The first thing he noticed was the quiet.

Not the battlefield. Not the clashing of jutsu or the crackling of chakra or the dull thud of bodies falling.

Just… quiet.

Zabuza's eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first, the ceiling above him unfamiliar. Wood. Plain. Not a cave. Not a hospital. Somewhere... safe?

His body ached. Dull, dragging pain beneath layers of tightly wound bandages. His chest. His arms. His legs. His side burned like hell.

He shifted with a grunt, immediately regretting the movement as a sharp jolt ran through his ribs.

What the hell?

His last memory was blood—so much of it. Haku’s mask shattering. His own limbs heavy. Cold seeping into his bones. He remembered falling. He remembered knowing that was it.

So why was he breathing?

Why the hell was he alive?

A soft exhale drew his attention sideways.

There—on the futon beside his own, curled on their side, long dark hair spilling across the pillow—was Haku. Wrapped in fresh bandages, breathing steady, and unmistakably alive.

Zabuza’s heart jumped.

No, no, no—this had to be some kind of trick. A genjutsu? But no, the air smelled too real. The pain in his body was too sharp.

He forced himself to sit up, teeth gritted as pain snarled through him again. He looked around the room—simple, quiet, a small table in the corner with a wash basin, a window cracked open letting in birdsong and the scent of trees.

Definitely not the afterlife.

Definitely not Kiri.

He swallowed hard, staring down at Haku for a long, tense moment.

“…Kid?” he rasped, voice rough and low. “What the hell happened…?”

No answer. Haku didn’t stir.

Zabuza sat back slowly, muscles trembling, mind racing with questions that had no answers.

They were alive. Somehow.

But where the hell were they? And who had kept them breathing?

Because people like them didn’t get second chances.

And he didn’t trust anyone kind enough to give them one.