Itachi Uchiha's son Shinra Uchiha

The wind dipped low as twilight fell over the clearing. The broken stones and scuffed earth, once battlegrounds for crashing chakra, now lay still in a heavy hush.

Boruto sat cross-legged, breath steadying, the staff laid beside him. Across from him, Shinra perched on a jagged stone, one leg bent, cloak fluttering faintly in the dying light. His face was unreadable—half-shadowed, half-serene.

Boruto's knuckles were bruised. His pride was even more so.

He looked up.

"You said I get one truth," he said finally. "So here's my question."

Shinra didn't nod. Didn't blink. Just listened.

"Why do you move like that? Like you're not touching the ground?"

A silence followed, deep enough that the wind seemed to pause for it.

Shinra tilted his head slightly, eyes still fixed beyond Boruto's shoulder.

"Because I was made for silence," he said. "And silence has no origin."

Boruto narrowed his eyes. "That's not an answer."

"It's the only one I'll give today."

Boruto clenched his jaw. "Fine. Then who taught you to fight like that?"

For a moment—just a breath—Shinra's fingers twitched against the stone.

And then something cracked in the air—not a sound, but a memory.

A metal room. Cold. The smell of burnt skin. Flickering monitors.

A voice: *"He's unstable. Let him suffer until he adapts."*

Chains rattling. A boy's scream—not of anger, but grief. Isolation.

Shinra blinked it away.

But Boruto saw it.

He saw the flicker of pain ripple across Shinra's perfectly still face.

"You were like me," Boruto said quietly. "Weren't you?"

Shinra didn't move.

"Lost. Hated. Left behind."

Still nothing.

Then—

"Don't confuse our pain," Shinra said. "Your suffering built you. Mine unmade me."

He stood. The stone beneath him cracked slightly.

"I don't fight for peace. I fight because I never had it."

He began pacing the edge of the clearing, eyes low, voice calm but distant

"There was a man once. Eyes like mine. Red. Calm. Cruel. He found me when I was…"

He stopped.

"He told me I had a choice. Vanish. Or become something they couldn't touch."

Boruto listened closely. Every word felt like an unraveling thread.

"Did he train you?"

Shinra looked away.

"He raised me in shadows. Taught me silence, patience. And the cost of every heartbeat."

The wind blew again, stronger now. A crow landed on a distant branch.

Boruto stood slowly.

"And did you love him?"

Shinra didn't answer.

But something in his jaw tightened.

"He's gone," he said. "And what he left behind… is what's standing in front of you."

Boruto took a cautious step forward. "You don't have to do this alone, you know. You talk like you're the only one who's lost someone."

Shinra's eye twitched. Just slightly.

"You're still too soft," he muttered.

"I'm not," Boruto said. "But I still feel. That's not weakness."

The silence returned, longer this time. Shinra's shadow stretched out, distorted by the slant of the sun.

"I remember..." Shinra said quietly. "A long corridor. Lights flickering overhead. My legs barely worked. But I walked. And at the end of that hallway, he waited. Not with a hand extended. With a question."

Boruto raised a brow. "What did he ask?"

Shinra's lips barely moved. "He asked if I wanted to disappear quietly... or shatter everything so no one could forget I existed."

The words hit like a blade in slow motion.

Boruto didn't speak for a while.

"I think I get it now," he finally said. "You're not hiding your past. You're protecting it."

Shinra looked surprised for the first time—just a flicker in his eyes.

"I don't protect things," he said. "I bury them."

Boruto gave a weak laugh. "Yeah, well... maybe it's time you unbury one."

Shinra looked at him fully now, eyes meeting.

And this time, the Sharingan didn't return.

Just his eyes. Dark. Human.

"I'll train you," he said.

Boruto's heart jumped

"But not for revenge."

Shinra's voice dropped.

"For clarity."