" for dialogues"
'For inner dialogues or thoughts or musings'
The smell of wet asphalt and diesel hung in the air.
The late evening traffic crawled, headlights washing over puddles.
Yami's hands were stuffed deep into his hoodie pocket, shoulders hunched against the drizzle. His phone screen glowed faintly as he checked the time—barely a second before a blaring horn split the air.
He looked up.
The world lurched. A flash of white paint, the truck's grille looming far too close, the screech of brakes on slick road. For an instant, he felt a weightless pull backward, his mind failing to catch up.
Then came the impact—sharp, crushing—and his whole life flashed before him before everything went black.
No pain lingered, only an absence of sensation.
He woke to the steady hiss of rainfall.
The first thing he noticed was the roof—wooden beams dark with damp, half-rotten in places, the faint drip of water pooling in a corner. His head throbbed, and the smell here was… stale. Dust, mold, and something faintly metallic.
"I am alive?" Yami exclaimed .
He shifted, and the rough texture beneath him scraped against his skin. The "bed" was nothing but a flattened mat on warped floorboards. His fingers curled instinctively into the fabric, and he paused.
"These aren't my hands."
'They were thin, bony, skin pale enough for the veins to stand out. Dirt clung beneath the nails'. He frowned, turning them over, the knuckles slightly swollen, as if they hadn't seen a proper meal or warmth in weeks.
He sat up too quickly. A wave of dizziness hit, forcing him to steady himself against the wall. The structure around him was barely standing—a small, single-room shack. The door leaned crooked on its hinges. The air carried the constant background noise of rainfall, not gentle but heavy, relentless.
Somewhere far off, there was a muffled boom. thunderstorm and huge rainfall
He swallowed, his mouth dry. He couldn't shake the instinctive wrongness. His own body—his real body—had been heavier, stronger, marked by years of an ordinary life. This one felt… fragile.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. Bare soles touched cold wood. He scanned the room. Against the far wall, an old metal-framed mirror leaned at an angle, its glass cracked in one corner.
The boy who stared back was a strang face .
Black hair, unkempt and clinging in damp strands. A face too narrow, with hollow cheeks and dark circles under sharp, black eyes. His clothes were thin—loose shirt, worn trousers—and hung off him like they'd been made for someone healthier.
The realization landed like a cold stone in his stomach.
Panic rose before he could control it. 'Where am I? What the hell is this?'
He reached for the mirror's edge—and the pain struck.
A sharp spike of agony lanced through his skull, forcing him to his knees. Images that weren't his own flooded in. A small village, fields muddied from the same endless rain. A man and woman—his parents?—faces blurred, but their warmth clear. Then fire. Screams. Shadowed figures moving too fast to see. Sounds of steel clashing and muffled screams and slielnce followed by more screams.
Running. The smell of blood. The taste of smoke. Days without food. Cold nights huddled under broken walls. And finally… the crumbling shelter where he'd collapsed.
The headache eased, leaving him gasping. He stayed still, palms pressed to the warped floor, rain pounding overhead.
'This… this isn't just a dream.The memories weren't fake. They felt rooted in something real, something that now lived alongside his own. Two lives, tangled together. His old life—university classes, part-time jobs, small routines—and this new one, belonging to the boy called Yami'.
A village near Amegakure… parents gone… the war.
He froze.
The name "Amegakure" bought his thoughts to a clarity. It belonged to one of his favourite anime .
Naruto.
The sudden realisation hit him hard. Ame wasn't a place of peace even in better times. Under Hanzo's rule, it was a battlefield caught between greater powers. Shinobi fought in the streets, and civilians were collateral damage. That muffled boom he'd heard earlier… 'I hope it's a thunderstorm not some battle'.
If this is real and from the memories the timeline is around the start of the third great ninja war … then I'm in the middle of one of the bloodiest chapters in the timeline of Naruto .
His stomach growled, cutting through the swirl of thoughts. Hunger had been gnawing at this body long before he'd woken in it.
He forced himself to stand and check the hut he is in. It was empty save for the mat, a half-broken table, and a few scraps of cloth in the corner. The roof leaked in three places. The door barely kept the rain out.
Cautiously, he pushed the door open. The world outside was washed in grey. The streets were narrow, muddy, lined with sagging buildings. The rain blurred everything beyond a few dozen meters. He could hear distant shouting, the sound carried strangely in the wet air.
He scanned for movement before stepping out. His bare feet sank slightly into the mud. Puddles reflected the dull sky. No civilians. No traders. Only the rain and the far-off rumbles of war.
Yami moved quickly, hugging the walls. He checked an overturned cart—empty. The next alley yielded a broken crate and a single, half-rotten potato. He didn't hesitate. Hunger outweighed pride and something is better then nothing .
By the time the light faded, he was back in the shack, wet to the bone. His hands shook as he ate the meagre find, the raw potato tough but better than nothing.
The rain never stopped. It was like the whole country was drowning slowly.
He lay back on the mat, staring at the ceiling. The boy's memories replayed alongside his own, weaving a grim truth: he had no one here. No safety. No way to fight back if trouble came.
'In my old life, I had… options. Friends. A future. Here, all I have is this body and whatever I can scavenge. If this really is the Naruto world, I know what's coming. I know how bad it gets'.
The thought didn't comfort him—it only made the him slightly feel better .
He exhaled slowly. I don't care if I have to crawl through the mud for years. I will not die here.