I didn't plan to kill him.
That's the truth. I know how weak it sounds, but it matters to me, so I'll say it anyway.
I didn't wake up that morning thinking today someone dies.
I woke up thinking about my hands.
They wouldn't stop shaking.
---
The Academy sparring ring was damp from last night's rain. Mud clung to sandals. The air smelled like wet earth and sweat. We were paired off without ceremony, names called out like chores.
"Uchiha Ren versus Kaito."
I recognized him immediately.
Not from class.
From the alley.
Civilian-born. Stocky. Always laughing too loud. One of the boys who'd kicked me while the others watched. His nose had been broken once—by me—and it healed crooked.
He smiled when he saw my name.
A real smile this time.
My stomach tightened.
We bowed.
The moment the signal was given, he rushed me.
Fast. Faster than he should've been.
Chakra-enhanced legs. Sloppy, but powerful. He wanted to overwhelm me, drive me back, put me on the ground where he felt safe.
I stepped aside.
Not enough.
His shoulder clipped my chest and knocked the air out of me. I hit the mud hard, breath gone in a sharp, panicked gasp. Before I could roll, his knee slammed into my ribs.
Pain bloomed white.
I tasted iron.
"Stay down," he muttered, more to himself than me.
I didn't.
I grabbed his ankle and twisted.
Not cleanly. Not perfectly. I felt tendons slide under my fingers, felt resistance before it gave. He screamed and stumbled, but he didn't fall. He kicked me in the face, heel catching my cheekbone.
Stars exploded behind my eyes.
Something snapped into place.
The world slowed—not dramatically, not like a switch being flipped. More like everything else got tired and decided to move out of my way.
Red bled into my vision.
I saw the opening before he knew he'd made it.
I surged up, inside his guard, elbow driving into his throat. Not hard enough to crush it—just enough to steal his breath. His eyes bulged. He gagged.
I swept his good leg.
He went down this time.
I was on him before the mud settled, fist raised.
"Ren!" someone shouted.
I hesitated.
That was my mistake.
Kaito's hand flashed up, kunai appearing like he'd been holding it the whole time—which he probably had. The blade slid between my ribs.
Not deep.
Enough.
The pain didn't scream. It burned.
I stared at the kunai buried in my side, disbelief dulling everything else. Training kunai weren't supposed to be sharp like that.
I looked at his face.
He was smiling again.
That's when I stopped caring.
---
I don't remember standing.
I remember my hand closing around his wrist.
I remember twisting until his grip broke and the kunai came free.
I remember plunging it down.
Once.
Twice.
I don't remember aiming.
Blood sprayed warm across my hands, my arms, my face. He convulsed beneath me, mouth opening and closing soundlessly. The Sharingan showed me everything—the way his muscles failed, the way his heartbeat stuttered, the exact moment fear overtook pain.
I watched it all.
I felt nothing.
Hands grabbed my shoulders and tore me back. The world rushed in all at once—shouting, screaming, the sharp whistle of a medic-nin dropping beside Kaito's body.
Someone slapped me.
Hard.
"Deactivate it!" Iruka yelled, panic edging his voice.
I blinked.
The red drained away.
Cold hit me immediately.
I looked down.
My hands were soaked.
Kaito wasn't moving.
For a long moment, no one spoke.
Then the medic shook his head.
---
They put me in a room with white walls and no windows.
Time passed. Or it didn't. I couldn't tell.
Blood dried on my skin, sticky and dark. No one cleaned me up. No one spoke to me. I sat on the floor with my back against the wall and counted my breaths because if I didn't, my thoughts would start moving again.
Eventually, the door opened.
Two men walked in.
One wore standard shinobi gear. The other wore nothing distinctive at all, which somehow made him worse. His eyes were sharp, measuring, like he was already dissecting me.
"Uchiha Ren," the plain man said. "Do you know what you've done?"
I thought about lying.
I thought about crying.
Instead, I said, "Yes."
Silence.
"He attacked first," I added. "With a live blade."
The shinobi nodded grimly. "That will be verified."
The plain man crouched in front of me. We were eye level.
"Did you intend to kill him?"
I searched myself for the answer.
"I intended to stop him," I said finally. "I didn't stop when I should have."
He smiled faintly.
"Interesting distinction."
That was when I realized something far worse than punishment was happening.
They weren't deciding if I was dangerous.
They were deciding how useful that danger could be.
---
That night, alone again, I scrubbed my hands until the skin cracked.
The water ran pink, then clear.
My hands were still shaking.
But not from fear.
From restraint.
---