The house felt too quiet, too staged — as if every piece of furniture had been arranged by someone else, for someone else. Even the way his wife moved felt rehearsed, a routine the real Shin Uchiha had lived a thousand times but that he himself didn't recognize.
She returned to the kitchen, the sound of chopping echoing with an oddly rhythmic precision. His two children sat in the living room, one working on handwriting drills, the other tinkering with a half-finished wooden kunai.
They acted normal.
Too normal.
It made the dread worse.
He stepped inside, sliding the door closed behind him. The children looked up.
"Dad," the older one greeted with a small nod — polite but casual, like a teenager who respected him but wasn't scared of him.
"Daddy!" the younger one shouted, scrambling off the tatami to latch onto his leg.
The body reacted on instinct, crouching to ruffle the kid's hair. The movement was natural, almost too natural — a gesture forged by years he couldn't remember.
His wife glanced over. "Take off your jacket. You smell like dust and smoke."
"Smoke?" he repeated.
"From the district wall," she said. "Someone burned trash earlier."
He nodded, though he knew she was mistaken. That sharp, metallic scent clinging to his clothes wasn't from burning trash.
It was from the ANBU watching the rooftops.
Masked shadows always reeked faintly of paper bombs and sterilized steel.
He hung his jacket, but a small detail caught his eye — the interior mesh pocket.
A faint tear along the seam.
A place where something used to be.
A scroll? A note? A weapon?
Whatever it was, it was gone.
Another empty piece of the life he was forced to inherit.
---
During dinner, the calm routine continued:
Rice bowls.
Miso soup.
A plate of grilled fish his wife said he "always asked for."
He didn't remember ever asking for anything here.
The younger child chattered endlessly. The older one watched him closely — too closely. Observing him the way an Uchiha observes a target.
Finally, the teenager spoke.
"Dad… did something happen?"
His chopsticks paused.
"What makes you say that?" he asked.
"You're… different." The boy's voice was low, steady. "Since yesterday morning."
His wife stiffened. "Don't be rude."
"I'm not," the boy insisted, eyes narrowing slightly. "Dad's way of looking at things… it's off."
Shit.
Even the smallest shift in behavior was noticeable inside this clan.
But before he could answer, his wife cut in quickly.
"He's tired. Patrol has been nonstop. The clan head has everyone tense."
He could hear the unspoken message:
**Don't push this. Not here. Not now.**
The older child lowered his gaze, but the suspicion didn't leave his eyes.
Another crack in the disguise.
---
After dinner, he stepped outside to clear his head. The street lamps glowed faintly, casting long shadows between the houses.
The Uchiha district at night was… unsettling.
Not because it was dangerous — but because it was too calm.
Too orderly.
Every house closed at the same time.
Every light dimmed at the same pattern.
Every patrol route mirrored another.
A clan locked in routine to keep its anxiety from spilling out.
He walked aimlessly, letting the body lead.
A pair of old men sitting on a bench nodded at him respectfully.
"Shin," one greeted. "You're making rounds even off-duty?"
He offered a neutral grunt. "Just clearing my mind."
"A good habit. The clan needs level heads these days."
The other man leaned in slightly. "Tell your brother not to provoke the police force again. They're watching enough as it is."
He blinked. "My… brother?"
The men exchanged confused looks.
"You and Naoki always argue," one said. "Don't tell me you two finally stopped fighting?"
He forced a dry exhale. "Something like that."
Great.
Another relationship he didn't know existed.
The men continued speaking, but their voices faded as he moved deeper into the streets.
The body tugged him toward a narrow lane near the southern wall — the same pull he'd felt earlier, but stronger now.
When he turned into it, he froze.
A single ANBU mask stared down at him from the rooftop.
White porcelain.
Fox design.
Emotionless.
Not hiding.
Just… watching.
He didn't flare chakra, didn't reach for a weapon — reacting like that would raise suspicion. Instead, he lifted his chin slightly, the exact measured arrogance an Uchiha jonin would show.
The ANBU masked figure didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't shift their posture.
Just observed.
And that was worse.
The real Shin Uchiha would know why they were watching him.
He had no idea.
He turned away calmly, heart pounding behind a face that stayed perfectly unreadable.
---
Back inside, his wife watched him from the hallway. The kids were already asleep.
"You went out again," she said quietly.
"Needed some air."
She stepped closer, searching his expression. "Shin… are you hiding something from me?"
The question hit harder than he expected.
He didn't answer.
Because what could he say?
That her husband died somewhere she couldn't imagine?
That the man in front of her was a stranger wearing his body?
After a long silence, she sighed.
"You've been different since yesterday morning. I know you don't want to talk about it, but… I'm your wife. Don't forget that."
Her voice trembled slightly.
Not in fear.
In worry.
For him.
The guilt hit him harder than any jutsu could.
"I'm fine," he said, forcing the lie with a smoothness the body must have practiced countless times.
She nodded without believing him.
Then she whispered the words that made his chest tighten:
"Just… be careful this week."
He froze.
She didn't know the massacre was coming.
No one did.
So what did she mean?
"What's happening this week?" he asked sharply.
Her eyes flickered away.
"Something feels wrong. You feel it too, don't you?"
He swallowed, throat suddenly tight.
Yeah.
He felt it.
In the silence, in the ANBU shadows, in the missing memories, in the tight smiles of the clan.
And in the knowledge he had from a life he no longer had:
*There were only six days left----well now**