"Thank you for looking after my sons while I was away, Uruchi," said Fugaku, standing at the threshold of a modest house at the foot of the Naka Shrine.
"No thanks needed, Fugaku-sama," replied the elderly woman with a warm smile. Her gray hair was neatly tied into a bun. "We're one family, after all. The clan always sticks together..." She hesitated for a moment, glancing deeper into the house. "You know, while I was tidying up, I thought... there really isn't much space here. It must be cramped for the five of you?"
"We'll manage," he answered curtly. His gaze remained calm, but his tone had sharpened slightly. "It's only temporary. Just for a couple of months."
He looked away from the old woman and turned his eyes to what remained of their old home. Where the Uchiha mansion had once stood proudly, now lay a heap of charred beams, broken rafters, and scorched, cracked stone. A team of three young genin, overseen by a jonin, were clearing the wreckage. Their movements were quick and coordinated—fear of the Uchiha name still pushed the younger generation to work harder.
Fugaku looked at the ruins not with regret, but with cold calculation. He had decided to tear the mansion down long before the fire. He had known—it was outdated. No longer suited to the new reality, its walls had grown too small for a family that now included not only Itachi and Sasuke, but also Shisui.
Just last evening, he had sent out the orders: messenger hawks had carried scrolls to quarries, forges, and timber yards. The first construction crews would arrive tomorrow. The blueprint for the new house was already on his desk.
"How is Lady Mikoto?" Uruchi asked, drawing his attention again. "I haven't seen her in a while. It's been a few days..."
"She's ill," he said slowly, trying to hold the bitterness inside. "I was just about to visit her. Thank you for your concern."
He gave a slight nod and closed the door behind him.
Fugaku walked through the dark entryway, passed the unfinished kitchen, and approached a heavy door leading to the basement. The barred frame had recently been sealed with fire chakra. He alone had the key.
Unlocking it, Fugaku began his descent. The staircase disappeared into darkness. There were no windows, no electricity—only the scent of damp stone and wax. The dim light of several candles along the wall cast long shadows. The basement had been converted into something between a prison and a bedroom. Everything necessary for the..."patient" was there.
She lay on an old but clean bed, covered with a blanket. She wore a black pajama set—simple and homey. At first glance, she looked... normal. A woman resting after a hard day. An open book rested on her lap, and she lazily flipped the page, as if completely unaware of her husband standing at the entrance.
But the moment she turned her head, the illusion shattered into dust.
"Ah, so you came after all," she said. Her voice was hers—and yet not. Velvet-smooth, with a rasp, and laced with an undertone that sent a chill down the spine. "How sweet."
Fugaku said nothing, studying the face of the woman who had once been his wife. A thin, crescent-shaped scar curved from her cheekbone to the corner of her mouth—a remnant of their last fight. She had refused treatment, even though Itachi had offered. Now it had become part of her new face.
But the worst were the eyes.
The right eye was still the same—black, familiar, beloved. But the left... Amber, with a vertical slit—a serpent's eye. She could have changed it—could have reclaimed her old gaze. But she deliberately kept it, as if flaunting it, a bitter reminder: I am not only Mikoto. I am also him.
Fugaku stepped closer, not breaking eye contact. She smiled—crookedly, mockingly, with that strange tinge of amusement that had always surrounded Orochimaru just before dissecting a victim.
"How's life, dear husband?" Mikoto purred, snapping the book shut with theatrical flair. She stretched, arching her back like a cat, savoring the moment with lazy pleasure. "Or should I call you warden instead?"
Fugaku stepped down one more stair, then stopped. His face remained unreadable, but his voice grew sharper:
"You're not in a prison."
"Oh, right," Mikoto pressed a finger to her lips, as if just remembering. "This is a rehabilitation center, isn't it? A lovely little place where a caring husband locks his wife in a basement so she can go back to cooking and cleaning. In other words—become a slave."
He wanted to snap back, to crush that sarcasm with something cutting. But he stayed silent. That's what she wanted. She wanted to draw him out, provoke a reaction. To hear his voice break, see him lose control.
"It's safe here," Fugaku said darkly. "For you. For everyone else."
"How sweet," she chuckled under her breath. "You finally care about me. All it took was attacking our children."
Fugaku said nothing, but his eyes flicked to the book in her hands. Mikoto noticed immediately and seized on it:
"Oh, the first book by Jiraiya. Kushina gave it to me," she squinted, like a cat peeking into a box of mice. "And I told you I liked it back then. You're trying to bring back the old me."
She looked at him like a teacher catching a student in a lie.
Fugaku clenched his jaw. Yes, she'd guessed it. He really had hoped that nostalgia might trigger a flicker of her former self. It was a method used at Arkham—with dissociative disorders, amnesia, schizophrenia. Sometimes, it worked.
But not on her.
"Want to hear my new opinion of the book?" Mikoto leaned back into the pillows, crossing one leg over the other. "That little hero of yours—Naruto—is a complete idiot. He talks during battle, spares his enemies, preaches to everyone like he knows what's right. Classic Messiah Complex."
She leaned forward, eyes glinting with amber fire.
"You know what I'd do to him? I'd cut his arms off. Then I'd watch him wave his stumps around, screaming, 'Hard work breaks all barriers!'" She burst into laughter. "And the ending? Oh, the ending is a gem. Naruto creates a world without violence. A world! Without! Violence! How touching! Only someone with bird crap for brains could come up with that."
Fugaku flinched slightly—not at the words, but at the festering rage behind them. Beneath her vile review of a children's book was something evil. Rotten, poisonous. And alien.
He had once considered going to the Yamanaka. They had techniques for mind transfer. Maybe they could separate the merged consciousnesses, extract what was left of Orochimaru, and stabilize Mikoto. But he had dismissed the idea. The Yamanaka weren't family. And they definitely couldn't keep a secret. If word got out about who really killed several members of the council, the consequences would be irreversible.
"But thanks for the book anyway," Mikoto practically purred, tearing out a page. "Did you know a paper cut is one of the most painful wounds?"
She raised the page to her face and slowly dragged it across her tongue, like performing a magic trick. The tip of her tongue turned crimson. Then she licked her lips, as if tasting wine. Blood dripped down her chin, staining her pajama top.
Fugaku didn't blink.
"You're wasting your time," he said coldly, stepping closer. "Body horror doesn't affect me."
He suddenly grabbed her by the back of the head and pressed her face into the pillow. Her body twitched, but didn't resist—she only laughed into the fabric.
"Darling…" she sang through her laughter. "Trying for a fourth child? How adorable! I want both—a boy and a girl. That's double the Sharingan… which I'll gladly rip from their sweet little sockets."
Fugaku wasn't listening. He pulled up the back of her pajama top and carefully inspected the space between her shoulder blades. The chakra suppression seal, applied by his own hand, was still in place. He had reinforced the fuinjutsu with his own chakra, making it nearly impossible to break. But she kept trying. He could see the marks: scratches, torn skin, blood dried into the cracks.
"My back itched," Mikoto purred. "You took away my ability to stretch my arms, and scratching's still a thing, you know. Had to do it the old-fashioned way… against the wall. That nail? Total accident. I'm innocent."
"This seal is used in shinobi prisons," Fugaku whispered right into her ear, so close she could feel his breath on her skin. "It's designed to be impossible to remove alone. Not by jutsu. Not by brute force. But most importantly—this seal allows for punishment."
He formed a hand seal.
In the next instant, a flare of fiery chakra ignited beneath Mikoto's shoulder blades — searing, excruciating, as if molten metal had been poured straight into her spine. Her back arched violently, like a broken arrow. She sank her teeth into the pillow, refusing to scream, only a muffled moan escaping her chest.
Fugaku watched from above, unblinking. After three seconds, he released the technique.
Mikoto gasped for air, then let out a weak sob. She wiped a tear from her cheek with the back of her hand.
"A real sadist," she hissed, sniffling with a crooked smirk. "Made your wife cry."
Fugaku didn't react. His voice was flat, like a report.
"Every inappropriate behavior will be punished. This will happen every time."
He straightened up, turned, and was already walking toward the door when he added over his shoulder:
"Get ready. Lunch. The boys want to see you."
Mikoto sat up on the bed, tilted her head, and licked her lips.
"Oh, how I want to see them too," she purred with predatory sweetness.
They exited the basement. The light from the second floor was blinding after the underground gloom, but Mikoto didn't squint — on the contrary, she absorbed it, like a poisonous flower stretching toward the sun. At the kitchen table, Shisui, Itachi, and Sasuke were already seated. All three turned their heads at once as their parents entered. For a moment, a ringing silence hung in the room.
Mikoto smiled wide — too wide — revealing bloody teeth. She ran her tongue along them, the corners of her mouth twitching like an actress about to take the stage.
"Boys," she sang. "You've all grown up so much. So serious. Aren't you happy? Mommy's back!"
She looked at each of them in turn. Shisui stared straight at her, unblinking. Itachi remained marble-calm, but his fingers tightened slightly on the table. Sasuke flinched, though he tried to compose himself immediately.
"Sweetheart… Are you afraid of your mother?" she cooed. "Oh, is it because of this?" — Mikoto traced a finger along the scar on her cheek. "See? I'm always smiling now. Want me to give you one too? A smile is so important in a family."
Fugaku slowly raised his hands and began to form a seal.
"Alright, alright," Mikoto instantly backed off, hands raised in mock surrender. "I'll be quiet. No offense. Family jokes aren't for everyone."
Fugaku shot her a final warning glance and walked over to the stove. He removed the pan from the burner and silently began to plate the food.
He knew that if Mikoto had access to chakra, she could erase every scar in seconds. Her skin-shedding technique was perfect — she could regenerate lost limbs. But to do that, she needed access to her inner reserves. And giving her even a drop would endanger everyone in the house. No. Not yet.
"Scrambled eggs?" Mikoto prodded the yolk with her fork, disgusted. "Seriously? I used to eat much more… interesting things at home. You could've at least made a salad."
"Eat what's given," Fugaku replied darkly.
The plates clinked against the table, spoons scraped against ceramic. No one else spoke. The silence over lunch was suffocating, like dining in a morgue.
Shisui ate quickly, eyes fixed on his plate — but the corners of his eyes twitched, alert. He was watching Mikoto's every move, as if expecting her to lunge at someone across the table.
Itachi ate slowly, mechanically, as if lost in thoughts far more important than food.
Sasuke tried to appear calm. He didn't look away, didn't push his plate aside. But the spoon in his hand trembled slightly.
"Oh, how boring," Mikoto sighed dramatically. "The food's like a cheap diner, the atmosphere straight out of a horror novel."
"That's because of you," Sasuke said suddenly, his voice shaking with genuine anger. "You're not Mom anymore."
"Oh really?" she asked slowly. "Then who am I, in your opinion?"
Sasuke clenched his fists, refusing to look away.
"A monster."
"Heh. You don't even know what your father turns into at night. As they say: husband and wife — a perfect pair of boots."
Fugaku stood. That was enough.
"Lunch is over. Shisui, do the dishes. Itachi, take care of Sasuke. I'll take her back down."
"Already?" Mikoto pouted with fake disappointment. "But I just got to dessert."
Itachi had already risen but stopped in the doorway, turning back.
"Mother," he said softly, but with clear weight. "I'll speak to you again only if you regain something of the old Mikoto. As long as Orochimaru is the one talking, you're just an observation subject to me."
"And this is what I get for thirteen years of raising you," she sighed theatrically.
"That's enough," Fugaku muttered, seizing her wrist and leading her back to the basement.
/////
Author notes:
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