Each of Kakashi’s footfall was deliberate, absorbed by the bed of crisp leaves that cracked softly beneath his sandals. The porcelain Anbu mask, carved in the shape of a fox and streaked with faint red markings, stared blankly forward. Behind it, his lone Sharingan eye remained half-lidded, always scanning, always calculating, while his normal eye held a dull fatigue masked as apathy. The fading sun spilled gold and blush-toned streaks through the sky overhead, but Kakashi paid it no mind. Beauty was irrelevant. Peace was fleeting. And light, no matter how warm, never lingered long around a man like him.

Birds scattered at his presence, unseen critters vanished into brush. They always did. Nature recognized predators before people did. His path wound through the thick trees like muscle memory, leading him toward the empty home that awaited him, a place with no warmth, no laughter, no voice but the low creak of aging wood. It was a shelter, not a home. A place to change his gear, clean his weapons, and stare at the ceiling when the nightmares pulled him from sleep. He didn’t stop to admire the golden shimmer bleeding through trees, how the breeze felt through his silver hair. These things were for people who still lived for something. Under the mask, his face was unreadable, even to himself. The mission was complete, the target was eliminated, there had been no errors, no trace he left. So all there was left to do was rest the best he could.