It wasn't the endless knocking from the maid that stirred her. It never was.
It was the soft weight of fur and the low, insistent purring pressed against her stomach.
Itachi cracked one eye open to find golden eyes staring back. Po, her white Maine Coon, kneading her silk pajama top with the slow confidence of royalty. His black-painted claws caught the fabric like they were testing it.
She sighed.
"Fine," she murmured, running a hand through his thick coat. "I'm up."
The knocking stopped as soon as she said it. The maid outside, trained by years of trial and error, needed no further answer.
Itachi slipped from the bed and padded barefoot across the marble floor. Her suite was silent, sunlight bleeding through sheer curtains in soft gold. The shower steamed as soon as she stepped in—temperature pre-set to her liking.
Ten minutes later, towel-wrapped and dripping elegance, she entered her closet.
It was the size of an average Tokyo apartment. Maybe larger.
Po followed, tail swaying, claws click-clacking lightly behind her.
She turned to the racks of carefully curated couture. "So," she asked the cat, "what says: I don't care about university, but you're lucky I bothered to show up?"
She held up two options.
One: a sleek black bodycon Chanel dress—flattering, commanding, entirely inappropriate for academia.
Two: a beige Prada number—elegant, understated, just conservative enough to feign innocence.
Po flicked his tail and tilted his head toward the right.
"Prada it is," she said, tossing the Chanel back without a second thought. "No need to terrify the peasants on day one."
Louboutin heels. Diamond studs. Soft red Chanel lipstick. A whisper of Gucci perfume behind each ear.
Not flashy. Just expensive.
Then she left her room. Po trotting behind her like a loyal footman and made her way toward the breakfast hall, where the empire was waiting.
As she descended the marble stairs, the scent of roasted coffee and fresh bread drifted up from the dining hall. Before she reached it, a familiar voice called out.
"Look who's grown up."
Itachi turned to find Obito lounging against the hallway arch in a leather jacket he'd definitely slept in.
"First day of university," he said, grinning. "Try not to scare the teachers too badly."
She smirked. "That's inevitable, Uncle."
Obito laughed. That easy, sunlit kind of laugh no one else in the Uchiha family seemed to possess. He didn't break rules like she did—he bent around them. Slipped through them sideways, like a trickster too charming to punish.
He offered her his arm with dramatic flair, and she took it, both of them strolling through the hall like they owned the palace. Which, technically, they did.
The doors to the breakfast hall opened to warm lighting, crystal dishes, and polished silver.
At the head of the long table, Uncle Madara sat, reading an honest-to-god physical newspaper. In the age of smartphones and live updates, he still demanded his secretary print the morning reports out for him—on crisp, cream-colored paper, no less.
He flipped a page, eyes scanning without pause. "Ichiraku ramen chain up five percent from last quarter."
Beside him, Fugaku gave a thoughtful nod. "Hyuga's strongest new restaurant brand."
Madara barely looked up. "Not bad. But we're negotiating a new hot spring and resort expansion. If their numbers hold, they might approach us to lease space inside."
Mikoto, serene as always, sipped her tea and said, "If it becomes too successful, they may wait until we offer. Out of pride."
Itachi sat down, legs crossed neatly, and picked up her espresso without hesitation.
"People go to a resort and drive to a restaurant," she said. "They don't sleep in a restaurant and drive to a resort."
Madara looked up over the rim of his paper. Smirked.
Obito gave her a playful elbow under the table. "Sharp as ever, princess."
She smiled without looking at him. She didn't need to.
The clink of polished shoes echoed through the hall.
Shisui strode in without breaking pace, his navy shirt already rolled to the elbows, tie loose but sharp. He bypassed the spread of food entirely, lifting only a black coffee from the silver tray.
"Morning, everyone," he said smoothly, adjusting his watch. "No time for breakfast—I've got a site meeting with the new builder."
Madara gave a brief nod. Fugaku didn't look up from his own paper. Mikoto offered a quiet "Take care."
Shisui paused behind Itachi's chair, giving her a sideways glance over the rim of his cup. "Congrats on your first day at university, little menace."
Itachi didn't turn. She just winked over her shoulder.
Shisui smirked, sipped, and disappeared out the door.
Obito sighed like a tired actor missing his cue. "Why does he always make everything look so competent?"
Itachi raised her cup, eyes still on the door. "Because he is."
Fugaku cleared his throat. Not loud, but purposeful.
"You're late for your first day, Itachi."
She didn't look away from her espresso. Just gave a slight, graceful nod. "Yes, Father. I know."
Mikoto sighed softly. "At the very least, you could have gotten up early enough to catch Sasuke. He was excited for you."
Itachi's expression didn't change, but her lashes dipped for a moment—just a flicker of guilt, quickly buried.
Without another word, Mikoto reached down and slid something across the table toward her. A black Birkin tote—sleek, structured, and unmistakably new.
"A gift," she said, tone clipped but gentle. "For your first day. I hope you'll finally start carrying your books."
Itachi inclined her head, fingers brushing the leather. "Thank you, Mother."
Obito leaned in, stage-whispered, "Will it hold manga?"
Itachi smirked. "Barely."
Fugaku folded his newspaper, his voice lower, laced with a rare hint of concern.
"You need to start studying, Itachi. You'll be helping the family with business soon."
He gestured vaguely toward her untouched breakfast. "I've registered you in the Business Management major. At least get the diploma so your future employees don't laugh behind your back."
His eyes met hers, sharp and unmoved. "And this is the best university in Japan. Make it mean something."
Itachi sighed inwardly. Father was always like this—strict, practical, never once impressed by charm or beauty. Just numbers. Just legacy.
She inclined her head again, keeping her tone respectful. "Yes, Father."
But inside, she was waiting.
She didn't have to wait long.
Madara's voice cut in like silk over steel.
"That's alright, Fugaku."
Itachi smiled—inwardly. Of course. Uncle always came through.
Fugaku turned to his older brother, frowning. "You're spoiling her, Madara."
Madara didn't look up right away. When he did, he folded the paper with slow precision and pinned Itachi with his gaze.
For once, she didn't like it.
"The university director is Minato Namikaze," he said. "I owe him a debt from my younger years."
That sentence alone was rare enough to feel like thunder.
"So," Madara continued, voice smooth but final, "try not to defy him. Can you do that, Itachi?"
She raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. If Madara didn't tell the story, it wasn't meant to be told.
And behind the ask was something else—a quiet command. A leader's tone.
Itachi had never disappointed Madara. She didn't intend to start now.
She bowed her head once. "Of course, Uncle."
Madara gave a single nod. "Good. I told him you'll stop by his office after classes."
Itachi stood smoothly, heels clicking against the polished floor.
She bowed to the entire table—graceful, elegant, unreadable.
"I'll see you all in the evening."
And with that, she turned and walked out, the tote on her shoulder, her chin held high.
The Uchiha estate stood quiet and dignified in the morning light, towering like an old-world palace carved into the edge of Tokyo. The iron gates opened without a sound.
Waiting in the circular driveway, a sleek black Rolls-Royce Phantom gleamed under the sky, engine already humming. The family crest—a red fan, minimalist and menacing—was subtly stitched into the leather of the door.
An assistant in a dark suit opened it wordlessly as Itachi stepped down the polished steps.
She said nothing. Just slid into the back seat like a queen entering her carriage.
Genma, her driver, adjusted the rearview mirror with a familiar smile. "Ready for university, Itachi-sama?"
She exhaled softly, crossing her legs. "A little disappointing, honestly. Uncle Madara still won't let me drive."
Genma chuckled, warm and unoffended. "Well, I'm honored I still have the opportunity to drive the Uchiha princess—if only for a little longer."
Itachi tilted her head, eyes on her reflection in the tinted glass. "It's not that I don't enjoy being driven. But sometimes I don't want to call you just to meet up with friends, you know?"
Genma glanced at her in the mirror. "I'm always here for you, Itachi-sama."
She didn't answer.
Instead, she looked out the window, watching the gates close behind them. The gardens, the fountains, the guards. All of it fading behind steel and glass.
Of course Madara wouldn't let her drive. She knew why.
Uncle Izuna's accident. Uncle Kagami's wreck. Both vehicles—both tragedies—linked to "unfortunate tragedy." Both happening within months of rising conflict with the Senju.
Madara never said it outright. But everyone knew. The Uchiha didn't believe in coincidence.
Now all their drivers were professionals. Retired racers, former black ops transport agents. Genma had once driven a Formula 3 circuit before he traded speed for silence.
Still… she wanted to drive her own Lamborghini.
Maybe not for the freedom. Just for the rebellion.
Her phone buzzed against the leather seat, lighting up with familiar names and a flash of red: [Akatsuki Group Chat]
The only group chat she never muted.
️Konan: You guys better hurry. Our dean of faculty is young and hot. He's teaching stats and economics. First period. Big brain energy.
Izumi: Will be there in 5.
Deidara: Not interested in nerds. Unless he can sculpt.
Kakuzu: Girls, please exclude us from this narrative.
Hidan: What? I like hearing their opinions on guys. It's fun.
Nagato: It's not.
Sasori: I second this.
Deidara: Itachi you're awfully quiet. You not curious about the new professor?
Itachi sighed, head resting against the cool glass.
She typed back lazily.
Itachi: What's the point if I'm going to execute him anyway.
Kakuzu: Placing a bet: first five minutes before she breaks him.
Sasori: If he's the stats/econ guy, he might actually be smart. I give him ten.
Izumi: I'm in class and OMG he is HANDSOME. Itachi, ETA?
Itachi rolled her eyes and tapped Genma on the shoulder.
"How long?"
"Fifteen minutes," he said without glancing back.
She stared at her screen a moment longer.
Then:
Itachi: Twenty.
The Rolls-Royce pulled up to the university's front entrance, its engine purring to a stop like a well-trained beast.
Itachi stepped out without a word, heels meeting stone with a quiet, definitive click. Genma closed the door behind her with practiced silence.
The hallways were empty.
Of course they were.
Everyone else was already in class.
She didn't rush. Didn't even pretend to.
Her stride was unhurried, hips swaying slightly beneath the beige Prada dress, the black Birkin tote swinging from one hand. Her sunglasses stayed on until she reached the lecture hall door.
Then—without knocking she opened it.
The room fell silent.
Every seat was full. Her friends—Akatsuki turned toward her like a row of smug wolves.
Hidan grinned wide, practically vibrating with anticipation.
Deidara adjusted her high ponytail with slow dramatic flair and leaned back, arms crossed like she'd ordered popcorn.
Konan smirked without looking up from her notes.
Nagato, Sasori, Kakuzu didn't smile, but the corners of their mouths twitched. This was ritual. And they loved it.
And at the front of the room—
Silver hair.
A fitted charcoal suit.
Sharp eyes behind the faint shadow of a mask-like expression.
You wouldn't think someone that young could already be teaching two majors.
You wouldn't think someone that tired-looking could be that handsome.
Itachi didn't blink.
She walked to the back of the room, chin high, posture perfect. No apology. No words. No shame.
She slid into the empty seat beside Deidara like she was sitting on a throne.
Deidara leaned over and whispered, "He looked up your name when you walked in."
Itachi set her bag down and murmured back, "Good. He'll need it."
Kakashi didn't pause the lecture. Didn't look up. He was still scribbling a formula on the whiteboard when he said, cool and clear:
"Itachi Uchiha. So nice of you to join us."
The room stilled. Konan blinked. Hidan stifled a laugh. Deidara smiled like she'd been waiting for this all morning.
Kakashi finally turned, a marker still in his hand.
"I hope Tokyo traffic wasn't too hard on your driver."
The insult slid under her skin like silk-dipped steel.
Itachi crossed her legs slowly, unbothered, and tilted her head. "We took the scenic route. I wanted to see what punctuality looked like."
He raised an eyebrow. No smirk. No frown. Just a subtle nod—acknowledging the jab, but unmoved.
"Since you made such an entrance," he continued, "feel free to explain the difference between nominal and real GDP growth."
The entire class turned.
She glanced at Deidara, who was trying not to grin. Then back at him.
Itachi opened her mouth—then closed it. Slowly leaned back in her chair and said nothing.
Kakashi waited a beat, then clicked the cap on his marker.
"Not interested in nerds, I believe was the phrase?"
Deidara actually choked.
Itachi narrowed her eyes, but her lips curled into something that wasn't quite a smile.
Alright, she thought. Let's play, Professor.
She reached lazily into her tote, pulled out a pen she had no intention of using, and flipped open her blank notebook. The board was half-filled with equations she didn't bother trying to decipher.
Then she heard it.
"Marked absent."
It came flatly from the front of the room, as if it were already done.
Her eyes flicked up. "I was late by sixteen minutes."
Kakashi didn't even glance at her this time. He turned back to the board, already writing again.
"I can forgive sixteen minutes," he said. "If next time you can repeat what I lectured while you were absent."
A pause. Marker against the board. Nothing else.
Itachi stared at the back of his head, pen frozen over her empty page.
She didn't respond. Not right away.
But she felt it.
The turn of heads. The low ripple of motion beside her.
Akatsuki was watching.
Deidara raised an eyebrow without saying a word.
Konan bit the inside of her cheek, fighting a smirk.
Izumi grinned.
Hidan looked positively delighted.
Nagato didn't blink.
Sasori checked his watch.
And Kakuzu?
He exhaled through his nose.
"Five minutes," he muttered under his breath, disgruntled. "Unbelievable."
Itachi stared at her blank notebook, lips pressed into a calm line.
Sixteen minutes late. One sharp remark. And already she was losing.
She didn't lose.
Not in heels. Not in this family.
Her pen tapped once against the page, as if considering her options.
Then she looked up, locked eyes with Kakashi's back, her voice cut through the room—smooth, almost polite.
"Your jacket is marked, Mister."
He paused, glancing down, then over his shoulder. Nothing visible.
"Where?" he asked without turning fully.
She smiled faintly.
"It's marked by inexperience."
The silence hit like a pin drop in a glass room.
Kakashi's hand stopped midair. His posture didn't change, but something behind his eyes shifted—subtle, unreadable.
At the back of the room, Akatsuki held their laughter.
Deidara grinned like she'd waited years for this.
Hidan mouthed holy shit.
Even Nagato looked mildly intrigued.
Kakashi turned slightly, voice level.
"Big words from someone with an empty notebook."
Itachi uncapped her pen with a soft click. "Then teach me something worth writing down."
Kakashi turned back to face her fully this time, tone still calm but just edged with frost.
"'Mister'? This isn't a bar, Miss Uchiha."
Itachi rested her chin on her hand, perfectly poised.
"Apologies. I must've missed your introduction."
She let it hang for a beat.
"If you'd like me to address you properly, you should reintroduce yourself."
Gasps weren't allowed in Akatsuki circles, but Deidara looked one breath away from a courtroom objection.
Hidan let out a low whistle.
Even Konan's pen stilled mid-sentence.
Kakashi blinked once. Just once.
"I see we've skipped formalities."
His voice was still calm, but there was steel in it now.
"I'm Hatake Kakashi. Your professor for both macroeconomics and statistics this term. And dean of faculty for the rest of your years in this university."
He looked directly at her.
"You will address me as Hatake-sensei."
No raised voice. No sarcasm. Just quiet authority wrapped in velvet.
Then, as if nothing had happened, he turned back to the board and pointed at the formula halfway across it.
"Now. This—" he tapped it lightly "—is the foundation of every inflation model we'll be building this semester."
A pause.
"Understood, Miss Uchiha?"
Every eye in the room snapped back to her.
Itachi's lips parted, just barely.
Then, with exquisite control, she inclined her head.
"Understood… Hatake-sensei."
Kakashi didn't smile.
But she caught the flicker in his eye.
Her phone buzzed once under the desk. Then again. Then four times in rapid succession.
[Akatsuki Group Chat]
Deidara: You roasted him alive. I smelled smoke.
️Konan: Did he just…introduce himself because you didn't call him sensei? That's so petty I almost respect it."
Kakuzu: I lost my bet but regained faith in natural order.
Hidan: Yo that "your jacket is marked" line? Brutal. I'm stealing it for arguments.
Nagato: He held his ground. Barely.
Sasori: His hand twitched when you made him say his name. That was real.
Izumi: So… did you win or not?
Itachi didn't reply right away. She watched Kakashi finish writing, posture steady, voice precise.
Then she typed:
Itachi: He cracked for a second. But didn't break. That's interesting.
And that was all she said.
The last slide of the lecture faded from the screen. Chairs shifted. Pens clicked. A few students started to close their notebooks, sensing freedom.
Kakashi didn't move.
"I'm not finished."
The class froze.
He placed the marker down with deliberate calm, hands slipping into his pockets as he stepped in front of the podium—still, controlled, absolutely unshaken.
"As dean of the Business Faculty, I take special interest in the first-year cohort. Some of you come from powerful families. Others clawed your way in. I don't care which."
Silence. Attention snapped to full.
"What I do care about," he continued, "is results."
He paced once across the front of the room—slow and measured.
"This university doesn't reward ambition alone. You'll be judged on precision. Strategy. Adaptability. I expect you to treat this program as your first real negotiation."
He stopped. Met the eyes of every student with clinical efficiency.
"Late attendance," he said, tone unchanging, "will be followed by punishment. And no—don't expect detention. That's for children."
He looked straight at Itachi.
"You'll simply be publicly corrected."
He let the words settle before adding, with almost no inflection:
"And for those who find titles optional—respect is not."
He didn't say her name.
He didn't have to.
Itachi's chin lifted by a fraction. Hidan bit back a snort. Konan stared forward like a statue.
Kakashi let the silence stretch just long enough to sting.
"Any questions?"
Not a hand moved.
"Good. You'll find your semester briefing online. Read it. Or don't. It's your GPA."
Kakashi let the silence hang for one final moment. Then:
"One last thing."
His gaze slid back to Itachi, calm and deliberate.
"Miss Uchiha. Since you arrived late today, you'll begin our next session by summarizing this lecture. Five minutes, uninterrupted."
He didn't smirk.
But everyone could feel it.
"I assume you'll be on time."
Itachi didn't react.
Kakashi picked up his tablet, tapped it once, and added:
"Dismissed."
The door clicked shut behind Kakashi.
It took less than a second.
Izumi leaned forward first, chin in her palm, eyes glittering.
"So. What do you guys think about him?"
Deidara blew a strand of hair out of her face.
"Smart. Annoying. Smug. I love him."
Konan arched a brow. "You love everyone who ignores you."
"I said what I said."
Hidan stretched, chair creaking obnoxiously.
"Ten outta ten. Hope he gives me detention."
Nagato didn't look up from his notes. "You say that about traffic cops."
Kakuzu muttered, "I'm changing majors."
Sasori stared straight ahead. "He's dangerous."
Deidara snorted. "That's why he's hot."
Then all eyes turned to Itachi.
She didn't speak. Just adjusted the strap of her Birkin tote, crossed her legs, and stared at the empty board like it had personally offended her.
"Well?" Izumi nudged her. "What's the verdict, little princess?"
Itachi finally looked up.
"He plays chess."
Deidara smirked. "And?"
She stood, elegant as ever.
"I prefer fire."
The rest of the day dragged.
English was first. Kurenai-sensei wore a cherry-print blouse and had the strained patience of someone who had taught rich kids before. But Itachi's English was flawless—native-level. Accent perfect. So flawless, in fact, that Kurenai didn't even glance at her when she and Deidara spent the entire class playing tic-tac-toe on the back of a Gucci receipt.
Itachi won every round. Obviously.
History followed. Asuma-sensei looked like he wanted to be anywhere else, preferably somewhere with cigarettes and fewer students named Uchiha.
When Itachi corrected his third-century date range and questioned his geopolitical interpretation in the first three minutes, he sighed, rubbed his temples, and gave up.
She started painting her nails.
No one stopped her.
By the end of the last period, students stood in lazy waves, gathering their bags. The hall buzzed with light chatter and the hum of relief.
Itachi rose from her seat and adjusted her dress.
"My uncle asked me to swing by the director's office," she said, voice casual. "You don't have to wait."
Deidara popped her gum. "Alright. But we're celebrating university this weekend. Mandatory."
"Even Kakuzu," Hidan added.
"I hate all of you," Kakuzu muttered.
Itachi didn't answer. She just turned, heels tapping lightly against the floor as she made her way toward the director's cabinet.
The hallway cleared around her like fog parting for a knife.
Time to meet the man her uncle owed a favor to.
Minato Namikaze.
The director's office was on the top floor. Of course it was.
Glass walls, clean lines, soft lighting, and far too many awards on polished shelves. The place smelled like citrus and ambition.
Itachi knocked once, then opened the door.
Minato Namikaze looked exactly like the rumors said he would—golden-haired, blue-eyed, smile like a postcard. Tall, tailored, perfectly harmless.
A male Deidara with less chaos and more dental care.
Prince Charming. Yawn.
He stood when she entered, all warmth and welcome. "You must be Itachi Uchiha."
His voice was gentle. Like a politician. Or a cult leader.
Itachi gave the barest of polite nods. "My uncle asked me to visit you after classes."
Minato gestured to the seat across from his desk. "Please, sit."
She did, legs crossed, expression composed.
"So," he asked, still smiling, "how was your first day? Liking the university so far?"
Itachi folded her hands over her knee.
"The fountains are well-positioned."
He blinked. "The fountains?"
"Yes. Though I would add rose bushes around the bases." She tilted her head slightly. "It elevates the view. And it keeps students from sitting on the edge."
Minato stared for a beat. Then laughed softly.
"That's… impressively observant."
She didn't smile. Just waited.
Minato folded his hands on the desk, still smiling, but there was something behind his eyes now. A subtle shift in the current. Polite men were always the most dangerous—they didn't need to raise their voices to make a room obey.
"I'm not here to police your academic performance," he said gently. "You can hand in blank exam sheets if you'd like. That's your right."
Itachi tilted her head slightly, waiting for the catch.
"You'll fail those exams, of course," he added, still with that diplomatic warmth, "but that's your business."
A pause.
"What you can't do is skip class."
He said it like a reminder. Not a warning. But the weight landed just the same.
"It reflects poorly on the university. Especially when your surname is stamped all over the press releases we send to alumni donors."
Itachi didn't speak.
Minato's tone remained friendly, but his words sharpened as he went on.
"You're free to spar with your professors. Debate them. Humiliate them with facts if you must. But you will follow protocol."
He let that linger.
"If a professor punishes you for breaking a rule, the rule stands. There will be no special exemptions. If there are, we look incompetent."
His smile softened again.
"That's all I ask."
Itachi inclined her head—smooth, diplomatic.
And beneath the table, her nails dug lightly into her palm.
She didn't lose. Not to golden boys in pastel lighting.
But for now, she would behave.
Because Uncle asked.
Minato leaned back slightly in his chair, still all charm and clean lines.
"Though I think you'll thrive here," he said, "especially with your dean."
He tapped the edge of his tablet once.
"Kakashi Hatake is… very disciplined."
There was no change in tone. No raised brow. No smirk.
But Itachi didn't know if that was a compliment or a slap to her face.
All she knew was that the only thing that unnerved her more than men like Kakashi were men like Minato.
The ones who smiled while they played you.
She folded her hands neatly in her lap.
"How long has Professor Hatake been teaching?" she asked, tone feather-light. "Given his age, I wouldn't assume he's… seasoned."
Minato didn't flinch.
"Professor Hatake was my best student."
The warmth didn't waver, but something cold had settled behind his words.
"He graduated university at eighteen. Master at nineteen. Became a professor at twenty-one."
Itachi didn't respond.
Minato glanced at his tablet once more, then looked back at her with that same charming, unbothered smile.
"And one more thing," he added casually. "Our university has mandatory sports lessons."
Itachi blinked, the smile on her lips flickering like a dying flame.
"I assume," he continued, voice smooth, "you have sneakers somewhere in your wardrobe."
She inhaled slowly. Quietly. As if enduring a personal tragedy.
Then she smiled.
"There's nothing that can't be bought with money."
Minato chuckled, warm as ever.
"Very good," he said. "I'm excited to have you in this university."
Itachi stood. Graceful, silent.
She inclined her head in a gesture so poised it was nearly a dismissal.
Then, without another word, she turned and walked out of the office, heels tapping a rhythm more dangerous than any anthem.
The door to the director's office clicked softly behind her.
Itachi adjusted the strap of her tote, smoothed a wrinkle from her dress—small, ritual movements.
Then she looked up.
Kakashi was walking toward her.
Alone. Calm. Hands in his pockets. Eyes sharp above the faintest slouch in his posture, like nothing in the world could startle him—not even her.
Their eyes met as he passed.
He didn't stop.
"Director didn't scare you off, I hope," he said, almost conversational.
Itachi didn't pause either. Her voice was silk over steel.
"I've had more threatening conversations with my cat."
His pace didn't change. Neither did hers.
But the corner of his mouth lifted—barely.
He disappeared through the same door she'd just left.
She didn't look back.
She didn't call for Genma.
Didn't text the driver. Didn't head to the designated pickup zone where the Rolls-Royce usually waited with the engine already humming.
Instead, Itachi walked.
The polished shoes, the tailored dress, the red-tinged lips—all of it too refined for the cracked sidewalks and neon signs. But she walked anyway, heels tapping softly between the chaos of vending machines and rusted alleyways, ramen steam and traffic hum.
Since childhood, her life had been a string of destinations. Estate to embassy, meeting to mansion. Always encased in leather seats and tinted windows. A golden egg with wheels.
Not that she ever complained.
But walking—just walking—had something raw to it. The movement. The people. The smell of grilled skewers. The noise that didn't try to be polite.
She passed a group of students laughing on the steps of a convenience store. No guards. No handlers. Just cheap drinks and inside jokes.
Her hand moved without thinking, fingers slipping into her coat pocket and pulling out her phone.
[Akatsuki Group Chat]
Itachi: Meeting was awful. I can't skip classes. Apparently rules apply to me now.
She hit send and kept walking.
The streetlights buzzed faintly above her, and for the first time all day—
She wasn't being watched.
Just seen.
Her phone buzzed in her hand before she could even pocket it.
Deidara: Wait what? You can't skip? Are we in a school or a prison?
️Konan: This director is brave. Like. Myth-level brave.
Sasori: He must know you'll listen to Madara.
Hidan: He looked like a tax accountant with beach hair. I didn't expect this power level.
Nagato: Respect. Reluctantly.
Itachi: Turned out our professor was his former student.
Kakuzu: Ah. That explains the position.
Deidara: LMAO he's playing favorites with that emotionless prodigy energy.
Itachi stared at the thread for a second.
Then sent:
Itachi: I know how to roast him next time.
And just like that, the city around her blurred again. Horns. Neon signs. Steam curling from takoyaki stands.
But her mind?
Already sharpening knives for tomorrow.
She turned the corner near the train station, still scrolling the chat, when it happened.
A blur of motion. Fast. Sloppy.
Someone slammed into her shoulder, yanked her tote, and kept running.
She didn't scream.
She didn't chase.
She just stood there, blinking, wrist slightly sore where the strap had caught.
The bag was gone. Birkin, full contents. Not that she cared. Nothing inside couldn't be replaced.
She sighed, already reaching for her phone to call Genma when—
"HEY!"
A deeper voice rang out, rough and unpolished.
From a nearby ramen stand, a tall figure had stood up. Towering. Muscular. T-shirt stretched across his frame like it regretted its choices. A scar trailed down his face. Blue-grey hair pulled back in a low, messy tie. He sprinted after the thief like it was instinct.
The thief didn't make it ten meters.
One sharp blow. A clatter of limbs. A crunch.
Itachi watched, arms crossed, as the man casually retrieved her bag and walked back like he was just returning someone's umbrella.
He held it out.
"You dropped this."
She looked him up and down.
Definitely not a salaryman. Maybe a gym addict. More likely a gangster. Or someone who used to be.
She took the bag. "Thank you."
Then, without changing expression, she opened it and pulled out a clean, banded stack of ryo.
He scoffed.
"You filthy rich people think everything's solved with money."
Itachi tilted her head, genuinely curious. "Is it not?"
Before he could answer, another man stepped out from the ramen shop behind him, carrying two steaming bowls.
Shorter, meaner-looking. Shark eyes and a permanent scowl.
"Kisame," he barked, "ramen's ready."
The tall man—Kisame, apparently—turned slightly, clicking his tongue as he looked back at her.
"You don't buy kindness with money…or feelings."
Then, half under his breath as he walked away—
"That's why rich girls were never my type."
Itachi stood still, watching the broad figure disappear into the night haze, steam rising from the ramen bowls like ghosts between him and the world.
He didn't even glance back.
Interesting.
She had melted men in negotiation rooms with nothing but a glance. CEOs. Politicians. Oil heirs. They stammered when she smiled. They sweated when she crossed her legs.
And this man?
This street-level nobody didn't even take the money.
She lifted her phone and texted Genma.
[Location Pin: Request Pickup]
Then opened the group chat.
Itachi: Do poor people like money?
The reply came immediately.
Kakuzu: Even hell runs on money. Rich, poor, doesn't matter. Everyone needs it.
Itachi: I just met a guy from the streets who refused a stack of ryo.
Kakuzu: Maybe he escaped from a mental hospital.
Deidara: Or maybe he's hot?
Hidan: If he's got forearms and trauma I'm listening.
Izumi: Photos or it didn't happen.
Itachi didn't respond.
She just leaned against the nearest wall, watching city lights blur like watercolor through glass.
A man who didn't want her money.
Now that was rare.
The mansion was quiet when she stepped in—lamplit, marble-cool, and far too pristine. The usual scent of incense curled faintly through the air.
In the garden-view lounge, Po lounged like royalty on the velvet chaise.
Sasuke sat beside him, one hand rhythmically brushing through the cat's thick fur. He didn't look up until she neared.
"Nee-san," he said, "how was your first day?"
She smiled faintly, sliding out of her coat. "Boring. As always."
Sasuke smirked. "As expected."
"And you?" she asked, arching a brow. "Already leading the class scoreboard?"
"Of course."
She laughed softly. "That's my little brother."
She walked toward him, heels quieter now on home ground.
"How's the new class dynamic?"
Sasuke leaned back. "I met an interesting boy."
"Oh?"
"He's weird," he said, frowning slightly. "Bottom of the class but always smiling. Confident. Overly positive."
He said it like it was a disorder.
"He's called Naruto Uzumaki."
Itachi raised a brow. "Sounds like the rule-breaking type. I'm the same."
Sasuke scoffed. "No way. You're actually smart. Everyone knows that if you studied you'd get all A's."
He crossed his arms. "This one's… dumb."
Itachi's smile didn't falter.
"Well," she said, stepping out of her heels, "don't judge people so quickly. You might regret underestimating them."
Sasuke looked thoughtful. Then he shrugged. "We'll see."
A moment later, footsteps echoed.
Obito leaned against the doorway, grinning. "You skipped dinner."
Shisui followed behind, sleeves rolled, brow raised. "Walking Tokyo streets again?"
Itachi rolled her eyes and walked past them both.
"You two know me well."
Sasuke stood and stretched. "You should've seen how worried Dad was. He thought you skipped your first day entirely."
He paused at the stairs.
"Anyway. I have homework. Congrats on not burning down your university."
Then he vanished up the stairs, like smoke.
Obito sat down on the steps.
Shisui leaned against the rail beside him, arms crossed. "So?"
Judging by your face," he said, "you spared some professors today."
Itachi sighed.
These two. She could always talk to them.
She leaned against the railing, slowly removing her earrings, letting the day fall away piece by piece.
"So today," she began, "my life completely went out of orbit."
Obito raised a brow. Shisui grinned.
"I couldn't verbally execute a professor in the first five minutes. I can't skip classes. And apparently… I'll be punished for breaking rules."
She looked off toward the city lights past the window. Then, almost as an afterthought:
"And… I just met a guy from the streets who didn't take my money."
Obito and Shisui stared.
Itachi didn't elaborate.
Po meowed, unimpressed.
Obito let out a low whistle, arms resting over his knees.
"Sounds like you finally tasted some real life," he said, smiling like he'd been waiting years for this. "Told you—outside this mansion, everything's different."
Shisui nudged his uncle with a knowing look.
"You're the one who spends the most time on the streets out of all of us," he said, deadpan. "Of course you sound like a wise monk now."
Obito shrugged. "You should get out too, Shisui. Leave responsibility alone for a bit. Go touch some asphalt."
Itachi shook her head slowly, half-smiling, half-exhausted.
"Somehow," she murmured, "I'm tired."
She stepped off the stairs, already unpinning her hair.
"I'm going to take a shower and hope I don't get nightmares about a silver-haired professor and a blue-haired street gangster."
Po meowed again.
Shisui smirked. "If they show up together, let us know."
Obito laughed. "That's a crossover episode I'd pay to see."
Itachi didn't answer.
She was already walking away, bare feet silent on the floor.