Chapter Text
From the beginning, she hadn’t known herself to be a girl. In fact, she hadn’t known herself at all—not as "she," not even as "someone." That revelation, the faintest inkling of identity, arrived only at the age of two. And even then, she was not granted the dignity of a name; to the world around her, names were for children, not demons.
Parents, too, were privileges withheld from her, remnants of a love she was deemed unworthy of receiving. She watched other children at the orphanage revel in their birthdays, their small celebrations filled with gifts and cakes, as she remained on the sidelines, unaware of when she herself had come into the world. For who would ever wish to commemorate the birth of a demon?
Yet, as the years passed, she noticed that the hatred directed toward her seemed to intensify in a certain month, taking on a peculiar bitterness as the air chilled. She was three years old when she finally pieced together this unspoken truth: she had been born in October. And so October became the season when scorn blossomed most viciously around her.
As October loomed, just weeks away from her fourth birthday, she began to piece together a dark truth—that the bitterness of the month was no mere coincidence. October’s arrival always brought with it a torrent of scorn, a visceral disdain that went beyond the daily looks and muttered words that shadowed her every step. No, October seemed to infect the very air with animosity, a time when even the unspoken loathing grew palpable.
Not that the rest of the year was kinder. She could count on one hand the souls in the entire village who refrained from branding her as a demon: the ramen shop owner and his daughter. She had discovered their little haven by pure chance one desolate night, following hours of scavenging for something—anything—to eat. Food in the orphanage, the matron insisted, was not for the likes of her; she was condemned to forage while the others ate their fill.
On that third day without a morsel to quiet her gnawing hunger, exhaustion dulled her instincts. She hadn’t sensed the group until it was too late. A villager had caught her off guard, hurling her against the nearest wall with a force that left her battered, bruised, and possibly with bones fractured beneath her skin. But pain was an ever-present companion, and she could no longer distinguish one ache from another. Her body’s resilience, forged from years of enduring, was her only armour. So, with wavering legs, she pushed herself upright and fled, each step a defiance, a refusal to give in, propelling her tiny, almost four-year-old frame as swiftly as it could carry her.
It was in her desperate flight that she collided, quite literally, with the solid legs of a man. Teuchi, as she would later learn, was his name, the owner of the little ramen shop tucked away in Konoha's winding streets. Alongside him was his daughter, Ayame, who, like her father, greeted the world with a quiet warmth that stood out sharply against the village’s harsh indifference. Together, they had kept this modest place running for years.
Teuchi surprised her with an act she’d never known: he lifted her, his hands gentle yet firm, and settled her onto a stool so she could reach the counter. The touch itself felt foreign, almost disconcerting; her body tensed instinctively, ready to brace for pain, for she’d never been handled with anything but cruelty before. But there was no malice in his hands, only a careful kindness, a human connection that left her momentarily speechless.
As he looked down at her, his gaze softened, his eyes filling with a pity that unsettled her. She knew enough to understand that pity was no balm; it was a reminder of what she was, an affirmation of her otherness. She wanted answers, not pity. Answers she would barter anything for, even her very soul if such a transaction were possible. But answers, it seemed, would not come here either.
Still, they offered her food, a generosity she hadn’t expected. She ate until her hunger subsided, until her stomach ached—not from emptiness, but from fullness. She ate like one starved, with a voracity that seemed to unnerve them, and yet, neither Teuchi nor Ayame said a word. Instead, they turned discreetly away, perhaps embarrassed by her desperation, unaware of just how deep her hunger ran.
As she ate, hidden from the world beyond by the high stools and tables of the ramen shop, her momentary refuge was broken by the sound of familiar voices passing just outside. The rough, angry tones sliced through the night, and she froze, her small body instinctively curling in on itself, trying to shrink further out of sight.
"The Kyuubi brat must be here somewhere,” one of them snarled. “It can't have run far. I hurt the demon enough that it shouldn’t have the strength to go on for long. Let’s keep looking.”
The words settled like stones in her mind, cold and unyielding. Kyuubi brat. Demon. The labels they flung at her so casually were shards she’d been forced to wear for as long as she could remember, but now, overhearing their words, a dim light of understanding began to flicker. She didn’t yet know what "Kyuubi" meant, nor why they chose it to define her, but she felt its weight, sensed its power, and understood that it marked her as something other than human in their eyes.
The day she turned four was marked not by celebration, but by a ruthless expulsion. The matron, whose resentment had simmered beneath every glare and snide remark, had finally reached her limit. “I’ve housed the demon long enough,” she had muttered, her voice cold as she forced the girl out into the frigid night. No warmth or farewell accompanied her; just a hard shove, out into the unforgiving cold.
Clad in her thin, tattered clothes, she wandered into the forest, seeking the one place where she could be assured of silence. Among the trees, she was met with indifference rather than hatred; the animals regarded her with the same disinterest they might afford a stone or a fallen branch. Too scrawny, she imagined, to be worth the trouble of hunting—she was, after all, barely more than skin and bone. Curling into herself for warmth, she lay against the ground and drifted into a fitful sleep.
Days blurred into one another as she survived by instinct alone. She fashioned makeshift fishing tools from sticks, her small hands deft from watching the orphanage’s cook prepare meals over the fire. She was grateful now for her sharp mind, for her ability to learn quickly, even from a distance. When she managed to catch fish, she would spear them and hold them over a fire—a rudimentary preparation, but one that filled her with a quiet triumph. Here, alone, she could rely on herself, and each small act of survival became a fragile beacon against the darkness that loomed both within and around her.
She hadn’t thought herself worthy of notice, yet it seemed she had sparked enough interest to warrant a search party. As she scoured the forest, scavenging materials to cobble together some semblance of shelter, the chill gnawed at her with increasing urgency. Her body trembled uncontrollably, her coordination faltering as she stumbled over roots and stones. She understood that this cold was more than just discomfort—it was danger creeping into her bones, a relentless siege against her very life. She cursed her body for this betrayal, this weakness that now compounded her struggle to survive.
It was in this weakened state that she sensed their arrival—a subtle shift in the forest’s air, the silence sharpened by the presence of trained predators. Before she could react, five figures appeared around her, each adorned in masks that hid their faces but revealed their discipline. Their postures were poised, ready, projecting a quiet power that left no doubt of their lethality.
Yet as she scanned them, she sensed something unusual—no hostility. Their emotions, subdued yet unmistakable, held none of the malice or disgust she was used to. But instinct held her on edge. These were not villagers; they were shinobi, and she understood enough to know that their kindness could turn in an instant. Running was not an option; in her condition, escape was a fantasy. All she could do was stand her ground, watching them warily, a small figure surrounded by shadows she knew could extinguish her life with a single move.
The woman in the Cat mask, sensing the tension that radiated from the little girl, sank down onto her haunches, her movements slow and measured. She kept her hands visible, a subtle sign that no harm would come. Her voice, soft and almost maternal, wrapped around the child with an unfamiliar warmth. “Uzumaki-san, I’d like you to come with us. The Hokage wants to see you.”
She blinked, tilting her head in a gesture that spoke more of wild animals than children, her confusion clear. “Uzumaki… who?”
The words fell from her lips with a quiet innocence that felt like a crack in the icy silence surrounding the shinobi. One of them—a man in a Wolf mask—looked as though he’d been struck. In the stunned stillness, his hand reached for his chest as if he could hold back the ache spreading from his heart. How had it come to this, that this child, this tiny girl, didn’t even know her own name? Guilt twisted within him, hot and shameful. He was a shinobi, a protector, yet here stood a child he’d failed so completely that even her name had been stolen from her.
But the woman, the one in the Cat mask, held herself steady, the depth of her pain hidden beneath layers of practiced calm. Her voice softened even further. “Your name is Uzumaki Sayuri.”
Sayuri. She didn’t know how such a small word could feel so vast, so profound. She mouthed it, tasting each syllable like it was the first real word she’d ever spoken. Uzumaki Sayuri. It settled within her, a warmth blossoming at her core, expanding outward. For the first time, she was more than a hollow vessel, more than a label stamped upon her by others. She had a name. And more than that—a family name.
In that instant, Sayuri felt a strange, fierce pride take root within her. A name was something given by someone who cared, a symbol of belonging, and for so long, she had belonged nowhere. But this name— Uzumaki Sayuri —felt right, felt as though it had been waiting for her all along. She wanted to wrap herself in it, to shout it to the forest, to remind the world that she was not just the “Kyuubi brat.” She was someone real, someone with history and value, someone who could no longer be erased by disdainful looks or hateful whispers.
If she were the sort to embrace, she might have thrown her arms around this masked woman who had seen fit to gift her with such a precious truth. But instead, Sayuri squared her shoulders, a small yet determined figure amid the towering shinobi. She may not have yet understood what it meant to be an Uzumaki, but she knew with a bone-deep certainty that she would spend every ounce of her willpower uncovering it. She would find every secret, reclaim every part of herself that had been lost in the shadows of this village’s contempt.
Uzumaki Sayuri. The words echoed in her mind, solid and sure, like the promise of home. And as she followed the masked shinobi back toward the village, she walked taller, her steps no longer only the stumbling scurries of a child on the run. She moved with a purpose, a newfound resolve ignited within her. Her journey was just beginning, and for the first time, she felt strong enough to face it.
<>
Sayuri had never once stepped foot inside the Hokage Tower. The air inside the building felt thick with authority, laced with the faint, lingering scents of ink, paper, and a touch of smoke. She felt the presence of shinobi all around her, masked figures standing like silent sentinels in every shadowed corner. But fear? No, fear was a luxury long eroded by the reality of her life. What could they possibly do to her that hadn’t already been done? What was the worst they could offer—death? At least in that, she might finally escape the ever-present cruelty of this village, perhaps find a peace denied to her here among the living.
Her gaze drifted to the man seated behind the large desk, the one everyone else seemed to defer to. He wore a hardened expression, his presence commanding and calm. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, wisps of smoke curling around him, and he observed her with an intensity that prickled her skin. It was a look that seemed to dissect her, to weigh her against some invisible measure. The child in her felt an instinctive prick of distrust, a deep-seated aversion that she couldn’t fully understand but felt all the same.
How could she trust someone who had let his people treat a child as they’d treated her? This man, this Hokage, was responsible for the village, for every soul within it—including hers. Yet he’d sat by as she’d been starved, beaten, and hunted in the streets. He may have been the Hokage to them, but she couldn’t see him as anything more than an overseer who looked on as his people lavished cruelty on her.
His expression betrayed nothing, and yet she could feel his mind ticking, feel the unspoken thoughts behind those calculating eyes. It wasn’t the warmth or empathy she craved; it was a distant assessment, as if she were a puzzle to be solved or a problem to be managed.
But she met his gaze without flinching. For so long, she had kept her head down, shied away from glances that only ever held disdain. Now, with a name and the fragile beginnings of identity, she found her own resilience strengthening. She would not bow to him, nor would she look away. Let him stare. Let him weigh her however he liked; she was Uzumaki Sayuri now, and she was done shrinking beneath their judgment.
The silence stretched as the Hokage leaned back, perhaps taken aback by the quiet defiance in her gaze. This girl, small and thin as she was, had endured more than he could know. And though she stood in his office surrounded by shinobi with masks and titles, the only one unguarded was him—her gaze bore into him, silently demanding an answer he wasn’t prepared to give.
Sarutobi Hiruzen regarded the small, silent figure before him, feeling the weight of his own failures pressing heavily upon him. Sayuri looked painfully thin, her skin pale and dulled by grime. Her hair, a vibrant, unmistakable red, mirrored that of her mother, Kushina, the "Red Hot-Blooded Habanero" of Uzushio, a woman whose spirit had been as fierce as her loyalty to Konoha. And her eyes…those eyes, a piercing blue that once radiated kindness and warmth in her father, Minato, now stared at him with a guarded wariness far beyond her years. They were the eyes of a child forced to grow up too soon, carrying in their depths a sorrow no four-year-old should ever know.
This girl, Uzumaki Sayuri, bore not only the blood of legends but also the cursed fate of a jinchuuriki. She was the vessel of the Kyuubi no Kitsune, a being whose malice and destruction still haunted the village’s dreams. Hiruzen felt a pang of shame as he looked at her—she should have been treasured, protected, revered as the daughter of Konoha’s Yondaime Hokage and his fearless wife. Instead, she’d been left to fend for herself, cast aside by the very village her parents had sacrificed everything to protect.
When the Nine-Tails had been sealed within her, Hiruzen had promised Kushina he would protect her daughter, that he would ensure Sayuri would grow up with love and safety. Yet, somewhere along the way, that promise had dissolved into empty words. Rumors had spread before he could quell them, whispers about the "Kyuubi child." Though he had his suspicions, likely someone as insidious as Danzo had let the secret slip, fueling the fear and resentment that eventually found its way to the innocent child before him.
For the villagers, Sayuri was no longer a child; she was the incarnation of the Kyuubi, a vessel holding the monster that had destroyed so many of their lives. Even the shinobi, who understood the difference between a jinchuuriki and the beast they contained, had found it easier to displace their pain onto her—a visible target for the hate and anguish left in the wake of the Kyuubi’s attack. Hating her was simpler, more tangible, than fearing an invisible demon.
And Hiruzen, still reeling from the loss of his wife, from the endless burdens of leadership that had been thrust back upon him, had allowed this injustice to fester. Rather than foster understanding, he’d let the village find its solace in scapegoating a child. He told himself it was for the greater good, that their anger might ease their terror. But as he looked into Sayuri’s clear, unflinching gaze, he felt the full weight of what he had sacrificed to maintain that fragile peace.
He wanted to say something, anything, to soften the truth that lingered unspoken between them. But how could words bridge the chasm he had allowed to grow, the years of silent suffering he had watched from afar? As he watched her, Hiruzen felt his heart heavy with shame, realizing that he had failed not only Kushina and Minato but this girl who now stood before him, carrying the weight of their legacy and the village’s hatred on her fragile shoulders.
Sayuri’s face remained impassive, her eyes sharp as they took in every detail of the room and of him. She said nothing, but in her silence, he saw the quiet strength that spoke of her lineage—a strength inherited from both mother and father.
Hiruzen studied her closely, hoping her answer might provide some clarity. "Hello, Sayuri. Could you tell me why you were in the forest rather than the orphanage where you’re supposed to be?”
Sayuri watched him as he spoke, catching the fleeting hints of emotion he could not fully mask—guilt, sorrow, but also a steely determination that told her what she needed to know. Whatever help he offered would be shallow, fleeting. She would be allowed to suffer, either for what she was or for what she represented. She was only a child, she knew, but in his eyes, she was something far less forgiving.
“The matron decided she’d housed the ‘village demon’ long enough,” Sayuri replied, her tone flat, her face an unreadable mask. “She threw me out a few nights ago.”
She delivered the words with a calm that belied her age, her voice neutral, controlled. There was no expectation in her tone, no plea for pity or sympathy. To her, the Hokage was just another wall in a village of stone-faced adults who preferred to look away.
But her answer did not fall on indifferent ears. From the corner of her eye, she noticed a figure stiffen—the same young shinobi in Wolf mask, who had brought her here, a teen standing to her right. She felt his guilt emanating in waves, almost tangible in its intensity, mingled with something else she could barely identify—self-loathing, a feeling so powerful she was almost startled by it. So, she thought with a detached curiosity, someone here does care.
It was a small, unexpected discovery. For so long, she had grown accustomed to cruelty, to neglect, to the hollow, sidelong glances that whispered of her isolation. This shinobi’s reaction was different, jarringly so, and it struck her as something fragile and strange. That someone could feel guilty on her behalf—could even feel anything for her—was a notion she hadn’t quite learned to process. But here it was, raw and aching, from someone who seemed to understand just how wrong her life had been allowed to go.
Perhaps, she thought, that single guilty heartbeat in the room was enough. Not for trust or hope, but enough to make her wonder, for the first time, if she might someday be more than a demon in their eyes. If someone, somewhere, might see the person she was beneath the burden she carried.
If Sayuri had to guess, she’d say her words had shocked the Hokage into silence. She didn’t care much if they had; his reaction, or lack thereof, mattered little to her. Her attention was elsewhere, absorbed in cataloging every presence in the room, honing in on the subtle shifts and movements, the whispered tensions beneath their stillness.
She had learned to rely on her senses early on. In the orphanage, and even in the streets, survival had often depended on her ability to remain attuned to the world around her. She’d had to develop a sharp awareness of both people and their emotions—their moods, their motivations, and the dangers they posed. Here, that same instinct guided her, allowing her to map out the office with a precision that left little unseen.
There were five shinobi who had come to bring her here, masked figures still standing at a respectful distance. Behind the Hokage’s chair, two more figures lurked, their skills evident in the way they blended almost seamlessly with the background. She had nearly missed them, sensing them only through the faint traces of their emotions—a cool, steady vigilance that marked them as high-ranking shinobi. Another had entered moments ago, slipping in so silently that most wouldn’t have noticed. Altogether, there were ten people in the room, including herself.
Each one emitted a unique energy, a personal aura she’d come to interpret like reading a book. She noted their wariness, their surprise, and, from a few, even faint stirrings of discomfort—perhaps stirred by the implications of her words.
“I would like to give you an apartment. Someplace that is all yours, so you won’t ever be thrown out again. Would you like that?” the Hokage offered, his tone measured, as if he expected her to leap with joy.
Sayuri looked at him, unblinking. She was only four, but she wasn’t naive. What kind of adult thought it acceptable for a child her age to live alone? His words held a hollow promise, as if an apartment—a small corner to call her own—could substitute for what she truly craved but had long since given up on. Was there really no one who would ever want her? That was the question that burned quietly in her mind, an ache left over from the innocent hope of a younger self, a two-year-old who had once dreamed of family, of warmth, of a love that would take her in without question.
Still, if those hopes were futile, then she would take what she could get. An apartment meant freedom; it meant a life on her own terms, where she could rely only on herself and no one else. At least she wouldn’t have to keep bracing for a blow, expecting the moment she’d be cast out yet again. She would accept the apartment, and she would use it as a foundation to build her life—a life free from expectations that others had forced upon her.
As she nodded, her mind turned to the future with a clarity she could not have explained. Tomorrow, she would begin to unravel the mystery of herself, the roots she had never known but now felt more deeply than she could put into words. She had wondered briefly if "Uzumaki" had been some random name, a mere scrap thrown to pacify her. But deep down, she felt a connection, an undeniable certainty that had bloomed from the moment she first heard it.
She was an Uzumaki. A true Uzumaki. Her blood carried a legacy that reached far beyond this village and its narrow perception of her. She could feel it now—a fire that flickered beneath her guarded exterior, a quiet strength awakening in her bones. And with that strength, she would learn. About her family, about the history she had inherited, about the potential that lay dormant within her.