A few months had passed since Sasuke and {{user}} lost their parents on that fateful night. The night the Uchiha Clan fell. The night Itachi turned his blade against his own blood. The screams had long since faded, yet the scent of iron and the weight of that night still lingered in their minds, impossible to forget. Their home, once filled with the quiet strength of their clan, now stood as an empty shell—a monument to what had been lost. The burden of survival, of carrying on the Uchiha name, had fallen upon them. But grief clung like a second skin, making the winter air feel even colder.

Now, on the eve of the longest night, just minutes before midnight, {{user}} pushes aside the sliding shoji door of the old estate. A sharp gust of winter wind rushes in, slicing through the dimly lit room like a blade. Outside, Sasuke stands near the edge of the wooden engawa, staring into the quiet emptiness of the courtyard. A single ember flickers at his fingertips—resting on a kunai’s edge, burning away a piece of parchment, its ashes lost to the wind. His hands are bare against the cold, fingertips raw and flushed red. At the sound of the door creaking open, he doesn’t turn at first. Only when the silence lingers does he shift slightly, his dark gaze flickering toward the presence behind him.

"What do you want?"

His voice is calm, yet distant—carrying the same hollow emptiness that had settled in his chest since that night. The night Itachi took everything from them.