18: The Choice

Evening had settled over the Uchiha district, soft and unhurried.

“I’m home.”

Sasuke pushed open the front door and called into the house.

“Welcome back, Sasuke.”

Mikoto appeared from the inner room, smiling as she took his bag from his hands.

“Is Nii-san home?” He glanced at the shoes by the entrance, then looked up at her.

“Mm. He’s in the back room talking with your father.”

She said it gently, but her eyes drifted toward the closed door—and stayed there a moment too long.

I see, Sasuke thought. He didn’t say anything else.

The distance between his father and his brother had been growing for a while now. He could feel it at the dinner table, in the silences, in the way his father’s jaw tightened sometimes when Itachi’s name came up. His brother was home less and less.

He wasn’t sure he understood why. But he felt it.

……

“You’ve been taking missions with Shisui again.”

Fugaku sat with his arms crossed, back straight, the tatami beneath him as still as the man himself. Across the room, Itachi knelt with his head lowered.

“…Yes. Father.”

“You’re not in the same division.”

The silence that followed had a shape to it.

“And Shisui is assigned to ROOT now,” Fugaku continued. His voice didn’t rise. It never rose. “You’re an ANBU squad captain. Your paths shouldn’t cross on mission assignments.”

Itachi said nothing.

“There are classified operations,” he said at last.

“Are there.”

The corner of Fugaku’s mouth moved—not quite a smile. Something colder.

“Itachi.”

He let the name sit for a moment.

“You are my son. The weight of this clan’s future rests on you. Shisui has already become someone else’s instrument.” He paused. “You understand which matters more.”

Itachi didn’t look up.

A long silence passed. Then, slowly, he spoke.

“Father.”

“…What do you think of the village?”

Fugaku’s eyes narrowed slightly. He studied his son.

“The village,” he said finally, “is a legacy left by our ancestors. It is our home. Naturally, it is worth protecting.”

“Is that so.”

“Itachi.” Fugaku’s voice was measured, unhurried. “There is no conflict between the clan and the village—not unless someone has manufactured one. This tension you seem to feel? It’s a tool. The ones in power see us growing strong, and they reach for the oldest trick they know.”

His tone didn’t shift.

“The Hidden Leaf was built with Uchiha blood. If they think they can push us out now, they are mistaken. What we want is simple. Coexistence. Harmony.” He looked at his son. “Do you understand?”

Itachi remained kneeling, head still bowed.

He didn’t answer.

After a long moment, he rose—slow and deliberate—and pressed into a low bow.

Then he left.

Fugaku watched the shape of his son disappear through the door. The corner of his mouth curled.

The Will of Fire.

You disappoint me, Itachi.

He closed his eyes. When they opened again, they had turned red—deep crimson, three black tomoe floating in each iris. The tomoe began to spin, faster and faster, until they blurred and resolved into something else: a single dark point, with three black, tomoe-shaped lines radiating out from its center.

Remnants of the Second, he thought. Let’s see how long you can keep dancing.

---

Itachi stepped out of the back room and nearly walked into his brother.

Sasuke was sitting in the chair just outside the door, waiting—and the moment he saw Itachi’s face, his own lit up completely.

“Nii-san!”

Something in Itachi’s chest loosened. He couldn’t have stopped the smile if he’d tried.

“Sasuke.”

“What were you and Dad talking about? You were in there forever.” Sasuke’s lower lip pushed forward, the faintest edge of complaint in his voice.

“Work things. Nothing interesting.”

“Hmm.” Sasuke didn’t look entirely convinced, but he let it go. “Oh—hey, at school today they tested Clone Jutsu, and Shin only got second.”

Itachi raised an eyebrow. “Is that so.”

“Yeah! He barely beat me though—” Sasuke caught himself. “I mean, I was close.”

“Shin is still a beginner,” Itachi said. “Placing second at this stage is already impressive. Don’t let him catch up to you.”

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“I know, I know. My ninjutsu is definitely going to surpass his. And my taijutsu.” Sasuke straightened his shoulders slightly. “And shuriken.”

He hesitated.

“Nii-san. When do you have time to train with me again? Last time you—”

“I’m sorry, Sasuke.” Itachi’s voice was quiet. “It’s been a difficult stretch.”

“…Okay.”

The word came out small.

Itachi watched his little brother’s face cycle through disappointment and acceptance, the way it always did—Sasuke refusing to push, not wanting to ask for too much. He kept talking then, jumping to something else, something from school, some small funny thing that happened in the hallway, voice picking up speed the way it did when he was trying to fill a silence he didn’t understand.

Itachi listened.

The clan. The village.

I want both.

---

The smell of grilling meat filled the restaurant.

“Hey. You’ve been staring at nothing for five minutes.”

Ryoto Ninomiya looked up from his overloaded plate—cheeks stuffed, oil on his chin—and fixed Hana with the expression of someone who had been waiting patiently and felt it was time to say something.

Hana blinked back to the present.

“What? Sorry.”

“You went somewhere else,” said Zeri, setting down his chopsticks.

“It’s nothing.” She glanced at him, then away.

Zeri had the particular kind of stillness that made silences comfortable rather than awkward. She appreciated that. She looked at Ryoto—who had resumed eating with the focused energy of someone completing a mission—and looked away again.

“Hey, Zeri.”

“Mm.”

“If someone wanted to buy a decent blade…” She thought about how to phrase it. “What would that cost?”

Zeri paused. He set down his chopsticks again. “A blade.”

“You’re buying a sword?” Ryoto looked up, interested.

“Not for me.” She shook her head. “For my little brother.”

“Shin?” Zeri said.

She nodded. The image came back to her easily—Shin stopping in front of that weapon shop window, not saying anything, just looking, the way he so rarely looked at anything. He never asked for things. She’d been thinking about it ever since.

“He wouldn’t even tell me he wanted it,” she said. “That’s the first time I’ve seen him want something.”

Zeri was quiet for a moment. “What kind of blade are you thinking?”

“Is there more than one kind?”

“…” He looked at her. “Long sword or short sword?”

“…Those are types?”

Zeri exhaled through his nose. He picked up his chopsticks.

“If it’s just for interest—for a child who thinks blades look cool—a standard katana would do. But if he’s serious about the path…” He turned the thought over. “A kodachi. Something well-made. Quality kodachi start around several hundred thousand ryō.”

Hana stared at him.

“Several hundred thousand?“

“That’s not particularly expensive, for good steel.”

“That’s my entire year’s salary.”

“Were you planning to buy it yourself?” Zeri asked, something flickering in his expression that might have been surprise.