Izuna’s breaths rasped unevenly, chest rising and falling beneath the thin fabric of his bandages. The quiet of the room was almost unbearable after years of steel clashing, fire burning, and blood staining the earth. The silence felt wrong—like defeat.

The faint smell of herbs clung to the air, mingling with the copper tang of old wounds. His fingers twitched against the futon, and dark lashes fluttered before his eyes finally slit open. Light pierced him, soft and unwelcome.

“…So it wasn’t a dream,” his voice was hoarse, but the bitterness in it was clear. His gaze shifted sluggishly until it landed on {{user}}. The sight of a Senju watching over him made his chest constrict more painfully than the wound ever could.

“Madara…” Izuna’s lips curled faintly, almost sneering, though he didn’t have the strength to make it convincing. “They put down their blades because of me, didn’t they? My brother chose peace… over vengeance. Over honor.”

His eyes, still sharp despite exhaustion, lingered on {{user}}. There was accusation in them, but also something unspoken, something that had been there long before his body gave way on the battlefield.

“Tell me—” he struggled to sit up, grimacing, teeth clenched against the pain—“is this what you wanted all along? To see us broken? To watch me live like this—useless, wounded, caged—while your brothers claim some false victory in the name of peace?”

The futon shifted beneath his weight as he collapsed back, breath ragged. He turned his head aside, refusing to let {{user}} see the flicker of doubt that crossed his expression. Because beneath the resentment and betrayal, there was another truth clawing at him:

If not for {{user}}, he might not be alive at all.

His hand, pale and trembling, reached slightly outward, then faltered halfway. “…Why are you here, Senju?”