I learned early that screaming was useless.
The first time I woke up in the orphanage, I screamed until my throat tore itself raw. I don't remember deciding to do it. My body just opened its mouth and poured everything out—fire, blood, faces without eyes, my mother's hand slipping from mine.
No one came.
Eventually, I stopped because there was nothing left inside me to force out.
That was my first lesson.
---
The orphanage smelled like soap that never quite worked.
Old wood. Stale futons. Too many children pretending not to listen when someone cried at night. I was given a thin mattress, a blanket that smelled faintly of mildew, and a bowl of rice that tasted like obligation.
No one said Uchiha out loud.
They didn't have to.
Every adult looked at me the same way—tight smiles, careful distance, like grief might be contagious. Some of the kids stared. Others avoided me completely. A few older ones whispered when they thought I wasn't listening.
That's him.
From the clan.
They say his eyes turn red.
They were right.
I kept my head down and my mouth shut. I counted breaths. I memorized floorboard creaks. I learned which caretakers drank at night and which ones hit harder when they were sober.
At night, I dreamed of fire.
Sometimes I dreamed of the man I killed.
His face never stayed the same. Sometimes it was blurred. Sometimes it was clear enough that I could see the surprise frozen in his eyes. I always woke up before he finished falling.
I never told anyone.
That was my second lesson.
---
The Academy started three months later.
They didn't give me a choice.
I remember standing in the training yard for the first time, surrounded by children who still had parents waiting for them at home. Some of them complained about early mornings. Others bragged about clan techniques they hadn't even learned yet.
I said nothing.
I watched everything.
The instructors watched me too. I could feel it—the way their eyes lingered a second too long, the way conversations paused when I walked past. I knew that look. It was the same look people had worn on the night of the massacre.
Fear wrapped in authority.
I sat alone.
When we sparred, I lost.
On purpose.
Not badly—just enough. Enough that I didn't stand out. Enough that no one bothered to challenge me twice. I learned early that strength attracts attention, and attention was a blade pointed at my throat.
Inside, something screamed every time I held back.
My body remembered things my mind didn't fully understand yet. Stances. Angles. Timing. When I let myself move naturally, the world slowed in a way that scared me.
So I didn't.
At night, I trained.
Quietly.
Behind the orphanage, there was a patch of dirt no one cared about. I practiced chakra control by pushing it into my feet until my legs shook, then holding it there until I collapsed. I threw stones instead of kunai, measuring distance, rotation, impact.
When my hands bled, I wrapped them in cloth and kept going.
Pain was honest.
It told me where my limits were.
And limits were meant to be broken.
---
The first time my Sharingan activated in public, it wasn't during combat.
It was during class.
Iruka-sensei was explaining chakra theory, drawing lazy diagrams on the board. I was half-listening, half-counting heartbeats, when the boy behind me leaned forward and whispered:
"My dad says your clan deserved it."
Something snapped.
It wasn't rage. Rage is loud. This was quieter. Colder.
The classroom sharpened.
I heard the boy's pulse. Smelled the ink on the paper. Saw the faint twitch in his fingers before his hand touched my shoulder.
I turned.
My vision burned.
The room went silent.
Gasps followed.
Someone dropped a pencil.
I saw myself reflected in his eyes—red, spinning, wrong. His face drained of color as he stumbled backward and hit the floor, scrambling like a cornered animal.
Iruka was there instantly, gripping my shoulder hard enough to hurt.
"Ren," he said sharply. "Deactivate it. Now."
I did.
My head throbbed like it had been split open, but I bowed my head and said nothing.
They sent me home early.
That night, the caretaker warned me to "keep my eyes under control."
I nodded.
I did not apologize.
That was my third lesson.
---
People talk about the Sharingan like it's a gift.
It isn't.
It's a scar that opens every time you remember why it exists.
The more I used it, the more it wanted—not chakra, not blood, but emotion. It drank grief like water and whispered promises in the quiet moments.
Look closer.
See everything.
Never be helpless again.
I learned to activate it without losing control, but it cost me sleep. Every night I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, replaying moments I didn't want to remember because my eyes refused to let them fade.
I started smiling less.
Talking even less.
People stopped trying to befriend me.
Good.
---
The beating happened on a rainy afternoon.
Three boys. Older. Not Academy students—civilian brats with shinobi parents who drank too much and talked too freely.
They cornered me behind a supply store.
"Hey, red-eyes," one of them said, grinning. "Heard you're dangerous."
I looked at the ground.
"Bet you killed your own family," another laughed.
I felt it then. The familiar tightening in my chest. The pressure behind my eyes.
I let it happen.
The first punch split my lip. The second knocked me down. They kicked me while laughing, careless, sloppy.
That was their mistake.
I waited until they were tired.
Then I stood.
The Sharingan flared.
Their movements slowed into something almost gentle. Predictable. Ugly.
I broke one boy's arm with a single twist. Dislocated another's knee and let him hear it pop before he screamed. The last one tried to run.
I caught him.
I didn't kill them.
Not because I couldn't.
Because I wanted them to remember.
When I walked away, my clothes were soaked with rain and blood—some mine, mostly theirs. My hands were steady.
That scared me more than anything else.
---
That night, I looked at myself in a cracked mirror.
A thin boy. Hollow cheeks. Eyes too old.
"I'm still human," I whispered.
The reflection didn't answer.
But somewhere deep inside, something smiled.
---