's just… my friend, Kushina… she died during the Kyūbi attack."
Fugaku nodded slowly. He knew about the Fourth's wife's death, but he hadn't connected it to Mikoto. Hadn't thought to.
"She left behind a son," Mikoto went on, her voice trembling. "A baby. Same age as Sasuke."
Fugaku frowned slightly, and for a moment, silence filled the room. Then he spoke slowly:
"Then he needs to be fed. And you…" he looked at her more intently now, his gaze sharpening, "you're still lactating. You can help. Share with your friend's son."
Mikoto lifted her eyes to meet his. There was a light in them now—warm, tentative, but real.
"You allow it?" she asked in almost a whisper, with a hint of hope… and gratitude.
Fugaku gave a small nod.
"Of course," he said, pausing briefly before turning back to the papers. "What's the boy's name?"
"His name is Naruto."
Mikoto left as quietly as she had come. The door closed gently behind her.
Fugaku noticed the change—in her step there was lightness now. As she walked away, she carried with her not just permission, but something more. Meaning. A purpose that, for once, made her feel alive.
He remained seated, surrounded by reports and cold coffee, cloaked in the shadows of suspicion and decisions yet to come.
/////
Author notes:
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