Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

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WHAT SHE FELT IN A SECOND

It was indescribable pain, a suffocating weight pressing down on her lungs, terrifying in its intensity. She vanished in the dead of night, swallowed by the relentless, churning sea. The waves collided in endless warfare, each trying to claim dominance over the other.

She should never have left at such an hour. Her peers had warned her, time and time again, about the old folktales—stories of the ocean coming alive under a full moon, eager to claim another soul. They said a portal would open to another realm.

But she didn’t listen. She didn’t care. Stubbornness had brought her to this moment. Now, she fought against the waves, struggling to break the surface, but the ocean showed her no mercy. It pulled her into its depths, where the remains of ships and the dead waited in silent witness. Exhaustion set in, and she stopped struggling, realizing the futility of it all. In one brief, fateful moment, calamity consumed her.

Scientists claim that in the final moments of life, the mind floods with a stream of memories, flashing by like scenes from a film. They were wrong. Nothing of the sort happened. Instead, her emotions surged within her like molten lava, ready to erupt, yet her body remained numb and unresponsive—heavy and lifeless.

Ever wonder what it’s like to drown?

People have a way of describing their experiences uniquely, and she thought hers would be no different. But drowning wasn’t what she imagined. It was panic, and panic was hysteria. Yet, in those first moments, she didn’t panic. She’d been diving before; she wasn’t afraid of water engulfing her.

Her hair floated like seaweed, lifted by the currents, and her body swayed gently, as though the sea itself cradled her into eternal sleep. At first, she welcomed it. But then it hit her—she couldn’t keep her head above the surface. A final, desperate gasp of air filled her lungs, the last she’d ever take.

There’s a strange peace in the water, like being held in a mother’s arms, soft whispers urging you to let go, to give in. The ocean tempted her, its voice like a lullaby, promising that if she surrendered, all the worries of the world would fade away. But there was something else—a pounding in her head, a primal need, demanding to be met. It raged inside her, every nerve screaming to fight, to push through, to resist. It was madness, pulling her toward the edge.

Amid the chaos, a question surfaced in her mind, sinister in its simplicity.

"Are you done?"

It’s strange how much can change in a few seconds. Those moments could alter the course of your existence. You either drown, like so many before you, or you survive to tell the tale. But her body no longer obeyed. It was just her consciousness left, watching as the shimmer of sunlight above rippled further and further away, until only a tiny speck remained.

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Chapter Text

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YOU WERE SEVEN YEARS OLD,

when you met Zabuza for the first time.

You were a bastard child of the Hozuki Clan, a daughter to the head of the clan— but not unwanted. Having a daughter opens doors that a son couldn’t— alliances with other noble clans and influence. And thus, you were well-taken care for in the clan.

You were given a caretaker, one that shadowed your every step. She would accompany you on your daily walks, following you no matter where you went. And not once did she peep a word when you went off towards the lower districts.

You were quite grateful for her— there was no insistent nagging and you were able to enjoy all the details of this world no matter how small they were.

However, you were able to deduce where you had been reborn ever since you heard that fateful word ‘ shinobi ‘ for the first time. You still couldn’t accept it—, for as many ninjas you saw jumping the rooftops of homes, for as many nagging questions you’ve asked— you’ve come to the conclusion of knowing absolutely nothing.

For the last couple of months, you’ve lived in a state of lunacy — whether you were real and everybody else was. Or no one was real and only you were which ultimately left you alone in this world. Or perhaps maybe just maybe you also weren’t real— which isn’t possible. Because if you weren’t real then you wouldn’t be able to feel, see, touch and etc.

And you’ve done plenty to harm yourself, and it hurt so therefore you were real. And clearly, because you think— “ I THINK THEREFORE I AM “ written by Rene Descartes, a French philosopher known for his incorrigible madness of radical doubt. He believed that he could not doubt his own existence because he was the one doubting.

So therefore you are real but the others? They only think because they were written to think— it’s a script. So clearly no one else is real but you— and therefore are alone. Unless, of course, this was a dream and you were in some unforeseen terrible accident and landed yourself in a coma where you are now having the most realistic dream of your life.

In either case, you were royally fucked because ultimately you had no way to prove which one of those cases was right. And it ate away at you, making you doubt your own existence.

Such a thing shouldn’t be— because this is your life and no one should be fucking with your head. This leads to a thirst for confirmation— which should be unattainable until you meet Zabuza.

He was the answer to all your prayers, a boy shrouded in darkness and grim, curled up in a filthy ally way. His black hair was covered with dirt, his eyes bloodshot red and his body was covered in bruises. He was severely malnourished— small and weak. And oh— so very young and real .

The closer you get the more you see him clearly and the puzzles start clicking together.

Momochi Zabuza

The Demon of the Hidden Mist

You’ve been waiting for an answer— and goodness you’ve received it well.

His eyes are fixated on you with an intensity you’ve seen before— it’s exactly how he looked at the scarecrow when they fought— like it was written. You’re real— and he clearly isn’t.

You stand tall, brushing invisible specks of dust from the sleeve of your silk kimono. The dark fabric, embroidered with glimmering waves of silver and pale blue, catches the light of the alley. You must look utterly out of place here—a porcelain doll amidst mud and grime.

He notices, of course. His gaze flickers to the hem of your robe, to the jeweled clasp securing your obi, and finally back to your face. The intensity of his stare sends a thrill through you— he’s so predictable.

Instead, you step closer, your geta clicking softly against the cobblestones, “ You’re staring,” you say lightly, tilting your head just so, “ I suppose I can’t blame you. I am a sight to behold, aren’t I?”

His brows furrow, his sharp glare unwavering, but the faintest flicker of something crosses his face—annoyance, maybe embarrassment. You bite back a laugh, watching as he struggles to decide whether to respond.

He scoffs, the sound low and bitter, “Why are you here?” His voice is hoarse, and weak, but still threaded with defiance, “ Aren’t nobles like you supposed to stay in their pretty houses?”

“Maybe,” you reply, stepping closer. Your geta clack softly against the cobblestones, the sound echoing faintly in the narrow alley, “ But I got bored. And then I saw you.”

He snarls, his fists clenching at his sides, “ I’m not some stray dog for you to pity.”

“Oh, I don’t pity you “ Your voice drops to a near whisper, low and honeyed, “ Pity is for weaklings. You’re not weak, are you?”

The question hangs in the air between you, and for a moment, he doesn’t answer. His red-rimmed eyes narrow, his bruised and dirt-smeared face twisting in something close to rage,” I’m not weak,” he spits, the words sharp and defensive.

“No,” you agree, tilting your head as you study him, your smile faint but laced with intrigue, “ You’re not. You’re strong—stronger than most. I know so “

His glare sharpens, but you don’t miss the subtle shift in his stance—the slight hesitation, the flicker of uncertainty.

“Why are you really here?” he asks again, his tone quieter this time, but no less wary.

You pause, as if considering his question, then smile, “ Because I wanted to see something real. Something raw and I found it “

He stares at you, his expression a mixture of confusion and distrust, his hands still balled into fists, “ you sound crazy “

You pause, allowing the weight of his words to settle, and then you smile prettily, “ Crazy? “ you muse, “ No, crazy isn’t fitting— what’s happened to me is not logical nor reasonable. What’s irritational is your inability to see the truth— you like everyone else aren’t real “

You turn then, the delicate fabric of your kimono brushing against the grime of the alley as you begin to walk away. Your geta echoes faintly against the cobblestones, a soft rhythm that seems to hang in the air long after the sound fades.

Before you disappear around the corner, you glance back over your shoulder, meeting his wary gaze one last time. Your smile is soft, enigmatic, In two years,” you say, your voice low and tinged with a quiet certainty, “we’ll meet again. And when we do, you’ll be crying and I’ll be laughing “

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Chapter Text

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BASTARD OR NOT, YOUR

lineage as a member of a shinobi clan remained unchanged. Gender held no significance—every clan member was expected to master shinobi techniques. This was a necessity, a safeguard to ensure that any potential kidnappers would face a formidable struggle. And so, your training began at a young age—harsh, relentless, and utterly unforgiving.

During that time, you unlocked the clan’s prized technique—the Flesh Transformation Ability.

This technique had a vary of names, the Hydrification Technique or the Liquify Jutsu. It allowed the user to liquify any part of their body at will. 

It happened during training, under the cruel watch of your instructor. There was no camaraderie, no structured sparring—only children pitted against one another, forced to maim instead of merely fight. They were vicious, clawing at each other like rabid animals.

One of the older, stronger children lunged—foam at his lips, eyes wild with the thrill of dominance. He was bigger, faster, more skilled, and in that moment, you felt as though you would be swallowed whole. He was nothing to you— nothing but a background character. Ink on paper that was created by your world. A black stain on paper sheets.

But still—you couldn’t deny that, sometimes, just sometimes, this world didn’t feel fake.

There were moments, fleeting and rare, where the weight of reality settled on your shoulders, grounding you in ways you couldn’t explain. In the heat of sparring, the sting of pain, or the way the air seemed to thrum with life, the lines between ink and reality blurred, and for a heartbeat, it felt real.

You wanted to vanish, to let the currents pull you under, to find refuge in the water.

At that moment, you had unlocked the family's fame technique.

Your body shifted—flesh dissolving into liquid. The boy’s fist, aimed with brutal force, met nothing but water. A wet splash echoed through the training grounds as his punch passed straight through you, droplets scattering across the dirt.

A feral grin curled at the corner of your lips. That's right. Why should you be scared? He was nothing more than ink on paper, waiting to be smeared. How dare he think he could be anything more?

You weren’t bound by the same chains that clung to him. This world isn't real to you, and therefore neither was he. A mere character, a fleeting detail in a story you could erase with a thought.

An insignificant fuck.

You closed the distance between you before he could recover, grabbing him by the shoulder and bringing him closer to you. He stumbled, trying to keep his footing, but you didn’t give him a chance. Your knee drove into his midsection, forcing the air from his lungs in a loud gasp.

He wheezed, collapsing against you, unable to find his balance as you held him firm.

A sharp bark of laughter escaped your lips— that's right!

You're real and he isn't.

You're fucking real

With a gleeful smile, you lifted him by his arm and threw him down to the ground. The thud of his body hitting the dirt was satisfyingly loud, but you weren’t done. He was trying to get up again, his hand pushing against the ground, but his body was slow, his mind fogged with pain and confusion.

Your palms crept up towards his cheekbones, caressing the skin between your fingers— the warmth of his skin, the softness of it. An imitation of skin— a desperate imitation of the desire to be real. You lifted his head with a brutal jerk, your fingertips digging into his cheekbones as his eyes met yours. His wide, pleading eyes. A human expression— so real . And yet, it disgusted you. How dare he look at you like that? How dare he pretend to be anything other than a creation of your world’s creativity?

With a growl, you slammed your forehead against his with a sickening crack . The force made his body jolt under you, his mouth opening in a breathless gasp of pain. Anger curled hot and unstoppable in your gut, a tidal wave of rage, uncurled and soared through your veins.

How dare he? How dare he make you doubt yourself?

And without hesitation, you slammed your head into his again. His nose shattered under the force, a spray of blood erupting from his face. His body jerked with a sharp cry, but you didn’t stop.

No matter how desperately he clawed at your flesh, there was nothing for him to grip. Every time his hands made contact, your skin dissolved into water, slipping through his fingers like liquid escape.

Again, you slammed your forehead into his, this time with even more force, hearing the sickening crunch of bone as his nose splintered further, blood pooling around him, mixing with the dirt. His face, once a perfect imitation of humanity, was now a mess of flesh and shattered bone.

Each slam was a desperate cry for release, for validation in this warped world that felt so real yet so fake. You pushed his head back again, slamming it into the dirt with a sickening thud, his vision blurring with pain. His nose was barely recognizable now, a twisted mess of blood and bone, leaking and pulsating with every breath he took.

Finally, with one last ferocious slam, you left his skull resting against the ground, his body twitching in a broken heap. You stood over him, chest heaving, the adrenaline coursing through you like wildfire. His once-human face was now unrecognizable, a red, mangled mask of flesh.

He isn’t human—there’s no way you could ever compare yourself to him. He’s fake, a mere creation in this world of ink and paper. You, on the other hand, you’re real. You are the one who breathes life into this narrative, the one who controls it.

He’s nothing but a character—a pathetic one at that. And he was lucky, so lucky , to even be noticed by you. You gave him a purpose. A single, twisted purpose: to get his ass beat, to feel the weight of your fury, to become the canvas for your rage.

And for a fleeting moment, as you stood above him, a small part of you wondered if this was all you had left—this violent, raw release from a world that had never truly been real— A fury, raw and unrelenting, bubbled beneath your skin—rage born from the unfairness of it all. You're trapped here, stuck in this world with them, with fakes .

You could see why the teacher favored him—he mirrored their endless cruelty, a reflection of their brutality that never ceased. Perhaps, once, when they were children, they had been just like him. Fucking brat.

The boy’s blood stained your hands, mixing with the sweat that clung to you like a second skin. He groaned, his eyes half-lidded in agony, barely able to move. You stood there, chest heaving. 

With a final, disgusted glance at his crumpled form, you turned away. You met the eyes of the instructor who was silent now.

You smiled prettily at him, a smile too wide, with far too many teeth— upturned lips like a happy predator.

You’ll get him too—bash his head bloody like you did to the boy beneath you. How dare he? How dare they all ?

The bitterness clawed at your throat, coiling around your ribs like a sickness you couldn’t purge. This world—this wretched, rotting world—had trapped you in its pages, forced you to play along in its blood-soaked narrative. These people, these things , had the audacity to treat you like one of them. Like you belonged here, like you were the same .

Your fingers twitched, slick with the warmth of blood, the boy’s body still crumpled beneath you. He wasn’t moving anymore. He had stopped making noises, his chest barely rising, barely alive. But it wasn’t enough. None of it was enough.

You lifted your gaze to the instructor. He stood there, watching you, unreadable. And that made you furious .

They were always watching. Judging. Controlling.

Like you were a tool, a thing to be sharpened and used. Like they had any fucking right to shape you into what they wanted.

A sharp laugh bubbled in your throat, jagged and wrong. The grin on your lips stretched, baring too much teeth, too much hunger. 

Ink on paper

That's all they are—whether this is a dream or death, you are real.

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