"Even if they're just showin' up to pad the numbers, that's still reppin' for Konoha! But the Hyūga? Not a single damn shadow. What's their deal?"
"Spittin' on the Will of Fire? Or do the Hyūga think they're the kings of this village—like we're livin' in Hyūga-stan now?"
Makoto's words hit like a machine-gun of truth bombs, ripples blastin' across the crowd like a viral TikTok roast.
Uchiha Shisui instinctively rubs his garlic-shaped nose, voice floatin' like he's high on copium.
"Look, it's… the Hyūga main-house heiress just turned three. They're throwin' a birthday bash…"
Makoto facepalms, knuckles grindin' his temples. "By that logic, next world war we just rotate clan birthdays—everybody chills at home, no battlefield? Sweet gig."
Shisui opens his mouth, Adam's apple bobbin' like he swallowed a frog. Nothin' comes out. Yeah, he knows he just got owned.
Night breeze drags bamboo leaves across the cobblestones—shhh shhh—stretchin' the silence like taffy.
Three dudes standin' in moonlight, shadows chopped up by branches like a glitchy Instagram filter. Two bodies at their feet, stiff as rusted lawn ornaments.
A twig snaps. Dead leaf lands on Itachi's shoulder.
He flicks it off, eyes ping-pongin' between the Cloud head honcho and Makoto, brows knittin' a shallow trench.
"Makoto. How'd you knock this guy out? Anyone see?"
Makoto pulls his custom kunai, thumb strokin' the Succubus Mark—his personal Flying Thunder God tattoo.
"Told him my kunai tip had dust on it, asked him to lean in and check."
He pauses, smirkin' like a gremlin. "Dude actually did. So I just—shunk—slid it home. No witnesses, scout's honor."
Tone lighter than talkin' about the weather app.
Itachi's frown deepens, but he drops it. Younger bro's got secrets; pushin' won't crack 'em.
"People still that gullible?" Shisui smacks his lips.
Silence drags again, just wind whinin' through the mini-forest. Shisui scratches his head, chucklin'. Plan's a go.
"Hyūga main house is locked down tighter than Fort Knox—especially the Grand Elder's pad, buried in the back," Itachi breaks the quiet, voice droppin' an octave. "Sneakin' this corpse in? Tall order."
"Leave it to me. Zero sweat."Shisui straightens like a Marine, confidence flashin' in his eyes. Short blade spins in his palm—shing—cold light slicin' the air.
Makoto nods. Shisui's Shunshin is still pre-Mangekyō, but in Konoha? Top-tier monster. Strongest under Kage level—and the best of that pack.
Even the Hyūga bros tag-teamin' him? They're not outrunnin' a teenage Shisui in a straight fight. Dude and Itachi are straight-up cheat-code broken.
Itachi steps up, crouches, grabs the Cloud ninja's neck.
CRACK! Like snappin' a dry branch.
Head lolls at a horror-movie angle. Dead. Blood freckles Itachi's cheek—he wipes it with his sleeve like it's BBQ sauce, zero flinch.
"Just twistin' the neck ain't enough," Shisui mutters, voice darker, usual softie vibe dialed down. "Konoha's got clans that read dead brains. I'll handle cleanup."
Shisui's a lil' airheaded sometimes, but clutch time? Lock-in mode.
He turns to unconscious Hinata, hand hoverin' over her neck.
Makoto cuts in: "Nah, skip her. She's been out cold—knows squat."
"Hit her with genjutsu hypnosis, plant a fake memory, then drop 'em both back. Need a live witness so the Hyūga buy the story hook, line, and sinker. Cloud'll back it up too."
"No genjutsu on the Elder—keep it clean. Just dress the wounds to look like standard kunai work."
Shisui nods, slaps Hinata with illusion hypnosis, then deep breath—obliterates the Cloud ninja's brain via genjutsu. Pulls a plain kunai, moonlight glints—slice, slice, slice—wounds now look like basic stab marks. Quick, surgical, zero hesitation.
Stone-cold killer disguised as the nice guy next door: Uchiha Shisui.
Makoto glances toward Hyūga turf. "I know tonight's patrol blind spots."
Snagged the intel from Fugaku's office earlier—filed it away like a coupon. Payin' off now.
He rattles off positions; Shisui memorizes. Quick glance at Itachi and Makoto—peace-out smile—then scoops both bodies like grocery bags.
Whoosh. Black streak vanishes. Faster than a Vine fade-out. Bamboo leaves don't even twitch. Shunshin Shisui—name checks out.
Just Makoto and Itachi left in the grove.
Wind drops a leaf on Makoto's shoulder. He watches Shisui's afterimage fade, lips curlin'.
Uchiha crisis? Hyūga's turn to eat the heat. Let 'em suffer a bit—Danzo can catch the fallout.
If Uchiha weren't the village punching bag, Hyūga wouldn't be this cocky. Time they tasted the ninja world's dirty laundry.
"Don't pull stunts like this again," Itachi says, brows still knotted, voice warm like hot cocoa. "Whatever it is—talk to me."
He pauses, eyes on Makoto's sleeve—smudged blood like a wilted rose—and the kid's pale face.
"You did good. …Thanks."
Sincerity drips like honey.
This hyperactive gremlin bro? Heart's bigger than Texas—village, clan, all of it.
Kid's probably losin' sleep schemin' to fix this mess. Way too young for this weight.
Itachi's gaze softens. That Orochimaru defection must've wrecked him…
Orochimaru, somewhere: "???"