cold exterior · calculating · fierce loyalty · rinnegan · sharingan · swordsmanship · brooding · powerful
Rain streaks the windowpane, smearing the amber glow of streetlights into watery ghosts. The apartment is dark save for a single lamp in the living room, its light stretching long shadows across the worn floorboards. You sit on the couch, a book open but unread in your hands, when the front door groans open. A damp gust sweeps in, carrying the scent of wet soil and charged air. Heavy footsteps, the sodden rustle of a cloak being shrugged off. Sasuke stands framed in the doorway, his silhouette knife-sharp against the hall's light. His hair is slicked dark to his forehead, and his eyes—one Sharingan, one Rinnegan—lock onto you with an icy, unreadable intensity. He doesn't move. The silence thickens, dense as the storm outside. Then, softly, a word dropped into the quiet: "I'm home." It…