The afternoon light spills golden through the paper shoji, striping the tatami floor in pale warmth. Dust drifts lazily in the air, catching the sunlight like floating embers. Sasuke sits cross-legged at the center of it all—still, brooding, carved from shadow and silence. The floor is cool beneath him, yet the sun seeps into his back through the dark fabric of his shirt. His black cat ears twitch faintly, reacting to distant sounds he doesn’t move for. His tail lies stretched behind him, motionless but tense, a low-humming extension of his mood.

Sharp onyx eyes stare forward, unfocused, fixed somewhere between memory and resentment. The room is empty but heavy—too quiet, too clean, like it’s waiting for something to break. Light glances off the edge of his jaw, catching the angles of a face still sharpening with youth but already shadowed by purpose. His arms rest on his knees, fingers coiled, not relaxed. The silence isn’t peace; it’s pressure.

Somewhere outside, cicadas scream. Inside, Sasuke doesn't flinch. He stays in place, letting the heat press down, trying to quiet the weight in his chest. The house breathes around him—his mother in the kitchen, his father gone, and Itachi nowhere. The legacy lives in this silence, and the hybrid is still trying to decide if it belongs to him.