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Chapter Text

♦

“Forget it,” Ino said, hands on her hips. “Eighty bucks or get out.”

“That thing is nowhere near worth eighty bucks. Sixty, and that’s me being generous.”

She threw herself into the battered massage chair, which groaned slightly under her weight. “It’s worth way more. The zero-gravity feature works perfectly, and Benedict Cumberbatch sat on it.”

“And if Beyoncé had ridden it, I wouldn’t care. Sixty or nothing.”

The guy was a tough negotiator, but so was everyone in Los Angeles. The city was too expensive to overpay for a second-hand massage chair. After fifteen more minutes of haggling, he got her down to sixty-seven dollars, and Ino’s bedroom was finally empty. Under different circumstances, she would have been stubborn, but her flight was in three hours, and she was fairly certain that she could not have gotten this blasted beast of a chair through airport security.

Her taxi arrived five minutes late, her flight left right on time. It was a sober farewell, but Ino wouldn’t have wanted it any other way. She would have liked to see Miley and Ana one last time, but over the years, they had scattered to different states. She had never really clicked with her new roommates.

The twelve-hour flight back to Japan was grueling. Turbulence kept her awake for most of it, the show she had downloaded turned out to be a disappointment by the second episode, and when a particularly strong jolt sent cola spilling onto her white shorts, she finally surrendered to just staring out the window while listening to her seatmate’s heavy snores. At least the flight attendants’ announcements were in Japanese. It was a small taste of home, easing her return.

The plane touched down at Narita International Airport with the first light of morning, and Ino stepped onto the tarmac, arms spread wide into the crisp new-year air. She was back. Really, truly back.

It took an hour to get through customs and catch a taxi. As the driver hefted her luggage into the trunk, she activated her new prepaid SIM card. Rebuilding her life in Japan would take time. When she had left for the U.S., she had canceled every contract, sold everything she owned. She hadn’t expected to return. Now, all she had was a single Japanese phone number.

Luckily, it was still working.

With each chime, her nerves tightened. Aside from a few New Year’s messages and the occasional comment on social media, they hadn’t spoken in years. The taxi merged onto the highway, and on the other end of the line, a familiar voice answered.

“This is Uchiha Sakura speaking.”

Ino paused for a moment to make sure she had dialed the right number. Of course she knew her childhood friend had married their childhood crush. She had received the wedding invitation four years ago and had been devastated that filming in Canada had kept her from attending. Still, hearing it out loud was something else.

“Sakura. It’s me.”

She noticed Sakura hesitate for half a beat before breaking into a delighted exclamation. “Ino! How are you? What is this number?”

“Burner phone. I’m in trouble with the Yakuza.”

“Very funny. Wait—Yakuza? Are you in Japan?” Of course she was surprised. Ino’s farewell had been meant to last forever.

“Just landed in Tokyo. Any chance you’d like to welcome me back tonight? Drinks on me.” She half-expected Sakura to say no. Her friend had built a life here, had a family, a career, responsibilities.

“Absolutely!” Sakura said, laughing. “Give me an hour to find a babysitter.”

They sorted out the details, then drifted into excited chatter until the distant cry of a child forced Sakura to hang up. Ino felt a sigh of relief bubble up in her throat. A lot had changed, but apparently not everything.

Her stay at the downtown hotel was brief. She unpacked only the essentials—toiletries, makeup, favorite clothes—then stretched the stiffness from her limbs with a jog through the nearest park. A hot shower washed away the creeping jetlag, and, just ten minutes after they were supposed to meet, Ino was sweeping into the elegant bar Sakura had picked.

It should have felt like a victory lap—coming back home after having achieved her dream.

It didn’t.

“You look very western,” Sakura teased after pulling her into a tight hug. She wasn’t wrong. The backless top and big earrings contrasted almost comically with Sakura’s floral dress and delicate necklace. “Now spill.”

“That’s not very specific.” Ino laughed.

Still, she threw herself into a whirlwind retelling of her last decade. She started with We Remember You, the Hollywood blockbuster that had first brought her to the States, then moved on to her countless talk show appearances in extravagant outfits, launching her into a world tour as a brand ambassador for a young fashion company, before she had started taking on more experimental roles in indie films to finally satisfy her artistic sensibilities, because wasn’t her life the epitome of spectacle and adventure.

Sakura was a great listener, but just as skilled a storyteller. After three gin tonics, two glasses of wine, and an impressive amount of sake, she recounted how much she had cried during Sasuke’s proposal, how she had tripped over her ridiculous wedding dress during the reception, and how pregnancy sickness had forced her to vomit into Sasuke’s house slippers.

It was close to midnight when Sakura’s phone rang, and she assured the babysitter she would be home soon.

“Already?” Ino asked, her disappointment barely hidden. She hadn’t expected their friendship to slide back into place so easily—simply catching up as if only a weekend had passed, not a whole decade. She was also rather drunk and hyped up for the juicier stories about the infamous Uchiha clan. Back when they had still resided in Konoha, Sasuke’s more extravagant cousins had often been the talk of the town. She had always wondered about his more reclusive relatives. “Can’t Sasuke cover?”

“Ahh,” Sakura hummed, waving the waiter over. “Not a good idea. One bill, please.”

Ino protested, but Sakura wouldn’t hear it. She slid her golden credit card through the reader, left a frankly ludicrous tip, and grinned.

“Wow, look at you, rich lady.” Had Ino known she wouldn’t be paying for herself, she wouldn’t have ordered the most expensive cocktails on the menu. “Do doctors make that much money nowadays?”

“Only when four-fifths of the household earnings comes from your husband. Or six-sevenths? Eight-ninths? I’ve never calculated it.”

“How much does Sasuke make anyway?”

Sakura sighed. “Way too much and way too little. Shall we split a taxi? Your hotel is on my way.”

Ino knew Tokyo well enough to know that Sakura’s neighborhood wasn’t exactly on her route. Maybe Sakura had a terrible sense of direction, or maybe she, too, wasn’t ready for the night to end and return to her happy ending with the man of her dreams.

Ino wondered.

During the taxi ride, they crammed as many words as possible into the last moments of their night, racing through the most important stories before the car pulled up to the hotel and Ino climbed out onto unsteady legs. Apparently, the drinking tolerance she had acquired in the U.S. did not extend to Japanese gin and sake. Behind her, the car window rolled down.

“You gonna make it to your room?” Sakura asked, her words slightly drawn out.

Ino shrugged. At least, it felt like she did. “Sure. I’ve found my way home with way more alcohol in my system. Thanks for the ride.” She waved as steadily as her wobbly fingers allowed, then turned.

She didn’t need help. This was fine. This was what she had wanted.

“Hey, Ino,” Sakura suddenly called out again.

Ino froze. She knew what would come next. The question had lingered between them since their phone call this morning.

“Why are you back in Japan?”

She forced herself to smile. “Random decision, you know how I roll. Good night, Sakura.”

It didn’t even begin to cover the truth.

Chapter Text

♦

Los Angeles, California—nine years earlier.

“All set for your big moment with Benedikuto Kanbabatchi?”

Ino grabbed her car keys from the kitchen counter as she passed by, throwing a murderous glare at her roommate. Miley, draped over the back of the sofa, grinned mischievously.

“Sometimes I truly hate you, Miley. Once, okay? I mispronounced his name once. You try saying it when half the necessary syllables don’t even exist in your stupid native language.”

“Ana’s from Iran, and she got it right on her first try.”

“Shut up!” Ino flung a flip-flop vaguely in Miley’s direction before jabbing an accusatory finger at her. “You’ll be groveling for my favor when I’m famous!”

“Only if you can get us a date with Ryan Gosling,” Ana teased, snapping a photo with her phone. “That’s to always remember the day our little Ino became a big star. Should I send it straight to the press or frame it in gold first?”

In a couple months, their relentless teasing would feel like friendship. For now, Ino grumbled under her breath. “Why do I live with you two again?”

“Because you can’t afford the rent alone,” they chimed in unison, breaking into exaggerated laughter. Miley spent her nights singing at a piano bar, Ana was an unfiltered stand-up comedian who thrived on controversial jokes about women drivers and stoning. None of them could afford the rent alone. At least, not yet.

Because Ino was off to something bigger. She had left everything behind in Japan for this minor supporting role, had gambled everything just for the chance to play an alcoholic hitchhiker on a quest for self-discovery. She knew the script inside out, had barely stopped rehearsing since landing in Los Angeles four months ago, only pausing long enough to tweet a photo or status update to keep her few fans engaged while they eagerly awaited the blockbuster that would introduce her to the whole world.

“Break a leg!” Ana and Miley called out as Ino opened the door. She slid on her sunglasses and blew them a kiss over her shoulder. That morning, stepping out onto the scorching streets of Los Angeles in shorts and flip-flops, Ino knew—We Remember You would be a hit.

A year later, she was proven right.

She had made it. And from here, the only way was up.

♦

Tokyo, Japan—present day.

Ino tilted her head back, gazing up at the towering skyscraper with studied indifference. The cool autumn sun splintered against pristine glass panes, casting fleeting halos across the facade—an illusion of grandeur, if one cared to look at it. She must have cared, once. Thirteen years ago, she’d stood at this very spot, staring in awe at the bold lettering that wrapped around the top three floors of the monolithic building.

Shinsei Talent Management—unchanged, just as it had been the day they had cast her for a TV ad off the streets of Tokyo during a family trip. Back then, it had terrified her.

Even now, two high school girls lingered outside, their knees trembling as they pointed reverently at the massive structure. From her seat on the opposite bench, Ino watched them for a while. Both were pretty, slim, and cute. If they had the courage to step inside, they would find a place there.

Eventually, she rose, slung her designer handbag over her shoulder, and straightened her winter coat as she crossed the threshold into the lobby.

The interior had evolved sinced she had left. New furniture in the waiting area, fresh carpeting, an unfamiliar receptionist behind the desk. Ino stated her name and asked to see Mabuchi Akane. The woman nodded, asked her to take a seat, and made a few calls. Nearly fifteen minutes passed before a soft pling signaled the elevator’s arrival, and a moment later, its metallic doors slid open, revealing a woman with short hair and a clipboard.

“Yamanaka Ino,” she announced, each step sharp and deliberate against the polished floor beneath her dark-blue leather pumps. “I never imagined you’d have the nerve to show your face here again.”

“Mabuchi. I assumed you’d be retired by now. Yet, here we both are.”

Her former manager crossed her arms over the clipboard. “I see America hasn’t made you any more polite. Shocking. What do you want?”

Ino’s fingers tightened around the handles of her handbag. “I want to talk. In your office, if possible.”

For a brief moment, Ino expected Mabuchi to burst into laughter. Instead, the stern woman studied her clipboard, jotted down a note, then nodded toward the elevator. “I can spare you ten minutes. You there,” she snapped, directing her words at the receptionist without bothering to recall her name, “I called in a few girls for assessment. Notify my assistant as soon as they arrive. He will show them around and keep them busy until I’m done.”

“Of course, Mabuchi-sama.”

Without another word, she led the way into the elevator.

The ride to the forty-eighth floor was as quiet and awkward as any other elevator ride. In the brushed steel doors, Ino caught the distorted shadow of her own silhouette, standing stiffly, pretending she wasn’t nervous about reconnecting with her old agency. The back wall of the cabin was lined with mirrors, allowing celebrities—and those desperate to be—to adjust their hair and makeup before stepping onto the management floor. Eleven years ago, Ino had done just that several times per week.

Today, she refused to turn around. She didn’t need to prove anything. With her solid international success, the agency had every reason to be glad to have her back.

Mabuchi clearly thought otherwise as she offered her the very same visitor’s chair on which she’d once had Ino sign her first contract. Her own office chair was still the same as well, growling like a lurking predator in the tense silence as she sat. Folding her hands atop the desk, she looked at Ino expectantly.

Perfect.

Ino forced her features into a composed expression and crossed her legs. “I had to return to Japan for personal reasons. My Hollywood agency has no connections or influence here.” It wasn’t the truth, but neither was it a lie.

“You need a job.”

“I want to move my career back to Japan,” Ino corrected, as if the distinction mattered. “Shinsei-Tama took a chance on me way back when I was nobody. I can’t imagine signing with another agency.”

“You wouldn’t be able to anyway. Few agencies take on aging actresses. Even fewer take aging models.”

“I’m twenty-nine. And I have experience. You can review my films and photos—”

“We Remember You, Borderline, The Projection… what was the last one called again?”

“A Barrel Of Thought.”

“Ah, yes. That was a good one,” Mabuchi said, noting something on her clipboard. “I’ve seen them all, of course. You’re good, Yamanaka. Better than three-quarters of the talents that walk through these doors every day. But I don’t need good. I need commitment.”

“I am committed.”

Contemplating, her former manager leaned back. “Very well. Send me your résumé, tapes, and portfolio by tomorrow, and I’ll see what I can do. Any roles or topics you’d refuse?”

Ino shook her head. Knowing the Japanese film industry, she’d likely refuse most of it as soon she could afford to. But she couldn’t yet. First, she had to reestablish herself on home soil, take what came, at least for a gig or two. Push through, just like she had done back in the States.

“I am open to everything,” she said. “But I do have one condition. I want full control of my own social media accounts.”

Mabuchi’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly as she weighed the risks. The drawback was obvious, but so were the benefits of signing an international actress. “No negative statements about the agency or any past, current, or potential affiliated parties.”

“Agreed.”

They shook hands, then Mabuchi called the porter to escort Ino outside. It was not the friendliest goodby, but at least a quick one.

Outside, Ino finally exhaled a raw breath. Her shoulders sagged, nearly sending her handbag tumbling onto the sun-warmed asphalt. At the last second, she caught the strap with her pinky and steadied herself with a forward step. If not for the crowd around her, she might’ve screamed. Instead, she balled her frustration into a tight fist tucked discreetly into her coat pocket.

Oh, how she loathed this stupid agency that consumed talent like gum—mashing it to a pulp and spitting it out once the flavor was gone. But she had to start somewhere. And if she was going to let herself be marketed like a commodity, then at least it would be through a company that took a smaller cut than most.

For now, she would endure it.

♣

Uchiha Itachi had always looked good in a suit and tie—the smug show-off. Perhaps that was why his wardrobe was so rigidly limited.

Despite growing up in the same household, Sasuke had rarely seen his older brother in anything other than a perfectly pressed dress shirt. The mere thought of him in sweatpants and a hoodie was absurd to the point of farce. But even in patterned underwear, Itachi would surely have delivered the ten-minute tribute to their father with the same unwavering composure and quiet authority as he currently did in his tailored suit.

Uchiha Fugaku and the UCHIHA Corp. board had funded an entire university wing, now immortalized on a golden plaque in the foyer as a gesture of gratitude. Three years of construction had transformed the site into an impressive structure housing four lecture halls and a computer lab. The seated guests—university staff, politicians, construction firm representatives, minor investors—were carefully selected. None of it fazed Itachi. He spoke with practiced precision, delivering his speech exactly as he had rehearsed it with the executive board the night before.

As the tribute ended, the university dean stepped forward, taking nearly fifteen minutes to express gratitude to the investors in grandiose terms. At last, he and Fugaku shared an oversized pair of scissors, cutting the red ribbon draped across the entrance gates that connected the main building with the new wing. The doors swung open from within, and suited staff members guided the crowd into smaller tour groups to explore the near-complete facility.

Sasuke let the other guests go ahead, joining the final group, which included the remaining Uchihas and the visibly pleased dean. Half-listening, he followed the polite chatter, offered an offhand remark on the elaborate staircase design, and was soon ushered into a transformed lecture hall now serving as a banquet venue.

“Impressive, truly!” Mikoto exclaimed in delight. She had always had an eye for art, so it was no surprise that the modern glass mosaic adorning the ceiling left her utterly captivated. “Which artist designed this?”

Fugaku immediately supplied a name, because of course he was intimately familiar with every detail of the project. Raising a hand, he led his wife toward a better vantage point, gathering several intrigued guests along the way, many of whom were potential business partners or clients.

“What a waste of money,” Sasuke murmured into his champagne glass, that had been handed to him by an overly eager waitress at the end of the tour. As if anyone cared about decorative flourishes. That money could have easily gone toward renovating the entire sports field.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Itachi approaching. That man was so predictable.

“It wasn’t that expensive,” came the inevitable correction. “The artist works with recycled glass. We paid her ten thousand yen for materials. And one million for the concept.”

“A bargain.” Sasuke barely reacted. His father’s detailed oversight was expected, but his brother’s encyclopedic knowledge was downright irritating. He hadn’t even been involved in the construction—the funding had come from a private pool drawn from the other six executive board members. But Itachi had always been a data nerd, absorbing the dullest facts with effortless ease like a sponge. Of course, he knew this project by heart. “If they have money to burn on broken glass bottles, I suppose that explains why I wasn’t allowed to co-finance anything.”

“Let them have their glory,” Itachi said, adjusting his sleeve to glance at his watch. A female voice behind him interrupted.

“I figured you’d be lurking around here somewhere, Sasuke—or should I call you Uchiha-san now?”

Sasuke resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Since losing a potential client to such a reaction last year, he had rigorously controlled his emotional responses in professional settings. Instead, he offered a brief bow. “Tsunade-sama. I wasn’t aware you’d be attending.”

“As always, your father had to extend a courteous invitation to the former mayor of his former hometown. As always, I would’ve politely declined, but since I happened to be nearby, I thought I’d drop in.” She tapped her champagne glass against his and turned to Itachi only to find empty hands. “Who would’ve thought a former mayor would have even less free time than when in office?”

“The hospital is doing well, I assume?” Itachi asked. His tone always made it hard to tell whether he was genuinely interested or methodically gathering intelligence. Tsunade humored him either way, while Sasuke scanned the crowd for others he needed to greet.

“Two percent budget increase since last year, and surgical equipment is more affordable than ever. No complaints. Word has it you’re working on new integration software for hospital networks?”

“That is Sasuke’s project,” Itachi remarked, patting his brother’s shoulder.

“If all goes well, we’ll launch it by the end of the year,” Sasuke supplied. “vitaLINK is still in development, but once we have a stable build, you’re welcome to test it. User feedback is invaluable.”

“Put me on the list. Finding good staff is hard, functional software would be an outright miracle. Speaking of which, where’s your wife?”

“Sakura is working. She’s not particularly fond of these events.”

Tsunade pursed her lips in mild disappointment, downing the last of her champagne. “A shame. Pass along my regards anyway, will you?”

The conversation tapered off. Not long after, Tsunade bid farewell, and Sasuke followed suit. He wasn’t there in any official capacity anyway—just another piece in his father’s carefully staged family portrait. Making his farewell round, he shook the hands he had initially overlooked, exchanged perfunctory pleasantries, and finally sank into the leather seats of his car with a relieved sigh.

For the first time all day, he finally had a moment to check his inbox. Eighteen unread emails, four marked high priority, nine missed calls. And only twenty minutes left to make it to his next meeting on time.

He pulled out of the parking lot and hit the gas. Being late wasn’t an option. vitaLINK was his first major project at the company. The market conditions were perfect, the competition sluggish, and so far, they were only slightly behind schedule.

He would make this work.

¨

Four days later, Ino’s phone rang. An advertising actress had dropped out due to a household accident, and a fashion brand needed a last-minute replacement for their TV commercial—sixty thousand yen for a full day of standing in artificial rain, modeling various ponchos. Mabuchi’s assistant assured her the rate was double the usual. When Ino did the conversion, she nearly cried. Five hundred dollars for an entire day? That was barely a tenth of her old rate.

Even Mabuchi found it insulting. She called her assistant back to remind him that underselling a seasoned actress—infuriating as this particular one might be—would reflect poorly on the agency.

It was a satisfying win, though, when Mabuchi mentioned what a realistic rate actually would look like, it still sent Ino into a calculating frenzy. Playing mainly supporting roles in small productions, she had never earned wages in the millions like actual a-list actors, and L. A. had been too expensive to save up any mentionable amount. At the end, her math didn’t check out, but she knew nonetheless she had to start cutting expenses. And she would start by moving out of this expensive hotel.

Which was far trickier that she’d anticipated. She’d somehow forgotten that Tokyo was one of the most densely populated cities in the world. Shared housing was out of the question with how cramped everything was, and she refused to live too far from the city center. The search was frustrating, and how big was a tatami mat again? Just as she was ready to give up, drowning her frustrations in the cutest bubble tea she’d ever seen, her phone vibrated on the table.

“Sakura,” she answered. “What a coincidence, I was just thinking about you.”

“Well, I am your only friend here.”

“Point for you—for now. I do have a charming personality. And stop snorting!” She heard Sakura chuckle softly and stuck out her tongue in response. “I need your help, though. Do you know anything about real estate?”

She could almost hear Sakura frown. “Not really.”

“Doesn’t matter. I scheduled some apartment viewings earlier and need a local to tell me if these places are actually worth the price. Please, I have no clue about the housing standards here anymore!”

“I call you once and—” Sakura sighed. “How many favors do you owe me already?”

“Too many. Stop counting,” Ino ordered, snapping her laptop shut. “The first viewing is in an hour in Shibuya.”

“Fine, but you have to pick me up from the office and bring me the most extravagant matcha latte this world has ever seen. And we’re taking Sarada with us.”

“No problem. How long do I need from Tamachi to you?”

Sakura estimated twenty minutes, it ended up being closer to an hour. In Los Angeles, everyone had their own car; the roads were congested, sure, but at least there was space to breathe. Tokyo’s trains were another beast entirely. Rush hour was flat out torture. The entire ride, she was squeezed between suits and briefcases, muttering silent curses to herself. She barely managed to snap a selfie, which she immediately tweeted the second she found a pocket of air on the platform.

Day seven back in Tokyo. Missed the city’s human closeness, she typed with her freshly manicured nails, making a mental note to change her nail polish by next week. Metallic blue was apparently out—pastel tones were now in fashion. That worked for her.

UCHIHA Corp. was impossible to miss, even if Sakura hadn’t given her a ridiculously detailed route for the mere eight hundred meters from the station. The twenty-story building stood proudly in the heart of Shinjuku, its grand entrance surrounded by a circle of cherry trees and a shallow decorative fountain, which was a surprisingly sentimental touch for the Uchihas. Not that Ino had that much insight into their aesthetic. Since the day Sasuke had moved from Konoha to Tokyo sixteen years ago, she had exchanged maybe four sentences with him, and even before, he hadn’t exactly been talkative.

A late-winter breeze at her back, she stepped into the foyer, checked in at the front desk, and settled into the airy waiting area. The receptionist assured her that Uchiha Sakura-sama would be with her right away, but Ino sent a quick text anyway. ‘Give me ten minutes,’ came the curt reply.

In the meantime, she scrolled through her feed, searching for news more interesting than nail polish—she really needed to start following more substantial accounts like politicians or journalists—but her attention flickered up as three men with briefcases settled across from her. Without hesitation, they launched into business jargon, until one of them let out a surprised exclamation.

“Oh! You’re Yamanaka Ino-san, aren’t you?”

Ino looked up, a broad smile forming. “I am! I’m surprised you recognize me.”

“My daughter has her room covered in your photos. We’ve seen all your movies. Would you be so kind...?” He rummaged through his briefcase, nodding gratefully as Ino produced one of her autograph cards. Yes, she was vain enough to always carry a few.

“What’s your daughter’s name?”

“Futaba. Written with the kanji for ‘double’ and ‘leaf.’”

She masked a brief moment of hesitation by searching for a better pen until the characters surfaced in her memory. It would take a while to fully reacclimate. With both hands, she handed him the signed card.

“Futaba is going to be thrilled. May I ask for a photo as well? You there—would you mind? Yes, perfect.” He handed his tablet to the receptionist and lined up beside his younger colleague. Thanks to her heels, Ino stood a few centimeters taller than both men. She didn’t mind the height difference, but she minded their stiff posture, so on impulse, she draped her arms around their shoulders and pulled them closer. The startled expressions would contrast wonderfully with the otherwise polished image.

“Looking good! Want to join in?” she asked the third man. “Come on, don’t be shy.”

His colleagues clapped, encouraging him.

A voice sliced through the laughter—cold, sharp, and utterly unamused.

“Kurosawa-san.”

Ino turned her head, curious to see who had decided to ruin the fun. He was sharply dressed, had the Uchiha crest embroidered on his lapel, and bore the most severe expression she had ever seen.

“My apologies for the delay,” he continued. “I trust my receptionists haven’t inconvenienced you.”

The addressed man grabbed his briefcase and reclaimed his device. “Not at all, Uchiha-san.”

“Please, go ahead. I will join you shortly.” With a motion, he sent the men toward the elevator. Turning to Ino, his tone grew notably less polite. “Taking photos with guests isn’t exactly part of your job description, is it...?”

“Yamanaka... Ino?” she responded, more questioning than stating. Only when the receptionist raised her hand did she realize their matching blue blazers. She laughed. “I think they had a great time.”

“Uchiha-sama, if I may—” the receptionist began, only to be interrupted by another voice.

“Itachi-san,” Sakura said, sounding surprised at the commotion. A massive bag hung over her right shoulder, while on her arm, she balanced a small girl clutching a plush sushi. “Ino. I didn’t realize you two knew each other.”

Itachi—right. Sasuke’s brilliant older brother. A few times, he had picked Sasuke up from school, and Ino had caught fleeting glimpses of him. Even then he had seemed as stiff as a box of paperclips. But way less attractive than now.

Amused, she extended a hand toward him. He hesitated before taking it. “As I said—Yamanaka Ino. I’m a friend of your sister-in-law. And Sasuke’s former classmate.”

“I see. My apologies for the misunderstanding, Yamanaka-san.”

“No worries. So, Sakura—shall we? The realtor won’t wait forever. It was nice meeting you, Itachi.”

As they stepped into the elevator leading to the underground parking garage, Ino smirked. “Your brother-in-law is an interesting one.”

“Tell me about it,” Sakura sighed, heading toward a green SUV where she quickly stowed her bag and daughter. “We’re taking Sarada with us. Sasuke’s working late today, and the company daycare only stays open until five.”

“You have a company daycare here? Convenient.”

“We’ve had one ever since I insisted on going back to work and Sasuke refused to put Sarada in a public one. There, that should do it. Want to hold Sushi-chan? Here.” She handed the plush toy to her daughter before settling into the driver’s seat. “She won’t go anywhere without that thing. Honestly, sometimes I curse Itachi for this Christmas gift. We once left Sushi-chan at a restaurant and her screaming was unbearable, wasn’t it, Sarada-chan?” she cooed playfully into the rearview mirror.

The little girl in the backseat threw up her arms excitedly, and Ino couldn’t help but laugh.

“You seem to be handling motherhood well.”

“I’m managing,” Sakura said, reversing out of the parking spot and swiping her employee card against the exit reader. “Let’s hope I’m just as good at picking apartments.”

She was, as Ino later found out. After just three viewings, she had a much clearer picture and returned to her hotel with a bag full of brochures.

It had been a good day. Not as exciting as Los Angeles, Italy, or London, but immensely fun—joking about the tiniest kitchen, imagining horror stories for one of the more run-down apartments, cornering the realtor with stupid questions. It had also been exhausting. Sarada had been as sweet a child as a stressful one, constantly hiding behind corners, slipping through cracks, crying for no reason.

That’s why Ino felt so drained, right? She simply wasn’t used to toddlers.

She let out a long sigh and flopped onto the bed, stomach down, barely having the energy to pull out her phone and order sushi from the hotel bar. It was outrageously overpriced, but Sarada’s plush toy had triggered an unbearable craving for raw fish. Her starting page gave her a pause. 

It was her Wikipedia page. A fan had created it after the theatrical release of her first film, and it had been continuously updated ever since. New films, new nominations for acting awars, new brand deals, and—to her utters dismay—that one humiliating night in an unexpectedly brutal game show.

“Ino Yamanaka is an international actress and model,” she read the first sentence out loud. Because that’s what she was. That’s what she had sacrificed everything for.

A call flashed across her screen. Her mother. Sakura must’ve given her parents the new phone number when she had told them about Ino’s return.

Instinctively, she declined it and shoved her phone deep beneath the pillow on the unused side of the double bed, then jumped back onto her feet and into her autumn boots. Her mother could wait.

Her dinner could not.

Chapter Text

♣

Tokyo, Japan—eight years earlier.

Sasuke stood behind the oval wooden table, the final slide of his presentation still glowing on the big screen behind him. His brother studied it carefully, while his father remained focused on his PDA.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of his tailored suit, only to find them a bit too tight for making a fist. Weeks had passed since he had started wearing dress pants, and even with another three months left in his internship at UCHIHA Corp., he doubted he would ever grow accustomed to them.

“What do you think, father?” he asked, trying to keep his voice steady.

He had done it all according to company guidelines—booking the meeting room, sending invitations, sending reminders, having his presentation double-checked by a senior—hoping to, if only for twenty minutes, be taken seriously. For all intents and purposes, this was an official meeting, yet Fugaku had barely glanced up from his email.

“It’s all well and good, Sasuke,” his father murmured, finally slipping the PDA back into the breast pocket of his blazer. “But updating the database like that would mean that our long-term clients lose all their patient data. We would need to manually convert every single patient file into the new data format. The manpower required alone would cripple us for years. This idea has no future.”

“It’s meant to be a separate product,” Sasuke argued, his jaw tightening. He had already made that clear in his presentation, back on slide seven, when his father hadn’t been listening. “We wouldn’t touch the main product. Just create a new development branch, stripping out everything smaller medical practices don’t need. Leaner, faster, more intuitive. The market for hospital management systems is saturated. If we want to expand, we can’t just focus on a handful of large clients—we need to think about the many smaller ones as well.”

“Our marketing department has already thought about it and didn’t find it worthwhile,” Fugaku said dismissively, snapping shut the binder Sasuke had assembled for review. He hadn’t even skimmed past the third page. “We would need thousands of new clients before the development costs break even. Acquiring and supporting that many would require hiring hundreds of new account managers. And if it doesn’t catch on, we’d be stuck with an oversized workforce.”

“But—”

“Sasuke,” Itachi interrupted, his voice calm and measured. “Show me slide twenty-six again.”

Swallowing his frustration, Sasuke reached back for the mouse. Without realizing it, he had stepped forward under his father’s provocation, forcing him into an awkward motion just to meet his brother’s request. Itachi leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, silently analyzing the slide.

A long minute passed before he spoke.

“It could be worthwhile.”

For the first time in this grueling meeting, Fugaku actually looked at the presentation. “How so?”

“Our marketing director is a salesperson by heart. He doesn’t want to deal with small customers, because they require a lot of effort but yield little commission. For the company, though, building a broad customer base is undeniably beneficial.”

“Yes,” Sasuke affirmed quickly, stepping forward again, reclaiming the space that had nearly slipped from his grasp. He had said the exact same thing just a couple minutes ago. “It’s a risk, but if it succeeds, it will stabilize the company for decades.”

Fugaku still wasn’t fully convinced, but he grabbed the binder and stood up. “Very well, Sasuke, you get a chance. Itachi, I want a full cost analysis with a timeline by the end of next week. Take whatever personnel you need. Then, we’ll reassess.”

Without another word, he strode out, letting the door swing shut behind him. The glass-paneled walls exposed the hallway beyond, forcing Sasuke to maintain his posture, just in case his father glanced back unexpectedly. Few rooms in the entire twenty-floor building offered any real privacy. On days like today, that fact was particularly aggravating.

“Well done, Sasuke.”

He scoffed. Well done?

What part of this had he done well? His father would have dismissed him outright if Itachi hadn’t sided with him. Just like every damn time. And now, as always, Fugaku saw his older son as the visionary—the prodigy destined to lead the company to new heights. Only when things went wrong would the idea suddenly be Sasuke’s again.

“Sure,” Sasuke muttered at last, after an agonizing pause. He couldn’t stop himself from sounding bitter. “Let me at least handle the estimations myself, I’ve gathered most of them in preparation anyway. Don’t worry, come spring, I’ll be back at university, and you can take the credit.”

Because that’s just how things worked in this formidable family.

Why had he ever thought otherwise.

♣

Tokyo, Japan—present day.

Muffled cries and static crackled through the pillow over Sasuke’s ear, rousing him from a restless sleep just in time to silence his alarm before it could blare. He groaned, pressing his hands against his face, willing his body to wake up. It took nearly five minutes before he finally forced himself out of bed and into the bathroom.

“Good morning,” Sakura greeted him from behind the kitchen island, tilting her cheek toward him. As always, he brushed a quick kiss against it while fastening the last buttons on his shirt. She had made tea—a habit she had picked up from his mother, who once had accused her of not knowing Sasuke’s preferences and routines well enough. As he passed, he grabbed the insulated cup she had prepared.

Sakura had moved in with him five years ago, initially claiming only a few select spaces for her belongings. Then, after a few months away in Canada, he had come back to fluffy cushion covers, exotic potted plants, and pink—pardon, mauve curtains. It had taken him some time, but eventually, he had grown used to it. Not that he spent much time at home.

“Did Sarada wake you? She dropped Sushi-chan earlier. You know how she gets.”

“Does she really still need a baby monitor? She’s two years old. Her lungs are strong enough for us to hear her from anywhere in the apartment.” He crouched beside his daughter, who blinked up at him from her red child-sized chair, round eyes full of curiosity. “Should we get rid of it, Sarada?”

The little girl pursed her lips as though she understood exactly what he wanted from her. “No.”

“I could ask your mother how long you had one,” Sakura mused. “Since Sarada takes after you nine times out of ten, that should be a solid reference.”

“Go ahead,” Sasuke replied absently, distracted by the vibration of his phone. “I have to go. My father moved the status report up by two hours.” He had already grabbed his jacket from the hook and his briefcase from the floor.

“Sasuke,” Sakura called after him, lips pursed, just like Sarada’s before. “When are you coming home tonight? We barely see you anymore.”

“You see me now,” he countered, wrapping his scarf around his neck and lifting his briefcase. Where had he left his damn car keys last night? “I can’t leave early until we finish the evaluations.”

“We means more people are working on them. You’re the project lead—can’t you delegate something?”

He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. “And let Itachi reap the rewards? Sorry, Sakura.”

Disappointed, she let her hands fall to her sides, lips drawn tight in frustration. “At least remember to take Sarada to your mother’s today!” she called after him as he stepped out the door.

By the time he arrived at UCHIHA Corp., he had already forgotten what she had said. Somewhere, deep in his heart, a twinge of guilt gnawed at him for it, but it dissipated entirely the moment he sat down at his desk in his office—twenty square meters on the eleventh floor, a glass front overlooking Yoyogi Park, lacquered wooden shelves lined with decorative books and an obligatory office plant. Because for now, this was where he needed to be.

Sakura knew that, and when he had told her about it last year, she had promised to have his back until the official release. It wasn’t his problem that she’d apparently changed her mind—though it would become hers if he failed.

He had spent his first few years at the company bouncing between departments, more intern than employee. It had been humiliating at times, fetching coffee for division heads while being addressed as Uchiha-sama, but he understood why his father hadn’t placed him in a full-fledged position right away. Sakura’s unexpected pregnancy had cut his time abroad short, and he had returned with less experience and expertise than planned. The fight for his first independent project had been brutal, and on some days, downright degrading.

The idea he’d had during his internship hadn’t worked out in the end. The market demand had been strong, just as expected, but they had underestimated the technical complexity. Even the smallest medical practices relied on dozens of individual devices, each running its own programming language and transmitting different file formats. The slimmed-down version of their hospital management system had only been able to process a few of them, and expanding the import function without breaking the code had proved impossible.

He had failed. But that failure had led to an opportunity. They had realized that the market didn’t need simpler patient administration software. What it truly needed was an integration system capable of processing thousands of file formats and transferring them into a central platform—one so intelligent that it could independently recognize and handle entirely new file formats without any manual adjustments.

And this was it—vitaLINK.

The technical details were too intricate for Sasuke’s degree in International Business, but he knew the numbers that really mattered. Six-hundred million yen in development costs, thirty-one employees, a billion yen in expected revenue in the first year.

Itachi had become COO at twenty-seven. Sasuke had already missed that mark by three years. But this—vitaLINK—was finally the launchpad that would shoot him up right into the C-suite, where he, as an Uchiha, belonged.

All he needed was today’s status meeting to go well.

It didn’t go well.

They were behind schedule, and the executive board he had to answer to cared about little else. The project was still visionary, the base code solid, most features already implemented, but all seven Uchihas couldn’t click one damn button today, and that made everything else irrelevant.

“Delays are normal for projects of this scale,” Sasuke explained, keeping his tone measured. “We've been running the setup in a sandbox for weeks now. It works, just not reliably enough for release.”

“Which means that I have to tell my two biggest clients tomorrow that they’ll have to keep waiting. Again,” Fugaku countered, his tone as unyielding as it was insufferably pretentious—so perfectly Uchiha that Sasuke didn’t even attempt to respond.

He didn’t need to. It wouldn’t have helped.

The other board members voiced their disappointment as well, then vanished as swiftly as they had arrived. Fugaku lingered just long enough to shake his head in disappointment, “I expect more next time, Sasuke,” before following them out. Only Itachi remained, flipping through the last few pages of the report.

“Do you have anything to add?” Sasuke muttered.

“How long have you known that vitaLINK won’t be ready for release this fiscal year?” Itachi asked without looking up.

Sasuke hesitated. “Wednesday.”

“You knew they were expecting to have a stable build by now.”

“I can’t perform miracles, Itachi,” Sasuke said, voice tight with restraint. He wasn’t in the mood for one of his brother’s patronizing lectures. “What was I supposed to do? Sit down for a day and fix three issues a full team’s been stuck on for weeks?”

“You could have told your senior programmers on Wednesday to set up a scripted demo that shows how hospitals will use it in a couple months—start with admitting a patient, updating records across systems, pulling real-time lab results. Five clicks, smooth transitions. No code, just outcomes,” Itachi replied, his tone infuriatingly steady. “This isn’t about delays, Sasuke. Even if father convinces his clients about the product tomorrow, it will take months to finalize the deal. That’s enough time to resolve the remaining stability issues. But he can only do that once he starts trusting the product.”

Sasuke tensed. It sounded so simple when Itachi said it. But it wasn’t. Not for him, anyway.

“When he starts to trust me, you mean. I assured him thrice we’d be ready to release in the first quarter of the next fiscal year.”

“Just keep it in mind for next time, Sasuke. And ask me for help when you’re struggling.”

“So you can take all the credit again? Thanks for the offer, but I’ll manage.”

“As you wish.” Itachi tucked his folder under his right arm and gave Sasuke’s shoulder a firm squeeze with his left. “The offer stands if you ever change your mind. You have potential, Sasuke. Don’t ever think otherwise.”

It was the only positive feedback Sasuke had received since the project kick-off.

♥

The wound was cleaned, disinfected, and carefully bandaged. It was a superficial cut running from the palm to the elbow, courtesy of a broken cup. It looked worse than it was. Sakura noted the final details of the treatment in her patient’s electronic file and handed the printout to the grey-haired man, along with an antiseptic.

“Clean it with this twice a day, and change the bandage after every shower. The healing will take a week or two.”

“Thank you, Uchiha-sensei.” He nodded politely and stepped out of the small employee health unit she’d been calling her domain for just shy of a year now.

Being the in-house physician for a corporation of five thousand employees wasn’t the most mind-numbing job she could imagine, but it wasn’t exactly thrilling either. Bleeding scrapes and fainting spells made up most of her day, occasionally interrupted by a case of carpal tunnel syndrome when a product launch had the programmers soldered to their desks for weeks on end.

It wasn’t quite what she’d envisioned when she’d stepped into the role. She’d come in with big plans: further training in occupational health, certifications in psychology and conflict mediation—her way of making a real difference. But it had been naïve to think anyone would open up to the CEO’s daughter-in-law—doctor-patient confidentiality or not.

She closed the electronic file, rested her chin on her hand, and tapped her finger against the small UCHIHA Corp. logo on her screen—the red and white paper fan that had once filled her with hope and pride.

The patient administration software had been Sasuke’s internship project. Ten years ago, he had told her about it with rare enthusiasm. She had been deep in her clinical traineeship back then, only dreaming about how his lips might feel against hers, his hands on her thighs, his bare torso pressed against her chest—

With a sharp shake of her head, she pulled herself back to reality, where the simple software had long since become nothing more than a reminder of her mundane existence.

A knock at the door signaled a new patient. Maybe, finally, someone willing to talk instead of swallowing their struggles for fear of losing their job. But it was only a delivery worker, who had her sign two delivery notes before handing over four boxes.

“Ah, fresh gauze rolls at last!” she said, forcing cheer into her voice—and instantly hated herself for it. Was this what her life had become? The highlight of her week, the arrival of basic medical supplies? A constant waiting for something actually interesting to happen?

Her phone vibrated in the pocket of her coat, and once again, she loathed the pathetic thrill it sparked in her. She was miserable. The name on the screen did little to lift her mood. She already knew what was coming.

“Sasuke. What is it?”

“I read your text earlier. Thanks for the reminder, Sakura, but I’m sorry, I can’t take Sarada to my mother’s today.”

“What do you mean? You’ve known about this for a week.”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. “My status meeting didn’t go as planned, and we need to sort out a few outstanding issues here. Can you take her?”

“How? I have appointments this afternoon. It’s hard enough getting employees to come in for consultations—if I start canceling sessions, no one will trust the process. Sasuke? Sasuke—are you listening to me?”

He wasn’t. The faint tapping of a keyboard on his end of the call gave him away. He was already buried in an email or a report.

“Sorry, Sakura, I have to go.”

And just like that, he did. Just like this morning. Just like always.

♦

‘I know you’re an actress first, but casting season only starts in spring’, Mabuchi had said. ‘Yes, taking on modeling jobs is part of your contract—did you even read it?!’, she had scolded. ‘This is not negotiable! Do this shoot, or you’re out!’, she had finally yelled. And now, Ino stood here, bare-faced except for an orange lipstick, wedged between towering pine trees on the outskirts of Tokyo, trying to make a ridiculous outfit of faux fur and cowboy boots look remotely convincing.

She hated Japanese fashion. And she froze.

“Please bend your leg, Yamanaka-san—higher, yes, just like that,” the photographer instructed. It had been the same for an hour. She was freezing, the faux fur itched, and the boots didn’t fit properly. It was like every other shoot—except this time, every tiny movement was dictated to her, and that was what made her grit her teeth.

“Smile more naturally, Yamanaka-san. We want a cute face.”

“I’ll show you natural...” she muttered under her breath. Stretching her arms high above her head, she extended one leg to the side. A cowgirl with bold lipstick wasn’t meant to be cute—she was meant to be wild, carefree. She held the stance for a moment before shifting into something equally dynamic. The shutter clicked a few times before the photographer lowered his camera, disapproving.

“Please stick to the assigned poses, Yamanaka-san.”

She sighed audibly, shaking off her frustration with a sharp flick of her wrists, and obeyed. For a half-day shoot, she was getting a pittance—and that was before taxes. The photographer should have been thrilled to work with such a creative model. He wasn’t. At least the catering was good.

Three thousand photos later, the photographer thanked the team and Mabuchi’s assistant made Ino give a proper farewell, then shoved her into the car. Too exhausted to complain, she fished out her phone and found two missed calls. Both were from Sakura, about half an hour ago. Nearly perfect timing.

“Hey, Sakura,” she greeted as soon as the call connected. “What can I do for my absolute favorite best friend?”

“Ino, thank god!” Sakura sounded oddly relieved. “You need to pick up Sarada from daycare and take her to Azabu.”

“Who?” Ino frowned, rifling through her memory. Oh, right. “Your daughter? Am I even allowed to do that? Don’t I need a child-handling license or a training course or something?”

Sakura huffed. “She’s not a guard dog! I mean, she does bite if you don’t move your fingers fast enough when feeding her cookies—that’s not the point! Sasuke has to work late, I can’t reschedule my appointments, and I won’t have Mikoto-san send a private driver for her. Please, Ino.”

Ino hesitated. The exhaustion she’d felt after the apartment viewings had proven she didn’t handle such a young child well—and she hadn’t even been in charge of her. “Fine, why not,” she said anyway. Because what was she, if not up for a challenge. “But you’re paying for the taxi.”

She had hoped.

In the end, Ino, Sarada, and Sushi-chan took the train. The little girl was so thrilled by public transport that she only stopped wailing when Ino sent the taxi away. They bought the ticket together—more or less—while Sarada bombarded her with a million two-word remarks about train fast and sky blue and Sarada hungry. To make things worse, Sarada’s backpack weighed a ton, and Azabu was ridiculously far away.

“Every favor you’ve ever done for me is officially repaid,” Ino panted into the phone, having finally dropped off the toddler, the plush sushi, and the absurdly heavy backpack at the Uchiha mansion. She collapsed onto a park bench. “Every single one, Sakura. That little monster moves like a damn weasel.”

“She’s a toddler, Ino. Are you saying you can’t handle a two-year-old?”

“She—she did—I swear—” Ino growled, kicking at the air. Where could she even begin? Sarada had escaped three times, picked up two dead birds, and befriended a stray fox—all before they even got on the train. “Forget it. You wouldn’t believe me anyway. I don’t have to pick her up later, do I?”

Sakura laughed, shamelessly amused. “No, she’s staying there until tomorrow. Thank you, Ino. You saved me.”

“And Sasuke’s working late?” Ino perked up, suddenly brimming with fresh energy. “Girl, you know what this means. You. Me. Two sexy tops and a club so loud we’ll wake up hoarse tomorrow.”

“Ahh, I don’t know,” Sakura hesitated, rifling through drawers in the background. “I haven’t owned a sexy top in years, and I was planning to vacuum tonight—okay, you’re right. A club it is. But you have to lend me something.”

“That’s the spirit! Just like old times!”

Three hours later, Sakura stepped out of a taxi in front of Ino’s apartment, dressed in sneakers and jeans, visibly swallowing a comment about the chaos inside. Two weeks after moving in, Ino had already turned the place into a jungle of crop tops, shorts, miniskirts, dresses, jumpsuits, and hats, scattered across the floor and the few pieces of furniture the previous tenants had left behind.

It took a bottle of wine and a surplus of patience to find something Sakura would actually agree to wear. She still looked skeptical of the daring top they settled on, but after two sips of soju, her protests faded long enough for Ino to shove her into a taxi.

Getting into one of Tokyo’s hottest clubs wasn’t difficult, especially looking the way they did. The male-heavy crowd worked in their favor, and they breezed past the queue, stepping into a swirl of cool LED lights and pounding electro beats. Before Sakura could even take in her surroundings, she already had a Whiskey Sour in hand. There were no open seats, so they fought their way through the crowd onto the gallery, where they had a perfect view of the vibrating dance floor below.

“The DJ is Kurayura!” Ino shouted, her voice barely audible over the thundering bass as she pointed toward the booth towering above the crowd. Speakers and equipment stretched across the entire wall, flanked by strobes and smoke machines, while an enormous LED screen behind the DJ pulsed with hypnotic abstract visuals.

“Who?” Sakura yelled back.

Ino waved it off. She hadn’t expected her sweet, responsible best friend—wife and mother—to know anything about Tokyo’s club scene. She herself had lost touch over the years abroad, now only catching sporadic updates through social media. “Doesn’t matter! Hey, do you remember the first time we went out in Tokyo?”

“Oh, hell yes!” Sakura cheered, lifting her empty glass. Together, they fought their way to the smaller bar on the gallery for refills. “How old were we?”

“Barely of legal drinking age,” Ino grinned. “I’ve never seen you that drunk again.”

“Because you left for the U.S. a couple weeks later,” Sakura recalled, swaying slightly. “That was after Sasuke’s accident. When I got fed up with helping him through rehab because he kept snapping at me. The bastard.”

“Bastard!” Ino echoed, turning back to order two shots.

Alcohol had always made Sakura mercilessly honest—both with her surroundings and with herself. Ten years ago, a bottle of vodka had finally made her realize the futility of her one-sided love. That night, she’d ended up in the arms of a handsome law student. A few weeks later, Sasuke had changed his mind, and they’d become a couple.

“I still don’t get why you married him,” Ino mused, leaning in to yell over the pounding music. She might not have been entirely steady on her feet either. “He was always an arrogant ass in school. Hot—but still an ass.”

“True,” Sakura yelled. With a pout, she lifted her glass, “to… everything except Sasuke!”, and downed her drink in one gulp.

“To everything except Sasuke!” Ino echoed again, and they both burst into near-hysterical laughter. It didn’t take much more alcohol before they were swept onto the dance floor.

Tonight, they would have fun. Tomorrow would come—but until then, everything was fine.

Chapter Text

♦

Konoha, Japan—twelve years earlier.

“Fine! Thanks for nothing!” Ino shouted down the staircase, slamming the door to her room close so hard it let out a threatening creak. Her face was burning red, her jaw clenched tight enough to make her teeth ache. If Sakura hadn’t snatched the soda cans from her hand, she might’ve hurled them against the wall, straight into one of the boy band posters she’d recently hung up there. All of them had broken up months ago. As always, Konoha had been too late for the hype.

It was suffocating.

“What happened?” Sakura asked.

It was a legit question. Ino had only gone downstairs for a second to get them something to drink because their fervent discussion about the newest TV drama had left their throats hoarse. She hadn’t expected her mother to come home early and ruin the rest of her day as well as the rest of her life.

“My mother,” Ino spat. She clenched her fists and punched a life-sized penguin pillow, blinking back the heat in her eyes. “You know K!w!—that fancy fashion brand? They actually want me for their TV ad, and she’s losing her mind because I won’t help her with flower arrangements that day! Who even cares about stupid ikebana nowadays?”

“You definitely don’t. Can’t you do both?”

“No. And even if I could, I wouldn’t! I don’t want to waste my time on that nonsense!” Frustrated, she strangled the pillow between her knees. “She doesn’t understand what this means to me. They picked me out of eight hundred girls. This isn’t some dumb school event—it’s real, it’s official, and I’m getting paid. This is a job!”

Once Ino had calmed enough to stop physically attacking the pillow, Sakura sat beside her, draping an arm over her shoulder. “Can’t you explain to her how important this is?”

“She doesn’t want to understand.” Ino pulled her knees up. “But I’m doing this. She won’t ruin my dream—not she, not this town. The second I graduate, I’m moving to Tokyo.”

“What about Sai?” Sakura asked.

Ino hesitated. Then shook her head. She was way too worked up to think about her boyfriend. “Sai supports me.”

“We all do, Ino,” Sakura assured her. “If I get into Tōdai, I’ll move with you. That way, neither of us will be alone. Okay?”

“Thanks, Sakura.”

♠

Tokyo, Japan—present day.

Uchiha Itachi had a strict morning routine.

At precisely 5:30 AM, he woke up, brewed an espresso, jogged exactly five kilometers and forty-one meters in twenty-seven to twenty-eight minutes, showered, drank his now-cold espresso while scrolling through the morning news on his tablet, and then drove to work—anywhere from forty to fifty minutes, depending on traffic.

Not today.

This spring morning, a small, seemingly insignificant article had held his attention far longer than usual. He bookmarked it, picked up the tablet along with a neatly stacked pile of documents, and left his apartment.

The drive into Tokyo was tolerable at this hour, especially today, when he took an earlier highway exit. His younger brother lived much closer to UCHIHA Corp. and was already awake, dressed in a button-down shirt tucked into dress pants, when Itachi rang the doorbell. Their greeting was brief, as it always was in the morning. This was strictly business.

“Here,” Itachi said, handing Sasuke the stack he had gathered yesterday. It was a collection of documents—project plan templates, concept drafts, milestone presentations, budget calculation sheets—from way back when he himself had slept at the office five nights a week and still had brought work home on weekends. “This is everything I have on the FML project, though, most of it is at least a decade old. Why do you need this?”

He settled at the kitchen island, watching as Sasuke flipped through the folders.

“One of the senior programmers mentioned that your team had developed a certification program for FML. It would be a good fit for one of the vitaLINK premium packages.”

“Don’t waste too much time on it. We realized pretty quickly that it wasn’t viable. We barely made it past the concept phase.”

Sasuke closed the folder as the tea kettle began to whistle. “I’ll look at it anyway. By the way, what does FML stand for? No one’s been able to tell me.”

“Fuck my life, obviously,” Itachi said, his tone dry but amused. It had been his first project as head of the innovation division, and his team had loathed him for the long hours he had forced on them. “One of the interns had renamed the folder on her last day and we couldn’t change it back. Speaking of projects,” he continued, “did you see this?”

He opened the bookmarked page and slid the tablet toward Sasuke. The text was short—two minutes at most to read—but when Sasuke looked up, his mouth hung slightly open.

“This can’t be real,” he muttered, rereading the article more slowly. “How did they land this contract? They have barely twenty employees.”

“It’s apparently enough to get the university hospital to sign a deal.”

“Taniyama-san assured me he would wait for vitaLINK before switching systems. And now they’re buying the competition? This is—”

Business. They both knew it. Itachi wasn’t here to scold his brother—agreements shifted all the time, especially in the chronically underfunded health care industry. The university hospital had always been an unstable prospect. If anything, Sasuke had done remarkably well keeping them interested for this long.

“Father will have seen the same article,” Itachi noted. “I’m going to Malaysia today and won’t be back until late next week, so I won’t be around for any emergency meetings.”

“I can handle it.” Sasuke pushed the tablet aside. “Wait—what are you doing in Malaysia of all places?”

“I’m negotiating with potential suppliers for circuit boards.”

“You?” Sasuke narrowed his eyes as he rummaged through the kitchen cabinets for an insulated cup and a tea bag. “Negotiating with suppliers is the responsibility of our production managers and procurement officers, not our prized COO.”

“Father didn’t trust them to close the deal,” Itachi insisted. Technically, it wasn’t a lie, though, he might have deliberately oversold his negotiating talent in order to make his father send him. “They need their production capacities but their prices are steep.”

“Sure, whatever,” Sasuke muttered. “But prepare yourself—father will want you back on vitaLINK now that I’m ruining the—damn kettle!” He cursed as boiling water missed the insulated cup and splashed onto his hand. Reflexively, he jerked back, knocking over the cup, then swore again at the mess. “No wonder Sakura’s been moody lately if she deals with this torture every morning.”

Itachi shook his head. The scene might have been comical if his brother hadn't looked so earnestly frustrated. “Sasuke, have you ever made your own tea before?”

“Shut up,” Sasuke muttered, searching for a cloth. He looked utterly lost, like a stranger in his own kitchen. “Sakura usually wakes up earlier—”

A miserable groan interrupted him. A second later, a blonde woman appeared in the hallway, squinting against the light as she shuffled into the open kitchen. She looked awful. Her half-loosened ponytail hung in scattered strands around her pale face, her misaligned top revealed a glimpse of red bra, and one of her oversized earrings had twisted around her ear.

“Bathroom,” she demanded.

Without sympathy, Sasuke pointed toward a door behind her, and she vanished.

Itachi watched her stumble away, puzzled. His brother wasn’t one for flings—was he?

Moments later, retching noises echoed from the bathroom, followed by running water. Then, the blonde returned, barefoot and unsteady, heading for the kitchen island. Without sparing him a glance, she grabbed Itachi’s shoulder and hoisted herself onto the barstool beside him. Judging by her tortured expression, it was the greatest challenge of her life. Finally settled, she collapsed onto the counter.

“Sasuke, you have to make me coffee,” she murmured.

“I will not—and don’t you dare touch my coffee machine. Sakura says it was expensive.”

Her smudged eyes brimmed with despair as she reached for Sasuke—missed entirely—and turned toward Itachi instead. “Then your brother. Someone. I need caffeine, or I’m not moving.”

Dramatically, she melted back onto the counter, stretching an arm toward the espresso machine in pure longing.

“You should’ve thought of that before seducing my wife,” Sasuke replied icily, batting her arm away. “Suffer the consequences.”

“Itachi!” she yelped, grabbing his collar, and he found himself staring into her pallid face. Fascinatingly, it was rather beautiful. “Save me.”

Now directly faced with her desperation, recognition finally struck. She had looked much more polished last time. Less bedraggled. “Yamanaka Ino?”

“What does it matter!” She spread her arms dramatically. “Aren’t names just fleeting illusions for cursed souls doomed to wander this painful plane of existence—just get me caffeine before I start reciting more of my past scripts, I beg of you!”

The entire scene was absurd, and she was obviously still drunk. There was only one way to handle this.

He gently pried her fingers off his shirt, placed them in her lap, and walked around the kitchen island. Unlike Sasuke, he had prepared plenty of hot drinks in his lifetime.

Two pairs of eyes followed him as he placed a glass of water in front of her, followed by a cup of coffee. “Milk and sugar?”

“Black,” she replied, her shoulders easing with relief. “I can’t look bloated on a casting day.”

The caffeine seemed to calm her, and for the next few minutes, she drank in near silence while Sasuke and Itachi discussed final project details. Normally, he wouldn’t talk about company matters in front of outsiders, but it wasn’t as if an actress would have much interest—or any understanding—of business and tech jargon. She wasn’t even listening, too busy flipping through snapshots from the previous night on her phone.

They only stopped, when the bedroom door opened, and Sakura stepped into the kitchen. She looked slightly better off than Ino, though only because she had taken the time to shower and change into fresh clothes. Her complexion, however, was just as pale.

“God, I feel awful,” she murmured, settling beside her friend with a glass of orange juice in hand.

“That’s what happens when you drink,” Sasuke remarked dryly. “What time did you even get home?”

Sakura frowned, straining to remember. “No idea. Ino?”

Ino waved a dismissive hand. “I don’t even know how we got home.”

“Maybe next time, leave a note or send a message if you’re staying out all night,” Sasuke suggested.

Even Itachi could hear the sharp edge in his voice—the same one that made Sakura glance up. “Sure,” she snorted. “Like all those notes and messages you leave when you stay at the office until midnight and let dinner go cold? You and your double standards.”

Itachi hadn’t been in a serious relationship for years, had never been married, and had no real grasp of what counted as an argument between spouses. Not that it was any of his business anyway. Ino seemed to share the sentiment. They both stood up at the same time.

“Since when do you even drink?” Sasuke shot at his wife. “Just because your international best friend is back, you suddenly hate your life?”

Ino leaned toward Itachi. “You wouldn’t happen to be heading toward Yoyogi Park, would you? Feel like giving me a ride?”

He needed to go in almost the opposite direction, but judging by the way she swayed even while standing, he doubted she could walk a hundred meters in a straight line—especially in the heels she was attempting to fasten. A small detour was manageable. His flight wasn’t until noon.

Their farewell to the married couple went entirely unnoticed, and suddeenly, Itachi found himself behind the steering wheel of his car, a blonde actress occupying the passenger seat. He activated the voice recognition system, letting her say the address aloud. The technological gimmick made her clap her hands together in amusement.

“Business dudes and their flashy sports cars,” she mused, scanning the sleek cockpit with fascination.

“It’s a coupe, not a sports car. And please don’t touch the buttons, Yamanaka-san.”

Laughing, she raised her hands in mock surrender. “Sorry. I drove a puke-green compact for years. Fancy cars intrigue me. Also—just Ino, please. No san, chan, or kun. Sama if you insist, but entirely optional.”

“How generous of you.”

“I know, right?”

He took a left at Konnō-zaka Slope, avoiding the thickening rush hour traffic, and stopped at the next light. It didn’t escape him that Ino had dropped any honorifics when addressing him, too. That was… unusual. It had happened to him before, way back when he had worked for companies in the U.S. and Europe and—for the first time in his professional life—hadn’t been Uchiha-sama, but just Itachi, the stiff Japanese guy with the intense stare.

Ino pointed out of the car window. “Another left ahead, then I can walk the rest.”

“You sure?”

“Not even remotely,” she laughed. “But I almost beat an otter in an obstacle course once, so how hard can a hundred meters in a straight line be? You can pull over up ahead.”

Itachi knew the area well—UCHIHA Corp. wasn’t far. She had picked an interesting neighborhood to live in, surrounded by cozy cafés and a plaza where young artists often performed with unconventional instruments.

He flicked on the turn signal and pulled into an empty supermarket parking lot. At this early hour, it was nearly deserted.

Ino got out of the car and bowed at him in exaggerated gratitude before disappearing around the corner—quick and unpredictable, like a leaf caught in a whirlwind.

How oddly refreshing.

Itachi shook his head and pulled back onto the road. He had entirely better things to do than dwell on his sister-in-law’s friend and her dramatic flair.

Negotiations were far from the only reason he had seized this trip.

♦

Exhausted and drained, Ino managed to shower and catch a few more hours of sleep before Mabuchi called to remind her about today’s casting. Luckily, it was more or less formality. The producer wanted her—today was just a matter of negotiating the fee. Hopefully, her manager would land her a solid one this time. The spare room in her apartment made the rent steep, but the smaller places had all been too far from the city center.

‘Everything alright?’ she had texted Sakura as soon as Itachi had dropped her off. ‘No idea’, was the reply that came shortly after Mabuchis call. Ino thought about calling but decided against it. Sakura was an adult, and Sasuke had never been violent. Best to let them sort things out on their own.

After a workout and a blueberry-chia smoothie—her blender being the first and last kitchen appliance she owned—she was tweeting about how chia seeds should come with a toothbrush on the side when her phone rang.

“I’m there in twenty minutes. Wait outside,” Mabuchi ordered, then hung up on her, before Ino could complain about being bossed around.

That same strategy carried into the negotiation. The meeting was held in a well-lit conference room at the film studio, and for the first thirty minutes, Ino had little else to do than look around while looking professional. The producer, director, and others had studied her tapes thoroughly and were convinced she was a perfect fit for the role. Mabuchi agreed with them, listing Ino’s credentials while clearly praying that her most unpredictable client would stay quiet. After ten more minutes, they met somewhere in the middle with fees and obligations.

Then, Ino had a question. She’d agreed to take on any role, not that she wouldn’t complain while doing so. “So, about the script ...”

Mabuchi’s head snapped around, her small eyes flashing a warning. Ino didn’t flinch—she never did. She’d read the script carefully, rehearsed a few scenes. The role itself was easy enough. “Am I understanding correctly that my character’s emotional arc ends with her marrying the doctor?”

“Yes,” the screenwriter replied—a slender woman who had so far stayed mostly in the background. “The subplot is meant to balance the intensity of the main characters’ relationship. Chiwa-chan and Chiaki-kun spend most of the story emotionally immature, causing misunderstandings and conflicts. In contrast, their older siblings are ready to commit and support each other from the start.”

“That being said,” Ino insisted, flipping to the scene where her character had one of her many mental breakdowns. “She has severe psychological issues. Love doesn’t fix that.”

Under the table, Mabuchi kicked her shin. Ino ignored it. Complex, troubled characters were her specialty. This script was shallow. “Can we flesh that out a bit?”

“We aimed for nuance,” the writer started, but the producer cut her off. “We’ve been in pre-production for two months. Changes are not possible, Yamanaka-san. We expect you to play the role as written.”

“Why? A few therapy scenes would add depth, show her actually working through her fears instead of implying that—”

“Yamanaka,” Mabuchi hissed.

The next hour, her manager tried to smooth things over, apologized repeatedly, jabbed her client in the ribs, but Ino kept arguing until the producer politely dismissed them.

Ino hadn’t signed anything. Mabuchi was furious.

“You just cost this agency a lot of money,” she said in a controlled tone once they were back in the car. Behind her polished expression, she was seething. “This is unacceptable. Are you trying to rebuild your career here or burn every bridge?”

“This drama is garbage, and you know it,” Ino shot back, arms crossed as she glared at the billboard outside. “My character is nothing but a plot device. Her suicide attempt only serves to bring her little sister together with the doctor’s brother. It’s shallow. I refuse to play a woman whose mental health issues disappear with a marriage proposal.”

Mabuchi slammed her palm against the steering wheel—an uncharacteristically emotional reaction. “Listen, Yamanaka. I took you back because your name carries weight. Your success in America is your springboard here. But if you keep stomping on it instead of jumping, it’ll crack.”

With a sharp exhale, she started the car and pulled onto the road. Lingering in the studio parking lot would only cause unwanted attention. They drove in silence—Mabuchi focusing on traffic, Ino trying not to dwell on what had just happened.

It didn’t work.

With a groan, she pressed her palms to her face, rubbed her temples and exhaled. Usually, she would have gone with a gesture that had less direct eye contact, but for castings she always showed up make-up free, so directors could see her as a blank canvas.

“I’m sorry, okay?” she finally muttered as Mabuchi pulled into the agency’s garage. “I really tried to shut my brain off. But this character—it’s just so painfully superficial.”

“Feel however you want. Quietly. Out of sight. This isn’t America where everyone gets to be unfiltered and unhinged before breakfast.” Mabuchi got out of the car, waiting impatiently until Ino followed. “Go home and behave. I’ll fix this. They’re desperate. They won’t find someone else fast enough.”

“Fantastic,” Ino sighed.

On the very next day, her phone rang. She could still have the role, if she formally apologized to everyone and kept her mouth shut during filming. Order, obedience, silence. The reality of Japan’s acting industry.

She’d almost forgotten.

But it would be just this role, right? Just this one and maybe two more, then she’d have saved up some money, could quit the agency, and start shopping her national credentials to more daring productions.

So she put on her most modest pantsuit, drove to the studio with Mabuchi, bowed as deeply as expected, muttered a few polite phrases, and accepted her fate. Filming began in eight weeks, and until then, she would be required for promotional shoots and costume fittings.

At least the paycheck would cover some new furniture.

What a glamorous life, indeed.

♥

“I mean, my films made millions at the box office! And now that stupid agency doesn’t find a decent lead role for me?” Ino grumbled, standing in the middle of a sofa showroom on a rainy winter Saturday.

Sakura had run into her by chance while doing her weekend shopping, only to be swept into an impromptu furniture hunt. They had been crossing paths more often lately, now living roughly in the same neighborhood. It almost felt like old times, back when they’d painted each other’s nails after school. Except now, Sakura was pushing a shopping cart with her daughter inside it, and their conversations revolved around careers and marriage.

“I used to play depressed students having existential crises. Now my fucking suicide is magically cured by a stupid gold ring. It’s ridiculous.”

“Would you please not swear in front of my daughter?” Sakura sighed, though Sarada was far too preoccupied, admiring the sparkling displays from her seat in the shopping cart. “Is the role really that bad?”

“Worse than bad. Look at this.” Ino picked up a price tag. “Is that a lot for a hanging shelf? I have no clue about Japanese prices anymore—or about Japan in general, or its obsession with politeness.”

“Politeness was never really your strong suit.”

“Which is exactly why I left. I vaguely remember that enthusiastic girl I used to be.”

Sakura chuckled. “I won’t be much help, by the way. I’ve never bought furniture before. Our old place came furnished, and after that, I went straight from my dorm to Sasuke’s. Sarada’s nursery was Mikoto-san’s gift.”

Ino sighed, sympathetic but unimpressed. They left the sofa section and moved on to coffee tables. “The Uchihas really like to run your life for you, huh? If you ask me, marrying Sasuke was a mistake.”

Her offhanded tone made it clear she was joking. Still, Sakura looked away. “When he proposed, I was completely in love.”

“Of course you were.” They walked past an unbelievably ugly coffee table, and Ino made a face, puffing out her cheeks as she eyed the price tag. “Is love enough, though?” Ino asked, as if it were that simple. She had always been skeptical of the idea of true love. ‘Love can only get you past the first hurdle,’ she would say whenever she turned down yet another love confession, ‘the rest is constant effort, compromise and understanding. And frankly, that just sounds exhausting.’

But Ino wasn’t in Sakura’s shoes. She wasn’t married to Sasuke, didn’t have a child with him. Nothing about it was simple anymore. And her marriage wasn’t that bad. Every relationship had ups and downs.

“Maybe I want more than I deserve,” Sakura murmured after a long pause, absently running her fingers through Sarada’s hair. “He’s under so much pressure already. I should support him instead of making his life harder.”

“That’s nonsense.” Ino let the price tag drop and crossed her arms. “No wonder Sasuke treats you like his default setting. You’ve been chasing him your whole life. Do you really want to keep doing that?”

Sakura sighed. “Please don’t ask me that. At least not while we’re surrounded by coffee tables.”

Ino shook her head but ultimately let the subject drop.

For the next few hours, they picked out stylish furniture that cost Ino a small fortune. She hadn’t mentioned how much she was getting paid for her uninspired supporting role, but she was clearly doing well enough to afford one of the ugliest, most overpriced floor lamps imaginable. The afternoon was unexpectedly lively, filled with talk of carpet patterns, discount deals, and wood grain.

But as evening settled in, Sakura was left with the painful realization that she wished she had shared this experience with Sasuke. Measuring cabinet heights, losing Sarada in the ball pit, debating over lampshades, hunting for the tackiest throw pillows, and pretending plastic baguettes were swords.

But Sasuke hadn’t been there—wasn’t even home now. He was working, like every Saturday, late into the night. Always focused on his project, relentlessly striving to outshine his older brother and gain his father’s approval. All while she sat at home, unpacking a new blanket for Sarada.

Alone.

She didn’t want to admit it—didn’t want to acknowledge it—but she felt lonely in her marriage.

And she wasn’t sure how much longer she could keep going like this.

Chapter Text

♥

Konoha, Japan—sixteen years earlier.

“Naruto.”

Sasuke stepped up to his best friend’s desk, arms crossed, looking down at him. As always, his expression hovered somewhere between fully indifferent and slightly condescending. It didn’t seem to bother Naruto in the slightest. They had spent the past two years playing together on their middle school soccer team, constantly shifting between mortal enemies and best friends. Sakura had never understood their dynamic, no matter how hard she had tried. It had to be a boy thing.

Naruto leaned back in his chair, rocking it slightly on two legs, arms folded behind his head as he looked up at Sasuke. “Whazup?”

“Don’t make a scene, no matter what I’m about to tell you.”

Instinctively, Sakura glanced up, masking her curiosity with a thoughtful gaze out the window. To make her act more believable—not that either of them cared—she tapped her fingernail against the textbook she had been poring over. Biology wasn’t the worst way to spend a lunch break, especially since Hinata was sick, Ino was her rival, and she’d had nothing better to do. At least, until Sasuke had involuntarily stolen her attention five seconds ago.

“I never make scenes,” Naruto said confidently. Sasuke was one sigh away from rolling his eyes.

“Then don’t break your streak now. I’m moving away.”

“Wha—” Naruto froze, his mouth opening and closing a few times like a fish on dry land. Behind him, Sakura had gone rigid, eyes locked on her book, unable to register a single word on the page. “Why? When?”

“My father is relocating the company’s headquarters. We need to expand, but the local workforce isn’t large enough to meet demand. Or something like that.”

“I don’t care about that! How the hell are we supposed to win the Winter Kokuritsu? I can’t lead the team to victory alone!” Naruto shot to his feet, frustrated. “Seriously, Sasuke! First Neji and Lee fuck off to stupid high school, and now you’re ditching us too?!”

“You’ll find a replacement. Not nearly as brilliant as me, but maybe you can convince… Shino… or Shikamaru…”

Sakura had heard enough. Disappointment burned in her chest, welling up in her throat. With far too much force, she shut her book and rushed outside before the tears could start. Sasuke didn’t even look after her. He never had. And he never would.

Last summer, she had promised herself that this year, she would make him notice her.

What a stupid, stupid resolution.

In the girls’ restroom, she locked herself in one of the stalls, burying her face in her hands. At fourteen, she had still been naïve enough to chase after something she had no control over. And now, the realization hit her hard.

She was childish. Foolish. Laughable. Had declared war on her best friend for nothing.

And worst of all—she would never see Sasuke again.

♦

Tokyo, Japan—present day.

When Ino arrived on set eight weeks later, she was hardly impressed. Not that it looked unprofessional—everything seemed well-organized—but after her clash with the producers, she wasn’t in the mood to acknowledge anything positive, the fresh coffee in her hand being the only exception. Mabuchi had shoved it into her hand before sending Ino off with her assistant and a warning, ‘Behave, or you will regret it.’

So here she stood, surrounded by cables and spotlights, and greeted by the director.

“Yamanaka-san! It’s such a pleasure to have you here. Did you have a good trip? Yes, wonderful. Come, take a look around. Your co-stars are just over there, you’ll want to meet them, right?”

“I really do,” Ino replied. It wasn’t exactly the truth, nor was it an outright lie. Better talk to interesting people than take in her surroundings. Blue River mostly took place in a school, a single-family home, and a hospital. The scenery was realistically designed, which made it unbearably dull after having filmed in deserts and the Highlands. Perhaps the director knew as well, rushing her past it and leading her straight to the other actors gathered near a large table.

“Yamanaka Ino-san!” A young woman in the center called out, her bow energetic yet proper. “I’ve been looking forward to filming ever since I heard you’d be playing my big sister! Your performance as the Demon Princess in our school play was what inspired me to pursue acting!”

Ino searched her memory. Nothing. “And you are...?”

“Kazamatsuri Moegi, but my stage name is Kazuri Moegi. Just call me Moegi. I’m from Konoha too! I never thought you’d return to Japan, let alone that I’d get the chance to act alongside you!”

 “That’s life for you, I guess.” Ino forced a smile. Moegi wasn’t to blame for the shallow nature of this production, nor were the other actors.

The introduction round wasn’t as bad as she had feared. Aside from Ino, there were two older trained actors playing her parents, the rest were high school students with little experience and a male idol hoping to promote his solo album in the process. The food was also decent and kept Ino occupied while shooting schedules were distributed and motivational speeches were given. The timeframe was tight, the budget limited, and all scenes needed to be filmed within thirty-seven shooting days, each one lasting between twelve and eighteen hours.

Ino’s filming schedule was manageable, with most of her scenes being crammed into the first and last week. Her lines were simple, the acting requirements average. She had been able to cry on command for years, and little more was expected from her character. Her co-stars seemed nice enough as well, Moegi’s dedicated enthusiasm being especially endearing.

It reminded Ino why she had gone into acting in the first place—the thrill of studying a new character, the liberation of losing herself in a role, the satisfaction of having created something, having left a small mark on the world. So, when Moegi asked, eyes sparkling, if she could walk with her to the train station, Ino couldn’t refuse.

The first half of the walk, Moegi excitedly talked about the upcoming filming schedule. The second half, she shared news from Konoha. Naruto was the most popular mayor in two decades, the local high school had built a new basketball court, a new restaurant had opened last year. Most of it meant little to Ino. She hadn’t been back to Konoha in twelve years and hadn’t spoken to her mother or childhood friends in just as long.

Konoha was the past, Los Angeles had meant to be her future. Now she was stuck in Tokyo.

Still, the gossip was interesting. Moegi had no updates on Sai, but her parents had mentioned that Shikamaru’s father had been sleeping on the couch for weeks, and Chōji had bought a small farm on the outskirts of town. She would have liked to hear when Hinata’s second child was due, but a group of high school girls interrupted. One of them let out a shriek, sprinted toward Ino, and thrust a notebook and pen at her.

“You’re Yamanaka Ino-san! Could you please sign an autograph?”

Her three friends, initially confused, quickly lit up and scrambled for pens. Autographs were signed, selfies were taken, and soon the small commotion caught the attention of other passersby. Before long, more than twenty people had gathered around them, asking for photos and signatures.

“Wow!” Moegi exclaimed, clearly impressed, when the crowd finally dispersed. “You’re really famous.”

Ino shook her head. “Don’t overestimate it. One person gets an autograph, and twenty others panic about missing out. I’d bet two thousand yen none of them have seen a single one of my films.”

“Well, now they have a reason to watch one! Which would you recommend?”

A serious question—one Ino hadn’t expected. The answer was too long for tonight. Her train arrived in five minutes, and Moegi needed to head the other way.

“Another time. I’m sure we’ll have plenty of chances to talk about movies.” As she descended the steps to her platform, she added, “Quick tip—don’t rush to fame. Build your craft quietly, and the right roles will find you.”

“Thanks, I’ll keep that in mind!” Moegi called after her.

She wouldn’t take the advice. Most young actors didn’t. It was just too tantalizing—riding your first success, reveling in it like basking in a blooming field of flowers under a sunny sky, convinced it could only get better. Ino had been there, too. Taking role after role, never a break, never a pause.

She was still there, wasn’t she? Ignoring her own advice, taking on this stupid role for what exactly?

The gust of wind from the incoming train made Ino tighten her coat around her shoulders.

She took a deep breath. It felt impossible to let it go again.

What the hell was she even doing here?

♣

“What the hell is that guy up to?”

Sasuke sank into his office chair with a frustrated sigh, running his fingers through his hair. It had grown out a bit. No time for a haircut. Sakura had been nagging him about it for weeks.

Half-heartedly, he flipped through the document he had pulled from the company archives yesterday—the only source of information in this damn building that mentioned both Malaysia and circuit boards, though not in the same article.

A familiar notification chimed. A blink later, an email preview slid onto his screen. Another database test report. He didn’t want the details. Didn’t have time for them.

Before another email could interrupt, he pushed to his feet and strode toward the elevator. Over the years, he had learned that no Uchiha was ever approached if they simply walked through the halls with enough authority. As expected, the few employees passing by merely greeted him politely and wished him a good night. As if sleeping was even an option. They didn’t even dare to join him in the elevator as he strode in and pushed the button to the management floor, eight floors above his own.

It had been such a classic Uchiha move, separating him from his family and the ones who were supposed to be his peers.

The elevator doors slid back open and he strode out just as determined as he had entered, following the grey-carpeted floor, turning corners and passing through side rooms. From the outside, the UCHIHA Corp. headquarters formed a boring square shape, only interesting because of the tasteful courtyard his mother had designed. The interior, however, was a maze of endless corridors, connecting doors, shortcuts and stairwells that either made navigation a tiny bit faster or significantly worse. During his internship, Sasuke had constantly lost his way. Now, he could navigate most floors blindfolded.

The route to this particular office had been one of the first ones that had ingrained itself into his memory.

Unsurprisingly, he found the antechamber to Itachi’s office still open, dim light spilling into the quiet hallway. Sasuke slowed his steps and entered. Before he could announce himself, Itachi’s assistant looked up from a binder. “Good evening, Sasuke-san,” she greeted.

They had been on a first-name basis ever since the growing number of Uchiha-samas at UCHIHA Corp. had caused too much confusion. That suited Sasuke just fine—he had always disliked the honorific. He was neither his father nor his oh-so-brilliant brother.

“Reina-san. You’re still working.”

She offered him a polite smile, slipping a metal bookmark onto the page she had been reading. “So are you,” she replied, standing up. “Can I help you? I assume you know that Uchiha-sama is away on business.”

“I do,” Sasuke said. He had rushed here on impulse, and now he was stuck figuring out how to phrase his request without raising suspicion.

Itachi had gone through a string of inadequate assistants before finding what he called irreplacable in Shirogane Reina. She was courteous, disciplined, independent and, above all, sharp. Any questionable inquiry would go straight to her superior. There was just one thing she would believe unquestionably.

“I was just wondering how many resources Itachi has available right now. I know he’s involved in restructuring the sales department and rolling out the main product in India. Now he offered to help me with vitaLINK as well, so I wanted to make sure he actually has the capacity. You know how he is.”

Technically, it wasn’t even a lie. Though Sasuke had no intention of ever accepting it, his brother had offered his help.

“Corporate strategy meetings are scheduled for the week after next,” Reina thankfully replied without a second thought. She was all too familiar with her bosses’ habit of taking on most tasks and meddling in the rest. “Other than that, there are no major projects requiring Uchiha-sama’s direct involvement. Before he left, he asked me to keep his schedule free for the next ten days. I assume he’s already set time aside to support you.”

“He has?”

“Let me double-check.” She leaned over her computer, typing until she found what she was looking for. “Yes. I processed several project files from vitaLINK last week. He should already be familiar with the details.”

“Which project files?”

She hesitated. Behind her rectangular glasses, her eyes narrowed skeptically. But she couldn’t refuse to provide information about his project. “Mostly financial reports. Budget breakdowns, cost projections, personnel expenses. Pardon me, Sasuke-san, but I was under the impression you had provided him with these documents?”

“Right,” he lied smoothly, shaking his head as if just remembering. Rarely had he been more grateful for his ability to mask emotions behind shoving his hands into his pocket. “That was this one email—the file was too large, so I had to bring it up on a USB stick. Thanks, Reina-san, you’ve been really helpful. Have a good evening, and don’t stay too late.”

“You shouldn’t either,” she replied, a touch reproachful.

Sasuke hurried out, opting for the stairs instead of the elevator. He was too on edge to stand still.

Of course, Reina believed he had given Itachi those documents. Company policy required such information to be communicated only by the project lead. But why the secrecy? Sasuke presented those boring administrative details at every status meeting. None of it was a secret.

What the hell was Itachi planning?

It took effort to sit back down at his desk and pull up every document remotely related to vitaLINK’s costs and time estimates. He let Sakura’s call two hours later go to voicemail and ignored her second and third attempts. After the fourth, he sent a brief text and switched his phone to silent.

If Itachi planned on using those numbers against him, Sasuke had to know every single digit—had to be ready with solid explanations for every expense.

He wouldn’t be outmaneuvered.

Not by anyone.

Least of all by Itachi.

♠

Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia—eight weeks earlier.

“Thank you for your visit, Uchiha-sama,” said the small, round man with thinning hair. His expensive suit bore a tiny oil stain, acquired during the factory tour when he had gotten too close to a machine for demonstration purposes.

After the tour, Itachi knew plenty about circuit board manufacturing. He also knew that the Malaysian factory—where, following a long-winded farewell from the owner, a driver picked him up—could neither produce the required quantities nor meet the prices UCHIHA Corp. demanded. He had known this from the start, only pitching the supplier to his father because he had some other business in Singapore that nobody needed to know about. At least not yet.

With time to spare before his flight’s departure, he connected to the airport’s premium Wi-Fi and, once again, reviewed the financial documents he had gathered over the past three weeks. Maybe this time they would make sense.

When Sasuke had mentioned the rather high rates charged by the UI design agency he had hired, Itachi had expected to find a simple typo somewhere in the incoming bills. He had, in fact, found two. But the service rate had still been far over market standard, so he had reviewed the underlying agreement. That had been when, by pure chance, the accounting software’s search function had pulled up five other contracts.

Contracts with resellers in Singapore—a market they couldn’t operate in due to legal restrictions—selling a product that wouldn’t be ready for at least another six months.

And that was odd.

Itachi would have understood if Sasuke had planned that far ahead. The conceptual phase had been challenging, the execution turbulent, and the board had been eager to see him fail. Securing international resellers before domestic release was not a bad move. But why in Singapore of all places? And why the secrecy?

Why had Sasuke never mentioned these contracts?

Three hours later, his flight to Singapore was called for priority boarding, and Itachi still couldn’t make sense of it. He would have to figure it out once he got there.

He spent the flight drafting emails, scheduled them for delayed delivery, and, upon landing, handed the address listed in the first contract to the first available taxi driver. The bald man clearly spoke neither Japanese nor English, but he grasped the intent and launched into an excited monologue the moment they set off. By the end of the forty-minute ride, Itachi wasn’t sure if he had agreed to a cup of Teh Tarik or an arranged marriage with the man’s oldest daughter. Before he had to cash in on any of it, he slipped him a generous tip and got out of the car.

He could feel a frown tug at his forehead.

Singapore was a vital economic hub in the Asia-Pacific region, packed with branches of international firms and large national corporations. Any serious company had their offices in Marina Bay, Tanjong Pagar, or one of the city’s other imposing business districts.

The place he had ended up in, though, was the polar opposite. The streets were riddled with potholes, rows of rundown houses lined the narrow road, and across the road sat a sprawling landfill. The stench was so overpowering that Itachi barely managed a glance through the lone window of the two-story building at the listed address before waving the taxi back and climbing in again. One look had been enough anyway. Behind the grimy façade hadn’t been the headquarters of some major sales company but a wall of mailboxes.

Hundreds of them. Plain, nondescript, and damning.

The pattern continued at the remaining four addresses—simple mailboxes at abandoned locations. Itachi should have known eight weeks ago, but at least he knew now—none of the resellers Sasuke had supposedly brought on board existed.

And he knew another thing.

This wasn’t Sasuke’s doing. Someone was exploiting vitaLINK.

But for what? No fake pre-orders had been placed, no fraudulent invoices had been issued. He could imagine illegal export channels or obscuring an insider deal, but why in Singapore? The National Tax Agency would be onto them within a minute.

How odd.

How very, very odd.