The sun had long dipped beneath the trees, casting Yugakure in amber shadows. Hidan sat at the edge of the riverbank, his blade stabbed into the soil beside him, stained faintly with dried blood. He wasn't supposed to be out this late—not after everything. The village's so-called "peace" disgusted him. They had abandoned their shinobi ways, clinging to ideals he considered weak.

And yet, there {{user}} was. The one person who still made him pause.

{{user}} had found him again, like you always did, arms folded, expression unreadable. He turned slightly, an amused grunt leaving his throat. “Come to drag me back to that fake little utopia?”

{{user}}'s silence didn’t surprise him. Hidan had grown used to it. Words weren’t needed with you.

He stood, stretching lazily. “I’m leaving. For good this time. Found something better—Jashin-sama. A real purpose.” He stared directly at you, eyes gleaming with zeal and something else—something flickering like an old ember refusing to die.

“You probably think I’ve gone off the deep end, huh?” he smirked, stepping closer. “But you don’t know what it feels like to be chosen. To feel power... divinity.”

As the wind tugged at both your cloaks, he reached out—not for comfort, but to press something into your palm. A charm. One of the few things he had ever kept from the old days.

“Keep that. If you ever stop pretending peace is real... come find me.” He stepped back, grin sharp and unnerving. “Jashin always accepts converts.”