"Sarada…!"
In the dark hospital room, Sasuke suddenly jolted upright, one hand shooting forward as if trying to seize something just out of reach.
Under the dim hospital light, there was nothing.
His fingers grasped empty air.
The strength drained from his arm, and he collapsed back onto the bed, breathing unevenly.
His gaze fixed on the spotless white ceiling, memories flooding his mind in fragments. Then—faint, broken sobs echoed in his ears.
Waaah… waaah…
The crying was raw and desperate, enough to make anyone's chest tighten. Sasuke didn't know where it came from. He could only hear it.
That cry—when she had faced death—was fear. Fear for him. She couldn't bear to watch him die.
Only then did he understand.
That familiar, trembling voice buried in the sobbing…
It was Sarada.
She must have been watching the entire battle, hidden by some space–time technique. Close enough to see everything. Powerless to stop it.
Pain surged through his body again, vivid and suffocating—like being torn apart alive, flesh ripped away, warmth spilling out of him piece by piece.
Every time he remembered it, he couldn't breathe.
It was as if he had returned to his past self. Weak. Helpless. Powerless.
Just like now—lying in a hospital bed, unable to move.
He didn't know when his feelings for Sarada had grown so deep. But what he couldn't accept was his own weakness—the same unbearable reality, replaying itself once more.
All his resolve. All his efforts were to become stronger.
In the end… nothing had changed.
He was still weak.
Just like back then.
As a child, he spoke endlessly of revenge, of killing Itachi. But that obsession wasn't truly about his brother.
What he wanted was to kill his own past.
The proof was simple.
The night his clan was annihilated, the pain didn't come from love lost—it came from powerlessness. He couldn't accept that he had been useless.
Becoming stronger was never about hatred.
It was about erasing that unbearable version of himself.
On that blood-soaked night beneath the moon, a child could do nothing but cry—timidly reaching out to his brother, trembling, helpless.
What was he afraid of?
What was he regretting?
That teasing voice echoed in his heart like a blade.
"My foolish little brother…"
He really had been foolish.
So foolish that he didn't even fight back.
He hated himself for that. If he had fought with everything he had… maybe Itachi wouldn't have turned away.
Now, looking back—how disappointed must Itachi have been?
And now, this same helplessness had returned.
He couldn't change anything.
He couldn't save his child.
Still weak. Still pathetic.
Knock. Knock.
A sound came from the door.
The night-shift nurse hesitated, realizing the patient should have been asleep. He quietly opened the door, corridor light spilling into the dim room.
He tiptoed inside, replaced the IV bottle with practiced ease, adjusted the drip, and glanced at Sasuke.
This patient had been transferred from the emergency department. Tsunade and Sakura had both been notified.
After jotting down notes, the nurse quietly left.
When the footsteps faded, Sasuke opened his eyes again.
His mind was empty.
Confused.
Lost.
He suddenly pulled the needle from his arm, stood, and opened the window. Cold night air rushed in, brushing his skin.
The moon hung high—round and pale.
Just like that night.
Only back then, it had been stained red by blood.
Did he hate Itachi?
Before knowing the truth… maybe he had.
Itachi had destroyed everything, making him look ridiculous.
He wanted to kill him—not out of hatred, but to erase the only witness.
Yet when Itachi died, what remained wasn't relief.
It was grief.
Overwhelming grief.
How could he laugh at me…?
He always cared. He always loved me.
"Patient Sasuke? What are you doing?"
The nurse's voice came from behind. He must have forgotten something and returned.
Sasuke didn't answer.
The nurse grew uneasy, assuming the patient was having a breakdown, and approached carefully.
"No matter what happened, you need to recover first," he said softly. "Only then can you finish what you still need to do."
"What if it's impossible?" Sasuke asked quietly.
The nurse hesitated. "Even if you can't solve it alone… You can rely on your companions."
"What if dragging them in changes nothing?" Sasuke asked.
The nurse was stunned.
"…Even if it can't be solved, at least you won't be alone."
"If it's unsolvable," Sasuke said, eyes fixed on him, "why involve them at all?"
The nurse struggled for words. "Then… you give up. Regret is just pain that teaches us to move forward."
Don't dwell on the past. Look to the future.
Sasuke fell silent.
Give up?
He couldn't.
He had abandoned his daughter—left her to watch everything alone, just as powerless as he was now.
He had wanted to reach out.
And couldn't.
They didn't even have the right to regret.
Seeing an opening, the nurse quietly produced a sedative.
But Sasuke vanished.
The syringe pierced empty air.
The nurse froze.
Sasuke reappeared nearby, calm.
"…I won't give up," he said.
The nurse forced a smile. "You're still young. Do whatever you want."
Even if it ends like a moth to flame.
Sasuke nodded.
"I'll rest," he said.
The nurse quickly reinserted the needle.
As the medicine flowed, Sasuke closed his eyes.
He didn't notice it.
The emerald liquid in the IV bag was streaked with a thin line of crimson—like a drop of blood, gleaming faintly.
"Goodnight, Sasuke."
The nurse left quietly.
In the empty corridor, his footsteps were light.
His tongue flicked briefly over his lips—slow, deliberate.
Like a snake tasting the air.
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