Sasuke staggered through the dimly lit halls of Orochimaru's old hideout, his body battered and blind, each step sending a shock of pain coursing through him. His hand dragged against the cold stone walls seeking some form of stability. The damp air filled his lungs, heavy with the scent of mildew and decay. Every breath was labored and every inch forward felt like a test of endurance.

     His mind flickered with fractured memories—images of a nightmare. He could see himself waking up, his wrists and ankles bound tightly to an operating table. His heart pounded against his ribcage, panic surging through him. Above him, the serpentine figure of Orochimaru loomed, his sickly smile spreading as Kabuto stood beside him, eyes gleaming with clinical interest.

     Sasuke had felt the pulse of his Sharingan spring to life, instinctively trying to fend off whatever sinister plan was about to unfold. But it was futile. He remembered struggling against the restraints, the feeling of powerlessness gripping him as he tried to fight. Orochimaru had merely chuckled, his voice a low, unsettling hiss. "Still so much to learn, Sasuke-kun."

     The memory of Orochimaru's strength was vivid—effortless and overwhelming. Sasuke had launched what little resistance he could muster, his chakra flaring, but Orochimaru had swatted him down with ease. He recalled the sharp, searing pain as Orochimaru's hands gripped his face, claws digging into his skin and then the unimaginable: Sasuke's eyes—his Sharingan—ripped from his body. He had screamed, the sound raw and primal, before the world faded into blackness.

     Now, as he stumbled through the hideout, the echoes of that moment haunted him. The last thing he remembered after Orochimaru's violation was waking up to utter darkness, nothing but the cold sound of dripping water in the distance. His eyes—his Sharingan, his identity—were gone.

     Blind, weak, and alone, Sasuke's fingers brushed against a rough edge. A metal cabinet stood in the corner of the room. His hands fumbled over it, pulling open the drawers. The scent of antiseptics filled his nose as he felt through the various supplies. With trembling hands, he found some bandages, trying to treat his injuries as best he could. His movements were slow, deliberate, almost mechanical as he wrapped a sterile bandage around where his eyes had once been. The pressure on the empty sockets sent waves of agony through his skull, but he forced himself to remain steady.

      His throat burned, wanting to cry out in pain, but no sound came. He was empty—devoid of emotion, of feeling, as if the agony was too much to express. His body slumped to the floor, the cold stone beneath him grounding him in reality for the moment. But that reality was one of defeat.

     Sitting there, motionless, Sasuke's mind teetered on the edge of oblivion. His sense of self had fractured; his pride, his ambition, the Uchiha name—it all felt meaningless now. He had no purpose, no direction. The man who had once sought revenge and power was reduced to this—broken, blind, and lost.

     And then came the voices—whispers, faint at first, but growing louder. He could hear them, the voices of his ancestors, the bloodline that had shaped him.

     "What are you without your Sharingan?" they whispered. "What are you, if not an Uchiha?"

     The voices clawed at his mind, reminding him of his failure. He was nothing. The Sharingan, the symbol of his clan's power, the key to his identity, was gone. His ancestors mocked him, their voices echoing in the darkened chambers of his psyche. He pressed his palms against his ears, trying to shut them out, but they only grew louder, reverberating through the emptiness that had consumed him.

      "Failure," they hissed. "A hollow vessel. What is an Uchiha without his eyes?"

     The question repeated itself, over and over, until it became unbearable. Sasuke's chest tightened, his heart hammering against his ribs as the voices tore at his sanity. He tried to push them away, to fight the despair, but there was no strength left in him. His sense of worth had evaporated, his will shattered.

     He sat there, unmoving, a shell of his former self, struggling to grasp onto anything—any shred of his old identity. But there was nothing left. The darkness was all-encompassing and the sound of dripping water filled the hollow void that was once Sasuke Uchiha.

...

     Sasuke woke up—or at least he thought he did. His body was stiff, every muscle aching as if he had been lying there for days. Or was it only hours? His sense of time was gone, swallowed by the darkness that clung to him like a shroud. He groaned softly, trying to move his limbs. They felt sluggish, heavy, as though weighed down by the memories of what had happened.

     He wondered what day it was. What week. How long had he been like this? Blind, broken, alone in Orochimaru's decrepit hideout? The last thing he remembered was collapsing in the hallway after bandaging his eyes. His hands groped the ground as he forced himself to sit up. The cold stone pressed against his skin as he shuddered, still feeling the phantom pain of Orochimaru ripping his eyes from their sockets. His mind swirled, trying to grasp onto something—anything—but everything felt distant, disjointed.

     Slowly, he rose to his feet, the faint flicker of chakra returning to him, though it was barely enough to sustain him. He didn't know why he was still alive and part of him wished he wasn't. What was the point? He could feel the question lingering in the back of his mind, gnawing at him as he stumbled forward, one hand on the wall to guide him.

     What purpose did he have now? His Sharingan—his clan's honor—had been stripped from him in an instant, all because he had put his trust in Orochimaru. It was a bitter truth to swallow, but it clung to him like poison, infecting every thought.

     He should've known better. He should've seen it coming. Orochimaru had never cared about him—only his body, his potential as a vessel. Sasuke had been a fool to believe otherwise. He let out a shaky breath, trying to suppress the anguish rising in his chest. He wanted to scream, to release the pain, but no sound came. His throat was too raw, too dry, and all that escaped was a ragged, pitiful breath.

     The thought of Itachi flashed in his mind, but he quickly dismissed it. Going after his brother now would be suicide. He had no Sharingan, no way to defend himself. Itachi would kill him without even trying.

     He remembered the moment vividly, the sensation of his eyes being ripped from his head, the pain that seared through him, the darkness that swallowed everything afterward. It wasn't just his sight that had been stolen—it was his pride, his honor, the very essence of who he was as an Uchiha. He had gambled everything by trusting Orochimaru, and in the end he had lost it all.

     He shivered, clenching his fists at his sides. It had been four months since he left Konoha. Four months since he had abandoned everything he had once known—his team, his village, his home. The Hokage had already branded him a traitor and he knew that the people of Konoha had turned their backs on him.

     But it wasn't just Konoha he had betrayed. He had betrayed himself. He had allowed the curse of hatred to consume him, to drive him down a path he now deeply regretted.

     His mind drifted to Naruto—his former teammate, his friend. He remembered the look in Naruto's eyes when he had pierced him with the Chidori, aiming straight for his heart. He had almost killed him. He could still see the shock, the pain on Naruto's face as his blood stained Sasuke's hand.

     And for what? Power? Revenge?

     Sasuke clenched his jaw, the weight of guilt pressing down on him. He wouldn't blame Naruto if he never forgave him for what he'd done. He didn't forgive himself. He could still feel the wound festering deep inside of him, the shame of causing Naruto so much suffering. He had destroyed the one bond that had meant anything to him, and for what?

     He forced himself to move, stumbling through the hideout. Eventually, after what felt like hours, he made it outside. The sudden warmth of the sun on his face startled him. He stood still, letting the rays hit his skin, but they brought no comfort. The pain in his stomach gnawed at him, a constant reminder of his hunger. He had no food, no supplies, but he forced himself to keep walking, determined to find some form of civilization.

     After what felt like an eternity, he heard the distant sounds of a village. His legs wobbled, each step harder than the last. He barely registered the people as he collapsed onto the road, his body giving out entirely. The world went black again.

...

     When Sasuke woke again, he was lying in a bed. The scent of herbs filled the air, faint and soothing. He could feel the soft fabric of a blanket covering him, the surface beneath him no longer cold and unforgiving. He turned his head slightly, listening to the faint crackle of a fire nearby.

     Footsteps approached, and soon a voice spoke, soft but firm. "You're awake. You've been out for a while."

     Sasuke blinked—or at least he tried to, but there was still only darkness. His throat felt like sandpaper, dry and hoarse. He tried to speak but no words came out. His voice was gone, strangled by dehydration.

     The healer must have noticed because Sasuke felt something being pressed into his hand—a glass of water. Slowly, shakily, he raised it to his lips, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. It took several moments, but he managed to drink enough to moisten his throat.

     He placed the glass back on the table beside him, his hands trembling.

     "You were in bad shape when we found you," the healer continued. "Can you tell me what happened? How did you end up like this?"

     Sasuke hesitated. He couldn't reveal the truth. He couldn't let anyone know about Orochimaru, or that he was a shinobi. His voice came out in a rasp, barely audible. "...An accident."

     The healer waited for more, but Sasuke offered nothing else. He could feel the healer's eyes on him, as though assessing him, but eventually, he seemed satisfied. "I see. Well, you're lucky to be alive. Rest. I'll check on you later."

     Sasuke heard the door creak open, then shut as the healer left. Silence settled over the room once more.

     He lay there, staring into the void. His mind began to spiral again, the voices of his dead clansmen echoing in his ears. They taunted him, mocked him for his weakness. They called him a disgrace, a failure to the Uchiha name.

     He just lay there, taking the abuse. He had no strength left to argue. They were right. He had messed up beyond repair. There was no going back now, no redemption.

     Sasuke was nothing—an empty shell of the boy he once was and the darkness was all that remained.