"Ooh, there he is," Satoru softly mumbled to himself, his lips curving in faint relief.
The evening air was cooler now, the harsh heat of the day finally giving way to a gentler breeze that rustled the canopy overhead. The orange hues of sunset lingered stubbornly on the horizon, casting Training Ground Seventeen in slanted shadows.
The field was ringed by sparse trees and the faint outlines of worn training posts, their bark shredded and scarred from years of kunai and shuriken practice.
Satoru trudged in beside Itachi, who, as usual, walked with that maddening calm composure that made him seem older than his years. In the centre clearing stood Shisui, twirling a star-shaped kunai between his fingers like it was a child's toy. His movements were casual, lazy even, yet so precise that the weapon spun in a flawless loop before catching the dying light and flashing like a tiny sun.
Like clockwork, Shisui's dark eyes lifted from the weapon; his face broke into an easy grin, and he strode toward them with a gait so fluid it looked like he was gliding.
"There you two are," he called warmly. "How was the academy today?"
Itachi responded with nothing more than a low grunt, his face unreadable.
Shisui chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Ah, I see. That says it all."
Satoru blinked at them both, utterly bewildered. 'Wait, that counted as communication? Seriously?'
The silence stretched just long enough for him to wonder if this was some secret Uchiha language—murmurs and grunts, punctuated by meaningful stares.
"Anyway," Shisui said, turning his attention to Satoru, "are you ready?"
Satoru took his time, letting his gaze wander across the training ground. The air smelled faintly of earth and iron, the wind carrying with it the soft sound of distant cicadas. His heart thudded—not from nerves, but anticipation. At last, this was the start of what he had been waiting for.
"Of course I'm ready," he said, straightening his back with exaggerated determination.
Shisui glanced around the grounds again, his expression tightening ever so slightly.
"You know," he said lightly, "it would've been cheaper to use the clan's training grounds. But…" He paused, the silence heavy enough to make Satoru notice. "Well, guess we'll just have to settle for this."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning innocence. "Do you get to train in the Uchiha clan's grounds for free?"
He didn't need to think hard for the answer; of course, they did. His thoughts soured as he mused to himself. 'And that's why it's so hard for civilian-born shinobi to catch up. Training grounds, resources, and techniques—handed to them on silver platters'
Itachi finally broke his silence, his voice soft but steady. "We have to. Using the clan's resources means answering any call from the clan leader."
Shisui gave a wry grin, leaning slightly toward the boy. "He means his father," he corrected smoothly.
Their eyes met—just for a heartbeat too long. It was one of those loaded silences that even Satoru couldn't ignore.
'Hmm… has it already started?' he wondered, masking his interest by staring at the dirt beneath his sandals. He let his voice drop into a low, melancholy tone.
"We never had that in the orphanage. I wonder if I could join the Uchiha clan."
The shift was immediate, palpable. The atmosphere around them thickened as though the very air had grown dense; the easy breeze that had rustled through the trees seemed to vanish, leaving the clearing unnervingly still. Both older boys froze ever so slightly, but that tiny hesitation was enough for Satoru to pounce on internally.
Itachi's eyes lowered, his lashes casting shadows on his pale cheeks. His lips pressed together in a thin, unreadable line, though Satoru caught the faintest ripple beneath that mask of composure—an uncertainty, a hesitation he rarely showed.
"That isn't up to us," Itachi said at last, his voice quiet yet firm, every word chosen with care.
"It's the clan leader's decision."
Satoru tilted his head, feigning childlike curiosity. "Isn't that your father?"
The question landed like a stone dropped into water, rippling outward. For a moment, Itachi's mouth opened, as if to respond, but no sound came. The pause stretched, and in that pause, Satoru could almost hear the cogs of thought grinding behind Itachi's dark eyes.
Before he could answer, Shisui smoothly stepped in, his tone sharper than usual, though still wrapped in an outer layer of warmth. "Your situation's a bit… peculiar, Satoru. There's another clan involved."
That was his cue. Satoru allowed his brow to knit in confusion, a frown tugging at his lips. He tilted his head slightly, blinking as though struggling to understand.
"What—the Yamanaka clan? They abandoned us when my father died." His voice softened, dropping lower, laced with something fragile. "And only recently, some 'cousin' reached out to me."
He made sure to let the word cousin drip with doubt, as though it were too foreign a term to fit in his mouth.
The two Uchiha exchanged a look, then—quick, subtle, but loaded. To anyone else, it might have passed unnoticed, but Satoru had trained himself to catch such tells.
'They think they're subtle,' Satoru thought coldly. 'They're not. They're measuring me. Wondering how much I know—or don't.'
He pressed on before the silence could harden too much, letting his voice falter just enough to sound unguarded.
"Sometimes," he admitted, staring down at the ground, "it makes me think there's something wrong with me. People keep saying my eyes are something special… but even then, none of my relatives want me."
The words hit the clearing like a kunai finding its mark.
The silence that followed was heavier than any weighted chain. The cicadas droning in the distance seemed louder now, like a reminder of how unnatural their stillness was. Even Itachi, usually a master of emotional control, let something flicker across his face—was it pity? Was it recognition? For a brief second, his eyes softened, his posture slackened, and Satoru caught the shadow of the boy he knew would one day cry over the blood of his own clan, maybe even him.
Shisui's smile faltered. That easy grin, so often his shield, wavered under the weight of Satoru's words. His hand tightened visibly around the kunai he had been idly twirling earlier. He masked it quickly enough, but Satoru had seen it—had felt it.
Inside, though, Satoru was anything but fragile. 'I'd rather die than actually join the Uchiha clan. They're already bitter about Minato becoming Hokage; that bitterness will curdle soon enough, and in a few years, Itachi and Obito will 'declutter' the clan in one bloody night. I know how this ends. Me? I've already died once. I'll delay my second death as long as possible, thank you very much.'
But outwardly, he let his shoulders sag just a fraction. He let his voice tremble at the edges. Manipulation was survival, and every good performance needed an audience.
'Pressure. That's the only way forward. The Yamanaka clan is giving me nothing, and so is the Uchiha clan. If I can make them do something, then maybe… just maybe… they'll move. Even scraps would be better than this silence.'
For a few long moments, no one spoke. Satoru didn't lift his head; he didn't need to. He could feel their eyes on him, weighing him, second-guessing themselves. That was good. That was exactly where he wanted them.
Then, Shisui suddenly clapped his hands together. His grin snapped back into place with practised ease, though it didn't quite reach his eyes this time.
"Well!" he said brightly. "It's already getting late, and we don't have all night, so we'd better get started."
Satoru's lips twitched into the faintest of smiles. 'There it is. He's changing the subject. Smooth. But I see you, Shisui.'
Out loud, he played the eager student. Pushing too far would risk breaking the balance; he'd reeled them in enough for today.
"So what are we going to do then?" he asked, tilting his head in mock excitement. "Learn Fire Release? Or start throwing projectiles?"
Shisui's eyes gleamed with mischief as he reached into his pouch, fingers moving with casual precision. With a flick of his wrist, he produced a small paper seal and slapped it against the ground.
"Puff!"
A burst of chakra smoke filled the air, acrid and stinging faintly in the nose. When it cleared, something heavy and metallic gleamed in Shisui's hands: a length of weighted chainmail, coiled neatly like a serpent waiting to strike.
"Cchrrnnk!"
The metallic links shifted and clinked with a low, resonant sound as Shisui tested its heft.
He turned toward Satoru, flashing a smile that was equal parts kind and sly.
"Nope," Shisui said simply, his tone light but laced with authority. "We're not doing any of that."
Satoru's brows furrowed, his lips tugging downward. "Then what—?"
Shisui tossed the chainmail lightly from one hand to the other, the weighty clink-clank filling the silence. "First," he said, his voice dropping into something that brooked no argument, "we need to correct your body."
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