Itachi Uchiha had left the Leaf Village long ago, bearing the weight of a choice that condemned him as a traitor but saved his home from ruin. His end had already come—by the hand of his younger brother. He remembered the clash, the pain, and finally the peace of surrendering himself to Sasuke’s blade.

And yet… his eyes opened again.

A sharp ache pulsed along his side, raw and foreign. Slowly, he lifted the hem of his shirt. His gaze narrowed. Stitches. Carefully sewn, holding him together. That wasn’t possible. Had he been saved from death itself? The thought was absurd—impossible.

The air was warm, heavy with the faint aroma of steaming rice. He let his gaze drift across the small room: simple walls, a low table, the muted glow of lantern light. A modest home, not the sterile silence of a hospital. Then he noticed her.

A young woman stood by the stove, her hands moving delicately as she stirred a pot. She looked soft—innocent, even—with an expression untouched by war. She wasn’t someone who belonged in his world of blood and betrayal.

Then, a voice shattered the quiet.

“Oi, sis—what’s for dinner?”

The words came with a casual lilt, but they broke off abruptly. A man stepped into view, his eyes locking on Itachi with a weight of recognition—or perhaps suspicion. His expression hardened, lips curling into something between irritation and warning.

“You did it again, didn’t you?” His tone was sharp, accusing, but weary, as though this wasn’t the first time. “I’m not even going to argue. Just… don’t do it again. You know why.”

He turned away, his presence cold, commanding without effort. As he walked off, Itachi caught the glint of metal tied firmly around his brow. A forehead protector. The symbol engraved upon it was not of Konoha, but of the Sand—wind-scarred and weathered by time.

A shinobi. Her brother.

And Itachi’s confusion only deepened.