The decision to leave came three days after the rescue, crystallizing in my mind like ice forming on a still pond. I'd been sitting in Dr. Hayashi's restored clinic, watching Yuki tend to the herb garden we'd worked on together, when the realization struck me with terrible clarity: my presence here was putting everyone I'd come to care about in mortal danger.
Orochimaru's servants hadn't given up. If anything, the attack on the mining complex had been a probing action, a way to test our capabilities and weaknesses. They would return, probably with greater numbers and more sophisticated techniques. And when they did, anyone close to me would become a target.
You can't run from this forever, I told myself. But you can run far enough to keep innocent people out of the crossfire.
"You're leaving, aren't you?" Yuki's voice came from the doorway, soft but certain.
I turned to find her watching me with the kind of perceptive sadness that suggested she'd been expecting this moment. Her medical training had made her observant of the subtle signs that indicated when someone was preparing to disappear—the way I'd been memorizing details of the village, the careful distance I'd started maintaining in conversations, the general air of someone saying goodbye without using the words.
"I have to," I said simply.
"Because of grandfather's kidnapping."
"Because my past won't stay buried," I corrected. "Those people who came for me—they're not going away. And as long as I'm here, everyone in this village is at risk."
Yuki stepped into the room and closed the door behind her, a gesture that somehow made the conversation feel both more intimate and more final. "Where will you go?"
"I don't know yet. Somewhere far from here. Somewhere my enemies won't think to look for allies or leverage."
"Back to wandering alone."
The words hung in the air between us, heavy with implications neither of us wanted to voice directly. Yes, I would be alone again—but it would be different this time. The isolation wouldn't be born from misanthropy or self-imposed exile, but from a genuine desire to protect the people who mattered to me.
"It's not the same as before," I said, trying to explain a distinction that felt crucial but difficult to articulate. "Before, I was alone because I thought I didn't need anyone. Now... now I'm choosing solitude because I've learned how much other people mean to me."
"That doesn't make it easier," Yuki said quietly.
"No," I agreed. "It doesn't."
She moved to the window and looked out at the village beyond—fishermen preparing their boats, children playing in the streets, merchants setting up their stalls for the morning trade. All of it peaceful, normal, innocent of the larger conflicts that had shaped my life.
"How long before you go?" she asked.
"Tomorrow morning. Early, before most people are awake."
"Trying to avoid goodbyes?"
"Trying to avoid making this harder than it already is."
Yuki turned back to face me, and I was surprised to see that her eyes were dry. I'd expected tears, protests, arguments about why I should stay. Instead, she looked resolved, as if she'd already worked through the emotional implications and reached some kind of acceptance.
"I understand why you have to go," she said. "I don't like it, but I understand it."
"Do you?"
"Your presence here puts people at risk, and you can't live with the thought of being responsible for more innocent deaths. It's actually a very selfless decision, even though it feels like abandonment."
Her insight was both comforting and painful. She understood my motivations better than I'd expected, which made leaving both easier and harder simultaneously.
"There's something else," I said, knowing that I couldn't leave without addressing the weight that had been pressing on my conscience. "Something I should have told you weeks ago."
"About my parents?" she asked, her voice carrying no surprise.
I stared at her, shocked. "You knew?"
"I suspected," she said with a sad smile. "The timing was right, and your reaction when I told you about their deaths... you looked like someone who was remembering something terrible rather than learning something new."
"And you still helped me. Still trusted me. Still..." I struggled to find words for the magnitude of what she'd done.
"Still chose to see who you are now instead of who you used to be," she finished. "Yes."
"Why?"
Yuki was quiet for a long moment, considering her answer. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of hard-won wisdom.
"Because hating you wouldn't bring them back. Because destroying yourself with guilt wouldn't honor their memory. And because..." She paused, seeming to gather courage for what came next. "Because I think they would want me to help you become someone worthy of their sacrifice."