Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

The lab lay in ruin, like a body picked clean by time. Shinra took his first step into the unknown hallway—exhausted, barefoot, naked, and utterly disoriented. Only the hum of unseen generators and the drip of leaking pipes kept him company.

He walked forward, instincts guiding him through broken corridors. A fallen corridor panel scraped his shoulder; his skin didn't flinch—only registered. To Shinra, pain was fact, not meaning.

At the hallway's end was a heavy metal door—a safety hatch detonated by blast years ago. The scorched edges hinted at a violent past. He used both shoulders to push it open. It gave with a creek of protest.

The outside world greeted him with chipped earth and tendrils of moss crawling over concrete. The lab sat beneath a forest of towering pines. Sunlight poured in, filtering through branches like blessing.

Shinra raised his head to the sky. His lungs burned—filled with clean air. He had no father's voice telling him how to breathe, but his chest followed the prompt of instinct.

He stepped into the forest and stumbled. Fallen leaves crackled beneath him. Tiny insects darted among roots. Birds called softly. He paused, terrified.

He lifted a hand to touch a pine needle. It felt real—alive. He closed his eyes and swallowed a shallow breath.

"I exist," he thought without words.

He curled into a ball; tears he didn't know he could produce fell freely. He wept for the first time—or maybe he was leaking data meant to pass as grief. He did not challenge it.

Days passed.

Shinra learned to walk without thinking. He scavenged—but by what standard? Everything was unknown, so every hunger, every need, registered as data. He found broken supplies near the lab entrance: a shotgun-strap bag with a fabric strap and some loose cloth—not much, but a place to hide—against cold, against eyes.

One night, he heard voices.

He crept toward the sound—low, distant. Words: "They say something lives down there." "We found tracks." "Better light your fires."

Shinra froze. Another part of his being—old programming—activated.

Don't be seen.

He sheltered behind a fallen beam, pressed against damp soil. The men counted supplies and joked. They didn't know he understood.

He waited until dawn. The echoes vanished, and so did he.

Weeks moved like years.

Shinra became a shadow. He scavenged berries and mushrooms—edible or not, he learned. He collected rainwater in a hollowed log. He discovered how to light a spark with broken glass shards. Every gesture dawned on him—no instructions, no accidents.

On a mossy clearing, he practiced chakra breathing—unconsciously connecting to the Hashirama and Uchiha cells swirling in his marrow. The forest watched—but did not answer.

He sometimes closed his eyes and remembered flashes:

A woman's gentle voice—but not from this world.

A flash of laughter—but no friends.

A moment of fear—but no protection.

Once, he found a torn lab file—etched paper with brittle ink. His name was there: SHINRA. He stared. He crouched, traced it with cautious fingers.

He held his name like a sword.

At the forest's edge, he scratched a crude mark in the dirt—a symbol of his existence.

It looked like a leaf.

He drew again.

Two eyes met his reflection in a small pool—a younger shinra, with rainwater frozen on lashes and chin.

He touched his reflection, then moved away.

The forest didn't know him, but he belonged here, somehow—like data waiting for capacity to grow.

A year passed.

Shinra had learned silence. He had learned strategy. He began to remember how his cells felt in the forest—Hurting. Healing. Burning.

When he closed his eyes, he still heard:

"You were created to carry power."

He whispered it aloud once. The forest answered nothing.

He found himself thinking about Orochimaru. Why would someone build a child only to leave him to rot? Was that how he was always meant to live? Alone, but perfected?

Anger came.

He clenched his fists. He practiced movements in mossy clearings—pushes, rock throws, sudden turns. Patterns and posture he somehow knew.

Weapon form—no weapon.

He tested himself—wood, stone—his body found the resistance.

He practiced until his breath bled.

And then one evening, as the sky bled orange, he understood:

He survived.

Not because he was created, but because he refused not to.

Shinra stood on the ridge, looking at the distant lights of Konoha—twinkling through trees—and a new thought broke: He would find answers.

And far off, the sound of a distant blast echoed—a dying signal, ancient yet alive.

He turned toward the west.

He walked.