The maps were spread across the table, weighed down at the corners by anything heavy enough to keep them from curling in the damp air. A single lamp flickered on the desk, throwing weak light over the lines and symbols that made up a cluster of suspected supply routes, and in the half-light, those routes seemed almost alive, like veins pulsing with vital lifeblood.

  I leaned over, eyes tracing the red-marked paths. It was late, the room cold and empty save for the steady hiss of rain and the occasional creak of old beams. My breath was slow, deliberate, as I absorbed the details. Weeks of analysis had delivered what we needed—vulnerabilities, the cracks we could widen. But none of this would matter if it stayed on paper.

  The team I had assembled stood waiting, watching. These were not men I trusted for loyalty—that was a given—but for their skill. They were the best Father could spare. They would have to do.

  Rain fell steadily as we left the village. Twilight was fading, and the traders’ convoy had already set off down the forest road, unaware of the forged documents that now had them delivering militarily worthless goods to unwitting Kumo logistics agents. Decoys—fiction we had created to divert attention from the real prize.

  We observed the decoy convoy as it unknowingly linked up with a shinobi escort, keeping our distance. Our targets, the ones actually in need of an escort, lay further behind—a caravan laden with weapons and supplies, originally destined to join a weapon's stockpile east of the Land of Fire's northern border. The rain masked our presence, muffled the snap of branches swaying in the wind, and blurred our forms. My cloak, heavy with moisture, clung to my skin as we waited.

  Our target eventually arrived in the kill zone just as darkness fell. It happened quickly—a landslide that levelled the valley, destroying wagons valued at several hundred million ryō apiece. The dull roar of a collapsing earth echoed into the night sky, but we were already far enough away for it to seem small, insignificant. We did not look back.

  The room was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that bred its own menace. Fugaku sat at the broad wooden table, his fingers lightly tapping against its edge, the rhythm steady, a counterpoint to the tension in the air. Across from him, Hiruzen Sarutobi watched, eyes obscured by the shadows cast by his hat. He was visibly tired; the lines etched into his face seemed deeper with each passing day. Perhaps, Fugaku mused, the burden of power had begun to weigh too heavily on the old man. Perhaps that was why he had called this meeting.

  They had chosen a small, neutral room within the Hokage's residence for the occasion. There were no symbols, no portraits of past leaders watching from the walls, no banners to declare which faction held power here. It was a bare space—cold, functional, a room that offered no comforts, no advantages.

  Hiruzen leaned forward, his fingers steepled beneath his chin, his gaze meeting Fugaku's. "I called you here because Konoha stands at a precipice," he began. "With the situation escalating with Kumogakure, we cannot afford division within our ranks. We need the Uchiha to stand united with the rest of the village."

  Fugaku's lips barely moved, his response a whisper of sound. "United, Hokage-sama? It is a fine word, but unity requires trust, and trust requires respect."

  Hiruzen nodded, as though he had expected this. Perhaps he had. "What are your terms, Fugaku? What will it take to bring the Uchiha back to the centre of this village, to end this rift?"

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  Fugaku paused, his gaze dropping to the table, to the rough grain of the wood beneath his hands. He could feel the eyes of the other Uchiha—Takumi—who had accompanied him, waiting. He cleared his throat, his voice smooth, even. "What we want is simple. We want our rights restored to us—the rights taken away after the Kyuubi attack. We want an end to the surveillance of our people, the constant spying on Uchiha clansmen. And we want the Military Police Force freed from ANBU interference. There must be a clear distinction between their roles. The Military Police should handle internal affairs, as was the Second Hokage's original intent, without ANBU encroachment—just as the MPF doesn't interfere in ANBU's foreign operations."

  There it was, laid out plainly on the table. The things he demanded were nothing more than what the Uchiha had once possessed in some form or the other—what had been stripped from them without hesitation or evidence when the Kyuubi had ravaged the village. When they had been framed for an act that Itachi had somehow discovered was a calculated move to alienate them. Fugaku’s eyes flicked up to Hiruzen, gauging his reaction.

  The Hokage sighed, his shoulders dropping slightly, a weary expression crossing his face. "Fugaku, the village is not what it was before the attack. The situation is more precarious than you might realize. I cannot afford to make concessions in some of these matters, not when there are still questions unanswered. I am willing to consider restoring your clan’s former holdings in the village centre, and we can discuss other adjacent matters. But the rest, I cannot agree to."

  Fugaku frowned, his fingers stilling against the table's surface. He felt the weight of the words, the refusal that was half an offer, half a threat. "Our former holdings are a symbol, Hokage-sama, nothing more. Restoring them without addressing the core issues will not solve the distrust between our people and yours. We need autonomy in our own affairs just like the Hyūga and the Aburame. We need assurance that our loyalty is not in question at every turn."

  Hiruzen held his gaze, his eyes searching, as though trying to see beyond the mask Fugaku wore. "We can start with small steps, Fugaku. Restore the holdings, allow the Uchiha to have a more visible presence in the village center. Ease the strain. Trust is built slowly."

  A silence settled between them, heavy and uncomfortable. Fugaku could hear the faint ticking of a clock somewhere in the distance, marking each second as it passed, each moment of indecision. He knew what Hiruzen was offering—it was a gesture, a token to placate, to keep the Uchiha quiet, compliant.

  Fugaku leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. "A visible presence, while we remain under surveillance. A return to our homes, without any real power. What you offer, Hokage-sama, is a facade. We need more, not mere appearances."

  Hiruzen shook his head slightly, his eyes filled with something that might have been regret, or perhaps resignation. "This is all I can offer now. The village must come first, Fugaku. I hope you understand that."

  Fugaku smiled then, but it was a cold, humourless smile. He understood well enough. The village would always come first for Hiruzen—so long as it was his version of the village, the one in which the Uchiha remained contained, controlled. He pushed his chair back, rising slowly, the other Uchiha following suit.

  "Then we have no agreement," he said simply. "The Uchiha will not be placated with half-measures."

  Hiruzen rose as well, his expression resigned. "Consider my offer, Fugaku. For the good of everyone."

  Fugaku gave a curt nod, turning on his heel, his cloak swirling around him. He could feel the eyes of the Hokage on his back, feel the weight of the unspoken words that hung in the air between them. There had been no real negotiation here, only a pretence, a gesture to show that Hiruzen had tried.

  As they walked out of the Hokage’s residence, the rain still falling steadily outside, Fugaku felt the bitterness settle in his chest, a cold, hard knot. The village needed the Uchiha now, but only on its own terms. And Fugaku was not willing to play that role—not without what his clan deserved.