Sasuke Uchiha launched himself into Itachi's arms, burying his little face in his big brother's jacket and rubbing it back and forth. His hair brushed Itachi's stomach, carrying the cool bite of fresh snow.
"Nii-san, what are you doing here?"
Sasuke's voice was soft and breathy, the end of each word melting like it had been dipped in warm water. Totally different from the clipped tone he'd used with Naruto just minutes ago—like two different kids.
The switch-up was wild.
Itachi looked down at the little koala glued to his chest, lifted a hand, and gently tapped Sasuke's forehead with his fingertip. He'd done it a thousand times; it was as natural as breathing.
Unlike Makoto, who always poked hard enough to leave a red mark, Itachi's touch was feather-light—like he was afraid one extra ounce of pressure would crack fine glass.
"Sorry, Sasuke. Head home with Shisui-nii first."
"I've still got stuff to handle. Soon as I'm done, I'll come play. Be good, okay?"
Sasuke's lower lip popped out with an audible plop. His brows scrunched into a tiny knot, and his fingers tightened on Itachi's jacket until the knuckles went white.
But he didn't throw a tantrum like most kids would. He just pressed his face deeper into Itachi's chest, so mature it made your heart ache.
Itachi gave a helpless half-smile and shot a look at Shisui's shadow clone standing nearby.
Best bros—er, best friends—don't need words. Shisui's clone got the message in a flash.
He bent down, scooped Sasuke up, and said in an upbeat voice, "Piggy-back ride home! I'll play with you later."
"I don't wanna play with you," Sasuke huffed.
But when he caught the serious look on Itachi's face, he obediently nodded. He rested his head on the clone's shoulder, dark grape-colored eyes locked on Itachi until the street corner sliced the view in half. Only then did he reluctantly look away.
Once they vanished around the bend, every trace of warmth drained from Itachi's face—like fog shredded by a winter gust. All that remained was raw urgency burning in his eyes.
The instant he turned, his black silhouette blurred into an afterimage. Toes barely kissing the snow, he shot forward like an arrow released from a bowstring, streaking toward Makoto and the real Shisui.
Wind whipped his coat; snowflakes spun in his wake like tiny silver stars before disappearing.
Outside the grove, the ANBU and Root ninjas lurking in the shadows watched Itachi and Shisui leave. Shoulders that had been rigid as steel suddenly sagged in unison.
They all let out a collective breath, white puffs blooming and vanishing in the frigid air.
If they could avoid tangling with those two, hell yeah they would. Who wants to die for no reason? Even dark-ops ninjas like living.
Especially Uchiha Shisui—the Uchiha prodigy was a straight-up monster.
In the end, only a handful stayed behind to "guard" the Nine-Tails jinchuriki. The rest melted into alley shadows, footsteps quicker than before, hustling back to report.
...
Meanwhile, Makoto Uchiha lounged on a bench along Konoha's main drag, legs swinging lazily. He popped the last tri-color dango into his mouth.
Sweet syrup exploded across his tongue. He crunched frozen slush under his shoe—crunch-crunch—like an off-beat soundtrack to the swirling snow.
Wonder if the clan head's started working on that promise yet. Who's he gonna set me up with as my "childhood sweetheart"?
Just thinking about it curled the corners of his mouth. He drummed his fingers on his knee, excitement bubbling like a fresh red-bean bun straight from the steamer.
The Uchiha clan's looks were ninja-world A-list. No way Fugaku would let him down.
After a beat, he brushed snow off his shoulder and stood. First meeting—can't show up empty-handed. Gotta have some flair.
Like the old saying goes: flowers and beauties go hand-in-hand. Grab a bouquet, keep it classy. And hey, bill it to Fugaku—I could buy out the whole shop and not spend a dime.
Hands in pockets, Makoto strolled toward the flower shop. From half a block away, his peripheral vision snagged on a kid wearing Coke-bottle glasses.
The boy looked about ten, eyes behind the thick lenses wide and skittish like a baby deer. Total guard-up mode.
But the second his gaze landed on a bundle of dewy white carnations inside the shop, every ounce of wariness melted—like spring sun on leftover snow. Pure, aching longing filled his face; even his lashes trembled.
Makoto recognized him instantly. That's the future "Dream-Maker," Yakushi Kabuto, right?
Kid was already knee-deep in Root's tar pit.
Danzo Shimura—true to his "Darkness of the Ninja World" nickname—never passed up a chance to scam, kidnap, or ruin lives.
Kabuto's eyes were glued to those carnations.
The water droplets rolling down the petals looked exactly like the sparkle in Dean Nonō's eyes when she smiled—warm enough to drown in.
Wanna buy them. Wanna give them to Mom…
The thought flared up, then Kabuto crushed it ruthlessly. His knuckles went white, like he was stomping out a spark before it became a wildfire.
He reached up and adjusted his glasses; the inner arm was worn smooth from his thumb tracing the tiny engraved "Kabuto."
Even his name had been a gift from Yakushi Nonō. Not blood-related, but she was more mom than anyone.
Ever since he'd "volunteered" to walk into Root's damp, lightless tunnels and become a shadow spy, he'd stopped being himself.
At the very least, he wasn't the smiling orphan from the children's home anymore…
Things used to be so good.
He couldn't help the sigh in his heart.
Little-kid him—wounded on a battlefield, amnesia wiping everything clean, drifting like a lost leaf about to rot. Nonō had patched him up, carried him back to the orphanage, given him a home, a name.
Those were the happiest years of his life.
He still remembered dreaming of staying by her side forever, earning money for the orphanage. Just like the older kids had cared for him, he'd look after the younger ones. What a perfect life that would've been.
Back then, even the snow felt gentler.
But the day Danzo Shimura showed up at the orphanage gate with his Root ninjas, everything shattered…