Inside the Uchiha clan head's crib, Makoto's room was dead quiet—only the wind chimes on the porch jingling like a lazy ghost every now and then.
Sunset sliced through the paper shōji, splashing diamond-shaped light patches across the tatami. Dust floated in the beams like glitter in a snow globe, and even the old scrolls in the corner were wearing a fuzzy gray sweater.
Little Sasuke was wiggling around the room like a worm on a hot plate. Black eyes wide, brows knotted tighter than a pretzel.
Days, man. DAYS. He hadn't caught a single glimpse of Makoto. Yeah, the dude loved bouncing around town, but ghosting the fam for this long? New record.
Sasuke clung to the top shelf of the bookcase, fingertips gray with dust. Few days back, Makoto had yanked him aside, hooked pinkies, and whispered:
"If I'm gone for a hot minute, check my room for a note. And yo—mouth shut. Not even to Itachi."
Kid had no clue what the big deal was, but now? He was done waiting.
First time sneaking into Makoto's pad, he went full tornado—step-stool, scrolls flying, candy wrappers dumped from a vase like confetti.
"Where the hell's this stupid note?!"
Sasuke planted fists on hips in the middle of the chaos, lips puckered like he could hang a teapot off 'em.
He'd flipped the joint upside down. Nothing. Why didn't Makoto just say where? Was this some kinda Uchiha hazing?
Optimus Prime don't play that.
Still, kid puffed out a breath, rolled up his sleeves, and dove back in.
Climbed the desk again, fingers scraping under the inkstone. Squatted in the corner, popping open dusty boxes.
Even uprooted the sad, droopy cactus on the windowsill—shook it like a maraca. Zilch.
Hell, he dragged in the family's pet cat, Little White, to sniff around. Still bupkis.
Sun dragged his shadow across the floor like taffy. Tree branches danced on the walls in gold dust.
Finally, Sasuke flopped on the bed, back smacking the wall, fingers picking at the futon seams like a fidget spinner.
Clink.
A tightly-rolled scrap of paper slipped out, smelling faintly of ink, bouncing on the tatami with a soft plop.
Sasuke's eyes lit up like the Fourth of July.
He dove off the bed—knees smack the floor, didn't even flinch—snatched it, and unrolled it like buried treasure.
The handwriting was drunk-earthworm levels of bad.
Sasuke clocked it instantly—Makoto's chicken scratch. (His own penmanship was way cleaner; he'd flexed on the guy more than once.)
Anxiety melted off his face, replaced by a flat line of a mouth and a scowl that could curdle milk.
He poked the words with a tiny finger, reading aloud under his breath:
> "The ninja world's huge. I wanna go see it."
> "Later, fam—I'm setting sail~ Don't sweat it, I'll be back. Miss me."
> "Future Uchiha Clan Head, Makoto—signed."
Sasuke crumpled the note like a juice box. Lips puckered.
He didn't know jack about how impossible it was for an Uchiha to just bounce from the Leaf—red tape thicker than grandma's fruitcake.
All he knew? Makoto ditched town for an adventure… without him.
Rude.
Cheeks puffed like a blowfish, he kicked the bedpost.
"Ow—dammit!" Hissed through teeth, but still stuck his nose in the air.
"Hmph. You won't take me? I'll ghost the village solo!"
Dusk. Itachi dragged his exhausted ass back to the compound, clothes caked in dirt, eyes heavy with worry that didn't belong on a kid's face.
Ever since Makoto vanished, he'd ditched every mission. Sleepless nights combing training grounds, riverbanks, even creepy-ass caves in the back mountains.
Stepped through the gate and—bam—there's Sasuke squatting on the doorstep, chin in hands, face scrunched like a steamed dumpling.
"Sasuke. Makoto back?"
Itachi's voice cracked like dry twigs. Dumb question the second it left his mouth.
If Makoto was home, Sasuke would've been bouncing like a pogo stick yelling, "Nii-san, look who's back!"
Sasuke shook his head, jerked a thumb toward Makoto's room. Tone pure salt:
"Left a crappy note. Go read it yourself."
Itachi's heart did a backflip—a lead!—and he bolted.
The note fluttered in the cross-breeze. He snatched it, then froze. Knuckles went white.
Yeah, Makoto's handwriting… but faking that shit's Ninja 101. Hell, genjutsu could've forced him to write it.
Words like "ninja world's huge," "setting sail"?
Itachi's pupils shrank to pinpricks.
Sasuke was clueless, but he knew the drill: Uchihas don't just leave the Leaf. You need Hokage Tower's stamp, a blood oath, and probably your firstborn.
A half-pint like Makoto slipping out silent? Impossible.
Especially after Cloud spies stirred up a hornet's nest days ago. Village on lockdown—ANBU, Root, military police patrolling like rabid dogs. They'd shoot a pigeon for flying too high.
Makoto ghosting that night?
Unless…
Face drained ghost-white. Fingers crushed the note into confetti.
Itachi sprinted out the door, veins popping at his temples, eyes bloodshot, breath like dragon fire.
Straight to the Hokage Tower.
Gotta beg the Third to help find him.
First instinct when shit hits the fan? Run to the old man. Clan? Pfft.
Evening glow stretched his shadow thin and twitchy—like a guitar string about to snap.
Hokage's office: smoke so thick it looked like a BBQ pit.
Sarutobi Hiruzen pinched a stack of bloodline family self-audit reports, lost in thought.
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