Night wind whipped snowflakes past the eaves, pattering onto the icy stone steps like tiny drumbeats.
Makoto Uchiha watched Itachi vanish around the corner, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips. He bounced back to his room, footsteps light like he'd just pulled off the perfect prank.
The moon hung dead-center in the sky, stretching his shadow across the yard—a giant stuffed with mischief.
Next morning, just as the east glowed fish-belly gray, yard noises yanked Makoto awake.
He rubbed his eyes, shoved the door open, and bam—Itachi stumbled in, steps wobbly, clothes caked in dirt and grass. Dark circles under his eyes, fingers trembling around his tool pouch.
His breathing was ragged, voice hoarse from pulling an all-nighter.
"Not bad, Itachi. That's the Will of Fire right there. You're Sasuke's pride and joy!" Makoto leaned against the doorframe, grinning.
Itachi's head snapped up. Foggy black eyes lit like someone polished the stars.
He opened his mouth, closed it, just nodded hard. Grabbed the overnight rice ball Makoto handed him, scarfed it in three bites—no water, didn't care.
Then he bolted out again like a gust of wind, footsteps buzzing with fresh hype. Superman mode: activated.
Makoto stared after him, eyebrow raised. The Will of Fire's a hell of a drug… Couple lines and I turned Itachi into a nuclear-powered workhorse.
Keep this up and the kid's gonna drop dead early.
After breakfast, Makoto wandered into the study. A beat-up wooden box on the bottom shelf caught his eye.
He popped it open—clack—and there it was: gold-embossed cover, "Make-Out Violence" gleaming in oil-slick letters. "Limited Edition" stamped in the corner.
"Well, well. Jiraiya's latest bestseller, huh?" Makoto flipped to the price on the back, eyes bugging. He tapped the cover. Fugaku's getting old but the heart's still young. Acts all stern, but sneaks smut like Kakashi. Total closet perv.
Pinches every penny from me, but drops cash on limited editions? Rude.
He cracked it open. Ink smelled great, but two pages in his eyelids were already drooping.
Back in the corner it went. Once this crazy stretch was over, he'd plagiarize a few classic smut novels from his past life and cash in big.
A minute later, the itch hit.
Not that itch.
Yesterday he'd sweet-talked ten million ryō out of Orochimaru. The high of sudden riches was addictive.
And now the snake was about to defect. No more wool to shear for a long time. Makoto felt robbed.
After a beat, decision made: one last shameless "loan." Face? Who needs it when you can pay-to-win?
He stepped out of the study and nearly tripped over Sasuke squatting in the hallway, drawing angry circles in the dirt.
Kid had his back to him, shoulders hitching, cheeks puffed like a blowfish.
Footsteps—Sasuke whipped around, black eyes blazing. Saw Makoto, said nothing, just snorted through his nose, thick with snot.
Makoto had been busy the last couple days, barely acknowledged the kid. No idea who'd pissed him off, but not his circus, not his monkeys. He zipped out the door.
Sasuke glared at the empty space, chucked a pebble—crack—off a pillar.
"Jerk!" he muttered. Arms still sore from hauling flowers yesterday. All he wanted was one "good job" from Makoto. Still waiting…
Makoto bee-lined for Shisui's place. No way he was seeing Orochimaru solo—not scared of dying, scared of genjutsu.
Shisui's gate was open. The teen sat on the stone steps polishing his sword.
Sunlight dappled his face through the leaves; the silver blade flashed cold in his palm. Every wipe was meticulous, even the tassel perfectly aligned.
"Morning," Makoto chirped, plopping down like a ray of sunshine. "Got a sec?"
Next half hour: Makoto spun the Will of Fire into a personal cult. From "leaves dancing in the flame" to "Makoto's exclusive Will of Fire." Twisted it every way possible till Shisui was nodding like a bobblehead.
Eyes brighter, sword forgotten in his lap. Dude was ready to pledge his last drop of blood.
Brainwashing: slow drip, not firehose. Once Makoto was sure Shisui would shield him in a crisis, he pivoted.
"Speaking of—now that we're Orochimaru's guys, shouldn't we check in? Show loyalty, stay in the loop, speed-run him to Fifth Hokage?"
Shisui thought it over, nodded. "Let's go. Itachi?"
Makoto shook his head. "He's got critical Will of Fire duties. Just us."
(Itachi was currently grinding missions for cash and the cause. Couldn't interrupt the money printer.)
They headed to yesterday's lab, shoulder to shoulder.
Wind carried fresh mountain grass—no more of that lingering blood-and-chemical stink.
Makoto slowed. Side-eye on the roadside cracks: yesterday crawling with tiny snakes, today just empty slits.
Something's off.
Like, thirteen-out-of-ten off.
Lab entrance hit like a gut punch.
Yesterday: massive stone door.
Today: rubble. Biggest chunk fist-sized, fresh white fractures.
"Whoa. Someone ninjutsu'd this thing to dust." Makoto picked up a shard, crushed the powder between fingers. "Brutal."
First thought: Orochimaru defected, blew the door on the way out.
Second thought: Nah. Uchiha police would've sounded every alarm.
"Let's check inside."
He shoved the half-open inner door—creeeak.
No chemical reek. Just cold, empty wind swirling dust bunnies.
Shelves: bare.
Tanks with mystery fluids: gone, not a shard.
Notes, test subjects, even loose hairs: nothing.
Like the place had never been a secret lab—just some random cave.
Makoto raised a brow, rapped the walls—clang, clang—hollow.
"Cleaned out fast," he muttered, annoyed. "This ain't defection. Dude straight-up ghosted and moved house."
"What's with the sneak move?" He scratched his chin, eyes glinting. "Unless… I shook him down yesterday and he panicked I'd come back for seconds?"
Shisui frowned at the empty cave. "What happened? Is Lord Orochimaru okay?"
Plan barely started and already tanking—Shisui looked bummed.
"Just relocated. Chill." Makoto waved it off.
They poked around a bit longer, found zilch. On the way out, Makoto eyed the door rubble.
Bet the snake wanted to take the door too but it wouldn't fit in the moving truck.
He wasn't that upset. Contentment's key. No cash this time? Fine.
He mentally added a tab to Orochimaru's name.
Payback with interest. Tenfold. Hundredfold.
They walked back to the clan compound, split at the fork.
Next few days: Makoto wandered, Itachi slaved for the Will of Fire (and Makoto's wallet).
This afternoon—no snow, rare sunshine, warm and lazy. Makoto strolled past the flower shop and spotted a familiar face.
Kabuto.
Way more relaxed than his Root spy days. Even the weight in his eyes had lifted.
Makoto's brow arched. Orochimaru works fast. Already sprung the kid.
Time to make sure Kabuto knew exactly who to thank.
Bad deeds? Do 'em quiet, or pin 'em on Danzō.
Good deeds? Scream 'em from the rooftops.
Smart people don't grind in silence—they collect. Makoto wasn't some pure saint.
His favors came with compound interest.
"Ino, busy?" Makoto ducked through the curtain, flashing a grin at the little blonde counting petals behind the counter.
"Big bro Sei!"
Ino dropped the petals, popped up like a jack-in-the-box, golden hair bouncing like a mini sun.
She tap-tap-tapped over in her tiny shoes.