The rain never stopped that night.
It fell like a curse, whispering secrets from the sky, soaking through the heavy stone walls of Konohagakure until even the deepest shadows felt wet with grief. Thunder murmured low over the mountains. Lightning flashed briefly, illuminating the empty streets of the Hidden Leaf and the quiet tragedy that was unfolding far from the eyes of the village.
In a small, hidden compound once used by the Shimura clan, a newborn child lay swaddled in a worn blanket, untouched by the chill. He made no sound. His eyes—wide and dark, like still water—watched the flickering candlelight as if already questioning the world around him.
Shikaku Nara stood over him, arms crossed, eyes locked on the woman who lay lifeless on the futon before him.
Kyutso Shimura.
Danzo's niece.
His former lover.
The mother of the child.
She hadn't left a note. She hadn't needed to.
Her death was her answer. A final act of rebellion.
Danzo stood beside him, unmoved by the scene. His single eye was unreadable, hidden beneath the folds of time and war. The old warhawk's breath came slow and even, unaffected by the blood pooling beneath the woman who had once been family.
"She was weak," Danzo said at last, breaking the silence. "She broke. And weak things don't deserve to carry on the Shimura legacy."
Shikaku's jaw clenched. "Don't talk about her like that. She was stronger than any of us. She carried the weight of both your ambitions and mine—and she gave her life to protect this child from both."
Danzo turned toward the baby. "That child is now a threat. A symbol of a divided path."
"No," Shikaku said. "He's a bridge. Between us. Between what we were, and what we could be."
The elder scoffed. "Naïve. You speak of hope like it ever built nations."
"You speak of fear like it's leadership."
Danzo turned fully now, placing both hands atop his cane. "The child is dangerous. Nara mind. Shimura blood. We will control the outcome. He enters the White Room, effective immediately."
Shikaku's shoulders tensed, but he didn't draw his blade. He couldn't—not now. Not with Kyutso still warm. Not with a child involved. The White Room was a compromise forged years ago—one of the few things the Nara and Shimura clans ever agreed on. A place of education. Of transformation. Of control.
But it wasn't a place for children.
"I want access," Shikaku said at last, his voice low.
Danzo's eye narrowed. "What for?"
"To visit him. Once a month."
Danzo stared long and hard. "You'll get ten minutes. No more."
Shikaku stepped forward and picked up the child. The baby didn't cry. Didn't flinch. Just looked up at him, utterly silent.
"What's his name?" Danzo asked flatly.
Shikaku turned away. "Ayanokoji."
Danzo sneered. "She named him?"
"I did."
Danzo's voice was ice. "Then you've made him your responsibility."
Shikaku nodded. "I already had."
---
The descent into the White Room began that very night.
Deep beneath the Hidden Leaf, down forgotten stairwells and unmarked tunnels, a facility hummed with life. Cold, artificial life. Fluorescent lights buzzed above clean, metallic halls. Monitors blinked and whirred, tracking everything from brainwave activity to chakra emissions. This was no home. This was a crucible.
They took the child from Shikaku at the main gate. Without a word. Without ceremony. Just hands—gloved, sterile—reaching out to claim what was theirs.
Shikaku didn't say goodbye. He only watched.
The first lesson of the White Room was isolation.
---
Ayanokoji didn't scream.
Other children did, in the beginning. Wails echoed through sterile chambers as they were separated, processed, numbered. Stripped of names, identities, and even spoken language. Silence was enforced not as punishment, but as culture.
Ayanokoji adapted faster than most. The instructors marked his compliance, noting it as a form of early emotional suppression. What they didn't realize was that he wasn't suppressing anything—he was simply calculating. Measuring. Watching.
His first year was spent learning pattern recognition, abstract reasoning, and sensory control. He was given puzzles harder than most adults could solve. When he mastered those, they replaced the puzzles with paradoxes. Then memory tests. Then interrogation simulations.
By age four, he could beat instructors at shogi blindfolded.
By five, he could recall every book he had ever read—word for word.
And always, during those ten minutes a month, Shikaku returned.
---
They met in a featureless room with glass walls. Shikaku wore a jōnin flak jacket. Ayanokoji wore a plain white robe. Every visit was recorded, monitored, but neither man cared.
In those short minutes, Shikaku didn't talk like a father.
He talked like a strategist. A teacher.
He used riddles to teach ethics. He disguised training as storytelling. He showed the boy that intelligence wasn't just knowing things—it was understanding people. Understanding *why*.
"Do you hate him?" Ayanokoji asked once, after Shikaku had told him about Danzo's past.
"Hate wastes energy," Shikaku replied. "I plan around him instead."
Ayanokoji nodded. He understood.
He always did.
---
By the time he was six, Ayanokoji no longer resembled a child.
He resembled a weapon.
Instructors reported that he never initiated conflict, but never lost a single mock battle. He spoke only when needed. His chakra was unusually stable, and he had already begun to manipulate it internally—a feat most Academy students wouldn't achieve until age ten.
Danzo rarely saw him, but the reports pleased him. The boy was becoming a perfect success: emotionless, brilliant, obedient.
What Danzo didn't know was this: Ayanokoji remembered everything.
He remembered the face of the woman who birthed him.
The voice of the man who taught him to think.
The feeling of the rain the night his life began.
And somewhere deep inside the White Room's newest weapon... a mind was already building escape routes.