For Kei, while he was currently short on almost everything else—freedom, sight, and political agency—time was one commodity he had in abundance. Having meticulously mapped out his strategy for managing his new shadow and preparing his counter-moves, his spirits had lifted considerably.
Upon arriving at the clinic that morning, Kei settled into his high-backed chair and immediately held out his patient ledger toward Haru. "Haru," he said smoothly, "from now on, I will rely on you to record our patients' diagnostic details."
On paper, Haru had been assigned to 'look after' him. Adhering to the shinobi principle of maximizing available resources, Kei had absolutely no intention of being a polite, self-sufficient host. If the Main House wanted to saddle him with a spy, he was going to make her work for it.
"Understood," Haru responded flatly, stepping forward to take the heavy leather-bound book. She moved to stand directly behind Kei's right shoulder, instantly assuming the physical positioning of an assistant. Throughout the interaction, she displayed zero hesitation or displeasure, moving with the sterile efficiency of a drone executing a pre-programmed command.
Kei paid her demeanor no mind; it was exactly what he had anticipated. Like Natsu Hyuga, who served Hiashi's daughters, Haru had likely been conditioned by the Main House from a very young age. They were trained to execute orders without question, perfectly burying their own desires beneath a facade of absolute servitude.
The chime above the door jingled, signaling the arrival of the day's first patient.
A rugged, exhausted-looking shinobi stepped into the clinic. His left arm hung limply at his side, but his right sleeve was pinned empty at the shoulder. Before Kei could even offer a greeting, the one-armed man stepped forward, his face pale and twisted in agitation.
"Doctor! I… I feel like I'm losing my mind!" the man burst out, his voice trembling.
"Take a breath. Speak slowly," Kei said, instantly slipping into his professional persona. His voice lowered to a soothing, resonant baritone. He gestured toward the sofa opposite his desk. "Please, sit down."
He methodically poured a cup of warm tea and slid it across the table. For patients exhibiting acute psychological distress, establishing a calm, grounded environment was the mandatory first step of treatment.
Yosuke Takagi sank onto the sofa and took a shaky sip of the tea. He visibly forced his breathing to slow, though a fine tremor continued to wrack his frame. "It's like this," he began, his eyes wide. "Two months ago, my right arm was crushed during a border patrol mission. The damage was necrotic. The medics had no choice but to amputate at the shoulder. I accepted it. I grieved, but I accepted it."
Yosuke swallowed hard, his remaining hand gripping the teacup tightly enough to turn his knuckles white. "But then, two days ago… I suddenly realized my right hand had returned. I can actually feel it. I thought I was hallucinating. I thought it was a blessing, a phantom of chakra. But it turned into a living nightmare."
He leaned forward, his voice dropping to a desperate rasp. "Doctor, this hand—the hand that isn't there—aches from dawn till dusk. It feels like my fingers are being crushed in a vice, over and over again. I went back to the hospital. They gave me the strongest painkillers they had, but the pills did absolutely nothing. The pain is constant. I haven't slept in two days. I feel like my brain is tearing itself apart…"
As Yosuke recounted his torment, Kei mentally cataloged the symptoms. From a clinical standpoint, Yosuke's affliction was textbook Phantom Limb Pain. The phenomenon occurs when the brain continues to receive mixed signals from severed nerve endings, tricking the somatosensory cortex into believing the amputated limb is still present—and usually in excruciating pain. The brain interprets the missing limb as being paralyzed or trapped in a traumatic position. Because the pain originates in the brain's wiring rather than physical tissue damage, traditional chemical analgesics are entirely useless.
"What am I supposed to do?" Yosuke cried, the edge of hysteria creeping back into his voice. "If this pain doesn't stop, I'm going to end up putting a kunai through my own head just to silence it!"
Kei maintained a mask of absolute, unwavering calm. "Takagi-san," he began, his voice projecting a sense of total control. "The more panicked your mental state becomes, the louder the pain signals will register in your brain. I do have a method to alleviate this, but it requires your absolute focus and compliance. Can you do that for me?"
Hearing the certainty in the doctor's voice, Yosuke clung to the words like a drowning man to a lifeline. He took a ragged breath and nodded. "Yes. Yes, I can."
Kei turned his head slightly. "Haru. In the storage closet behind you, there should be a medium-sized cardboard box and a square mirror. Bring them here. Cut two circular holes into the front of the box, large enough for a man's arms to fit through comfortably. Then, position the mirror vertically inside the box, dividing it in half."
Behind him, Haru blinked in surprise, but her training overrode her confusion. She swiftly gathered the materials, her kunai making quick work of the cardboard. Within a minute, the crude contraption was placed on the desk between Kei and the patient.
"Now," Kei directed, "Takagi-san. I want you to insert both of your arms into the openings."
Yosuke stared at the cardboard box with a mix of profound skepticism and desperate hope. Feeling foolish, he leaned forward. He slid his remaining left arm into the left hole. Then, he shifted his body, aligning his amputated right shoulder with the right hole, visualizing his missing arm sliding into the box.
"Can you now see both of your hands reflected in the mirror?"
Throughout his instructions, Kei deliberately emphasized the word "both," utilizing subtle vocal cues to encourage Yosuke's subconscious to accept the visual illusion as reality.
Gazing down into the angled mirror, Yosuke saw the reflection of his intact left arm superimposed where his right arm should be. "Yes," he breathed, mesmerized. "I can see them."
"Excellent," Kei instructed, his voice a steady metronome. "Now, I want you to focus entirely on the mirror. I want you to try moving your hands. Slowly clench them both into fists, hold for three seconds, and then release. Repeat this motion continuously."
"Will this really do anything?" Yosuke asked, a note of doubt cracking his focus. "I know my right hand isn't actually there. It's just a reflection."
He found the treatment method bizarre, bordering on absurd. But seeing the blind doctor sitting there with an aura of absolute, unshakable confidence, Yosuke swallowed his pride and followed the instructions. He focused on the mirror and slowly clenched his left hand.
In the reflection, his "right" hand clenched in perfect synchronization.
In that exact instant, Yosuke gasped. His brain, desperate for visual feedback from the missing limb, latched onto the reflection. It saw the "right hand" moving smoothly, unclenched, and free of the agonizing, phantom vice.
After just five repetitions of clenching and releasing, the excruciating, crushing pressure in his nonexistent right hand began to rapidly unravel. The pain didn't vanish entirely, leaving behind a dull, manageable ache, but the relief was so sudden and profound that Yosuke slumped back against the sofa, tears springing to his eyes.
The shinobi stared at his empty sleeve, then up at Kei, utterly bewildered. "Doctor... how did you do that? The crushing feeling... it's gone!"
"As long as it helps," Kei replied mildly, taking a sip of his own tea. "Your brain was confused, continuously sending distress signals to a limb that could no longer respond. We simply gave your brain the visual confirmation it needed to realize the hand was no longer trapped. Construct a similar box when you return home. Perform this exercise for fifteen minutes, three times a day, and the phantom pain will progressively fade."
"Thank you. Thank you so much!" Yosuke exclaimed, his voice thick with profound gratitude. He bowed deeply from his seated position. "Without you, I don't know what I would have done."
"It is no trouble at all. I was merely doing my job," Kei said, offering a warm smile as he dismissed the man. "Now, go home and get some sleep."
After the door chimed shut, the clinic fell into a prolonged silence.
Finally, Haru succumbed to her curiosity. "What was the principle behind that?" she asked, her stoic facade cracking just enough to let genuine confusion bleed through. "A cardboard box and a mirror. There was no medical ninjutsu involved. How did that treat a physiological ailment?"
"It is a form of neuro-psychological suggestion, known in clinical terms as 'mirror-box therapy'," Kei replied easily. "But even if I explained the intricacies of neuroplasticity and the somatosensory cortex now, you wouldn't fully grasp it without the foundational texts."
"Fine. Don't tell me, then," Haru retorted flatly, instantly sealing away her curiosity. She mentally logged the entire bizarre interaction, fully intending to report the 'mirror box' technique to Taihiro in her evening briefing.
Kei turned his head, his milky eyes 'gazing' directly at where Haru stood. He gestured toward the heavy ledger in her hands. "You recorded all of the patient's symptoms and the treatment method clearly, I presume?"
"Yes. Everything is documented," Haru confirmed, her tone clipped.
Kei nodded slowly, a small, thoroughly patronizing smile touching his lips. "Excellent. With such a diligent, obedient assistant like you, my daily burdens will be vastly reduced. I imagine the Great Elder will be incredibly pleased with your efficiency."
Haru's brow furrowed. She possessed the sharp instincts of a Hyuga, and she immediately sensed a barbed, underlying meaning hidden beneath the praise. "What exactly do you mean by that, Kei-sama?"
"Nothing at all. Merely a passing observation," Kei replied, his smile widening a fraction. "Someone raised directly in the Great Elder's household truly is built different. Such an exceptional attitude for servitude. So diligent in executing your master's work."
The moment the word servitude left his lips, the ambient temperature in the clinic seemed to plummet.
Kei, however, acted utterly oblivious to the sudden, suffocating tension. He merely tilted his head, his blind eyes continuing to 'stare' innocently at her.
Haru stood frozen. The knuckles of her hand gripping the pen turned stark white. She stared intently at the back of Kei's head, her chakra flaring briefly before she forcibly suppressed it.
After several agonizing seconds, Haru's voice cut through the silence. It was no longer flat; it was brittle, laced with a distinct, defensive chill. "You are mistaken," she stated sharply. "I am not a member of the Great Elder's immediate family."
"Oh? Seeing how flawlessly you act the part of a loyal dog, I had simply assumed you were born into the Main House... ah. My deepest apologies," Kei said, his voice dripping with a sickly sweet, entirely feigned regret. "It seems I was mistaken."
He didn't complete the thought, letting the insult hang heavily in the air.
He didn't need to. The implication was perfectly, cruelly clear: I thought you were one of the masters, but you're just another caged dog barking on command.
Through his heightened senses, Kei felt the explosive spike of indignation in Haru's chest, and the microscopic tremble of fury in her hands.
A reaction. A crack in the perfect, submissive armor. That was precisely what he wanted. Kei felt a dark surge of satisfaction. Good. You're still human under there.
The immediate fallout of his calculated cruelty was entirely predictable. For the next several days, Haru wore an expression of absolute frost. She spoke only when operationally necessary. Unless Kei explicitly requested her assistance with a patient, she stood rigidly behind his chair, exuding the silent, hostile energy of a gargoyle.
Kei let her stew. He needed the resentment to steep.
A week later, the icy tension in the clinic had finally begun to thaw into a more manageable, simmering truce.
That evening, after the last patient had departed and Kei was locking the front door, he turned to Haru. He pulled a sealed parchment envelope from the wide sleeve of his coat and held it out.
"Haru. Please deliver this letter directly to the Great Elder tonight," he instructed, his tone entirely conversational.
Haru stared at the envelope, clear reluctance warring with her conditioned obedience. Finally, she snatched the letter from his hand. "What does it say?" she demanded.
"Nothing of consequence," Kei replied smoothly, turning back to the door. "Merely some profound words of gratitude, and a humble request for a small favor from the Main House."
Haru offered no further objection. She spun on her heel and departed into the evening gloom.
As Kei sensed her chakra signature fading down the street, a faint, predatory smile played across his features. The opening moves were complete. Now, it was time to see how the Great Elder reacted to the bait.