[~ 900 Words]
~ A few days before the Uchiha Massacre.
Location: Konoha City Center – Main Market Street.
The sun shone gently on the back of Uchiha Haruki as he walked down the bustling stone-paved street toward the City Center—Konoha's main marketplace. The air was thick with the aroma of roasted chestnuts, Barbecue shops, Ramen shops, street foods, and the sharp scent of metal from nearby forge shops. Chatter filled the air: children bartering candy, shinobi examining gear, and traders yelling over prices.
He moved at a calm pace, dressed casually in a dark shirt and flak vest, the Uchiha fan symbol stark and bright on his back. And like clockwork... the glances began.
Two women exiting a flower shop glanced his way. One of them nudged the other subtly with her elbow.
"Uchiha," someone murmured from across the street.
Another passerby—a civilian merchant in fine robes—cast a disgusted glance, turned up his nose, and crossed the street as if avoiding a puddle.
Haruki sighed through his nose, pretending not to notice, though his shoulders tensed. Every time, he thought.
He passed a pair of Genin from another clan—a Mitokado boy and a Utatane girl—who lowered their voices and whispered behind cupped hands as he passed. They weren't subtle. But they didn't need to be.
"They walk around like they own the place."
"Tch, the Uchiha only patrol the outskirts and poor sectors anyway. What are they even doing here?"
He ignored it. He had long since learned that fighting the looks only made it worse. Just walk. Breathe. Get the supplies and return.
Despite their role as the Konoha Military Police Force, the Uchiha were limited in their authority. They policed the outer rings of the village—rural sectors, lesser trade districts, and residential zones. But the inner districts—controlled by the Sarutobi, Shimura, Mitokado, and Utatane clans—remained off-limits.
"Not enough trust," Haruki thought bitterly. "Even though it's our blood that keeps the gates guarded."
The Uchiha were forceful by nature, proud and commanding in their tone and posture. It was the way they'd always been, and it didn't mesh well with the soft, polished diplomacy of Konoha's high clans—especially those tied to commerce and medicine.
They had no allies. Not among the trade clans. Not among the council families. Not even among the civilians. The name Uchiha inspired awe, but never affection.
And Haruki? He was just an average Uchiha. No fanfare. No Red eyes. Just a man trying to live quietly. But even his clan crest painted a target on his back.
Finally, he reached the edge of the commercial strip—a quieter corner, tucked beside a weapons-smith and a tool shop, nestled under the shade of a tall redwood.
"Takeda's Tools & Tactical Supplies."
He stepped inside with relief. The air inside was cool, tinged with oil and steel. Scroll racks lined the walls, and a glass case showcased shuriken, smoke bombs, and customized kunai. Behind the counter stood Takeda, a grizzled middle-aged man with a prosthetic leg and a calm presence.
Takeda looked up and smiled faintly beneath his beard.
"Haruki. Back for more toys?"
Haruki exhaled softly, the tension draining from his face. "Not Toys, they are tools old man, but Yeah. Almost ran out of smoke tags last week. Thought I'd top up before I start accidentally losing sparring matches."
Takeda chuckled, moving toward the supply cabinet.
"Glad you're here. The new seal-lined kunai came in—more balanced, sharper tip. Made for clean throws, even when chakra's low."
Haruki walked toward the glass case, eyes trailing over the tools.
"You always have the good stuff."
"Well, you don't act like the rest of your clan," Takeda said, not unkindly. "You don't walk in here like you're doing me a favor."
Haruki chuckled. "I'm just glad you don't run at the first moment when you see my back."
Takeda placed a box of tags on the counter. "I fought in the Third Ninja War, son. I've seen enough clans and crests to last me a lifetime. A symbol only means what the person carrying it decides it means."
Haruki looked up at him, the words surprisingly comforting. Maybe even rare.
"Thanks," Haruki said genuinely. "You know, not many in this part of the village see it that way."
"That's their problem." Takeda grunted. "Now, you need more sealing scrolls? Or are you planning on charging into battle with spit and guts?"
Haruki grinned slightly. "Better give me a roll. Never know what tomorrow brings."
As Takeda turned to prepare the items, Haruki glanced at his reflection in the glass. For a moment, all he saw was the Uchiha crest on his back—and all the expectations, hatred, and history it carried.
But then he looked into his own eyes.
No Red Tomoe. No Sharingan. Just… him.
Still standing. Still trying.