The air around Mist Village hits different—heavy, suffocating, like even the snowflakes hesitate at the border, too scared to cross into whatever dark-ass secrets are lurking. Nature itself is like, "Nah, I'm good."
"Land of Water, Mist Village, the 'Bloody Mist' era…" Uchiha Makoto muttered to himself, a cocky grin curling his lips, eyes glinting with that hunter's thrill—like a predator stepping into uncharted jungle, ready to fuck shit up.
Back in the Land of Fire, ancient trees blocked out the damn sun. Two teenage shadows zipped through the canopy, silent as ghosts, hauling ass toward the Leaf Village. Their speed was insane—feet barely grazing branches, covering miles in seconds, moves so slick they'd smoke any elite jonin from the Five Great Nations.
But the vibe between them? Dead. Fucking. Silent. Like the forest itself was holding its breath, birds and bugs too spooked to make a peep.
In Itachi's arms, he clutched Makoto's last "keepsake"—a blood-crusted, dirt-streaked outfit. He couldn't even save his little brother's body. His grip was iron-tight, knuckles ghost-white, like the wind might snatch this final piece of him and erase it forever.
Shisui kept glancing over, lips parting like he wanted to say something, then clamping shut. Itachi's face was pale as a corpse, eyes—usually sharp with wisdom and warmth—now just… empty. Dead pools. Shisui knew his best friend too well; any "cheer up" bullshit would be laughably useless, barely scratching the surface of Itachi's pain.
So he shut up, swallowed a thousand thoughts, and just ran beside him in silence. He felt guilt, regret—hell, it even unlocked his own Mangekyo—but it wasn't a fraction of what Itachi was carrying.
Soon, the Leaf Village gates loomed into view, that familiar rock wall and archway hitting like a gut punch of dread. Shisui's muscles tensed, side-eyeing Itachi, bracing for whatever meltdown was coming.
But Itachi didn't snap. He just… froze inside. Like something in him had turned to stone.
They turned in their bullshit cover mission report from the Cloud trip, all routine. Itachi was a robot—cold, mechanical, zero warmth. Not a trace of the kid he used to be.
In the Hokage's office, the Third—Hiruzen Sarutobi—took the report, his sharp eyes locking on Itachi. That subtle respect the kid always had? Gone. Just hollow nothing staring back.
Hiruzen's pipe paused mid-air, brows twitching. He tried the kindly grandpa routine. "Itachi, tough mission, huh? You look beat. Something wrong? Need anything from me?"
Itachi didn't even flinch. A bitter smirk twisted his lips—You weren't there when I needed you most, old man. No response, no courtesy, nothing. He just turned, clutching the bloody clothes, and walked out like Hiruzen was a ghost.
The old man stared at that retreating back, pipe nearly cracking in his grip. His eyes caught the dark red stains on the fabric. Smoke curled as a deep, heavy suspicion settled in his gut. He knocked his pipe on the desk—thunk—and an ANBU materialized. "Get Danzo. Now."
Outside the Hokage building, Itachi and Shisui stood in awkward silence. Shisui's brows were knotted seeing Itachi diss the Third like that; the air felt thicker, like it was about to choke them.
As they parted, Shisui tried. "Itachi, you—"
Itachi didn't hear him. Or didn't care. He just turned, hugging Makoto's clothes, and walked toward the Uchiha compound without looking back—cold, final, like he'd cut the whole world off.
A few steps later, Itachi's raspy voice, laced with chakra, hit Shisui's ears. "Shisui… if you still see me as a friend, don't tell anyone about Makoto."
Then he was gone, vanishing around a corner.
Shisui's outstretched hand froze, then dropped like dead weight. Pain, confusion, guilt—he stood there forever, until it melted into a sigh too soft to hear.
Itachi marched home, ignoring every clan member, neighbor, or curious glance. His world was soundproofed—only the weight in his arms and the echo in his chest.
In the yard, Sasuke was pounding a training post, sweat dripping, looking every bit the eager little brother. Seeing Itachi, his face lit up. "Big bro! You're ba—"
He stopped dead. Itachi's face—pale as death, brows locked, eyes… barren. Sasuke's excitement choked in his throat, replaced by a kid's terror.
Itachi didn't stop, didn't look. He couldn't risk breaking. Straight to his room, locked the door—click.
He slid down the door, curling into the darkest corner, burying himself in shadow. Clutched those clothes like driftwood in a storm.
No screaming. No raging. Just… suffocating stillness. Like every ounce of life died with Makoto.
Memories flooded in, uninvited. Baby Makoto—soft, clingy, toddling toward him with grabby hands. Then the little shit phase—spouting wild-ass logic, pulling stunts so ridiculous you couldn't even be mad. Way worse than Sasuke, ten times the headache.
But Itachi never minded. He loved it. Raised that chaotic gremlin from infancy to two and a half, pouring his soul into every second. Exhausting, messy, but now? Every memory glowed with a warmth that stabbed like a knife.
His lips twitched into a smile—uglier than crying. That first eye-opening at two and a half? Pure trust, refusing to doubt Itachi even when the world was shit. Makoto baited himself to expose the village elders' corruption, betting his life. At two and a half, he schemed for half a year to push a pro-Uchiha Fifth Hokage. Genius.
Only to get backstabbed by Orochimaru—that snake bastard. Makoto awakened his two-tomoe Sharingan at three, in crushing pain and betrayal. Everyone praised his talent. Nobody talked about the agony.
And this time… burning his last drop of chakra to save him…
If he'd just left me and ran… he'd be alive.
The thought sliced deep. Itachi slapped himself—hard. The crack echoed. Cheek burned, but it was nothing compared to his heart.
If he hadn't played hero in Cloud Village, Makoto wouldn't have been forced to… Why wasn't he the one who died? Makoto was just a kid. His life barely started—snuffed out before it could bloom.
Dying like that… the pain, the loneliness, the fear… he was so small…
"And I… I couldn't do SHIT!!!"
"I watched him fade… die in my arms… couldn't even save his body…"
The dam broke. His Mangekyo—unlocked only after Makoto died—flared open. Intricate patterns spun in crimson, pulsing with grief and doom.
Thick, blood-like tears poured down, unstoppable, splattering the clothes, blooming dark red flowers on the fabric.
Itachi shook violently, choking on guttural, animalistic whimpers from the depths of his throat. He bit his lip until he tasted iron, locking every scream inside this tiny, dark room.
Eleven years old, sealed in his own tomb.
Knocks came—Mom's soft worry, Sasuke's hesitant voice, even Shisui a few times. He never answered. Just a statue in the dark.
Days blurred. Sun rose, set, light shifted across him—he didn't feel it. A breathing corpse.
Family stopped knocking, just left food at the door. He never touched it.
This room became his grave—where he buried hope, warmth, everything.
Until one pale morning, cold sunlight sliced through the window, landing on him like judgment.
His lashes twitched.
Stiff, numb, he cradled the blood-and-tear-soaked clothes like fragile glass. Stood up, legs screaming.
Opened the door. Slipped out like a ghost. No one noticed.