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Chapter Text

 When ███████ died and woke up as a concussed eleven years old genin in the middle of a Kyuubi attack; thinking, “Wow, I’ve really gone off the deep end if my coma dreams are this horrific.” only to find out that it wasn't a dream and shit was all real—never in his life he expected himself to die again right before canon even plays out. 

 Yeah, it’s ironic as hell. He survived years of being an ANBU, and endured more S-ranked missions than he could count—and for what? To eat it before Naruto gets a chance to spam his first Kage Bunshin no Jutsu? Wow, very hilarious.

 How so, if you might ask? Well, it goes like this…

 Hakuchō crashed the party uninvited with less style than usual, arriving just as Danzo was about to pluck Shisui’s eye like it was some sort of damned low-hanging fruit on a backyard apple tree. Shisui’s (thank god) two eyes were wide and is practically screaming what the fuck as he watches the ANBU descends.

 When Hakuchō skids right in between them, he doesn't waste any time to slap Danzo—Bollywood style because why not—whose perplexed face Hakuchō relishes in. If only kinemaster existed here, he could spend all day editing the sound effects and transitions. Alas twas’ not but a dream.

 Pushing those regrets aside, Hakuchō shoved a still-stunned Shisui behind him, creating just enough space to ensure the Uchiha didn’t immediately get jumped. Then, for good measure, he flipped Danzo the bird.

 “Hands off, bitch!” Hakuchō declared, switching the middle finger into a tanto with a flick of his wrist. Hell yeah, he always wanted to do that trick.

 Said bitch is staring at him, his single visible eye narrowing in confusion and fury. “Who dares interfere?”

 “Your mom.” Hakuchō answered instinctively, then cackled like he lost it. Jokes on nobody, he already had for years now.

 Meanwhile poor Shisui was still trying to process what had just happened in front of him. “What—?” He finally snapped from his trance and started keeping his guard up as Root operatives started to circle them after Danzo signaled some shit with his hand. 

 When the Uchiha finally caught a glimpse of his mask, he practically choked on nothing. “Wait—you—you’re ANBU—?”

 Hakuchō turned his head just enough to glance at him over his shoulder. “Is this really the time for twenty questions, kid?”

Shisui bristled. “Kid? I'm a fucking Jōnin, you asshole!”

 “So? I’m two years your senior and I outranked your lanky ass, so shush. Kid.”

 For a moment, Shisui hesitated, clearly weighing his options. The Root operatives were considerate enough to wait for their chit chat but it's not like they're here to drink tea and eat biscuits. With a reluctant grin, Shisui didn't bother hiding the fact he was grinding his teeth to ash. “Fine. Great, yeah, allying with an unknown nin is most definitely a great idea.”

 “Does Itachi never speak of me to you?” Hakuchō faked a sad sniffle. “I'm wounded, my kōhai is mean.”

 The Uchiha blinks there momentarily in confusion. Probably wondering how the fuck is this guy an ANBU again. Don't worry, you're not alone.

 “Oh well.” He shrugged nonchalantly as if the situation was all fine and dandy. “If you're still wondering, let’s just say I’m your fairy godmother—”

 Shisui begins to look like he's going to have a massive aneurysm.

 “—with a slightly homicidal streak. Now, stay behind me and let me handle this racist eyeball thief.”

 The ROOT fuckers didn't waste any more time and began throwing hands already. The first came in from Hakuchō’s blind spot, moving faster than most shinobi could track. But Hakuchō wasn’t most shinobi and he beat Ryōken-taichō in a fair fist fight once after sprinkling dirt into the man’s eyes. 

 He ducked, slashing upward to catch the agent’s blade and send it flying. Before the ROOT-nin could recover, Hakuchō had already had his tanto buried deep inside their neck.

 The ANBU spun himself and used the dead nin’s body as a meat shield against a second ROOT fuck that were throwing shurikens at him. They’re at him by the split second—Hakuchō discarded the dead dude, sidestepped, his bloodied tanto’s came to deflect the strike that surely would chop his arm off if he didn't do shit.

 Gritting his teeth, the ROOT-nin’s kunai slid off his tanto with a spark—he then twisted and drove his paper bomb into their masked face. With the blast stunning them, Hakuchō disembowels them quickly, stepping away so there won't be viscera staining his (not open-toed because what the hell are those) shoes.

 Heat began prickling his skin, must’ve been Shisui and his flashy Uchiha fire jutsus. He was no slouch, and was already trapping agents inside genjutsus left and right. Damn prodigious clan kids.

 Hakuchō kicked and fractured a guy’s ribs first before he went to Shisui’s side who was in the process of turning a ROOT-nin into creme brulée. He must've startled Shisui a little because now his poor black hair is singed at the edges.

 “Shit, sorry!” Wow, he actually looked guilty. Adorable!

 “No problem, man. My fault anyways.”

 Danzo watched the fight unfold with an unreadable expression. He finally stepped forward after another yet his ROOT fucks fell.

 “You’re wasting your efforts,” Danzo growled. His probably chakra infused non-Hashirama arm outstretched at Shisui, aiming for the eye. Whoa not so fast, bud.

 Hakuchō moved on instinct. He blocked Danzo’s hand with his tanto—which barely even nicked it, fuck. “Nah, I think I’m good,” Hakuchō quipped, pushing back with enough force to make Danzo retreat a step. “And at least said wasted efforts are put for a good cause. Unlike someone.”

 Danzo’s sneer deepened. “You talk too much.”

 “Yeah, I get that a lot,” Hakuchō admitted, his tone light even as he parried another incoming kunai. His movements were growing slower now, the constant clashes beginning to take their toll. “I wonder why the council accepted me into one of their ranks.”

Danzo’s lone visible eye narrowed. “The council accepted you because even fools have their uses as a tool. But it seems like you've grown dull.” He hissed, lunging forward again. This time, the force of his attack sent the ANBU stumbling backward, his tanto skidding across the dirt.

 “You talk like you’ve got it all figured out, old man,” he wheezed, ignoring the sharp pain on his ribs. Blood trickled from his mouth as he straightened himself, his trembling hand clutched a kunai tight despite the tremor. 

 “But humor me a little, when was the last time you actually trusted someone? Or did you sell your soul to the shadows so long ago you forgot what light looks like?”

 Holy shit, since when did he get possessed by a shōnen protagonist with that monologue he pulled right out of his ass?

 Danzo’s expression didn’t change, but the tension in the air thickened. “You think you can lecture me? You, who still believe in naive notions like trust and light.” He sneered, stepping forward menacingly—in a cartoon villain way.

 “You’re no different from the rest, chasing after empty ideals. It’s all a distraction from the truth, the real threat—but I’m not surprised; you, ANBU, are just a pawn after all. You’ll never understand what it takes to lead.”

 His eyes locked onto Danzo’s, a challenge unspoken but clear. “I think you're kind of projecting here, Danzo. I’m not a slave to some ideal, you are.”

 Shisui reappeared at his side with a quick use of shunshin and blocked an incoming shuriken, his Sharingan blazing. “Don’t die yet, ANBU.”

 “Worry about yourself more kid—” Hakuchō’s sentence was cut off as he had to take his attention towards the fucking flying kunai that was going to skewer his head. Sound of metal hitting each other grates his ear when he raised his tantō.

 Another signal Danzo sharply whipped, more ROOT-nins falling out from the trees with their signature eerie polished stance screams creepy as fuck ass cult. Hakuchō shuddered.

 The ANBU glanced at Shisui for a second; who looked a little breathless and winded. That’s enough of a cue for them to get the fuck outta here by Hakuchō’s professional opinion.

 Before he could voice it, a ROOT-nin hurled something toward them—a small, metal cylinder that sliced through the air like a kunai in their direction.

 Hakuchō’s stomach dropped. Wait. Oh, shit. Is this how Shisui got fucked in the anime?

 “MOVE!” Hakuchō barked, grabbing Shisui out of the trajectory just as the object cracked open midair releasing a faintly shimmering cloud of gas. By the smell alone, Hakuchō can already figure out this is most definitely Aburame’s weird ass concoction.

 He coughed violently, the poison burning his throat. The effects were fast. Too fast. Fuck, he absolutely despises poisons; especially that Chiyo hag’s bullshit. His vision began to blur at the edges, and his muscles started to feel like lead. He gritted his teeth as he turned to the Uchiha. “Alright, new plan: we bail. Now. Go find your cousin or someone, anyone.”

 Shisui was already forming hand signs. “I can cover—”

“No!” Hakuchō snapped, his tone sharper than intended. “Just—go, okay! I’ll hold them off!”

 “What?!” Shisui looked at him like he was insane—which, fair. “That's suicide!”

 “Don’t argue!” Hakuchō shouted, blocking another strike from a ROOT-nin with his kunai—it nicked his finger a little—fuck, the poison was eating him like hell. “I’m going to fucking die anyways, probably. And if you die too, your fanclub will riot! No one wants that!”

 Before Shisui could protest again, the air shifted. A metallic whizz cut through the tension, and Hakuchō twisted just in time to avoid a barrage of senbon aimed directly for his vital points. “Shit!” He hurled a paper bomb blindly to disturb their trajectory, buying himself enough space to not get the forbidden acupuncture.

More ROOT-nin emerged from the shadow—how the fuck does this old fucker kept cranking out these guys? One lunged low, forcing Hakuchō into a backward roll. Another came high, slashing for his throat. He ducked, spun, and lashed out with a kick that sent the assailant sprawling.

 But it wasn’t enough. They were closing in, and somebody just threw paper bombs at them. Great. He answered that shit with his own creation as a payback.

 As the explosions set off, he met Shisui’s gaze—pleading, desperate. “Go. Now.”

 Danzo’s chakra surged amidst the smoke and fire. Hakuchō barely had time to register the spike before the man himself appeared in the chaos.

 Danzo strides closer, his presence was suffocating like every mission with sewers involved, he has that green aura bullshit going on. Shisui had just turned toward the trees when Danzo’s kunai gleamed, a streak of silver aimed straight for the Uchiha’s face.

 Hakuchō didn’t think. He just moved.

 With all the strength he could muster. He hurled himself in front of Shisui, throwing his body directly in Danzo’s path. The kunai caught him just above the collarbone, sinking in deep. Danzo didn’t stop there, dragging the blade downward. The steel carved through bone and muscle, splitting ribs apart like a butcher hacking into meat.

 The ANBU’s vision blurred—ah fuck, he's stupid, Danzo must've figured out he’ll do this self sacrificial bullshit—the edges of the world tilted as blood poured from the gaping wound. Pain flared hot and bright mixed with the poison, but even as his body screamed in agony, his brain latched onto a ridiculous thought: well, shit. I just got Gojo’d.

 But it wasn't the mouthwatering deadbeat dadd—cough—that is carving him unfortunately. Instead it's a senile war criminal fuck with arthritis.

 A wet laugh bubbled out of him, startling even himself.

 “Wh—are you laughing?!” Shisui shouted, his voice cracking as he caught Hakuchō before he could hit the ground. In a split second they're in a different scene altogether, which must've been Shisui’s doing and his epic shunshin. 

Hakuchō’s head lolled to the side as he caught a glimpse of a senbon sticking out of Shisui’s shoulder. Great, hoping that it’s not poisoned.

 “Just…remembered something…funny…” Hakuchō wheezed, blood dripping from the edges of his swan mask. “Man…this is too dramatic even for Bollywood’s standard…”

 “What are you talking about?!” Shisui hissed, pressing his hands against the wound in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding. “And what the hell is wrong with you?! Why would you take that hit?”

 Hakuchō coughed weakly, his voice barely audible. “Why not? You looked like you needed saving.”

 “I didn’t ask for your help!” Shisui snapped, pressing his hands over the gaping wound in Hakuchō’s chest.

 “Doesn’t matter,” Hakuchō wheezed. “You’re kind of a big deal, Uchiha. Can’t let the golden boy get his face smashed in.” A sigh.”Better me than you…”

 “Why?” Shisui hissed, his voice shaking. “What’s your angle?”

 “No angle,” Hakuchō replied, his voice growing weaker. “You’re the hero, right? Heroes don’t get to die.”

 Shisui’s grip on the bandage tightens, frustration bleeding into his expression. “You’re insane.”

 Hakuchō’s grin widened slightly as a chuckle bubbled in his throat. “It takes one to know one.”

 “Shut up.” The Uchiha snapped, his Sharingan spinning wildly and man, aren't they pretty. No wonder Danzo wants a dozen of them.

 Hakuchō’s body sagged, his strength leaving him with the milk. But he still managed a weak smile where he hoped Shisui could see through his eyes underneath the swan mask. “Don’t…bother saving me…” he rasped, his voice barely audible. “Just…do what you need…to do…with the…coup…” He coughed, the sound wet and gurgling. “Alright…?”

 There's a bewildered look on Shisui’s face when Hakuchō uses the remains of his strength to lift his good arm. Before the younger shinobi could react, Hakuchō’s bloodied hand came to rest on his head.

 The gesture was clumsy, almost affectionate.

 “Good kid…” murmured him, his words slurring together like how the dirt beneath him is mixing with his blood. “Don’t let…your people…down…okay? Take care of…Itachi…he’s a…good kid…too…don’t let him…become—” ah shit his voice is dying out “—become…the black sheep—”

 Shisui froze, his breath catching. For a split second, anger and worry melting into confusion and perhaps something else entirely. “Wait—what? What do you mean—”

 Hakuchō couldn't hear whatever Shisui was yapping about after that dramatic ass last words—his vision was blurring and darkening at the edge while his body alarmingly went limp. Ah, this is it then. His plot armour must've been shit as fuck.

———————

 That's how it was supposed to end for Hakuchō.

 Only for him to be rudely slammed into a metaphorical wall by life itself for the hundredth time this week.

 His eyes were wide open as his body jolted harshly—phantom pains spread across his torso—where a gaping wound should be—and Hakuchō stupidly needed a second to remember how to fucking breathe.

 The ANBU thought he had somehow survived getting the Toji treatment and got hospitalized—but there was no sharp smell of antiseptic and the bed was strangely—and oh so wrongly—comfortable.

 Instead, he is lying in an unfamiliar room. His surroundings were calm, peaceful even—and isn't that just wrong. He should be locked up in the bowels of T&I or whatever fuck ROOT has inside their creepy cult basement.

 Not. Pampered.

 He sat up, heart pounding, his small, clumsy hands gripping the edges of a soft blanket. Wait.

 Small hands.

 Pudgy fingers.

 His breath hitched as he scrambled to his feet—feet that barely touched the floor when he was sitting on the edge of the bed (with train motifs?!)—the mirror on the other side of the room caught his reflection.

 A child’s face stared back at him, round and wide-eyed, his black hair sticking up messily.

 “What the fuck?” he whispered, his voice high-pitched and childish. What the fuck indeed.

 Shakily, he brought his hands together to form a seal. 

 “Kai!” 

 His chakra didn't spike—what—no, hold on—he doesn't have fucking chakra.

 From somewhere beyond the door, a voice called out, “Taro! Breakfast is ready!”

 Hakuchō—███████—Yamada Taro—froze, staring at his reflection in sheer unadulterated horror. Ah fuck, does he really need to go through puberty for the third time?

 He passes out.

———————

 Eight years later

 Shouta sipped on his coffee tiredly, his fingers brushing over a case Tsukauchi had oh so generously handed over. A new vigilante, he said before dropping it on his desk and peace-ing out as if he didn't just add another headache to his day. As if keeping the Naruhata vigilantes in check weren't already tiring, now with another one in the mix is just asking him to overdose himself to death with caffeine.

The city had seen its fair share of vigilantes in the past and all of them are pain in the asses for Shouta, while there are some instances where he respects them—still doesn't mean that they aren't a pain. 

 Vigilantes; they are mostly amateurs who chose to work outside the law, be it because of a twisted sense of justice or for whatever attention they can get; from what Shouta can see, it seems that the new guy is the former, definitely personal.

 The headline “Black Swan” was written in bold across the cover.

 Shouta rubbed his eyes as he flipped open the file, already knowing the drill. A mysterious figure in black, taking down thugs, making life harder for the real heroes trying to do their job. But as he skimmed through the file, a few things stood out.

 For one, this Black Swan wasn’t just some street-level vigilante. The guy (or girl, or other, he didn’t know) had been going straight after the jugular right at the start of their vigilante career—crime syndicates, politicians with skeletons inside their closet, and rapists or abusers which the majority are found in the most horrible way imaginable compared to others.

 It soon became clear that this wasn’t just some angry amateur lashing out at the system. No, this was someone who knows what they're doing and burns with the same—far more dangerous—anger.

 At least they hadn't crossed the line into killing yet—Shouta thought grimly. 

 And then there's the notes. Those damned notes.

 Every crime scene that Black Swan was involved in always leaves behind a sticky note with a list of the villains’ misdeeds written in a methodical manner; they are either slapped on the villain’s forehead or anywhere else that can be accessible for law enforcement to find.

 But what made them truly bizarre was the stationary. The vigilante used glittery rainbow pens and Sanrio-themed sticky notes—nothing remotely fitting for someone who is supposed to be the one carrying such calculated takedowns.

 The contrast between the seriousness of the criminal activity and the bubbly aesthetic of the notes was unsettling. Pastel pink and blue with animal themed characters causing eyesores while the words on the note outline heinous crimes—Shouta couldn’t decide whether it was an attempt at mockery or some twisted form of psychological warfare. Either way, it was a mess.

 To tie it all together, it was signed off with the kanji Hakuchō—must be how the name Black Swan came to be—accompanied by a leaf-like symbol on the corner for some reason. 

 The Black Swan was efficient, Shouta begrudgingly admits despite the absurdity. The kind of efficiency that came from training. Military? Former hero? It didn’t matter yet. 

 He knew the city had problems, every city has one. But now it has yet another masked ghost wreaking havoc in the shadows, leaving their mark in the form of beaten scums and glittering ink out of all things. Shouta wasn't sure if he should be impressed or frustrated.

Shouta sighed. They’re not sloppy, but they’re still reckless. Arrogant, even. And arrogance gets people killed. 

———————

 Taro slapped a Melody sticky note on the knocked out villain’s head. The rabbit’s printed black beady eyes stare right through his soul as his handwriting shimmers colourfully under the dim lighting.

“Well fuck you too, Melody. I guess.” Taro scoffed. God, he's going insane. Wait, he already is.

 “Wonder what dad’s cooking tonight.” Taro straightened, stretching out his arms with a wince. His joints popped noisily, he cringed at how creaky it sounded.

 “I’m thirteen,” he grumbled to nobody in particular. “Not a 90 year old with chronic back pain. Ugh.”

 Taro casually rolled another thug over with his foot, exposing the dude’s shiny, sweaty forehead to the streetlight. Not even blinking, he pulled out another Sanrio sticky note, this time featuring Keroppi—his second beloved—and began scribbling with his rainbow glitter pen. It sparkled as it traced over the list of crimes this particular piece of scum had racked up. Assault. Kidnapping. Murder. Eh, the usual stuff.

 With a satisfying smack, he slapped it onto the guy’s forehead like a disgruntled office worker stamping an overdue report.

 He stood up, brushing his knees off as he surveyed the scene. Scums littered the alley that made Taro couldn't help but see trash bags in their place; each one with a colorful sticky note slapped on their face, obnoxious enough to be noticed under the low lighting.

"Well, that’s another night well spent," Taro sighed, already thinking about the next target; this particular trafficking group isn't quite tied with the Shie Hassaikai, which meant that he needs to go even deeper; oh the things he does to kick Overhaul in the nuts.

 The adrenaline was starting to fade, and now there was just the quiet hum of his own thoughts. "I should really get back to my homework."

 It took Taro a second to snort at himself and shake his head. "Who am I kidding? I’ll just go and hit the sack after this.”

 Pulling out his stolen phone, he thumbed through a few photos he’d snapped earlier in the night—blueprints, stolen files, and scribbled names that might be his next lead. He paused on the image of a map dotted with key locations.

 One stood out: a warehouse on the edge of the city.

 “Time to ruin some assholes' night.” Muttered him, a grin stretching underneath his handmade swan mask.

 The sound of fabric whizzed past him, so close it brushed the air by his ear. ANBU training kicked his ass hard; Taro ducked into a crouch, rotating his whole upper body to find the one who dared attack him when he's pulling out epic one-liners.

 Yo, hold on—dark clothing, yellow goggles, swaying grey scarf…

 Taro’s heart skipped a beat. Holy shit. Eraserhead is here.

 It's been almost a year since Taro has operated as a vigilante. To his disappointment, he never had any encounter with the underground hero since he was busy dealing with the guys in Naruhata.

 God, Taro was a massive Aizawa fan in his first life. He’d spent hours binge-watching the pro hero’s clips on Youtube, giggling at how Eraserhead absolutely demolished villains with nothing but a scarf, his quirk, and a severe lack of sleep. And now he was standing right there, in the flesh, scarf at the ready, hair doing its best impression of an emo mop in zero gravity.

 “Black Swan.” The hero said low enough to make Taro want to fan himself, is it just him or it's getting pretty hot here?

 Aizawa Shouta—Eraserhead—was moving with his signature silent grace, his scarf coiled loosely around his shoulders as he loomed the alley. Taro watched him in awe, giggling and heart hammering against his ribs like he was a kid meeting his favorite superhero for the first time.

 Well. He is a kid.

 And Eraserhead is his favourite superhero.

 …

 Anyways. Back to the scene.

 “You’ve been busy,” Aizawa said, his voice calm but firm, his gaze landing on the unconscious villains scattered around the alley. “You’re the one leaving these notes, right?” His foot nudged a thug with a Melody sticky note glittering obnoxiously on his forehead.

 Taro had to physically clamp down his jaws to not yap back at him. Can't let heroes know that he's a middle schooler with questionable taste in hobbies (punching grown men) now can we.

 He exhaled slowly as he watched the hero. If Eraserhead was expecting fear or panic or start explaining his tragic backstory and noble goal in life; he was going to be disappointed.

 “Not talking, huh?” The hero’s tone remained even, but there was a slight edge to it. His scarf uncoiled smoothly from his shoulders. “Smart. But I’ve dealt with plenty of vigilantes. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last.”

 Taro tilted his head slightly, a gesture that was half challenge, half curiosity. He let his narrowed eyes meet Aizawa’s directly, unflinching. The man is good—Taro had to give him that—if Taro had to rank him, he’d place Eraserhead at high Chūnin in terms of sheer threat level. Wow, old habits die hard don't they.

 But Taro wasn’t scared. He was used to being hunted by shadows far more ruthless than a sleep-deprived hero (one that is so fucking cool) with a (awesome) scarf.

 The silence stretched between them, weighed but not tense. Taro knew Eraserhead was assessing him, trying to figure out just how much of a threat—or nuisance—he was dealing with. Taro gave some points for not underestimating him.

 In a blur of motion, the scarf shot at him again. Taro’s body reacted before his mind could even register it, he pivoted away from its path. The fabric grazed his hair slightly—combined with his sharp movements—made them unraveled from the tie.

 There's a flicker of acknowledgement in Aizawa—Eraserhead’s eyes that Taro caught underneath the hero’s goggles. The scarf snapped back and lunged again, but Taro was already moving. He darted low, skimming along the ground, before slashing the air with his dagger—he didn't aim to injure the hero at all, just to see what he’ll do.

 The hero was quicker, though. Backing off, his scarf whipped out again, and this time, Taro didn't have the luxury of dodging. He twisted his body, parrying the scarf with a quick flick of his dagger. The blade met the fabric with a sharp clink, but it didn’t tear. Right, it's made out of metal or something.

 Eraserhead’s scarf recoiled and struck again with a sudden, forceful snap to disarm him. Taro dodged, rolling sideways to avoid being entangled; but the scarf had slapped his hand hard enough to sting. He didn’t have time to dwell on it—the man was on it again with his capture weapon.

 Taro’s feet moved like they were on fire, sidestepping the attack and closing the distance between them with a speed that only ANBU (and intensive workout for this teen ass body) training could have given him. He shot forward and landed a swift hit to the hero’s gut with the butt of his dagger, following it up with a sharp jab to his ribs.

 However, this wasn’t just about speed. Eraserhead retaliated with a brutal counter. A swift kick caught Taro off guard, slamming into his midsection with a heavy thud. The wind was knocked out of him, and for a split second, his legs faltered. Asshole.

 Taro’s grin never wavered—no, it widened as he laughed quietly underneath his swan mask. This is nothing, he thought. But Aizawa—damn, he was strong. He had the advantage in raw power, and Taro knew he wouldn’t win a battle of strength against a man who is a foot taller than he is no matter how fast his ass can be.

 In a second, Eraserhead surged forward. Taro ducked under one punch and blocked another. Then he answered those attacks back with a kick and open palm strikes—So far to Taro, it wasn't about who could hit harder, but who could outlast the other. But Taro knew when to pick his battles. And this isn't it.

 Swiftly, he slipped past Eraserhead’s guard and threw a quick jab to the hero’s jaw. It wasn’t a knockout blow—hell, it was barely even a strong hit—but it created the opening he needed. The man staggered back just enough for Taro to sidestep and break free from the fight. Not today, sir!

 In one fluid motion. He went past Eraserhead and disappeared into the night, his footsteps not making a sound on the pavement as he does. Hell yeah, ninja tricks.

 With the breeze caressing his hair, he couldn’t help the quiet, insane laughter that bubbled up in his chest. It was low but it grew louder with each step. He slinks into another alley, his grin hidden beneath his makeshift mask. He just went toe-to-toe with Eraserhead. Holy shit.

 He vaulted over a trash bin, slipping into a narrower path between buildings. The shadows wrapped around him, familiar and safe. His steps faltered under him, confident he’d lost any potential pursuit. 

 Eraserhead might be quick, but Taro knew these streets better than anyone. He’d spent weeks mapping every nook, every escape route, and every blind spot. The hero doesn't stand a chance if he decides to chase after him.

 Until he finally stopped for a moment, leaning against a wall for a moment while chest heaving; the plaster of the swan mask scraping lightly against his jaws. His laughter finally faded to a soft, breathless chuckle. The phantom force of Aizawa’s punches still tingled in his muscles—a reminder that he’d just tested his limits against his favorite pro hero and came out giggling like a lovestruck schoolgirl.

 “High Chūnin, huh?” he muttered to himself, the grin still lingering. Not bad, Eraserhead. Not bad at all.

 But now, the thrill of the fight quieted down, replaced by the tug of exhaustion and something softer—a need for home. Taro’s thoughts turned to his dad, probably asleep by now. He could already picture him sprawled on the worn-out couch, a half-finished book resting on his chest; leftovers for Taro served on the dinner table.

 Gotta get back before he wakes up and wonders why his kid is out of bed.

———————

 Shouta adjusted his scarf, eyes still locked on the empty alley where Black Swan had vanished. His mind was swirling with what he’d just experienced. The fight had been... unexpected, to say the least. He already knew Black Swan was skilled. The list of takedowns and the angry, arrested villains they’ve accumulated in the past few months has vouched for their legitimacy.

  The way they handled themself—the technique, the agility—screamed experience; maybe even years of training. However, there was the strange contradiction—their stature, which suggested a different story.

Small, wiry and short. As if they’re not a grown adult—

Teenager?

 Fuck.

 And then there was the hair. Shouta frowned, replaying the moment in his mind. When his scarf had struck. The tie had come loose; and long, dark strands had tumbled out. Not cropped or practical like most men’s hair in combat. But longer—the kind of length that was deliberate—smooth and clearly taken care of.

 He clenched his jaw. That giggle, too. First, when they locked eyes with him, and then again—a quick faint laughter after he’d landed a kick. High, sharp, and strangely youthful.

 Fuck.

 Was Black Swan a girl?

 Shouta ground his teeth together. He didn’t like making assumptions based on appearance, but the evidence was mounting right in front of him. Every sign perfectly clicks together despite his reluctance.

 A teenage girl. Could that really be who he had just fought?

 The thought unsettled him. This person—this kid—was trained and beyond that. The way they moved, the calculated strikes, the reflexes... it wasn’t something that could be self-taught. Someone out there had drilled those instincts to perfection into her, and now here she was operating solo with a cheap dagger and an unmatching pink aesthetic.

 Who the hell trained you, kid?

Shouta’s gaze shifted to the scattered grunts lying unconscious around him. He let out a low sigh and began securing the thugs, binding their wrists with practiced manner. They groaned quietly, but none were in any shape to get back up. He glanced at one of the ridiculous, pastel Sanrio sticky notes plastered on their forehead and shook his head.

 Even the humor fits a kid, he thought grimly, rubbing his aching eyes.

 Once the villains were secure and backup was en route. He immediately dialed Tsukauchi, his voice clipped. “Tsukauchi, update Black Swan’s profile. I think we’ve been wrong about them. They’re not an adult, and I’m almost certain they’re or she…is a teenage girl. Check all leads—academy dropouts, missing persons, anything. I need more on this kid.”

 He clicked off the comms, eyes narrowing at the darkness where Black Swan had disappeared. Whoever she was, she is still a kid. One that is playing a dangerous game. He’d seen too many young lives snuffed out by the harsh reality of hero work. The thought of having to scrape her broken body off the pavement one night made his stomach twist.

 This city doesn’t pull punches, he thought, a flicker of worry crossing his mind. If you don’t know when to stop, it’ll break you.

He exhaled slowly, eyes narrowing. Black Swan… she was skilled—but skill alone wouldn’t keep her alive forever.

———————

 Three months after Taro burnt down yet another trafficking ring disguised as a warehouse, a classic really. Taro sneezed as he pulled out several classified documents he printed out from the police database. Aww shit, don't tell him he caught the flu?

 Anyways, his dumbass had gotten distracted as per usual, and ended up getting lost in the road of life. Now he has enough dirt on the government that could make the FBI come kicking down his front door and his dad screaming. Don't ask for details.

 He skimmed through it, crime, crime, crime, another crime. Man, where did he put it? He did this entire bullshit just to see how the police badly messed up his vigilante’s persona identity, for shits and giggles.

 Ah, there it is—

 …

Full Name: UNKNOWN

Alias: Hakuchō, Black Swan

Age: 16

Gender: Female

Height: 5’1”

Quirk: Assumed to be related to speed/agility or enhanced reflexes. Possibility of stealth-related quirk or invisibility due to ability to evade detection for long. Further investigation required.

Known Associations: None

Criminal Record: Numerous incidents involving assault, property damage, and vigilantism.

…

 What the fuck do you mean he's a girl?

 “What the fuck.” Taro said again, this time audibly, then caught himself in the mirror beside him.

 …Did his Itachi Hair™ cause it? Come on, it was supposed to be a homage to his adorable kōhai. Taro didn't plan to become a girl, don't blame him for rocking his kōhai’s hairstyle. Damn.

 Whatever, what's done is done. He can always milk the assumption. Let them think he was a sixteen year old teenage girl, let them go on about their little mistakes. He'd play that card, throw off the police even more. The more they get shits wrong about him, the more he can get away with. Especially when they thought he was older too; that was a nice bonus.

 Taro snorted to himself, ideas started flooding his brain on how he can make this work. Voice training? Yeah, he can start with that; he was a theatre kid back in middle school so it won't be too difficult. Fake a mannerism? He might have been a guy longer than he was a girl, but anything can be a help to his case.

 Taro’s stupid brain gets distracted again as he continues skimming through the pages, flipping past crime after crime, until one case caught his eye.

 The Mindhaze Case

 Huh. He took a peek. Oh damn, another vigilante? Well, this was new. Taro leaned forward, his tired eyes scanning the details. He might need glasses again if he keeps this shit keeps up.

 The Mindhaze vigilante was quickly becoming notorious for targeting small-time criminals—muggers, petty thieves, the kinds of assholes who thought they could get away with wrecking people's lives without much consequence.

 The reports were weird, though. Each of the captured criminals would end up disoriented, unable to recall much of what happened after speaking to the vigilante and sometimes, with one thing in common: a piece of paper with a confession or evidence scribbled on it in the villains’ own handwriting. It sounds like a psychological quirk to Taro, fascinating.

 Also, he found that this Mindhaze guy was operating in Musutafu—his own damned backyard—was hilarious in a way. Taro could imagine the constipated faces of poor police officers and heroes (read: Aizawa) having to deal with two vigilantes at the same time.

 He flicked through the file again, noting recent activity hotspots: alleyways near downtown, abandoned lots, and darkened streets where cops rarely wandered. Mindhaze liked to strike fast and vanish without a trace, but Taro was good at finding ghosts. He’d been one for two lifetimes now.

 “They wouldn't mind a little visit, would they?” Taro grinned to himself. If Mindhaze was targeting the same bottom-feeding scum he loved hunting, maybe they’d get along.

 Or maybe they’d end up knocking each other’s teeth out. Either way, he wasn’t about to pass up the chance to meet them.

———————

 Good news, they didn't knock any of their teeth. 

 Bad news, they did almost kind of kill each other if not for Eraserhead swooping in Batman style. Might want to rewind back a little to see how this shitshow came to be.

 Donning a different mask this time, only covering the lower half of his face since his usual swan mask was unsalvageable after the explosion he caused. His usual vigilante wear was a bit burnt at the ends as well, so Taro replaced it with his dad’s old sweater; baggy enough to hide his stick ass figure since now people think he's a girl.

 The cold night air buzzed with the distant hum of city life—cars whooshing by, footsteps tapping on concrete, the occasional muffled conversation and drunken rambling. Taro filtered it all out like a champ, his senses narrowing to what mattered. The quiet spots where Mindhaze was likely to show up.

 His eyes darted over dark alleys, abandoned lots, and empty storefronts. Places where shitheads with less-than-legal intentions thought they could slip by unnoticed.

 A faint shuffling noise caught his attention. He stilled, pressing against a musty wall and peered around the corner. Two figures—a thug cornering someone smaller, backing them against a brick wall.

 Classic mugging setup.

 But where was Mindhaze? If they're not here, Taro doesn't have any problem fucking up the mugger dude. The grip on his dagger tightened slightly. C’mon, show yourself, he thought, scanning the shadows.

 Then, as if on cue. A figure emerged from the shadows—lean and lithe, shorter than Taro?—Wearing a dark hood that obscures most of their features.

 Mindhaze closed their distance. The thug barely had time to react as a series of quick strikes disabled him brutally. There was no hesitation in their movement—hella trained, Taro’s mind supplied, wonderful. They can be sparring besties.

 It was all over in seconds, the guy crumpled to the ground as if someone had turned off a switch. But then, came a painful nag at the back of his mind. The technique, the way Mindhaze moved—damn, it looked so familiar. The timing, the precision—it reminded him of someone. Someone way too familiar it's kind of uncanny.

 The more he watched, the more the nagging feeling grew, a strange twist in his gut that made his throat dry. Slowly but surely, it hit him like a double decker bus. The style. The posture. The subtle flick of the wrist as Mindhaze punched the mugger to stratosphere in a way that was similar to—

 No. No way in hell.

 Meanwhile about-to-be-victim yelped a little and ran away from the scene. Taro hoped they would be okay. Wait, shit—that’s not important dumbass! Well, it should be—but like, there's a more important-er shit to address. No offense to that guy. God, now Taro feels like an asshole.

 Before his Possibly-Taichō could fuck off and vanish like an absent father, Taro stepped from the shadows himself and reached out to them.

 “Ryō—” Taro was about to call in a whisper-shout before Possibly-Taichō cut him off and spun 180 degrees to point a knife a few inches from his throat.

 Instinct flared, he barely stopped himself from shanking the other’s kidney.

 They locked eyes—Taro’s deep browns meeting the eerie calmness of their mismatched eyes. Taro thankfully is not a dumbass (sometimes), and he knows when somebody is spiraling like crazy.

 Also, can't forget the unmistakable singular swirl of the Sharingan inside the guy’s skull. Fuck, if this isn't his Taichō then Taro will eat his mask.

 And maybe let's focus on the knife thing first. Taro, what the hell.

 They stood there in a standoff suspended by dead silence for what seemed like years—only for the tension broken by Taro himself.

 “Taichō.” he whispered carefully, the words were barely out of his mouth before Possibly-Taichō’s eyes flickered, a flash of recognition crossing their face before melting into shock then grief then guilt then something unreadable—

 “—Itachi?” The name had slipped out like a gasp. Taro blinked, his chest had gone heavy like it was filled with lead. He forced himself to not let the heartbreak of being mistaken show—it’s a simple mistake, Taro. He’d made his hair look like Itachi’s, of course people would think that. You did this to yourself dumbass.

 He clenched his jaws, forcing the disappointment down. It's a mistake, one you can laugh at in the future, it's just a mist—

“I’m not—”  Before he can even finish, the knife on his throat pressed ever so dangerously close to his jugular, hesitation and the painful look on the shadowed face shifted, replaced by a steely resolve. 

“Who are you?” Demanded him. It’s me, he wanted to scream, your stupidhead teammate, can't you really remember me? It's me—

 “Hakuchō.”

 He choked out from his burning throat; yet there was no flicker of recognition for that name. Just cold eyes staring back, the silence stretching, suffocating. Taro could feel it—a deep, unshakable sting. He’d been forgotten. He’d been cast aside, and it hurt. His thirteen-year-old heart burned with the weight of it.

Why didn’t he remember him? Had he really meant so little to him? Was he that insignificant?

Holy shit, shut the fuck up, Taro. There must be an answer to him not knowing you. Maybe he just, needs a little hint to remember you? Remember to look underneath the underneath. That's what he hammered into your marrows.

 God, this is why he hated being a teenager. So many feelings. Too many raw fucking feelings ew—fucking hell you were an ANBU, goddamnit, act like one.

 Even so, seeing the eyes he once trusted, the person who he looked up to so much, his Taichō—regard him as a stranger; Taro couldn't help but break a little from the inside.

———————

 Shouta has seen a fair share of weird shits as Eraserhead. He thought he had hit his limit years ago. Now, standing here in a dimly lit alley, feels like he's watching the climax of a horrible over-the-top action movie unfold right before him.

 The two vigilantes of Musutafu—infamous Black Swan and the new player, Mindhaze—were locked in a standoff that felt too personal for a simple petty turf scuffle. Knives drawn and pointed at each other, one dangerously close to the throat, the other poised to pierce a side; as if this was just a normal Tuesday night for them. What the fuck.

 There was an exchange between them, too quiet for Shouta to hear unfortunately. Whatever they were saying, he bet his next paycheck it was something dramatic. Probably enough to fuel a soap opera for a month. Other than that, there is a certain detail gnawed at him.

 Mindhaze was shorter than Black Swan, and it made Shouta's brows twitch upward in suspicion—Don’t tell him this is another kid—His jaw clenched around the thought. The other vigilante barely reached her shoulder, and yet here she was shaking. It was subtle enough to go unnoticed by the untrained eye, but it's still there.

 What kind of person could cause a vigilante that made beating grown men a hobby falter? Shouta had met her far longer than Mindhaze has operated—and never once he sees her ever break from the stubborn, formidable character she built alongside her reputation.

 Deliberately, Shouta shifted his foot, the crunch of glass announcing his presence. He wasn't looking forward to having another hole in his body after startling two (goddamn kid) vigilantes who are too comfortable at holding knives.

 On cue, the two’s heads snapped to his direction. The contrast between the two was immense; he caught Black Swan’s uncovered dark eyes for the first time, wide and shimmering on the verge of something close to grief and betrayal—she looked so small—like a child—and fuck she is a child isn't she?

 Meanwhile, besides her, Mindhaze was the definition of calm, unnaturally so for someone who has a knife pointed to their side. Their stance is composed, not a tremor or hesitation to be found.

 “Stand down.” Shouta let his capture weapon loose on his shoulders, stepping closer. “The both of you.”

 Black Swan was the first to lower her dagger, the blade tipping slightly as her hand steadied. Shouta didn't miss the way her shoulders are still tense nor the occasional glances she threw at Mindhaze. A second later, Mindhaze mirrored her, pulling the knife away from her throat with grip still adamantly tight.

 Holding the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, Shouta sighed instead. “Now,” he continued, “mind telling me why the hell the both of you are children.”

 Neither vigilante responds, typical. It’s almost as if vigilantes were allergic to words.

 “Speak,” he warned, his grip on his scarf shifted so it uncoils further to emphasize the fact he was not playing around. 

 To everyone present’s complete disbelief, Black Swan blurted out, “nuh uh.”

 The alley went dead silent. Even the distant hum of the city somehow felt muted after the sheer absurdity of the moment.

 Her eyes widened comically as if she didn't mean to say it. With a weird grimace and possible disappointment on herself, she smacked her own forehead with her free hand. 

 Mindhaze turned their head at her direction, as if contemplating if she's a fucking idiot. Shouta can't help but stare too, dumbfounded.

 What the fuck.

 Shouta was about to open his mouth to demand any sort of explanation, or profanity, it's a gamble at this point. But Black Swan had decided to be hellbent on making things even stranger.

  Black Swan had moved her arm to reach Mindhaze—who of course, didn't appreciate the gesture, their stance shifted into one that was ready to strike the moment Black Swan made the wrong move. It didn't deter Black Swan from whatever the fuck she's about to do. Her hand hovered on Mindhaze’s shoulder and she began…tapping? Deliberate, rhythmic.

 What the hell.

 A code? It wasn't Morse that's for sure, too short. Shouta's eyes narrowed as he tried to make sense of it—he couldn't recognise the pattern, a language only they could understand, effectively throwing Shouta from the loop.

 “You’ve got to be kidding me.” he muttered, exasperated at the fact. “You’re seriously passing notes, right in front of me?”

 Meanwhile Mindhaze appeared to be petrified with how tense their body has become while Black Swan kept on with her tapping. Hesitantly, after she was done, they tapped back on the back of her hand with equal precision.

 The exchange lasted only a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity to Shouta as he stood there watching the two interact like they were in some secret spy movie. Maybe they are, currently, reenacting a secret spy movie, unbeknownst to him.

 “I swear to god if you’re coordinating some elaborate getaway while I'm still—”

 With a blur of motion, the two vigilantes moved in perfect synchrony. Black Swan slid back into the shadow while Mindhaze’s form simply disappeared into the night. His scarf hovering over empty space.

 “Oh, for—”

 They were gone. Just like that.

 Shouta’s fingers curled into a fist, his eyes scanning the place where the two vigilantes were with a mixture of frustration and weariness. He let out a slow breath, jaw tight.

 “Unbelievable,” he muttered to the darkness. “They did plan their escape right in front of me.”

The sound of the night mocks him with its silence, a reminder how easily they'd slipped through his grasp. Joy.

———————

 “Yellow.” “Building.” “Southwest.” “Fourth.” “Street.” “Meet.” 

 The tapping echoed inside Hitoshi’s head. It was standard ANBU code, unmistakably, and Black Swan had used it on him. Yet, despite the familiarity, for the life of him, he cannot place a memory on who she is.

 Hakuchō, that is what she called herself—

 And it's wrong.

 The previous Hakuchō was gone. Dead long before Kakashi had even joined ANBU as Ryōken; nobody had taken the mask since. Besides, they had outranked Ryōken too, so there was no reason for him to ever be called Taichō back then with the whole knife to knife debacle.

 Reincarnation.

 It wasn’t a guess anymore; it was fact. She was like him, dragged out of their old world and dumped unceremoniously into this one.

 His grip tightened around his knife as he moved, keeping to the rooftops, gliding silently across Musutafu's skyline. The cold night wind bit at his face, but his focus never wavered.

 The meeting point wasn't far. He didn’t know if she’d actually show up, but his gut told him she would.

 She knew him.

 But he didn’t know her.

 His stomach twisted at the thought that kept repeating in his head, a gnawing unease pressing down without care.

 In ANBU, people disappeared all the time—into the dark, into enemy hands, or just into thin air. But memories of them didn’t vanish, not like this.

 Why can’t he remember her?

 The gravel crunches under his soles as he lands on the rooftop. Black Swan was already there, standing near the edge with arms hanging loosely on her sides.

 He could see her face—what little of it—and it was as expressionless as the sleek black mask covering half of it, leaving only her narrowed eyes exposed.

 They were colder than he remembered. Well, he never knew them to begin with.

 “You're late.” Her voice was quiet, flat.

 “You're early.” countered him.

 A long pause stretched between them. Hitoshi steps forward, studying her carefully for anything—any clue that might trigger his memory.

 But as expected, nothing.

 With a tilt of his head, he finally broke the silence. “If you're going to use someone else’s name, you should pick one that isn't dead.”

 Her gaze flickered to him, he noted the way her hand clenched to a fist. “It's not stolen if it's mine.”

 “No, it's not.”

 There was no hesitation in his words. The weight of the past sat heavily on his shoulders. He wasn’t about to let someone claim the identity of a dead comrade.

 She turned fully this time, stepping closer until the faint glow of the city framed them both.

 “Konoha ANBU Hakuchō,” she stated firmly. “116500366. Ro-Han.”

 His chest tightened.

 He knew Ro-Han.

 It was his team.

 “There was no Hakuchō in Ro-Han.” Hitoshi said slowly, his voice even as he swallowed the burn in his throat.

 Her gaze wavered a little; hurt, he noticed. “There was,” said her softly, “and it was me.”

 The air between them grew heavier, a suffocating silence only betrayed by the distant hum of the city below.

 His mind raced through every memory—every mission, every face.

 But there was no Hakuchō.

 Not in his team.

 Not in his world.

 “I think I might have an idea on what’s going on.” Hakuchō interrupted his train of thoughts, but Hitoshi already knew what was going to be said.

 “You’re not from my world, are you?” His voice is oddly fragile at this moment, the weight of the truth sinking in.

 Something flickered across her eyes—recognition—confirmation.

 “No.” Hakuchō shook her head. “I don't think so.”

 And just like that, the weight in his chest finally made sense.

 Deafening silence settled once more between them, and it's honestly getting old.

 Black Swan just stood there, the hurt from before had been masked into still calmness a long time ago. Calm like the truth she dropped didn't make his head spin.

 Different worlds.

 It wasn’t the strangest thing he’d heard. Reincarnation had already shattered the limits of what he thought possible. Dying from chakra exhaustion, only to wake up as Shinsou Hitoshi in a world filled with quirks and spandex-wearing people that aren't Gai call themselves heroes—yeah, nothing really topped that level of ridiculousness.

 But still.

 The idea that someone else had been pulled from another version of his world? One he had never seen, never lived in but instead his other?

 It was unsettling.

 Hitoshi exhaled through his nose, finally loosening the white knuckle grip he had on his knife.

 “Well,” he muttered as Black Swan—Hakuchō—? Tilted her head. “This is awkward.”

 A faint huff of amusement escaped behind the other vigilante’s mask. “You're taking this better than I thought.”

 “Better than I thought.” He shot back, tucking his knife away. He stepped past her, moving towards the edge of the building to peer down on the street below. No sign of movement, pursuit nor eavesdropper…

 Hakuchō stayed where she was, watching him carefully.

 “Maa… so,” he continued without turning. “In your world… what was I like?”

 There was a pause, and for a moment, Hitoshi wasn't sure she’d answer.

 “You were still an idiot, mind you,” she said lightly, “but you were my Taichō.”

 His lips twitched, hand stilled against the railing. “Sounds about right,” murmured him. Then, with an exhale, he added, “I'm not an ANBU Captain anymore.”

 He wasn't that person now. Not really.

 Shinsou Hitoshi is just a kid—a confused nine year old boy in a world that doesn't make sense and with memories that don't quite fit. Hatake Kakashi felt distant each day, like something he’d read in a book once but couldn't remember clearly.

 “Ah.” Hakuchō answered rather simply, her dark bangs softly swayed by the night’s wind.

 He frowned, eyeing her back. A thought settled in his mind; just, what if, he wondered—if she had died when he was still the Taichō of Ro-Han. Since she had kept insisting to call him by that title and not senpai or anything like Tenzo did.

 Huh.

 …Well, this was still awkward.

 “What now?” Hitoshi huffed, slipping one of his hands into the pocket of his jacket.

 “You're asking me?”

 Raising an eyebrow, Hitoshi cocked his head to the side slightly. “Why? Is there a problem?” 

 “You tell me, I can barely do algebra, you know. How am I supposed to conjunct a plan when I can't even find the x?”

 “So you're also an idiot.”

 “Maybe,” she laughed breathlessly, but the sound was muffled beneath her mask. “We're both idiots then. Aren't we?”

 “Seems like it.”

 He glanced at her, feeling the weight of familiarity despite the fact they should've been strangers even with the knowledge of Hakuchō knowing him—well, a version of him.

 Different realities, different lives. But somehow two reincarnators of the same world but not quite had still ended up here; under the same night sky and on the same rooftop.

 Maybe that meant something. Or it could even mean nothing at all.

 Either way, she was the closest thing to home he’d had in years.

———————

 For the next year, they didn’t cross paths often.  

 Understandable.  

 Hakuchō hunted bigger prey—the kinds with fingers wrapped around the authorities. Hitoshi, on the other hand, dealt with small-time criminals. Pickpockets, back-alley thugs, the occasional quirk user trying to start trouble near their neighborhood. You know the drill.

 They’d acknowledge each other when their paths did intersect. A nod. A glance. Sometimes she’d toss him a warning about a criminal group moving nearby, and he’d pass along information on patrol routes or heroes sniffing around. Other than that, the amount was a mere morsel.

 It made sense. She operated on a different level, and he… Well, he was still just a kid.

 A kid with ANBU instincts and a lifetime of memories that didn’t belong to him, but a kid nonetheless.

 Hitoshi told himself he didn’t mind.

 In some ways, the distance felt normal. ANBU had always been like that—shadows passing by each other, rarely lingering. Missions separated them more often than not; and when they did cross paths, it was brief and silent.

 While operatives assigned to a team do eventually form a bond with each other, most keep their comrades at an arm's length; whether it was out of fear or a thin veneer of professionalism. Attachment was a liability no one could afford in a line of work where people came and went all too quickly.

 Hakuchō didn't seem to share the same sentiment. She looked at him like he was an old friend—and he was in her world—her eyes would be heavy with grief. The only thing keeping her from closing the distance was the quiet respect she held for his boundaries.

 She might have known a Kakashi—the other version of him. But she doesn't know him.

 That should've made it easier, shouldn't it? To keep her at a distance?

 And yet… 

 Now that he thinks about it. Did he truly not mind?

 On rare nights when the streets were too quiet, he caught himself wondering.

 What was her world like? Was it any different from his? Has it been much worse? Better? Had she lost people the way he had—see comrades fall, and left too many things unsaid?

These questions lingered in the back of his head, but they never stayed long.

 Because in the end, it didn't matter—not in this life, not in this world. Whatever pasts they carried were just that: pasts. And no amount of wondering would change what they’d left behind.

 Hitoshi pulled his hood tighter and disappeared into the night.

———————

 It wasn't his plan to get injured.

 Definitely not this horribly injured.

 And it sure as hell wasn't his plan to brainwash a pro-hero who was just trying to stop a child from bleeding out at some dingy alleyway with unconscious villains sprawled here and there.

 But Hitoshi was a coward.

 So he did it anyway.

 He’d stitched up the wound himself in some abandoned building, ignoring the shaking of his hands and fever crawling up his spine. None of the staff noticed him wasting away at some corner as he down Ibuprofen for the hundredth time.

 Twelve days later, he wasn't sure if he should be surprised when he was woken up by a staff, found the same hero fussing over him—then committing what was probably or possibly an abduction just to haul a half-dead kid to the hospital. 

 Hitoshi managed a glare before he promptly passed out in the man’s arms.

 That wasn't the weird part.

 The weird part was what happened after.

 Because apparently, Eraserhead—or Aizawa Shouta—has a husband, Yamada Hizashi, and said husband agreed it was a great idea to foster the feral vigilante kid his husband had dragged from a near-death situation at some condemned building destined for lawsuits.

 So yeah, Hitoshi now has a home.

 He'd been discharged from the hospital.

 It was… fine. The apartment was quiet, the fridge was stocked (why are there so many of those jelly packets?) and his room—his room—had a bed that doesn't feel like concrete. He couldn't complain.

 Not really.

 He couldn't sleep.

 Who was he kidding? He could barely sleep anywhere with unfamiliar individuals, rooms away from him.

 Some nights he stared at the ceiling until the edges of his vision blurred from exhaustion. Other nights, he slipped out of bed, perched by the window, and watched the city hum beneath him.

 It was also quiet—too quiet. Nothing like before, when the sounds of crying children, creaking beds, and snoring were the constant backdrop.

 He knew Aizawa sometimes checked up on him silently. Probably to make sure he wouldn’t run away or something. Which, honestly, was pointless. Hitoshi knew it was futile anyways to even make an attempt.

 “You’re quiet,” Aizawa muttered one evening, cradling a cup of coffee like it was the only thing keeping him awake.

“I usually am.”

 Aizawa hummed, like he didn’t believe that for a second or something. The man was hard to read.

 Across the room, Hizashi was cooking something, making way too much noise and way too much enthusiasm.

 It was strange. They were strange.

 Aizawa didn’t ask too many questions, and didn't push when Hitoshi clearly didn’t want to talk. Hizashi, on the other hand, filled the silence, but in a way that never forced Hitoshi to participate.

 It should've been suffocating, to be living under two pairs of watchful eyes.

 But it wasn't.

 It was… tolerable.

 Maybe, even nice.

 “D’you need anything?” Aizawa asked, voice rough, but there was something oddly soft in the way he said it.

 “No.” With that Aizawa nodded and gently shut the door of his room with a click.

 Hitoshi shifted in his chair, tucking his legs as he stared out the window. Watching the city lights flicker in the distance.

 He didn't know what to do with this. 

 The quiet, the normalcy.

 It felt foreign. His life had never been this calm, this still. He'd always been fighting or surviving, the constant grind of adrenaline. Yet here, in this room, with the sound of low buzz of electricity and the occasional clink of cups or the muffled laughter of Yamada’s.

 He didn't… hate it.

 And he wondered, not for the first time, if this was where he was meant to be.

 It wasn't perfect. It wasn't his world.

 But it was as close to peace as he had ever been. And for once, he didn't need the feel to run.

———————

 Shouta doesn't know what to make of his foster son.

 The kid was… off, though there is nothing bad about that really.

 Hitoshi was quiet, not in the usual non-talkative way, but in the way that his presence seemed to fade into the background. His footsteps barely made a sound, his breathing hardly unnoticeable. It was like the kid had mastered the art of being invisible, and it unsettled Shouta more than he cared to admit.

 And then there was the sparring.

 Shouta had trained plenty of students before—some were talented, some were fast learners, but Hitoshi? Hitoshi was something else entirely.

 The first time they trained together, Shouta had expected to take it slow. The kid was only eleven, after all. He’d spent two years as a vigilante, sure, but survival in the streets wasn’t the same as structured combat training.

 Or so he thought…

 The second Hitoshi moved, all of Shouta’s expectations shattered. His stances were precise, his movements honed to an almost mechanical efficiency. He didn’t waste energy, didn’t fumble through techniques like a self-taught fighter would. There was a flow to his attacks—if Hitoshi were an adult man, he surely would cause a shit ton of damage—and experience. Not the kind of experience that came from street fights, but something much more disciplined.

 Something drilled into him.

 Shouta wasn’t an idiot. He knew what muscle memory looked like. And what Hitoshi displayed wasn’t the trial-and-error of a kid who fought for survival—it was the polished, practiced execution of someone who had been trained.

 And that raised an uncomfortable question: By who?

 Because as far as he knew, there was only one person out there with skills like that that is as young; someone who had been active in the vigilante scene for three years.

 Black Swan.

 Shouta had suspected a connection between them for a while—no, who was he kidding? Black Swan and Hitoshi clearly have history, but he hadn’t pressed. Not yet. Too early.

 That night from last year—where Hitoshi was still Mindhaze—still haunts his mind to this day. Watching the eleven-year-old boy being in a stand-off with another older teenager, knives drawn and ready to strike at any sign of hostility. Then it just—happened.

 Black Swan was trembling.

 Shouta doesn't quite know why, he couldn't see her face—until he did at last. For the first time ever, though only half of it.

 It looked as if she’d been staring at a ghost. Hitoshi, by contrast, was eerily calm and stiff.

 There came the strangest part.

 When Shouta had told them to lower the knives; they did, surprisingly, with a little bit of resistance. Black Swan then suddenly moved to reach Hitoshi and started tapping on his shoulder.

 A coded message, Black Swan had done it right in front of his face knowing damn well he wouldn't be able to decipher it. Shouta knew what he saw, he wasn't stupid to dismiss it.

 Especially when Hitoshi understood, and tapped back.

 It's clear as day, that they fucking knew each other. Not in passing, not just as fellow vigilantes who have crossed paths, no. That kind of silent communication? That kind of reaction from Black Swan? It spoke of something deeper.

 Had they trained together?

 Had they come from the same place, the same organization?

 Were they runaways?

 Was that why Black Swan had looked at Hitoshi like she had seen a ghost? Were they estranged?

 They were child soldiers, weren't they? Shouta is not one to theorise but the evidence was damning. Hitoshi’s behaviour and everything, the history he has with Black Swan…

 Shouta now isn’t sure if he wanted to know or not.


Because if he was correct in his assumption, he wouldn’t be able to handle the truth of what Hitoshi has to endure in the past.

———————

 As if Hitoshi couldn't catch a break, Hakuchō broke into his room.

 He's not even going to bother questioning how she managed to find his—no, Aizawa and Yamada’s—address. Of course she would find him. Hakuchō always had a way of knowing things she shouldn't.

 “Yo,” she greeted casually, as if sneaking into someone’s home in the dead of the night was completely normal.

 Alright, they are ninjas in their past life, breaking and entering is practically included in the job description somewhere. But it's still not normal for Hakuchō to seek him out of the blue after 2 years of knowing each other’s existence. Only once and that was their very first meeting. So, why now out of all days?

 Hitoshi blinked at her from where he sat on his bed, looking lax despite the many questions racing in his mind. “Yo.”

 “Still can't believe you got adopted by Eraserhead and Present Mic,” she said, leaning against the wall with hands crossed like she owned the place.

 “Fostered, not adopted,” he corrected.

 “Tomato, tomahto.” She waved a hand dismissively, eyes crinkling to a crescent in amusement. A pause for a few seconds before she finally added, “I have something to tell you. Wanna go to the roof?”

 Sighing, Hitoshi grabbed his jacket and watched Hakuchō slipping out from the room via the window again. Of course, old habits die hard don't they? Shinobis.

 He followed her, joining her on the rooftop after scaling the building with practiced ease. The cool night air greeted him, biting against his skin. Hakuchō turned to face him, pulling her mask down to show a smile underneath it.

 His first thought was that she looked like a boy, and someone else. Her angular features, the way her hair framed her face—it reminded him a little too much like Itachi. The resemblance was uncanny, no wonder he had mistook her as the Nuke-nin that night. For a brief moment, he wondered if she did it on purpose.

 “You're staring,” Hakuchō said, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. That caught him off guard.

 “Maa…” Hitoshi rubbed the back of his neck. “You took off your mask. What am I supposed to do? Look away?”

 “Touché.” She shrugged before posing weirdly. “figured I’d give you one last look. Not like I'll be around much longer,” added her with a wink.

 “What's that supposed to mean?” A frown, something in him told him that he won't like the next thing she said, despite her comical delivery.

 Hakuchō tilted her head, as if debating how much she should tell him. Then, she smiled, though it didn't reach her eyes. “Exactly what it sounds like.”

 With a sigh, she finally clarified herself, “I'm going to disappear for good.” She leaned against the railing with casualness that doesn't fit with the bombshell she just dropped. “After this last mission, which, I'm not telling you the details. Just because.”

 He froze, his mind racing, trying to process her words, but nothing coherent came to the surface except for a single, “what.”

 “You heard me.”

 She didn't owe him anything, he reminded himself. They had been comrades once and that was in her reality, not his.

 It's not his place to stop her. He's not her Ryōken. He's not her superior.

 “Why?”

 “I've been doing this since I was twelve. I need to retire one day or another.”

 Hitoshi blinked. He quickly did the math in his head. Black Swan had been active for three years, which made her… fifteen.

 Fifteen.

 The police reports had guessed her age wrong. They’d pegged her as sixteen two years ago, meaning they thought she was eighteen now. But she wasn't, she was just a kid. Younger than his students when he’d left them behind.

 “You're a kid.” He said at last, or more like muttered.

 Hakuchō snorted, a small laugh escaping from her. “You talk like you're not eleven,” she shot back, teasing and not unkindly.

 “Maa, but I'm still older, technically.” Hitoshi retorted with a shrug, trying to make light of it. He died when he was 29—practically ancient by shinobi standards. He wasn’t sure how old Hakuchō was when she had died in her own reality, but the faint twitch in her expression and the lack of immediate argument told him he was probably right about him having an upper hand here, in age at least.

 “Past lives don't count,” She said, rolling her eyes. “Cheater.” 

 “You’re just mad that I'm right.”

 “Not even a little.” Hakuchō shook her head with a wry grin. The smirk faded from her face as quickly as it appeared, though. And for a moment, they both fell into another silence; one Hitoshi is hesitant to break.

 “Alright,” the vigilante pushed herself from the railing, her heels turning. “I should go now.”

With a pause, Hakuchō turned her head, eyes meeting his own again. Smile returning, this time it wasn't the cocky, confident one she usually wore. It was softer, almost bittersweet. “Take care of yourself, okay?” 

 “Kakashi.”

 The name hits harder than it should have. Perhaps because it was the first time she said it to him; to her, he'd always been Ryōken, the ANBU captain, not—Kakashi. 

 His throat tightened. He didn't know why it mattered so much, but it did. The shift felt… too intimate, too final.

 “You too.”

 And she was never to be seen anymore.

———————

 Fresh from a long and exhausting night of patrol, Aizawa Shouta barely managed to shut the door behind him before his phone buzzed in his pocket. He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he fished it out, half-expecting an update from the agency or maybe the station. Instead, the caller ID flashed Unknown.

 He frowned. That was never a good sign.

 “Who is this?”

 A beat of silence then—

 “Your mom.”

 Shouta blinked.

 What.

 The caller groaned. “Sorry, habit.” There was a sheepish cough before the voice turned a little more serious yet carefree as ever. “Anyways, it's—it's me, Black Swan. You know, the friendly neighbourhood vigilante with multiple assault charges and well uh, vigilantism.”

 Shouta stiffened, his hold on the phone tightening. “How did you get this number?”

 “Not important!” Came the almost cheerful reply. Then, after a pause, “just calling to say… I'm going to do something you’d find veeery stupid.”

 His stomach twisted, alarms blaring in his head. “Black Swan…”

 “Yeah, yeah. Scold me later.” he could hear the eye roll from here, a lilt of amusement, despite the gut wrenching bombshell she dropped. “And in case that I die—”

 “No.”

 “—Could you tell Hitoshi that I'm sorry?”

 “No.” Shouta took a slow, steadying breath, forcing down the knot of worries in his chest. “Tell him that yourself.”

 “Nuh uh.” Fucking hell this kid. Minor be damned, he's going to throttle her.

 His heart pounded against his ribs. He didn't like this. Not one a fucking bit.

 “Black Swan, listen to me. Don't do whatever the fuck you're planning to do. Stop. Now.” 

 “No can do, Eraserhead.” Another pause, longer this time. He could almost hear the brittleness of this very second with how soft her voice had become when she continued, “but I appreciate the concern, really… it's nice to hear.”

 “You're a kid, Black Swan,” he said, voice quieter now, almost pleading. “You don't have to do this. Let someone else—”

 “You're a good man, Aizawa-san,” she cuts him off. “Thanks for taking care of Hitoshi.”

 “Don't—” his voice cracked, fuck, fuck. This couldn't be happening, this damned fucking kid—“don't talk like you're already fucking—”

 “I've made my choice, Aizawa-san.”

 A heavy silence. Shouta pressed his lips together, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.

 What could he say at this very moment? How does one save somebody who doesn't want to be saved? He's a pro-hero goddamnit this is supposed to be his job.

 Then—far too light again—

 “Alrighty then! Gotta go now. Lots of things to do, and villains to thwart you know? Bye!”

 No—”Black Swan!”

 The call ended.

 Silence.

 Shouta cursed, shoving his phone back into his pocket before running a hand through his hair. His heart was pounding, bleeding into his ears.

 With a sharp exhale, he turned on his heels. Fixing his capture weapon coiling around his neck.

 There is a kid who needed to be saved whether she liked it or not.

———————

 Taro—or rather, Black Swan, or Hakuchō, whatever he felt like being called at the moment—stared at the burner phone in his hand. The plastic was cold against his palm, and for a few seconds, he just stood there, staring at the screen like it might offer some sort of solution to world hunger.

 In the end, he sighed heavily and hurled the phone into the river with a casual flick of his wrist. There was a small splash as it sank beneath the dark water.

 Oh shit. Wait.

 He frowned, watching the ripples spread across the water. That was probably littering. Not very go green of him, was it?  

 Damn, alright. Anyways.

 He turned on his heel and made his way toward the looming compound ahead. Shie Hassaikai. Humming a tune that exists not in this century.

 Here comes the sun, doo doo doo doo...

 Oh? What will he do, you might wonder?

 Well, he was going to wipe the whole place off the map.

 And to do that, he was going to pull a bit of a Konan move.

 Explosions, big ones. He was going to use his fūinjutsu quirk—It’s not exactly versatile like how it was back in Naruto-verse, but it did one thing better than anything else: explosives.

 God, he loves fūinjutsu.

 He’d already made so many explosive tags that they had to be stuffed into two big bags. His muscles burned with the weight of it, but it was a small price to pay for what he was about to do.

 The entire compound was about to go up in flames.  

 The tags were designed to create blasts so violent, they’d shatter and burn everything in sight. Not just on fire, he wanted the walls to fall. For the floor to crumble. He wanted nothing but rubble and ash when he was done.

 But there was someone he needed to deal with first.

 Overhaul.

 Was he Overhaul now? Or was he still Chisaki? Or was there another title??

 Taro let out an exasperated sigh, suddenly feeling like an idiot for not really keeping up with this world’s lore. He never actually watched the rest of My Hero Academia, except for the first two episodes, nor had he read the manga—too much of a pain, to be honest.

 But whatever. He had a job to do.

 Overhaul or Chisaki would be dead by the time Taro was through with him.

 He just had to make sure his quirk couldn’t be used. Which meant taking out his arms like how Shigiraki did in the anime. No big deal. Chopping off a pair of arms wasn’t exactly a challenge, especially for someone as mentally unstable as Taro. Gotta love being a Shinobi.

 Once Overhaul was taken care of, the rest would fall into place—a.k.a the explosives.

 He wasn’t here for any grand speeches or dramatic confrontations. No. This was about making sure that people like Chisaki slash Overhaul couldn’t hurt anyone else. Like Eri, like Lemillion, like Sir Nighteye, in the future.

 And if he managed to make it out of this alive—well, that was a nice bonus for him and his dad. But it didn’t matter.

 Taro had a mission. And once he started something, he didn’t stop.  

 Well that's a lie. He barely finished his school project that was worth a third of his grade.

 It is what it is, he guesses.

 He approached the front gates of Shie Hassaikai, already feeling the weight of the explosives shifting against his back with every single hop.

 Time to make an entrance.

———————

 Hitoshi woke to the sound of hurried footsteps outside his door.  

 It was still dark—too dark. The clock on his nightstand read 4:03 a.m. Yamada and Aizawa didn’t wake up this early. Even on workdays, Aizawa dragged himself out of bed as late as possible, and Yamada? He was the type to hit snooze three times before getting up.  

 Which meant something was wrong.

 He sat up, instincts kicking in, the weight in his chest heavy and familiar. Something was off. He could feel it, that prickling sensation at the back of his neck, the kind he’d learned long ago never to ignore.

 Pushing the blankets off, he slid out of bed and cracked open his door.

 Yamada was pacing the living room, phone in hand, his usual easy-going energy replaced with sharp, anxious movements. The TV was on, the volume lowered but still audible. Hitoshi’s eyes flicked to the screen.

 Osaka was on fire.

 Or at least, part of it. Smoke billowed into the sky, the glow of flames painting the darkened city in hues of red and orange. The news anchor’s voice was tense, the words “terrorist attack” flashing across the screen. Footage showed panicked civilians fleeing, emergency responders scrambling to control the situation. Explosions had already gone off. The number of casualties was still unknown.

 Aizawa wasn’t in the apartment.

That wasn’t surprising. If there was an attack this serious, of course, he would have been called in. He probably left the moment the news broke, leaving Yamada behind to stay with him.

 Because no matter how responsible he was, no matter how much experience he had—Hitoshi was still just eleven.

 His fingers curled into fists at his sides.

 The heavy feeling in his gut twisted. At first, he tried to chalk it up to a natural response—people were dying, of course, he’d feel sick. Of course, he’d feel—

 No.

 That wasn’t it.

 Something was wrong.

 His mind went to Hakuchō.

 Black Swan.

 That night on the rooftop.

 Her voice, light but tinged with something heavier. That teasing smile that never quite reached her eyes.

 “I'm going to disappear for good.”

 “After this last mission, which, I'm not telling you the details of, just because.”

 She had said it so easily, as if she were discussing the weather. As if it weren’t a big deal.

 But it was.

 And Hitoshi had known. He had felt it in his bones, even if he hadn’t wanted to admit it at the time. It had been a farewell.

 His stomach twisted.

 No.

 But what could he do?

 If it really was her, it was already done. The explosions had gone off. The attack was in progress. The body count was still being calculated.

 Even if he wanted to stop her, he was too late.

 Yamada turned, finally noticing him. His expression softened, concern flickering across his face.

 “Hey, little listener,” he said, voice softer than usual. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”

 Hitoshi didn’t answer. His gaze flickered back to the TV screen, to the destruction playing out in real time.

 Yamada followed his line of sight, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You should go back to bed, kiddo. Nothing you can do ‘bout this right now.”

 Nothing he could do.

 He hesitated. He wanted to argue, wanted to say something, but what could he say? What could he do?

 Nothing.

 So he nodded. Wordlessly, he turned and padded back to his room, closing the door behind him.

 But sleep wouldn’t come.

 His mind was still on the screen.

 Still on the fire.

 Still on the girl who had smiled at him like she already knew how this was going to end.

———————

 Shouta was home.

 He stepped through the front door like a ghost. His boots left tracks of ash and dirt on the floor until he took them off, the weight of the last twenty-four hours dragging behind him like a heavy chain. His costume was scorched at the edges, his capture weapon reeking of smoke and grime. He wasn’t sure if the blood crusted on his gloves was his own or someone else’s. He didn’t bother taking them off. Not yet.

 He closed the door quietly behind him. The apartment was still. Dim light filtered through the living room curtains, brushing against the muted screen of the TV that Hizashi must’ve left on.

 A terrorist attack, the media called it. A part of the city had erupted into chaos overnight—explosions, fire, half the sector flattened. The death toll hadn’t risen into civilian numbers by some miracle, but that didn’t make the damage any less catastrophic.

 And the perpetrator? Shouta had already known.

 The moment his phone buzzed last night, the moment he heard her voice through the static—cheerful, fearless, reckless—he had known.

 Hakuchō.

 Black Swan.

 The call had been a warning and a farewell rolled into one. And now, after hours in the field, dodging debris and helping evacuate survivors while the fire was barely contained, reality had begun to set in.

 This hadn’t been a message. It was a statement. 

 The heroes had barely started assessing the full extent of the damage when Shouta got a call from Tsukauchi. He’d taken it in a half-collapsed alleyway behind what used to be a Shie Hassaikai front. The detective’s voice had been clipped and grim.

 They had found a body.

 Not surprising. With the scale of the attack, Shouta had expected more.

 But this one was different.

 Chisaki Kai, male in his twenties, a member of the Shie Hassaikai.

 They had found him buried beneath collapsed concrete and flame-charred steel. His arms were gone. Cleanly removed. His throat was slit with surgical precision.

 But it wasn’t just the state of the body that made Shouta’s stomach churn.

 It was what they found in his pocket.

 A sticky note.

 It had somehow survived the wreckage—singed at the corners but still intact.

 And not just any sticky note.

 A pink Sanrio sticky note.

 Hello Kitty with hearts and sparkles all over it.

 Written in scrawled handwriting were the words:

 Fuck this guy in particular. wassup heroes. if you find this then congrats I've done my job. Don't worry too much about me dying or not because I won't show my face anymore ^^

Black Swan’s out <3

 Underneath, two signatures: one was the kanji for Hakuchō.

 The other was the mysterious leaf symbol.

 Shouta stared at it when Tsukauchi sent him the photo.

  Black Swan—

 That stupid girl—no, that kid—was never subtle, yes, but this? This wasn’t just reckless. It was personal.

 And jarring.

 Because in three years of vigilantism, Black Swan had never killed anyone.

 She maimed, sure. Broke bones, disarmed, humiliated, and assaulted villains across multiple districts. But she didn’t kill. Even when it would’ve been easier. Even when it meant escaping.

 But this…

 This wasn’t a last-minute decision in a crumbling building.

 This was a premeditated assassination.

 And she had left her name and signature like it was a goddamn joke. A pink sticker and a doodle, as if mocking the entire structure of hero society and criminal underworld both.

  Shouta’s thoughts circled as he walked back to the apartment.

What did Chisaki Kai possibly do for Black Swan to directly kill him in such a morbid way?

Why him? Why like that?

And bigger than that—what had the Shie Hassaikai done to Black Swan for her to plan this elaborate attack for god knows how long? For her to stockpile explosives with destructive force enough to level blocks? How the hell had she even gotten her hands on something like that?

The girl was reckless, unpredictable—but she wasn’t sloppy. She didn’t move without a reason.

Whatever had driven her to this…it couldn't be uncovered unlike those corpses. Black Swan had dissapeared, possibly dead, and the case too had died alongside her.

 A few more words were exchanged with Tsukauchi—disbelief, speculations, analysis—then he hung up.

 He was barely through the door of his apartment before he turned toward Hitoshi’s room.

 He moved down the hall quietly, every instinct suddenly prickling. He couldn’t explain it, but something in his chest felt hollow and heavy.

 He stopped in front of the door and knocked twice.

 “Hitoshi?”

 No answer.

 His hand went to the doorknob. Not locked. It made him pause for just a moment.

 “I’m going in, Hitoshi.”

 He pushed the door open.

 The bed was empty.

 The room was still.

 No sign of a struggle. No note. No window left open. Just a neatly made bed, the curtains drawn, the silence too complete.

 And no child.

 Fuck.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

Before Yamada Taro, he was Hakuchō

Hakuchō or the idiot before that title honestly filled in the ANBU registration purely for shit and giggles. It was all fun and games until he actually giggles and shits, of course not literally. Don't even try to ask what he meant by that, it just felt right to say it in this matter okay.

Anyways, he somehow got in despite his colorful personality, that's wild. Maybe the higher-ups were that senile, or maybe the council had a secret contest to see how far they could push the Hokage’s patience by accepting weirdos into one of the village’s defenses. Whatever the case, Hakuchō was in, and he was rolling with it.

Little did the Sandaime or his ragtag group of old-timers-council-people-on-their-way-to-the-afterlife know, Hakuchō had an epic very cool, only one in a bajillion no hoax kekkei genkai that no one in this world could even begin to start with. But it wasn’t anything flashy, really. No, his was stupid.

You see, Hakuchō wasn’t originally from this world. Nope, he came from a place where all of this—ninja wars, walking breathing nuclear bombs being bullied for idiotic reasons, stupid mind numbing filler episodes—was nothing more than an anime, or… well, fanfiction. Hakuchō had never actually watched Naruto in full; it was too long and he had better shits to do than sit down his ass and go through 700+ episodes. But through the wonders of the internet and a friend of his being a real fan (unlike him), he knows enough of the lore and important scenes.

All of this… It all almost seemed like a fucked up fever dream at the beginning. To his professional opinion.

Of course it wasn't a dream to Hakuchō’s dismay. Because one day, he woke up as a brain damaged eleven year old genin in the middle of the Kyuubi attack, thinking, “Wow, I’ve really gone off the deep end if my coma dreams are this horrific.” Only to get smacked by debris and swept off from his feet by a frantic chuunin.

After making peace with the fact he's in a fictional world where child soldiers are the norm, Hakuchō made the most of it. His past self probably never in his life thought “make the most of it” as signing up for a basically guaranteed death by the most horrible thing imaginable and being a child soldier himself. His fault, not gonna lie. Should've seen it coming miles away.

Two weeks it took him to stop freaking out about him becoming an actual ANBU. The fact that no one noticed Hakuchō silently spiraling in the corner of the ANBU's barracks was, frankly, both a relief and mildly offensive. After that well needed breakdown, Hakuchō finally and actually did his job to serve the beloved Konohagakure no Sato as a weapon. For the good of the village they said. Yeah, for the good of this good-for-nothing fuckass village indeed.

Did he enjoy being a shinobi? No.

Did he like being a weapon? Hell no.

Did he have a choice? Also no

Because who else was going to prevent massacres, catastrophic betrayals, and an entire canon timeline of bad decisions? Not the council, that’s for sure. They were too busy perfecting their impression of a bloated fish.

Hakuchō could’ve turn a blind eye at that fact and become a shop owner or something… if he wanted to be not able to sleep every fucking day ridden with guilt—he’s already burdened with one after waking up during the Kyuubi attack and living through knowing Minato and Kushina’s dead because of one insane fuck Obito, not so keen to add more on that metaphorical pile of shit.

Unlike him, there were people in this story who deserved to live. If his sacrifice could save just one good person, he wouldn’t mind dying.

Hakuchō wrote everything he knows and the timeline on scrolls using his native language from the previous life since his memory has always been shit—for some reason everybody is Japanese here. He was about to panic at the time he was rudely isekai'd, because he doesn't know Japanese and how the fuck is he going to survive this mess?!

Only then to see that he can. Was it the reincarnation package deal? Did he download a language patch on arrival? He didn’t know and didn’t want to find out. What mattered was that no one else could read his notes, which he kept stashed under his floorboards, and enough traps to have a man become minced meat.

He knows fūinjutsu is useful as hell, so Hakuchō decided to master it in between missions during his pre-ANBU era—of course it's difficult to do so, kind of like reverse engineering a smartphone from a cave painting. Seeing as there's barely any seal master anymore in this world, he had to make do especially since most of the scrolls regarding sealing are incomplete due to how many wars Konoha had gone through plus Uzumaki's decline; and it's not like he can just whip up YouTube and search for tutorials in this world.

His first proud invention was a storage seal he drew on his arm. Hakuchō uses it as a tactical snack fridge (and spare knives). Trekking through many bumfuck nowheres with only stale rations and persistent state of dehydration are worse than torture, okay? Let him live a little.

Looking back, he figured maybe that’s why ANBU even let his ass in. His jōnin-sensei had noticed, the way she’d watched him whenever he whipped out one of his makeshift seals in secret (should've known she'd saw him). Maybe she’d had a hand in pushing him up the ranks.

Shit. Did they label him a prodigy?

Did no one realize he was faking it all along, or did they just not care?

Most ANBU were recruited past eighteen, hardened by years of being a normal shinobi—except for freaks like Hatake (his taichō) and Tenzo (to be fair, he was literally lab-made) and Itachi (baby)—Hakuchō? He was shoved into the roster at fourteen.

By their standards, that made him a prodigy.

By his standards, that made him royally screwed.

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

"Look,” Taro breathes out. “I don’t—I don't have much money on me. I run a bookshop, not a vault. But hey, you want some rare manga? I got some pre-quirk era stuff in the back—”

In a split second, the robber lashes out. Taro didn't have a chance to back away or dodge or do whatever fuck he needed to do to not get stabbed. He got stabbed anyway.

For an awful second, all he can do is stare.

Warmth blooms too quickly, soaking into the cotton of his favorite sweater, staining it a grotesque red, stupidly he kept staring at it. Then the pain follows—hot, searing, a line of fire that rips the breath out of him as the knife yanks free. His body buckles, crumpling like a discarded doll—leaning onto the wall behind him.

His chest shudders. A laugh slips out, breathless and ugly. He’s laughing. What kind of fool laughs in the face of death?

But it isn’t the first time, is it?

No. Not the first time. The thought sneaks in, unwanted and wrong.

He doesn’t remember—he does, but not him. Not Taro. It’s—

Hakuchō.

Hakuchō remembers.

The bookstore blurs, replaced with a rush of instincts that seize him like a flood. Blood. Kunai. Danzo splitting him open like Gojo in the Inventory arc—shoulder to stomach. He remembers the burn, Shisui's eyes, his last words, his final breath. That was supposed to be the end.

So why is it—he looked down—now only a simple stab wound?

Why does it feel so small?

This is wrong. Strange. A dream after death, maybe. Some limbo where his body still moves, still obeys.

The body of an ANBU always obeys.

Hakuchō shoots upright, ignoring the sting in his side, the blood dripping warm down his shirt. His hand closes around the robber’s wrist before the man can step away. Grip iron tight, he twists, yanking until bone and sinew protest. The knife clatters to the floor, useless.

Enemy. That’s all Hakuchō can process. Enemy because he is here, because he is holding the blade, because the blood is on Hakuchō’s clothes and Hakuchō's blood is on his knife. Civilian? Shinobi? Nuke-nin? Doesn’t matter. Enemy is enemy. With or without the headband.

Deadly silent, Hakuchō drags the man forward by his sleeve. Red hair catches his eye—red hair. Uzumaki? Or maybe a Suna-nin? He doesn’t stop to question further. His fist drives into the man’s face, bone crunching under soft…? knuckles. The body sails over the counter, crashing into the far side with a heavy thud.

Get rid of the enemy. That’s next. Always next.

Hakuchō vaults the counter, landing with practiced ease despite the pain twisting in his stomach. He reaches down, ready to snap the enemy’s neck, muscles moving out of old habit, mind locked in the rhythm of ANBU kill orders.

“Uchiha! Oi! Stop!”

The voice cuts through like a kunai, sharp and commanding. His captain’s voice. Familiar. A sound he knows down to his bones.

Hakuchō freezes mid-motion, breath stuttering.

Uchiha? Oh, come on, taichō. He’s not an Uchiha, damnit. How many times has he had to say that? Stop teasing him like that. He’s Hakuchō. Just Hakuchō. Just Sh—

His grip trembles, caught between snapping the neck and listening to the order. Blood pools on the floor. The world tilts as he cranes his neck to the voice.

Huh.

His captain looked weird.

That was the first thing Hakuchō noticed when his vision finally steadied long enough to actually look properly. His taichō was standing there in front of him—shorter than he remembered, narrower in the shoulders, and dressed in this horrid neon-yellow hoodie. No mask, no flak jacket. Just yellow.

Really weird fucking dream this one.

“Uchiha, don’t kill him.”

The voice was commanding. Hakuchō’s body responded instinctively to the order, muscle memory overriding the static confusion in his brain. He unclenched his hand from the robber’s head, releasing the stranger with practiced precision.

His knees locked into a soldier’s stance, back straight, eyes snapping to his “captain” like he was on the training field again. He had to, he's injured, he will have to follow orders from his superior to ensure survival.

“Yes, sir,” Hakuchō answered automatically. The words slipped out smoother than thought. Then, quieter, muttered to himself: Don’t use captain. We’re not in masks.

The not-captain stepped forward, hands moving, uncharacteristically… careful. Not like the quick, brutal patchwork they usually did in the field. “No, don’t—” the voice cut in again, firmer, closer, almost desperate. “You’re bleeding. Sit down.”

Hakuchō obeyed without hesitation, legs folding beneath him. He dropped onto the tile floor, back against the base of the counter, the laughter from before curling in his throat into ragged, shallow breaths.

Blood dripped steadily, soaking through the sweater. Without a second thought, he recites: "puncture below the right ribs, likely nicked a lung, arterial involvement uncertain. Pain is around 5 from 10—"

A blur shifted by the doorway. Someone else—tall, indistinct, framed in black and gray. His vision doubled, bled at the corners, the outline swimming. He tried to focus, failed, tried again. Couldn’t. Just another enemy? civilian? ghost? It didn’t matter. His training kept narrating past his cracked lips.

"—Depth approximately four inches. Blood loss severe. I’ll lose… consciousness soon.”

His “captain” moved suddenly. Hakuchō stiffened but didn’t resist as the neon hoodie was yanked off and pressed hard against his wound. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him, but he stayed still, watching with weary amusement as his superior knelt there, wrapping him up like some medic.

Hatake always was a bastard. Usually, he’d shove his hand in deeper in his wound, make a joke about “holding it together” while keeping him upright enough to finish the fight. This—this softness—was wrong. Out of place.

But the warmth of the hoodie, the deliberate care in the way it was tied, seeped through the haze of pain....

Huh. All of this was rather uncomfortable not gonna lie.

Then the voice leaned closer, breath brushing his ear. Low. Meant only for him.

“…Am I speaking to Taro?”

Taro? Who the hell was that? He blinked, the weight of black creeping further into his vision, threatening to drag him under. His head tipped slightly toward the speaker, eyes narrowing through the dizziness.

“Who?” he rasped, confusion bleeding into defiance. “I’m Shiro, Hatake. Who is—”

The rest never made it out. Darkness snapped shut around him, swallowing the words, the yellow, the unfamiliar warmth of cloth pressed against his wound.

———————

Aizawa Shouta was frozen in place, horrified. The words spilling from Yamada Tarō’s lips—calm, precise, methodical—were completely at odds with the fact that the man was bleeding out, hunched over on the floor, bleeding out.

And then there was the potential assaulter. Shouta’s eyes couldn’t tear away from the unconscious figure sprawled across the tiles, a body that looked like it had been handled roughly, leaving him questioning just how far this had escalated. His mind raced, trying to piece together what he had seen from the street: a figure—Taro, unmistakable—looming above the man through the glass door. From that distance, all he could see was just that before Hitoshi barges in before him. He didn’t know what had happened, but the image stuck as a splinter either way.

Paramedics and police arrived almost simultaneously, flooding the small bookstore. Taro was being lifted carefully, his bleeding staunched but still critical, while officers cautiously separated the unconscious man from the scene, handcuffs at the ready while paramedics also too tend to him.

Shouta stepped back, still reeling. His mind looped through every possibility, every scenario that could explain what had happened, landing—inevitably—on one of his worst instincts. Child soldier. The theory he had harbored in the back of his mind about Hitoshi now surged to the forefront.

Again.

Hizashi’s voice echoed in his memory: “You’re overthinking it, Shouta.”

How could he not? Their son had been involved, in some way, in a situation that seemed too deliberate to be just a simple coincidence. And Taro… Taro’s existence, his familiarity with Hitoshi, his calmness under mortal injury when he was supposed to panic like a normal civilian would—it didn’t add up.

No.

It did add up.

Shouta’s fingers trembled as he fumbled for his phone. He had to call someone who could make sense of this mess. Someone who could connect the dots he was too tired, too unnerved to piece together alone.

He dialed quickly.

“Tsukauchi."

“What is it, Eraserhead?" Came the familiar voice.

Shouta exhaled shakily. “…I think Yamada Taro might be a sleeper agent."

Chapter Text

This wasn’t Konoha’s hospital. Hakuchō knew that instantly. The lighting was too sterile, the scent too sharp, like a thousand sanitizers waging a civil war. The sheets beneath him weren’t scratchy military-issue, and the beeping machines beside his bed pulsed in an alien rhythm. The walls were too clean, too smooth.

No matter how much he tried to place it, he couldn’t. His mind waded through memory like mud. His original world. Yeah… it felt closer to that than the spartan, utilitarian halls of Konoha’s medical wing. But the details wouldn’t come. They’d been buried under years of blood, bodies, and steel—burned away by a life that demanded he forget softness.

He shifted in the bed, wincing at the dull ache of his side, and that’s when the realization hit him like a kunai through the chest:

He felt weaker.

It wasn’t just the stab wound. His entire body was wrong. Softer. Slower. He lifted his hands—smooth. No hardened calluses from endless nights of blade drills, no faint cuts from wire traps, no faint burns from seals gone wrong. His arms bore no scars, no evidence of the hard work that had carved him into something half-human, half-weapon.

And worse—far, far worse—his forearm was bare. The tattoo seal that had always been there, his proudest invention, his tactical snack fridge and storage space and lifeline, was gone.

And no ANBU tattoo either on his shoulder when he pulled on the gown's sleeve.

Hakuchō’s pulse quickened. He shoved the blanket off, scrambling around the room like a madman until his eyes landed on the window. The glass reflected a face back at him.

His face.

But not his.

He was the same age—looked the same age—but the years of strain, the sharpened edges, the stress lines etched into his face… all of it was missing. His reflection stared back soft, unweathered, like a version of himself plucked out of a world where the ANBU had been a nightmare he hadn’t lived.

What the shit.

"Maybe dreams just don’t bother with details,” Hakuchō muttered to himself, slumping against the bedframe. “Yeah, that’s it. Captain looked weird too, so this is all just… dream mind fuckery. Mhm.”

And as if summoned by his thoughts, the door clicked open.

Speak of the devil.

Except his captain wasn’t wearing yellow this time. No horrid neon hoodie. Instead, it was… a uniform. Dark green slacks, grey jacket with green lines at the lapels, a red tie. Hakuchō froze, eyes narrowing. Something about it tugged at him, gnawed at the edges of his foggy memory. Why did it feel so familiar? Where the hell had he seen it before?

The man stepped closer, gaze fixed and unflinching. Hakuchō’s grin broke across his face before he even thought about it.

“Hatake,” he beamed, relief bubbling in his chest. The man actually cared enough to visit him? Maybe that was the power of dreams—giving you things you wanted deep down but never got.

“Shi…ro.” Hatake said his name slowly, like he was testing it on his tongue.

Hakuchō cocked his head. “Right, about that. Why did you ask if my name was Taro earlier?”

“…You don’t remember?”

“Nope.” Hakuchō shrugged, then waved his hand lazily. “Also, this is the afterlife, isn’t it? A really weird after-death dream? Just now I saw someone with a washing machine as a head. Real freaky shit.” He chuckled, but it was shaky, too close to nervous.

Hatake sucked in a slow breath through his teeth. His gaze was sharp, assessing, almost pitying.

“Shiro,” he said finally, steady and firm. “This isn’t a dream.”

"Hah, huh."

Oh, oh wait! That was too straightforward of him.

“Of course, sorry. I shouldn’t probably weigh dream-captain with the existential crisis of realizing the world is actually conjured from the chemicals my brain to comfort me of my death.”

Hakuchō tried to brush it off, his voice light, his grin sharp, but his fingers were twitching nervously against the hospital sheets.

“Shiro.”

The tone made him pause. Serious. Firm. Captain’s voice. Instinct straightened his back before his brain caught up.

“Yes, sir?”

“You’ve reincarnated,” Hatake said. No hesitation, no softness. Just flat truth. “This is not Konoha. Not even the Elemental Nations.” He let the words hang heavy in the room, watching Hakuchō’s face carefully before continuing. “This country’s called Japan. The city you’re in right now is Musutafu. It isn’t a shinobi village—there are no shinobi here.”

Hakuchō blinked. His mouth twitched, his brain whirring.

“Instead,” Hatake went on, “people are born with abilities called Quirks. Almost everyone has them. Society here is built around those powers. Heroes, villains, civilians. Laws that divide them.”

Taro’s brain stopped.

No, not stopped—crashed. Full-on system error.

Wait. Waitwaitwaitwaitwait—

NO WONDER WHY THE UNIFORM LOOKED FAMILIAR.

His mind screamed the realization so loud he thought the machines in the room would pick it up: WHY IS HE IN FUCKING MY HERO ACADEMIA?

Externally? His face stayed calm. Perfect ANBU composure. He even managed a soft little smile.

"That…is interesting, and a lot to take in."

Understatement of the century.

“Yes,” Hatake said, nodding slightly. “And my name is now Shinsou Hitoshi. I am a U.A. student—U.A. is a school that cultivates heroes. Kind of like the Academy. But you get in at the age of 15. People under the age of 18 are considered children here, just so you know, five year olds can't run around as heroes." There's a slight self-deprecating irony from his last sentence, Hakuchō thinks.

But then Hakuchō’s smile froze as it dawned on him. His brain, on the other hand, detonated.

WHY IS HATAKE KAKASHI SHINSOU HITOSHI?!

This was illegal. No one warned him reincarnation came with DLC crossover packs.

“Okay.” He said it too quickly, too brightly.

Hatake—Hitoshi now? No, no, fuck that, he was still Captain Hatake, Ryōken—tilted his head. “…You’re taking this well?”

Hakuchō chuckled, high and thin. “Ah, I mean, what am I supposed to do?”

PANIC, OBVIOUSLY. Run screaming through the halls, start writing angry letters to every god he could name, ask for a refund on this isekai roller coaster ride he didn't ask for—

But his training, his stupid years of ANBU conditioning, forced him into stillness. His expression never cracked.

Hatake was quiet for a long moment, studying him with those mismatched eyes—Sharingan sharpness tucked behind a teenager’s face. The silence pressed heavy, like he expected Hakuchō to fold. To admit he was lying about being fine.

Instead, Hakuchō smiled a little wider, even as his nails dug crescent marks into his palms under the sheets.

Because if this wasn’t a dream, if this was real? Then he’d have to play the role again. Same as always. He'd done it before, this isn't new. Hahahahahahaha….he can do it. Yep, third time's the charm.

“Cops here are more civilian than you remember,” Hatake said as he adjusted the edge of the blanket around Hakuchō. “They will need your statement later.”

Hakuchō blinked, still hazy, still half-dreaming.

“And—I forgot to tell you—your name is Yamada Taro. You’re a civilian. Owner of a bookstore called Yamada’s Corner. You’re nineteen and you don’t go to college. Your father…died after you graduated high school.”

“Got it,” Hakuchō said automatically.

"Do you know what college and a high school is?"

"Nope," he lied. Naruto-verse doesn't have the concept of college or schools for civilians, just apprenticeship.

"Well, it doesn't matter now," sighed Hatake. "I'll explain it later."

“They know you’ve punched the robber,” Hatake continued, “but call it self-defense. Don’t mention that you were about to snap the guy’s neck. Murder is really frowned upon here.”

Hakuchō blinked. Gods. Hatake still thinks he’s in the mindset of a Konoha shinobi. Still thinks he’s trained, deadly, and wired for combat. He knows all of that—he knows those facts—after all, he was once just a normal dude before becoming Hakuchō, Shiro—but he doesn’t correct him.

“Just… be a normal civilian, okay?” Hatake’s voice softened slightly, the faintest hint of concern peeking through the rigid authority. “Any questions?”

Hakuchō’s lips curved into that slow, careful smile he’d perfected over years of hiding his reactions. “It was a robbery then?”

“Seems like it,” Hatake said. His eyes flicked to the door, cautious. “The criminal had some of your money and your register was opened. Before—well, you punched him.”

“Alrighty—also, Hatake?” Hakuchō hesitated, tilting his head slightly.

“Yeah?”

“Did you also… die… to get here? I mean, you’re a reincarnee too, aren’t you?”

Hatake’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes darkened fractionally. “Yes. I did. Die.”

Hakuchō paused. That’s… not what he expected. He wondered briefly if it had been during the Boruto era.

"How…old were you?"

"29."

He almost choked on the words. Twenty-nine?! That didn’t match canon at all! Hatake should have been alive well into his fifties in Boruto. What the hell had happened?!

“That…that’s, uh…” Hakuchō trailed off, forcing a smile he didn’t feel. “You almost reached thirty.”

Hakuchō wanted to scream. The timeline was broken. Shattered. What happened to the Fourth Great Ninja War? To Naruto? To… everything? Who will be the Fifth Hokage?! His head buzzed with questions, with contradictions, but none of them reached his tongue.

“Almost. Yeah.” Hatake let out a small, tired sigh, one that carried decades of experience and weight that Hakuchō couldn’t place yet.

A sharp knock rattled the door, breaking the fragile calm of the hospital room.

“Must be the cops,” Hatake muttered, pushing himself off the edge of the bed and straightening his jacket. "I'll leave now, don't do anything stupid."

Hakuchō’s gaze flicked toward the door, calculating. The mask of Taro settled firmly in place. He wasn’t Hakuchō here. He wasn’t Shiro. He was a civilian, a nineteen-year-old bookstore owner with no extraordinary skills—or at least, that was the story.

“Yamada Taro?” one of them asked, voice clipped, professional.

“Yes,” Hakuchō said, setting a nervous smile.

Just another role he had to play.

———————

Hitoshi’s heart hadn’t stopped hammering since the moment he saw it—the look in Taro’s eyes, sharp and clear and old in a way no nineteen-year-old bookseller should ever have. That wasn’t just adrenaline, wasn’t just a man scared for his life after being stabbed. That was discipline. Training. The kind of presence that belonged only to people who lived every second with death breathing down their necks.

And it terrified him.

Hitoshi dragged a hand down his face. “What the fuck,” he muttered to himself.

DID made sense on paper. Trauma fracturing the mind, creating alternate personalities. But the kind of trauma… that was where his stomach twisted.

Could it be because of reincarnation?

Hitoshi’s thumb hovered over his phone screen, the harsh white light of the search result for Dissociative Identity Disorder glaring up at him. The words blurred as his pulse thundered in his ears, but he forced himself to read line after line.

[A disorder characterized by the presence of two or more distinct personality states. Often develops as a response to severe trauma. Memory gaps common.]

He exhaled slowly, the explanation fitting together too neatly. Too perfectly. Like a puzzle piece that had been lying in front of him this whole time, waiting for the right angle.

Trauma. That made sense, didn’t it?

Reincarnation was not… gentle. Neither of them had arrived here whole.

Taro—his civilian friend, the quiet bookseller who made tea too sweet and laughed a little too loudly—he’d been simple. Normal. His movements clumsy, his eyes wide, his voice sarcastic and lacking the instinctive prodding of a shinobi. A civilian through and through.

But Shiro…

The shift had been unmistakable. Posture rigid. Voice formal. Eyes dead, calculating every shadow in the room as though danger would spring from it at any second. And the way he described his wound—it wasn’t pain talking. It was a field report. Precise, clinical, detached.

That wasn’t Taro. That was someone else entirely.

Hitoshi clenched his jaw, flipping the phone shut with more force than necessary. The explanation still spun in his head. DID. Two personalities, born from trauma. What trauma could fracture someone into pieces like this?

…Maybe reincarnation itself.

What if the soul couldn’t carry everything cleanly? What if memories bled, instincts tangled, half of a person locked away so they could survive as something else? Tarō had lived as an ordinary nineteen-year-old, content in his little shop. But deep inside, Shiro—the shinobi—had been sleeping.

Until the stabbing woke him up.

Reincarnation wasn’t natural. Who knew what it did to memory, to identity? He knew what it had done to him. The nightmares. The blurred dejavus. The way “Shinsou Hitoshi” and “Hatake Kakashi” bled together until he couldn’t tell which instincts were his own.

He pressed a hand against his face, chest aching like he was grieving something he couldn’t name.

Was Tarō gone now? Could he even come back?

He thought of Shiro’s eyes—how they met his with unflinching recognition. The way he’d answered "yes, sir." without hesitation as if he was his superior. The way he’d called him Hatake, with a familiarity too deep it ached.

Hitoshi didn’t remember any Uchiha named Shiro being close to him. Which meant Shiro’s familiarity with him could only have come from one place: Tarō. The civilian who once probably had known Hatake Kakashi only through rumors, ghost stories—the friend-killer, Copy Ninja, Sharingan no Kakashi. But in this new life, they’d come to know each other, to recognize each other, however briefly, as something more.

So maybe they weren’t two people. Maybe they were the same. Maybe Taro was Shiro, and Shiro was Taro, just—split down the middle by memory. Taro got stuck with the “civilian” life, everything smoothed out, instincts dulled. Shiro, asleep, carried the shinobi past, the training, the battlefield.

The more he thought about it, the more it fit.

Two sides of the same broken coin. That's what they were.

Hitoshi groaned, dragging both hands over his face. It was already hard enough juggling his own two selves—Kakashi and Hitoshi. Now he had to carry Tarō’s fractured reality too?

But beneath the frustration, something heavy settled in his chest.

Relief.

Because no matter how strange, no matter how fragmented, Shiro had looked at him like he wasn’t alone.

They were both living ghosts, stitched into new names and new bodies, carrying the weight of being pulled out of one world and shoved into another.

And maybe—just maybe—they could help each other survive this one.

Oh right, wait. He forgot to tell Taro's quirk.

Chapter Text

Daichi had always thought there was something off about Shiro.

Not in the way people whispered about him behind his back—Uchiha, Uchiha, maybe a bastard, maybe an orphan, look at those eyes, look at that face. No, Daichi didn’t care about that. He himself was an orphan, and he knew what it was like to be on the receiving end of those quiet, cutting whispers. He didn’t care that Shiro looked like an Uchiha. What unsettled him was the emptiness in Shiro’s eyes. Dead. Blank. Like someone had turned out the lights behind them.

He’d wondered, more than once, if Shiro ever really saw the things in front of him, or if he's lost somewhere in that head of his.

Then the Kyūbi came.

Daichi still woke up sometimes in the dark, heart hammering from the memory. The screams. The ground trembling under his feet. The sky burning. He was just a genin, green and useless in the face of something like that, but he remembered carrying a boy barely younger than him into the shelter, hands slick with someone else’s blood. He told himself that counted for something. That he wasn’t entirely helpless.

When the sun finally rose and the smoke cleared, nothing was the same. The village was broken. Families torn apart. Everyone changed.

And Shiro… Shiro changed in a way Daichi never expected him to be.

His eyes were still dead, but suddenly there was something different behind them. He smiled more—not the warm kind of smile, but an awkward, crooked thing that didn’t quite reach his face. Sometimes, it was almost creepy. He became… softer, in a way, strangely protective. Hovering at Daichi’s shoulder, nudging foods into his hands after a long mission, redirecting Aoi-chan’s kunai grip with surprising gentleness, leaving bandages after a spar. Little things, subtle things. Things that didn’t fit with the boy who used to be cold and untouchable.

Daichi raised his eyebrows often, but never said anything.

Once, though, he saw something that made his stomach twist.

They were returning from a mission, tired and hungry, when Shiro tugged up his sleeve. Daichi caught a flicker of black ink scrawled across his forearm. Before he could ask, Shiro pressed his palm against it—and pulled out a rice ball. Just like that. Out of nowhere.

Daichi blinked, rubbed his eyes. By the time he looked again, Shiro’s sleeve was down, the food gone as though it had never been there.

“Did you just—” Daichi started, words fumbling out of his mouth.

Shiro turned to him, calm as ever. He didn’t glare. He didn’t snap. He only looked, and for a fleeting second, Daichi swore those dead eyes weren’t dead at all. They sharpened, alive, glinting with something Daichi had never seen before.

A threat. A predator’s warning.

Then Shiro smiled, eyes narrowing into a crescent. “You didn’t see anything.”

Daichi swallowed hard. “…Yeah. Didn’t see anything.”

After that, he didn’t bring it up again.

The years rolled on. The chūnin exams came. Then came again. And again. Each time, Daichi fought with all he had. Each time, he fell short. He told himself next time would be different. Next time, he’d pass.

Through it all, Shiro remained at his side, still a genin. It didn’t make sense. Shiro was competent—too competent, sometimes. His movements clean, his instincts sharp. Daichi had always thought Shiro was holding something back, but he couldn’t prove it. And then one day, Shiro was simply gone.

Daichi had asked their sensei, Inuzuka Reina. She’d given him a small smile, the kind she used when she wanted to soften a blow. “I personally recommended him for chūnin,” she said, sighing. “Truth is, he’s been ready for years. He only held back because he didn’t want to leave you and Aoi-chan behind. Wanted to wait until you both caught up.”

Daichi had been left reeling at that. So Shiro had been holding back. For them. The thought was both warming and suffocating.

But what Daichi didn’t know—what he couldn’t have known—was that Shiro wasn’t simply being promoted.

Somewhere far from Team Reina, the boy who had once been Shiro sat in the shadows, the weight of a new pristine mask upon his face and a new name at the same time pressing against his skin.

Hakuchō.

That's his name now.

He wondered what the hell he’d been thinking, submitting himself to the ANBU. Volunteering for a cage soaked in blood and pain. He could have walked away, let himself fade into the background of Konoha, maybe even lived quietly. But no—he had signed himself up for this life.

No. Not just signed up. He remembered now.

Sensei’s smile. The way she leaned close after she realized something in him had changed, her voice soft and coaxing. Telling him he could make a real difference if he stepped up. That his skills were needed. That his heart could save lives if he let it.

And beneath her words, another truth he carried alone.

He remembered the tragedies still to come. The failures. The massacres. The wars.

Difference. Yes. That was why he was here. Why he’d made peace with stepping into hell.

Because he should have made a difference.

Because if he didn’t, who would?

He always wanted to kill Danzo too anyways. Fuck that guy.