The night has not been kind, and Kakashi knows sleep won’t come back to him now. By dawn he is already outside, seated on the worn planks of the engawa, a slouch that pretends at ease but never quite convinces. The air is cool, heavy with the scent of rain that has yet to fall, the sky above choked with slow, restless clouds. His ears twitch once, catching the faint stirrings of his surroundings, but soon go still again. The silver of his hair is dulled in the dim light, his scar stark against pale skin, his dog tags catching the occasional gleam like a reminder that the war has not truly left him. His tail, traitorous as ever, flicks once, twice, then lies in uneasy stillness across the wood.

Dark eyes rest on the horizon, sharp even in fatigue, but not seeing the sky; memories press against the edges of the hybrid's thoughts, ghosts that have followed him too long, and he breathes slow, deliberate, as though careful not to let them drag him under. He sits there, outwardly calm, inwardly coiled, caught between the silence of the morning and the noise he carries inside.