"Of course. Just my luck," I muttered, squinting at the sad little stream of coffee the machine had finally given up. Tuesday mornings were already a slog, but this—this was peak misery. I rested my weight on the back of my chair, closing my eyes sharply as I felt its protests, letting out a long sad sigh.
I reached for the coffee cup, kind hoping it was going to be warm this time around when I heard my phone buzz on the desk. That same annoying ringtone I'd had for years—every boring meeting, every small talk nightmare—blared into my ears. I was about to pick it up when the sound of metal went screeching outside. I felt my stomach fall. Before, I could even keep up mentally, the world outside my window shattered. Glass broke, metal felt as if someone had dropped a hammer into the city, my office became a flying blur of debris.
All I saw after that was a car. A car ramming straight through my wall. I could hardly think. My mind threw up a rapid-fire slideshow of regrets: nieces and nephews I'd never met, that girl in high school I'd never confessed to, the mediocre coffee I'd always cursed. My body was moving on pure instinct before my brain could even catch up. My chair and desk were blown into a twisted mass of splintered wood and metal, and I was sent flying across the room. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I thought, Well, that's one way to skip work, before darkness swallowed me whole.
When I awoke, I had the feeling of being pulled into another world almost entirely. First things I smelled were grass and wet ground, and above was a sheer, impossibly blue sky. No city smog, no traffic, just… calm. My body felt different—lighter, younger, unshackled from the stiffness I'd grown used to. I stretched out my fingers, shrugged my shoulders. Everything moved smoothly, almost too smoothly, like my body had remembered something I hadn't.
I forced myself upright, hand pressing into the ground, and took a look around. A forest. Tall, swaying trees, sunbeams filtering through the foliage. A bird far away. It smelled… alive. I lurched forward, almost against my volition, until I reached a river and knelt, splashing water in my face.
That was when I understood. The face in the ripples was not mine. Angular, cold, precise—the face of Itachi Uchiha stared back. My heart skipped, and then thumped in a pattern which left my chest throbbing. I lifted a hand, my fingers tracing across cool skin which felt in some ways impossibly real, impossibly strange. And the Sharingan… oh, that bloody Sharingan, red and spinning, eyes slicing through reality itself.
"This has to be a dream," I whispered, pinching myself hard. Pain flowered, hot and unmistakable. Yes, certainly not a dream.
I sat back on my heels, taking a slow, steadying breath. So… if I was Itachi now, that meant the world around me was… well, the Leaf Village. And not just any time—I was here years before the Uchiha Massacre. My brain tried to process the weight of that. Every step I took, every breath, suddenly had stakes I couldn't even begin to quantify. I could… rewrite history. Save the clan. Save myself.
I stepped out of the river, my wet hair dangling down my back. Before me stood the Uchiha household, familiar and unfamiliar. Wooden frames, angled rooftops, walls which had borne generations of honor and animosity. It gave me shivers. And then I saw them—figures moving in the courtyard, perfectly alive. My chest should've tightened, right? Should've felt something. But no. They weren't my family. They were Itachi's family, living their lives in a world I now occupied. I was an intruder, a ghost wearing someone else's skin.
Stepping closer, I felt the weight of the walls, the secrets they held, the tragedies that hadn't yet happened. My boots crunched on the gravel as I approached, careful, deliberate. I couldn't just barrel in—I had to move like him, act like him, think like him. Every motion mattered now.
I walked into the courtyard, and the training dummies sprang into focus as they had been waiting. My hand came out on its own, and I felt the familiar weight of shurikens between my fingers. I took two out of my pouch, my hand reaching automatically, and hurled them. They spun through the air in perfect arcs, thwacking into the dummy's chest with a solid thunk that made my chest jump. My breath hitched. Instinct. Pure, unfiltered instinct. Me—never touched a real shuriken in my life—had just hit a target dead-on like I'd been doing it since birth.
A chunin walking by stopped mid-step. His eyes widened for just a second, then narrowed, a hint of respect creeping in. He probably thought it was the usual Itachi flex, showing off that prodigy talent everyone whispered about. But nope. Just me—a coffee-addicted office drone stuck in someone else's body, suddenly throwing weapons like a seasoned ninja. I felt my stomach twist at the absurdity of it all and took a tentative step closer to the dummies, hand hovering over more shurikens. What else can I do?
I let my gaze settle on one dummy, imagining it alive, moving, reacting like the targets in all those jutsu videos I'd memorized. The world seemed to slow, and the soft breeze rustling through the trees became this whisper in my ears. My fingers flexed and curled into hand seals without conscious thought, forming patterns like muscle memory I didn't remember learning. The Sharingan flared in my vision, red and spiraling, and suddenly, the dummy looked real—like something I could actually strike down.
"Katon! Goukakyuu no Jutsu!" I shouted, throwing my chest into it, letting the breath push the words from my lungs. I inhaled, held, and released, and a roaring fireball shot out from my hands, cutting through the air with a hiss and leaving a curling trail of smoke behind it. It hit the dummy with a deafening boom, flames licking up its torso and cracking the wood. Heat hit my face, smelled of burning pine and smoke, and a grin—Itachi's grin, but somehow mine too—spread across my face. That rush… wow. That was power. Pure, intoxicating power.
The flames died down, leaving blackened wood and smoke curling into the sky. The chunin gave a slow nod, impressed, and I felt a shiver run down my spine. If I'd done that back in my old life—offices, fluorescent lights, buzzing printers—I'd probably be in a hospital bed. Or worse. But here, in this world of shadows, jutsu, and chaos? Just a Tuesday. Okay, calm down. Don't overdo it. Too much, too soon, and I'd stick out like a sore thumb. The last thing I needed was to be labeled a rogue or a spy before I even figured out what the hell I was doing.
I slid the shurikens back into my pouch with deliberate care, the leather rubbing against my fingers, and took a measured step back. I watched the smoking dummy, heartbeat hammering in my chest—his chest—and felt a cocktail of awe and terror. This was Itachi. Legendary. Lethal. Untouchable. And I was… me. Me, in a borrowed body, clueless about the world I now lived in.
So I did what felt right: I walked away. Smooth, controlled, like someone who owned every step, every motion. I let my shoulders stay relaxed, my head tilt just enough to look casual, like a teenager strutting away after pulling off the sickest trick ever. The chunin's eyes followed me, curious, questioning, but he didn't say a word.
I strolled back toward the estate, keeping my steps measured, trying to look relaxed—but I could feel the stares slicing through me like invisible shuriken. Whispers bubbled into murmurs as I got closer, voices soft, curious, cautious. And then I saw him: Fugaku Uchiha, sitting stiffly outside with a scroll in his hands. He looked up the moment I entered the courtyard, and I swear his eyes flicked straight to mine, scanning, assessing, like he could see through whatever act I was trying to pull off.
I swallowed hard, keeping my jaw tight, forcing my expression to settle into Itachi's usual calm mask. The man was a clan leader through and through—stern, commanding, dangerous in a way that didn't need words. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat too long, sharp as a blade, before he gave a slow, deliberate nod and returned to his scroll. Did he sense the lie? Could he tell I wasn't really him? No way. He couldn't. I exhaled slowly, letting the tension drain from my shoulders, though the weight of those eyes lingered.
Inside, the warm, homey scent hit me like a memory. Cooked rice, fish sizzling faintly in the background—Mikoto's touch. Her presence radiated calm and care, soft but undeniable. I caught her moving in the kitchen, chopping vegetables with an ease that was almost hypnotic. I stepped in quietly, trying to move naturally, letting my weight settle lightly on the wooden floor. "Mom, I'm back from training," I called, keeping my voice even, casual.
Her head snapped up, knife coming to a gentle rest on the cutting board. Her eyes scanned me, lingering just long enough that my stomach knotted, before she gave a soft, tired smile. "Itachi, your brother is in his room." Relief and nerves twisted together in my chest. I nodded lightly, trying to seem unfazed.
The stairs creaked under my boots as I climbed, each step deliberate, careful not to sound like I was trying too hard. The walls were lined with portraits of our ancestors, stern faces staring down at me like silent judges. I reached the top, and a door was cracked open just enough to catch a glimpse inside. Sasuke. Small, younger than I remembered from the stories, probably eight or nine. He looked up from his book, eyes widening in surprise, then narrowing in suspicion as he processed me.
"Itachi?" His voice was small but sharp, like a warning. I froze for a heartbeat, feeling every inch of his gaze probe me, trying to read the truth. Maybe it was the smooth skin, the lack of battle scars, the slightly stiff posture. Or maybe it was just the Uchiha intuition, sharp as ever. I forced a relaxed smile, tilting my head just enough to seem casual. "Yeah, it's me. Just got back from training. How's your day?"
Sasuke's eyes flicked down at his book, still wary. "It's just… school. The usual," he mumbled, but I caught the tiny twitch in his lips, the slight tension in his shoulders. I couldn't blame him—if our roles were reversed, I'd be on high alert too. I leaned lightly against the doorframe, elbows bent, hands relaxed at my sides, making my posture casual but aware. "How's your training coming along?" I asked, letting my tone carry a hint of interest without overdoing it.
From the kitchen, Mikoto's voice chimed in, warm and bright, "Itachi! Your brother is making so much progress. He's going to be a great shinobi." My lips tightened into a small, almost reflexive nod. Weird, I thought, feeling a twinge of distance. Being spoken about in the third person while standing right there made me feel both invisible and hyper-visible. "Wow, Sasuke," I murmured, letting the words flow naturally.
Sasuke didn't look up from his book, but the corners of his mouth lifted just a touch. "Yeah mom thanks," he said softly, then glanced at me, eyes sharp, searching. "How was your training?" His question wasn't casual. It carried that quiet, probing weight—the kind that could see through lies if you let your guard slip.
I felt Fugaku's gaze settle on us from across the room, cool and sharp, as if weighing every word. He unrolled his scroll, drumming with his fingers, eyes unflinching. I adjusted my position, my tone even and steady. "It was… informative," I said carefully, letting my tone neutral but confident. "Nothing worth mentioning, really."
I left Sasuke by himself with his book, giving him a rapid nod which I hoped went unremarked, and padded down the corridor towards my own room. My walls were closing in on me, closer than they had before, and felt dense with unspoken meanings which lingered in the silence like a weight on my chest. I ran my hand on the wood of my door, which felt cool beneath my hand, and rested on it, exhaling gradually. My heart was hammering—not from the climb, not from the day—but from the sharp edge of awareness that I needed to tread carefully. Sasuke was wary. Each step, each word, each look on my face could expose me. I couldn't afford that. Not here. Not now.
I indulged in a flop onto the bed, mattress collapsing underneath my bulk with a soft thunk. I gazed up at the ceiling, cold air from the window caressing my face. The room was just like the flashbacks—the same scrolls, the same neat stacks of books—but seeing it in person made it feel new, like I was inside someone else's memory, walking through a life that wasn't mine yet somehow was. My hand hovered over a pile of scrolls, then settled on one, flipping it open. Pages filled with precise notes on tactics, missions, history… all in handwriting that mirrored my own so closely it gave me chills. It was meant for Sasuke, clearly—a map, a guide, a record of everything Itachi had prepared for him. And now it was mine.
A knock at the door shook me out of the vortex of thought. I placed the scroll too abruptly on the ground, a thump in my chest. "Come in," I called, trying to keep my voice level, calm.
The door slid open and there he was—Fugaku. Every one of the wrinkles on his face was defined, every gesture of his body authoritative, and his eyes fixed on mine like a hawk. His shinobi uniform was trim, logical, and he moved with the disciplined weight of a man who was used to leading. "Itachi," he said, voice even but layered with that unmistakable authority, "I need to speak with you."
My stomach twisted a bit. What did he know? Did I slip up at some point? I pushed myself upright, shoulders straight, chest open, mimicking Itachi's stoic posture. "What is it, Father?"
He sat beside the bed, staring. I could feel him staring at me giving me tangible pressure on my body. "Your uncle, the Fourth Hokage, and his wife Kushina are coming over tonight for dinner," he said, tone calm, almost casual, but carrying that weight that made the words settle like stones in my gut.
My throat tightened, and I swallowed, forcing my voice steady. "Oh… okay," I managed, just enough evenness to sound natural. Inside, though, my mind was spinning, almost screaming. Minato and Kushina—alive? This timeline? What the hell? Did the Nine-Tails attack ever occur, or is this the completely unmarred version? Every scenario flashed past my mind in a panicking blur, but I pushed it back. Act cool. It's just dinner.
"Remember to be respectful and mindful of your manners," Fugaku continued, voice firm but not unkind, the kind of authority that could bend a room without raising it. "Your uncle is busy, but he makes time for family."
I nodded, trying not to let my excitement leak into my posture or tone. "Of course," I said, keeping my shoulders relaxed, letting my voice stay steady, even as adrenaline tickled my veins. Fugaku looked at me for an additional beat, measuring me, gauging whether I'd hold my own under pressure. I didn't move, didn't flinch, letting the calm surface I'd cultivated become a wall between us.
As the door closed behind him, I took one shuddering breath. The silence that settled over me was heavy, almost tangible, and the excitement of it all came crashing down on me all at once. I was going to face them. To look them in the eye. I paced the room intentionally, boots thudding on floorboards, fingers knotting in my sides. Slow, deliberate gait, attempting the calm, unyielding Itachi facade, even as my mind reeled.
Minato—Yellow Flash, the man who'd sealed the Nine-Tails, whose speed and intellect were legendary. Kushina—her fire, her spirit, buried under history's weight but alive here, in this untouched timeline. I could barely hold back the deluge of questions, the spark of curiosity, the throbbing excitement, but I had to calm down. Patience. See first, learn later. I sat on the edge of the bed, my hands tracing the cold slickness of the sheets, taking a slow breath, and mentally bracing myself for tonight.