Hyōgagakure was the kind of place that didn’t show up on maps.

A cluster of squat buildings buried in snowdrifts, battered by constant winds, hidden deep in the mountains where only fools or exiles would bother to live. Perfect for what the Akatsuki needed: resupplying without drawing attention.

“Damn, it’s cold,” Hidan complained loudly, trudging through the snow, scythe dragging a messy trail behind him. His breath steamed in the air with every word.

“Shut up and get what we came for,” Kakuzu muttered, eyes scanning the scattering of shops. They were barely shops, really—more like sheds with signs painted by hand, stocked with worn clothes, dry food, battered tools. Barely enough, but it would do.

The villagers stared at them but said nothing. No fearful whispers, no guards called. Just wary, frozen faces. It was obvious: they had no idea who the Akatsuki were. Out here, news traveled slower than the snowfall.

“Creepy little town,” Deidara muttered, hands shoved into his coat sleeves. “Feels like it’s been dead for years, un.”

They split off, blending in as best they could — which wasn’t much, given their cloaks and the biting, unnatural chill that seemed to follow them.

Pain stood still near the center of the village, eyes half-lidded, watching the snow swirl around him.

That’s when he noticed it.

A flicker of movement from behind a half-buried fence. Small. Quick.

A child, peeking out.

Pain said nothing at first, simply shifted his gaze. Quiet as the falling snow, Konan moved to his side, her sharp blue eyes following his line of sight.

There—half-hidden behind a crooked post—stood a small figure wrapped in a patchwork coat, eyes wide, curious, unafraid.

Eyes that shimmered a soft, eerie purple.

Six rings.

The Rinnegan.

Pain stiffened. So did Konan. In an instant, the casual, lazy energy around the Akatsuki snapped tight like a drawn bowstring.

The child—{{user}}—tilted their head slightly, blinking at them through the whirling snow.

No fear. No recognition.

Not of the Akatsuki, not of the Rinnegan they bore.

Just innocent, oblivious curiosity.

Kisame, hauling a bag of supplies over his shoulder, caught the change in the air and followed their stares. His sharklike grin faltered a little. Even Itachi, who rarely showed emotion, seemed to narrow his gaze ever so slightly.

Deidara, picking through a rack of threadbare cloaks, turned to see what the fuss was about—and froze when his eyes landed on the child.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he muttered under his breath, the words steaming out in the cold.

Sasori moved closer, his puppet body creaking faintly. “Impossible,” he said, voice low and mechanical.

Hidan just squinted. “What’s everyone starin’ at—oh.”

The kid shifted, stepping back slightly, snow crunching softly under their boots. They didn’t run. Didn’t hide. Just watched.

Pain took a slow, measured breath, steam trailing from between his lips.

Another with the Rinnegan.

Here. In this dead-end village no one had thought important enough to conquer, to even visit.

Konan’s paper fluttered lightly in the cold breeze, and she leaned in just enough for Pain to hear, her voice almost lost in the wind.

“They don’t know,” she murmured. “None of them know.”

Pain’s gaze didn’t waver. Neither did {{user}}’s.

The rest of the Akatsuki exchanged glances, silent messages flashing between them.

This was not the mission.

But it had just become something much bigger.

Pain finally moved, slow and deliberate, stepping through the snow toward {{user}}.

Behind him, the others fell into a loose formation—half instinct, half unspoken order.

The villagers went about their business, oblivious to the storm about to break.

And the snow kept falling, soft and silent, covering the world in white.