Itachi Uchiha walked along the Nanigawa River until the noise of the village faded behind him. He stopped at a quiet little hill, grass soft underfoot, far enough from everything that the only sounds were wind and water having a quiet conversation.
From the top you could see the Hokage Rock looming in the distance (those stone faces staring down like they actually gave a damn) and, closer, the silent, half-empty Uchiha district that used to feel like home.
He knelt, rolled up his sleeves, and started digging with his bare hands. No jutsu. Just skin, dirt, and grief.
Mud caked under his fingernails and the cold soaked into his bones, but he kept going. Each scoop of earth felt like peeling off another layer of his soul.
When the hole was deep enough, he did something that would've broken anyone watching: he lay down in it. Slowly. Carefully. Adjusted his body like he was making damn sure the person who was supposed to be there would be comfortable.
Then he got up, placed a neatly folded set of clothes (Makoto's clothes) at the bottom, and buried them one gentle handful at a time.
A grave for someone who wasn't even dead. Not to the village, anyway.
He stood there afterward like a gravestone that learned how to bleed. Wind came, wind left. Clouds rolled by. He didn't move until the sun started dipping low.
Then he turned and walked away. Back straight. No looking back. Like he'd just buried the last warm piece of himself.
Back home, Itachi went full ghost. No missions. No talking. Just sitting in the dark, staring at nothing for hours—like a doll someone forgot to put batteries in.
Only once in a blue moon, if you caught him lifting his eyes, you'd see it: something black and freezing and completely fucking insane swirling way down in the depths. A black hole wearing his face.
Night fell.
Fugaku came home from the Police Force looking like he'd aged ten years in a week. The way his eldest had gone quiet ate at him worse than any shouting match ever could.
He glanced out at the yard. Sasuke was out there absolutely murdering a training post, swinging so hard his arms were shaking, sweat dripping like he was trying to wash something off his soul.
Fugaku sighed. "Sasuke. Go get your brother. Tell him I need him in my study."
Sasuke nodded hard, stopped mid-swing, and bolted. Kid was drenched, arms trembling from overtraining, but he'd take any excuse to check on Itachi.
He skidded to a stop outside Itachi's door and knocked—soft, like he was scared it might shatter.
"Nii-san… Dad wants you in the study."
Dead silence. Long enough that Sasuke's heart started doing parkour.
He knocked again. "Nii-san… you okay? You've been… weird. Like, really sad weird." His voice cracked. "Do you… miss Makoto?"
Sasuke clenched his fists until his knuckles went white. Still no Sharingan, but he forced every ounce of big-boy energy he had into his voice.
"Don't worry! I'm gonna get strong and drag him back here myself! I've been training like crazy!"
He even flexed at the door—like the wood was gonna be impressed by his noodle arms.
Thanks to Makoto teaching him the sacred art of being a clingy little shit, Sasuke had finally worn down that spandex-wearing lunatic Might Guy and gotten him to take him on as a student. The "training" was basically legalized torture, but a few days ago Guy had slapped him on the back hard enough to realign his spine, flashed those blinding teeth, and yelled:
"That's the power of YOUTH, Sasuke! Keep burning! When you're ready, I'll teach you the ultimate taijutsu—the key that unlocks the treasures of the body!"
Sasuke was 100% sure the ultimate move was the Eight Gates. Makoto had told him all about it, complete with dramatic hand gestures and sound effects.
He was gonna master that shit, kick down Kumogakure's front door, and haul Makoto home. Easy.
The door creaked open.
Itachi looked like a corpse that had learned manners—pale, empty, terrifyingly calm.
He reached out, slow as a ghost, and ruffled Sasuke's spiky hair. Gentle. Way too gentle.
"…Good," he said, voice flat as printer paper. "Keep it up."
He wasn't gonna tell Sasuke the truth. That Makoto was "dead." That kind of weight? It'd crush what was left of his little brother. Itachi would carry that coffin alone.
As for Shisui… things were complicated. Shisui's family had been Konoha loyalists for generations—blind faith in the village, in the Hokage. Itachi had seen too much of the rot underneath. After losing Makoto, walking the same path as Shisui felt impossible.
Different roads. Eventually, those roads end in blood.
Itachi walked past Sasuke, steps perfectly even, spine straight—like a blade sliding into its sheath.
Time to have a talk with Dad.
Fugaku's study smelled like old paper and unspoken resentment. One weak lamp fought the darkness and lost. Files from the Police Force and clan business were stacked high enough to build a fort.
Fugaku hated both jobs. Power was a poison he'd never asked to drink.
The door opened without a knock.
Itachi stepped in—no bow, no "excuse me," just walked straight to the desk, pulled out a chair, and sat like he owned the damn place.
Kinda reminded Fugaku of Makoto, actually. Same casual disrespect.
Itachi looked up. Black eyes met black eyes.
Disappointment, ice-cold resentment, and something sharper flickered in the dark.
Fugaku set down his pen. His eyesight wasn't what it used to be, but the second their gazes locked he felt a sting—like staring into a mirror that hated him back.
"What happened, Itachi?"
Silence stretched so long it could've filed its own taxes.
Under the surface, something monstrous thrashed—grief, rage, madness piling up like a scream with nowhere to go.
Finally Itachi opened his mouth, voice low and sharp enough to cut steel.
And the showdown began.