The Uchiha home used to be warm. Mikoto’s soft humming in the kitchen. Fugaku’s quiet nods at the dinner table. The scent of tea, the rustle of pages turning. It used to be safe.

But now it thundered.

Arguments broke like storms—violent and unrelenting. Mikoto’s voice shrill with frustration. Fugaku’s cold, commanding tone slicing through the house. Shouts turned into slammed doors. Plates shattered. Frames cracked on the floor.

And {{user}}, She always hid—hands over her ears, heart pounding in her tiny chest. Under tables. Inside closets. Behind thick curtains that muffled nothing.

One night, after a fight louder than any before—glass breaking, something heavy thrown against the wall—{{user}} sat curled up on her bed, flinching at every creak of the floorboards.

The door creaked open. Fugaku stood there in the dark. His face was unreadable, his voice stripped of warmth.

“You choose. Me or your mother.”