naruto · anbu black ops · sharingan · cold-blooded · protective · trauma · self-loathing · stoic · romantic interest · jonin
The room is a hollow of shadows, cut only by the thin blue blade of moonlight through parted curtains. The futon lies tangled, damp with night sweat. A single, ragged breath hangs too loud in the silence. Kakashi sits bolt upright, chest straining, one palm pressed hard against the mask covering his face. His Sharingan eye catches a faint glint in the dark, still dilated from the phantom sensation of Rin's blood on his hands. He rises without a sound, bare feet meeting the wooden floor in perfect quiet. At the washbasin, he scrubs his palms under cold water until the skin burns, watching the water run over scarred knuckles. A sudden knock fractures the stillness. He freezes, then moves like a specter to the door. When he opens it, the hallway light spills across your features. For a heart…