The warehouse was silent except for the distant drip of water from a broken pipe somewhere in the ceiling. Obito remained on his knees where his uncles had thrown him, palms pressed flat against the gritty concrete, staring at the sealed hatch as if sheer willpower could force it open again.
It didn't.
The bolt had slid home with a sound like finality itself. A heavy, metallic clunk that still echoed in his ears minutes later. He could still feel the rough hands on his arms his Uncle Fugaku's grip firm but impersonal, his Uncle Yashiro's almost gentle, as though ashamed to be the one delivering the sentence.
They hadn't said goodbye.
They hadn't said anything at all.
Just the shove, the fall, the slam.
Obito's breath came in shallow bursts. His chest hurt. Not from the impact,nothing was broken but from the sudden, crushing emptiness where the weight of the compound used to be. The tunnels, the torchlight, the low murmur of voices, the scent of stone and blood and family. All gone.
He was fourteen.
Fourteen years old, and already dead to the only world he had ever known.
Slowly, he pushed himself to his feet. His legs shook. The warehouse was vast and empty, filled with rusted machinery, broken crates, and the skeletons of old shipping containers. Moonlight filtered through high, cracked windows, painting silver bars across the floor.
He walked to the main doors,two massive sheets of corrugated metal, one hanging crooked on its hinges. He pushed.
The door groaned open.
Cold night air rushed in, carrying the smell of exhaust, wet asphalt, and something sweet,maybe a food cart blocks away. Human smells. Useless smells.
Obito stepped outside.
The 23rd Ward at night was a patchwork of light and shadow. Streetlamps flickered weakly. Abandoned factories loomed like sleeping giants. In the distance, the glow of central Tokyo painted the sky orange.
He pulled his hood up and started walking.
No direction. No plan. Just movement, because standing still felt like dying.
The first hour passed in a daze. He stuck to alleys, avoided main streets. Every sound made him flinch , a car backfiring, a cat knocking over a trash can, voices laughing from an open window. Human voices.
He kept his head down.
Kept moving.
By the time the adrenaline faded, the hunger had returned with a vengeance.
It had been gnawing at him for weeks ,ever since the clan began reducing his portions after the third failed ritual. Punishment, they called it. Discipline. Now it was starvation.
His stomach cramped painfully. His vision tunneled at the edges.
He needed food.
Real food.
Ghoul food.
He followed instinct more than thought, letting the faint copper scent of blood guide him through the backstreets. The trail was old,hours, maybe,but still there.
It led him to a narrow alley behind a row of shuttered shops.
The body was slumped against a dumpster.
A man. Mid-thirties. Throat torn open. Chest cavity hollowed. The killer had fed quickly and messily,probably a low rated ghoul desperate for territory. They'd taken the heart and most of the liver, left the rest.
Obito stared.
The flesh was still warm.
Steam rose faintly in the cold air.
He knelt slowly.
His hands hovered over the corpse.
He could smell it ,rich, metallic, alive with nutrients for his RC cells.
His mouth watered.
His stomach screamed.
But something inside him recoiled.
He thought of the human prisoners the clan sometimes brought in for training. The way they begged. The way he had looked away every time.
He thought of his mother's face as he was dragged out.
He thought of Madara's cold eyes.
He reached forward.
Fingers brushed skin.
Then he jerked back, retching dryly.
He couldn't.
Not yet.
He stumbled out of the alley, bile burning his throat.
He would rather starve.
At least then it would be his choice.
-----
The next three days were a nightmare of motion and misery.
He slept in short, shivering bursts behind dumpsters, in abandoned cars, under bridges. The cold seeped into his bones. Rain came on the second night, soaking him through. He didn't care.
He walked until his feet bled inside his sandals.
He avoided other ghouls.
When he sensed one nearby stronger, territorial he turned and ran.
Without a kagune, he was nothing. A snack waiting to happen.
He scavenged what he could.
A half eaten rat from a feral ghoul's kill.
A discarded kidney someone had left behind after a fight.
Cold. Tough. Tasteless.
Each bite was a battle.
He swallowed anyway.
Because dying hurt more than shame.
-----
On the fourth night, he collapsed in the ruins of an old subway station in the 22nd Ward.
The platform was cracked, tiles missing, graffiti covering every surface.
Rain dripped through the ceiling.
He sat on a broken bench, hood pulled low, watching water pool on the tracks below.
A group of human teenagers passed overhead laughing, shouting, complaining about the weather.
One of them dropped something.
A paper bag.
It tumbled down the stairs and landed with a soft thud near Obito's feet.
He stared at it.
The smell hit him: coffee, sugar, butter.
Human food.
His stomach twisted in protest.
He knew better.
Human food was poison to ghouls. It would make him violently ill vomiting, fever, weakness for days.
But he was so tired.
So hungry.
He picked up the bag.
Inside: a half eaten croissant and a spilled latte, now cold.
He lifted the croissant.
Flakes crumbled between his fingers.
He brought it to his nose.
Inhaled.
For a moment just one he could almost pretend he was normal.
Then he dropped it into the puddle at his feet and watched the rain dissolve it.
He pressed his forehead to his knees.
"I'm not human," he whispered.
"I'm not Uchiha."
"I'm nothing."
The rain kept falling.
-----
Weeks became months.
Obito stopped counting.
He became a ghost in the city.
He learned the rhythms of the wards the way he once memorized the compound tunnels.
Which alleys belonged to which ghouls.
When CCG patrols were heaviest.
Where bodies were sometimes left behind.
He grew thinner.
His cheeks hollowed.
His eyes sank into shadows.
The warm brown of his irises looked dull now, as if even his body had given up on the Uchiha trait that had never awakened.
He avoided mirrors when he could.
When he couldn't, he looked away quickly.
He thought about his mother.
Wondered if she mourned in private.
Or if she had accepted Madara's judgment as law.
He thought about Izuna's smirk.
About the laughter in the ritual chamber.
He hated them.
Then hated himself for the hate.
Then felt nothing.
-----
One winter night, deep in the 24th Ward access tunnels, he followed a fresh blood trail.
The scent was strong.
Recent.
He moved carefully—the 24th Ward was dangerous even for full kagune users. Feral ghouls roamed here. Cannibals. The mad.
But hunger overrode caution.
He descended cracked stairs.
Passed collapsed platforms.
The air grew colder.
Damp.
The trail led deeper than he'd ever gone.
Into true darkness.
Into places where even torchlight hadn't reached in decades.
And there, in a cavern lit by strange glowing fungi, he found her.
A girl.
Fourteen, maybe.
Green hair tied in a messy bun.
Bandages wrapped around her arms and torso.
A massive, owl like kakuja partially manifested wings folded, talons dripping red.
She was eating.
Not a human.
A ghoul.
Large. Strong.
She tore into it with precise, almost delicate bites.
Like she was studying.
Savoring.
Obito froze in the entrance.
His heart hammered.
He should run.
She was dangerous.
But his legs wouldn't move.
She paused mid-bite.
Turned her head slowly.
Looked right at him.
Calm.
Curious.
"You're starving," she said.
Her voice was soft.
Almost kind.
Obito couldn't speak.
She looked him over ,thin frame, ragged clothes, trembling hands.
Then she gestured to the corpse with a bloody talon.
"There's plenty left. Come eat."
He stared.
No one had offered him anything since the exile.
Not without contempt.
Not without expecting payment in blood or submission.
She waited.
Patient.
He took one step forward.
Then another.
Knelt on the opposite side of the body.
Picked up a piece of flesh with shaking fingers.
Brought it to his mouth.
Ate.
It was warm.
Fresh.
Better than anything he'd tasted in months.
The girl watched him.
"You don't have a kagune," she observed.
Obito froze mid chew
She said it like a fact
Not an insult
Just truth
He swallowed
"No," he whispered
Voice hoarse from disuse
She nodded.
"Me neither. Not always.
She flexed, and the owl kakuja shimmered then vanished.
Just a girl again.
Small.
Bandaged.
But her eye remained active.
One-eyed ghoul.
Hybrid.
Obito stared.
He'd heard stories
Never seen one
She smiled
A small, sharp thing
"I'm Eto."
He hesitated.
Then, barely audible:
"Obito."
Eto's smile widened.
Just a little.
"Nice to meet you, Obito."