Chapter 4: The Vow in the Dark
The room was beige. The chair was beige. The desk was beige. The face of the woman opposite him was kind, but her kindness was a practiced, professional beige. Sasuke sat in the sterile office of the Hero Public Safety Commission's Child Services division, a number now instead of a name. Case File #734: Uchiha, Sasuke. Sole survivor of the "Uchiha Incident."
He hadn't spoken a word in three days. Not to the first responders who had wrapped him in a shock blanket. Not to the investigators who had tried to gently coax a description of the attacker from him. Not to this woman, who was now asking him how he was feeling.
He felt nothing. He felt everything. The inside of his head was a raging inferno of grief and hatred, but on the outside, he was a frozen statue. He just stared at her, his dark eyes empty and old. The words of the villain were a constant, roaring whisper in his mind: Weak. Too weak.
They placed him in a state-run group home, a clean, safe, and soulless place for the orphans of fallen heroes. In the common room, a large television was always on, playing news cycles filled with heroic deeds. One afternoon, a clip of All Might came on. The Symbol of Peace had stopped a runaway bullet train, holding it back with his bare hands. He stood amidst the wreckage, flashing his signature, beaming smile, and gave a booming laugh for the cameras.
The other children, orphans like him, watched with awe. But Sasuke felt a wave of pure, unadulterated disgust wash over him.
He wasn't there, the thought screamed in his mind. Where was his smile when my parents were dying? Where was his strength? These heroes... they are a lie. They show up for the cameras. They save the cheering crowds. They don't deliver justice.
That day, he sealed his heart. Idealism, hope, trust—they were luxuries for those who had never seen true darkness. From now on, there would only be one truth, one goal. Power. Not the flashy, smiling power of the heroes on TV. He wanted the other kind. The silent, terrifying power wielded by the man in the shadows. The power to erase those who wronged you.
After a few weeks, he was moved into a small, government-subsidized apartment, deemed independent enough to live alone with regular check-ins. The moment the door closed and he was finally, truly alone, the boy who had been a frozen statue shattered. But he didn't cry.
He began to train.
His small living room became a dojo. He did push-ups until his arms buckled and his face hit the floor. He would rest for a moment, then push himself back up. He did sit-ups until his stomach muscles felt like they were on fire. He ran through the city at night, through empty streets and dark alleyways, pushing his small body until his lungs burned and he collapsed on the pavement, gasping for air.
It was a punishment. A penance for his weakness. Every drop of sweat was an apology. Every aching muscle was a promise. He would never be that helpless child hiding in the bushes again.
His life became a spartan routine. School, homework, train, eat, sleep, repeat. He read every book he could find on tactics, strategy, and anatomy, learning the weak points of the human body. He studied footage of Pro Heroes, not to admire them, but to deconstruct their fighting styles, to find their flaws.
One night, he found a brochure he'd taken from school, tucked away in his bag. It was for U.A. High, the number one hero academy in the country. Its gleaming logo seemed to mock him. Go Beyond. Plus Ultra!
He stared at it for a long time. The heroes it produced were the very kind he now despised. But he was pragmatic. U.A. had the best facilities, the best instructors, the most intense training imaginable. It was a forge designed to create the most powerful individuals in the world.
He didn't want to be their hero. But he would use their forge to sharpen himself into a weapon. A weapon strong enough to find the man who had destroyed his world. A weapon strong enough to deliver his own justice.
His gaze hardened, his small hand clenching the brochure until the paper crinkled. U.A. wasn't a dream. It was a stepping stone.