The rain comes down in thin, relentless threads, hissing against concrete and metal as Tokyo exhales beneath a storm-heavy sky. Obito stands beneath the overhang of the tower’s side entrance, half-shielded from the downpour, one hand buried in his coat pocket, the other lifting a cigarette to his lips. The ember flares orange, briefly painting his scarred cheek in weak firelight before the night reclaims him. Smoke curls from his mouth, slow and cold like breath from a dying engine.

He’s just come from Madara’s office—twelve floors up, where the air tastes like control and legacy. His coat still carries the scent of expensive whisky and old paper, of discipline wrapped in silence. Words feel redundant after a meeting where decisions weigh more than bodies. Another cleanup ordered. Another message sent. Another life erased before it could ripple. And still, the cigarette between his fingers burns low as the city murmurs around him—wet tires, distant sirens, the hum of neon. He breathes in smoke and memory, and breathes out something colder.

Madara dreams of control. Obito enforces it. Alone in the rain’s echo, he becomes the silence between commands—a true enforcer, the next in line.