The Hamato estate loomed like a quiet fortress in the autumn haze, tucked behind dense pines in upstate New York. It didn't welcome so much as tolerate guests, especially outsiders.
For Sahil, stepping out of the car felt like crossing into another world. The compound whispered of history—rock gardens, koi ponds, paper doors that slid like secrets. But even at six, Sahil sensed more than heritage here.
There was watching behind the stillness.
His mother's side was the first to break the unease. Ananya's parents Rita and Suresh Patel unpacked sweets from Tupperware containers, her brother and sister cracking jokes in Hindi and English as they politely marveled at the estate's
Still, she noticed the stiffness in how the Hamato elders greeted her family. Years ago, they had bristled when Kenji married her—an Indian-American math teacher, born and raised far from katanas and ancestral rites. She wasn't one of them. The clan had preferred an arranged match. But Kenji chose love over loyalty, and for a while, it had cost him everything.
It was Sahil's birth that began to soften the ice.
That afternoon, the Hamato courtyard filled with muted celebration. Tea was served. Performers brought in from a nearby dojo performed a kata in Sahil's honor. The boy accepted gifts with quiet composure—wooden carvings, an old scroll, a thick envelope that Ananya immediately intercepted with a raised brow.
Later, Grandfather Yoshi Hamato—stoic and sharp-eyed—knelt beside Sahil.
"You have your father's spine," he said. "And your mother's fire. That combination can change the world, if tempered correctly."
Sahil bowed politely, but inside, gears turned.
"Tempered? So they already see me as a weapon."
At dinner, Daichi—the twelve-year-old heir—glared daggers across the table, still bitter. Karai, sixteen, sat detached with earbuds in, scribbling in a journal. But even she glanced up when Sahil corrected one of the elders on a detail about pressure points.
That night, as lanterns lit the garden and guests began to retreat, Kenji stood with Ryota under the shadow of the old bell tower.
"He's special," Ryota said. "Smarter than I thought."
Kenji kept his eyes on the koi pond. "He's not your project."
"You can't deny he's one of us."
"I can deny him your future."
Ryota smirked. "For how long?"
---
Sahil was up before dawn.
He moved silently across the compound, barefoot on polished wood, feeling the weight of the place. The scanner he'd hidden in his luggage worked perfectly. The night before, he had picked up murmurs—coded conversations about weapons, shipping ports, names he didn't recognize. He knew the Hamato clan wasn't clean.
He didn't know they were tied to the Hand.
That secret was still hidden by Kenji—who knew the truth, had lived it, and now carried the burden of keeping his son away from it. Kenji believed silence could protect Sahil. But the boy had inherited more than blood.
He had curiosity. Hunger.
"I don't want to be in the shadows forever," Sahil thought. "The clan has everything I need."
He stretched before the others awoke. The Arashikage template buzzed quietly through his nervous system—10% active. Reflexes that whispered like muscle ghosts. Breathing techniques that calmed his mind like stone.
And the Stockman knowledge? It wanted tech, resources, experimentation—the kind civilians never had access to. The kind criminal organizations could offer in abundance.
"I don't want to be their soldier. I want to be their architect."
When morning broke, the family gathered for a subdued breakfast.
Daichi, clearly still bruised from the embarrassment of being flipped into the grass the day before, avoided eye contact. Karai gave Sahil a small nod, almost respectful. Grandfather merely smiled.
Sahil caught the glance between Ryota and his father. Subtle. Loaded.
By midday, it was time to leave. The cars were packed. Goodbyes were formal.
As they pulled away from the estate, Sahil looked back once—not with longing, but with calculation.
"They want to recruit me. They think I'm a future piece on their board."
"But I'll use them before they use me."
He didn't yet know that the Hamato clan was part of the Hand.
And Kenji, watching his son through the rearview mirror, felt a familiar ache in his chest.
"I got out once. But I don't know if he ever will."