---
The trail back to the outpost seemed longer than it ever had before.
Mist lingered in the air, crawling through the forest like a slow-moving fog, reluctant to leave the Earth behind. The battle was over. The bandits who had ambushed them were nothing but memories now—scattered bodies and the lingering smell of iron in the air. Yet for Team 11, something of that fight remained, clinging to their skin, their minds—like the blood that sticks to the soul in places that soap and water can't reach.
Akira led them through the forest, walking in measured steps. Silent. Steady. His katana, now sheathed, still felt alive in his hand, its weight a constant reminder. Each footstep he took was deliberate—almost too deliberate, as if the act of controlling each step could help him keep his mind from wandering into the darker places. His thoughts had a habit of spiraling after a mission, especially after one like that.
Behind him, Noboru struggled to keep pace, leaning heavily on Asenari's shoulder, his breath ragged from the strain. The deep bruising across his ribs had not been fully healed, despite Asenari's best efforts. She moved slower than usual, cautious not to jostle him, but her gaze kept flickering back to Akira's back, her concern barely hidden beneath the careful surface of her composure.
"He hasn't said a word since we left the clearing," Asenari murmured to Noboru, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Yeah," Noboru muttered, his voice strained. "He gets like that. Ever since that one mission near the border—remember?"
Asenari nodded, her eyes lowering. "I remember. He took a life that day too."
"And he's been carrying it ever since," Noboru added quietly.
The silence between them was not uncomfortable. It was familiar. Heavy. Worn like an old jacket that you'd patched up a hundred times, but still clung to you, reminding you of the things it couldn't fully cover. Their shared quiet was something they had grown used to, a silent agreement forged between them all—a way to stay close even without words. A way to understand that sometimes, nothing needed to be said.
The trail twisted around a ridge just before the valley, where the trees parted to reveal the sweeping hills of the Fire Country beyond. The sun was hidden behind a thick layer of clouds, casting everything in muted shades of gray and green. Below them, the path curved along the edge of a jagged rock outcrop, leading toward the distant outpost that would mark the end of their mission. And yet, Akira stopped just short of the descent.
He didn't turn around, but his voice was tight when he spoke. "Take five."
Asenari eased Noboru down beside a thick, gnarled root, watching him groan as he shifted his weight, still too proud to admit just how much pain he was in. He exhaled, a breath that was half-laugh and half-cough. "Alright—standing might wait a few minutes."
Akira moved a few paces away, sitting on the edge of the cliff, his legs hanging off the side. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, though it was unclear whether he truly saw it. He didn't speak, didn't move. It was the same kind of stillness that overtook him after every mission—a kind of quiet that only grew in its intensity with the passing of time.
---
In his mind…
The flash of a blade, too swift to track.
The heat of blood—sticky, warm—splattered across his cheek.
The vacant expression in the bandit's eyes as he looked up, confusion, not fear, mirrored in their depths. No recognition of death. Only an attempt to survive.
Akira clenched his fists, his thoughts a whirlpool that he couldn't escape.
"I killed him before I even thought about it."
He breathed in sharply, exhaled slowly, trying to release the knot in his chest. But there it was, a familiar ache, a gnawing emptiness that never seemed to leave. Not after a fight. Not after a life taken.
That wasn't the first time.
---
A long time ago, before he had fully understood what it meant to be Uchiha, to be a weapon instead of a child, he had sat in an academy classroom with only the quiet for company.
He was maybe eight years old.
The classroom was mostly empty. The others had gone home, as they always did, their laughter and chatter fading in the halls as the sun dipped lower in the sky. Akira stayed behind, as he always did, bent over the desk, copying something from the board he had missed earlier.
Alone. Or so he thought.
The sound of a soft thud broke the silence, a rustle of bags being dropped onto the floor. Akira glanced up to see a girl with pale violet eyes and scruffy knees settling down next to him, a bag falling beside her. She didn't look at him, just opened her scroll, unphased.
He blinked, slightly surprised by the presence. "You're still here," he said, as much a statement as a question.
"So are you," she replied, her voice calm and even, without the edge of curiosity that he might have expected.
Silence settled between them again, but it wasn't the oppressive kind that Akira was used to. It was the kind that made room for things that words couldn't carry, things that only grew in the space between people.
After a while, the sound of her brush gliding over paper drew his attention. The strokes were too neat, too refined for a child's hand, smooth and deliberate. Medical calligraphy. Already, she was practicing chakra diagrams.
"You're the Uchiha, right?" she asked suddenly, her voice casual, yet with an undercurrent of something more—something that Akira couldn't place.
He stiffened slightly. "Yeah."
"My mom said the Uchiha don't cry. Is that true?"
The question hung in the air, and for a moment, Akira wasn't sure how to answer. The expectation of what it meant to be Uchiha was already so heavy on his shoulders—something more than just a name, more than just a clan. It was a mantle. A burden.
"Why would we?" he asked, his tone flat. He had already learned, long ago, that showing emotion was something other people didn't appreciate.
She shrugged, unconcerned. "I don't cry either. Not since she died."
Akira's hand stilled for a moment, the brush slipping from his fingers. He blinked, caught off guard by her openness. This wasn't a conversation he'd expected to have.
He studied her for a long moment, realizing something deep in his chest. She wasn't hiding behind her silence. She wore it like armor, just as he did.
"…You're Asenari."
She nodded slowly, as if she had expected that moment to come. "We should sit together more."
---
Present…
Asenari sat perched on a flat stone near Akira, watching the back of that same boy—now taller, more guarded, more burdened by the weight of time. He was different, but the same, and in some ways, that hurt more than anything. She knew him like she knew herself, and that familiarity was both a comfort and a reminder of all the things left unspoken between them.
"I remember the first time you said something kind to me," she said softly, her voice barely a whisper against the rustle of leaves.
Akira didn't turn to look at her, but she could feel the slight stiffening of his shoulders, the tiny breath he took before answering. "That doesn't sound like me."
"It wasn't much," she continued, her smile softening as she leaned against the stone. "You just said my handwriting was clean."
There was a pause. A quiet beat.
"That was true," Akira replied, the ghost of a smile tugging at his lips.
Asenari chuckled under her breath, the sound light and fleeting. "You were the first person to say anything nice to me since the funeral."
A long silence followed, thick with memories and emotions they both carried.
Then, Akira broke the quiet. "You were the first person to sit next to me without a reason."
Asenari's lips curled into a faint smile, her heart beating just a little faster in that moment.
Behind them, Noboru groaned as he pulled himself up from the ground, grumbling as he wiped at his face. "Alright, enough with the nostalgia. Let's move before I start crying and betray the entire Inuzuka name."
Asenari and Akira both chuckled at the same time, the sound easy, familiar. And for a brief moment, everything felt lighter, if only for that shared laughter.
---
Elsewhere, hidden from their view, the tall figure reclined against a tree, the darkening sky above him.
Rick sat, his flask held loosely in his hand, the usual drunken confidence absent from his features. His face was unreadable, darkened by the weight of thoughts that seemed far from the usual chaos he thrived in.
He adjusted the goggles on his head, watching Akira with something that bordered between curiosity and something deeper, darker. His gaze lingered, assessing, as if trying to decide something.
"But that Uchiha kid…" He paused, almost to himself. "He's got the look."
A long, silent pause followed.
"He'll meet me again soon enough," Rick muttered under his breath, his hand reaching into his coat. With a practiced flick, he pulled out a scroll—old, cracked, the markings on it twisting in ways that didn't belong to this world.
"Better get ahead of it before it gets messy again," he added quietly, his voice tinged with an unspoken warning.
---
To be continued…
---