Sasuke curses as the kunai shakes in his grip. Scared? No, no no…he wasn’t scared, he couldn’t be scared. He was Uchiha Sasuke, and he was so close to his Jounin title he could smell it.
All around him is thick, thick mist, and not even the Sharingan helps, because the mist is infused with chakra and he can’t make out where his brother could possibly be.
The last time he spoke to Itachi he cursed at him. For taking it easy on him. He’d never move forward if Itachi kept babying him, and so he demanded Itachi treat training sessions as if they were fighting to the death.
He second guesses his decision when he hears the heel of a sandal scuff against the dirt, and swipes blindly behind him. Not even his chokuto can cleanly cut through the mist, forming itself back together.
Sasuke never finishes with the swing. He sees a vague bluish blur before Itachi’s fist cleanly meets with his face, body tumbling backwards harshly.
He screams for his brother to stop when his throat is bared to the air, when there’s a weight on his chest and a pair of hands on his head, and he feels the tip of a kunai at his throat.
UchihaSavior 