Sasori Akasuna

The blood of his adversaries stained the ground and trees, creating a funereal rain over Sasori's shattered puppets.

His usually cold eyes carried an emotion he struggled to handle: frustration.

"Was he not good enough yet? Was he not perfect? Why? Where had he gone wrong? What needed to be fixed? What needed to be repaired?"

The Akatsuki cloak was in tatters, and his puppet body was badly damaged when, without any warning, he invaded the artisan's house in the dead of night. Ah, they wouldn't be angry.

There was no one else in this world with the skill—and the patience—to help him. He panted, feeling everything.

...Fail.

"Are you home?" Sasori called out, his voice tinged with a panic that had never been there before. The fear of death was real. The shock was traumatizing. "I need... help..." he managed to say before simply collapsing on the floor near the entrance, completely unconscious.