The rain fell steadily now, drumming against his face and soaking his once-black hair, pressing it into his forehead. Every droplet seemed heavier than the last, as if carrying the weight of all the missions, battles, and losses that had shaped him. Kisame's muscles throbbed with exhaustion, yet his mind remained sharp, calculating. He studied his surroundings with the precision of a shark circling in unfamiliar waters. The battlefield stretched before him: splintered trees, scorched earth, smoke curling toward a gray sky. The rain turned the ground into a slick mixture of mud and blood, masking footprints but adding another layer of hazard for anyone who moved hastily.
Chains of chakra bound him tightly, but he flexed his wrists, testing their resilience. Even now, he could sense the currents of the water around him, the subtle shifts in the battlefield, the movements of his enemies. Samehada had gone, leaving him without his constant companion, but he was not entirely powerless. His own chakra still flowed within him, coiled and ready.
Yet, there was a part of him that allowed a fleeting glance inward, a brief acknowledgment of vulnerability. The memory of Itachi flashed unbidden-Itachi's calm composure, his measured steps, his eyes that always seemed to pierce through the facades Kisame hid behind. He had watched Itachi fight countless times, yet the memory that haunted him most was the one from years ago, when Itachi had looked at him not as a tool, not as a monster, but as a man worthy of respect.
Kisame exhaled slowly, letting the cold rain mix with the metallic tang of his blood. Respect. It was a word he had rarely been afforded. Even among the Akatsuki, he often felt like the brute, the enforcer, the monster. And yet, Itachi had seen him. Itachi had acknowledged him as more than the sum of his reputation, more than the shark-like veneer he presented to the world. That thought was a fragile comfort now, a tether to the only person who had ever truly understood him.
The Allied Shinobi approached, their eyes sharp with the intent to read his mind. Ino, Aoba, and the others were careful, trained, and professional, but Kisame anticipated their every move. They underestimated him, as so many had before. He could see the slight hesitation in their stances, the brief flickers of doubt as they sensed the depth of his chakra and the presence of Samehada's absence. Their jutsu would probe, but they would find nothing of consequence. Every secret he carried, every mission, every plan, every hidden thread of Akatsuki strategy-safe within the unyielding fortress of his mind.
Kisame's thoughts wandered to the battles that had defined him. He remembered the harsh landscapes of the Hidden Mist, the constant need to survive in a village that bred only strength through violence. He recalled the missions where moral codes were meaningless, where life and death were tools to be wielded, and where he had learned to trust no one. Betrayal was not a possibility-it was an inevitability. And yet, among all that darkness, Itachi had been a singular light, a rare constant that reminded him of something more than survival.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Across the battlefield, he glimpsed the silhouettes of ninja advancing, unaware that the prey they thought they had cornered was observing them with razor-sharp awareness. Kisame flexed his bound wrists, letting the tension of his muscles remind him that even restrained, he was still dangerous. He could still strike, still manipulate the environment, still turn the tide if need be. But he also understood the futility. He was captured, yes, but more importantly, he was still alive, and alive he could still protect what mattered most.
And then he allowed himself a rare, fleeting thought-one of longing. He thought of Itachi again, of how the Uchiha had carried himself through battles, of how he had fallen in his final moments with a grace that was almost unbearable to witness. Kisame had been there, watching, and had chosen not to interfere. He had restrained his instincts, held back his power, because he knew this was Itachi's path. And now, standing amidst the rain, chained and vulnerable, he allowed himself to feel the quiet ache of loss. The absence of Itachi was a weight he could not shed.
The rain continued to fall, cold and unrelenting, soaking through his clothes and chilling him to the bone. Yet within him, a fire burned-not for revenge, not for pride, but for loyalty. Every fiber of his being pressed against the constraints of his body, against the chains, against the inevitability of interrogation. His life had been a string of choices, some dark, some difficult, some unforgivable-but always, always, driven by loyalty. To die without betraying those he had vowed to protect was not merely honorable-it was necessary.
A flashback surfaced unbidden. He remembered a moment during a mission with Itachi, when both had faced overwhelming odds, when the world seemed determined to crush them. Itachi had moved with serene precision, a calm center amidst the storm. Kisame had attacked with ferocity, but Itachi's subtle guidance had saved them both. That memory was a balm now, a quiet reassurance that he had lived with purpose, that his existence had meaning, that even in the darkest currents of his life, he had not been entirely alone.
As the Allied Shinobi drew closer, Kisame allowed himself a small, humorless smirk. They were professionals, yes, but they did not understand the depths of his resolve. They would find nothing in his mind. No fear, no hesitation, no weakness. And even as the rain pelted him, even as his chest burned with exertion, he felt a strange sense of calm. It was a clarity born of inevitability. He had lived as a predator, as a fighter, as a loyal servant of the Akatsuki. And now, bound and facing interrogation, he would meet the next stage of his existence with the same unwavering commitment.
For a moment, the world seemed to pause. The rain fell in slow, deliberate droplets, the wind whispered through shattered branches, and Kisame, chained and battered, closed his eyes. He could almost feel Itachi beside him, his calm presence steadying him. "Stay true, Kisame. Protect what must be protected." That voice, faint but unyielding, anchored him.
Even captured, even on the brink of betrayal by forces both external and internal, Kisame remained unbroken. His eyes, cold and sharp as a shark's, flicked open, and he met the gaze of the approaching ninja. They would try. They would fail. And somewhere in the quiet recesses of his mind, he allowed the faintest acknowledgment of sorrow for Itachi, and perhaps something more, something unspoken and long buried.
A surge of determination rippled through him. He would survive this moment, not for himself, but for those he had chosen to serve, for the bonds he had honored, for the secrets he had sworn to protect. And when the world finally demanded the price, he would pay it on his own terms.
The rain poured harder, a curtain of water blurring the battlefield, washing away the grime, blood, and despair-but not the resolve within him. Kisame's grip tightened, chains straining against his strength, and the faint hum of Samehada's absence whispered to him like a ghost. He would not falter. He would not break. He would endure.
And in the shadow of his loss, the memory of Itachi lingered, a quiet, steadfast presence, guiding him even now, even as the world closed in. The shark within him waited, patient and unyielding, ready for whatever came next.
The chains bit into Kisame's wrists and ankles, biting cold against the rain-slicked skin, but that was not what caused the tightening in his chest. It was the sudden absence of Samehada, the sentient blade that had been more than a weapon, more than a partner-it had been a companion, a reflection of his own will. He could feel the shift even before his eyes tracked the movement: Samehada, responding to currents of chakra, twisting violently, then sliding decisively toward Killer Bee.
The betrayal was silent, absolute. Samehada, the weapon that had shared countless battles and absorbed innumerable enemies' chakra, had chosen another over him. In that instant, a hollow pang struck him-not fear, not pain, but something sharper and colder, like the sudden bite of an icy current against exposed flesh. For a moment, he felt truly exposed. Vulnerable. Alone.
And yet, he did not panic. His breathing remained steady, controlled, like the tide moving against a rocky shore. He flexed his fingers, muscles straining against the chains. Even without Samehada, he was not powerless. His own chakra still coursed through him, taut and controlled, ready to respond to threats-but the blade had always been an extension of himself, a part of his identity. Without it, he felt unmoored, yet still aware, still calculating.
A sharp thought cut through the haze of emotion: betrayal had been his constant companion. He had grown accustomed to it. From the hidden depths of the Mist Village to the deadly missions he had survived, trust had always been a commodity, fragile and fleeting. And yet, among all the betrayals, the loss of Samehada struck differently. It was not the loss of a tool, but of a connection, an understanding, a silent bond forged in combat. The blade had known him better than most, and its absence left a void.
Kisame's eyes flicked toward the horizon, where Allied shinobi moved with calculated precision. Ino, Aoba, and the others drew closer, sensing the momentary disturbance in his chakra, unaware that the very thing they sought-the fear, the hesitation, the opening-was already gone. Kisame's smirk, faint and humorless, crept across his face. They thought him broken, thought him alone. But they did not understand the depth of his resolve. They could take his body, bind his arms, even separate him from his blade-but they could not touch his loyalty, his purpose, the unyielding currents of his heart.
Even in that moment of quiet despair, Kisame's thoughts drifted to Itachi. The Uchiha's death had left a mark on him sharper than any wound. He had been there, hidden in the shadows, watching Itachi fall with the grace and serenity that had always defined him. Kisame had chosen not to intervene, knowing the path Itachi had taken was his alone to walk. And in that decision, in the stillness of that moment, Kisame admitted a truth he had rarely confronted: a feeling deeper than respect, loyalty, or admiration had entwined itself around his heart. Affection. Perhaps even something closer to love, though he had never given it a name.
The rain fell harder now, cold droplets stinging his exposed skin, mixing with blood and mud. Each drop was a reminder of the battlefield's reality, yet it also carried a strange clarity. In the deluge, Kisame could see the fleeting reflections of the past-missions where he had fought without thought of survival, battles where he had been feared, not understood, and moments of rare camaraderie with his Akatsuki partners.
He remembered the first time he had truly felt seen by Itachi. A subtle glance, a calm acknowledgment amidst chaos. That memory lingered like a faint current beneath the waves, invisible yet persistent, guiding him even now. The blade had betrayed him, but Itachi had not. That understanding anchored him in the storm, giving him strength even as the world shifted beneath his feet.
Kisame's mind wandered further into memory, recalling the countless times he had fought alongside Samehada, the blade absorbing chakra, saving him in moments where death had seemed inevitable. Each strike of the sword, each pulse of energy, had been a dialogue, a conversation conducted without words. And now, in the absence of that dialogue, he felt a silent echo, a void that pressed into his chest like the weight of the ocean itself.
The chains rattled as the Allied shinobi approached, their hands poised for interrogation, their jutsu ready to probe the depths of his mind. Kisame's eyes narrowed, a flicker of anger surfacing briefly, not at them, but at circumstance. They could probe all they wanted, but the fortress of his will was unbreachable. His loyalty, his memories, his bonds-untouchable. No technique, no force, no deception could penetrate the defenses he had honed over years of survival.
And still, even in the midst of anger and calculation, the ache for Itachi persisted. He thought of the Uchiha's calm, composed demeanor, the way he had carried himself in life and death. He thought of Itachi's final moments, the faint smile, the relaxed posture, the peace in his eyes even as his body gave way. Kisame's chest tightened with a mixture of sorrow and longing. He had chosen not to intervene, knowing Itachi's path must unfold as it did. And yet, in the quiet recesses of his heart, he mourned-not just the loss of a comrade, but the absence of someone whose presence had defined a part of him he rarely acknowledged.
The rain intensified, hammering down in a relentless rhythm, blurring the edges of the battlefield. Mud and water mixed with blood, creating a chaotic canvas upon which fate had painted his current plight. Kisame's breathing remained steady, each inhale measured, each exhale deliberate. The chains dug into his skin, cold and unyielding, yet they could not bind the currents of his resolve. He was still a predator, still a warrior, still the shark that had earned a fearsome reputation in the Hidden Mist.
A flicker of movement in the corner of his vision reminded him of the impermanence of all things. He could feel the currents of chakra shifting as the shinobi adjusted their positions, preparing to strike, to bind, to extract. But Kisame's awareness was complete. Every step, every breath, every subtle twitch of muscle was calculated. They could approach, they could attempt, but they would find nothing. The fortress of his mind was absolute.
In the quiet spaces between the chaos, Kisame allowed himself a fleeting, unguarded thought: Itachi. He replayed the Uchiha's words, his calm presence, his subtle guidance in countless battles. The memory was a lifeline, a thread connecting him to something beyond the immediate threat, beyond the pain, beyond the betrayal of Samehada. It reminded him of who he was, of what he had chosen to protect, of the loyalty that defined him even more than the weapon that had abandoned him.
The chains rattled once more as the Allied shinobi advanced. Kisame's eyes gleamed, a shark in the depths of a storm, unyielding, untouchable in spirit. He would endure. He would survive. He would protect. And somewhere in that turbulent sea of blood, mud, and rain, he acknowledged the ache in his heart-the quiet, unspoken longing for Itachi, a bond that had transcended life and death, a presence that lingered in memory even as the world sought to strip everything from him.
The storm continued to rage, and in its fury, Kisame found clarity. He was bound, yes. Vulnerable, yes. But unbroken. Even betrayed by his blade, even confronted with the inevitability of interrogation, he stood resolute. He was Kisame Hoshigaki. Predator. Warrior. Loyalist. And even in the absence of Samehada, he would remain true to himself, to the Akatsuki, and, silently, to the memory of Itachi.