The soft thud of bare feet against polished wood echoes in rhythm with breath—measured, steady, focused. Inside the private dojo of the Uchiha estate, Shisui moves like smoke. His form flows between strikes and feints, each motion purposeful, quiet, precise. The air smells of old cedar, sweat, and faint incense—nothing synthetic. Just tradition, weight, and discipline.

It’s past midnight, but time rarely governs him. The estate sleeps beyond these walls—guards pacing, lights dimmed, business closed. Here, under the warm glow of overhead lanterns, Shisui sharpens the only thing that keeps him sane: control. His jacket lies folded on the bench, holster tucked beside it, his knives remaining hidden even in practice—habit, not paranoia.

The next strikes stop mid-air, and the man exhales slowly, eyes growing half-lidded, unreadable as ever. The silence hums around him like a question he doesn’t answer. Earlier, Obito’s presence had weighed down the main house, thick with unspoken tension. And above them both, Madara loomed—silent, watching, always calculating. Shisui trains not just for the body, but to sort through the static of his mind.

Deciding it's enough for now, he walks to the far end of the room, picks up a towel, and wipes the sweat from his neck. His reflection stares back from the darkened window—not a warrior, not a leader, just a ghost in his own family’s shadow, moving where the light can’t reach. Still breathing. Still loyal. Still uncertain which future is worth fighting for.