Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Kakashi was two years old, stacking blocks with strange swirly patterns when the truth hit him—he had been reborn.

This wasn’t Konoha. There was no chakra humming in the air, no soft whispering steps of shinobi racing across rooftops. Instead, towering glass apartments loomed overhead, strange loud mechanical beasts roared along the streets, and lights blinked in colors he didn’t think existed.

But one thing remained the same: Sakumo.

In the glossy photo frame he clutched with small, clumsy fingers, his father stood in a crisp uniform, silver hair as familiar as breathing. No mother in sight. That much, at least, hadn’t changed.

“Aww, are you missing your dad, Kakashi?” a teenage girl cooed, crouching beside him. From her chatter, he’d gathered she was his babysitter.

She tapped the picture fondly. “Your dad’s working so hard—he’s a detective, you know? Catching the bad guys.”

Kakashi only stared at Sakumo’s steady smile behind the glass, heart twisting with something far too old for his tiny body. In the memories of this small body, Dad was always there—soft hands ruffling his hair, a warm laugh when Kakashi tried to say big words, stories whispered before sleep. Except when he was gone. Sometimes days, sometimes longer. Work, the babysitter said. A detective. Catching bad people.

But when Dad came home, the time was theirs. All of it. Lifting him high in strong arms, listening to his babble like it was the most important thing in the world. Eyes that never looked past him, never judged, never hurt.And Kakashi craved it.

This time, he thought. This time, I’ll be good. No mistakes. No distance. Just… family. For a long, long time.

School was… strange.
Children laughed loud, voices bouncing against painted walls, hands tugging at toys and crayons. Kakashi sat at the corner desk, watching. He understood everything—more than he should—but the body he wore was small and clumsy, his words slower than his thoughts.

He didn’t fit.Well, he never did.Even back in his previous life, he was an outlier, graduating in a year at 5 years old. He never did learn how to get along with other kids.

The teacher’s worried look gave it away. One afternoon, she crouched beside him, her voice gentle, and later he heard her speaking to his father in hushed tones. Too quiet, too alone. Flaws that Kakashi never thought were a problem.

That night, Dad’s eyes softened, full of concern that twisted in Kakashi’s chest. He didn’t want to see that look again. So, the next day, Kakashi forced himself to sit near other kids, to pretend. It wasn’t hard—he had worn masks before. This one was just smaller, brighter.

If it eased Dad’s worry, then it was worth it.

As he grew and learned, there were two things in this world that caught his attention.First was the world of machines.The intricate pieces interlocking each other to create functions. The circuits bring things to life. The words and numbers creating artificial minds.The glowing screens and humming boxes that filled this new world. 

He tugged at Dad’s sleeve one evening, pointing at the display in the store window.

A console. Shiny, colorful, full of games the other kids talked about. Something about monsters in pockets.

Kakashi lifted his eyes, wide and pleading, the way only a child could. Dad hesitated for all of two seconds before sighing in defeat. The box came home with them. Later, it was a computer. Then a phone. Dad always thought it was games that fascinated him. And Kakashi played, enough to keep up the act. But secretly, when the house was quiet, he peeled back the layers, learning how programs breathed, how lines of code made the impossible happen and began poking where he shouldn't.

Another thing he found fascinating was the cuisine. One night, Dad brought home takeout: golden green curry, steaming and fragrant. Kakashi’s eyes widened at the first bite. Spices bloomed across his tongue, unfamiliar yet perfect.

From then on, he wanted to taste everything. Korean stews. Italian pasta. Sweet desserts from places he couldn’t yet pronounce. He would sit on Dad’s lap, scrolling food blogs and recipes on the computer, eyes sparkling.

“Baked eggplant with cheese,” Kakashi muttered reverently one night, chewing slowly. “Whoever thought of this… genius.”

It’s also the start of his experiments in the kitchen. Cooking was something he always liked in his previous life. But the amount of variety in this world was staggering. He got the hang of it soon enough, cooking simple meals for the both of them, declaring he doesn't need the babysitter and her bland microwave cooking anymore.

The badge landed on the counter with a muted clink, the metal catching the kitchen light. Kakashi’s gaze lingered on it, his small hands wrapped around a mug of cocoa.

He often thought about that badge. This world had laws — written, structured, believed in. Courts and juries. Paper trails. Here, morality wasn’t an afterthought, wasn’t bent by the whims of those strong enough to enforce their own justice. Well, mostly. Most people were civilians, soft and ordinary, living inside peaceful bubbles that never burst.

And yet… evil still existed. Different shape, same essence. Traffickers, abusers, liars in clean suits. And his father — his father — spent every day facing that evil head-on.

“Who’d you catch today?” Kakashi asked, voice light, almost teasing. He blew on his cocoa and took a slow sip, studying Sakumo from under his lashes.

Sakumo smiled, but it was the tired kind. His shoulders sagged as he pulled off his jacket, his hair damp from the rain. “Ah, nothing worth telling,” he said, waving a hand. “Just someone who needed a good talk.”

Kakashi’s eyes narrowed. A lie. He could smell the weight behind the words — the heaviness clinging to his father’s frame, the exhaustion seeping through the cracks in his smile.

But Kakashi didn’t push. Not yet.

Instead, he slid off his chair, padded over, and leaned against Sakumo’s side. He would be the sounding board, if his father ever needed one. Because Sakumo never went out with friends — did he even have any? — never sought laughter or distraction outside the walls of work and home. Always straight-laced, always holding to his own high morals, even when it wore him down.

It worried Kakashi. More than he could say.

“Eat first,” Kakashi murmured, tugging gently at his sleeve. “I made stew.”

For a moment, Sakumo only looked down at him. Then the tired lines in his face softened, and he let out a quiet chuckle, ruffling Kakashi’s hair.

“My angel,” he said.

Of course, this world couldn’t leave them in peace.

It began with whispers. News reports twisting facts, headlines dripping poison. Sakumo Hatake—detective once praised—suspended for misconduct. Accused of tampering, corruption, aiding traffickers. Lies stacked like bricks, heavy enough to bury a man alive. Powerful people had dirt to hide, and they had chosen their scapegoat.

Kakashi read every word, his eyes sharp and narrow. So this is how they want to play.

At home, his father sat slumped at the table, untouched tea cooling in his hands. Worry clung to him. Shame. Fear. One morning, after breakfast, Sakumo stayed seated instead of reaching for his jacket.

“I’ve been suspended,” he confessed at last, voice thick with humiliation. “They’re investigating me.”

Kakashi tilted his head, widening his eyes in feigned innocence. “Does that mean… you’ll be home all the time?”

Sakumo blinked, taken aback. “…Yes.”

Kakashi’s face lit up, bright with boyish excitement. He launched into a stream of plans — fishing trips, camping, amusement parks, late-night games, cooking together. His voice tumbled fast, warm, relentless.

Slowly, the weight pressing on Sakumo’s shoulders eased. His hand trembled as it ruffled Kakashi’s hair. A real smile cracked through. “My son,” he whispered, eyes shining. “Always an angel.”

Kakashi smiled back, small and innocent. But behind his lowered lashes, the gears of his mind turned, sharp and merciless.

The glow of the computer screen washed Kakashi’s face in pale blue. His fingers moved with quiet precision, dancing over the keys. Firewalls bent to his will, and locked files unfolded like petals under his touch.

Newspaper articles. Police reports. Financial statements. He combed through them all, eyes narrowing. Too neat. Too clean. His father wasn’t careless. He was being buried.

Outside the door, the floor creaked softly — Sakumo, stirring in his sleep. Kakashi minimized the windows in an instant, pulling up the bright screen of a harmless game. If his father peeked in, he’d see nothing but a boy playing past his bedtime.

When the silence settled again, Kakashi returned to the hunt. Names surfaced over and over — politicians, businessmen, officers with hands too clean for the mess they waded in. He highlighted them, cross-checked with bank transfers, offshore accounts, photographs snapped at glittering galas.

They thought themselves untouchable.

Kakashi’s lips curved into a small, cold smirk. Everyone leaves a trail.

Kakashi nearly dropped the book in his hands when Jiraiya barged into their lives, loud and brash as a thunderclap. And then—Sakumo laughed. Not the weary chuckle Kakashi knew, but a full, unrestrained laugh he had never heard before. A real friend. A crack in the solitude that had always defined his father’s life.

Kakashi’s chest warmed, then tightened. It was good—necessary—that his father had someone to lean on at last. But it was also a reminder: Sakumo had carried burdens alone for far too long. Straight-laced men made poor liars, and worse gamblers against corruption.

Trailing behind Jiraiya came another familiar echo of the past. Blonde hair catching the hallway light, blue eyes calm yet sharp behind wire-rimmed glasses. A neat suit, a confident but polite smile.

“Detective Hatake? It’s nice to meet you. My name is Namikaze Minato. I’ve been assigned to assist with your case.”

Minato. Jiraiya. The same pieces, arranged again. If the world insisted on replaying itself, did that mean tragedy would follow too?

Later, the living room table became a battlefield of documents—evidence of tampered reports, buried testimonies, names too powerful to touch. Sakumo’s hands trembled as he read them, fingers that once cuffed criminals now shaking under betrayal’s weight.

Kakashi sat with them, cross-legged on the rug, phone in hand. Bright shapes merged and disappeared on the screen, the kind of mindless game any child might play before bed. He hummed occasionally, smiled when Jiraiya peeked over his shoulder, all the while pretending not to notice the way the adults’ voices dropped low, careful not to frighten him.

But he was listening. Always listening.

Behind his lowered lashes, Kakashi catalogued every name, every thread. He sat close, a quiet anchor at his father’s side, letting Sakumo feel his presence, feel that he wasn’t alone. If the world wanted to bury his father, then they would have to dig through Kakashi first.

One night, Sakumo lingered by Kakashi’s bed. Thinking his son asleep, he sat with his head in his hands, voice breaking into the darkness. “Maybe… it would’ve been better if I’d—”

“Don’t,” Kakashi cut in, stirring. His voice was soft, drowsy but firm as he pressed closer. “It’s better because you’re here. Always here. With me.”

Sakumo froze, then gathered him into a trembling embrace. “My angel… my angel,” he whispered over and over, clinging like the words alone kept him standing.

Kakashi smiled into his father’s chest, small and innocent. But when his eyes opened, they gleamed with something colder, sharper. If his father was the angel who bore the world’s burdens, then Kakashi would be the devil who made sure the world never broke him again. 

Chapter Text

Sakumo had seen crime scenes, blood, the worst humanity had to offer. But nothing unnerved him more than stepping into his own apartment one night to find the front lock broken.

He searched each room with trained eyes, expecting a fight, a thief, something missing. But everything was in its place. Everything except—

The kitchen table.

On it sat a cardboard box, plain and open. Inside, wrapped in a thin blanket, was a baby. Silver hair caught the dim light, tiny fingers curled around a thumb being sleepily sucked. His eyes fluttered open—gray, sharp, too familiar.

Sakumo’s breath caught.

A folded birth certificate lay beside him. His own name printed neatly under Father. The space for Mother was filled with a stranger’s name he had never heard.

Kakashi. Six months old.

The baby blinked up at him, yawned, and reached out as if he had been waiting all along.

Raising him alone was harder than any mission. Nights were long and sleepless, bottles warmed on the stove when Sakumo’s body screamed for rest. Yet Kakashi was not like the children his colleagues complained about. No tantrums, no screaming, no endless battles of will. He simply… clung. Always grabbing fistfuls of Sakumo’s shirt, arms wrapping tight around his neck. Once he learned to crawl, then walk, Sakumo could never turn around without finding a small shadow trailing after him, gray eyes bright, smile wide.

They teased him at work for being captured, not by an enemy, but by a baby with his eyes. The White Fang, undone by someone no taller than his knee. And perhaps it was true. But when he came home bone-tired and Kakashi’s face lit up with sheer joy, scrambling after him, Sakumo knew he hadn’t been trapped. He had been saved.

The years passed quickly. Kakashi grew, sharp and clever in ways Sakumo couldn’t always explain. Other parents moaned about tantrums, broken dishes, endless mischief and messes. Sakumo knew none of that. His boy was quiet, thoughtful, polite. Sometimes too quiet, and Sakumo wondered if something was wrong.

That worry deepened when school began. The teacher gently reported that Kakashi didn’t talk much, didn’t play with the other children. He had only sat alone, watching others played quietly. Sakumo’s chest clenched with guilt. Of course he didn’t — Kakashi had never been around children his age before. Just babysitters. Just him. Perhaps he had failed him there.

But Kakashi adapted. Slowly, steadily. And not just adapted — he thrived. Top three in his class every year, always polite, always respectful. He wanted to try everything: martial arts, art, music. Whatever he touched, he excelled at. Sakumo’s shelves filled with certificates and medals, his walls with achievements that he never tired of looking at. Whenever colleagues visited, he couldn’t resist pointing them out, preening about his son.

And always, Kakashi had the right words. The words Sakumo didn’t even know he needed until he heard them. On the nights when the weight of work bent his shoulders, when loneliness threatened to hollow him out, his son would climb into his lap and whisper things far too perfect for a child. “It’s better when you’re here.” “You always work so hard, Dad.” “Welcome home.” “I love you, Dad.” Words that healed, words that made him wonder if his boy wasn’t a guardian angel sent down just for him.

He didn’t deserve him. He knew it. But he clung to him all the same.

Then came the whispers. At first, mutterings at the precinct. Then headlines, twisting facts, dripping poison. Detective Hatake—once praised—suspended for misconduct. Accused of corruption, of aiding traffickers. Lies piled high, heavy enough to crush a man.

Sakumo felt the ground shift beneath his feet. The badge in his hand no longer felt like honor — it burned with shame. Colleagues avoided his eyes. Neighbors whispered as he walked past.

At home, Kakashi greeted him with the same smile. Cooked dinner. Filled silence with chatter. Pretended the world beyond their door didn’t exist.

But Sakumo saw the truth reflected in his son’s eyes: he knew.

And when the suspension came down, Sakumo couldn’t even lift his head. “They’re investigating me,” he confessed, voice raw. “I won’t be working for a while.”

Shame sank claws into him, but instead of disappointment, Kakashi lit up — babbling about the many things his son wanted to do with him. Camping trips, fishing, amusement parks, late-night games. Excitement spilled bright into the gloom until Sakumo’s chest ached with something unbearably fragile and warm.

“My son,” he whispered, pulling him close. “Always an angel.”

That night, sitting at Kakashi’s bedside, Sakumo buried his head in his hands. Words slipped out unguarded: “Maybe it would’ve been better if I’d—”

“Don’t.”

Kakashi’s voice, sleepy but firm, cut through the darkness. “It’s better because you’re here. Always here. With me.”

Sakumo froze. Then he gathered his son close, trembling, whispering the truth he clung to like breath.

“My angel. My angel.”

And for the first time since the scandal began, Sakumo thought—maybe he could survive this storm. So long as Kakashi stayed by his side.

“Sakumo, I came as soon as I got your message.”

Jiraiya barreled through the doorway the moment it opened, his eyes sweeping the apartment. Furniture overturned, cushions split, drawers emptied, glass glittering across the floor — the cozy home Sakumo had built for himself and his son reduced to wreckage.

Sakumo sat slumped on the remains of the couch, elbows on his knees, one hand pressed to his temple. His tired eyes stared at a broken picture frame, one of many that had fallen. Kakashi’s smiling face was cracked down the middle.

“Thank god Kakashi had extra classes today,” he whispered. His voice was hollow, lost. “I didn’t even call the police. Just you. Jiraiya… why is this happening to us?”

Jiraiya crouched beside him, scanning the wreckage with a soldier’s eyes. “This wasn’t random. They wanted something. And they wanted to rattle you.”

Sakumo’s jaw tightened, but the weight in his shoulders dragged him down again. He looked around the ruins of his living room — the shattered glass, the overturned furniture, Kakashi’s belongings scattered across the floor. His son’s laughter had filled these walls. Now it was just dust and silence.

“I just… all I ever did was my job,” Sakumo whispered. “And now—this.” His voice cracked. “What if Kakashi had been home? What if he’d come back to this alone?”

Jiraiya’s expression softened, but only for a moment. Then he straightened, voice firm. “Enough. Pack a bag. You and the kid.”

Sakumo blinked, dazed. “…What?”

“I’ve got a safe house.” Jiraiya’s tone left no room for argument. “Quiet. Secure. No one’s going to touch either of you there.” His eyes hardened. “You can’t stay here, Sakumo. Not with enemies kicking down your door.”

Sakumo opened his mouth, closed it again. He felt raw, unsteady — but the thought of Kakashi sleeping soundly somewhere untouchable steadied his hands.

Jiraiya clapped him on the shoulder. “Go. Get your things. The rest can wait.”

The last zipper closed with a harsh sound that cut through the silence. Sakumo straightened, staring at the packed bags lined by the door, his chest heavy with everything he hadn’t yet said to his son.

The door clicked open.

“Kakashi—”

His boy stepped inside, silver hair mussed from the wind, backpack hanging from one shoulder. His gray eyes widened as they swept over the wreckage — the broken furniture, the shattered glass, the scars carved into what had been their home.

Then he noticed the bags.

Jiraiya stiffened, throwing a glance at Sakumo, silently demanding he handle it. Sakumo’s heart thundered in his chest. He had nothing prepared. No words of comfort. No neat explanation. His mind was a tangle of shame, fear, and the sick certainty that he had failed the one person he could not fail.

Kakashi looked from the wreckage to the bags to his father’s pale face. Curiosity flickered in his eyes.

And then, softly, he asked:

“Where are we going, Dad?”

Silence stretched. Jiraiya rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at Sakumo again before crouching down to Kakashi’s level.

“Well, kid,” he said lightly, forcing a grin, “turns out I’ve got a holiday cabin that’s been lonely without company. Needs someone to look after it for a while. What do you say?”

Sakumo swallowed hard and forced his voice steady. “It’ll be like our camping trips, Kakashi. Just… longer. Just for a little while.” He tried to smile, though his throat was tight. “I think you’ll like it.”

For a moment, Kakashi’s gray eyes lingered on the wreckage — the broken furniture, the ruined frame of his photo — then flicked back to his father. He tilted his head, as though weighing their words, then gave a small, easy smile.

“Okay,” he said simply. “That sounds fun.”

Relief surged so strong in Sakumo’s chest it nearly buckled him. He dropped to one knee, cupping the back of his son’s head, pulling him close. “Thank you,” he whispered, voice rough.

Kakashi leaned into the embrace, warm and steady, his smile never wavering. If it kept his father from breaking, then he would accept any story, any excuse — and make it true for Sakumo’s sake.

The cabin settled into rhythm.

At first, Sakumo couldn’t sleep. Every creak of the floorboards had his hand twitching toward the drawer where his sidearm lay. But Jiraiya had been thorough — escape cars stashed in the woods, backup radios tucked into hidden compartments, supplies stacked neatly in the pantry. Knowing those contingencies existed eased the knot in Sakumo’s chest, little by little.

Days slipped by. Mornings filled with the smell of pancakes, afternoons with the sound of Kakashi’s laughter as he explored the woods just beyond the porch. In the evenings, Sakumo built fires while his son roasted marshmallows, face glowing in the flicker of the flames.

Sometimes Sakumo would catch himself watching Kakashi, marveling at how easily the boy adapted. No tantrums, no complaints, no questions he couldn’t answer. Just that same small smile, as if this too was simply another adventure they were on together.

One weekend, Jiraiya brought company. Minato, calm as ever, and his wife, Kushina — all warmth and energy, filling the cabin with chatter. They set up a grill outside, the smell of meat and smoke rising into the air. Sakumo found himself laughing more than he had in months.

Kakashi, meanwhile, quietly set out a tray of snacks he’d prepared on his own — neatly cut sandwiches, cookies lined up with precision. Kushina crouched down, eyes sparkling. “You made these yourself?”

Kakashi nodded, a little shy, glancing toward his father.

Sakumo’s heart swelled. Pride and relief tangled in his chest until he could barely speak. He rested a hand on his son’s shoulder, voice rough but steady. “Always taking care of me,” he said.

For the first time since the scandal began, it felt almost like a home again.

The cabin grew more familiar with each passing day. The silence of the woods no longer pressed on Sakumo’s ears; it soothed them. He had grown comfortable enough to leave Kakashi behind for short errands—quick supply runs into town, trusting the boy would be safe within the cabin’s sturdy walls.

It was on one of those runs that everything collapsed.

The ambush came without warning. Men giving chase, the crack of gunfire tearing through the night air. Sakumo’s vehicle skidded, bullets sparking against metal. One shot grazed his arm, fire lancing through flesh. He bit back a cry, fighting the wheel until he lost them in the back roads and forest shadows.

By the time he stumbled back into the cabin, shirt knotted tight around the wound, he was shaking with exhaustion and fury. He wanted to smile, to reassure, to keep the blood hidden. But Kakashi’s eyes caught it instantly.

“Dad…”

Sakumo faltered. He braced for fear, for panic.

Instead, Kakashi’s small face hardened, voice sharp and unyielding. “Clean that up and bandage it properly.” His gray eyes didn’t waver. “I’ll get our bags.”

For a moment, Sakumo could only stare at his son—his little boy—who wasn’t crying, wasn’t trembling. He was steady. Practical. Already moving toward the bedroom with quick, purposeful steps.

Sakumo’s throat tightened as he pressed a hand to his bleeding arm. Kakashi had always been his angel. But in that moment, he looked more like a soldier.

By the time Sakumo finished cleaning and bandaging his wound, Kakashi was already waiting by the cabin’s back door. A backpack hung from his small shoulders, and three more bags sat neatly on the floor beside him.

One glance told Sakumo what they were: clothes, essentials, and—his heart skipped—the bag he kept his sidearm and backup radio in. Kakashi hadn’t just grabbed things at random. He had chosen deliberately.

The boy silently held out the car keys.

For a moment, Sakumo could only stare, throat tight. Then he took them, tucking his injured arm close, and nudged the door open. Together, they slipped into the woods.

The night pressed heavy, every shadow alive with threat. Branches cracked underfoot, owls hooted in the distance, and each sound made Sakumo’s body coil tighter, ready for danger. He kept Kakashi close, his free hand gripping the boy’s shoulder whenever he thought he heard movement.

They didn’t speak. Only the crunch of leaves and the whisper of wind marked their flight until at last, the faint silhouette of Jiraiya’s hidden car appeared between the trees.

Only then did Sakumo let out a long, shuddering breath, muscles aching with the release of tension. He turned immediately to check on Kakashi.

The boy sat in the back seat, buckled in neatly, eyes glued to his phone. Bright shapes flickered across the screen, skewers of cartoon food lining up in rows. Kakashi hummed softly as he matched them, utterly calm, as if the night had not been filled with gunfire and fear.

Sakumo’s heart clenched. For the first time, certainty struck him: there was something strange about his son.

Chapter Text

Jiraiya met them at the cabin door, expression grim. His eyes swept over Sakumo’s bandaged arm, then flicked to Kakashi, who slipped past with his backpack after a polite greeting and headed inside without a fuss.

“The kid’s doing surprisingly well,” Jiraiya said after a beat. His voice was low, unreadable.

Sakumo exhaled, weary. “He’s resilient.”

Still, as he watched Kakashi set his things neatly by the wall and tug his blanket into place like this was nothing more than another trip, a faint unease pricked at him. Too calm. Too composed. Other children would have cried, clung, demanded answers. Kakashi just… accepted.

Sakumo forced the thought away. His boy had always been different. Good. Stronger than most. And in such a horrible situation, it wasn’t a flaw. It was a blessing.

What mattered now was getting him comfortable, safe. It was late, and Kakashi deserved a warm bed after the chaos of the night. Tomorrow, Sakumo would find the words — an explanation that wouldn’t frighten him but would give him enough truth to hold on to.

For now, he let himself sag against the couch, the weight of the day catching up to him. Across the room, Kakashi glanced up from arranging his things and offered him a small, reassuring smile.

And like always, Sakumo unclenched at the sight.

It took longer than he expected to coax Kakashi into bed. The boy wasn’t frightened — not once did he ask why their home had been destroyed, not once did he cling like Sakumo feared. In fact, he was more concerned about finishing his game on his phone. He only brushed his teeth, folded his clothes neatly, and climbed under the covers with a quiet, “Good night, Dad.”

Sakumo lingered by the bedside, watching the steady rise and fall of his son’s chest until he was sure Kakashi’s breathing had evened into sleep. Only then did he return to the living room, where Jiraiya was pouring strong tea into chipped mugs.

A knock came at the door — a careful pattern. Jiraiya’s shoulders loosened as he let Minato inside. The younger man looked travel-worn, his tie loosened, briefcase in hand. His sharp blue eyes went immediately to Sakumo’s arm.

“You’re hurt,” Minato said, already setting the case down.

“A graze,” Sakumo muttered. “Nothing more.”

Jiraiya snorted. “Tell that to the shirt you bled through.”

Minato pulled a folder from his case and spread it across the table, papers fanning out like a storm. “We need to talk about who’s pulling these strings,” he said, calm but firm. “The break-in, the ambush — it’s not intimidation anymore. They want you silenced.”

Sakumo sank into the couch, exhaustion dragging at his frame. “I don’t understand it. All I ever did was my job. I passed you everything I had the moment the investigation turned.” His gaze drifted toward the hallway where Kakashi slept. His voice softened, raw. “I thought keeping him away from it all would be enough.”

Minato’s expression tightened, sympathetic but resolute. “You did the right thing. But these people — they’re powerful, desperate. The more we uncover, the more dangerous it gets.”

Jiraiya leaned forward, grim. “We’ll keep you and the kid safe. That’s first. But you can’t keep walking blind. You need to know how deep this goes.”

Sakumo rubbed a hand over his face, bone-tired. But when he looked back at the table, at the names and figures written in neat print, the detective in him reawakened. He forced himself upright, voice low and steady.

“Then let’s see exactly who I’m up against.”

The papers spread across the table looked almost ordinary — financial reports, phone records, half-legible statements — but Sakumo knew the weight they carried. He rubbed at his bandaged arm, gaze fixed on the names highlighted in neat ink.

“For months,” he began, voice low, “I was leading a trafficking case. We had trails, whispers, small fish — but every time we tried to move in, evidence went missing. Testimonies recanted. Paperwork disappeared. And the men walked free.”

Minato frowned, fingers brushing the edges of the file. “That’s no coincidence. Someone’s feeding them from the inside.”

Sakumo’s chest tightened. He wanted to protest, to defend his team. They’d shared long nights, staked out alleys, chased leads together. But the failures had piled up too neatly, and each one was now being used against him. “They’ve turned my record into a weapon,” he admitted bitterly. “Every missed arrest, every failed raid. They say I sabotaged the cases myself.”

Jiraiya cursed under his breath. “And that’s how they buried you.”

Sakumo’s eyes darkened. “Only recently did I get a real lead. Big enough for arrests. And it held because I handled it myself — no one else touched it. That’s when everything turned.”

Jiraiya and Minato exchanged a look. Then Jiraiya said grimly, “Because it didn’t just rattle some local pushers. The trail points to a bigger hand behind it all.”

Sakumo raised his head slowly. “Who?”

Minato’s tone was even, but his eyes were sharp. “Shimura Danzō.”

The name landed like a stone in the room.

Sakumo’s stomach clenched. Danzō was a ghost in police whispers, a man who never appeared in records yet left fingerprints on every rotten deal in the city. A financier, a broker, a spider at the heart of the web. He owned businesses clean enough to fool the public, but in the underworld he was a king. Too connected, too insulated, too dangerous to touch.

Sakumo’s mouth went dry. “You’re telling me he is behind this?”

“We can’t prove it,” Minato said, voice firm. “But the pattern fits. He has the resources to wipe evidence, to buy silence. And he has the muscle to send shooters after you.”

“Still doesn’t explain why,” Jiraiya added, leaning back with a scowl. “If it’s just about protecting his operation, you’d be dead already. Breaking into your house, chasing you down — it’s not intimidation, it’s desperation. Like they think you’re sitting on something that could burn him.”

Sakumo shook his head, frustration clawing at him. “But I don’t have anything. I passed everything to you the moment the investigation turned. I couldn’t risk Kakashi finding it. I thought I kept him out of it.”

The room fell heavy with silence, the crackle of the wood stove the only sound.

Then Jiraiya leaned forward, voice hard. “Then we find out what they think you’ve got — before they come looking for it again.”

Sakumo’s gaze drifted toward the hallway, where his son lay asleep. His jaw set, eyes burning with quiet resolve.

Minato leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, eyes sharp in thought. “Perhaps we’re looking in the wrong direction,” he said slowly. “What if this isn’t about your current case at all? What if it’s something from before?”

Sakumo’s brows drew together. He sifted through the years in his mind — smugglers, small-time gangs, white-collar crooks who folded the moment the handcuffs clicked. Nothing that came close to the scale of the trafficking ring. Nothing that would justify raids on his home or hitmen on his tail.

“My past cases were nothing compared to this,” he muttered. “This is the only one that ever touched the real underworld. Before this, it was scraps. Nobodies.”

Jiraiya gave a skeptical grunt. “Scraps or not, Danzō doesn’t play games. If he’s stirring up this much trouble, there’s something more at stake. Either he thinks you’ve stumbled onto something without realizing it… or someone wants him to think you have.”

Minato tapped the edge of the file in front of him, eyes narrowing. “Think carefully, Sakumo. Did you ever keep anything from your past cases? Evidence, notes, copies you didn’t turn in?”

Sakumo frowned, leaning back against the couch. “No. I’ve never hidden evidence. That’s against everything I stand for. Anything I took home, I filed back the next day. Always.” He hesitated, a flicker of doubt surfacing. “But… I do keep notes. Case diaries. Summaries. Nothing official, just my own records. If someone thought those held something incriminating…”

Jiraiya’s mouth pulled into a grim line. “Then they could believe you’ve got a smoking gun tucked away without even knowing it.”

The room went quiet, the three men sitting with the weight of that possibility pressing down on them.

Minato began stacking the files into neat piles, his mind already moving ahead. “First, I’ll petition for a formal evidence review,” he said. “Chain of custody, officer testimony, missing documents. If they want to paint you as the leak, we flip it — show it’s your cases that suffered most from tampering. That raises suspicion of insiders. Quietly, I’ll also approach a judge I trust about reopening the arrests you made personally. They’ll stand scrutiny.”

Sakumo gave a slow nod. “And if they push back?”

Minato’s eyes sharpened. “Then we make it public. If someone’s trying this hard to bury you, the court of opinion might be safer than the court of law.”

Jiraiya grunted approval, then leaned forward, sketching rough lines on the back of a discarded report. “Security next. You’re not staying put. Too risky. We rotate between cabins, motels, even a friend’s hunting lodge if we need to. Nobody gets your routine. I’ll set up escape cars in every direction, radios on different frequencies, and dead drops for comms. If something goes bad, you split with the kid and head for the nearest cache.”

Sakumo frowned. “And you?”

“I’ll be the loud one,” Jiraiya said with a grim grin. “Draw heat, muddy their trail. If they think I’m sitting on your files, maybe they’ll look at me instead.”

The thought chilled Sakumo, but before he could argue, Minato slid another file toward him. “And you, Sakumo. You said you keep diaries. Go through them, line by line. Not just the current case — everything. See if there’s a thread you missed, something that looks ordinary to you but worth killing for to them.”

Sakumo’s mouth tightened. “You’re asking me to question every case I ever worked. To doubt every report I wrote.”

Minato held his gaze. “If it protects your son? Yes.”

Silence hung heavy for a moment. Then Sakumo exhaled, steady and resolved. “Fine. I’ll go through them. Every page. If there’s a ghost hiding in my work, I’ll find it.”

The three of them sat in the dim glow of the cabin lamp, a fragile alliance forged against an unseen enemy.

For the first time in weeks, Sakumo felt something other than despair. Not hope, not yet — but the cold steel of resolve. He wasn’t alone.

And he would not let his son pay the price for a truth buried in the dark.

Jiraiya was the first to shuffle into the kitchen when the morning light had risen for awhile, hair a mess, eyes half-shut. He grabbed the mug Kakashi offered him without hesitation, inhaling the steam like a man starved.

“Bless you, kid,” he muttered, already gulping down the coffee. “You’re a lifesaver.”

Sakumo smiled faintly from the doorway, pride softening the weary lines on his face. “He’s always been like this,” he said, voice warm. “Brilliant boy. Can do anything he puts his mind to.”

Kakashi ducked his head at the praise, but his hands never slowed as he slid eggs onto a plate, then dropped toast beside them with practiced ease.

Minato, watching from the table, felt his stomach twist. The last time he’d visited, Kakashi had quietly prepared tea and arranged a tray of neat little sandwiches. It had seemed precocious then, even charming. But this—hot pans, frying eggs, steam rising from the kettle—was something else entirely.

“You let him use the stove?” Minato asked carefully, eyes flicking to Sakumo.

Sakumo blinked, almost puzzled by the question. “Of course. He’s been cooking for years.”

Minato’s jaw tightened, concern threading through him. A boy Kakashi’s age should have been worrying about cartoons and games, not knives and hot oil. “Years?” he repeated, horrified despite himself.

Jiraiya only waved a dismissive hand, already buttering toast. “Don’t look so stiff, Minato. Kid’s fine. Hell, if he’s keeping us fed, he’s ahead of most grown men I know.”

Minato set down his mug, his expression softening but still uneasy. “Kakashi,” he said carefully, “you’re very capable for your age. But stoves, knives… they can be dangerous. You should leave that to adults, hm?”

Kakashi turned toward him, gray eyes wide with polite attentiveness. “I’m always careful,” he said earnestly. “Dad showed me how. I make sure not to burn myself or leave things unattended.”

The words came out so calm, so assured, that for a moment Minato felt as though he was speaking not to a child but to a junior colleague giving a report.

Sakumo, beaming, ruffled his son’s hair. “See? He’s a good boy. Always has been.”

Jiraiya let out a content sigh around his toast. “Good boy who makes damn fine coffee.”

Minato hesitated, then smiled faintly, letting the tension go. If Sakumo wasn’t worried — if he trusted his son this completely — then perhaps Minato was just being too cautious.

“Alright,” he said finally. “But promise me you’ll keep being careful.”

“I promise,” Kakashi said brightly.

Satisfied, Minato leaned back, though the faint edge of concern lingered in the back of his mind. Kakashi returned to clearing dishes with efficient little movements, the picture of an obedient son.

A while later, Kakashi set another pot of coffee on the warmer and a kettle of plain water beside it. “So you won’t forget to drink,” he said simply, earning another proud squeeze on the shoulder from Sakumo.

“Going to play outside for a while,” he added, slipping into his shoes. His smile was bright, reassuring, before he padded out the back door. Through the window, they could see him settling cross-legged on the porch steps, toy in hand, the picture of a boy content in the woods.

The three men turned back to the table, voices low and focused. Files spread like a battlefield across the wood. Minato was pointing to connections in bank transfers when Jiraiya’s phone buzzed.

He glanced down at the message, expecting routine updates. Instead, his brow furrowed, the color draining from his face.

“What is it?” Sakumo asked sharply.

Jiraiya swore under his breath. “The safe house you ran from yesterday… it’s gone. Burned to the ground. Fire department and police swarmed it.”

Minato’s eyes narrowed. “Burned? Arson?”

“They’re calling it a gas leak,” Jiraiya said, grim. “But that’s not the part that makes my skin crawl.” He turned the phone toward them. The message glowed cold in the morning light. Three bodies were found inside.

Sakumo stiffened, heart hammering. “Three?”

“Yeah,” Jiraiya muttered. His eyes were hard now, sharp with suspicion. “If they were the ones pursuing you, why are they charred in that cabin? Why let themselves burn down with the place?”

The three men sat in heavy silence, none of them noticing the boy outside on the porch, his gray eyes glinting with cold satisfaction.

Chapter Text

Kakashi pushed open the apartment door, humming the melody he’d been practicing in piano class. The tune died on his lips the moment he stepped inside.

The place was wrecked. Furniture overturned, cushions gutted, glass glittering across the floor. His father sat hunched on the broken couch, Jiraiya looming nearby, bags packed by the door.

For a heartbeat, Kakashi froze. Shock turned sharp, then molten, simmering under his skin. Someone had dared. Dared to shatter their home, dared to leave his father sitting in ruins like this.

He pushed it all down. His face smoothed into wide-eyed surprise as Sakumo rushed forward, words tumbling over themselves —scrambling to say something, his voice straining to sound calm as if broken glass and smashed memories weren’t scattered all around them. As if some faceless thugs hadn’t just marked them. But all Kakashi could was the distressed tone when his dad called his name.

Kakashi let him. A bland smile plastered on his lips and pretended it was enough. Because what mattered wasn’t the wreckage. It wasn’t even the rage simmering beneath his ribs. What mattered was the way his father’s eyes searched his face, desperate to see him unafraid.

“Where are we going, Dad?” Kakashi asked softly.

Sakumo’s smile was tight, pained. “Like one of our camping trips. Just… a little longer this time.”

Kakashi’s smile widened, easy and reassuring. “That sounds fun.”

Sakumo’s shoulders loosened with relief, the shadows in his expression lifting, if only slightly. Jiraiya gave a short nod, and the bags were lifted.

As they left the ruined apartment behind, Kakashi cast one last glance at the wreckage, at the home that had been theirs. The rage simmered hotter, coiling low and silent.

But when he looked back up at his father, all he showed was a boy’s innocent grin.

And if not going back meant no more school for a while? That was just a perk.

The cabin smelled faintly of dust and pine when they first arrived, the kind of place meant for fishing trips and quiet weekends, nothing long-term.

Sakumo had been tense from the moment they stepped inside. His father checked every window twice, made Kakashi stay close, kept glancing at the tree line as if enemies might crawl out of the shadows at any second. At night, Kakashi could hear him pacing outside his door, the floorboards creaking under restless footsteps.

So Kakashi smiled brighter. He hummed while he cooked breakfast, asked about camping trips, begged for stories from work — anything to distract his father from the weight pressing down on him. He filled silences with chatter, pretending not to notice the tight set of Sakumo’s jaw, the way his hand hovered near the drawer where he kept his sidearm.

Little by little, the tension eased. Sakumo started to sit with him by the fire at night, letting himself laugh when Kakashi burned a marshmallow black and called it “art.” He let Kakashi wander a little farther in the woods, so long as he promised not to stray out of sight. He stopped checking every window twice.

Kakashi watched it all carefully. The way his father’s shoulders loosened. The way sleep finally reached his eyes. He let himself be the good son, the angel, because that was what Sakumo needed.

Inside, though, he stayed sharp. He mapped the forest paths when he explored. He noted where Jiraiya had stashed the extra car, how far it was from the cabin.

By day, he was just a boy, light and easy. By night, he was the quiet shadow making sure his father’s smile lasted one day longer.

And if Sakumo never realized the balance between them — that Kakashi wasn’t the one being protected, but the one doing the protecting — then all the better.

When Jiraiya brought Minato and Kushina to the cabin for the weekend, the place felt different. Livelier. Kakashi greeted them at the door with the same small, polite smile he gave to all of his father’s colleagues, then quietly slipped into the background while the adults carried their boxes of food and supplies inside.

It was over dinner — grilled meat smoking in the dusk air — that Minato finally leaned toward him, voice mild but concerned.

“Kakashi,” he began gently, “aren’t you worried about missing school? Don’t you miss your friends?”

Sakumo stiffened slightly, setting down his cup, but before he could answer, Kakashi tilted his head, calm and unbothered.

“I’ve been keeping up with my lessons,” he said evenly, as he helped to butter up the meat. “There are e-learning programs from school. I switched to those and I just needed to submit the assignments on time. I like it better this way, it’s faster.” Kakashi explained he could speed up the tutorial videos and finish his schoolwork faster and play more. “ Anyway, I play games on my phone with my friends most days so I don’t really miss them.”

Minato blinked, taken aback at the quiet confidence in his tone — not bragging, not defensive, just a fact laid down as neatly as one of his case reports.

Before he could reply, Kushina snorted, swatting Minato’s arm with a grin. “Honestly, you worry too much. School will always be there. Let the boy breathe a little! Who cares about boring lessons when he’s got the woods, and marshmallows, and time with his dad?”

Kakashi gave a brighter smile to Kushina who winked back at her on-point remark. Staying close to Dad is what matters.

Sakumo ruffled his hair, pride softening the lines on his tired face. “My son is so clever. He’s got everything under control.”

Minato gave a small, reluctant smile, though his eyes lingered on Kakashi longer than they needed to, still uneasy at how well the boy managed himself.

Kakashi held his gaze just long enough to reassure him — wide-eyed, guileless, obedient. Then he looked back to his plate, cutting into his food with neat, steady hands.

The cabin seemed different when Kushina was around. Is this perhaps what they call a woman’s touch? She filled the air with chatter and laughter, the kitchen with spices and warmth. She fussed over Sakumo like an old friend, scolding him for skipping meals, pressing second helpings on his plate, ignoring his protests with a cheerful, “Eat, or I’ll feed you myself!”

Jiraiya, meanwhile, turned the porch into his personal kingdom. He strung up a fishing pole, taught Kakashi how to flick his wrist just so, and bellowed with pride when the boy landed a tiny perch. “You’re a natural!” he roared, though Kakashi suspected the fish had been more confused than caught.

Even Minato, who usually carried tension in his shoulders like an extra coat, softened a little. He let Kakashi sit beside him in the evenings while he sorted through papers, occasionally explaining legal terms in patient detail. Kakashi listened quietly, asking just enough questions to keep the man talking, though his mind was already miles ahead.

One afternoon, Kushina caught Kakashi tidying the cabin while the others talked outside. She crouched down, red hair falling over her shoulder, and pinched his cheek gently. “You’re too good, you know that? A kid should be making messes, not cleaning them up.”

Kakashi only smiled up at her. “If I clean, Dad doesn’t have to.”

Her eyes softened. For a moment, she looked like she wanted to say more. But instead, she mussed his hair, laughing as she went to join the others.

At night, they grilled outside under the stars. Kakashi roasted marshmallows until they were charred black, earning laughter from Jiraiya and an indulgent shake of the head from Minato. Sakumo watched it all quietly, his expression lighter than Kakashi had seen in months.

For a while, the world felt almost normal.

And that was enough for Kakashi. If smiling, cooking, playing the perfect son could keep his father’s shoulders relaxed, then he would keep it up forever. Even if inside, the rage at what had been taken from them simmered hotter every day.

For all his father’s watchfulness, the safe house days eventually loosened their grip. Sakumo began to relax enough to run errands alone — short trips into town for supplies..

Kakashi was grateful. Not because he disliked the time with his father — never that. But because the moment the door closed behind Sakumo, he could finally breathe without the weight of those gray eyes hovering over his shoulder.

He slipped into his room, laptop booting up in seconds, fingers flying across the keys. Secure connections, encrypted forums, public records hidden behind firewalls — nothing was off limits to him. He chased threads of the trafficking case, cross-referencing names, piecing together transfers.

But his time was always short. He barely unearthed scraps before the sound of Sakumo’s car in the driveway forced him to shut everything down, slide back into his angel mask. By the time his father stepped inside, Kakashi was stirring a pot on the stove or bent over his workbook, the perfect picture of an obedient son.

And then, before he could push any deeper into the puzzle, the world shifted.

The ambush came. His father’s vehicle riddled with bullets, a graze tearing through his arm, blood hidden beneath a makeshift bandage. Their quiet, fragile bubble cracked all at once.

Sakumo tried to hide the blood, tried to play it down as “just a graze.” But Kakashi saw the tightness in his shoulders, the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. All the simmering rage that had been burning slowly turned to ice. If they could wound his father once, they would try again.

And that, Kakashi decided, could not be allowed.

“Clean that up and bandage it properly,” he said, voice firm, almost scolding. “I’ll get our bags.”

Sakumo seemed startled, and Kakashi chastised himself for the too harsh tone. But time was of an essence and he rather have Dad safe.

While Sakumo stumbled into the bathroom to clean up, Kakashi slipped into the living room. His eyes roved the space, sharp and steady, cataloguing. He moved with the precision of someone twice his age, not a boy in socks with hair sticking up every which way.

The gas valves came first. A twist here, a loosened knob there, the hiss filling the silence like a whisper of promise. He adjusted the vents, leaving just enough leak to bloom unseen through the air.

Next, the triggers. Crude, but effective — a stack of plates balanced precariously by the door, glass that would shatter into sparks when they fell. Wires stripped from an old lamp, twisted and set where a careless step would brush metal against metal in several places. Fire waiting for breath.

By the time Sakumo reemerged with a fresh bandage around his arm, Kakashi was already waiting at the back door, bags lined neatly at his side. He pressed the car keys into his father’s hand, his face the picture of calm.

Sakumo blinked—then pride flickered through his tired eyes. His angel, always helping. Always steady.

Kakashi smiled, soft and innocent. But behind lowered lashes, the devil’s work was already done.

When the pursuers came sniffing through the house, the house would welcome them. And then it would burn. They deserved no less.

As they slipped deeper into the woods, Sakumo’s shoulders only eased once the car came into view.

Kakashi buckled himself in, pulled out his phone—and froze at the game notification on his screen.

CatLoVerz666 had stolen his #1 spot in Dazzling Dog Days.
Unforgivable. Not on his watch.

The new cabin sat deeper in the woods, sturdier than the last. To Sakumo, it must have looked like safety. To Kakashi, it was just another temporary shell waiting to be cracked open.

He left his cute cartoon pug watch on the table this time, its hidden bug feeding every murmur of the adults’ low-voiced discussion into his earbuds. Under the blanket, chin tucked against the pillow, he looked like any exhausted child drifting into sleep. But his eyes stayed sharp in the dark.

Names passed back and forth. Fragments of evidence shuffled between them. And then—one name that made his breath still.

Shimura Danzō.

Fury spiked through him. That shit stain. Kakashi almost laughed at the absurdity of it. What was next? His old genin teammates Obito and Rin strolling in? A rabid fox crashing through the woods? Tenzo sprouting out of the floorboards? He shoved the ridiculous thoughts aside and forced himself back to focus.

This wasn’t just police corruption or greedy businessmen stuffing their pockets. This was a spider in the underworld—a man powerful enough to set the entire city trembling. The kind of enemy who didn’t need to hide in the shadows. He owned them.

So my drops only scratched the surface, Kakashi thought, irritation curling low in his chest. He’d spent weeks planting anonymous tips, nudging the investigation along, convinced he was peeling back the layers of truth. And here was proof he’d barely grazed the shell of something much larger. Something his father was already entangled in.

His grip on the earbuds tightened, teeth grinding silently. Every day of this meant more weight dragging at Sakumo’s shoulders. More tired smiles. More nights staring into his tea with shadows in his eyes.

Kakashi swore he’d get to the bottom of it.
Right after his beauty sleep.

Kakashi woke as soon as the sunlight hit. It was habit by now.

Three grown men were sprawled across the sofa, buried under paper, twisted into uncomfortable positions. Kakashi paused just long enough to snap a picture before deciding priorities: coffee first, then breakfast.

By the time the day brightened and the smell of coffee filled the cabin, Jiraiya was the first to stumble into the kitchen, lured by the aroma. Kakashi watched with quiet satisfaction as the men ate the meal he’d laid out for them. Who would have thought he’d be the one keeping everyone fed, the responsible one?

Once they returned to their work, Kakashi slipped outside. The trees looked good for climbing. He didn’t forget to tuck in his earbuds—the bug hidden in his watch still feeding him the adults’ conversation.

At first, it was only a dull murmur. Then Jiraiya’s voice sharpened, grim:
“The cabin. It burned down. Fire department says gas leak. Three bodies inside.”

Kakashi’s eyes curved in a bland smile. Cold, vindictive satisfaction thrummed through him. Three fewer hands reaching for his father. Three fewer shadows at their heels.

But the feeling didn’t last. Those three were nothing but disposable goons. Expendables. The true rot still remained.

And Kakashi knew: if he wanted any chance at a peaceful life with his dad, he’d have to rip it out at the root.

He sighed, gaze drifting to the grown men still hunched over the sofa, buried in papers and exhaustion. For all their effort, they were still only scratching the surface. Kakashi didn’t have the time—or the freedom—to map the depth of Danzō’s reach himself.

So he would delegate.

[Secure Server Chat Log #1]

MR.PUG: knock knock

ShadeCache: …who’s there.

MR.PUG: pug.

ShadeCache: pug who.

MR.PUG: pugging in to hire you.

ShadeCache: …

ShadeCache: terrible.

MR.PUG: I need data. deep dig. target: Shimura Danzō.

MR.PUG: his reach. names. accounts. every shadow he owns.

ShadeCache: troublesome. you don’t aim small, do you.

MR.PUG: payment upfront. speed prioritized.

ShadeCache: tch. fine. I’ll scrape the threads.

MR.PUG: how long.

ShadeCache: depends how tangled his net is. weeks, maybe months, if you want it clean.

MR.PUG: I want it clean.

ShadeCache: then don’t rush me. I nap when I want.

MR.PUG: understood.

MR.PUG: (｡•̀ᴗ-)✧ thanks.

ShadeCache: …what the hell is that.

MR.PUG: appreciation.

ShadeCache: …

[End Log]

[Secure Server Chat Log #2]

MR.PUG: status?

ShadeCache: still compiling. data’s messy.

MR.PUG: excuses.

ShadeCache: not an excuse. facts.

MR.PUG: hurry.

ShadeCache: troublesome. you’ll get it tonight.

MR.PUG: (✿◠‿◠) thanks.

ShadeCache: …never send me that again.

[End Log]

[Secure Server Chat Log #3]

MR.PUG: package received. clean work.

ShadeCache: obviously.

MR.PUG: (っ˘з(˘⌣˘ ) thanks.

ShadeCache: …what the hell was that one.

MR.PUG: secret code.

ShadeCache: I hate you.

[End Log]

[Secure Server Chat Log #4]

ShadeCache: be careful.

MR.PUG: (≧◡≦)♡

ShadeCache: why do i even bother

[End Log]

They moved from base to base every week, as if ghosts were always chasing.

With most of the digging delegated, Kakashi kept to a routine: listening in on the adults’ progress, keeping an eye on his father, and making sure everything else stayed under control — his schoolwork, the chores, even his game rankings.

But the constant moving wore on him. His body lagged behind his mind, tiring quickly, and more often than not, he sank into sleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

It was startling to realize how big the gap was between a shinobi child and a normal one. His strength was tiny. Even with decent food and regular exercise, he was still just… squishy. Weak in ways he’d never been before.

Maybe he could handle one adult in a fight if he pushed himself. But two, armed with guns? No chance.

Traps and explosives were options, but unreliable. They needed prep, foresight, the right conditions. Too many “ifs” to bet on.

The truth was uncomfortable, but clear: Kakashi couldn’t afford a straight fight. Not here. Not like this. He couldn’t protect himself. He couldn’t protect his dad.

Most of his free time went into turning over the files his hacker friend had dug up. Kakashi tapped his pen against the desk in a lazy rhythm, eyes glinting with thought.

A direct confrontation? Impossible. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t play. If he couldn’t win outright, then he’d make the board tilt in his favor.

They say the enemy of my enemy is a friend. Danzo had made plenty of enemies. So many that Kakashi almost laughed, unsure which string to tug first. Each one a bomb waiting for the right spark.

He hummed, lips quirking. Best to start with something big. Something messy. Something loud enough to eat up all of that shit stain’s time — until he forgot about Sakumo entirely.

Chapter Text

Sakumo felt terrible.

Every week they packed their bags and moved again, following Jiraiya’s leads about which safe house might be compromised. At first, Kakashi bore it with the same quiet cheer as always, but as the weeks stretched on, the cracks began to show.

His son lagged behind sometimes, his steps dragging. He napped in odd places — on the couch, at the table, even against the window during car rides — instead of playing outside or pestering Sakumo with questions the way he usually did.

And yet… not once did he complain. Not once did he voice a single word of discomfort. He simply smiled, accepted, and kept pace as though nothing was wrong.

Sakumo was grateful for that resilience — but it broke his heart all the same.

He wasn’t the only one who noticed. Jiraiya’s frown lingered longer whenever Kakashi dozed off mid-sentence. Minato’s gaze sharpened, clearly weighing whether to voice his concern. But in the end, they always looked to Sakumo. It was his decision. His call. His burden.

And all the while, the world beyond them grew more chaotic. Whispers reached even their isolated hideouts: some of Danzō’s underhanded dealings with powerful clans had been dragged into the open. The scandal sent shockwaves through the underworld and the upper echelons alike, dragging attention away from Sakumo for the first time in months.

For a fleeting moment, the pressure eased. But to Sakumo, it only made the air feel heavier. He couldn’t tell anymore what was good or bad news. He only knew one thing for certain—his son was paying the price for every shadow that still clung to his name.

Sakumo lingered by the window as Kakashi slept curled on the couch, a blanket pulled over his small frame. His son’s face was peaceful in slumber, but the shadows beneath his eyes told another story.

The knock at the back door broke his thoughts. Jiraiya slipped inside first, Minato close behind, both carrying the air of men who had run from too many meetings in too little time.

“You’ve seen the papers?” Jiraiya asked without preamble, dropping into a chair. His eyes flicked briefly toward Kakashi before lowering his voice.

“I heard,” Sakumo said. “Danzō’s deals with some of the clans surfaced.”

“Deals?” Jiraiya barked a humorless laugh. “Blackmail, bribes, extortion — all of it. Someone leaked enough proof to start a storm. Hyūga are rattled, Uchiha are furious, and those council coots are scrambling to cover their asses.”

Minato set a folder on the table, neat as always. “It’s chaos. And chaos means opportunity.” His blue eyes sharpened as they met Sakumo’s. “We can use this. Danzō’s attention is divided. He’ll be too busy tightening his grip on the clans to focus entirely on you.”

Sakumo folded his arms. “Or it makes him more dangerous. A cornered animal lashes out harder.”

“That’s true,” Minato admitted. “But think about it — if we can link even part of your case to what’s already unraveling, it won’t just clear your name. It’ll drag him into the light.”

Jiraiya leaned back, crossing his arms. “It’s risky. But if there’s ever a time to push back, it’s now. People are looking for blood. They just need someone to point the finger at.”

Sakumo’s jaw tightened as he glanced again at his son, sleeping soundly in the other room. The thought of dragging Kakashi through more danger twisted his gut — and yet he knew hiding forever wasn’t an option.

“Then we need to decide,” he said finally. His voice was quiet, but steady. “Do we wait for this storm to pass… or do we strike while Danzō’s busy holding back the clans?”

The room fell into heavy silence, broken only by the steady crackle of the fire.

“We strike,” Jiraiya said, the words leaving him like a challenge. He sat forward, eyes bright with the dangerous kind of certainty that came from too many stakes and too little sleep.

Minato’s jaw tightened for a beat, then he sighed. “If we move now, we might catch Danzō off-balance. But it raises another question.” He looked at Sakumo, and there was no softness in the question. “Where will Kakashi be while we do this?”

Sakumo’s chest tightened as if someone had pressed a hand into it. He had imagined staying close, rotating safe houses, staying on the defensive. But Minato was right: if they pushed, they’d be drawing heat. They’d be visible. They’d be targets.

Minato folded his hands. “Kushina and I can take him. Our place is under diplomatic protection—her contacts make it a hard place to touch. It’s stable. He won’t have to move again and again. He can go to school without disruption. He can be a child, not a liability.”

Sakumo stared at the folder in front of him as if the paper might provide an answer. The words felt impossible. Leave Kakashi with strangers—even kind, trusted friends—while he went to fight this? They had never been apart. He pictured the boy’s small shoulders, the way he’d fall asleep with his thumb at his mouth. He pictured handing him off at a doorway and walking away.

Jiraiya’s voice was gruff but not unkind. “You can’t protect him if you’re out on the front lines every night. Minato’s offering a fortress. Use it.”

Minato leaned in, gentle but unyielding. “Sakumo, we’ll move fast, and we’ll be surgical. You and I both know how Danzō operates—he buries himself in layers of money and muscle. We’re not going to charge in blind. We’ll use the uproar to make him show his hand.”

“And Kushina and I will make sure Kakashi has a routine,” he added. “He’ll have school. We’ll take him to the park. He’ll be safe—and he’ll be happy. That’s the point, right?”

Sakumo’s throat tightened. The diplomat’s offer sounded flawless because it was built on facts he couldn’t argue with: Kushina’s contacts, Minato’s legal channels, Jiraiya’s muscle. Rationally, it was the only choice. He knew Minato always had Kakashi’s interest in his heart, always concerned about the child’s situation. Emotionally, it was a knife.

“But for how long?” he asked finally, the question small.

“As short as possible,” Minato said. “We make a move, we expose Danzō’s play, and we pull him back. If things go cleanly, it’s weeks.Whatever it takes.”

Sakumo pictured Kakashi laughing over pancakes, Kushina fussing over his hair, Minato explaining the law like some patient school teacher. He pictured his son safe and ordinary in a way he had promised himself he’d provide.

He pictured walking away.

He closed his eyes for a long moment, then opened them, steady. “Okay,” he said hoarsely. “Take him. Keep him normal. Don’t make him an accessory in this.” He forced a smile that felt like splinters. “Promise me you’ll treat him like your own.”

Minato’s hand closed over his in a firm, honest squeeze. “We will. You have my word.”

Later, when they were packing for the next move, Sakumo crouched by Kakashi’s side, folding shirts into a bag. He tried to keep his voice calm, steady, as he spoke.

“This time, you’ll go to Minato and Kushina,” he said. “I’ll go with Jiraiya.”

Kakashi’s hand, gripping the strap of his backpack, went slack. His gray eyes lifted to his father, wide with shock. “What? Why? We’re separating?”

Sakumo froze at the questions. Kakashi had always followed him without hesitation, shifting from place to place with quiet acceptance. The sudden protest caught him unprepared. He set the bag aside and lowered himself to one knee, hands gentle on his son’s shoulders.

“It’s going to get dangerous soon,” he explained softly. “You should stay with Minato and Kushina for a while. It’s safer there.”

Kakashi’s brows furrowed. His voice trembled. “How long…?”

“I don’t know,” Sakumo admitted, the words heavy. “Weeks, maybe, until this is done. Meanwhile, you can live normally again. Go to school, play wi—”

“No!”

The word rang through the cabin like a crack of thunder. Sakumo stared, stunned. Kakashi never shouted. He never threw tantrums. Yet here he was, face crumpling, fists clenched.

“No, I don’t want that! You can’t leave me! Don’t—don’t go without me!”

His voice broke, tumbling into raw sobs. Tears streaked his cheeks as he pulled at Sakumo’s shirt, clinging with desperate strength. The panic swelled until his cries grew ragged, his breathing sharp and shallow, chest hitching like he couldn’t draw air.

“Kakashi—” Sakumo stammered, arms coming around his son, rocking him instinctively. But nothing soothed him. Sakumo just held him, helpless against the storm of tears and screams. The sound was raw, jagged, tearing through the cabin’s walls.

The door slammed open. Jiraiya burst in first, Minato close behind, both tense and alert — until their eyes landed on the scene.

Kakashi, usually composed and polite to a fault, was clinging to his father’s shirt, screaming like his world was ending. His face was blotchy with tears, his fists trembling as though the act of holding on was the only thing keeping him alive.

Jiraiya stopped dead, his usual bluster stilled into something almost awkward. “What the hell—?” he muttered under his breath, eyes wide.

Minato’s expression flickered, caught between concern and something like disbelief. “Kakashi…” he breathed.

The boy didn’t hear them. His cries had broken into ragged gasps, sobs spiraling until his small chest hitched in shallow, panicked breaths. Sakumo tried to soothe him, rubbing his back, whispering reassurances, but the words only seemed to shatter against the boy’s panic.

Then Kakashi’s body seized with a shudder, his fists going limp, his face pale. His breathing faltered — and then he slumped unconscious against Sakumo’s chest.

Silence slammed into the room, broken only by the harsh sound of Sakumo’s own breathing. He cradled Kakashi close, rocking him instinctively, as if to ward off the fear that still clawed at his chest.

Minato knelt beside them, gaze sharpened with quiet alarm. “That was a panic attack,” he said, low. Jiraiya scrubbed a hand over his face, glancing away, guilt tugging at his features.

Sakumo bowed his head over Kakashi’s hair, pressing a kiss into it as though the touch alone could keep him safe. His arms tightened, protective and unyielding.

“I can’t leave him,” Sakumo whispered, voice raw. “Not like this.”

The room was still heavy with the echoes of Kakashi’s screams when Sakumo finally looked up. His son lay limp against his chest, cheeks streaked with tears, lashes damp.

Jiraiya and Minato waited, silent, watching him.

Sakumo’s hands trembled as he brushed damp hair from Kakashi’s forehead. Every instinct screamed to keep holding him, to never let go. But another voice — colder, sharper — whispered that if he truly wanted to protect his son, he had to do the one thing that would break them both.

He swallowed hard, then shifted, cradling Kakashi as he stood. His eyes met Minato’s. “Keep him safe. No matter what.”

Minato’s lips pressed into a firm line, but he held out his arms. Slowly, painfully, Sakumo passed his son over, fingers lingering on the small shoulder until the very last moment. Kakashi didn’t stir, didn’t protest, only breathed softly against Minato’s chest.

Sakumo’s hands felt strangely empty as Minato carried Kakashi away, the boy’s pale face tucked against the man’s shoulder. Every step echoed in his chest like a hammer strike.

When the door closed behind them, the silence swallowed him whole.

Jiraiya lingered nearby, uncharacteristically quiet. He lit a cigarette but didn’t draw on it, letting the smoke curl idly in the stale air. His eyes flicked toward Sakumo, but he said nothing.

Sakumo lowered himself onto the edge of the couch, staring at his bandaged arm, then at the abandoned backpack Kakashi had dropped in his tantrum. The fabric still held the shape of his small hands, clenched so tightly as he had screamed.

His throat burned. He pressed his palms over his face and drew in a shaking breath. “He thinks I left him,” he whispered. “He thinks I—” His voice cracked and broke, the words trailing off.

“You did what you had to,” Jiraiya said at last, his tone softer than Sakumo had ever heard it. “Kid’ll hate it now, sure. But better he’s angry and safe than smiling in a coffin.”

Sakumo dropped his hands, eyes raw and red, but there was steel behind them. “I swore I’d protect him. If that means breaking him for a while, then I’ll take that sin on myself.”

He stood, squaring his shoulders, forcing the trembling from his hands. “This ends with Danzō. No matter what it takes.”

Jiraiya studied him for a long moment before nodding, exhaling smoke into the dim room. “Then let’s make sure your boy has something worth coming back to.”

Sakumo turned toward the window, toward the endless shadows of the forest. His heart ached with every breath, but beneath it all burned a single truth: if the world demanded his son’s safety in exchange for his soul, then so be it.

When Kakashi woke, it wasn’t to the familiar creak of the cabin walls or his father’s quiet presence nearby. It was to the hush of an unfamiliar grand room, ceilings painted high, curtains drawn against the sunlight. The sheets smelled different. The air was too still.

He blinked at the carved ceiling for a long moment, disoriented. Then the truth struck — his father was gone.

His throat closed, and he curled under the heavy covers, pulling them over his head as if they could block out the world. The sobs came quietly at first, muffled against the pillow. Then louder, shaking through his small body until he clutched the blankets tight, trying to hold in the breaking of his heart.

Alone, Kakashi wept in the grand silence, every sob a reminder of the only truth he couldn’t push away: his father had left him behind.