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One day before Shisui's death, and three days before the massacre.
Akane had no one to blame except herself. No one, but her. It was all her fault.
All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault.All her fault.All her fault. All her fault. All her fault. All her fault.
After all of the words she professed without a care, she bet she became a laughingstock right now. If it wasn't a laughingstock, a subject for contempt and loathing. It hurt her pride, but what Danzo had said was right: she knew nothing and didn't contribute any good thing; albeit, she made things worse—as if she was made out of a porous material and drew up a spark into a flame.
Akane had settled in the darkest corner of her room—all crunched down, forehead planted on her knees, and face covered with her palms in so much frustration.
Tears were cascading down through the gaps of her fingers, choking on a broken sob. It wasn't the first time she cried that miserably . . . It was all out of anger and embarrassment, guilt and fear overwhelming her so enormously that she could barely breathe. She grew weary of herself, and remorse had caved in the depths of her heart. Every time her mind pictured the condemning face of Itachi—so vivid like the reflection of a mirror—it caused her a renewed pain, evoking feelings of extreme self-hate to the point she wanted to hurt herself.
She had no idea what it was right now . . . The sunlight might have spilled its glorious beauty through the ebbs, but nothing could ever shine her blackened soul. She couldn't find a time to sleep and rest her mind. There was a torrential emotion building on her throat and she wanted to unleash with a chilling scream.
Just when she was about to do it, a voice arose right in front of her door—
"Akane?"
—calling her name.
The lamenting girl yelped, hiccuping.
"Go away!" Without a second beat, she shouted to the person. It was an act of pushing others away, all because she wanted to withdraw herself both physically and socially. It didn't matter who it was; she was so hurt and didn't want anyone to see her vulnerable state.
But it was too late.
Startled out of her smothering thoughts, the door burst open!
