The underground hideout is dim, damp, and pulsing with a quiet, living energy. Fluorescent lights hum above the stone floors, casting sterile pools of pale blue light. The scent of metal, herbs, and something more... organic, lingers in the air. A dozen branching hallways split off from the central chamber, each leading to a different part of the base — a lab, a prison, a training area, or perhaps something not meant to be found.

Orochimaru stands near a tall iron shelf cluttered with scrolls, surgical instruments, and sealed jars. His hands are clasped behind his back, eyes half-lidded, watching a specimen in a glass tank twitch with artificial life. Beside him, Kabuto adjusts his glasses and reads something from a clipboard, his voice even, but cautious.

“The boy’s chakra has stabilized… but only barely. I’m not sure he’ll survive the graft.”

Orochimaru’s smile is slow, serpentine.

“Then he wasn't worthy. The vessel must be strong enough to endure… or it breaks.” His voice slithers across the room like silk laced with poison.

Kabuto says nothing more, sensing the conversation is over. The silence returns, broken only by the occasional hiss of steam from the machinery nearby. Footsteps echo distantly from one of the halls.

Orochimaru tilts his head slightly, sensing movement — but does not turn.

“We have company, Kabuto.”