V ile Nightmare
Hashirama sits behind his desk and stares at the scroll, praying—pleading—that it's a nightmare.
It has to be.
A bad dream brought on by stress, exhaustion, too much sake, or maybe his terrible cooking from the night before. Anything. Anything but this.
But the scroll doesn't vanish.
He closes his eyes. Opens them.
Still there.
He rubs his eyes, harder this time, like force might will it out of existence.
But the paper remains, laid out so innocently on his desk, its crisp edges catching the light from the window. Still there. Still real.
And so is his signature. Neatly signed at the bottom in a bold, familiar hand. His name. His chakra.
Hashirama’s stomach twists. He’s seen forgeries before. Shinobi are clever, and chakra replication is a dark art in its own right. But this… this isn’t faked.
It’s his chakra. Which means he really signed this. But how?!
He doesn’t remember doing it. Not even vaguely. He has no memory of ever laying eyes on this contract before today. And yet, here it is. Real. Binding. Stamped with his seal and chakra signature.
His hands tremble as he reads it again. Not because he expects the words to change, but because he hopes he’s misread them. That he’s missed something obvious.
But no. The language is clear. The contract is… a marriage agreement. Between Tobirama and UchihaIzuna.
Hashirama presses a hand to his temple, trying to stop the pounding headache building behind his eyes. His heart races. His breath comes shallow.
This can't be right. This has to be a mistake.
Tobirama would never agree to this. He hates the Uchiha. Distrusts them down to the marrow. He’s never made a secret of it—not to Hashirama, not to Touka, not to the Council, not even to the children. The very idea that Tobirama would write this contract…
And yet, the handwriting is undeniably his brother’s. Every elegant, exacting stroke. Tobirama’s penmanship is distinct—calm, controlled, meticulous. There’s no mistaking it.
Hashirama grips the edge of the desk.
The possibility that he himself signed the contract is horrifying enough. But the thought that Tobirama wrote it? That Tobirama wanted this? It doesn’t make sense.
Unless…
Unless Tobirama didn’t want it. Unless Tobirama was trying to manipulate something.
A thought flickers. A memory, fuzzy at the edges. Tobirama, days ago, standing by the desk, calmly sorting papers. Helping, like he always does when Hashirama’s behind on administration. Laying out contracts in neat piles, pointing to where Hashirama needed to sign.
Hashirama’s heart lurches.
Did Tobirama… trick him?
The possibility feels like a betrayal. And yet it makes a terrible kind of sense. Tobirama had pointed, Hashirama had signed—without reading, because he trusted him. Because he always trusts him.
His hands curl into fists. Could it really have been that easy for Tobirama to manipulate him? And worse—why would Tobirama do it?
He reads the contract again. It’s so one-sided it would be laughable if it weren’t deadly serious. The Senju take on significant political risk. The Uchiha gain resources, diplomatic leverage—and if anyone on the Senju side steps out of line, the Uchiha can drag them before the daimyo with legal cause.
It’s a political time bomb.
Surely Tobirama would have written something more balanced, if he meant it. Surely he would never put their clan at risk like this. Not unless…
Unless he thinks the contract won’t matter. Not in the long run. Because he plans to destroy the Uchiha from the inside.
Hashirama gasps aloud, horror crashing into his chest like a wave.
No. No, no no.
Please don’t let that be true. Please don’t let this be part of some long, cold-blooded plan to infiltrate and annihilate the Uchiha from within. A twisted version of peace. Of justice. Of revenge.
Tobirama wouldn’t do something that cruel. Would he?
His thoughts spin, tangled with doubt and fear. He remembers Madara’s words—how Tobirama had gone into the Uchiha compound not with blades drawn, but with healing chakra in his hands. He had healed Izuna.
That has to mean something.
Tobirama could have left him to die. No one would have questioned it. But he didn’t.
That has to mean something.
Hashirama leans back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. His whole body feels heavy with confusion, dread, and disbelief.
Nothing makes sense anymore.
Not Tobirama’s behavior. Not the contract. Not this gnawing ache in his chest that feels an awful lot like fear.
Not for himself, but for what this will cost everyone.
The door opens.
He looks up—hopeful, maybe, for a moment of reprieve—but the second he sees Mito’s face, he knows better.
She steps inside with two cups of coffee in her hands, regal as ever in her bearing, her expression carved from stone. Her lips are a hard, thin line. Her gaze cuts like a blade.
Without a word, she strides to his desk and slams one of the cups down in front of him. It hits the wood with a sharp crack, and the coffee sloshes out, splashing hot across his hand and into his lap.
Hashirama jerks back with a hiss of pain. “Ah—!”
Mito doesn’t flinch. “I’m still angry at you,” she hisses, voice low and precise, every syllable sharpened like a kunai dipped in venom.
Hashirama’s mouth opens, closes. Nothing comes out.
She doesn’t wait for him to try again. “And so is Touka. And, frankly, the rest of the clan. Do you know what they’re discussing right now?” She lifts her chin, gaze colder than any winter wind. “Whether or not you should step down as clan head and make room for someone more competent.”
The words hit harder than the coffee burn. Hashirama tries to swallow, but his throat is dry.
“Unfortunately,” Mito continues, unrelenting, “or perhaps fortunately, there is currently no viable clan heir to take your place.” Her eyes narrow, glittering with ice. “Because you sold him to the Uchiha.”
He stares at her. He doesn’t know what to say. What can he say?
“How could you do this to your own brother?” she asks, voice too calm, too composed—and all the more terrifying for it.
“I—Tobi—he did—” Hashirama stammers, fumbling for something—anything—that might explain what even he doesn’t understand.
“Don’t you dare,” Mito cuts in, voice silk and steel. “Don’t you dare try to blame this on him.”
Hashirama lifts both hands, palms up, as if to placate her, to hold her words at bay. “You don’t understand. Tobirama wrote that contract. It’s— it’s some sort of plan—”
“Shut. Up.”
The words are soft. Deadly. Hashirama’s mouth snaps closed like she’s cast a genjutsu on his lungs.
“How dare you accuse Tobirama of something like this?” Mito says, each syllable clipped, dangerous. “He is your brother. He is loyal. He has bled and burned himself building this clan beside you. He has endured more than either of us ever will. He would never commit treason.”
Her voice rises just slightly—not in volume, but in intensity. “He would never have written that contract unless he was forced to.”
Hashirama tries again, voice weak, “But—”
“I said shut up,” Mito repeats, and this time it’s like the room itself freezes. She sets her untouched cup of coffee on the desk, adjusts the sleeves of her robes like she needs something to do with her hands—something to keep from throwing the entire desk through the window.
“Touka and I finished interrogating the elders,” she says coolly. “You need to replace them. All of them.”
“What?” Hashirama breathes.
“They admitted it.” Mito’s voice is like falling snow—beautiful, gentle, and lethal. “They took Haruto from Tobirama to force him into using his new jutsu. They demanded he cut down Uchiha Izuna.”
Hashirama lurches forward in his chair. “What?!”
“You heard me,” she replies flatly.
He stares at her. The pieces don’t fit. “But… Elder Hideki told me Tobirama was being reckless. That he was endangering Haruto with his experiments. That Haruto needed to be taken in for his safety. Elder Chiori and Elder Ame both confirmed it!”
“They lied to you.” It’s the coldest thing she’s said all day.
Hashirama’s breath hitches. A shiver runs down his spine. Mito doesn’t shout. She doesn’t need to. Her voice alone slices him open.
“Tobirama never endangered Haruto,” she says, each word like a hammer falling. “They came to the conclusion that Tobirama was holding back against Izuna. That he wasn’t doing enough to end him. They didn’t like that.”
Hashirama’s heart sinks, sinking deep into some fathomless pit.
“So they kidnapped Haruto,” Mito finishes, “and told Tobirama they would only return his son if he killed Izuna.”
Hashirama can’t breathe. His chest is tight. His throat feels like it’s closing. He blinks, but the air in the room remains too still, too thin, and the walls seem to press inward like the edges of a trap.
Memories come in flashes—moments where he told Tobirama to show restraint, to avoid escalation, to not kill Izuna, no matter how many chances he had.
Had Tobirama listened? Had he been holding back?
He swallows hard. “But…” he whispers, barely audible, “then why did he cut down Izuna?”
The silence that follows is deafening.
Mito looks at him like she’s staring into something pathetic. Something pitiful. Her eyes narrow—not in rage, but in disdain. They gleam like the reflection off the edge of a finely polished blade. And when she speaks, her voice is calm. Perfect. Every word measured, poised, merciless.
“Because he chose Haruto.”
Hashirama flinches.
“I can only assume,” she continues, tone still as glass, “from what Touka and I were able to gather, that Tobirama meant to injure Izuna. Not kill. Not cripple. Just enough to satisfy the elders. Just enough to ensure Haruto’s return.”
Hashirama opens his mouth, but no words come out.
Mito’s voice is still soft, but it cuts through him all the same. “But something went wrong. Perhaps he struck too hard. Perhaps Izuna moved. Perhaps it was the first time in years Tobirama stopped holding back—and he misjudged his own strength. Either way, when he realized how badly Izuna was injured, he must have panicked.”
She steps closer, her presence cold as frost against his skin.
“And so he did the unthinkable. He went to the Uchiha compound. Alone. Without backup. Without weapons. To heal Izuna.”
Hashirama’s heartbeat thuds in his ears.
“Do you understand what that means?” Mito asks, tone deceptively light. “He crossed the line. Into enemy territory. Into their stronghold. Carrying the guilt of what he’d done, hoping—praying—that someone would listen to him before they executed him on the spot. Because they would have been within their rights to do so.”
She pauses.
“Because the moment Tobirama injured Izuna, he broke the contract.”
Hashirama pales.
Mito watches him, unwavering. “Madara could have killed him without repercussion. Could have dragged his body back here and demanded justice. Could have taken that contract to the daimyo and accused the Senju of treachery. And he would have been right. Do you understand how close you came to destroying this clan?”
Hashirama staggers back a step, one hand bracing on the desk behind him.
“If Madara had chosen revenge instead of diplomacy,” she continues, “our allies would have abandoned us overnight. Our name would be smeared across every province. Our contracts—nullified. Our customers—gone. No one would trust a clan that breaks a chakra-bound contract within days of signing it.”
“You would have ruined us,” Mito says, quiet and scathing. “And all because you believed the lies of a handful of power-hungry elders instead of your own brother.”
Hashirama stares at the floor, the weight of her judgment pressing down on him like a mountain. “I… I didn’t know,” he whispers, voice hoarse.
“You didn’t want to know,” she corrects, with a calm sharpness that makes his stomach twist. “You wanted Tobirama to be wrong. You’ve always needed him to be the cold one, the harsh one, the one who could be blamed for the clan’s dirty work. But he has never once betrayed you. Never once turned his back on this clan.”
She folds her arms, chin lifted high. “And when he finally did break something sacred, he did it to protect his child.”
Hashirama doesn’t speak. He can’t. His breath catches in his throat, thick with guilt.
Mito turns on her heel, her every movement precise and royal, trained into her from birth. At the door, she pauses only once.
“You owe him an apology,” she says without looking back. “But don’t expect him to accept it.”
Then she leaves, door clicking shut behind her like the sealing of a fate.