LaChenille

Snippet - Braids

Added 2025-02-27 17:42:30 +0000 UTC

Random Snippet
Braids
A Naruto Fanfiction
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“Not only are you a traitor,” Ibiki’s voice rasped through the bloodied haze of pain, “but you betrayed the master for whom you betrayed Konoha. You’re pathetic. A worm, Mizuki. Even your betrayal was weak.”

Mizuki couldn’t move. His body was a ruin, a grotesque puzzle of split skin and exposed nerves. The cold steel of the kunai pressed against his chest. He wanted to say something—deny it, defend himself, plead—but his tongue was thick and swollen from dehydration.

Ibiki’s face, shadowed under the flickering torchlight of the cell, was utterly impassive. There was no malice in his eyes, no anger. Just the clinical disinterest of a man carving up meat.

And then the knife slid into his heart.

A sharp, wet gasp. A sudden, crushing weight in his chest.

Nothing.

— — —

Loop 2

Mizuki woke with a strangled breath, his lungs heaving as if still trying to suck in the last traces of life that had fled from his body. What—? What—?!

He sat bolt upright, the transition from lying to sitting so abrupt that his vision swam.

He was in his room.

Not a damp, blood-streaked cell. Not strapped to a chair, body a canvas of Ibiki’s handiwork.

No chains. No steel tables.

His room.

The paper-thin walls were still the same, slightly yellowed with age. The wooden floor creaked under his weight. A small desk sat in the corner, cluttered with mission scrolls, ink stains, and a cup that had been holding the same tea for days, its surface now a thick film of decay. The single window, cracked at the edges, let in the cool twilight of Konoha.

He turned his head. His calendar.

January 19th.

His stomach lurched. That’s not right. That’s not right. That’s not right.

It had been later than that. Hadn’t it? Hadn’t it been weeks? Months? He had lost count of the days between Ibiki’s knives and Ibiki’s questions.

His breath hitched.

Kai.

The single word left his lips, laced with chakra. The world didn’t ripple. Nothing shattered. No illusion unraveled.

Not a genjutsu.

His mouth was dry. His hands were trembling.

And then—

The memories hit.

Ibiki’s scalpel glinting under the dim light. The way he hummed absently when he cut into him, as if he were cooking a meal. The moment Ibiki had realized Mizuki didn’t know enough to be useful. The look of decision in his eyes.

The knife in his chest.

Mizuki’s throat closed. He felt sick, he felt—

He bolted to his feet, staggering across the floor, barely making it to the bathroom before his stomach gave in. He wretched, his body convulsing as bile burned his throat, his knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. He gasped, panting against the cold porcelain.Maybe—maybe it had been a hallucination. Maybe he was sick. Maybe—

He pressed his forehead to the toilet rim, willing his heart to stop hammering against his ribs.

If he went back to sleep, maybe this nightmare would pass.

But—

What if he woke up back in that chair? What if Ibiki’s voice was the next thing he heard? What if the walls closed in again, and he felt that blade push into his chest one more time?

His breath quickened. No, no, no—

His body made the choice for him. Exhaustion took hold, pulling him under.

A knock.

Mizuki jolted awake, his heart seizing in his chest.

The room was dark now, shadows stretching across the walls. His head snapped toward the window. The sun had sunk below the horizon. Night had fallen.

The knock came again.

Slower this time. He swallowed, limbs sluggish as he dragged himself upright.

He hesitated for a breath—just one—but it was enough for the voice beyond the door to reach him.

“Mizuki. Chunin of the leaf. You told Naruto Uzumaki he should steal the scroll to graduate.”

His blood turned to ice.

He knew that voice.

No.

It wasn’t possible.

His hand trembled as he reached for the door handle. Turned it.

And froze.

Ibiki stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his expression unreadable beneath the shadow of his hitai-ate.

“Mind coming with me to talk about that?”

Mizuki’s stomach twisted into knots. His breath stuttered.

His legs went weak.

And then—

The world tilted, and everything went dark as an Anbu knocked him out.

— — — —

Loop 3

Mizuki jolted awake, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps.

No. No. Not again.

His body was stiff, aching from wounds that weren’t there anymore. But he remembered.

Ibiki.

The scalpel.

Again.

He remembered the way it dragged across his skin, carving new paths over old wounds. He remembered Ibiki’s voice—low, even, devoid of anger but full of something worse.

"You’ve never told me anything."

That wasn’t true. He had told him everything. Hadn’t he? He had nothing left to give, nothing left to trade.

But Ibiki didn’t believe him.

And so, he bled.

He remembered his own hoarse screams. The thick, metallic taste in his mouth. The moment his head lolled to the side, darkness creeping in.

And then—

His assistant.

"Traitor number 293, this is your first interrogation. This is your first time here."

"No, NO! Lies! I've been here before."

Mizuki squeezed his eyes shut, his fingers digging into the sheets. His stomach turned.

He had bled. Again. And he had died. Again.

And yet, here he was.

He forced his eyes open, breath still uneven.

His flat.

Again.

Everything exactly as he left it. The tea-stained cup. The messy desk. The cracked window letting in the dull morning light. He let out a breath. And then another.

And then he screamed.

His voice tore through the silence, raw and guttural, shaking the very walls around him. It didn’t stop. He didn’t stop.

His throat ached. His body shook.

And still, he screamed.

Until his voice broke. Until all that was left were gasps, choked sobs that made his chest tighten.

His fingers curled into his hair, nails digging into his scalp. His vision blurred.

It wasn’t real. It wasn’t possible. It wasn’t—

His body gave out. Sleep pulled him under.

— — —

A knock.

Mizuki’s eyes shot open.

He didn’t move.