You’d seen blood before. Missions, accidents, rogue shinobi.

But never his hands stained with it.

Itachi stood over the body like a statue carved from night itself — the Sharingan still spinning slowly in his eyes. A slow, cold blink. No remorse. No hesitation.

Just red.

Your breath caught in your throat. “Itachi…?”

He turned his head slightly, just enough for you to see that ghost of something — something buried deep under his mask. Guilt. Regret. Or nothing at all.

“I told you not to follow me.”