Kris Underwood knew he was a loser.
It was not something anyone had to tell him. He had years of evidence stacked neatly in his head. Senior year of high school, he has bad grades, no real friends, no direction. He drifted through the hallways like a ghost everyone could see and ignore at the same time.
The only place he ever felt anything real was in his room, late at night, when the house was quiet and the world stopped asking things of him.
Naruto played on Kris's laptop, the familiar voices filling the darkness. He had seen the series more times than he could count. He knew every arc, every death, every line that hit harder the second or third time around. It was not the fights that kept him coming back. It was the way characters kept moving forward even when everything was taken from them.
He wore the same Naruto shirt he always did. The fabric was faded, the print cracked from too many washes. His parents hated it. Said it made him look childish.
Kris did not care.
On the screen, Madara spoke about power and hatred and destiny. Kris snorted quietly.
"Dumbass," he muttered. "You and Izuna could've just traded eyes."
He paused the episode, leaned back in his chair, and stared at the ceiling. The Uchiha always annoyed him. Too much pride. Too much obsession with power. They loved each other, sure, but only until it got inconvenient.
Naruto was different. Naruto chose people, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
On this thought, Kris fell asleep without changing his shirt.
Morning came too fast.
He rolled out of bed, grabbed his backpack, and left the house without thinking. It was not until he was halfway down the school hallway that he noticed the looks. The snickers. Someone whispering behind him.
"Anime kid."
He kept walking, and the thought came, "shit, I forgot to take off my naruto shirt".
The first shove came from behind. He stumbled into a locker, metal ringing loudly. Laughter followed. Someone tugged at his shirt, stretching the collar.
"Grow up," a voice said near his ear.
He did not fight back. Fighting back only would make it worse.
The worst part would come after school.
No teachers around, and guys bored enough to make him a target. Fists hurt. The ground hurt more. By the time they were done, Kris lay there staring at the sky, wondering why it always felt easier to endure pain than to hope for anything better.
He got home late, like most days.
This time, his parents were waiting near the front.
They talked about his grades. About college. About how his younger brother was doing so well. Sports. Friends. Potential. Everything Kris apparently did not have.
"You're smart," his father said, frustrated. "You just don't try."
Kris stared at the floor.
"Why can't you be more like your brother?" his mother asked.
That was the one that broke something.
He felt his eyes burn, his throat tighten. He stood up without saying a word and walked out the front door.
"Where are you going?" someone shouted behind him.
He did not answer.
The air outside was cold. The streetlights blurred as he ran, tears streaking down his face. He did not care where he was going. He just needed to get away from the house, from the voices, from the feeling that he was always disappointing someone.
"KRIS!"
His brother's voice cut through the night, sharp with fear.
"Watch out!"
Kris turned his head.
Headlights filled his vision.
The impact came fast.
There was pain, briefly, and then nothing.
There wasn't sound nor darkness, this was the sudden end of being Kris Underwood.