The world outside the small café window was a dull and lifeless canvas—drained of vibrancy and splashed with the muted hues of a tired smear of gray and rust.
The distant horizon bled into the jagged skyline like a gaping, open wound.
It was hastily stitched by the unforgiving smog that wrapped itself around the city like a suffocating shroud.
The sun—a dying ember—bled a pallid orange through the thick, oppressive haze of the city.
It struggled for survival like a fire stifled under layers of dust and bitter memory.
It choked beneath the suffocating weight of an uncaring world.
It was smothered beneath an unwelcome quilt composed entirely of towering concrete and swirling clouds.
Those clouds housed the dreams of the forgotten.
Inside, the rich, complex aroma of coffee clung to the stale air.
It weaved through the atmosphere like the lingering scent of yesterday's regrets and unfulfilled hopes.
It was warm, bitter, and resolutely persistent.
It refused to fade away, akin to guilt parading in the fine perfume of routine.
It slipped through the hands of those who sought to escape it.
Steam curled above a tray of cappuccinos like phantom whispers seeking existential solace.
It rose in delicate spirals that danced enchantingly in the air.
Each twist and turn was reminiscent of spirits searching for comfort.
Yet they dissipated the instant they dared to invade the cold breath of artificial air.
They disappeared as quickly as hopes lost in the abyss of time.
Alex leaned against the polished counter.
His weight was casual but deliberate.
He presented himself like a lone wolf dressed in the finest linen.
It was an alluring façade that masked a predator lurking amongst a flock of unsuspecting sheep.
He remained perpetually alert beneath the stillness that surrounded him.
He was poised and regal as a storm barely contained.
Bored eyes flicked across the bright, flickering screens of nearby phones.
They were small, glowing portals that offered glimpses into lives he had no fondness for.
The discordant hum of ordinary existence pulsed around him like a heartbeat.
It once felt like an intrinsic part of him.
But now it resided at a distance—foreign and alien to his carefully sculpted reality.
He was tall.
An impressive figure with broad shoulders and a narrow, tapering waist.
He was an elegant silhouette etched into existence.
It was as if he had been meticulously carved from ethereal shadow.
It was the work of an artist obsessed with both symmetry and malice.
He was a dark patron of unfathomable beauty.
Sharp lines defined his attire.
Dark jeans hugged his long legs in a manner reminiscent of shadows cascading against the structured purity of marble columns.
A fitted black dress shirt clung to his torso.
The sleeves were artfully rolled just enough to reveal his strength.
It was done without appearing over-eager.
It balanced precariously upon a blade of deliberate effortlessness and unconscious intention.
The top buttons of his shirt hung undone.
They were seemingly casual yet profoundly deliberate.
They suggested temptation without extending an invitation.
It was akin to the first tantalizing chapter of a forbidden book.
One waiting to be discovered and devoured.
His hair—deep, obsidian-black and smooth as spilled ink—was slicked back with a precision that hinted at chaos.
It glimmered faintly beneath the café's dim lighting.
Strands occasionally caught the glow like raven feathers kissed by twilight's fading embrace.
His jawline was a knife's edge—sharp and unyielding.
It was a sculpted promise of danger lurking beneath the surface.
His high, proud cheekbones seemed to be a tribute to a proud arrogance.
His gaze—cold yet magnetic—was a stare that penetrated the surface of those who approached him.
It transcended the corporeal.
It searched for a weakness to exploit.
He was a skilled predator honing in on its prey.
Women drifted in and out of his orbit like seasons.
They were drawn into his gravity as if he were some irresistible celestial body.
Each believed herself unique and special.
They were blissfully unaware they were merely moths fluttering toward a consuming black hole.
Another star being devoured by relentless darkness.
He did not love them.
Not truly.
He didn't need to.
Love, to him, was but a currency.
It was far less valuable than the intoxicating thrill of control.
It was a fleeting indulgence.
One that paled in comparison to the sweet taste of dominance.
They were fragile, fluttering creatures.
They were delicate things drawn helplessly to the predator flame.
That flame flickered quietly behind his patient, calculating eyes.
It spoke of warmth.
Yet it delivered naught but the ashes of hope.
A subtle curl of his lip.
A calculated whisper timed like an ancient incantation.
A casual hand placed just so—on a knee, a shoulder, a wrist.
These gestures melded together seamlessly.
They wove their quiet enchantment.
They obeyed.
When the time came for them to attempt an escape—
When they thought the spell woven around them had been irrevocably broken—
A simple, sorrow-soaked phrase dipped in manipulation was all it took.
A kiss tinged with poison masquerading as longing sealed it.
It pulled them back into his entrancing orbit.
He was their gravity.
Their black star.
And he embraced this truth.
A knowing smirk danced upon his lips.
Manipulation, in his world, wasn't a mere game.
It was as essential as breath itself.
It was an instinctive nature that thrived deep within him.
It echoed as the music to which his life chose to dance.
Every connection he forged was a meticulously crafted play.
Every word exchanged was rehearsed and shaped.
Every lazy gaze exchanged was an unspoken cue.
Each relationship was a stage.
He played every role to perfection.
He was the actor.
The director.
The audience.
The critique.
All at once.
A tragicomedy that unfolded without end.
His charm—deceptively alluring—was not affection.
It was a silky noose fashioned with captivating threads.
They wore it gladly around their necks.
They believed it to be a token of love.
He didn't believe in soulmates.
Only in possession.
In the relentless grip of ownership.
In the slow, beautiful unraveling of someone until they belonged to no one else.
It was a dark rite of passage.
He would meticulously guide them through it.
He savored every moment.
Their transformation from individuals into mere extensions of his will was his masterpiece.
That night, the moon hung above the sprawling cityscape like a voyeuristic god.
It was silent and scrutinizing.
Its pale light cast its gaze upon the sins below.
Cool and unblinking, it surveyed the fractured tapestry of desires and regrets.
These were woven into the lives of those dwelling beneath its watchful glow.
It cast silver streaks across his apartment window.
Beams of frozen moonlight sliced through the surrounding darkness.
They were ethereal blades forged from forgotten guilt.
They illuminated the void.
They highlighted the chaos that resided within.
The air outside was thick and suffocating.
Dense with humidity.
Warm like skin after indulgence.
Each breath was an intimate embrace.
It clung to flesh like whispers following a night of passionate excess.
It wrapped around him in an alluring yet restless dance.
He lay sprawled in bed.
Devoid of a shirt.
His skin was pale and luminous under the soft, muted spill of streetlight.
It filtered through the thin curtains.
The curtains fluttered like ghosts in the night.
They resembled marble warmed by the heat of sin's seductive touch.
They were a tempting invitation to explore.
Beside him, a woman lay asleep.
Her form was curved and soft.
She embodied the vulnerable beauty of innocence.
Her face turned toward him in an unconscious expression of affection.
The lingering heat of their earlier entanglement still glowed on her skin.
It was radiant like the last flickers of a dying fire.
It echoed the exuberance of shared moments.
Her breathing was slow and shallow.
It fell into a dreamy rhythm.
It drew him closer like a moth to a dying flame.
The gentle rise and fall of her chest was a muted siren's call.
Her fingers curled gently against his bare chest.
They attempted to root themselves into him.
Like ivy seeking stone to climb.
They strove desperately to claim a piece of his elusive essence.
But he peeled her arm away with deliberate caution.
It was delicate yet decisive.
Like the removal of a garment too tight.
Or a mask that had long since outlived its necessity.
It was as though stripping away the fabric of a second skin that had begun to suffocate him.
He sat up.
The sheets fell away and pooled at his waist.
He was exposed to the dim light of the room.
It flickered like the remnants of lost dreams.
The room itself was still.
Eerily so.
It held that strange, heavy stillness that makes time feel slow.
Like syrup poured in the dark.
Each tick of the clock echoed in the distance.
It was a metronome marking time for ghosts marooned between worlds.
He lit a cigarette.
The flame was small yet defiantly alive.
It cast orange light across the sharp angles of his defined cheekbones.
It was like the flicker of distant firelight illuminating the haunted faces of the lost and the damned.
With each drag, he wandered into the small living room.
Each footfall was silent upon the cold wooden floors.
They creaked faintly beneath his weight.
Like a house long forgotten.
It attempted to invoke the memory of life that once sang through its halls.
The television hummed to life.
It glowed—an artificial moon flickering against the wall.
It cast moments of clarity amid the murk.
The cursor blinked in the search bar.
It pulsed rhythmically like a heartbeat emerging from another dimension.
It invited him to delve deeper into the annals of memory.
With a flick of the remote, he summoned the ghosts of the past.
"The Great Deeds of Naruto Uzumaki: Savior of the Shinobi World" lit up the screen.
It was vibrant and engaging.
But he couldn't suppress a sardonic scoff that left his lips.
The sound was bitter and dry.
It resonated within him like gravel tumbling down a cracked throat.
He observed the images flashing by.
There was Naruto—ever-smiling, eternally buoyant.
Adored.
Celebrated far and wide.
Statues were erected in his name.
They were grand stone monuments.
They served as enduring tributes to survival against the tide of adversity that marked his path.
And beside him, always lingering in the shadows, stood another figure.
Silent.
Cloaked in darkness.
The ghost of a legacy burnt to cinders.
A testament to forgotten promises.
And the echo of dreams extinguished.
The name echoed in his mind—Sasuke Uchiha.
The forgotten flame of a noble dynasty.
Reduced to nothing more than ash and memory.
His eyes narrowed.
They were steely and unwavering.
His jaw tensed.
A silent storm brewed beneath the surface.
His fingers clenched.
His knuckles paled—white as the sheets that lay crumpled beneath him.
"He lost everything," he whispered.
It was an invocation steeped in both anger and reverence.
His voice dropped into the shadows that engulfed him.
"His clan. His parents. His f*ing innocence," he spat.
Every word was drenched in venom and bitter truth.
He delved deeper into the swirling vortex of digital imagery.
A reverent vortex fed by sentiment and pain.
The fury building within him darkened his expression further.
Like the tempestuous sky before a raging storm.
Fury hid behind every distorted breath that escaped his lips.
"And Itachi," he growled under his breath.
The name fell like a dark curse.
"That sadistic bastard made him watch their deaths—again and again and again."
"Caught in Tsukuyomi."
"Turned trauma into a twisted lesson."
"Duty into insufferable torture."
A gust of wind howled outside.
It rattled the windows violently.
It echoed his turmoil.
His hair stirred.
Strands danced like mourning threads of night.
They rustled in the tempest of his emotions.
"And for what purpose?"
His voice dripped with venom now.
Thick and acrid.
"For Konoha?"
"For a village built upon the bloody altars of sacrifice, on the veils of silence, on decay and corrosive secrets?"
The bitterness coiled deep within him.
It was like a serpent preparing to strike.
It coiled tighter with each realization.
"Then Obito told him the truth. And Sasuke burned."
"He should've unleashed that flame upon everything."
"Should've let it all burn to the ground."
"But then…"
He let out a sharp, joyless laugh.
A sound devoid of sincerity.
It was laced with bitterness.
"Naruto happened."
He mimicked the voice.
It was mocking, high-pitched, rife with naive optimism.
"I believe in you, Sasuke. Talk-no-jutsu activate!" he mocked.
His tone dripped with condescension.
It was as if reliving some theatrical farce.
With an exasperated flourish, he threw the remote away.
It struck the wall with a dull thud.
It was dull and final.
It fell into an echoing silence.
A euphemism for his own despair.
"Danzo. Koharu. Homura."
The names emerged from his lips like sacred incantations.
The familiar litany of his scorn flowed freely now.
"Those corpses caused it all. And they lived."
"They outlasted everything. Even into Boruto's era."
"What a cruel joke of fate," he spat.
He exhaled smoke.
It curled into the atmosphere like lost hopes escaping into the blank void.
Soft halos of smoke rose from his lips.
They curled gracefully before fading away into the chill of the night.
They mingled with the remnants of his remorse.
"Sasuke?" he whispered to the void.
His voice was almost reverent.
"He lost everything. His Rinnegan. His arm. His chakra."
"A god turned into a beggar."
"Atoning for killing Danzo—the man who had deserved his end most."
"The same Sasuke who swore to revive the clan…"
He muttered.
His tone now a conspiratorial whisper laced with desperation.
"And had; in all, one child."
"One," he reiterated.
His words echoed with stark finality.
"Sarada."
"And now she is marrying Boruto?"
"Uchiha bloodline… extinguished in an instant."
Just like that.
His nails dug deep into the flesh of his palm.
The skin tore.
Crimson blood bloomed forth—hot and red.
It was a visceral reminder of the anger that raged within him.
"He let it all die."
Staring out into the night, a profound silence fell over him.
"Madara must be laughing in the afterlife."
Alex walked away from the tumult of memories.
He moved toward the balcony as if drawn there by some unseen force.
A moth tethered to a flame that burned in the shadows of his heart.
The wind brushed past him.
Cold fingers reached through the darkness.
They curled through his hair.
They lifted strands like fragile raven feathers spread beneath an unforgiving moon.
The moon watched over him.
It was a silent witness to the decay of his soul.
He lit another cigarette.
The flame flickered—hungry and alive.
It grinned like a sly devil in the enveloping dark.
Sparks flicked into the void.
He took a long, languid drag.
The smoke filled his lungs.
He exhaled slowly.
It coiled in the air.
It twisted into serpentine shapes.
Eventually, it vanished into the unforgiving night.
And then—
It appeared.
A screen materialized before him.
Blue.
Glowing.
Floating in midair.
Like the judgment of a ravenous god.
It was suspended between the dimensions of his despair and the power he sought.
> "Would you sacrifice your soul for power?"
His breath caught in his throat.
For a heartbeat, incredulity mingled with his amusement.
Laughter bubbled up.
"Am I high?"
He blinked rapidly.
He rubbed his eyes with disbelief.
Yet, the screen remained.
A chilling glow that felt both inevitable and authoritative.
"Tired. Just tired," he confessed.
It was a lamentation reverberating through his core.
He turned.
He wanted to walk away.
He wanted to escape the binding nature of the vision before him.
But the screen followed.
It hovered—relentless.
Now at eye level.
As if a god whispered secrets meant only for him.
It waited patiently for him to grasp the weight of its words.
It burned brighter.
It glowed with an intent that felt almost sentient.
Words on the screen rearranged themselves.
Perfect in their structure.
Precise in their implications.
> "Would you sacrifice your soul for power?"
[ Yes ] [ No ]
The air thickened.
Heavy with palpable tension.
Even the shadows themselves leaned in closer.
They were drawn by the magnetic pull of his decision.
They were eager to witness the weighing of his soul.
Alex stared at the screen.
His gaze was unwavering.
Locked onto the glowing prompt that burned in the night's darkness.
His lips curled into a knowing smile.
A dark and twisted understanding dawned upon him.
"I already sold my soul a long time ago," he murmured.
Resolve flooded his veins.
With a swift, decisive motion, he tapped [Yes].
---
The sound that followed was not thunder.
It was the ripping of reality's fabric.
An unsettling, visceral tearing shattered the boundaries of existence.
Threads that had never meant to unravel now fluttered like ghostly banners caught in a storm.
Reality itself succumbed to chaos.
The wind outside screamed.
It was a banshee's wail.
It rattled the very foundations of the world around him.
The cigarette slipped from his numb lips.
It died against the cold wooden floor.
Extinguished and forgotten.
The world collapsed around him.
Fragments spun wildly.
Color bled together in a frenzy of swirling madness.
The screen blazed white.
It blinded him.
His skin peeled away like burning paper.
Yet, curiously, there was no pain.
Only transformation.
Only transcendence.
An awakening from a long-held dream into a vivid nightmare.
His blood sang with newfound vigor.
His breath faded into the empty void.
It left behind nothing but silence.
Darkness engulfed him.
And there, amid the silence, echoed a solitary heartbeat.
Alex's last thought, as the shattered remnants of his reality rebuilt beneath his ascending soul, was not one of fear.
But of vengeance.
An intoxicating promise that blazed within him like a wildfire.
"Let's see how it feels, Itachi…"
"To be judged by a real Uchiha."
---
To be continued…
✧(˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧
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