Tucked on the ass-end of Kumogakure, this rundown courtyard was straight-up swallowed by dusk. The only light sneaking through the window was a weak-ass sunset, barely outlining two stone-still shadows hunched over a massive wooden table.
Uchiha Itachi and Uchiha Shisui were locked in, eyes burning holes into the sprawl of Kumo's defense map. Air so thick you could choke on it—just the scratch of fingers on paper and breaths held like they were smuggling diamonds.
They'd been ghosting here forever.
Konoha brass and the Uchiha clan? Crickets. Zero moves to spring Makoto. Itachi waited over a goddamn year in the village, training turning into pure rage-fueled cardio. Screw it. He dragged Shisui, slapped a "long-term mission" label on it, and after months of scheming, they slipped into Kumo by the skin of their teeth.
Took every trick in the book—blood, sweat, and a few shady deals—to pin down exactly where Makoto was "locked up." But snatching him? That was the easy part. Ghosting out of Kumo alive? Yeah, that's the bitch.
"Kumo's defenses are tighter than a nun's habit," Shisui growled, finally cracking the suffocating quiet.
His long finger stabbed the map, circling the red dots swarming the "prison" zone. "Bright sentries, hidden ones, crisscross patrols—no blind spots, period."
"Next two days are our only shot," Itachi said, ice-calm but with that "don't argue" edge. "Fourth Raikage and his goon squad are off kissing daimyo ass. Village is running on fumes."
With their juice, yanking Makoto was cake. The real mindfuck? Hauling his ass across the border without eating a lightning bolt.
Time bled out in silent war-games and what-ifs.
Outside, the sky flipped from blistering white to blood-orange, then got eaten by a navy-blue night. Moon climbed high, dumping cold silver all over sleepy-ass Kumo.
The table looked like a battlefield—maps shredded, routes scratched out. Still no foolproof exit.
Itachi sucked in air, eyes flashing fuck it. Finger slammed the least suicidal escape line.
"No more stalling. This one. Best odds."
"Raikage rolls back, we're screwed for months."
He locked eyes with Shisui—black holes glowing in the dark, rock-solid resolve.
"Shisui—if Kumo throws down, I'm the rear guard. Don't look back. Get Makoto to Konoha. Swear it."
Shisui's lips twitched, words dying in his throat. Instead, he crushed Itachi's shoulder in a grip that said everything—worry, pushback, and matching steel.
They both knew the score: diving balls-deep into Kumo's gut to yoink one kid? Straight suicide tango.
Route locked. No more chit-chat. They shut their eyes, dialed mind and body to kill mode.
Moments later—two shadows melted into the night, smoke on steroids, hauling ass toward the fortress-prison.
…
Deep in Kumo, that gaudy-ass mansion.
Samui lounged on one side of the king bed, blonde bob catching moonlight like liquid gold. Fully dressed—jacket and all—just kicked off the boots. Long, thick legs curled up, pale feet with that pink flush, arches flipped out like they were posing for a foot fetish mag. Moonlight draped her curves in shimmer; straight-up sinful without trying.
On the flip side, Mabui was spooning Makoto from behind, arms locked around his waist like he'd vanish in his sleep. Dude's head? Nestled comfy on Samui's plush thunder-thighs, breathing slow and deep.
Normally? These three slept buck-ass naked. Routine.
But tonight, Makoto threw a fit—clothes stay on, end of story. The girls raised eyebrows but folded. Dressed like nuns, they crashed anyway as the night dragged on.
Only Makoto stayed wide awake.
Eyes on the moon, bedroom door cracked like he was expecting company. Male company—or he wouldn't have made the girls suit up.
Clock ticking in his skull.
That first kunai etched with his Flying Thunder God seal? Itachi snatched it way back and never let it leave his side. Lately, Makoto felt it—coordinate pinging inside Kumo's walls.
Add the Raikage's daimyo trip? Tonight was the night. No sleep.
…
Two shadows slunk through Kumo's streets and rooftops—ninja ghosts on stealth steroids. Dodged patrols like they'd rehearsed in their sleep (because they had).
Finally parked outside Makoto's "prison." Dropped the outer guards with genjutsu so slick it was insulting.
Inside the mansion—quiet as a graveyard.
Eye contact. Instant sync.
Itachi slips in; Shisui crouches in the hallway's darkest corner, ears cranked to eleven, every muscle coiled like a panther on Adderall.
Itachi glides through the open bedroom door like a damn feather.
Scene hits him: kid sandwiched between two Kumo kunoichi.
Makoto's shot up—taller than Sasuke, closing in on Itachi's height. Baby fat gone, face chiseled, straight fire.
But no mistake—that's Makoto.
Joy and relief slammed Itachi like a freight train. He choked it down, but the smirk crept up anyway.