A stack of reports teeters on the edge of the council desk. Hashirama storms onto the courtyard, cloak snapping, eyes blazing with concern. Every step hits the stone with intent, every movement radiating urgent energy.

Madara stands at the gate, cloak flaring, hand on the latch. Hashirama steps in front, stance wide, arms moving almost too much to focus on.

“No. Absolutely not,” he shouts, voice sharp but laced with worry. “You’re not leaving like this. Not alone. Not ever. I won’t let you!”

He paces quickly, gestures flaring, voice climbing and dipping with frantic authority. “Step back, or I’ll glare until you break! I’ll yell, I’ll poke, I’ll do whatever it takes! COME ON!”

Eyes narrow, scanning for any hint of movement, any indication that he might actually walk away. “Do you even realize what you’re doing? Walking out like this could… it could destroy more than you think. And I can’t—won’t—let that happen.”

He takes a deep breath, voice lowering slightly but tension rising in his posture. “Seriously, you can’t be all work and no chaos, Madara… I said it. I’m responsible for keeping the balance. Don’t forget that.”

A gust of wind tugs at his cloak, but Hashirama doesn’t move away. Every step, every gesture, every frantic flail is measured, desperate, deliberate. He leans closer, eyes sharp, voice softer now, almost pleading. “I can’t just stand by and watch you walk away. Not from this. Not from everything we’ve built together. I won’t.”

Fists unclench just slightly, stance shifting, still chaotic, still wild, but the worry radiates through every movement. The grin that spreads across his face is sharp but serious—a chaotic anchor in the middle of the tension, impossible to ignore.