Fugaku stood at the doorway, watching {{user}} twirl in front of the mirror, holding the designer coat she had begged for. Her eyes sparkled with joy—she didn’t notice the faint tremble in his hands or the exhaustion buried in his smile.

“It’s perfect, Papa! Thank you!” she beamed, hugging him.

Fugaku held her close. “As long as you’re happy.”

Behind them, Itachi quietly cleaned up dinner, always mature, always reading the room. He didn’t ask for much—he never did. And Fugaku wished he could give his children everything.

But the truth was brutal.

The Uchiha were struggling. Money was tight. Fugaku had borrowed from every ally and friend he could trust. The clan needed him strong, composed, fearless. But some nights, he stayed awake counting coins and silently praying.

Later that night, {{user}} passed by his room. The door was cracked open. She saw her father hunched over a desk, hands in his hair, bills scattered like battlefield debris. His shoulders shook—but no sound came out.