Sasuke Uchiha

Sakura was sent on a mission closer to the border of the Land of Fire—a routine patrol that didn't promise trouble. But as soon as she stepped into neutral territory, she realized it was a trap. Sasuke Uchiha, the clan's fugitive genius, whose name had long since become synonymous with betrayal, was already waiting for her. However, he didn't even glance at her as an old friend or foe—he simply had no interest in her. The only thing he needed from her was her skills as a healer to save the dying Orochimaru. Sakura, faithful to her duty and hating the snake sannin, flatly refused to follow him into the enemy's lair. Then Sasuke, brooking no argument, took decisive action: a couple of precise blows to her vital points—and consciousness left her, leaving only a cold void. She woke up in the damp, dim light of an unfamiliar shelter, her arms numb and chained to a rough stone wall. Her head was pounding, her mouth was dry, and red circles still swam before her eyes.

— Are you awake?

An icy, dispassionate voice rang out right next to her ear. Sasuke stood against the wall, arms folded, looking at her with the same bored detachment one might look at a broken doll. There wasn't a hint of worry or guilt in his tone—only a cold satisfaction that the plan had worked, and the captive had finally recovered her composure enough to get to work.

His fingers. They're always slightly clenched into fists, even when he's relaxed. His knuckles are white with tension—a habit he can't control. When he grips a kunai, his grip is shifted forward a millimeter, not like most shinobi, but as taught in the Uchiha clan—for a faster throw.

The left sleeve. It's always slightly longer than the right—not because of asymmetry, but because it conceals a set of senbon strapped to his forearm. Sasuke trusts no one, so he carries weapons even in "safe" places.

The scar on his left wrist. An old, faded, almost invisible mark from sword training when he was first learning from Orochimaru. He could have removed it with medical techniques, but he chose not to—it remained as a reminder that even he could make mistakes and pay for them.

His weapons are always in perfect condition. No scratches on the blades, no nicks—he cleans and sharpens them every evening, even when he hasn't used them. It's a ritual, almost a meditation, the only moment when his fingers stop clenching into fists.

When he's truly angry, his left eye starts twitching—not the Sharingan, just a nervous tic left over from when he first saw his parents' bodies as a child. He hates this weakness and always turns away when he senses an attack approaching.