The afternoon sun sliced through the western shōji screens, casting long, sharp beams of dusty light onto the tatami mats.
Hinata slid the entry panel open. The wood hummed in its track—shh-click.
"Father, I am home," she chirped, trying to inject a brightness into her voice that she didn't feel.
The air in the private living quarters was thick. It didn't smell like the perfectly manicured zen garden outside, with its carefully raked gravel and mossy stones. It smelled of stale bread, damp tatami, and the sharp, vinegar-sour scent of rice wine that had been left open too long.
From the hallway, a small head poked out from behind the family housekeeper, Natsu.
Hanabi's eyes were wide, scanning the room for drama. Natsu, ever professional, bowed deeply to Hinata, then knelt gracefully on the rush mats to slide the door shut behind her.
Click.
"Dang," Hanabi whispered, loud enough to cut through the heavy silence. She snapped her fingers. "I wanted the scoop."
"Please, Miss Hanabi," Natsu groaned, straightening her apron.
"Stop calling me 'Miss', Natsu," Hanabi shot back, rolling her eyes. "You're basically my sister. Hierarchy is for old people."
In the background, Hanabi was rejecting the rigid structure of their clan. But Hinata... Hinata saw the mess.
She saw the overturned cushion (zabuton) near the low table. She saw the empty sake bottle lying on its side, a drop of clear liquid staining the tatami. She saw her father standing near the tokonoma—the alcove of honor—swaying slightly.
Her reaction wasn't to fix it. It wasn't to fight it. It was to absorb it.
Hinata placed her hand over her mouth and giggled lightly, a soft, diffuse sound meant to fill the awkward silence like packing foam.
"Hinata-chan," Hiashi murmured. He was standing with his arms folded inside his wide sleeves, staring at the calligraphy scroll hanging in the alcove. But his eyes were glazed, looking through the ink, through the wall, into a past that wasn't there. "You have good news for me?"
Hinata's smile drooped. The weight of the hospital visit, the sight of Sylvie's cracked eyes, the secret she was keeping... it pressed on her chest.
"Uhm..." Hinata stuttered, gripping her sleeves. "N-no... not exactly... I... I didn't tell them the name... the Tens—"
"Hinata." Hiashi's voice was firm, though slurred around the edges. "Come here."
"O-okay."
She stepped forward, her socks sliding silently on the mats.
"Did you place the seal on her?" he asked. The question hung in the air, heavy and poisonous.
Hinata froze.
Her mind flashed. She saw the hospital room. The green glow of the medical seals. Sylvie, lying unconscious, her eyes bandaged. The fractal cracks in the iris.
Then the image shifted. She saw Rock Lee, broken in the hospital bed. She saw Sasuke, screaming in the forest. She saw Kakashi-sensei in a coma. She saw the Third Hokage's funeral portrait.
My friends, she thought. They keep getting hurt.
"I-I couldn't..." Hinata whispered, her voice trembling. "Uhm... the tracking... uhm... I'm sorry... but Sylvie..."
She was trying. She was really trying to be the heir he wanted. But the words wouldn't come.
"Is your friend?" Hiashi finished for her.
His voice wasn't angry. It was... tired.
Hinata blinked. A memory of Naruto surged in her mind—bright, loud, and unyielding.
'If anybody messes with my friends—I'M GONNA PUNCH 'EM RIGHT IN THE FACE!'
Hinata took a breath. The air tasted stale, but she filled her lungs with it. She stood a bit taller, uncurling her shoulders.
"Yes," she said, her voice small but clear. "Sylvie—Naruto, the others... they're my friends!"
Hiashi said nothing. He stared at her with those white, moon-like eyes. Then, slowly, he raised his hand.
Hinata flinched. Her eyes shut instinctively, bracing for the strike, for the disappointment, for the correction.
Warmth.
His hand didn't strike. It landed on her shoulder, heavy and solid.
"You're a good girl... Hinata."
Hiashi pulled her to him. Or rather, he stumbled forward, his balance betraying him, and collapsed slightly against her, wrapping his arms around her in a clumsy, desperate hug.
"No matter how we disagree..." Hiashi mumbled into her hair, his voice thick with emotion and ethanol. "You are still my heir. My daughter. My sunflower..."
Hinata's eyes watered. She sniffled, the smell of old sake washing over her.
'You only act like this when you drink,' she thought, a sharp pang of sadness piercing her heart. 'And then... tomorrow... you will be cold again.'
She looked past his shoulder. Her gaze fell on the portrait hanging on the wall.
It was her mother. Hinami.
She was beautiful, smiling a gentle, "Nice" smile that hid everything. But Hinata's Byakugan-trained eyes noticed something else.
The frame was crooked. And behind the frame, emanating from the nail that held it, was a single, fine crack in the plaster wall.
It was a structural fracture. A sign that the house was shifting, settling unevenly on a brittle foundation.
Just like Sylvie's eyes, Hinata realized with a jolt. Sylvie cracked from too much power. We are cracking from too much repression.
Hiashi's chest heaved against hers as he let out a shuddering breath. He was heavy. He was dead weight.
Hinata swallowed the lump in her throat. She wrapped her small arms around her father's waist, holding him up, stabilizing him.
'One day...' she thought, closing her eyes.
'One day, I will—I will be strong enough to carry you... Father...'
She tightened her grip, believing that strength meant bearing the burden of his trauma, unaware that she was simply helping him stand in the wreckage he refused to clean up.