Three weeks into my ANBU training, something happened.
Itachi Uchiha lost it — killed his entire clan, left his brother alive.
Once the news reached HQ, everything scattered. Most ANBU left — some to hunt him, some to search for survivors, some to collect whatever was left. Even the mentors disappeared.
When they came back, the air felt different. Heavy. Watching.
That's when I heard, from whispers, my position in the Corps was under review.
Apparently, Itachi had joined the ANBU around my age.
And the reason for his breakdown? Probably the kind of things ANBU are told to do.
So now, I was a risk.
A ten-year-old risk.
I tried not to think about it — the idea of being pushed out because of my age. Because of what I might become. I didn't really know what to do with that.
Still, three weeks of training had changed me. A lot.
My genjutsu got sharper — smoother, harder to notice. My water-style improved enough that I could skip a few hand signs, and my taijutsu — my strongest point — only got cleaner. Sparring with real ANBU under Cat's supervision pushed me further than any academy ever could.
Cat, my mentor, used to seem sure I'd make it in.
But after her visit to the Uchiha compound, something changed.
She started hesitating when she looked at me.
Not afraid, exactly — just uncertain. Like she was seeing a line she didn't want to cross, and I was standing on the wrong side of it.
I could tell she was thinking about failing me. Maybe to protect me. Maybe to protect others.
She hasn't yet.
Not yet.
⸻
It was the last day of my training.
I sat on the ground by the wall of the underground training hall — stone, cracked and cold. The air felt thick, unmoving. I liked it that way. Quiet made it easier to think.
I went over what I'd learned here. What I'd become in just a month I could almost recognize the person I was trying to turn into. Almost.
Then I heard her.
"Seven."
Her voice cut clean through the silence.
"Cat," I said, standing and bowing my head slightly — a small show of respect.
She stopped a few steps behind me. I could hear her breathing through the mask. That steady rhythm she had before hard conversations.
"You done training?" she asked.
"Yes. For today."
The silence stretched long enough to tell me she hadn't come to talk about drills.
"Tomorrow," she said finally, "I have to submit my review. Officially, either dismiss or accept you into the ANBU."
I nodded, waiting. The air between us felt heavier by the second.
She hesitated — rare for her. "You've done well. Better than most recruits."
That didn't sound like praise. It sounded like the start of an apology.
Then it came. "Seven… you don't have to continue this."
I paused, thinking about what to say.
She wanted me to resist. If I agreed too easily, she'd think I was scared. If I fought back too harshly, she'd call it immaturity.
So I kept it measured. "Continue what?"
"This path," she said. "ANBU life. It's not meant for someone your age."
That again. Age. People obsessed over it, as if time alone made you ready for blood.
"It's the only path that fits," I said.
"You think strength is all that matters."
"No," I said. "But weakness doesn't matter either."
A lie, half-wrapped in truth. People trusted that kind more.
She shifted her weight. "You're young. What you've done so far is nothing compared to what's coming. It changes people."
"I've already changed."
Her shoulders moved, just slightly. I couldn't tell if it was agreement or disappointment.
"That's what I'm afraid of," she said.
I looked at her — mask to mask. I wondered if she was imagining the face beneath mine, trying to see some trace of the child she wanted to protect.
"You think I'll end up like him."
No answer. So, yes.
"He broke because he couldn't accept what he was doing," I said. "I can.
Her silence stretched. I considered adding something reassuring, something that sounded alive. But warmth was easy to see through. Desperation even more so.
"I know what the ANBU is," I said instead. "I'll do what's needed. Protect the village. That's enough."
She exhaled slowly — the kind of breath people take when they're done arguing.
"And if what's needed destroys you?"
"Then I wasn't worth keeping."
That part was true. I wanted to be worth keeping.
She didn't move. I stayed perfectly still. Stillness worked; it forced people to fill the silence.
Finally, she said, "You understand what you're asking for?"
"I do."
"You'll have my approval." She said it while turning away.
I nodded. "Thank you."
She took a few steps, then paused. "Seven."
"Yes."
"Don't make me regret this."
I didn't answer.
When she left, the silence returned. I stood there, replaying the conversation — her pauses, tone, how her stance shifted. She wanted to save me. She also wanted to believe she'd done her duty.
I gave her both.
⸻
Cat's POV
As I stood before my superior, I waited for his response to my report.
"Do you truly believe he can live this life, Cat?" he asked. Again. For the third time.
"Yes, sir."
The silence that followed was long and heavy — the kind that usually carried judgment.
"Very well," he said at last.
Just like that, I had allowed a child to step into the darkest part of the village.
The Leaf's shadow had taken another one.
I told myself he was ready. That he understood what he wanted. That I wasn't condemning him — only following protocol.
But as I stood there, I could still hear his voice from the night before. Calm. Calculated.
There had been no fear in it. Not even pride. Just certainty.
He said he knew what he was walking into. Maybe he did.
But why, then, did it still feel like I'd sent someone to drown?
Duty should have been enough to quiet guilt.
It wasn't.