Ken wasn’t expecting company.

  Not at 6:00 in the morning, not with ink on his hands and sealing paper half-dried across his floor, and definitely not from someone who used the door like a civilian instead of the window like every shinobi he dealt with these days.

  But there she was.

  Airi.

  His mother.

  Still wearing her clinic robes, a soft gray overcoat wrapped around her shoulders, and eyes that looked far older than the st time he saw them.

  Ken blinked.

  “You walked here?”

  She nodded. “Your father’s on shift. I wanted to see where my son lives now.”

  Ken stepped aside.

  She entered quietly. Her eyes swept over the small, spartan space. No posters. No decorations. Just weapons, scrolls, tools, and one worn bnket folded over a floor mat. The faint smell of sealing ink lingered in the air.

  “You don’t even have a chair,” she murmured.

  Ken shrugged. “I don’t sit much.”

  Airi stepped over to his desk and lifted one of the seal tags, her brow furrowing. “You’re still teaching yourself fuinjutsu?”

  “Shadow Clones help.”

  She sighed, then turned to face him fully. “You’re going to make a lot of enemies, Ken. More than you already have. And now that you’re alone...”

  “I’m not alone,” Ken said simply. “I’m free.”

  “Free doesn’t mean safe.”

  Ken didn’t answer right away.

  Then: “I know what’s coming.”

  Airi’s shoulders tensed. “You think it’ll happen?”

  “I don’t think.” His voice dropped. “I feel it. Like pressure in the air before a storm.”

  She sat down—on the floor, near his scroll pile. “You’re still our son.”

  Ken looked down. “And that’s why you both need an out when it starts.”

  Her expression twisted, a blend of fear and pride.

  He didn’t flinch.

  “I’ll come to the clinic ter this week,” he said. “We’ll pn. Quietly.”

  Airi stood and walked to the door. Before she left, she looked back.

  “I came to make sure you were still human.”

  Ken’s voice was soft.

  “I’m not sure I ever was.”

  She left without another word.

  Later that day, Ken slipped into the merchant district in disguise—gray cloak, scarf over his jaw, no weapons visible.

  He made his way through side streets and back alleys until he reached a quiet shop tucked behind the tailoring row: “Yoru’s Ink & Oddities.”

  The man behind the counter barely looked up.

  Ken dropped a small satchel of hand-drawn seal tags onto the table. Each one marked with a minimalist stamp—his own seal, made in private, registered to no name.

  The merchant opened it, examined them, and nodded.

  “Suppression. Binding. Detonation. Tracking.” He counted quickly. “Thirty tags. Decent flow work.”

  He dropped a pouch of ryo in exchange.

  “Come back next week.”

  Ken nodded once and walked out.

  Living alone meant making every ryo count. His apartment rent was subsidized by the vilge, but not enough to cover mission gear, food, and experimental supplies. Ken didn't take from his parents—not after walking away from the cn.

  So he sold seals.

  Never fsh scrolls or forbidden techniques. Just clean, reliable tags made by someone who knew how to make them work.

  He didn’t do it for fame.

  He did it for independence.

  Around midday, while reviewing trap formations in the training field, he sensed someone above him.

  Chakra signature: light.

  Footsteps: silent.

  But familiar.

  He didn’t turn until the voice spoke.

  “Still training like the world’s ending tomorrow, huh?”

  Ken turned to see Shisui crouched on the tree branch, smiling faintly.

  “Could be,” Ken replied. “Never hurts to be early.”

  Shisui dropped down beside him. “You’ve been avoiding the compound.”

  “I’ve been avoiding burial.”

  Shisui didn’t argue. Instead, he pulled out two rice balls and tossed one.

  Ken caught it.

  They sat beneath the tree in silence for a few minutes, the wind cutting gently through the branches above.

  “You’re selling tags now?” Shisui asked.

  Ken nodded. “Market’s flooded with trash. Mine work.”

  “Noticed the tracking seal you left behind in the Land of Rivers.”

  Ken raised an eyebrow. “You were there?”

  “I’m in ANBU now,” Shisui said casually. “Wasn’t assigned, but I heard the cleanup chatter.”

  Ken took a bite. “You’re watching me?”

  Shisui smiled. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Ken shrugged. “What about Itachi?”

  Shisui’s expression changed—just slightly. Pride, mixed with something heavier.

  “He joined ANBU st week. Quiet induction. Hokage approved it himself.”

  Ken’s jaw tightened.

  “I knew it was coming.”

  “He’s ready,” Shisui said. “But… he’s still loyal. To the cn. To the vilge. Trying to hold both together.”

  Ken stared at the dirt.

  “It’s not going to hold.”

  Shisui didn’t argue.

  Ken gnced sideways. “You pnning anything?”

  Shisui hesitated.

  Then: “I’m thinking.”

  Ken nodded. “Good. Think faster.”

  That night, back in his apartment, Ken sat before a fresh sheet of sealing paper.

  He wasn’t training.

  He wasn’t writing a tag.

  He was mapping.

  Escape routes from the vilge.

  Safehouses near the outskirts.

  Contact points with trusted merchants and field medics.

  A pn.

  Not for himself.

  But for Daiki and Airi.

  He wasn’t going to beg the cn to change.

  And he wasn’t going to warn them.

  But his parents deserved to live.

  Even if the Uchiha didn’t.

  He added one st detail to the map: a marker near the clinic. A tunnel route, long buried and rgely forgotten, which had once been used during Konoha’s founding days for medicine smuggling during the wars.

  Still accessible.

  Still useful.

  He circled it in red.

  Then whispered to no one:

  “I won’t save them all.”

  He folded the map, burned the copy, and stared at the candlelight until sleep took him.

  In his dream, the fan symbol bled down the walls.

  But he didn’t wake up afraid.

  He woke up ready.