The war didn't pause for birthdays.
I turned nine somewhere between missions marked only by a new scar on my forearm and the way my flak vest fit tighter than it used to.
Nine months had passed since Taido died.
Our team hadn't changed.
The missions had.
Under Shikaku-sensei, we stopped being sent to observe and started being sent to confirm. Supply routes. Missing squads. Battlefields hours after the fighting ended. We learned how to move through places, how to identify the dead without looking too closely, how to leave without leaving tracks.
Shisui adapted the fastest.
Guy adapted the loudest.
I adapted because there wasn't another option.
Shikaku trained us between missions, sometimes in the field, sometimes just outside the village walls. He stripped our tactics down to fundamentals, formation movement, retreat signals, contingency planning. If one of us went down, the other two were expected to finish the mission anyway..
By winter, our training stopped feeling like preparation and started feeling like maintenance.
The Uchiha compound changed too.
Father began overseeing our training personally, pulling Shisui and me aside from clan drills and running us until our chakra reserves burned dry. He focused on control, efficiency, and protecting the eyes breaking bad habits before they could fully form.
He never explained why.
He didn't need to.
Iwa shinobi had started targeting Sharingan users in the field. Sometimes we heard rumors. Sometimes we saw the aftermath.
Father watched us like a man counting down seconds.
When missions allowed, Shisui and I trained Itachi.
Not formally. Not officially.
Just enough.
Enough to teach him how to stand, how to see without activating his eyes. He learned quickly, too quickly for someone his age.
Father never stopped us.
He only corrected Itachi's grip once, then walked away.
By spring, Itachi was already watching the village the way shinobi did quietly, carefully, as if trying to understand something no one had explained to him yet.
And all of it
the missions,
the training,
the war tightening its grip on the village
led to now.
The Hokage's office was silent.
Hiruzen Sarutobi stood behind his desk, pipe unlit, as he looked at the three of us. Shikaku stood off to side.
On the desk lay three folded flak jackets.
Chūnin gray.
No ceremony.
No smiles.
"Due to wartime necessity," the Hokage said, "and recommendations from your commanding officers, you are hereby field-promoted."
He paused, eyes lingering on us on how young we were.
"Accept."
Shisui reached first.
Guy followed without hesitation.
When my hands closed around the jacket, the fabric was heavier than I expected.
Warm.
And for the first time, I understood this wasn't a reward.
It meant more dangerous missions, more responsibility, more brushes with death.