Knock, knock.
A dull echo tapped through the aged wooden frame, swiftly swallowed by the hush of the surrounding forest.
Standing before it was Hatake Kakashi, the sole visible eye of the silver-haired shinobi peering forward, still and unreadable. His face betrayed no emotion—just a mask of duty, tinged with the weariness of war.
The house before him slouched at the edge of Konohagakure, half-consumed by creeping ivy and crooked branches. It looked less like a dwelling and more like a wound the village had chosen to forget.
A place left behind… or shunned on purpose.
"Come in."
The voice from within was calm, smooth. Unmistakable. Like silk over steel.
With quiet precision, Kakashi slid the door open.
A musty breeze met him, laced with the scent of aged parchment, drying herbs, and something faintly metallic—like blood washed too many times.
His eye scanned the room instantly.
Scrolls.
Dozens.
Hundreds.
Scattered across the floor. Stacked in uneven towers. Hanging from the walls like ancient charms. Every inch of space seemed burdened with knowledge not meant to be shared.
Some bore the insignias of the Great Nations.
Some contained battle logs—he could tell from the structure.
Some… were written in blood.
The air itself hummed with secrecy.
And at the room's centre sat a man.
White skin. Ink-black hair. Golden, serpentine eyes unmoving as he read.
Orochimaru.
Kakashi stepped forward, cautious. Even without killing intent, the man radiated danger—a kind that whispered, not screamed.
"…Orochimaru-sama. You called for me."
Kakashi's voice was low, respectful. He hadn't wanted to speak, but silence here felt like being buried alive.
The Sannin did not look up at first. The scroll in his hands crinkled softly as he reached its end.
Then—
"Kakashi-kun…" he drawled, like one waking from a pleasant dream. "Tell me. Who do you think won this war?"
The golden eyes rose and locked onto his.
Time slowed.
There was no malice in them. No madness.
Only quiet calculation. Like a snake deciding if it was worth striking.
Kakashi hesitated, just for a second.
"Konoha did," he said, carefully. "We secured the final field. Our side… held out."
Orochimaru tilted his head, the faintest of smiles touching his lips—but it did not reach his eyes.
"Mm… no political thought. No nuance. But… well. You're still young. We can work on that later."
Kakashi's brow furrowed, confused.
But before he could speak—
"Tell me, Kakashi-kun." Orochimaru's tone shifted, quiet and heavy. "What… is a Jinchūriki?"
The room seemed to freeze. The walls felt closer.
Kakashi's body tensed.
His breath caught.
Of course he knew. He had seen.
But then—
"You should know," Orochimaru continued, voice now a little colder, tinged with something dark. "After all… wasn't it the girl from your team who bore the 3 tails?"
Kakashi's eyes widened—only a flicker—but his fingers curled unconsciously into fists.
The breath in his lungs turned sharp.
He knew what was coming.
And still—
"Rin Nohara."
Orochimaru's voice was soft. Almost… reverent.
"You killed her."
The words dropped like a blade.
And they cut just as deep.
Kakashi's fists clenched harder. His fingernails dug into his palms. The air around him grew dense with unspoken pain but Orochimaru's eyes held no judgment.
Only interest.
"Tell me, Kakashi-kun… when you looked into her eyes that day… did she smile? Or were you too focused on the mission to notice?"
Silence.
No answer.
Not even a breath.
The air pressed heavy against Kakashi's back. Words circled his tongue but refused to form. That moment—the blood, the scream, the look in her eyes—played behind his lone eye like an eternal genjutsu.
Orochimaru, sensing the tension like a musician feels strings beneath his fingers, let the silence linger for just a moment longer… before slicing it.
"Hmm, let's change the topic, shall we?" His tone was almost… playful.
"Let's go deeper." A pause, then: "Do you think… your father made the wrong choice?"
Kakashi's breath hitched.
His head lifted slightly, eye narrowing—not in defiance, but confusion. Caught off-guard.
"Sakumo Hatake." Orochimaru said the name like it was a line from a fable. "The White Fang of Konoha. Hero of the battlefield. Condemned by his own people for saving comrades… instead of completing the mission."
Kakashi opened his mouth.
He wanted to reply.
To defend his father.
To say the line he'd clung to.
"Those who break the rules are scum But those who abandon their friends are worse than scum."
But the words didn't come.
Because he rememberd how the village he spend his life protecting didn't supported his decision, how they spoke ill of his father publicly, how those he choose to protect criticism him for his decision.
His hands, still clenched, trembled slightly.
And Orochimaru… laughed.
Not loudly.
Just a soft, knowing chuckle.
"Ah… that expression," Orochimaru mused, eyes gleaming with something unreadable. "Like a little boy caught between the ghost of his father… and the ever-watchful dogma of this village. Still trying to make both proud, aren't you?"
He leaned forward, not threateningly, but with surgical precision—like a scalpel pressing gently against skin.
"Let me ask you something, Kakashi-kun…" he began, voice calm, too calm. "Back during the First Great War… when the Nidaime Hokage sacrificed himself, who stood at his side?"
Kakashi said nothing, but he knew the answer.
"Hiruzen. Koharu. Homura. Danzō." Orochimaru named them one by one, like pieces on a shōgi board. "They came back alive. They returned. And yet, no one called them cowards. No one branded them traitors for surviving their leader."
His voice dipped lower.
"But your father… the White Fang of Konoha… chose to save his comrades instead of completing the mission, and for that, he was crucified." A quiet click of the tongue followed. "Not by enemies. By his own people. His own village."
Kakashi's jaw tightened. His fists trembled ever so slightly.
"He spent his entire life serving Konohagakure. Protected it more times than the public will ever know. And yet, when he needed someone to speak—just one voice from the top… what did he get?"
Orochimaru's lips curled, not into a smile, but something colder.
"Silence. Not a whisper of defence from the Sandaime. Not even a murmur from those who once called him 'comrade'."
"WHYYYYYYYYYYYY?"
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