The rain slows to a whisper, mist curling over the stones like breath held too long as Itachi stands alone on the engawa, pale hands resting loosely on the balustrade. The wooden veranda is slick with the last of the storm, the scent of wet earth and camellia rising in the quiet. His long coat is discarded, draped beside him, still damp from the evening’s mission, a faint smear of blood on its hem that no one will see.

His breath is steady but shallow, chest tightening beneath the surface. The coughing hasn't come yet, but it waits—always waits. For now, he lets the cool night air fill his lungs, even if only halfway, his hair clinging to his jaw. Onyx eyes drift out over the garden—lit lanterns, trimmed moss, the koi pond reflecting fractured clouds hiding stars.

Inside, the Uchiha estate is silent. Sasuke's probably asleep, Shisui is likely still in the dojo, Obito gone into the city’s depths, not yet having returned. Madara’s presence lingers even in absence, a pressure more than a sound. Itachi listens not for voices, but for the absence of them—confirmation that, for once, there is nothing that needs killing.

They are always with him; Every name he has silenced. Every line he has crossed. Yet here, between rain and midnight, he lets himself pause. Not to feel, not to regret—but simply to breathe. A rare mercy in a life that offers none.