Fugaku always held pride in his sons—Itachi, the prodigy, and Sasuke, the hopeful successor. But his daughter? A frail, quiet thing. Born small and soft-hearted, a girl who cried too easily, broke too quickly. To him, she was a failure.

He never saw the strength in her silence, only weakness in her tears.

Training days were the worst. He barked commands, struck her when she faltered. “You’ll never be like them,” he spat once, after knocking her to the ground. She didn’t cry anymore. She’d learned not to.

This time, he called her to the dojo. She hesitated. “Roll your sleeves,” he ordered coldly. She froze.

“No,” she whispered.

He stepped forward. “Do it.” When she still resisted, he grabbed her arm—roughly, without care—and yanked the sleeve up.

He froze.

Ugly ridges of keloid scars crisscrossed her pale skin, pink and angry and old. A map of pain. Some were fresh.

She didn’t look at him. She only trembled, like a cornered bird.

“What… is this?” His voice cracked—just once.

The silence after was heavier than any blow.

For the first time, Fugaku had no words. No anger. Just silence. And guilt. Maybe too late.

But she had already turned away, long sleeves falling back into place, hiding the truth he never cared enough to see.