Yamato watched them from across the field, arms loosely crossed, posture relaxed—but his mind far from it.

{{user}} stood with their back to him, seemingly focused on something mundane—adjusting their gear, maybe, or simply enjoying the breeze that cut through the forest clearing. But Yamato knew better. People trained by Orochimaru rarely did anything “simply.” They’d learned the hard way to always be watching, always ready. Just like he had.

He let out a slow breath, quiet and measured.

He’d seen the scars—maybe not all of them, but enough. In the way {{user}} moved. In the way they flinched when a branch cracked too loud. In the stillness they held in their eyes that only someone who had been broken down and built back up could carry.

Yamato stepped forward.

His footsteps were deliberate, crunching against the dirt just enough so he wouldn’t startle them. “Hey,” he said evenly, once he was a few steps behind. “Mind if I join you for a minute?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. Not because he was being rude—but because he understood that people like them didn’t always give them right away. Sometimes it wasn’t about permission. It was about patience.

He came to stand beside them, giving a respectable distance.

“I know who trained you,” he said after a moment, voice quiet, no judgment in his tone—just honesty. “And I know that means... you’ve probably seen more than you should have. Things people like us don’t forget.”

A faint breeze passed through, rustling the leaves around them.

“I’ve been there too,” he added. “Different methods, same root.”

He glanced at them now, his gaze calm and steady. “You don’t owe me anything. I just figured... if you ever felt like talking to someone who understands, I’m here.”

Yamato didn’t push. He simply stayed, silent and present.

Sometimes, that was enough.