"The tyrant dies and his rule ends, the martyr dies and his rule begins."
— Søren Kierkegaard
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[First Person POV - Otis]
Darkness. My body was a wreck, but the ropes held tighter still. Every shallow breath was proof I wasn't dead… not yet.
I forced my eyes open. My vision swam in black, except for a single shaft of light slicing down from a crack in the ceiling. Dust drifted lazily in the beam, as if mocking me.
And there he was —The old bastard was still sitting in front of me, like this whole scene was his personal tea party. He wasn't even pretending otherwise—this was his show, and I was the unwilling audience.
"How much longer until he gets here?" he muttered toward his Root agent.
So, he's waiting for someone, I thought. That's rich. Drag me into his cave, tie me to a chair, and then twiddle his thumbs like he's got all the time in the world. Professional.
His single uncovered eye shifted to me. I met it, blinking slowly. He stood, cane tapping against the stone floor. His shadow dragged across the floor until it spilled over me like a stain.
"You…" His voice rasped like stone scraping stone. "…you will be my way out."
He leaned down close, his breath stale as his one eye boring into mine. "Do you know what you giants are used for?"
I stayed silent.
"Medicine. Regeneration," he continued, lips curling into something between a sneer and a smirk. "Giants… your bodies are medicine, tools, weapons. A single heart could extend life. A pair of lungs could amplify chakra reserves. A spine, a nervous system."
He tapped his cane against my bound leg.
"Your kind are compatible with everything. Transplants. Experiments. Power."
His lips curled, and he tapped his cane against my bound leg. "I don't need your body for strength. I already have that in other ways. No… what I want is your heart."
I tilted my head."Sorry, I don't like men that way."
His face twitched—just slightly—but he leaned down again, close enough that his stinking breath washed over my cheek.
"The heart of a giant can grant decades. It can multiply physical strength. Reverse the decay of age. I will make use of every part of your body. Piece by piece. Unlike your mother… who.." He faltered, "…you'll be my prize."
Mother.
My head lolled for a moment, dazed, and everything clicked. The trembling hands. his twitching eye, the hate dripping from his tone—it all clicked.
And I smiled.
Dried blood cracked my lip as I chuckled.
"Wow. That was quite the speech. You practiced that speech in the mirror, didn't you, geezer?"
His face twitched
Then his fist slammed into my ribs. Pain flared hot and sharp, but it only made me laugh. I laughed anyway.
It wasn't the deep, maniacal laugh of some villain in a play. No—it was dry, breathless, cruel. The kind of laugh you give when someone is so full of themselves you can't help but find it hilarious.
Another punch—jaw this time. My head snapped sideways, blood dripping down my chin. I spat red onto his sandal.
Danzo's eye narrowed. His hand twitched on the cane. Then, without warning, he drove his fist into my stomach. Air burst out of my lungs, pain spreading like fire, but I laughed even harder, coughing blood.
It was hilarious.
"Careful," I wheezed, spitting blood at his robe. "If I die too soon, you'll have to eat your vitamins like a normal geezer"
I laughed again. More louder.
Another punch. This one cracked against my jaw. My teeth clattering together. But my grin stayed.
"That all you got"
His teeth clenched. "You think this is a game? You think your laughter will save you?"
But this wasn't Danzo. Not really. The real Danzo didn't rant. He didn't spit his plans out like some cheap theater villain. No—he was silence and shadows, whispers in the dark. Which meant this wasn't about me. This was personal.
My mother had scarred him. Haunted him. Broken that iron mask of composure he wore so well. And now he thought carving me up would fix it.
My mother. He said it. It was mother hahaha
That flicker in his eyes when he looked at me told me more than his words ever could. He couldn't help it. Whatever she did to him before she died left scars even the bandages couldn't cover. And now I was sitting here—her son, her blood—her face reflected in mine like a cruel joke. He hated it. And it terrified him.
Because here's the truth: Danzo wasn't supposed to talk like this. He wasn't supposed to stand here, unraveling himself in front of me. That wasn't the man he built himself into. Which meant it wasn't me who broke him.
It was her.
My mother broke him. Hah. I'll have to ask Hiruzen about this—what exactly she did. To break the darkness of Konoha itself…She must've been a menace.
Pathetic.
I laughed harder, louder, jagged sounds tearing out of me before I could stop them.
Good good good
That explained it all.
"Keep talking, Danzo," I said, tasting iron on my tongue. "Every word you spit just proves you're terrified. She got in your head, didn't she? And now you see me and all you remember is her"
His hand shook—barely, but enough.
For the first time, his composure cracked wide open. His fist hovered over me, veins bulging in his hand.
"You know nothing of her," he hissed.
Got him.
His breathing grew rough. His cane cracked against the stone floor, forcing control back. "No matter. I will make sure her legacy ends here. Piece by piece, I will carve you apart. And when I take your heart, the last laugh will be mine."
But I saw it.
Fear had no place in Danzo Shimura's world.
Yet my mother left it there, buried deep.
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(A/N)
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