The tall, smooth grey walls of the Uchiha compound stood proud even under the sweltering summer heat. The ancient wooden gates loomed—sealed shut, locked to all but one. Above them, centered neatly in the small arching space, was the clan's emblem: a simple fan, the upper half dyed a deep, blood-like red, the bottom a clean marble white.
"Damnation," Milo muttered, flicking the ash from his cigarette. It crumbled away like all his patience as he tapped the end against the wall, irritation seeping through every gesture.
"Well, I didn't wanna end up here. Not on this shitty day. But at least I can confirm Sasuke's still following canon." He exhaled slowly, the herbal blend in his cigarette humming faintly in his bloodstream, a soft warmth behind his ribs. "Ever since we got here, I've been worried. Were we dropped into the Naruto series—or a knock-off version that runs parallel but crooked? I mean, what are the odds? Getting transmigrated at all, and then landing right in the middle of canon?"
He sighed, lost in the strange high and familiar dread.
"Move."
The voice cut through him like a kunai—sharp, soft, young. Still cruel enough to be taken seriously.
Milo blinked out of his trance, turning toward the speaker.
Standing before him was a small girl, probably eleven, maybe twelve. She wore a navy-blue shirt , white shorts, and standard-issue shinobi sandals. Her onyx eyes were hard and unreadable, a steel sheen behind thick lashes. Straight black hair framed her pale face, parted in the center and cut just past her chin, the back tied into a short, spiky ponytail that barely brushed her neck. Her expression was cold, impassive—the kind of face that never needed to raise its voice to make you move.
"Huh? Get lost, kid. Don't tell me what to do."
But Milo's rebuttal was swallowed by the wind.
Because even in silence, she didn't flinch. Just kept staring.
He stepped forward, annoyance mounting.
"What, you don't speak now? C'mon, kid. You don't just roll up on people with attitude and then clam up." His voice sharpened. "Look, I've had a long ass day, and I really don't need a brat standing in my way acting all tough."
Still nothing. Just that blank, unimpressed stare.
"What, cat got your tongue?" Milo stepped in close, the edge of a cocky grin curling his lips. "Yeah, yeah—I get it. I'm breathtakingly good-looking. No need to be speechless. Now how about you start apologizing for that charming tone, huh?"
He reached out and clamped a hand down on her shoulder—not to hurt, but enough to make her feel it.
"Aight, listen," he said, leaning in, "I don't care what your problem is. Just say sorry, and I'll be gone—"
Then the world turned.
One moment, Milo was standing. The next, he was airborne—flipping, crashing, pain spiking up his back as his body slammed against the packed dirt with a dull, bone-rattling thud.
He lay there, stunned. Wind knocked from his lungs. Mind blank.
"What the hell," he wheezed.
And then—he saw it.
As the girl turned to walk away, the faint breeze shifted the back of her shirt—just enough for him to catch it.
The fan.
Red and white.
The Uchiha crest.
His stomach dropped.
"…No. No way. Wait."
He stared at her, dumbfounded, watching her approach the massive wooden gates.
"Don't tell me—that was Sasuke?"
The doors groaned open like some ancient beast yawning, and she walked through without a single word or backward glance.
Milo sat up, blinking hard.
"No. Hold on. What the fuck is going on here?"
His thoughts scrambled: Maybe Itachi didn't kill the clan in this timeline? Maybe Sasuke has a sister? Or—shit—maybe Sasuke's a girl in this version?!
The gates closed behind her, sealing with a low thunk that sounded suspiciously like mockery.
Milo clutched his ribs, furious.
"Great. Fan-fucking-tastic," he spat, staggering to his feet. "I get tossed like a ragdoll by some pint-sized Uchiha gremlin, and she doesn't even say a word?"
He scowled at the compound walls, hands curled into fists.
"What a piece of work. Cold, violent, and walks away without so much as a sorry? Yep. Definitely Sasuke."
He took a few wide, angry strides toward the gate, puffed up with irritation—but to anyone watching, it looked more like a stubborn kid throwing a tantrum.
He shouted after her, sarcasm heavy in his voice.
"What the fuck is wrong with you, little bastard? You bloody bitch. Yeah, I was in the way, but hell—you could've said sorry before yeeting me across the road!"
No answer. Just wind.
Milo grumbled, rubbing his shoulder.
"This world's already giving me a migraine."
After a few more curses, mixed in with coughs from his lungs trying to reclaim their composure, Milo gave up. She clearly isn't gonna come out and respond.
"Ahhhhhhhhh, fuck—wasted my fucking cig!"
Pulling out another cigarette, he once more lit it using a match and the compound's walls, in a sense of petty revenge.