"Each of us lives dependent and bound by our individual knowledge and our awareness. All that is what we call reality. However, both knowledge and awareness are equivocal. One's reality might be another's illusion. We all live inside our own fantasies." - Itachi Uchiha
———
The knocking continued, soft but persistent — a measured sound against the wooden frame that echoed faintly through the quiet room.
Itachi did not answer immediately.
His eyes remained fixed on the mirror, though his focus had long since drifted past his reflection. His thoughts moved inward again, folding into themselves like water pulled back into the depths of a still lake. Even in this unfamiliar body, even in this new world, his mind worked with the same calm precision it always had — analyzing, accepting, questioning, without fear, without haste.
After the Reanimation Jutsu had been undone, he had believed — or perhaps hoped — that death would finally be his last destination.
He had walked a life of contradictions. A traitor and a protector. A murderer and a savior. A brother who destroyed everything for love. His final moments beside Sasuke had felt like closure — fragile and imperfect, yet enough. His last words had left his heart bare, and for once he had not hidden behind silence or calculated deception.
But hope, he knew, was a fragile thing.
The world rarely aligned itself to desire. Fate paid little attention to the wishes of men, even those who had bled themselves hollow in its service. He had carried burdens longer than any child ever should have been asked to. He had endured loneliness, betrayal, the hate of those he loved — all for the sake of a peace that even now felt transient and uncertain.
He had been tired long before he ever died.
And if eternity had awaited him in darkness, he would have accepted it in quiet relief.
Yet here he was again.
The rising sunlight pooled across the tatami floor in pale gold, creeping slowly into the room through the translucent sliding doors. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beam of morning light, suspended in air like small, wandering stars. Beyond the walls, he could hear birds greeting the day — light, rhythmic chirps carried on a soft breeze.
Life.
Breath.
Warmth.
Reality pressed against him in a hundred tiny, undeniable ways.
If this was a dream, it was one crafted with impossible precision. If this was genjutsu, it was flawless — seamless down to each shifting grain of wood and distant sound outside the walls.
His fingers curled slightly at his side.
Genjutsu? The thought crossed his mind, but he dismissed it as quickly as it formed. He had spent his life studying illusions — mastering them, shaping them, dismantling them. There were few people in the world capable of deceiving his senses to such an extent.
Shisui… perhaps.
But he had died. Edo Tensei had been undone. The war had still raged as he vanished.
There was no one alive who would ensnare him after the end.
No — this was not illusion.
This was something else entirely.
His attention returned to the present as the knocking came again.
The sound drew him out of the hushed corners of his thoughts — knuckles against wood, firmer this time, echoing slightly through the quiet of the room. He shifted his gaze toward the door, his posture still and composed, every breath controlled and quiet.
Then a voice came, muffled through the door.
"Rei-san."
The name lingered in the air.
Itachi's eyes narrowed by the faintest margin.
Rei? he thought. Is that… my name?
The syllable rolled through his mind with detached curiosity. Calm. Grace. Dignity. Meanings layered into the word — fitting, almost ironically so. Had someone chosen it for him? Or had this body always belonged to that name?
He did not answer.
He stood there in silence, letting the moment stretch, as though stillness itself could erase the voice beyond the door and undo this strange new existence. For a fleeting instant, he wished that if he did not respond, everything might simply fade — that the room, the light, the child-body, the world itself would dissolve into the darkness he had left.
But the voice returned.
"Rei-san. Your mother is waiting outside. You should not make her wait any longer."
The tone was soft and feminine — respectful, gentle — but beneath the politeness lay a subtle tension, faint but unmistakable. The woman sounded as though she would face reprimand if he delayed. The weight of someone else's expectations pressed faintly through her words.
He let the breath slip slowly from his lungs.
There was no use ignoring the reality he's unfortunately in.
"Come in," he said quietly.
His child-voice floated across the room — light, delicate, yet unmistakably calm. The familiarity of his speech patterns clung to the sound, tempered and measured, as though no amount of youth could strip away the restraint forged over two lifetimes.
The sliding door eased open.
A woman stepped into the doorway, her form silhouetted briefly against the brighter hallway beyond. She did not move with the alert, coiled discipline of a kunoichi — her steps were graceful, unhurried, the posture of someone accustomed to structured manners rather than combat.
Itachi turned slightly toward her, regarding her with a composed, searching gaze.
She appeared to be in her mid-twenties — perhaps older, but softened by youth and careful living. Her skin was pale and smooth, untouched by the sun-weathered lines of battlefield hardship. Her hair was tied neatly behind her head, dark and glossy, falling over her shoulder in a simple, elegant style. Her eyes were bright, expressive, carrying a quiet alertness even as she smiled.
A civilian, he thought.
She looked at him, and relief flickered across her features.
"Good," she said with a soft exhale. "You're already dressed. Come, your mother is waiting outside. We must not keep her waiting."
Her voice was courteous, but urgency lingered beneath it — not overwhelming, but there. She stepped forward and lightly took his hand, her touch gentle, the faintest pressure guiding rather than pulling. Her warmth was real. The fabric of her sleeve brushed against his wrist — smooth and modern, not the coarse weave of shinobi garments or tradition-bound robes.
Itachi allowed himself to be led.
Only then did he notice his clothes.
At some point — whether before he awoke or without conscious memory — he had already been dressed. The fabric was soft, modern in cut, muted in color. Something simple, neatly tailored, unfamiliar yet comfortable.
A child with a life already set in motion before his consciousness had awakened inside it.
They left the room.
The hallway stretched before him — long, spacious, and lined with sliding doors and polished wood. But unlike the austere, symmetrical hallways of the Uchiha compound, this one felt subtly different. The architecture flowed between eras — traditional beams and paper-paneled partitions paired with metal fixtures and modern railings.
Soft lights glowed overhead blending seamlessly into carved ceiling recesses where lanterns might once have hung. The floorboards were polished smooth, reflecting faint traces of morning light from the windows along the corridor.
As they walked, Itachi's gaze traveled quietly from one detail to the next.
Subtle differences — unfamiliar decorations carved into door frames, patterns that did not belong to any clan crest he recognized. Wall hangings displayed ink-wash art beside framed printed photographs, their sharp contrast jarring and yet strangely harmonious. Vents lined the ceiling corners, humming faintly with circulating air — advanced technology woven seamlessly into an environment that otherwise evoked tradition.
Outside the windows, he glimpsed a courtyard.
Stone walkways crossed immaculately raked gravel gardens. A pond rested beneath a small wooden bridge.
He did not slow. His expression remained composed, each observation tucked away with quiet efficiency. Confusion did not shake him, nor did disbelief. He accepted what he saw and filed it into understanding — incomplete but forming.
The woman guiding him occasionally glanced back, ensuring he followed. She did not question his silence. Perhaps this child — Rei — was naturally quiet. Or perhaps she simply knew better than to pry.
They reached the end of the corridor.
The entrance opened into a broader foyer — a blend of traditional entryway and modern front hall. Wooden shoe racks lined the wall, though alongside sandals and slippers rested sleek modern footwear. The faint scent of fresh polish mingled with the subtle aroma of flowers arranged in a tall, narrow vase.
And by the open doorway, sunlight flooding around her, stood the woman waiting.
His supposed mother.
She stood poised with quiet dignity, posture straight, movements deliberate. Her hair was styled elegantly, dark and smooth, gathered into a low twist at the nape of her neck. Her face bore a refined beauty — composed, graceful, soft yet disciplined. She wore clothing foreign to his world — a tailored dress of deep, elegant fabric that draped neatly along her figure, accented by understated jewelry.
Her expression softened when she saw him.
"There you are," she said, her tone warm, though expectation shaped its edges. "Come, Rei. We don't want to be late."
The name fell from her lips with familiarity, shaped by affection and authority intertwined.
She gestured to someone nearby.
Only then did Itachi notice the structure outside.
Not a carriage — not anything drawn by horses or pulled by hand — but a large, gleaming vehicle of metal and glass resting along the path. It sat atop black circular wheels, its surface polished to a faint reflection of the morning sky. The light caught its curves, and its doors were framed with smooth silver edges.
The man standing beside it wore clothing unlike any uniform Itachi had known.
Dark fabric fitted neatly against his frame — a jacket, straight-lined and structured, with crisp folds and precise seams. A white shirt lay beneath it, paired with a tie knotted neatly at the collar. His shoes gleamed exactly like the vehicle — polished, exact.
The man bowed respectfully, then reached for the vehicle door. The mechanism clicked softly, and the door swung open, revealing cushioned seating within, leather-lined and refined.
Itachi watched silently.
His mother turned toward him once more, one hand resting gently on his shoulder.
"Rei," she said softly. "Get inside."
He stepped forward.