Kakashi's POV
Kakashi Hatake walked out of the ramen shop, his hands tucked into his pockets, his mask slightly tilted as if even his expression didn't wish to be seen.
The streets of Konoha were quieter than usual — the afternoon wind carried the scent of grilled meat and damp leaves.
He had no missions for the next two days. A rare break.
Danzo had, surprisingly, granted him leave. Though the man treated most Root operatives like tools to be sharpened and discarded, Kakashi had one advantage — he wasn't easily replaceable, and he still bore the Hatake name and was still a disciple of former Hokage.
Even the Third Hokage had sent him a note earlier:
"Recover, Kakashi. Wounds, physical or otherwise, make a shinobi stronger."
He didn't believe a word of it.
Strength? Healing? Those were words for people who hadn't buried their comrades.
He was the ghost of Konoha's hypocrisy — a man who obeyed every rule but lived surrounded by the bodies of those who broke them for him.
His comrades had died one by one, and his teacher's dream had ended with fire and screams.
And yet, he lived.
Not out of will — but out of obligation.
Because Obito had given him his eye.
Because dying would make that sacrifice meaningless.
Because someone had to carry the promise of that gaze.
He sighed, his breath fogging faintly in the cooling air. Just as he turned into the next street, a voice called out —
"Kakashi! Kakashi!"
He turned slightly, one visible eye narrowing. The voice grew louder.
"Kakashi! You left your letter at the shop!"
It was Ayame, the ramen shopkeeper's daughter, running up to him, panting lightly as she held out a small envelope.
He blinked once. "Letter?"
Ayame nodded, thrusting it toward him. "You forgot it on the counter! I didn't want it to get lost."
Kakashi stared at it for a moment. His first instinct was to refuse — he didn't recall ordering anything, much less expecting correspondence. If it were important, the sender would have come to him directly.
Maybe it was just a prank by that Uchiha kid and there was no big brother as even if he was not sensing carefully he still knew who was coming and who were near that area.
Maybe it was a love letter given to him by others via that brat. He has experienced this quote few times.
Still, Ayame's earnest expression and the faint edge of politeness in her voice made it harder to ignore. He took the letter with a soft, muffled, "Thanks."
She smiled, brushing off the awkwardness. She'd long grown used to his coldness. After all, even silence could be a form of grief.
Kakashi turned and walked away again, the envelope loosely gripped between his fingers.
When he finally reached home after spending his time in cemetery, the dusk had melted into the soft glow of lanterns. He removed his mask, washed his face, and sat at his desk — the same desk that had seen countless mission scrolls, unmarked reports, and unopened messages from the Hokage.
The envelope lay there, silent and unassuming.
Something about it gnawed at him — the faint trace of chakra, the unfamiliar seal, the perfect, almost surgical precision of the handwriting.
Curiosity, or maybe instinct, told him to open it.
The paper was smooth, folded neatly. And as he unfolded it, his eyes caught the first words:
___
To Kakashi Hatake, son of Sakumo Hatake — the Copy Ninja of Konoha.
You are quite the paradox, aren't you?
A shinobi who obeys every rule yet lives surrounded by the corpses of those who broke them for you.
I have been watching you for some time — the way you move through life as though it were a long, unending mission report.
Efficient. Detached. Hollow.
Tell me, Kakashi — does it ever strike you as odd, how life keeps balancing your ledger?
You gained life — your mother was erased from it.
You gained a father — the village erased him in disgrace.
You gained comrades — they vanished beneath rubble and betrayal.
You gained love — that was also destroyed.
You gained a student — and he became the monster your teacher once feared.
Gain and loss, cause and consequence.
You are the purest embodiment of equivalent exchange I've ever seen.
And yet, you still breathe.
You still teach.
You still believe that somehow, Konoha can be redeemed through obedience.
I find that… fascinating.
Your eye — his eye — is especially intriguing.
After death, even an Uchiha cannot evolve others Sharingan further.
So how, I wonder, does a non-Uchiha like you bear a Mangekyō that still remembers the pain of its first awakening?
A puzzle worth studying, wouldn't you say?
Consider this an invitation, Kakashi Hatake.
Not a threat. Not a demand.
Merely an opportunity — to stop surviving and start understanding.
In time, you'll know where to find me.
Or perhaps, by then, I'll already be watching from closer than you think.
— Chronarch
____
Kakashi's hand stilled.
The air in the room seemed to thin.
His face remained expressionless, but behind that calm façade, his thoughts twisted.
The writing was deliberate, elegant — not an assassin's threat, but something far stranger. Whoever Chronarch was, they weren't after blood. They were… observing. Studying.
A shiver of unease ran through him. Not from fear — but recognition.
After death, even an Uchiha cannot evolve that Sharingan further.
That single line burned into him. The writer knew things — dangerous things — about his eye, about Obito, about limits that even the Uchiha rarely discussed aloud.
He folded the letter back carefully, setting it down beside a framed photo — his old team, smiling under a sun that no longer existed.
The last light of the evening cut across his room, bleeding gold into the paper's edges.
Kakashi leaned back, exhaled, and let the weight of the moment settle.
He didn't know who Chronarch was. But for the first time in a long while, something stirred beneath his numbness — not dread, not sorrow… but curiosity.
And that was always how the most dangerous stories began.
___