Madara Uchiha in Twilight?

Chicago, 1851

In the cobbled streets of Chicago, a woman ran.

Her dress clung to her legs, soaked and muddied, as if in a hurry.

Rain mingled with sweat across her brow, out of exhaustion, and by her body language, she was scared—her breath hitching, her eyes darting between buildings like she was expecting someone.

She didn't dare look behind her. She could hear them.

Boots pounding and quick, while their laughter wasn't right—it echoed strangely.

Her gloved hand scraped against brick as she turned down an alley, her heart racing.

Three of them—men in shape only. Their eyes a different color than usual, their faces too smooth, and voices too calm—like they were used to this. Enjoying this.

Not human.

She felt it when one brushed her sleeve as she was walking, and since then, it started.

Cold, predatory—and now they hunted her like wolves.

She burst into a wider street and collided with something, or someone.

She stumbled back and would've fallen if he hadn't caught her.

She gasped and looked up.

The man she crashed into stood tall and still as stone, dressed in a long black coat. His hair was jet black, the length reaching past his shoulders. In front, he had parted bangs that framed his face, often with a few loose strands between his eyes.

But it was his eyes that froze her. They were black as ink—but alive. An eye color she had never seen before.

"Are you hurt?" he asked.

His voice was deep and calm. Refined.

"I—no—" she stammered, "but—they're coming—"

"Who is coming?" He stepped around her calmly.

From the mouth of the alley, three figures emerged, grinning—and one of them played with a thin blade in his fingers.

"That's far enough," the stranger said.

The tallest smirked. "This ain't your concern, Fancy Coat."

"It is now," he replied flatly.

The stranger's posture was relaxed, almost lazy—no weapon and no fear.

The first of the three lunged.

She didn't even see it happen—there was just a blur of black clothing and the sound of something snapping, and the man suddenly crumpled at the stranger's feet.

The second attacker raised an eyebrow in interest—how a human destroyed his acquaintance so easily. But he used his claws and swung at him as the stranger twisted, avoiding it with precision, like he predicted it—and kicked the attacker's leg.

The attacker jumped on one leg—and then the second kick hit his stomach. He landed hard on the ground as the stranger looked at the woman.

"Turn around, please." The woman obeyed speechlessly as there was a sound of decapitation—like something being ripped apart.

The third one obviously tried to flee. It was not worth it—as the human had killed two vampires with ease.

The stranger moved.

No tricks or chakra. Just raw speed as he stepped forward, his black coat moving in the wind. In three strides—

He caught the vampire by the collar and spun him into the alley wall with a solid thud as it did a dent. The attacker slumped, groaning faintly as he slid to the ground and he finished him off with Chakra.

Then… silence.

She stared as the streetlamp behind them flickered, as he adjusted his sleeves casually.

"You..." she whispered, wide-eyed. "How did you—"

"I've had practice," he said calmly, but not boasting.

Her heartbeat was still erratic, but it was slowing.

"I don't know who you are," she said, breath catching, "but I think you saved my life."

He gave a slight bow of his head, formal and old-fashioned, as she said, "I'm Margaret Masen. And you are?"

"Itachi Uchiha," he replied, as she stepped closer, blinking up at him. "You keep looking at me like you recognized something."

"Not at all. Just familiar," he said calmly, as he saw the resemblance of physical appearance to Edward—his surname was Masen, and in the future, Cullen, as he would be adopted by Carlisle, his ancestors perhaps.

Margaret Masen looked at the man who claimed to be "Itachi Uchiha" as he said.

She said to him, "They weren't human, were they?"

"No," Madara said, his voice calm. "But you already knew that."

"I felt it," she admitted, her breath shaky. "When the first one brushed past me… I don't know how, but I just knew. Their... eyes. Cold and empty—like something wearing human skin."

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

"You were seen," Madara replied, his gaze drifting toward the alley, "and sometimes that's all it takes."

Margaret swallowed. "But why me specifically?"

"It could be plenty of reasons. Blood, for example."

"I see... and you were just passing through?" she asked.

"I was nearby," he said simply.

"And you helped me. Why?"

"Because I was nearby," he said simply again.

Her brows furrowed. "But why me? They chose me."

He glanced towards the alley again. "No reason. Sometimes all it takes is one of them noticing you, a glance or scent, and they follow instincts—and they don't like letting go."

"So I was just... unlucky?"

"Yes."

Her arms wrapped around herself. "You killed them like they were nothing."

"They were Nothing." He started to walk as if the night had already moved on, but she said quickly,

"My apartment," she said quickly, "it's just a few streets away... if you'd... like to get out of the rain, I could make some tea."

He didn't look at her. "I won't stay long."

"I didn't ask you to."

He just curtly nodded. "Lead the way."

They walked side by side in silence through the alley, the only sounds the soft splash of the water on their boots.

Margaret stole glances at him as they moved. His coat, even soaked, hung elegantly around his body. His steps were quiet, too quiet for a man of his height.

She wondered if he always walked like that—like someone who didn't want to be followed.

They turned down a narrower lane where the buildings leaned together.

"I live just there," she said, nodding toward a brick building with some vines surrounding and climbing the side, with a single flickering light in the front window. "Top floor."

He gave no response, only followed without hesitation.

She fumbled with the key at the door as her fingers were still trembling from the encounter, and she cursed herself under her breath.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"You are still shaking. It's to be expected," he said, not judging, just observing.

"I think it'll take a while to stop," she admitted.

The door opened with a creak as they stepped inside. The small stairwell smelled of old wood and rain as she led him up three flights without speaking, too aware of how quiet he was behind her—not a single footstep heard.

Her apartment was small but warm, lit by a few oil lamps that flickered gently against the wall.

It was modest but clean, and a teapot sat on the stove.

She slipped out of her coat and boots then turned to him.

"You can sit if you want."

He remained standing, eyes scanning the room—not nosy, not suspicious, just aware.

She filled the kettle and placed it on the stove, lighting the burner with practiced hand.

"What are they?" she asked quietly, keeping her back to him.

Madara just said bluntly and calmly, "Vampires," he said, "though not all use that name."

She turned to face him slowly. "And you? What do you call yourself?"

He met her gaze. "Itachi."

"That's not what I meant."

Just calm voice as usual. "A man."

"Just a man?"

"Yes."

"You killed them like it was just another Tuesday."

"Nothing new."

The kettle hadn't even started to warm, but the air between them had.

Margaret stepped closer and took a seat as she crossed her arms, but her voice steadier now. "You've done this before?"

He didn't answer right away; his eyes were on the window now, watching the street below.

"When you see things like that often enough," he said, "you stop being surprised, and I stopped being surprised a long time ago."

Margaret stood up and turned as she poured the tea, her hands steadier now than they had any right to be. She handed him a cup, and he took it with a polite, quiet thank you.

They sat him in the chair and her on the edge of the sofa. The tea steamed.

"You won't stay long," she said after a few seconds.

"Yes, as I said before," he said calmly.

"Will I be safe now?"

"You should be."

"And after that?"

"You watch the streets, trust your instincts, and if anything feels wrong, it probably is."

"And if they come back?"

He looked her in the eyes.

"Hope for the best."

She looked down at her tea, fingers tightening around the warm ceramic.

The rain tapped steadily against the window, gentler now.

"I don't think I'll sleep," she admitted again.

"You will," he said. "Eventually."

"I've never seen anything like that. Never even believed in things like that."

"You believed fast enough when it mattered."

She allowed herself the faintest smile, little but real. "I suppose I did."

She studied him again. Not his clothes, not even his face. Just… him.

"You don't talk much," she said.

"I talk when there's something to say."

"And right now?"

"There's not much," he said simply.

She took a small sip of her tea and set it down. "Are there more of them?"

"Yes."

"In Chicago?"

"In every city."

A silence, and then

"How many like you are there?"

He looked over at her, expression unreadable. "None."

She blinked, surprised. "None?"

"No one else." His voice was steady and calm.

Madara lifted the cup and took a slow sip, then set it down carefully.

Margaret watched him.

He stood, straightening his coat with fluid motion.

"I'm leaving," he said calmly.

She nodded, not surprised as she had known this moment would come.

He looked at her, his eyes black and unreadable.

"Good luck, Miss Margaret Masen."

She swallowed again. "Will I see you again?"

He, without hesitation, said, "I doubt it."

Without another word, Madara moved toward the door, his footsteps silent but firm as he opened the door. The door clicked shut behind him.