Hatake Residence – A House With Closed Doors
The sliding door groaned faintly as Kakashi shut it behind him. The light of late morning pooled outside, warm and clear, but none of it seemed to reach the inside of the home. All the shutters had been drawn tightly. Dust floated silently in narrow shafts of sunlight that slipped in through the cracks, like ghosts wandering an abandoned shrine.
In the corner of the living room sat Sakumo Hatake, the once-legendary "White Fang of Konoha." His grey hair had grown out unevenly, his beard was unshaven, and his frame, once broad and upright, sagged into itself. He didn't look up. Didn't speak. His breath was shallow, almost soundless, like someone trying not to be noticed inside his own home.
A thin trail of ash dropped from the cigarette pinched between two fingers, left to burn down on its own.
Kakashi stood a few paces away, his posture unnaturally straight for a boy his age. He held a tray with food, carefully prepared. Rice, miso soup, grilled fish. Slightly burnt.
"Father," Kakashi said, voice sharp, mechanical. "You need to eat."
Sakumo didn't respond.
Kakashi's eyes didn't waver. He didn't plead. He didn't move. The tray in his hands remained perfectly balanced, like a mission he refused to fumble.
"I reached Chūnin," he added, without pride. "Third in my class to pass the exam. Hiroe-sensei said I was exceptional."
Sakumo still didn't move.
The silence was so thick, even the floorboards seemed to breathe around it. Somewhere, a clock ticked—steady, cruel.
"They said… I might be picked for an ANBU support trial team if I keep excelling."
Nothing.
Kakashi's hands trembled slightly, though he didn't lower the tray.
"Do you care?"
That question landed in the room like a dropped kunai. Sakumo flinched—but only slightly, just enough for Kakashi to see his shoulder twitch.
Then came the voices.
Faint, muffled at first. But unmistakable.
"White Fang—traitor!"
"Because of him, we lost the mission! Three of our own died because he had a change of heart!"
"Some hero. He gave it all up for sentiment."
Kakashi's gaze darted toward the door. His jaw tensed.
He crossed the room in a flash, sliding the door open with a clack.
"Shut up!" he shouted, the words hitting the porch like thrown stones. "You don't know anything! He saved lives!"
A small group had gathered outside, whispers turning to sneers.
"That's the boy, isn't it? The genius brat?"
"Like father, like son—failure in the making."
"Maybe we should keep an eye on him too."
Two figures stepped forward from the edge of the group. Black flak jackets. Konoha Police Force.
Uchiha.
The taller of the two activated his Sharingan. Not fully. Just enough to glint red and spiral like a warning.
"Hatake Kakashi," he said, voice heavy with formal disdain. "Stand down. Threatening villagers is against Konoha regulations."
"He's just a child," the other said, though his voice was smug. "Still. Can't say we're surprised."
Kakashi's fists were clenched so tightly his knuckles were white.
The taller Uchiha stepped closer, looming.
"You've got a pedigree, Hatake. But don't think we won't arrest you next time. Trash behavior runs in the family."
Kakashi didn't flinch. But he didn't speak, either.
The villagers behind the Uchiha murmured louder.
"Disgraceful."
"Konoha gave them everything."
"He should've let them die and finished the mission."
"Cowards."
Then, from inside the house—
"Kakashi."
Sakumo's voice was ragged. Dry. But firm.
Kakashi turned slightly, unsure if he heard right.
"Come inside," Sakumo said again.
Kakashi hesitated.
"Now."
He obeyed. Slid the door shut behind him. The voices were muffled again, but the weight of them clung to his back like damp clothes.
Inside, the light had changed. It was dimmer now, as if the walls were growing darker the longer they sat.
He placed the tray of food down carefully.
Sakumo didn't touch it.
"They think you're a traitor," Kakashi said, not turning to look at him. "They hate you."
He paused.
"…They hate me, too."
Sakumo inhaled sharply, the cigarette trembling between his fingers. He put it out in the dish beside him without a word.
"I didn't cry," Kakashi continued, still facing away. "When the news came back. When they said the mission was a failure. When the Hokage stripped your command. I didn't cry. I kept training. I passed. I kept going."
His hands, though at his sides, were trembling again.
"So why don't you?"
That hung in the air for a long time.
Kakashi turned finally. His father hadn't moved. But something in the air had.
"I didn't save them," Sakumo said. "I let them live. I didn't save anyone. Not really."
The words were soft. Quiet. But final.
Kakashi stood frozen. Then, without a word, he picked up the tray again.
He walked into the kitchen, set it down, and ran the tap.
Steam rose as he scrubbed the plate clean with controlled, surgical motions. When he was done, he wiped it, dried it, and put it away.
In the living room, Sakumo had sunk lower against the wall.
Kakashi looked at him for a long moment.
He wanted to say something. To ask. To shout. To beg. But none of it would reach.
He turned and walked down the hall to his room, where a long scroll sat half-unrolled across the floor—sealing techniques, rudimentary traps, wind manipulation theory. He sat cross-legged and picked up a brush.
No tears came.
But something inside him cracked. Quietly.
Like a bone that would set wrong.
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