BUZZ—
Crimson tomoe spin up in Makoto Uchiha's eyes—two hooked commas flashin' in the snow-glare like a camera strobe, gone before you blink.
Cloud envoys who've been side-eyein' him mid-whisper? Dead stop. Pupils shrink to pinpricks, suckin' in air with a hiss like they just saw a ghost.
Then—predator mode. Eyes glow feral green, wolves clockin' prime rib. But they play it cool, actin' like nothin' happened.
The holdouts who were nah on snatchin' an Uchiha? Instant 180 after clockin' those dual-tomoe Sharingan. Support? Hell yeah.
Three seconds flat—faster than a TikTok trend flip.
Kidnap an Uchiha? Yeah, red-eye crazies might lose it. But—
Dual-tomoe at his age?! Even Uchiha's genius factory ain't churnin' 'em this young.
This ain't a lottery ticket—this is strikin' oil.
"Cough—"
Hemp-cloth chick clears her throat, stiff as cardboard. Tries eye-signalin' chill, but her squad's winkin' at her and Samui like middle-school gossips.
"Dude's starin' at y'all like he's already pickin' wedding colors."
Another jumps in: "Real talk—this kid's a walking W. Talent and face card lethal."
"Snag him for Cloud… your future babies might rock Uchiha blood, ya know?"
Samui's face freezes solid—blue-green eyes shootin' ice shards. Air gets frosty. The clowns zip it, necks shrinkin' into shoulders.
Hemp-cloth frowns but doesn't push back.
She sneaks a glance. Makoto's kickin' snow, side-profile glowin' cold under moonlight. Sharingan? Gone.
But that red flash burned into her brain like a cattle brand.
Eyes tangled—greed, doubt, and a lil' busted panic. If they do drag this kid home…
Zero Cloud kunoichi could say no. Talent, bloodline, looks—triple threat.
Makoto catches every whisper, lips curlin' into a ghost-smirk. Interior monologue:
"Jackpot. They're hooked."
He bounces—no more tailin'. Dips into an alley.
Cloud squad watches him vanish, brows knittin'… then relaxin'.
Silent pow-wow: "Plan tight or bust. Can't flop—gotta nail this."
Blizzard swallows their shadows, stretchin' 'em long and wobbly across the snow—like a script already written.
Makoto's hummin' a jacked-up sea shanty, bouncin' like he's on clouds.
Too long tailin' = ANBU/Root sniffin'. Bait's bit—now wait for the grab.
---
Home sweet home.
Moonlight through the window. Makoto scribbles on a scrap—handwriting drunk-sailor levels of wild, but drippin' swagger.
"World's huge—I'm goin' explorin'."
"Later, fam—I'm settin' sail~ Don't sweat, I'll be back. Miss me."
"Future Uchiha Boss, Makoto—signed."
Tucks it under a loose floorboard. Room's off-limits; they'll find it days after he's "gone."
Then he's out again.
Stayin' in the compound? Cloud goons wouldn't dare—even with twenty guts. Uchiha MP patrols are thick there.
Gotta give the "hunters" a window.
---
Yusen-ya Onsen—Konoha's sketchiest, most out-the-way hot spring.
Makoto's marinated in steamy water nine straight days, snackin' gourmet, beltin' tunes.
Ready for the pirate raid.
Skin's pruny as a raisin. He's poppin' home for quick laps, but still—where's the kidnapping, bro?
Interior: "These Cloud bandits go straight-edge or what?"
---
Meanwhile, Cloud squad HQ.
They're lawyering up with the Third over "Hyūga reparations" while their Wood-embedded spies dig on the kid.
Secret room. Hemp-cloth slaps intel on the table—paper crinkled from death-grip.
"Uchiha Makoto. Second son of clan head 'Fierce-Eyes' Fugaku. Half-year ago: vandalized Hokage Rock, roasted Danzo to his face in front of the tower."
"Freak-smart. Zero love for Konoha brass."
Hemp-cloth's eyes sparkle. "Easy to mold if we snag him."
"Talent deets?" someone asks.
"Nada concrete," she shakes head. "But dual-tomoe that night—need more?"
Spy adds: "Clan treats him like royalty—above Fugaku's other sons."
Samui cuts in, icy: "The less intel on his gifts? Means they're top-shelf."
Hemp-cloth clenches fist—knuckles white. "Tonight. We move."
"But ANBU tails, reparations—"
"Screw the cash!" she snaps, eyes venom-cold. "Even if we all die here—this kid comes home."
No longer should we. Must.
Wastin' a gem like this in Konoha? Criminal.
Cloud squad—from hesitation to droolin' to all-in kamikaze.
They lock eyes. Low growl:
"Forge Cloud's glory—we ride or die."