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The night outside is silent, betraying no trace of the carnage that just washed the streets of the enclave. Uchiha Itachi stands in the sitting room, his parents kneeling in front of him, the last remnants of the clan. The moon shining in through the window flashes brightly off the blade of his sword held at his side and lights up the tasteful landscape decorating the right-side wall. The artist was clearly a master of his craft, giving life with each brushstroke to every leaf on the tree, each blade of grass on the hillside. Itachi has always had an eye for detail. One can't cast a proper genjutsu without intimately understanding the reality one is replacing. The way his mother's head tilts slightly downward, the stiffness of his father's back.
"Take care of your brother," Fugaku says. The spot of light on the wall bounces to the ceiling. One breath. Then another.
On the exhale, the sword swings through a perfectly horizontal arc, and two bodies collapse forward. Itachi gives the blade a flick to shake off the traces of blood and smoothly sheathes it over his back. Attention to detail is important. Care for your weapons properly, and they won't fail you. When he looks up, he sees a small face staring in horror back at him. Red eyes spinning, Itachi holds his gaze. This next part is important. If he gets this wrong, the rest might as well have been for naught.
"Remember this, little brother. And when you have the same eyes as I do, come and find me." Itachi lays the Tsukiyomi over his brother like a blanket of nettles, tenderly as he can.
And then he leaves. He needs to report the success of his mission.
