Outside the Hyūga compound, the block party's straight-up chaos—clinking sake cups, Konoha locals yappin' louder than a Fourth of July barbecue, the whole vibe steamin' like a tailgate in July.
Perched up high, Uchiha Makoto's got hawk eyes locked on two dudes who stick out worse than vegans at a Texas cook-off.
These cats are rockin' snow-white robes nobody in the ninja world's ever seen—fabric glowin' cold under the moonlight like polished marble, collar stitched with those creepy magatama beads that swing like they're judgin' everybody. When the hem brushes the cobblestones, even the breeze stalls out, like it's scared to mess with 'em.
One guy's skin is paper-white, soaked in moon-glow. Blue-white hair drapes over his ears, bangs hiding his brows. Here's the freaky part: no eyes. Just smooth sockets. Yet you feel him starin', laser-focused on Hinata Hyūga dead-center in the clan courtyard.
His thin brows arch like he's smirkin'. The tiniest grin ghosts his lips. When his "gaze" lands on Hinata, it's like he's sizin' up a flawless diamond—pure appraisal mixed with straight-up mine energy.
Pure Byakugan blood—call her the Byakugan Princess—plus that shy-cute package? Yeah, she's wife material in his book.
That's Ōtsutsuki Toneri.
Makoto's starin' him down now, lips curlin' into a predator grin, a spark of greedy heat flashin' deep in his Sharingan.
He eyeballs Toneri slow, like a collector droolin' over a mint-condition '69 Mustang.
Full-on Ōtsutsuki throwback bloodline… plus that endgame Tenseigan that cracked the damn moon in half in the original timeline.
Makoto's itchin'. Rushin' in to snatch him now? Nah, too weak. Lettin' him walk? Hell no—that's leavin' money on the table.
So he slaps a tag on the guy. Harvest time just got a GPS.
Right now, Toneri's creep-starin' at Hinata like a neckbeard at Comic-Con, clueless he's the one gettin' hunted.
Zero clue about the shadow slidin' up behind him.
Toneri's pops stands nearby, side-eyein' the rowdy crowd, but he ain't sweatin' some half-pint kid.
Makoto weaves through the drunks like a greased ferret, slippin' right behind Toneri. Crowd's packed tighter than a mosh pit at Lollapalooza.
Deep breath. Time to unleash the Ōtsutsuki Elbow Drop he grinded for days with Uchiha Izumi.
Right arm cocks back—WHAM—elbow rockets down with a whoosh.
THUNK!
The hit drowns in the noise, like droppin' a pebble in a rave. Toneri freezes, back of his skull throbbin' like he ate a cinder block.
Before he processes, a tiny, freaky pattern blooms on his scalp, hidden under that blue-white mop.
A blood-red heart, edges crawlin' with twisty black tendrils like baby snakes. Center's a teardrop of crimson glowin' faint and wrong. Every curve screams come hither but reeks of bad juju.
Makoto's personal S-rank space-time jutsu: Flying Thunder God Seal – Succubus Mark.
He stares at the mark buried under hair and grimaces. First Succubus Mark on a dude? Really, universe?
Then the gears turn: future moon trip, maybe crash the pad of the Uchiha OG hottie, Ōtsutsuki Kaguya.
Awkward vibes? Poof. Gone. Now he's pokin' the bear.
If these two flip out, he Flying Thunder Gods the hell outta Dodge. Can't? Burn one revive coin.
Right before respawn, pin it on that crusty geezer Danzo Shimura. Let the Ōtsutsuki duo scrap with Root. Win-win:
- Danzo croaks? One less fossil blockin' his shine.
- Toneri croaks? Teleport in, yoink the corpse—double profit. Makoto wins twice.
Toneri spins, starin' at Makoto, brain.exe crashed. Dude was just vibin', then—elbow to the dome.
Empty sockets line up with Makoto's face. No pupils, yet the chill crawls your spine like a haunted TikTok.
Toneri's dad blinks, knuckles poppin' under the robe. Local kids this rude now?
"Nicholas Motherfuckin' McTraitorface, what the hell you doin' here?" Makoto elbow-nudges Toneri's arm again, deadpan like he's spottin' his cousin at the county fair.
Toneri freezes. What kinda name—
Oh. Wrong guy.
"You got the wrong dude!" Toneri's voice is iced-over steel, colder than a Chicago winter.
"Wrong dude?" Makoto hops back half a step, ankle clackin' the stone. Eyes squint into derpy cross-eye mode, pure weaponized dumb. "No freakin' way! You're the spittin' image of our village's own Nicholas McTraitorface!"
"Or what, you put on this fancy getup, made bank, and forgot where you came from?"
"Man, back in the day you were all 'loyalty this, honor that'—now you're too bougie to remember your roots?"
He grabs a fistful of Toneri's blue-white hair, twists it like testing silk. "Same damn cotton-candy hair, same baby-soft feel!"
Then—boop—pokes the empty eye socket. "Oh wait! You ain't got eyes! Nick's got eyes!"
"No eyeballs but you keep starin'—you even seein' me, bro?"
Pure curiosity, 100% troll.
Toneri's dad's brows knot so tight they could tie a sailor's knot. Glances at the clown kid, the rowdy crowd. Says nothin'. Grabs Toneri's wrist, yanks him toward the exit, robe hem swishin' past Makoto's sneakers.
Makoto stomps that hem, grinds his heel like puttin' out a cigarette.
Shhhrrrip—fabric screams. Tiny hiss of pain.
Toneri whips around. No eyes, but the rage is a physical heat wave, blastin' straight to Makoto's forehead.