Mukai Kohinata stood at the door of his son's hospital room, the pulse pounding in his ears, a dull, relentless rhythm. The messenger had come and gone, leaving nothing behind but words and implications enough to make Mukai abandon a mission halfway done. He pushed open the door and frowned. There, by his son's bed, sat a teen.
The young man looked up. Long dark hair fell over his shoulders, the clan emblem on his back, unmistakable even in the dim light. An Uchiha, Mukai thought. He stepped inside, closing the door behind him, his eyes narrowing. The boy's gaze met his—tear troughs like dark stains beneath crimson Sharingan, flickering red and black. Shifting his gaze, Mukai frowned as it all fell into place. Itachi. Itachi Uchiha, an oft-whispered name. The air smelled of incense, and the small room pressed in on him, suffocating. He looked at his son— still unconscious, bandaged. No more harmed than he was last morning. Yet, his throat tightened.
Why was he here? The answer came to him almost before Mukai had asked it. The Uchiha needed something from him. Itachi was just their emissary. Lord Fugaku's emissary.
"Uchiha," he said finally, wary. "What are you doing here?"
Itachi stayed seated, unmoved. "Thank you for coming, Mukai-san." The words were polite, empty. The boy gestured to the chair across from him. For a moment, Mukai simply stared at the seat before moving to occupy it, his movement slow, deliberate.
"You could have found me elsewhere," he said, the irritation showing, the anger bubbling beneath the surface. "Why here?"
Itachi merely raised a brow in response. "Where else but here would you truly understand what is at stake?"
Mukai's stomach twisted, a flare of rage coming with it. "You think threatening my family will get you what it is you want from me?"
Itachi tilted his head, a slight gesture, dismissive. "No threats, Mukai-san. Only understanding. Dialogue. But time is short. We are shinobi. Let us speak plainly."
Mukai took a breath, deep. "What do you want?" he asked.
"We know about your contacts in Kirigakure," Itachi said. "We know you've been selling Konoha's secrets to fund your son's treatment."
Mukai's eyes narrowed. "Slander," he growled, his voice growing hard.
Itachi's gaze stayed fixed, unblinking. "No need for pretence, Mukai-san. As I said, we shinobi. We can speak plainly. We do not care what you do to protect your family. What matters to us is the intelligence network you have, the intel you've gathered. We want all of it—every contact, every scrap of information."
"And what if I refuse?" Mukai ventured.
The Uchiha arched a brow. "Refusal would be unwise. Again, we are not your enemy, Mukai-san. We are merely offering you a deal. One you would be well compensated for. We help each other, and we keep what we know to ourselves, away from the Hokage's ears."
The silence between them stretched, heavy with unspoken words. Mukai looked at his son, lying so still, so vulnerable. He rubbed his hand across his face, the weight of the moment pressing down. "I cannot agree to this without a guarantee of discretion and protection," he said eventually, his voice a whisper. "Can Lord Fugaku arrange that? Or do you not speak on his behalf?"
Itachi's expression softened, just a fraction. "I will pass your request on to my father."
Mukai hesitated. This was a gamble—a dangerous one. But as he looked at his son again, lying there, helpless, he knew he had been given only one path forward.
"I will await his response," Mukai said in the end.
Itachi nodded, rising to his feet. He turned to the door, pausing with his hand on the handle. "You made the right choice, Mukai. Try not to be foolish."
Then he was gone, slipping into the dark hallway, the door closing softly behind him, leaving Mukai alone, the steady, rhythmic beeping of his son's heart monitor the only sound, echoing in the suffocating silence.
Fugaku moved through the dim corridor beneath the Uchiha Police Station, his steps echoing in the darkness. The passage led to a place few knew, barred behind heavy steel doors. He nodded at the guards posted outside, their faces impassive as they unlocked the barriers, allowing him entry.
Inside was… odd. The hum of machines, the low murmur of men working. Fugaku took it in—the rows of convicts strapped to chairs, eyes vacant, tubes snaking from their bodies, electrodes fixed to their temples. It was an ugly thing, a twisting of flesh and spirit into something hollow, something less than human.
Itachi stood among them, speaking quietly to a fellow clansman who adjusted the controls on a console. The boy saw Fugaku walk in and came over, dismissing the man with a nod.
"Father," he said, bowing his head. Fugaku took a moment to observe the scene around him—the men strapped in, the glow of monitors, and the quiet efficiency of everything
"You've made quite the setup here," he said, his tone carefully measured, though there was an unmistakable note of curiosity.
Itachi allowed a small nod, turning to walk Fugaku through the facility. "We have begun processing the data we gathered. Patterns are emerging, Father. We've been analyzing trade records, market transactions, and travel logs and there are tiny inconsistencies everywhere, just marginally more than is normal. What these tell us we are still in the process of fully understanding, but I believe it's promising."
Fugaku stepped closer to one of the convicts, his gaze settling on the man's vacant eyes. "These men," he trailed off, his voice dropping to a murmur.
"They are asleep," Itachi said. "Dreaming, unaware. But they serve their purpose. Each one has been calibrated to a specific type of data, their minds trained to recognize patterns that a more general analysis might miss. It's amazing, really. They are the reason we've been able to make any significant progress at all."
Fugaku turned back to his son, something in his eyes—a flicker of pride, or perhaps unease. "And? Have you found what you were looking for?"
"Yes," Itachi said, nodding. "We've identified indicators of foreign infiltration. Cross-referencing with older records from T&I, we're starting to see a pattern. The evidence is quite compelling."
Fugaku considered this. "You've done well," he said in the end. "but you requested my presence? While this is impressive, I do hope I was summoned for something of greater importance?"
A flicker of something passed through Itachi's eyes—calculation, perhaps anticipation. "I intend to move forward with a new operation, Father," he said. "One intended to test the enemy's intelligence apparatus. I want to attempt to see if it is possible to contaminate their systems with disinformation."
Fugaku raised an eyebrow. "Disinformation?"
Itachi nodded. "Carefully crafted narratives about Konoha's military preparedness, designed to give the impression that the Leaf is eager for war. Something to give cause for hesitation to Kumo's high command. I do not feel comfortable with the askew pace at which this conflict is escalating. I have been thinking for a long time about how we could throttle things to better suit our negotiations with the Hokage. This is one of the best ideas I have been able to come up with so far."
"And you believe this will work?"
"I have some measure of faith," Itachi said. "The simulated data should be subtle enough to pass for genuine, especially if we succeed in identifying already compromised channels in Konoha's intelligence from which we can introduce these control elements."
Fugaku studied his son for a long moment, the hum of the machines filling the silence between them. Finally, he nodded. "Proceed," he said. "You have my approval."
Smiling, Itachi bowed his head. "Thank you, Father."
Fugaku shook his head as he turned to leave. "Don't forget to keep me abreast of things, understood?"
"Yes, Father."