Souta sighed through his nose, shaking his head slightly.
"Must be nice," he muttered.
Mikoto glanced at him. "What?"
He tossed the pouch up once, catching it smoothly. "Being able to solve everything by throwing money at it."
She gave him a dry look. "Are you complaining?"
"Just making an observation." He smirked, tucking the pouch away again. "I should've played the helpless act longer. Maybe I could've gotten a second one."
Mikoto rolled her eyes, but there was something fond in the gesture.
Souta stretched, letting his arms rest behind his head. "Still, I'm touched."
She arched an eyebrow. "Oh?"
He shot her a lazy grin. "Didn't know you cared so much, Mikoto."
She exhaled, shaking her head. "You're overthinking it."
"But now I'm overthinking and rich." He tapped his pocket. "Biggest win of the day."
Mikoto muttered something under her breath, turning back toward the river.
Souta just chuckled, watching the way the sunlight glowed against her dark hair.
Maybe losing his job wasn't so bad.
Mikoto let out a quiet breath, rolling her shoulders slightly. Then, with a glance at the sky, she sighed.
"I should go," she said. "I'm already late."
Souta arched an eyebrow. "Late for what?"
"Clan matters." She adjusted the sleeve of her kimono. "It's nothing important, but if I take too long, people will start asking questions."
He hummed, pushing off the tree he'd been leaning against. "And we wouldn't want that."
She gave him a look. "No, we wouldn't."
Despite her words, she didn't leave right away. She lingered for a second, her gaze shifting over him like she wanted to say something else—but whatever it was, she kept it to herself.
Instead, she turned. "I'll see you later."
Before she could take a step, Souta moved.
Quick, effortless—close.
Mikoto barely had time to react before he leaned in and pressed a light kiss against her cheek.
Soft. Brief.
By the time she processed it, he was already pulling back, his usual smirk in place.
Mikoto blinked. Then, slowly, her lips parted.
"For luck," he said easily.
Her brow furrowed. "Luck?"
Souta shrugged. "Yeah. If you're dealing with the clan, you're gonna need it."
Mikoto stared at him for a second longer before exhaling.
"…Idiot," she muttered, shaking her head. But she didn't look annoyed. If anything, the corner of her mouth twitched—just a little—before she turned away.
And as she walked off, her fingers brushed lightly against her cheek.
Souta chuckled to himself, hands in his pockets, watching her disappear through the trees.
...
The next day, he remained in his house, staring at the ceiling. With no job, no immediate purpose, he mulled over his next move.
What should I do now?
There was no clear way to get closer to Hana or Kushina.
Hana… She was difficult to approach. The only chances to talk to her would be by coincidence—running into her somewhere, or on the rare occasion that she sought him out. There was no way he could just walk into the Hyūga compound and strike up a conversation. He needed to be patient. Slowly become her friend. Then her best friend. And from there… something more.
And Kushina… Even harder. If he wanted progress, he had to create the right opportunities himself. There was no other way.
Then, an idea surfaced. Dangerous. Risky. But worth it. A quiet chuckle escaped his lips.
This might be reckless… but the payoff in the future will be immense.
The Kyūbi attack hadn't happened yet. The Uchiha weren't under suspicion. No one was forcing them into a corner. No coup, no massacre.
'But what if I push them into that corner myself?'
If they felt threatened enough to rebel, Konoha would strike first. Everything would unfold sooner. And in that chaos, he could get rid of one particular obstacle—Fugaku Uchiha.
Before he could go deeper into his thoughts, a voice cut through the air.
"You're planning something, aren't you?"
He turned his head.
Pakura stood at the doorway, eyes sharp with suspicion.
He blinked, then shook his head. "No."
She narrowed her eyes but didn't press further. Instead, she walked in, carrying a plate of food. Without a word, she placed it on the table in front of him.
"Eat."
The scent of warm rice and grilled meat filled his senses, and his stomach growled slightly. He didn't hesitate to start eating.
Pakura sat across from him, resting her chin on her hand as she watched.
A moment passed in silence before she finally spoke again.
"You've been thinking too much lately," she said.
He swallowed his food and glanced at her. "Have I?"
"Yeah," she said simply. "It's obvious."
He smirked slightly. "And?"
"And nothing." She leaned back, arms still crossed. "Just don't let whatever's on your mind get you killed."
He chuckled. "Noted."
Pakura rolled her eyes but said nothing more.
...
Same day
Souta strolled through the city, blending in as just another civilian enjoying the afternoon.
What trouble could he cause for the Uchiha? What was the best way to strike? Where? When? How? And, most importantly—how could he do it without getting involved?
The key was subtlety. If people suspected him, the game was over. Everything needed to feel natural, like the Uchiha were collapsing under the weight of their own arrogance, their own mistakes.
He passed by a busy street where merchants argued over prices. A few grumbled about the Uchiha only supporting their own businesses. That seed of resentment was already there. With the right push, it could bloom into something more.
Further ahead, he caught sight of a group of shinobi resting outside a tea shop. The way they spoke, the way they carried themselves—it was clear they weren't Uchiha. Their conversation drifted through the air.
"…police force thinks they run the whole damn village."
"They act like they're better than us."
Souta didn't stop walking, but he filed that away. The shinobi forces already resented the Uchiha. That meant they just needed the right spark to turn that resentment into action.
He wandered toward the training grounds, watching from a distance. Uchiha sparred among themselves, their Sharingan gleaming in the sunlight. Non-Uchiha shinobi trained on the other side, separate, distant. There was no direct hostility—but there was a divide.