The sake cup trembled in his calloused hands, he hadn't touched the drink – couldn't bring himself to..

"They called Sakumo a genius too." His voice was rough. "The White Fang of Konoha. Pride of the village, they said. Until he wasn't. Until he chose humanity over duty, mercy over mission. And what did they give him in return? Scorn. Contempt. They drove him to his blade, and his son found him in a pool of his own blood."

She sat across from him, her usually stern features softened by the flickering candlelight and something deeper – fear, perhaps, or understanding. The kitchen walls seemed to lean in, listening to truths rarely spoken aloud.

"And then there was his boy. Kakashi. Another genius." He traced the rim of the cup with a scarred finger. "Breaking records, becoming jonin before most children finish learning their basic forms. They called him Friend-Killer Kakashi after that mission. He was thirteen. Thirteen, and carrying the weight of his teammate's death."

A tear slid down her cheek, but she remained silent. Some truths needed witness, not counsel.

"Shisui of the Body Flicker," he continued, his voice growing hoarse. "They found him in the Nara River last spring. The official report says suicide. But I saw his face when they pulled him from the water. Both eyes gone. Both eyes gone, and they dare call it suicide." He shook his head slowly, shadows dancing across his face. "He was sixteen. Sixteen, and they called him a genius too."

The wind picked up outside, rattling the shoji screens like angry ghosts demanding audience.

"And Itachi." The name fell from his lips like poison, bitter and burning. "The pride of the Uchiha. ANBU captain at thirteen. The perfect shinobi, they said. The perfect weapon." His knuckles whitened around the cup. "Now the streets of the Uchiha district run red with the blood of his kin, and they call him traitor. But I saw him grow up. Watched him carry his little brother on his shoulders, saw the gentleness in his hands when he trained the younger children. There are too many pieces that don't fit, too many shadows that don't align."

She reached across the table, her fingers brushing his wrist. "My love—"

"Do you know what they all had in common?" He pulled away, standing abruptly. The sake cup clattered against the table, spilling clear liquid like tears. "They were all geniuses. All of them burned too bright, too fast. The village saw their brilliance and carved them into weapons, used them until they broke or burned or bled."

He walked to the window, where the moon hung low and heavy in the sky, casting long shadows across the Nara compound. In the garden below, a small figure stood motionless, head tilted back to study the stars. The boy's shadow stretched behind him like a prophecy, dark and endless against the silver-painted grass.

"They're all gone now," he whispered, pressing his palm against the cool glass. "Broken or dead or mad. And my son—" His voice cracked, a sound like splitting wood in winter.

She was beside him now, her own tears falling freely. Together they watched their child, their brilliant, lazy, beautiful boy, who could outthink men four times his age, who saw patterns in chaos and solutions in shadows.

The last words came out as a whisper, a confession to the night itself:

"And my son is one of them."

The clouds drifted lazily across the evening sky, their edges gilded by the setting sun. Shikamaru felt his parents' eyes on him from the window above.

A sigh escaped his lips.

Governor David Matthews of Georgia – the thought still struck him as absurd sometimes, like a half-remembered dream. The kind of dream where you're giving a State of the Union address in your underwear, except he'd actually been wearing pants, thank god, when that private plane decided to introduce itself to his motorcade.

How did he get hit by a literal plane? He didn't know. But physics definitely had some opinions about that particular meeting.

The memories of his past life flickered through his mind like an old film reel, scratched and fading at the edges. SEAL training in the biting cold of the Pacific. CIA operations in countries whose names never appeared in official reports. Years of public service culminating in a governor's mansion and a security detail that, ironically, couldn't protect him from aerial traffic accidents.

And then... darkness. Followed by the most undignified entrance possible into his new world – screaming, covered in substances he'd rather not think about, and completely lacking in motor control. Being reborn as Shikamaru Nara would have been surprising enough, but the real shock was discovering he wasn't just inhabiting the body. He was Shikamaru, with all the original's memories and characteristics woven through with threads of David's experience. More Nara than Matthews, but with enough of the former SEAL's drive to make things... interesting.

A bird landed nearby, pecking at something in the grass. Shikamaru watched it with the calculated awareness he'd never quite managed to shed from his special operations days. Old habits died hard, even when reborn into a fictional universe that he'd once binged-watched during late-night security briefings.

Speaking of which...

"Troublesome," he muttered, though there was no heat in it. The memory that had prompted his evening cloud-watching session bubbled up again: that moment of pure, crystalline terror when he'd realized exactly what kind of world he'd been reborn into. He'd been reading one of his father's scrolls about ninjutsu when it hit him – the masked man, Obito, or was it Tobi? His memories of the series were frustratingly fuzzy, could literally appear out of thin air.

The thought had sent him into such a panic that he'd pissed himself right there in his father's study. Not his proudest moment, especially given his combined mental age, but in his defense... dimensional teleportation. The man could appear inside your clothes if he wanted to.

"That's it," he'd declared to his empty room that day. "I'm getting strong enough to at least give that masked menace a wedgie of his own if he tries anything."

Of course, that wasn't the only reason. He couldn't quite suppress the small smile that tugged at his lips as he remembered his past life's somewhat embarrassing dedication to ninja training. David Matthews, decorated SEAL and CIA operative, had spent his precious free time practicing hand signs in front of a mirror and running up trees. Who knew that particular bit of weebery would end up being relevant job training?

But if he was being honest – and he tried to be, at least with himself – the real reason ran deeper. Every time his mother's hand brushed through his hair, every time his father's eyes crinkled with pride and worry, he felt it. Love. Pure, unconditional, and terrifyingly real. He was Shikamaru Nara, and these were his parents, and the thought of anything happening to them made his chest tight in a way that no amount of tactical training could have prepared him for.

His fingers traced the edges of the book hidden in his jacket – "Chakra for Dummies," borrowed (stolen) from his father's library. He'd caught Shikaku's knowing smile when the book had "mysteriously" disappeared, but his father had said nothing. The man was probably happy to see any sign of initiative from his supposedly lazy son.

If only the book was actually helping. All those fanfictions he'd read in his past life made chakra manipulation sound as easy as breathing. Just feel for the warm energy inside you, they said. Just imagine a leaf sticking to your forehead, they said. Well, he'd been trying for months now, and all he had to show for it was an intimate knowledge of what failure felt like and a growing collection of leaves that stubbornly refused to stick to any part of his anatomy.

The book hadn't been entirely useless though. The theoretical foundations were solid, explaining chakra's dual nature of physical and spiritual energy. The problem was that everything he'd brought from his past life – the military training, the CIA tradecraft, the political acumen – seemed to be working against him. His spiritual energy was... complicated. Like trying to tune two radios to the same frequency while they're playing different songs.

A soft breeze rustled through the trees, carrying the scent of dinner from the kitchen. His mother was cooking mackerel – his favorite. Or rather, Shikamaru's favorite. David had been more of a steak man, but these days the mere thought of mackerel made his mouth water. Yet another reminder of how thoroughly merged he'd become with his new self.

He soon abandoned his cloud gazing and entered the kitchen. His parents' conversation died like a candle in the wind, leaving only the sizzling of mackerel and the soft bubbling of miso soup in its wake.

"I believe this belongs to you, Dad." Shikamaru pulled the book from his jacket, placing it on the table with exaggerated care.

Shikaku's eyebrow rose slightly, amusement dancing in his eyes. "Does it now? Funny, I don't recall lending it to you."

"Eh?" Shikamaru scratched his head, the picture of innocence. "Must have been a dream then. Dreams, reality – it all gets a bit troublesome to keep track of sometimes."

His mother's spoon clattered against the pot harder than necessary, but there was a softness around her mouth that betrayed her attempt at sternness. "Dreams don't usually leave footprints in the study, Shikamaru."

"The mysteries of the shinobi world," he shrugged, sliding into his seat at the table.

The conversation lulled as his mother served dinner, steam rising from the bowls like morning mist over the Nara forest. Shikamaru picked at his rice, his mind wandering down paths well-worn by recent contemplation. The question that had been gnawing at him finally slipped out, almost of its own accord.

"Dad... why hasn't there ever been a Nara who was considered one of the strongest in the village?"

The chopsticks in Shikaku's hand paused halfway to his mouth. His father set them down slowly, deliberately. "What makes you say that?"

"Well..." Shikamaru pushed a piece of mackerel around his plate, organizing his thoughts. "We hear names around the house. Itachi Uchiha, Kakashi of the Sharingan, the Legendary Sannin... even that scary guy with the snakes. They're all known for being incredibly strong, each in their own way. But I've never heard of a Nara mentioned like that."

His father's eyes sharpened, though his posture remained relaxed. "And you think our shadow techniques aren't strong?"

"No, that's not..." Shikamaru frowned, trying to articulate the nebulous thoughts that had been swimming through his mind. "It's like... imagine a kunai. Everyone knows how to use one, right? But then someone comes along and figures out how to make it explode, or teleport, or multiply. They took something basic and made it extraordinary." He paused, memories of both lives helping him find the words. "Our shadows... they feel like an unfinished story."

Shikaku was silent for a long moment, his eyes distant. "The Nara have always been known for our minds rather than our might. We found our place, our role, and we excelled at it. Some might say we grew... comfortable."

"But the shadows themselves..." Shikamaru leaned forward, his food forgotten. "They're more than just tools for binding, aren't they? If chakra can shape them, control them..." He trailed off, remembering the way shadows danced on his bedroom wall at night, how they seemed to… whisper to him.

His father's expression shifted, almost imperceptibly. "The strain of maintaining complex shadow manipulation increases exponentially with each variation. The chakra cost alone—"

"But what if we could overcome that?" The words tumbled out before he could stop them. "If we focused on building larger chakra reserves, on understanding the fundamental nature of shadow manipulation rather than just its applications—"

"Enough." Shikaku's voice was quiet but firm. Shikamaru caught the quick glance his parents exchanged. "Some paths are better left unexplored, especially at your age."

The silence that followed was thick with things unsaid. Shikamaru could feel the weight of his father's worry. He wanted to explain that he understood the risks, that he wasn't seeking power for power's sake, maybe he did, but that wasn't the point.