The air in the council room was tense, the weight of unspoken truths pressing down on everyone seated at the long, polished table. The Hokage sat at the head, his hat tilted back slightly, his eyes weary. Across from him, Homura and Koharu sat, their expressions reflecting the gravity of the matter before them. Danzo watched the others from his seat, his cane resting beside him, his single eye flicking from face to face.

  They had come together to discuss the Uchiha—a problem growing more dangerous with every passing day. Danzo had made his position clear; the Uchiha could not be trusted. They were a threat to the stability of Konoha, a powder keg waiting for the right spark to ignite it. Hiruzen, the old fool, had wavered, his endless insistence on diplomacy clouding his judgement. The others had listened, nodding along, offering platitudes while avoiding the real solution.

  It was all so painfully predictable. Danzo leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping against the handle of his cane, his patience fraying. He had just opened his mouth, ready to push the issue once more, when the door creaked open and an ANBU entered. The man moved quickly to the Hokage’s side, his mask concealing whatever emotions lay beneath. He handed a folded missive to Hiruzen, whispering something low enough that even Danzo couldn’t make it out.

  The Hokage’s expression changed as he read, his eyes narrowing, his lips pressing into a thin line. Danzo watched, a flicker of interest passing through him. Something was wrong.

  “What is it?” Koharu asked, her voice sharp, cutting through the silence.

  Hiruzen looked up, his gaze sweeping the room, assessing each of them before he spoke. “A tip-off,” he said slowly, the words heavy. “An anonymous source has provided information regarding a substantial number of foreign operatives embedded within the Leaf. Spies—many of them from Kumo.”

  The room seemed to hold its breath, the weight of the revelation settling like a shroud. Danzo straightened, his fingers tightening on his cane. Foreign operatives—this was precisely the kind of threat he had sought to ward off for years. His eye shifted to Hiruzen, watching as the Hokage’s expression darkened.

  “Who provided this information?” Homura asked, scepticism clear in his voice. “Can we be certain it’s reliable?”

  Danzo spoke before Hiruzen could respond, his voice cutting through the murmurs. “At the moment, it scarcely matters who provided it,” he said, his tone cold. “If there’s even a chance that it’s true, we must act immediately. We cannot afford to let this fester. Not now with conflict with Kumo so eminent.”

  Koharu frowned, her eyes narrowing at Danzo. “And what exactly do you propose we do?” she asked, her tone sceptical. “We don’t even know if this is genuine.”

  Danzo met her gaze evenly, his expression hard. “Then we confirm if it is,” he said. “Hiruzen, I suggest an investigation be launched, a purge if necessary. We cannot allow the enemy to undermine us from within, not now that the Uchiha choose to reveal their insidious hand. The cost of inaction might be too great.”

  Hiruzen sighed, his eyes closing for a moment as if he were gathering his thoughts. “Caution, Danzo,” he said. “Acting too rashly, risks inciting paranoia, creating fear where there may be no cause for it. We need more information before we proceed.”

  Danzo felt a flare of irritation, his fingers tightening further on his cane. This was always the problem with Hiruzen—hesitation, indecision. He glanced at Homura and Koharu, searching for support, but found only wary expressions.

  “This is exactly what our enemies want,” Danzo pressed, his voice rising slightly. “They want us complacent, hesitant. They want us divided. We cannot allow ourselves to be paralysed by doubt. We must act decisively.”

  Stolen story; please report.

  Hiruzen looked at him, his gaze steady, and for a long moment, no one spoke. The tension in the room was palpable, the weight of the decision hanging over them like a storm cloud.

  Finally, Hiruzen nodded, though there was reluctance in the movement. “Very well,” he said. “We will investigate. Quietly, without drawing unnecessary attention. But there will be no purges, Danzo. Not without definitive proof.”

  Danzo inclined his head, though his thoughts were anything but compliant. Proof. Proof was a luxury they couldn’t afford to wait for. He would do what needed to be done, regardless of Hiruzen’s caution. The safety of Konoha demanded it.

  As the meeting concluded, the others rose, their expressions pensive, the weight of the discussion following them out of the room. Danzo remained seated, his gaze lingering on the Hokage as he spoke quietly to the ANBU operative. There was a storm coming—he could feel it in his bones, a shift in the air. And when it broke, he would be ready.

  Hiruzen could hesitate all he wanted. Danzo would protect the village, no matter the cost.

  The merchant sat in his office, the ledger spread across his desk, the numbers swimming in front of his eyes. He was tired, so very tired, and he rubbed a hand across his face, trying to focus. The sun had set hours ago, the lamp on his desk the only source of light, casting flickering shadows across the walls. He had thought himself careful, thought the secrets he kept were buried well enough. But when the masked men came to his door, there had been no warning, no time to prepare. They had spoken of discrepancies in his accounts, of funds missing, and he had protested, of course. But their faces had been blank, their eyes cold. They weren’t here for an explanation.

  Now he sat, alone, the ledger still open in front of him, though his hands were bound behind his back. He heard the door open, the soft shuffle of footsteps. He turned his head, his heart pounding. The figure stepped into the light, a mask obscuring his face. The merchant swallowed, fear clawing at his throat. He opened his mouth to speak, to beg, but no words came. The figure moved closer, and the merchant’s eyes closed. He felt the pressure on his neck, the darkness closing in, and then—nothing.

  The chunin moved through the training field, his eyes scanning the area. It was late, the sky dark, the moon hidden behind thick clouds. He had received a message, a summons from his superior—there was a matter that needed his attention. A training exercise, they had said. He had obeyed, as he always did, his loyalty unquestioning. He had served Konoha for years, had done his duty without complaint. At least, that was what he had led the world to believe.

  A rustle in the bushes caught his attention, and he turned, his hand going to the kunai at his belt. He took a step forward, his eyes narrowing, but before he could react, he felt the blow. Pain exploded in his chest, sharp and sudden, and he stumbled, his breath hitching. He looked down, saw the blood spreading across his vest, and his knees buckled. He fell, the ground rushing up to meet him, his vision blurring. He heard voices, distant, muffled, but he couldn’t make out the words. The world tilted, and then there was only darkness.

  The bureaucrat sat at the kitchen table, the bottle of sake half-empty in front of him. He stared at the wall, his eyes unfocused, his mind a haze of regret and frustration. His wife was in the other room, her voice a constant drone, accusing, shouting. He had made a mistake, he knew that. He had been careless, let his guard down. The affair had been a lapse in judgement, a moment of weakness. He had tried to explain, tried to make her understand, but she wouldn’t listen.

  The door to the kitchen slammed open, and he looked up, his vision swimming. She stood there, her face twisted in anger, her eyes red, Sharingan spinning slowly within. She wasn't Uchiha. She held a knife, her hands trembling. He opened his mouth, the words slurring, but she was already moving. The blade flashed, and he felt the pain, sharp and hot. He gasped, his hands going to his chest, the warmth spreading beneath his fingers. He looked at her, saw the tears streaming down her face, and then he fell, the world slipping away, the last thing he heard her sobbing, her voice cracking.

  One by one, the pieces fell. Each death a quiet event, a tragedy of circumstance, a moment of bad luck. The merchant’s body was found hanging in his cell, the guards reporting it as a suicide. The chunin’s death was written off as an accident, a mishap during a late-night training exercise. The bureaucrat’s wife was taken into custody, her sobs echoing in the empty house, the knife still clutched in her hand.

  In the shadows, someone watched, someone who knew the truth. The purge had begun, the list slowly shortening, each name crossed off with careful precision. There were no mistakes, no loose ends. Just a series of unfortunate events, each one more tragic than the last.