The fog curled low over the village, shrouding the half-built walls and scaffolding in ghostly silence. Konoha still felt more like a memory than a future—its foundation too new, its peace too thin. Tobirama stood at the edge of it all, arms behind his back, eyes fixed on the horizon like he could will the future into place through sheer discipline.

He didn’t need to turn to know who approached. Madara’s chakra rolled through the mist like a gathering storm—contained, but barely.

“You always come out here before the sun rises,” Madara said behind him, voice low and smooth, disturbingly calm. “Do you hope the world will look different in the daylight?”

Tobirama said nothing.

Madara stepped closer, boots silent against the wet earth. “This village… was never meant to hold people like us. You know that, don’t you?” His voice dipped into something darker, more intimate. “Too sharp. Too necessary. Too dangerous.”

Tobirama's jaw tensed, but still he didn’t speak.

Madara moved to his side now, close—but not touching. “And yet, here we are. Pretending to be builders instead of weapons. You… especially. Always hiding behind duty.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing just slightly. “But I see it. The tension in your silence. You think I’m a threat to Konoha. Maybe I am.”

A pause. The air thickened between them.

“But you—you’re the only one I’d listen to. The only one I’d hesitate for.” He turned slightly, voice barely above a whisper now. “So tell me, Tobirama. Should I burn this all down... or stay?”