#shiori01

The Uchiha estate basked in its usual silence—clinical, cold, untouched by chaos.

That was, until the faintest whisper of despair drifted through the eastern wing like a ghost.

Madara didn’t hear a scream.

He heard... stillness.

A pause in the rhythm of the house.

He glanced up from the study, narrowing his eyes. Something was off.

Down the hallway, Fuyumi’s bedroom door was slightly ajar.

A sliver of golden light cut across the marble, faint and quiet, but the tension in the air was undeniable.

Inside, she sat cross-legged on the rug, mirror before her.

Silent.

Still.

Her headband, usually the shield between her and the outside world, was nowhere to be found.

Without it, her hair had settled into its natural fall—sleek, thick, parted perfectly down the middle, cascading just like his.

The resemblance was uncanny.

Fuyumi studied her reflection with quiet intensity.

–So this is my fate...– she murmured, barely above a whisper. –To walk the earth as a smaller, cursed version of him... they’re gonna call me Little Madara. Or Boss Baby. Or something awful.

She closed her eyes slowly, as if in mourning.

Then, gently, she folded her hands in her lap like a solemn shrine maiden.

–It’s over. My peaceful school life. My illusion of normalcy. All gone... Because of genetics.

The door creaked open.

Madara entered silently, the sound of his steps almost lost in the velvet quiet of her room.

His eyes locked onto her reflection.

He paused.

Her hair.

Her profile.

That aura of calm solemnity.

It was like looking into a mirror set in another lifetime.

–Fuyumi.

She didn’t lift her head. She only spoke, hushed and even.

–I didn’t ask to look like you, Grandpa... This is the worst day of my life. I was supposed to look soft today.

A pause.

–But fate is cruel.

From behind Madara, Izuna appeared, leaning against the doorframe with a mug in hand, eyebrow arched in deep amusement.

–She’s me. You see that, right? She’s absolutely me. The quiet suffering? The poetic melancholy? I would’ve said those exact words at her age.

Madara shot him a withering glance.

Fuyumi tilted her head toward Izuna.

–Uncle Izuna... I’m not sure if I’m having an identity crisis or becoming a visual threat to society.

Izuna held up his mug in salute. –Both. You’re doing great, sweetheart.–

Madara knelt beside her, reaching forward with one hand to gently gather her hair away from her face.

–You don’t have to hide behind that headband.

She looked at him, hesitant.

–But they stare. They compare. They whisper "She looks just like him." I don’t want that. I don't want all those eyes on me.

Madara’s gaze softened, though his tone remained firm.

–Legacy is about being unshaken, even when all eyes are on you.– He adjusted a loose strand from her cheek. –You don’t have to act like me. Or anyone. But you are an Uchiha.–

A long silence followed, broken only by Fuyumi’s quiet sigh.

–If I wear rhinestones... will they still think I’m a threat?

–Absolutely.– Izuna grinned.

Madara exhaled. –Then wear rhinestones. They’ll fear you and envy your taste.–

Fuyumi blinked once.

–...So I can be terrifying and glittery... I guess...

–Precisely.

Izuna stepped in, crouching beside them both. –I’ll take her shopping. She needs something dramatic but quiet. You know, emotionally devastating, but fashionably responsible.–

Madara didn’t even argue.

Fuyumi nearly chokes on her tea when she hears the first comment slip out of one of her so-called friends.

—How old is your grandfather?

She blinks, stunned, before realization dawns—and with it, a horrified grimace.

—Too old for you, and he’s married.— she snaps, setting her cup down way too hard.

But they don’t stop.

No, because apparently, the concept of boundaries evaporates when it comes to Madara Uchiha.

—Okay, but have you seen him? That hair? Those eyes? That voice...

—No. Stop. Right now.

—He’s so—ugh—commanding.

Fuyumi looks between them, her face frozen in the exact expression of someone whose world is crumbling.

—He could order me around any day.

Her eye twitches.

—Guys, stay away from my grandfather!— she hisses, gripping the table like it’s the only thing keeping her sanity intact.

But they just laugh.

Because they don’t understand. They don’t know that Madara is right there, somewhere, with his god-tier hearing and his zero tolerance for nonsense. That if he ever caught wind of this conversation, she would have to move out of the country out of sheer embarrassment.

And then—the worst part.

Fuyumi barely has time to recover from the absolute violation of her sanity before one of them—clearly emboldened by madness—leans in with a sly grin.

—Okay, but if he’s married, then that means there’s a granny Mrs. Uchiha…—

Fuyumi stares.

Blinks.

Stares harder.

—What does that even mean?!— she exclaims, hands thrown up in sheer exasperation.

—Like, who is she? We've never seen your grandma before, is she just as—?—

—No. Stop. I am not discussing my grandfather’s love life with you.—

—But come on, Fuyumi, you have to admit—your grandpa is—

—ENOUGH! Stay. Away. From. My. Grandfather!—

Ame’s on the floor in her best friend’s room, laughter bubbling as each girl slaps down another paper face onto the “HEAR ME OUT” cake.

-Ryan Gosling.

-That Naruto villain.

-Your ex.

-Shut up.

Then one girl, grinning like a sinner, drops a printed photo of a man brushing his teeth, unbothered expression, sharp eyes like a blade in motion, staring at the camera through the mirror's reflection.

Caught in the act, not planned.

-Okay. Hear me out.

The camera catches Ame staring at the photo in horror.

Her face drains of color.

-NO. No no no no. That’s my DAD!

Shrieks. Screaming. Laughter.

-Your WHAT?—

-Delete it delete it delete it!

Ame lunges for the phone as it keeps recording.

//

It starts in the kitchen.

Mid-morning.

Ivy’s in a loose cardigan, slippers, hair tied up in a pencil bun, aggressively whisking something green and glittery that probably isn’t legal.

-Stop pacing or get me a new spatula.— she snaps without looking.

Across the marble counter, Hikari is flicking through TikTok like he’s hunting for a target.

Inari is leaning next to him, arms crossed, face frozen in one of his trademark demon smiles. -I’m telling you she squeals like someone just pulled her out of a cult.—

Hikari turns the screen around. -You’re gonna love this, Mom. Prepare your soul.—

He hits play.

The phone screen flares to life.

“Hear me out—” A second beat. “THAT’S MY DAD! NO!!”

Ivy stops whisking. Completely. Eyes locked.

-Again.

Hikari rewinds. Plays it.

Inari taps the counter like a funeral drum.

“NOOOO!!”

Ivy exhales like she just finished a cigarette. -Oh, that's gorgeous, fine picture, captured with my best skills... They loved me for it. Send it to me.—

-Already did.— Inari slides her phone across the counter. -I commented from your burner too.-

-Which one? The one I use to stalk his fan edits or the one where I fight his fangirls?

-The violent one. Your alter ego with the katana profile pic.— Hikari adds.

She snorts.

-Perfect. Tag me in the next one too.

From the living room, a low voice interrupts.

-She’s going to need therapy.

Indra is on the couch in grey linen pajama pants and a black T-shirt, hair loose, sleeves pushed up to his elbows.

Mayumi, Raizen and Fuyumi's little girl, is lodged on his lap like a small, babbling dictator, holding a wooden spoon in one hand and gnawing on his thumb like it’s a chew toy.

He doesn’t look away from her.

He’s gently tugging a sock off her foot, inspecting her tiny toes like they might be armed.

Raizen is in the armchair, posture sharp despite the hoodie and sweatpants. A laptop on his knees, phone on the armrest, four encrypted channels open.

He glances up once, eyes cold. -She posted it herself.—

Inari, to Hikari, in a half-whisper: -That’s the scary tone. He’s annoyed and pretending not to care.-

-I don’t care.—

Hikari snorts, knowing his older brother. -He’s lying. He added it to his “Evidence of Uchiha Stupidity” folder.—

Ivy walks over, phone in hand, scrolling. -Half the comments are thirsting over your father, by the way. One said ‘I’d say no too if my dad looked like that.’ Another one called him ‘daddy in the biblical sense.’ What does that even mean?-

Indra, completely unfazed, still focused on pulling Mayumi’s tiny sweater hood over her head. -It means God will smite them.—

Inari comments, -I liked the one that said, ‘If that was my dad, I’d simply disintegrate.’—

Hikari adds more to it, -Or the one with the audio overlay: ‘Silenzio Bruno’ while Ame’s screaming.—

Raizen keeps handling their mafia empire, -You're all sick.—

Mayumi, from Indra’s lap, gurgles like she agrees.

-Buh.— she says.

Indra nods like she made a valid point. -Exactly.—

Ivy, still watching the video, sighs. -Look at her face. She's devastated. The betrayal. The collapse. All for a thirty-second thirst trap of her own father.—

Indra looks up finally, one brow raised. -There was no trap. I was brushing my teeth.—

-Your reflection was glowing, Dad.- Hikari explains like it's obvious.

-And you were shirtless. People have needs.- Inari finishes.

Indra adjusts Mayumi's position—she flops sideways like a drunk sea lion. He catches her head gently, supports her with one arm, pulls the blanket over her back with the other.

Raizen, while finishing the transfer of one million bitcoins, adds, -She’s going to exile herself. You know that, right?—

-She’s in school. We’ll tell her after lunch. Once I’ve uploaded the slowed reverb version to my group chat.- Ivy explains.

-With the whispered “that’s my dad” layered over Gregorian chanting? Already done.— Inari smirks.

-I gave it a title: ‘Ame's Villain Origin Story, Vol. I.’— Hiakri contributes.

Mayumi lets out a small, high laugh—babbles a string of vowels like she’s adding to the conversation.

Indra adjusts her head again, absently. -She says 'play it again.'—

Ivy hits replay.

The whistle blew, sharp and final, and just like that—Fuyumi transformed.

Gone was the soft-spoken girl who ducked behind her mother when strangers spoke too loudly, who muttered tragedy-laced sentences like “I am but a passing shadow, mother, do not expect much,” when asked if she’d remembered her lunch.

The second her sneakers touched the court, she was fire.

Not loud, not flashy, but precise—an arrow mid-flight, forged of quiet fury and endless focus.

She didn’t hear the crowd.

Not her mother screaming her name while half-standing in the bleachers, waving her phone like a flag of war.

Not great-uncle Izuna yelling “YES, BABY! END THEM!” with Bee calmly nodding beside him, applauding with her usual grace, one step above chaos.

She didn’t hear the groan Madara released when he caught sight of the team’s uniform—specifically the shorts.

–This is disgraceful. They might as well be wearing handkerchiefs.– he muttered, arms crossed and jaw tight.

Makoto didn’t even look away from the camera. –They’re standard, Dad. Get over it. Look at her form. That’s your granddaughter, right there. Look at her smash.–

And what a smash it was.

Fuyumi jumped, not with raw power but with terrifying intent, her body slicing the air in a clean arc before her hand collided with the ball like a quiet explosion—precision, grace, and pure force wrapped in one moment.

The ball shot across the court, untouched, unstoppable.

And Raizen... oh, Raizen, he felt his heart lurch.

She landed with the same expressionless calm she always wore, only now her eyes were locked on the net, chin tilted, arms loose at her sides like she hadn’t just obliterated the other team’s defense.

Her braid swung like a pendulum behind her, her cheeks lightly flushed, and her focus—gods, her focus—was nothing short of terrifying.

Raizen blinked.

Then again.

Then forgot to blink altogether.

His fingers, curled around the bench edge, had gone pale.

The black-and-red of her uniform clung to her body in ways he’d never prepared himself to handle—her legs flexing with each movement, arms tense as she received a serve, jumped again, smashed again, hair flying.

She was—

He didn’t have the vocabulary. Not yet.

He only knew he was doomed.

Doomed in the way that made his throat dry and his palms sweat and his mind spiral into completely innocent teenage meltdown.

–She’s… really strong…– he mumbled under his breath, half-horrified, half-worshipping. –She could probably kill me.–

Inari, sitting beside him with popcorn he didn’t even buy himself, squinted at him sideways. –You okay, Raizen? You look like you're about to pass out.–

Raizen didn’t answer.

He watched Fuyumi leap again, watched the world stop around her—this girl who whispered to trees and flinched at sudden sounds now transformed into something unyielding, breathtaking, unreachable on the court.

And yet, when the point was won and her team rushed her with cheers, Fuyumi turned to the stands—not smiling, not waving, but scanning.

Her gaze paused on her mother, on Izuna and Bee, then on Madara’s slowly growing aneurysm.

And then… her eyes found him.

A beat. The smallest beat.

Her head tilted.

Raizen swallowed. Hard.

His whole face turned crimson, and he almost flung himself off the bench to pretend he’d dropped something.

Meanwhile, Makoto zoomed in on him instead. –Oh yeah, that’s going in the family album.-

Bee smiled. Izuna whooped.

Madara sighed so deeply the wind shifted.

The steel gate loomed before Fuyumi, unmoving, unyielding, and utterly indifferent to her quiet frustration.

She had tried.

Truly.

Pressed her palms against the cold metal, pushed with all her weight, even tested different angles in case there was some trick to it.

Nothing.

The thing didn’t even shift.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of her sweater.

She could’ve asked one of the estate guards to open it for her—there were plenty stationed around—but the thought of disturbing them, of making a fuss, made her stomach twist.

They were busy.

She wasn’t about to be the reason they abandoned their duties.

So she sat down at the entrance, knees against her chest, and waited.

The sound of tires against pavement reached her ears long before she saw the sleek black car approach.

It rolled to a stop just beyond the gate, and through the tinted glass, she caught the faintest glimpse of sharp eyes.

The door opened.

Madara stepped out.

The air changed immediately.

The kind of shift that made lesser men reconsider their life choices.

His coat billowed slightly as he moved, the weight of his presence swallowing the space around him.

He barely needed a second to assess the situation—the locked gate, his granddaughter outside of it, the quiet patience in her posture that only made his anger burn hotter.

A long, tense silence.

Then—

-Why are you sitting on the ground?

His voice was quiet.

Deceptively quiet.

The kind of quiet that preceded devastation.

Fuyumi exhaled, steady. -The gate was locked.-

A pause.

Madara’s gaze flickered over the estate entrance, the control panel, the security posts.

His expression remained unreadable, but something dangerous coiled beneath his calm.

-And no one noticed?

Fuyumi hesitated. -…Didn’t want to bother them.-

A mistake.

A grave one.

Madara’s jaw tightened, and without another word, he turned toward the intercom built into the gate. Pressed the button.

-Who is on duty today?

A brief crackle of static.

Then, a voice—uncertain, hesitant.

-Uchiha security detail, sir. Is there an issue?

-An issue?- Madara echoed, tone still smooth, still quiet. -You tell me. My granddaughter has been sitting outside my estate, unattended, overlooked, because none of you thought to check. Because none of you thought, to begin with.-

The intercom was silent.

-I will ask one more time.- His fingers flexed at his side, a slow, methodical movement, a quiet execution of wrath. -Who. Is. On. Duty.-

The response came fast, names spilling through the speaker, but it was already too late.

-All of you. Gone.

He didn’t even raise his voice.

He didn’t need to.

-I want you off my estate in ten minutes. If I see your faces again, you will not like what happens next.

The line cut.

Only then did he turn back to Fuyumi.

-Get up.

She did.

Before she could say anything, Madara stepped forward, dusting off her pants with methodical care, then reaching up to smooth her hair, tucking stray strands behind her ear with a touch so at odds with the storm still raging in his eyes.

His fingers traced her chin lightly, tipping her face up as he scanned her, checking for anything amiss.

-Did you get cold?- His tone had softened. -Did you eat?-

Fuyumi shook her head. -I'm fine.-

Madara exhaled slowly, displeased, but said nothing. Instead, he pressed the code into the gate panel, the steel doors sliding open at once.

Without looking at her, he gestured forward. -Inside.-

She followed without hesitation.

The gym was packed.

Banners in school colors draped the high windows, voices echoed off the polished floors, and the sound of sneakers squeaking and whistles blowing blended into the chaotic hum of a school-wide sports day.

Raizen stood near the edge of the judo mat, arms crossed loosely, jaw tight.

He hated these kinds of events — being put on display, the noise, the chaos.

But fine.

He picked judo because it was quiet. Focused.

It wasn’t about teams or group chants or stupid competitions over who could be the loudest.

It was simple: strength, control, precision.

He adjusted the hem of his gi top, rolled his shoulders, and turned to scan the stands.

He expected to find Fuyumi somewhere on the benches.

That was her zone. Quiet, observing, book in her lap, probably wearing a big hoodie and trying to look invisible.

But he didn’t see her there.

Instead… he saw pom-poms.

Raizen blinked.

There, near the center of the cheer group, was Fuyumi — arms stiff at her sides, clearly dying inside, her cheeks flushed redder than the school colors.

She moved half a second behind the rest of the team, clapping and stepping and raising one pom awkwardly while keeping the other close to her chest like she hoped it would shield her from reality.

She made the mistake of glancing his way.

Their eyes locked.

Fuyumi’s face turned beet red.

Raizen forgot how to breathe.

The referee whistled for the next match — his match — and he turned just in time to face his opponent, eyes still wide, brain fried.

She’s in the cheer squad. Why is she in the cheer squad. Why didn’t she tell me she was in the cheer squad.

He dropped into position, still mentally reeling, trying to shake the image of her in that pleated skirt, knees knocking together while she tried to keep up with the routine.

The other guy lunged forward — some kid from another class, big build, cocky smirk.

Raizen didn’t even blink.

In one swift, effortless movement, Raizen ducked, grabbed, and slammed the poor kid flat on his back.

Match over. One-point victory. Uchiha wins.

The crowd erupted — mostly in confusion.

Some in awe.

Fuyumi froze mid-cheer, pom in the air, mouth parted slightly.

Raizen straightened, brushed off his gi like he hadn’t just one-punched the daylights out of someone in front of the entire school, and turned toward the cheer squad.

His gaze found Fuyumi again.

She was looking at him like she didn’t know whether to hide behind her pom-poms or pass out.

He smirked.

Just a little.

Not because of the win.

Not because of the crowd chanting his name now like he was some kind of local celebrity.