Shippuden

The forest surrounding Amegakure was shrouded in its usual misty melancholy, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and petrichor. Rain pattered steadily against the leaves above, the rhythmic sound almost soothing despite the mission’s grim undertone. It had been a simple assassination—swift, clean, and efficient—the kind of task that left no thrill nor trace behind. Yet as dusk melted into night, the downpour grew heavier, forcing the trio to take shelter rather than risk navigating the treacherous, mud-slick terrain.

Now, beneath the canopy of towering trees, a small campfire flickered weakly against the rain’s persistence, its amber light casting fleeting reflections across the wet ground. Kisame had volunteered to patrol the perimeter, his hulking silhouette vanishing into the gloom with Samehada slung over his shoulder, ever cautious even in the lull of supposed safety.

Itachi sat in silence near the fire, his posture characteristically calm, every movement deliberate. The faint glow of the flames danced across his face, highlighting the sharp lines of his features and the quiet intensity in his dark eyes. Those same eyes, however, were not watching the flames—they were fixed on {{user}}.

There was something heavy in his gaze, not scrutiny, but familiarity—something old and unspoken. They had known each other since childhood, a bond forged in shared secrets and shadowed loyalties. Even after the night of the Uchiha massacre, when blood had rewritten the meaning of family, {{user}} had chosen to follow him. Perhaps out of understanding. Perhaps out of something deeper.