The sound of footsteps echoed, mixed with the cold wind of the early morning slipping through the cracks of the building. It was the kind of cold that sent shivers down the spine of anyone unprepared.
And Ren?
He had just left the interrogation room.
Now he walked toward the hospital, his movements automatic, as if his body knew exactly where to go even while his mind was still trapped a few minutes back. Each step seemed to take him farther from that place… and, at the same time, leave something behind.
His expression looked empty. There was no visible tension, no hurry, no despair. But deep in his eyes, it was still possible to see a small spark — discreet, nearly extinguished, yet stubborn enough to refuse to disappear completely.
*At least once… I hope I managed to save something.*
At that moment, it was the only thing he wished for. Not victory. Not recognition. Just that.
Ren entered the hospital and headed toward the reception desk. The environment was silent, too brightly lit for that hour of the night, with the familiar scent of antiseptic seeping into his lungs with every breath.
"Good evening. I'd like to ask for information about Ino Yamanaka and Shikamaru Nara," he said, keeping his voice low.
The receptionist looked up, assessing him for a brief moment before replying, professional.
"Good evening. What is your degree of relation or connection to Ino Yamanaka and Shikamaru Nara?"
"They're my friends and teammates."
She simply nodded, typed something quickly, and then replied:
"They're both still being treated, but their parents are already here. You may wait with them."
Ren inclined his head in thanks. "Thank you."
When he turned toward the hallway, he saw them.
Four people sitting side by side. Two men and two women. Even from a distance, their posture gave everything away: restrained rigidity, restless hands, eyes fixed on a point that offered no answers.
Ren knew them from the past — well enough to know exactly who they were.
Ino's and Shikamaru's parents.
He approached and bowed slightly, out of respect.
"Good evening, Shikaku-san, Yoshino-san, Inoichi-san, Hanaka-san. I apologize for the interruption."
All four looked up almost at the same time. Their expressions were filled with concern — especially the women's, who tried to maintain some semblance of control despite the fear clearly visible in their eyes.
Even so, Hanaka Yamanaka was the first to react differently. Though tense, she offered a small smile upon seeing Ren and gestured with her hand.
"Ren. Don't just stand there, come sit with us."
Ren hesitated for a moment, a bit awkward. Still, he didn't refuse. He stepped closer and sat down, feeling the hard bench beneath his exhausted body.
As he settled, he felt Inoichi's gaze fix on him.
It was a look of caution… and frustration.
As if Ren had taken something very important from him.
But Ren didn't mind. He had received that look since the first time they met. Even so, Inoichi had never treated him badly. That tension didn't come from disdain, but from something far more difficult to deal with.
After a few seconds of silence, Shikaku's voice was heard.
"Ren, could you tell us what happened?"
Ren nodded.
He began recounting everything that had happened. From the beginning, without detours, without trying to soften anything. As he spoke, he noticed the reactions around him: the women's shocked expressions, Inoichi's restrained anger, Shikaku's sharp, focused gaze, as if he were trying to piece together a massive puzzle inside his own mind.
Ren continued, even when the words grew heavier. Even when his throat threatened to close.
He barely managed to finish.
Suddenly, he felt arms wrap around him.
Hanaka pulled him into a tight embrace — too tight. She squeezed so hard he could barely breathe. For a second, Ren stiffened, surprised, unsure how to react to such an unexpected gesture.
"Ren…" she said, her voice trembling.
"You shouldn't feel guilty. This was beyond your control. And they were all old enough to make their own decisions. And they chose to stay with you. Remember that."
The words struck deep.
When Hanaka released him, Ren blinked a few times and lifted his gaze. He looked into each of their eyes — Shikaku, Yoshino, Inoichi — and saw that they all agreed with her words, each in their own way.
After so many bad feelings piled up, something different began to surface inside him.
A simple feeling.
A feeling of belonging.
Ren formed a faint, almost imperceptible smile and said softly:
"I will."
But that moment didn't last.
The sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Everyone turned quickly.
A doctor was approaching them.
Hanaka was the first to react.
She stood up so fast the bench seemed too light to hold her, and for a moment her body leaned forward, as if she were ready to run anywhere necessary.
"How is she?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly… but impossible to hide.
Inoichi also stood. Not with the same haste, but with the same urgency inside. He placed a firm hand on his wife's shoulder, as if that touch could keep Hanaka standing if the next words were bad.
"Calm down, dear… let the doctor explain," he said, trying to control his own breathing as he spoke.
Shikaku stood next, followed by Yoshino. Ren also stood, without realizing he'd done so. His body simply responded, as if remaining seated would be disrespectful in that kind of moment.
The doctor looked at all of them — one family on one side, another on the other, and between them a boy who should have been worrying about other things… not hospitals.
"The surgery was a success," he said, with the firmness of someone who carefully chooses every word. "Both of them are out of danger."
The sentence took a second to sink in.
And then it did.
Relief came as if someone had released a rope tied tightly around everyone's chest at the same time.
"Thank God…" Hanaka whispered, tears coming before she could stop them.
Her face tightened in a mix of relief and exhaustion, and Inoichi pulled her close, holding her as best he could — firm enough to say *I'm here*, gentle enough not to make it seem like the world was collapsing.
On the other side, Yoshino turned to Shikaku with a look that was half victory, half relief.
"I told you our son would make it."
Shikaku stood still for a moment, wearing an expression of helplessness he rarely allowed to show. It was as if his mind, so used to calculating, had spent hours trying to solve an equation without an answer… and now someone had finally told him the result existed.
He let out a short breath.
"Yes… you were right. As always."
"Hmph. You'd better remember that," Yoshino replied, but there was no real argument in her voice. There was affection disguised. A hidden tremor she didn't want to admit.
Ren felt the tension in his shoulders finally fade.
His body felt lighter from the inside, as if, for a few seconds, he could breathe properly again.
*I've already lost too much…*
He didn't even need to finish the thought. The idea alone was enough to tighten his throat.
The doctor spoke again, and his professional calm helped keep everything in place.
"They're both still asleep. Visits will only be allowed starting tomorrow at lunchtime."
The relief was still there, but now it came with limits. With rules. With that typical hospital feeling: *it's not over yet, it's just under control*.
Shikaku nodded immediately.
"We understand. Thank you, doctor." He paused, then added, as if organizing a withdrawal the same way he would organize a mission. "Let's all go home and rest. We'll come back tomorrow."
Everyone agreed — without discussion, without insistence. They were far too exhausted to argue with prudence.
And, little by little, each of them began moving toward the exit.
Ren followed in silence, with the sense that the hallway had become less heavy… but still not light.
---
In a dark room, a man sat.
His only visible eye remained closed, and his posture was motionless, as if he were deep in thought — or simply waiting for the world to confirm something he already believed.
The darkness felt comfortable there. Almost intimate.
A knock sounded at the door, followed by a controlled voice:
"Danzo-sama, report."
Danzo didn't open his eye. Nor did he change his position.
"Enter."
The door opened, and one of his men stepped inside, immediately kneeling. The gesture was automatic, trained, as natural as breathing.
"Begin."
The order came cold, leaving no room for hesitation.
The man began reporting quickly: about the intrusion of something flying, about the discovery that this "something" was Ren, and about the strange wings that had appeared and then vanished. He also mentioned reports of an unusual pattern in the eyes.
The more Danzo listened, the more his brow furrowed, as if each detail were fitting into a design he had been sketching for a long time.
*So he awakened those eyes.*
The thought came with a direct command.
"From now on," Danzo said, "cut off any kind of surveillance on him. Only gather third-party information. I don't want any risk of being discovered. Dismissed."
"Understood, Danzo-sama."
The man stood, exited, and closed the door.
The sound of the door shutting was the only noise in the room for a moment.
Then Danzo opened his eye.
And no one but him knew what that meant.
---
Ren opened the door to his own room and stepped inside.
The world outside still felt "paused," even though the village continued to live on. His body was tired — a kind of exhaustion that wasn't just physical, but something that built up inside and weighed on his chest.
He walked to the bed without haste. There was no reason to rush now.
Ren bent down and pulled out a box stored beneath the bed.
When he opened it, three items lay inside.
A scarf. A forehead protector. And a kunai.
The scarf had been given by Mikoto. The forehead protector by Fugaku. The kunai by Itachi.
Ren spent several minutes staring at those objects, as if they were more than just objects. As if they were anchors. As if, by looking long enough, he could remember exactly what it felt like to breathe without feeling weight.
*I still remember…*
Not as a beautiful memory.
But as a memory that hurts in a quiet way.
He slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out an unlit cigarette.
He stared at it for a moment, motionless, as if that piece of paper and tobacco carried a meaning he wouldn't admit even to himself.
Then, slowly, Ren placed the cigarette inside the box.
Closed it.
Put the box back under the bed, in the same spot.
Stood up.
Left the room.
And in that room, all that remained was the memory of what could never return.
(Early access chapters: see the bio.)