I woke up to the sound of rain.
A soft, steady rhythm against the window, so constant it blended into the air like a second heartbeat. For a while, I just listened to it—half-awake, half-drifting, my mind slow and heavy like it was wading through mud.
The ceiling above me wasn't the forest canopy. The sheets beneath me weren't wet soil.
I was… in my room. My room.
I blinked hard, letting the shapes settle. The faint smell of herbs and disinfectant lingered around me—someone must've cleaned my cuts. There was a bandage across my palm. A blanket tucked around my legs.
I moved my fingers. They felt stiff. My body was sore, deep down, like the ache lived in the bones.
It hit in fragments at first.
Rain. Metallic taste in my mouth. Mud under my knees. Hands grabbing my arms.
Shisui's voice shouting my name. Red reflected in his eyes—not his red. Mine.
My stomach twisted.
I remembered collapsing.
I remembered the words spilling out of me like something cracked open and couldn't be closed again.
I remembered crying into his shirt—quiet, pathetic, unable to stop myself.
I brought a hand to my face and exhaled shakily. "…dammit."
I pressed a hand to my forehead. The memory felt distant and sharp at the same time, like touching a blade I knew would cut me but couldn't stop myself from testing anyway.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Because now the fog in my head was fading, and with clarity came the truth I had been trying to outrun.
Everything hurt. Not the cuts. Not the bruises.
The emotions.
I survived. That was the mission. Always the mission.
Because in the beginning, this world wasn't real—it was a story. It had rules. Plot. Familiar points.
People who were "characters," not… human.
I had parents, but they were "OC parents," written into a story.
I didn't let myself think of them as anything else. So I tried to stay distant. Building a wall.
Focused only on my own survival—because that was the one thing that mattered in a fictional world. If I panicked, it was because I was weak or scared of dying. Not because I cared about someone else.
But somewhere along the way…the lines blurred.
They became my mother and father.
Warm hands. Gentle smiles. Annoying habits.
They were real in all the small ways that mattered.
Kushina was real. Not "NPC Kushina," but Kushina the kind woman who tucked my hair behind my ear when I was anxious.
Minato was real—serious, tired, patient.
Shisui was real—laugh too bright, snappy at times, too genuine to belong in a script.
And if they were real…then so is their death.
I pressed my fist against my mouth, swallowing hard.
I warned them. I warned them. I told Minato. I tried everything.
I risked T&I. I risked the clan. I risked everything.
And Minato listened. He believed me.
For the first time in this world, I felt relief. Like maybe I wasn't trapped in a story script. Like maybe I could change something.
But the night still came.
Minato died.
Kushina died.
Naruto became a jinchūriki.
The village blamed the Uchiha.
And my parents–my real, living parents–died alone.
Nothing changed. Nothing I did mattered. Nothing I tried was enough
So I ran. Into training. Into bruises and blood and exhaustion. Into the only place where I felt like the weight wasn't crushing me.
Because when I'm moving – when I'm fighting – when my muscles scream loud enough
I don't have to think. I don't have to feel.
But then Shisui found me.
And everything I'd been holding back tore open at once.
A soft knock sounded from the doorway.
I jolted and pulled the blanket tighter around me without meaning to. My heart hammered until the voice followed.
"…Kuroha? Are you awake?"
Shisui. Of course.
The door slid open slowly, carefully, like he thought I might break from sudden movement. His hair was damp from rain, his cloak dripping quietly onto the floor.
When his eyes found mine, they softened.
"Hey," he said gently. "How are you feeling? Does it… hurt less now?"
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out at first.
He stepped closer – not too close, just enough to show he was there.
I exhaled shakily. "...Thank you," I whispered.
My voice cracked. "For yesterday. For… not letting me stay out there."
He smiled—small, tired, sad.
"You don't have to thank me for that."
I looked down at my hands, twisting the blanket between my fingers.
"…Can you tell me what happened?" I asked quietly.
"Outside. After I… after I passed out."
The rain filled the silence between us.