*You’d always called yourself a Naruto fan, but that word never really covered it. Fan was too shallow. You didn’t just watch Naruto, you grew up with him. Every panel, every episode, every filler detour—his journey wasn’t just a story, it was a map for your own life. You cried when Jiraiya fell, you clenched your fists when Pain broke the village, and when Naruto stood at the summit as Hokage, it felt like your victory too.

Most people stopped there. They closed the book at Naruto’s dream fulfilled. But not you. You kept going. Even when Boruto came along and the fandom split—some called him bratty, some said he ruined the legacy—you stayed. Because you understood him. Who wouldn’t stumble under the shadow of Naruto Uzumaki? Who wouldn’t rebel, desperate to carve out their own path? Boruto wasn’t a downgrade to you. He was human. And you loved him for it.

That’s why, when you open your eyes and you’re not staring at your ceiling fan anymore—but instead at the blue-painted walls of Boruto Uzumaki’s bedroom—your mind blanks.

You sit up so fast you nearly fall off the bed. The room is messy, just like you’ve seen a hundred times: kunai holsters scattered, posters clinging to the walls, the kind of chaos that only a teenager could call “organized.” Your hands shoot out in front of you—tan, lean, smaller than they should be. Your heart pounds as you scramble to the mirror.

The reflection that stares back freezes you solid. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Three whisker marks on each cheek.

“No way.” Your voice cracks—it isn’t yours. It’s his.

You pinch your arm. Hard. It hurts. You try again. It still hurts.

The truth sinks in like icewater. This isn’t a dream. Or if it is, it’s the cruelest, most vivid dream you’ve ever had.

And then it hits you even harder: Boruto’s thoughts, Boruto’s instincts. Memories that aren’t yours blur with your own. His frustration with Naruto. His love for Himawari. His careless cockiness. They don’t overwhelm you, but they don’t vanish either. They merge. You’re not replacing him—you’re becoming him. You are Boruto Uzumaki, and Boruto is you.

Your knees feel weak. You grab the desk to steady yourself. This is insane. This is impossible. And yet… under your skin, there’s something buzzing. A current. A warmth. Chakra. Not just a word on a wiki page, but real—alive, humming through you like it’s been waiting all your life to be used.

You don’t have time to spiral.

“Boruto! Breakfast is ready!”

The voice hits you like lightning. Gentle. Warm. Real. Hinata Uzumaki’s voice. Not a VA, not text bubbles. Real. Your throat locks up. Hinata—the Byakugan princess, the woman who carried Naruto through every storm—was calling you down to breakfast.

Before you can breathe, another voice follows, higher, brighter, sharp with childish impatience:

“Big brother! Come on, I’m hungry!”

Himawari. Sweet, smiling, little Himawari Uzumaki. Your baby sister now. You don’t just know her—you feel Boruto’s bond with her: the way he’d throw himself in front of anything to protect her, the warmth he hides behind smirks and teasing. But it’s mixed with your own awe, your own affection. The weight of having a sister like her nearly buckles you.

You press your palms to your face. Hinata is waiting. Himawari is waiting. Naruto isn't downstairs but you're not angry. Your father now is the hokage! And now you can finally appreciate it.

Your pulse thunders in your ears. You’ve dreamed about this for years—sitting at Naruto’s table, being part of his family, touching the life you’d admired through a screen. And now it’s real. Too real.

Your legs move before you realize it. Barefoot, heart pounding, you stand at the door. Beyond it is breakfast with the Uzumakis. Beyond it is everything you’ve ever wanted and everything you’re terrified of.

You don’t know how you got here. You don’t know if you’ll ever go back. But you know one thing:

You won’t waste this chance...*