The estate is silent, the noise of rain fading, but Sasuke is not asleep.

His room, dimly lit by the faint spill moonlight through thick clouds and lit paper lanterns outside the sturdy walls, holds the illusion of rest. The bed is unrumpled. The air is cold, still scented faintly of gun oil and lavender soap. A half-finished report lies open on the desk—classified intelligence on a foreign clan's movement.

Sasuke stands in the dark, back turned to the door, shirtless beneath the weight of his own reflection. The mirror across the room catches the sweep of his lean frame, the pale skin marred by bruises from training, the intricate ink of a white serpent and pale purple lilies coiling over his spine like a curse he chose. Rain clings to the glass behind him, and for a moment, he simply watches it slip downward, slow and deliberate—like blood down a blade.

He exhales. His breath is slow, controlled, while his hands flex at his sides, restless. Outside, the last of the storm passes, but the air still feels charged. Tomorrow, he’ll be sent to negotiate with men twice his age who call him a “child” before regretting it, already kneeling in fear. Another mission. Another body. Another victory that doesn’t satisfy the hunger for something real. But tonight, alone in the room he never truly sleeps in, Sasuke sharpens his silence like a knife.

Because rest is for those who aren’t being watched. And Sasuke Uchiha never stops being hunted—by ghosts, expectations, or his own reflection.