There was water all over his face, forcing itself in through his nostrils, stealing what little air remained in his lungs.
The rough currents fought to drag him under, thrashing his body in every direction, while he clawed desperately at the surface, lungs burning, begging for air. Each wave that crashed down over him pushed him further beneath, the roaring water drowning out every thought.
His lungs were on fire.
He gasped, but no air came—only water, sharp and brackish, filling his mouth, spilling into his chest. He gagged, choking, flailing as the currents carried him away. The river's deafening roar pulsed in his ears, drowning out even the sound of his heart pounding like a drum.
It was pitch black. He couldn't see. He couldn't tell which way was up.
The cliffs loomed around him, their jagged edges slicing at his hands as he grasped for something, anything, to pull himself free. The rocks were steep, sharp, unrelenting, and his strength was failing. His body was battered by the currents, slammed against stone, dragged deeper and deeper.
The pain was unbearable—his empty sockets throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a relentless, stabbing agony. His arms and legs felt like lead, each movement slower, weaker than the last.
He was sinking. Drowning. Dying.
His body screamed with him, every fiber of his being yelling, clawing, demanding one thing: breathe.
He couldn't resist anymore. His lips parted, his chest heaving as he took a deep, shuddering breath—only to be met with cold, foul water rushing in. He gagged, coughed, choked again, but there was no relief. His head spun, a fuzzy haze creeping into his mind as his body betrayed him.
The river pulled him further into its depths, and he gave up fighting. His vision blurred. The pounding in his head began to fade, replaced by a strange, eerie calm.
For a moment, there was silence. No pain. No roaring water. Just stillness.
And then, nothing.
…
…
Warmth kissed his skin.
Not the scorching, unrelenting heat of the midday sun but something gentler, soothing—the kind of warmth that lulled children to sleep or reminded one of home. It crept across his body in slow waves, pooling against his cheek as the faint scent of saltwater lingered in the air.
Shisui stirred, his mind sluggish, caught in the strange limbo between dreams and waking. The crash of waves reached him first, rhythmic, like a steady heartbeat that drowned out the distant cries of seagulls. Wetness seeped into his clothes, tickling his skin as another wave surged up the shore and receded, leaving a cold trail of foam.
His fingers twitched against the gritty texture of sand. He focused on that feeling, grounding himself in it, letting it pull him out of the murky depths of his disjointed thoughts.
But something was wrong.
Shisui's breath hitched as the memory came rushing back.
Dark water. Pain. His legs kicking against the current as the Naka dragged him under. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't see—
His eyes snapped open, only to meet darkness. He tried again, blinking rapidly, but there was nothing. Just an empty void where the world should be.
Of course. He remembered now.
His right eye, stolen by Danzo. His left, given to Itachi, along with the hope that his friend—his brother—would protect the clan, the village, their future.
But this…this wasn't how it was supposed to end.
His body felt foreign. Heavy. Weak. His limbs refused to obey him, and his chakra reserves were so faint they might as well not exist. The air smelled cleaner than it ever had in Konoha, the wind softer, but it only made the situation more surreal.
How am I alive?
He tried to sit up, only for his arms to collapse beneath him. His head hit the sand with a soft thud, and he lay there, panting. The effort had drained what little strength he had left.
The tide rolled in again, the water cool against his legs. Shisui tilted his head upward, as if he could see the sky, and allowed himself a bitter smile.
"I guess…this is where I stay," he murmured to no one, his voice hoarse, barely audible over the waves.
His breathing slowed, his chest heaving as his body betrayed him once more. A strange numbness spread through his limbs, and he wondered absently if it was the poison still lingering in his blood.
The edges of his awareness blurred. The world faded.
And then—
There was a spark.
Faint, almost imperceptible, but there. A ripple of energy that wasn't his.
Footsteps approached, deliberate and measured, crunching against the sand. He couldn't see the figure, couldn't even turn his head to face them, but he felt their presence loom closer, radiating something both familiar and foreign.
The footsteps stopped beside him.
"Of all people…" The voice was soft, a low murmur tinged with disbelief.
Shisui's lips parted, but the effort was too much. The darkness swallowed him again before he could respond.
…
…
The first thing he noticed was the stillness.
No rushing water. No biting cold. Just warmth, gentle and persistent, as though he had been swaddled by sunlight. The faint scent of wood filled the air, mingling with something herbal, sharp but not unpleasant. A distant creak—floorboards, perhaps—cut through the quiet, followed by the sound of fabric brushing against itself, soft and measured.
Shisui kept his breathing steady. Too steady, he realized, but he couldn't afford to adjust it now. He was awake, but he couldn't let anyone else know that yet.
His body felt heavy, sluggish in a way that went beyond fatigue. The poison, no doubt. Yet... it wasn't as bad as before. His chakra reserves, though pitiful, were no longer entirely empty, and the burning in his veins had dulled. Someone had treated him.
The thought did little to ease his nerves. If anything, it made the situation worse. Who would go through the trouble of saving him? And why?
Shisui didn't move, but he reached out with his senses.
There was someone else in the room. Close, perhaps only a few steps away. Their chakra was faint—no, deliberately muted, like a candle smothered by a hand. That wasn't something a civilian could do.
Great. An enemy, then.
His fingers twitched against the blanket beneath him, but he forced himself to stop. The figure didn't seem to have noticed—or cared. No immediate threat, at least. If he stayed still, stayed quiet, he might be able to—
"There is no need to act. I mean you no harm."
The voice shattered his resolve.
Low and deep, it cut through the room like the growl of some primordial beast. It wasn't loud, but it carried weight—an authority that felt as ancient as it was undeniable. The kind of voice that didn't just command attention but demanded it.
Shisui flinched before he could stop himself, his breath hitching just once. He cursed silently at the reaction, at his own body for betraying him.
The stranger paused, as though sensing the minute shift in his breathing. Shisui swallowed hard, his throat raw, the scrape of his tongue against parched lips enough to make him wince. His mind raced, caught between instinct and strategy, but his body betrayed him. A cough rattled his chest, breaking the facade.
"Who... are you?" His voice cracked, hoarse and trembling, barely above a whisper.
The room grew quieter, the faint movements ceasing entirely. Then, deliberate footsteps approached, the sound amplifying the tension thrumming in his chest.
"I am a dead man," the voice replied evenly, every word measured and deliberate yet carrying an edge that sent a chill through the air. "Just like you."
The stranger stopped beside the bed, the air between them heavy with unspoken intent. Shisui could hear the faint scrape of wood as a chair was drawn closer, the man settling into it without haste.
"Check your body," the voice continued, calmer now but no less commanding. "There wasn't much I could do beyond basic first aid. The town doctor examined you and identified the poison as foreign but treatable. He's working on an antidote as we speak."
The first sweep across his body was clinical, methodical, a shinobi's assessment. His fingers traced unfamiliar stitches, mapping wounds that someone—who?—had treated with obvious care. His body felt fragile, but it didn't feel broken. His chakra pulsed... strangely, beneath his skin, deeper somehow, as if it had expanded into spaces that shouldn't exist. The empty sockets where his eyes should be—gone, both gone... was his sacrifice even worth it?— had healed cleanly as well. His muscles were weak, far weaker than they should have been, making any sort of sudden movement an effort. And his throat—raw, sore, as if something had been forced down it. But his status, overall, was fine.
"Well, I think I am alive..." His voice rasped out, throat raw as if he'd swallowed sand, and wasn't that wrong too? He should be dead, he remembered dying, remembered the water filling his lungs and the current dragging him under and the darkness that wasn't just from his missing eyes. "Say...this isn't the afterlife...is it?"
A scoff cut through his spiraling thoughts. "If it was, I'd be surprised." The stranger's voice was deep, controlled. "Truthfully, even I don't know where we are... not yet." The words trailed off into silence.
Movement— the stranger stood, his chair creaking under his weight, footsteps too precise to be civilian, the careful clink of glass against glass. Shisui's head turned automatically to track the sounds, a useless reflex when there was nothing to see, would never be anything to see again. The stranger returned, and Shisui let out the barest thread of chakra, just enough to sense the cup being offered. His muscles screamed in protest as he reached for it, weakness making his fingers tremble against the glass.
The water was cool, soothing the raw ache in his throat. The stranger settled back into their chair—distance approximately two feet, position slightly elevated, optimal striking range if this turned hostile—and Shisui clutched the empty cup in both hands, anchoring himself. He let his eyes fall shut. The thoughts were slow to come, but they eventually did. The air was too light, the energy patterns shifted in ways that made no sense, and his instincts wouldn't stop screaming that this wasn't home, wasn't Konoha, wasn't even the world he knew. He couldn't explain it, but it was real, not just a figment of his mind. The man hadn't said a word, just waiting. Shisui didn't need the silence any longer. It had been long enough.
"Why did you save me?" His voice was still soft, but clear. He didn't hesitate. No pleasantries. He needed answers, and he needed them now.
Fabric rustled—the stranger adjusting position, getting comfortable?—before the response came. "The reason is not important. Call it empathy if you will," the man replied, his tone casual, but something about it felt off. A pause followed, weighted with knowledge Shisui didn't have. "But, I don't think the fact that we are connected in some way has been missed by you, has it?"
No—impossible to miss the careful chakra control, the deliberate movements, every action screaming shinobi to Shisui's trained senses. But which village? Ally? Enemy? His answer came as a slow nod of affirmation.
"It also hasn't escaped me," Shisui continued, his voice calm, "that you seem to know me."
The man's voice was oddly amused when he answered. "Oh, I know of you. The great Uchiha prodigy, Shisui of the Body Flicker... the one who unlocked his Mangekyō Sharingan at the age of nine."
Shisui suppressed any reaction he could have to the stranger's words. He didn't know what to think of him anymore. That information was classified, a secret known only to the highest ranks of Konoha. A confirmation of the stranger's origins in the Elemental Nations, yes, but also a warning. Too much knowledge for an ally, too much care for an enemy, and Shisui's mind raced to make sense of the contradiction.
Shisui gave a soft nod. He didn't speak right away, weighing his next question. "So, what happens next?" His voice came out quieter than intended, but it didn't matter. He should be dead—had fully intended to be dead—yet here he was, alive, breathing, saved by... by what? By whom? A stranger who knew too much, who he suspected to be a deserter from Konoha, had to be with that level of classified knowledge about him. This situation, his fate, his very survival, it was all completely beyond his control now. Better to know what awaited him, what plans this mysterious savior had for him, than to be left uncertain. At least then he'd know what end he was walking toward, even if he couldn't stop it.
Silence stretched, heavy with the weight of the stranger's gaze. Shisui could feel it on his skin, assessing, calculating, deciding.
"...The situation is quite dire." The stranger's voice dropped lower, as if sharing secrets. "This world...is much different from our own."
Shisui's fingers tightened around the cup, confirmation of his fears making his stomach clench. Not just away from Konoha then—away from everything he'd ever known.
"I...We are more or less alone." The words came measured, careful, each one chosen with purpose. "While the inhabitants of this world are not immediately hostile, it definitely affects you, being the only one that's different." Another pause, heavy with shared understanding. "We're the only ones carrying a history like this—one we'd bury, if we could."
A breeze brushed against Shisui's face—window to his left, fabric curtains by the fluttering sound—and he turned toward it automatically, letting his guard lower fractionally. Not trust, no, but necessity. His body was too weak to fight even if he wanted to, chakra reserves too depleted to be useful, and the stranger had proven... if not trustworthy, then at least not immediately threatening.
Exhaustion crashed over him suddenly, and Shisui let himself sink back against the bed, face turned toward where he thought the ceiling might be. Until his strength returned, until he could make sense of this wrong-different-foreign place, he was left with only his thoughts and the mysterious presence of someone who seemed to know everything about him... and perhaps, everything about what he'd lost.
...
...
...
Shinobi were excellent at many things. Deception. Murder. Repressing trauma until it manifested in increasingly creative ways.
They were particularly skilled at silence.
Shisui lay in the stranger's bed, cataloging the various ways this situation made absolutely no sense. The air felt wrong. His chakra felt wrong. The fact that he was breathing at all felt wrong. He'd gotten quite good at sensing wrongness lately, what with being blind and technically deceased.
The stranger hadn't moved from his chair, maintaining that unnaturally perfect posture that screamed 'pretense' to anyone trained to notice such things. The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, exactly, but it held weight—the kind of weight that came with too many secrets and not enough trust.
Something nagged at the edges of his consciousness. A memory, slippery and elusive, like trying to catch smoke with bare hands. It was at the beach, that moment between consciousness and oblivion. The voice. A different voice entirely—younger, softer—speaking words he couldn't quite remember. Not this deep, commanding tone the man used now. That voice had carried genuine surprise, an unguarded moment before the walls went up.
A thought struck him then and nearly made him laugh at its absurdity. Here he was, supposedly dead, in a world that felt wrong in every way possible, being watched over by someone who knew far too much about him and spoke in two different voices.
"You know," Shisui said conversationally, as if discussing the weather, "your voice was different on the beach."
The silence that followed was telling. Not in its length—barely a heartbeat passed—but in its quality. The stranger's breathing pattern shifted, just slightly, just enough.
"Oh?" The response came in that same deep tone, but there was something else there now. Amusement? Annoyance? Both?
"Mm." Shisui tilted his head slightly. "Less... theatrical, I suppose. More real." He paused, letting the implication hang in the air between them. "Wonder why that might be?"
A sound that might have been a scoff, might have been a laugh. "Observant, even without your eyes."
"Shinobi habits." Shisui's lips quirked up slightly. "We're terrible actors, really. Always trying too hard to maintain our masks."
The silence that followed was different from before. Anticipatory. Like the moment before a storm breaks.
Then the man sighed, and when he spoke again, it was with that other voice—the real one. Younger. Tired. Carrying the weight of years that shouldn't have been possible.
"Some masks become hard to take off," he said quietly, "when you've worn them long enough."
Shisui's mind raced. The pieces were there, refusing to fit together in any way that made sense. That voice... it was familiar, yet not. "So," he continued, "are you going to tell me who you are, or should I keep guessing?"
The stranger—no, not a stranger anymore—let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "Just the clan's cry-baby. The dead last. Obito."
Shisui's fingers clenched in the sheets. Obito. Uchiha Obito. The boy who died a hero at Kannabi Bridge, younger than Shisui was now. The boy whose name was carved on the memorial stone, whose story was whispered among the clan's children as both warning and inspiration. But... he wasn't this old. He died much younger, even younger than Shisui is now.
"You're supposed to be dead," Shisui said, because apparently that was the sort of thing dead people said to other dead people now.
"So are you." There was definite amusement in Obito's voice now. "Yet here we are."
"How—" Shisui started, then stopped. Too many questions crowded his throat. How are you alive? How did you get here? What happened to you?
"Kannabi Bridge?" he settled on finally.
"Didn't kill me." Obito's voice was carefully neutral now. "I was... saved. Though sometimes I wonder if that was the right word for it."
The bitterness in those words raised more questions than answers. Shisui could feel the tension radiating from Obito, the way his chakra had become more tightly controlled.
"You never came back to Konoha." It wasn't a question.
"No." The word fell like a stone between them. "I didn't."
Shisui sensed there was more—much more—behind that simple statement, but he could also feel Obito's growing discomfort. Whatever had happened between Kannabi Bridge and now, it wasn't something Obito was ready to share.
So instead, Shisui asked the question that had been burning in his chest since he'd woken up: "Did it work? What I did—did it make any difference?"
The silence that followed was heavy enough to crush mountains.
"The clan..." Obito began, then stopped. Started again. "Itachi... he did what he thought he had to do."
Ice flooded Shisui's veins. There was too much meaning in those carefully chosen words, too much left unsaid. His sacrifice, his death, his gift to Itachi—had it all been for nothing?
"How bad?" he whispered.
"Bad enough." Obito's voice was quiet now, almost gentle. "You should rest. You're still recovering, and this conversation isn't going anywhere."
Shisui wanted to protest, wanted to demand answers, but exhaustion was already creeping back in, making his thoughts fuzzy. He could hear Obito standing, fabric rustling as he moved toward the door.
"I'll get us some food," Obito said, his footsteps pausing at the threshold. "We can... talk more later. If you want."
The door closed softly behind him, leaving Shisui alone with his thoughts and the weight of everything left unsaid. He turned his face toward the window, feeling the breeze against his skin, and wondered what kind of world they'd found themselves in—two dead men, carrying the ghosts of their past between them.