The rain poured steadily outside, tapping against the cracked windows of the hideout. Inside, the room was dimly lit—one flickering bulb overhead, shadows dancing along the walls. The long table at the center was cluttered with crumpled mission reports, half-burned photos, and ashtrays filled to the brim.

They sat in silence, each cloaked figure lost in thought. A cigarette glowed faintly between Kisame’s fingers, the smoke curling lazily toward the ceiling. Deidara leaned back in his chair, boots up, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. Sasori sat motionless, needle in hand, repairing something that didn’t look quite human.

Konan watched them all, folding paper into intricate shapes without a word. Across from her, Itachi barely moved—his crimson eyes half-lidded, scanning a document slowly, methodically. Pain stood at the head of the table, arms crossed, his presence alone demanding silence.

Hidan twirled a blade between his fingers, muttering something under his breath—likely a prayer to Jashin. Kakuzu quietly sorted through stolen currency, his gloved hands moving fast and practiced. Zetsu lingered in the shadows, one half grinning, the other silent and watchful.

The tension in the room wasn’t hostile—it was focused.