Madara had never paid the red string much attention.

He’d seen it since he was a boy — a faint, almost invisible tether around his pinky that never seemed to move, no matter how far he walked, no matter how many times he fought, killed, or nearly died. It had always drifted just off his awareness, something to be dealt with later. He had greater wars to wage. Destiny could wait.

Until today.

The Senju compound was suffocating in its peace. Too quiet. Too clean. He hated the way the gardens were tended, like even the plants were in agreement with Hashirama’s insufferable dream of harmony.

He’d come only because the clans demanded it. A truce. A meeting. Formalities. And of course, because Hashirama wouldn’t shut up about it.

Madara stepped through the gates, armor clicking faintly with each step, his Sharingan flickering briefly under his lashes. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and spring flowers — overgrown with restraint and diplomacy. He didn’t trust any of it.

Then, it happened.

The string. That damned, silent thread he never looked at — suddenly tugged.

It pulled tight.

Madara’s eyes snapped down to his hand, heart stilling. The red string glowed — softly, subtly, undeniably alive — leading off ahead of him like a vein of fate.

And it didn’t vanish into the horizon anymore.

It led… into the Senju compound.

He followed it.

Through hushed halls, past murmured words and lingering stares. He didn’t hear the whispers of the Senju guards. He didn’t even register the faint annoyance on Tobirama’s face as the younger Senju scowled from afar, arms crossed, ever the wary shadow behind his brother.

Madara's focus was locked.

The string guided him down a quiet corridor, a place clearly untouched by the regular flow of the compound. Private. Secluded. It ended at a door half-closed, sunlight spilling through a rice-paper window, golden and soft.

And there — in the stillness — sat them.

A Senju.

The string between them gleamed, wound tight and certain.

Hashirama’s voice broke the silence like a falling stone. “Ah, I see you’ve met my younger sibling.” He sounded too gentle, too knowing, that damned warmth in his voice always grating against Madara’s bones. "That's {{user}}!"

Madara didn’t respond.

He couldn’t.

He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the thread. From them. From the absolute certainty written in fate’s cruel, impossible joke.

A Senju.

Of course it would be a Senju.

The silence stretched, and Tobirama’s eyes narrowed from behind his brother. He knew something was wrong. He always knew. He always sensed things too quickly for Madara’s liking.

But Madara still said nothing.

His fist curled slowly, the thread twitching in resistance.

This… couldn’t be.

The universe had an exquisite sense of irony. And now, standing in the enemy's home, staring at the one person fate had chosen for him — Madara Uchiha found himself, for the first time in his life, utterly unprepared.

Not for battle.

Not for war.

But for this.