The rain had always been a quiet thing to Takeshi. He used to find it calming, the way it drowned the noise of the city and clanked against the window, bringing a sense of clarity to his mind.
Now, he hated it.
Takeshi walked with his hands in his pockets, shoulders hunched beneath his hood. The smell of rain was heavy in the air.
He tilted his head back and stared at the sky. The streetlights blurred against the falling rain, and the rhythm of his steps faltered as the city dissolved into memory.
The world around him faded, replaced by the smell of wet soil and iron.
The thud of his boots became the clack-clack-clack of sandals over mud, each step splattering red water as he sprinted through a battlefield. Shouts cut through the storm; orders, screams of pain, dying breaths. He remembered the flicker of steel and chakra, his sword humming as it met another, the resistance of bone beneath the edge. The air had been thick with smoke and fear, and yet he'd kept moving. He'd been good at that, moving forward. Cutting through.
And then he heard it.
"Takeshi!"
The voice rang loudly in his head as reality faded to memory.
He'd been younger, then. Reckless, though not foolish. A swordsman who could channel chakra into the edge of his blade and slice through stone as if it were cloth. They weren't ninja, though — just soldiers hired to protect a convoy who'd been caught in the crossfire of rival nations. He'd fought alongside his team a dozen times before. They'd joked through campfires and sleepless nights, and then it all went to hell.
The sky had opened up in the rain that day, too. The kind that blurred vision and numbed fingers. Takeshi's chakra-infused blade cut through the enemy's line with brutal precision, but they stood no chance against the traps and ambushes that were covered by a mist that would not disperse.
By the time the sun broke through the clouds, only he and Hitsuji remained.
He remembered the sound of his sword clattering to the ground when he saw his friend fall, remembered the red spreading fast across Hitsuji's chest, a kunai lodged in him, still bright under the dull sky.
"Takeshi…" Hitsuji's voice was barely a rasp. His eyes, usually so alive, were already dimming.
Takeshi rushed beside him, dropping to his knees, immediately putting a hand to his wound, putting pressure. "Shut up, Hitsuji, you're… going to be fine." There was a desperate pleading tone in his voice — like he himself didn't believe it.
He laughed weakly, pushing away his hand. "I'm… already dead, Takeshi. I think you know that better than anyone." He spoke with finality as he closed his eyes, trying his best to give Takeshi a comforting smile.
But there was no comfort to be found.
The rain had begun again, heavier this time. Washing away the blood, smearing it into the earth.
"You know Takeshi…" Hitsuji murmured, his eyes fluttering awake, yet just barely. "Promise me you'll live better, huh? Get out of this–" His words were cut off by a wheezing cough, blood spilling from his mouth. "—hell." He took one more shallow breath, and his eyes fluttered shut for the last time.
…
…
The silence afterward had been unbearable. Takeshi's hand had slipped from his friend's shoulder, and the next thing he knew, the enemy shinobi who'd killed him were already running.
He caught them all.
Every. Single. One.
And when it was over, he stood surrounded by bodies, unable to tell exactly whose blood soaked his hands.
The rain poured down the same way it did on that dreadful night.
Years had passed since then. The steel sword was gone, having been buried with Hitsuji, and a wooden one hung on Takeshi's wall in its place. Plain, worn, and light. He still practiced with it every morning out of habit, each swing slower than the last. His form was flawless, yet his spirit was hollow.
Takeshi lived quietly now — on the edge of the city where ninja and civilians mixed uneasily, ready to flee at a moment's notice from a place of refuge among warring states. He wasn't part of any village — never had been. He was a man who once fought with chakra-laced steel; now reduced to fixing fences, escorting merchants, and taking odd jobs that didn't ask too many questions.
He was fine with that. Or so he told himself.
The rain was relentless tonight, drumming against the rooftops as he walked home from another half-paying job. He stopped beneath an awning, shaking water from his sleeves. The flickering neon of a nearby shop sign reflected across puddles, turning the street into streaks of red and blue.
He fidgeted with a cigarette between his fingers, but didn't light it. He hadn't in years. The habit wasn't even about smoking anymore; it was about pretending… pretending that he was still that man who stood beside Hitsuji before the end.
"Live better," he muttered under his breath, the words catching in his throat as he dropped the cigarette and stamped it.
He started walking again.
The streets were nearly empty. The few souls still out hurried past, heads down, desperate to escape the cold. Takeshi was halfway down the block when something moved in the corner of his vision. A shape, slumped against a wall in a narrow alleyway.
At first, he thought it was a trash heap of soaked fabric, or maybe even a drunk passed out in the wrong place. But when the lightning flashed, he saw the blood.
He stepped closer. A young girl, half-conscious, slumped beside a dumpster. Her grey hair clung to her face, dark with rain. Ears — cat ears — twitched weakly under the downpour. Blood mixed with the puddle beneath her, the faint metallic smell cutting through everything else.
Takeshi crouched beside her, the rain dripping off his hood. "Well, shit," he muttered. "You look like you lost a fight with a blender."
Her eyelids fluttered open, green eyes dimly glowing in the dark. Even now, her voice was flat but dry. "You… should see the other guy."
That earned a quiet exhale of amusement from Takeshi. "You've got a mouth on you," he said softly. "You could've called the police."
She blinked, slow and dazed. "Why would I? They'd just hand me back."
He didn't need to ask who they were. He'd heard stories of Orochimaru's experiments, of human weapons hidden deep under the surface of the shinobi world. Shinobi and civilians alike turned into mere tools, monsters made to be weapons.
Takeshi sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "Why am I even doing this?" he murmured to himself.
But in his mind, the memory replayed again; Hitsuji's voice, faint and firm despite the blood in his throat. Live better.
He groaned softly, crouched lower, and slid his arms beneath her. She was lighter than she looked, her head falling weakly against his shoulder.
"Alright," he muttered, standing. "Let's get you outta the damn rain."
He carried her through the empty streets, boots splashing through puddles. The rain followed him all the way home. "Damn.. blood on my favorite jacket, too." He groaned.