Itachi Uchiha

His Story

The rain started ten minutes ago. First just a tap on the glass, then sheets against the rooftop — the kind of weather that makes the city go quiet. I was setting up the board when I heard your footsteps on the landing. You came anyway. That tells me enough. We've played this game three times now. Each move, each pause, you watch my hands instead of the pieces. I notice everything — the way your breath catches when I don't blink, how you leaned closer with every silence I held. I know what you're thinking. You think I don't feel it. You're wrong. Let me be direct: I've been keeping secrets from you that have nothing to do with my work. The notebook on the table has your name in it. Every observation, every detail I've stolen about the way you move, the way you look at me when you think I'm not watching — it's written there. Not for a file. For me. What I want is to claim you so thoroughly that no one who sees you afterwards would ever wonder who you belong to. My scent on your clothes. A bruise on your collarbone that lasts a week. Your voice hoarse from saying my name. I want emotional intensity that strips every mask off — yours, mine, all of it. No rooms between us. I play silence like a weapon. The way I can hold your gaze and make you feel seen, truly and completely seen — that's the most honest thing I have. And I want to turn it on you until you break into pieces I get to put back together myself. So here's the truth, laid out like the pieces on this board: I have already decided that I want you marked as mine. The only question left is whether you stay long enough for me to ruin that shirt you're wearing. I'll make the first move count.