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(PoV Sasuke)
The ceiling still had that thin little crack — zip — cutting across the corner like a wound that never closes. Good. Familiar. I took a slow, deep breath, keeping my body loose and my gaze empty. "Broken." The genjutsu I'd left on myself still hummed at the back of my head — vrrr… vrrr… — holding a tight mask over my stone face. Somewhere, my clone waited with the command tied to the edge of a seal: undo everything the moment I wanted. One longer blink and done. Not now.
They think I'm in pieces. Great. Pieces cut.
The house creaked softly — creeeek — and from the hallway came the clean smell of alcohol, a reminder of Inoichi's visit earlier. Tests, calm questions, that trained stare trying to scoop up thoughts with a butterfly net. I faked weight, I faked stupor, I faked winter. He bought it. When he left, the house was mine again.
Until it wasn't.
The sliding door whispered — shrrp — and a cat-masked figure stopped on the threshold. Purple hair in a ponytail, shadow posture, blade-silent.
— Hokage's orders — the low voice said. NEKO. I assumed Yugao.
Behind her, three faces my memory recognized before my heart admitted it: Hana Inuzuka, Kurenai Yūhi, Anko Mitarashi. Young — younger than the versions I remembered from the other timeline — but already carrying that glow of people who don't look away.
Before anyone spoke, my mind did what it had to do — the practical way: describe, catalog, store.
Hana stepped in first, firm footsteps — tok, tok — and a faint scent of herbs and kennel. Dark brown hair tied high, short bangs nearly brushing her brows, amber eyes alert, a nose too sensitive for a house that still remembered the night. Standard Medical Corps jacket over simple civilian clothes; knees nicked from training, discreet scrapes, clean nails. Fourteen, but with the calm hands of someone who bandages wounds without shaking. Smell of neutral soap and tea. Someone who knows every bark by name.
Kurenai, twenty-two, the kind of beauty you think you understand — and don't. Black hair in shoulder-length waves; deep red eyes beneath thick lashes, like coals under ash. Black-and-white kimono with red accents, waist cinched by a dark obi, posture flawless. Genjutsu even in the way she blinks. When she tilts her head, the world tilts a degree with it. A teacher's voice: pulls you by the hand but doesn't let go if you stumble.
Anko, twenty-two, crooked smile, a cheek dimple that says "I know what you're thinking." Beige trench coat open over dark mesh, net sleeves, dark-brown hair tied high, a rebellious fringe — flip — forever falling. Foxy eyes that laugh before her mouth does. Smell of dango and gunpowder. Too much energy on her shoulders. Walks like she's daring the floor not to creak.
Yugao was almost invisible, as suits those who shouldn't exist. Purple hair tied back, cat mask, ANBU bearing. Long, katana-holder fingers. Seventeen, and a whole shadow kept between her heart and the world. Says little, sees much. Light seems reluctant to touch her.
Hana took a small step forward, squared her shoulders, and spoke with gentle firmness:
— Good morning, Sasuke-kun. Hokage-sama assigned us as your guardians… to take care of you.
Guardian, take care. Two words that say a lot and hide more. My other life nudged my memory: in one version of the world, maybe something like this happened — distant eyes, procedural visits. But not like this, not all four. I looked at each of them and returned my usual "nothing." Stone face. Inside, the checklist ran: hide the Inventory, hide the shrine's undercroft, hide the bottled sun in my chest. And… Hana.
Hana.
She moved like someone recognizing a pup she'd held before. In her eyes, a shadow of memory — Kiba small, me even smaller, the smell of soap and laughter, a forced bath on a muddy afternoon. Izumi flashed through her mind — I caught it in a micro-gesture — and it hurt. The world went quiet for a second — … — and started again.
— Come in — I said, sliding the door aside with a mild shaa.
The room inhaled people. Kurenai and Anko brought color and light chatter, Yugao brought absence, Hana brought home. I went to the kitchen and grabbed four cups. Clinc, clinc, clinc, clinc. Water. Just water. I set them on a tray and served in silence, one by one. The four of them gave me a strange look; not the "strange" of fear, the "strange" of being off-script.
Kurenai tilted her head slightly — tilt — and smiled small:
— Hmm… Sasuke-chan, do you know how to make tea?
I shook my head twice. No.
She tried another route:
— Sasuke-chan, do you… know how to cook?
I shook my head again. The "me" that isn't me never cooked. The "me" that was me cooked every day. In moments like these, theater calls for improv. Best to stick with water. Harder to mess up water.
Hana furrowed her brow — a tiny sign Ibiki might miss, but I don't. Her expression shifted from "okay" to "worried" in two heartbeats.
— Sasuke-kun, have you eaten anything today?
Silence was my plate. I didn't answer. Didn't need to. She was already on her feet — rasp — straightening her sleeve:
— All right, I'll make something.
The kitchen sprang to life. clac—clac, chhh, tac-tac, plim. The sound of oil, a knife chopping, water boiling, a bowl tapping the counter, a spoon circling. Good smells rising — garlic browning, rice on point, broth tugging at memory. Kurenai and Anko chatted, bright and easy, sweeping topics across the table: changes to the chūnin exams, gentle gossip about a jōnin who lost his cool in training, that "suddenly adult" feeling. Anko dropped an inside joke — hehe — and Kurenai rolled her eyes with elegance. Yugao, discreet, settled where shadows meet. I ate quietly when the food came, and the food was a warm house on a cold day. Sometimes that's all it is.
When the plates had lightened, Hana looked at me again, voice soft with a careful edge:
— Sasuke-chan… what do you plan to do? Do you intend to keep living in the compound?
The conversation wilted — puf. Anko's spoon froze midair; Kurenai touched her chin; Yugao shifted a fraction, like bracing for wind. I squeezed my chopsticks until I heard the wood complain — tec. Precise acting: measured force, rehearsed anger, clear target.
— I'm going to take revenge on Uchiha Itachi and the masked man — I said, and my voice didn't shake. The world trembled two millimeters. — As for the Uchiha compound… I plan to rent it out. Cheap. Too much happened there… — The words dropped like stones laid into a river, one by one. — I want income that doesn't depend on missions. And I prefer familiar people living close.
Three pairs of eyes gleamed for different reasons. Anyone paying rent in Konoha can do the math: a big house for apartment prices? You don't say no. Plus, guardians with homes in the right block can watch without looking like they're watching. I could also see the old monkey's hand behind this "protection." Seduction as tactic? Maybe. "Ah, Hiruzen…" — I smiled inside. If he wants to surround me with wolves, what's wrong with adopting the pack?
Hana scratched her nape, a bit sheepish:
— Hm… I've been looking for a place to live. Think I could… get one of the houses? Then I can help with meals, with routines…
— Sure — I answered without hesitation, gauging every link of the chain. — We'll check apartment prices and cut them down. If you'll be cooking for me… we can cut a little more.
The corners of her mouth lifted — plim. Kurenai crossed her legs, leaned back, and spoke with that firm softness:
— In return, I'll teach you genjutsu properly. Discipline, technique, eye-reading. No dangerous shortcuts.
— I've got hand-to-hand — Anko thumped her chest — tac. — You'll hit and make it hurt without breaking, and break when it's time. And dango afterward, because nobody trains on an empty stomach.
Yugao tilted her mask, a few words slipping out:
— Sword. Stance. Breathing.
— And the house — Hana finished, chuckling. — I'll teach you the basics without setting the stove on fire.
The list clicked shut inside my head. Training without showing who I am; routine without showing what I have. They get a house at apartment rates; I get fences that look like flowers.
Instinct kicking in, Hana inhaled deeply. Her nose twitched — snff — and her chest lifted a little. The "hello, instincts" face was clear. The kitchen carried my scent, night scent, the old blood hidden in the floorboards.
She made a quick face, drew in another breath — snff-snff — and reached the conclusion I already knew: the smell had stuck to my skin.
— Right — she said, springing up. — Everyone finished? — Kurenai set her chopsticks down, Anko licked a smear of sauce at the edge of her plate — slrp — and Yugao rose as if the chair had forgotten her. — Sasuke-kun — Hana turned to me, decided, but with a gentle care in her chin — let's take a bath.
Silence blinked. Kurenai pressed her lips to hide a smile; Anko arched an eyebrow with that mischievous ease she uses to loosen a room; Yugao… Yugao stayed like still wind.
I thought about resisting for a second — theater needs marks — but memory tugged at the edge: me, smaller, caked in mud, Hana scolding between laughs, soap in my hair, warm water — shaa — and the improbable feeling of being safe for a few minutes in the middle of chaos. Present and past gave each other a small nod.
Hana held out her hand. Warm. Steady fingers. No hesitation.
— Come — she said, and her "come" sounded more like home than command.
I set the chopsticks on the table — tec — and stood. The others made way. The hallway shrank, like the walls wanted to listen. Each step made the floor speak — tok, tok, tok — and beneath the genjutsu my mind tightened invisible locks: Inventory sealed, shrine secret guarded, calm eyes, low breath. Stone outside, capped sun inside.
Her hand squeezed mine lightly — tump — and tugged me toward the bathroom. The door slid — shrrp — letting out the cold gleam of tile and the shy bark of the pipe — ploc… ploc… — reminding us the water still remembered the way.
— Don't worry — Hana murmured, like promising a dog the medicine is just a sip. — We'll take care of it. I'll take care of it. Okay?
I just nodded. Once.
Behind us, Kurenai stacked plates into neat piles — clinc, clinc —, Anko hummed a naughty little tune under her breath just to make the room laugh guilt-free, and Yugao leaned back into the shadow and disappeared into her precision.
At the bathroom door, steam began to rise — shaaa… — like a warm blanket pulled over a hard day. Hana squeezed my fingers a little more, and I let myself be led, thinking how the world — with all its noise of war, bills, and masks — sometimes fits into the simplest gesture.
She turned the tap — clac — and the water answered in a rush — CHHHH. And there, with tile throwing light in every direction and the sound of the bath filling the cracks, it ended: her hand in mine, guiding me, step by step, as if saying without saying — "first we wash the night off your skin; then we face the rest.""