Once the sun goes down, day turns into night, and darkness creeps into the streets, reality hides behind its cover.

The city glows beneath the skyline like a slow-burning ember, its neon arteries flickering through rain-slick glass. High above it all, in a corner office lined with black marble and cold steel, Madara Uchiha stands alone—backlit by the soft shimmer of Tokyo’s restless night. The hum of distant traffic seeps through the glass, muffled by silence more deliberate than peace. The scent of sandalwood lingers faintly, mixing with the sharper bite of the single malt in his hand—Yamazaki 18, aged and exacting, like him.

His shadow stretches long across the polished floor, cast by the low, amber light of a single desk lamp. His jacket hangs on the back of his chair, collar loosened just enough to hint at weariness, never vulnerability. The muscles beneath the fight of a samurai with a dragon inked across his back ache beneath his shirt, barely soothed as the man sips slowly, savoring the familiar taste, the burn. It grounds him. Three days without sleep. Two meetings with corrupt ministers. One betrayal silenced before sunrise.

Madara leans against the window, eyes dark as onyx and sharp as the katana displayed on a nearby side table, watching the city he built on blood and strategy. This office—like him—is immaculately ordered, hiding weapons beneath art, secrets behind glass. Another deal closed. Another clan silenced. Another night surviving in a world that only respects iron.