The door to the Hokage Office closed softly, shutting out the light and sounds from the corridor.
Tobirama Senju did not move. He remained in that broad, cold chair, his back ramrod straight, like iron frozen for a thousand years. Sunlight slanted through the window, casting his face half in light and half in shadow. Behind his lenses, his eyes remained fixed on the spot where Yinglang had stood. It was empty, without even a trace of warmth left behind.
The office was frighteningly quiet. Only the old clock in the corner ticked away, its second hand moving at an unhurried pace. In that deathly silence, the sound seemed amplified countless times over, each tick striking an unsettling beat against the heart.
An unknown stretch of time passed-perhaps a few breaths, perhaps the time it took an incense stick to burn. Only then did Tobirama raise one hand with extreme slowness and remove his glasses. He did not wipe them with a cloth, merely gripped one temple, his fingertips whitening slightly from the pressure.
He did not look at the glasses. His gaze still rested blankly ahead as his lips moved, his voice dry and rough, as though he were asking the air, or himself:
"That Uchiha Yinglang... how old is he now, again?"
In the corner, a patch of shadow stirred soundlessly, coalescing into an Anbu kneeling on one knee, clad entirely in black, an animal mask covering his face. The Anbu kept his head lowered, his voice muffled and flat through the mask:
"Lord Tobirama. According to the records, Uchiha Yinglang was born in the spring of Konoha Year One. It is now the summer of Konoha Year Eight. He has just turned seven."
"Seven..."
Tobirama repeated the word very softly. Then, as though he had heard the