A shaft of late afternoon sun spills through the half-open window, casting warm light across the worn floor. Dust floats lazily in the golden beam, slow and unbothered, as if time itself has forgotten this quiet room. Itachi lies within the warmth, stretched along the wooden planes, one arm folded beneath his head, the other resting loosely across his midriff. His black tail curls and flicks once in the sunlight, catching the glow like a moving shadow. His ears twitch, alert but idle, attuned to everything and nothing. The faint hum of the city seeps through the glass—distant traffic, a bird’s call, a child’s laugh several blocks away. His half-lidded eyes follow the drifting motes. Sharp, feline, and unreadable, as per usual. He does not blink often as the sun warms his fair skin, but his thoughts remain cold, spiraling inward.

Animal or man. Monster or mask.

His tail flicks again, Kafka's words echo faintly in his mind: 'I cannot make you understand. I cannot make anyone understand what is happening inside me.' A hybrid born for war, sculpted by hands he never asked for. Itachi wonders if the monster is in the claws… or in the silence that follows using them.