A/N: Holy shit, we're here, boys! I've been planning this series for months now, especially on Tumblr. This thing has been slow to get out but holy hell, I'm proud of it. I'm also going to thank Ombree for being the most supportive Beta Reader ever. Seriously, give this woman an award. I totally dedicate this first chapter to her.

I have nothing else to say. LEGGO!

The Chain

As time passed, Death grew ever impatient.

Heat threaded the air so thickly that Sasuke's breath wove into it and warmed the sweltering air even more. It was a grey smoke that thinned into nothingness as quickly as it came into existence. The pungent scent of his thirteenth cigarette in the past hour clung to every surface—long having settled into every crevice of the leather interior. He held in the fumes for as long as he could, relishing the pain in his chest, the burn in his eyes—the only thing that made him feel alive.

"Sakura...Haruno..."

Her name drawled out like the smoke in his lungs— much too slowly, and with a longing ache once it was gone. He looked down at that moment, photo clutched between fingertips. She was beautifully captured in time laughing with a small group of girls her age, that could only hope to ever see a glimmer of her brilliance. The thought that mulled in his head was barely disturbed by the advisory on the radio, which had interrupted that one Fleetwood Mac song that talked about 'Dreams of Loneliness'. The abrupt end reminded him that he had to record it at some point on his home stereo.

"Severe thunderstorm warning for all of Westchester County, New York. Now, these storms can produce wind gusts over 50 miles per hour, north. Lightning caution will be given whenever it seems advisable."

Looking up to the sky, the hues of the sky ranged from black to blue and purple, the sun having dipped not too long ago beneath the skyline. The sky crackled and sparked with energy making the air thrum within it. It reminded him of days long since passed when the names of the true Gods were spoken as hushed whispers beneath the roar of thunder.

Obsidian fell back upon the hand that instinctively hovered with the ash ridden cigarette. Two taps into the ashtray and the filter was back between his lips. It burned easily, allowing the ash to fall, and left a small lingering—earthy, dark, and rich—in his mouth. It was often now that he was told that it would be the death of him—this habit or that one—the drinking or smoking, the gambling and cheap thrills. It didn't matter at all to him. For an eternity and a thousand more, he's only ever had himself and time. If his lungs turned to crusty, feeble husks, at least then he'd have known that he was alive—not merely existing in a state where days flowed through him as easily as the smoke through his chest.

Her death was many wars ago, and yet it felt as though the cup had never finished pouring out. That feminine presence—a smile, a brush of the shoulder, her lips pressed against his neck and eyes so firm, loving, and caring. All of it lingered within him still. It was more than a small trickle, and less than a waterfall yet louder still. He couldn't ignore it. Sasuke could not pretend that true beauty never graced the Earth. That such perfection had not grown from lands so vast and fertile—so green and glimmering that nature itself would break its silence to speak to her.

In his left hand was her photo—dim, saturated, and gold. He could almost see it all again. Her laugh, caught in mid-surprise. Her friends joined in the giggle, crowded around her as one placed a hand on her shoulder. He didn't hear what it was at the time—he'd been hot,far too hot, sitting in that idle car with the smallest crack of the window down.. He couldn't breathe. His clothes burned against his skin—the air too warm. He wanted to roll it down, to take a gasp of the cool breeze, but he couldn't. Her eyes were a bit too knowing now. Her body used to his stealth. She was aware that something wasn't right, and he couldn't simply reveal himself then. No, the window had been opened just enough to let the lens capture what he pretended not to see. She hadn't seen him, and he remembered being relieved about that.

She never noticed him.

Not through her eighteen years had she once acknowledged him.

Perhaps he was the monster under her bed. The looming dread she felt when she walked alone. The pit of loneliness in her moments of weakness. She felt his presence like a ghost that eternally haunted her. To him, he was but a remnant refusing to let go of those memories that lingered within the past . A relic of the past that refused to let it die. He may as well have been a ghost. He had just as much life in him.

She was happy among them, he could tell. She smiled like them, talked like them, hell, she even feared death like them, and just as well. The first one was not an easy one to take.

Sasuke snuffed it out, half the cigarette left to go, and never to burn out. He didn't open his mouth this time, the smolder from his last drag seeped out slowly from his nose. With eyes like fire, billowing with smog, he looked no different than a dragon or a demon. He was a monster—a beast prowling, and lying in wait—expecting for her to make her appearance. For her to show her face so that he could see it. So that he could finally make his move. Soon it would be time, and she would no longer be part of this world anymore.

The thunder rolled overhead breaking the night sky only to reveal the blinding light from lightning that cracked upon the earth in fractured lines.

Eighteen years was long enough.

Pink hair was considered almost to be avant-garde by those that worked with the girl. Sakura wasn't by any means anyone who was considered an outsider, but instead represented everything that an upstanding member of society should be. Laboring over books, charts, and figures, she stormed through her school years with rigorous discipline, stepping out of medical school at the end of the previous spring—about two months prior. People were astounded at her work ethic, her compassion and dedication to her field, which seemed almost inhuman to most.

After becoming an intern, when asked on the local news how she had succeeded in becoming the envy of most medical students—people much older than her—she simply shrugged and smiled at the camera almost nervously. "I just really want to help people," she replied, brushing her hair back for the fourth time since being barraged by news crews on her way to work. "There's a lot of, uhm...gates, especially for a girl to become a professional physician. I just wanted to blow through them as quickly as I could. The world is hurting. It really is. I can't just stand around when there's work to be done, you know?"

The news reporter brought the microphone to his own mouth for a moment. "And what do you plan to do now?" As he extended it back, the camera zoomed in slightly to focus on the woman in front of her house.

Her eyes avoided those of her neighbors as they walked passed, trying her best to not react to the smirks, pointing, and waving. It was humiliating to be shown off like this for the rest of the city to see.

For her age, her graduation was considered newsworthy. She received awards on papers which she looked back on as garbage and was praised for things that an adult could perfectly do well. However, she was on the cusp of womanhood now, and most of her achievements were made in adolescence likely because of her adolescence. Because she was younger than most, they believed her to be some mythical creature capable of inhuman feats. To her, it was a matter of discipline. Anyone was capable of doing what she did, if they had the focus and drive—something which she believed New Yorkers no longer had.

New York had suffered—a lot. It was a city long in disrepair, and abandoned by its nation. This city was down on its luck. There was little hope in its working class streets. The Lower East Side had turned into a hellhole for misfits and punks. People fled from the Bronx in droves. It was the Summer of Sam, the fall of New York, with the best days behind them. Fear and uncertainty gripped the place she called home. Perhaps this was why they found her story so fascinating. Her eyes drifted for a moment as she mulled over it all in her head—at least until the interviewer cleared his throat.

Blinking quickly, she refocused herself. "W-Well, now I work at the hospital on Pelham Parkway. I did my clerkship here when I was in Einstein so it was easy to find my route to specialization here...ER Medicine."

The hum of Sakura's own voice made her cringe as she stopped momentarily to watch herself on the television. Every nervous fidget and off screen glance made her want to throw a chair at the screen—anything to shut off the broadcast. Smiling through the embarrassment, her eyes returned to that of her coworkers—nurses, doctors, and interns alike—which all saw right through her. Unwilling to face their glances, she looked back to the television once more.

"Thank you. One more question...what do you think of the Son of Sam killings? Will you be staying in the hospital overnight?"

"Look, New York is scared and you'd be hard pressed to find anyone that isn't looking over their shoulder at night. You don't need a doctor to tell you that the Son of Sam is a serious problem."

It was at that point that the oldest attending doctor, Sakura's supervisor turned off the set. "Alright, alright. That's enough, break's over. We can't be watching the same damn interview over and over. If these idiots don't wanna put on some actual news about this storm then we ain't watchin'. Honestly, how many days are they going to be playing the same interview?"

Turning around, almost dramatically, the nurses would roll their eyes whilst his sight momentarily caught with Sakura's. When she shrank away, he turned towards the group as a whole. "You all know what you have to do. If Dr. T catches us all like this, he'll have my ass. Sakura, you've been in here for thirty six hours. Things have been pretty slow, so you can go. I'll see you back here on Saturday."

One of the nurses balked. "At eight thirty at night? You just heard the girl on the tv! Son of Sam is out there killin' young girls and you wanna send a sleep deprived one out into the streets?! You ain't got to be a doctor to know that only a fool would think that's a good idea."

"Gloria, first of all, learn your damn place. Second of all, the girl on the tv is literally the same girl that's with us now and let me tell you that she ain't say what she said so that you can be as high and mighty as you are now, and thirdly, I'm not going to throw her out on the streets. Sakura, you're welcome to stay in the on-call room until morning. Take whatever bed's available, alright? If they're full, just pinch a blanket from wherever. Just use logic and don't take it from somewhere it's needed. Hinata, please show her where the on-call room is."

A brunette woman stood up and shuffled her way over to the pinkette. Her eyes not catching those of her superior. Without even so much as looking to Sakura, she took her hand and pulled her out of the room. It was only once the two were out of sight that the younger realized just how quickly things had become tense. Darting her eyes towards the woman that was leading her, she leant forward only to be met with the other moving away and releasing her hold. "It's not like I don't know where the on-call room is. Why the heck does Dr. Green always do this. Whenever he and Gloria get into an argument...it's ridiculous."

"Uhm," Hinata spoke up and cut herself off. Her voice, as soft as her features, seemingly gave out as she tried to formulate the words in her head—the proper words. The words that wouldn't get her fired. Immediately after finding none she simply turned shook her head. "It's not worth asking questions at this point. I'm worried that one day there'll be an incident." The silence between her last sentence and the next was rather brief, and her tone indicated that the two in the lobby area were the last two she wanted to think about. "So, why are they replaying your interview so much? I mean, three days seems a bit excessive, don't you think?"

Sakura knew that Hinata was simply speaking in order to fill silence. She was always the polite and well to do sort—never given to impoliteness of any means—even if it meant trying to force a conversation that neither one of them wanted to have. Still, it wasn't as though she didn't make it pleasant. The older woman always had a way of making things sound much nicer than they ought to have been. Even while the topic made her want to roll her eyes and then gouge them out, Sakura felt a natural, eager energy as she spoke to Hinata.

"Who knows. Maybe New York's gotten sick of all the bad news and wanted to put something else on the tv. Personally, I prefer Family Feud." A wry smile teased the corners of her lips, which the elder returned shyly. "Maybe it's a slow news day?" As she spoke, she brushed her dark hair back before flattening out her clothes with her hands. She did this compulsively, and almost as much as she would fidget with her hands. It only eased up slightly when Sakura placed her hand on the other's shoulder, not noticing she leaned a bit too far forward, trying to fit in her words between bemused laughter. "Three slow news days? Come on, Hinata. It's nineteen seventy seven and this is still New York City. We're not out in Omaha where the news would cover if the wind blew from the wrong direction. We haven't had 'slow news days' in at least ten years."

"I think that's a bit mean to people that live in Omaha. But...anyways...uhm, please try to get some rest. You've been up for a long time, Sakura. You look like you could drop at any second."

Sakura hadn't even noticed that they stopped in front of the on-call room leaning against the wall next to the door frame. Her body had been sliding back and forth against the surface, iron-weight force balanced strenuously by her will to stay conscious. Though she spoke lively, her body was no more lively than the people on their last threads. Her mind had drifted long ago. Her brain feeling more like a dumbbell in her skull than anything capable of coherent thought. The car was cruising without a driver, and the impending crash would be catastrophic—she could feel it.

"Y-Yeah," she agreed.

Being conscious of how tired she was only further sunk her into oblivion. Her eyes peered to the woman in front of her for a moment before she slumped forward with a large step. With another and a swing, she bid goodbye to her friend and with far more intensity than intended, slammed the door. It came with a few more staggered steps forward, bleary vision of the bed, and a few back.

And suddenly, the lights gave out. The hospital hummed alive as a dim light trickled in from the outside. The generators, Sakura deduced. They had to have kicked in.

Her back slammed to the door, eyes adjusting to the darkness only slightly. Blood rushed like a violent river against deadly rocks in her head. The pitch black room went white for a moment before the night vision came to her.

Her eyes opened almost instantly as a chill shot through her body causing her to suddenly tremor. A gust of wind without origin caused her body to scream for her to wake up. However, while it begged her to stay alert, her mind was the one inching her towards the bed. A doctor had to learn when it was time to ignore the signals their body gave out. Most of the day was spent fighting the looming threat of sleep—to remain sharp with dulled senses. To see with clarity using a mind fogged with exhaustion. It was habit, to react to even a fleck of dust by sending the body into high alert. Sakura was determined to ignore any flags coming from the control room—to her deprived body, they may as well have all been red.

When Sakura sat down on the bed she bounced on it a few times, letting the springs creak under her for a moment. Her eyes caught sight of a familiar tinge coming from her chest as she felt it's burn upon her skin. With a hiss she unfastened the buttons until it was a quarter way open—just enough for her to free the singed flesh and allowing it to breathe in the artificially cooled air.

The birthmark on her chest—it was burning, and it was glowing. The pain was hot and bright, just as the light that came from it. She didn't notice it's supernatural qualities the way many had before her. She did not reel with fear or cower at the light when it felt so familiar to her. It had been a part of her body since the day she was born and she knew it would be hers till her dying day. It held an almost comfort—the pain was normally a gentle warmth that brought about a smile without thought. However, this was too close—too painful. It was not a kiss on the edges of her flesh, but slices from a knife nearly melting.

Hot, burning, aching...

She grit her teeth. She closed her eyes. It hurt too much...

Closer, scorching red, like fire—hotter still...

Blue.

A cool hand pressed against it—she had not noticed him until his fingertips pressed against the mark. Her eyes could not meet his icy gaze—gripped and frozen— immobilized. Even if she could move her body told her to not. It was futile. He would take her anyways. To run would only make him angry, and whatever it was that he wanted would be that much worse.

Why was the voice of her body so different here? It warned her with a voice beyond her years—a voice that wasn't hers neither in dream nor memory.

Was it her mother who told her this? No, she never had such pride and resonance. She remembered a face obscured in shadows. Light reflected off her brilliant hair, bright as the sun that warmed the earth itself. Her voice was fearful. It shuddered from her chest and tightened at the throat. It was hushed and quiet. She could not tell what her lips would form, but she remembered that they were lies.

Her body moved, sliding back slightly only for the man to loom even further. Her skin was tingling, feeling frozen between layers of flesh—a cold she could not shake. Was it fear caught in her lungs that left her without words? Her lips moved to shape words they could not form.

The man was brutally handsome. Older than her, yet younger than his voice, so deep and worn, let on. His body was solid mass of muscles with flesh framed over bones of iron, heavy and sturdy, in a way that seemed almost supernatural. Statues often tried to capture the sort of life that he gave off by mere glance behind his unkempt, jet black hair— wild, untamable, and equally as powerful. Coal tinted eyes seemed less comforting than the endless void before her, and yet were just as vast and intimidating. To stare into them gave her the same writhing, sickly dread that she felt looking upon those less alive than him. Corpses at least seemed human. His movements alone gave off the impression that he was above such things. She watched him hover over her like a creature that would stalk its prey and felt his sudden latch upon her as he grabbed her shoulder.

She found her body unable to respond anymore. While she screamed with shrill panic in her mind, begging herself to move away—to find help, to do anything—she simply lay there, unmoving, as the stranger towered over her with her back pressed and sinking into the soft bed below. His hold on her did not tighten, neither did she feel that she could escape it—it was as though she had been caught in a trap of steel or within the grip of a statue. His breath hitched, but even that was enough to make her heart lurch filling her chest with fear and her eyes with tears. There was a stillness—a moment of hesitation for him—perhaps reconsideration.

However, as quickly as it came to glimmer in his eye, it disappeared, and in its place would appear color—a crimson, fiery and angry—to replace the darkness of his iris. They were glowing, and fixed sharply on the woman.

"Don't move."

Her mind blared faster, and louder—the blood rushing and her heart pumping. Her eyes scanned the room, pupils dilating as she found her opening—the door was ajar, not locked or blocked off. Turning back towards the man over her, she knew she had only one chance to escape—and so without any more hesitation, she took it. With all her force and will, she kneed him where he was his most sensitive, which turned his stern expression into one of utter horror. His collapse gave her the means by which to run, and so she did not squander the opportunity. Somehow, she had gained a clarity and drive that allowed her to rush past doctors, weave past nurses and their carts, and even dodge patients with athletic precision. She heard their voices urging her not to leave—that something was happening, but she could not hear what. To her, freedom and escape were more important. Sakura needed to get the hell out before he caught her.

It was only once she was outside that it fully dawned on her that they were warning her to not leave for a reason.

What awaited her outside was absolute chaos.

New York had always been a city riddled, and married with its problems of crime. It wasn't as bad before, but she knew it wouldn't get any better. She didn't realize that a simple blackout could turn the place she knew as home into a war-zone. Stealing, burning, and breaking—he stores were now targets for amusement and need. Even people, some that she could recognize as those that had seemed upstanding and well to-do were taking what they could and destroying the rest.

No place was safe.

Turning back towards the hospital she saw him standing at the top step staring down at her with all the sharpness of a surgical knife. He did not grit his teeth, nor did he yell or scream. His movements were quiet, calculated, slow with intent and full of confidence. He stepped down to approach her, and with that first step Sakura turned and ran into the crowd.

"It's Christmas time!" was the chant that many yelled outside, laughing as they tore televisions off their stands and smashed glass to make their way to the coveted high ticket items. How could people think that anything so truly awful could be like Christmas? People ran down the streets with more jewelry than they could wear. The desperate and destitute scrounge off the ground what they could—too weak to fight like the others and snatch the stolen items away. They were like animals in this darkness. It was as though man had regressed back to its primal form—without thought or empathy.

Trying to get by in New York, one had to walk with the flow—it was impossible to go anywhere any other way. However, there was no flow here. People scrambled like ants, pushing each other in order to move forward. It was strength that got one to where they wanted to go and nothing else—something,which Sakura, a small framed and petite woman, had little of. She was caught in the current. An influx of people that shattered through glass to get all the way into the building—a jewelry store. The glass was everywhere, and though Sakura now had enough room to move around, under her feet she could feel the rough crunching against the former window. She could only stare in horror as men and women alike snatched up everything they could. An older man slapped a watch into her hand, joking that Christmas only came once a year before rushing out of the store with his haul. Unable to bear witness to the crimes being committed she turned away—only to see a familiar figure stepping forth from the shadows.

It was him.

A fire soon sprouted from behind him, obscuring his face as the flames roared high picking up steam from all the brochures and documents littered on the floor. She scrambled away with the crowd's 'patrons' before finding herself once again pushed along, jostled this way and that. When she found herself in front of another burning store, she gasped in utter horror, seeing that he was already there, waiting for her, almost as though he had always been there. Without even thinking, she pushed her way back into the horde of thieves.

Her heart was running faster than her legs could carry her through the crowd. Desperately, she pushed against practical giants and their treasures. Between the people that shouted at each other intelligibly, the warning wails of distant sirens, and the roar of fires every which way, it was impossible to tell where anything was. There were too many colors for a city in darkness, and too much sound for a street like this. It was blinding, deafening, and easy for one to lose their senses, as well as, their mind.

Yet, she kept running. She ran, feeling the lurch in her chest that never ended. Her head pounded in rhythm with her steps, like drums meant to signal war . Sharp breaths forced her chest to heave more than her ribs were capable of. She darted her eyes from one corner to the this way and that way. Here and there. Everywhere she could and as quickly as she could. Sakura just wasn't fast enough. She knew she wasn't fast enough, for wherever she would go he was already there.

Down this street.

Up that alley.

In the store.

Right outside.

He was always there. Right there.

Waiting for her.

No, it wasn't possible, she thought to herself.

There wasn't a person alive that could be everywhere at once! How could it be?! Who was this man? It made no sense to her, and the more that she tried to search for the answers, the more she found that it truly was futile. The young woman tried to step back into the crowd—to try her hand at escaping once more—only to be violently sucked in. This wasn't simply a jostling that she had to endure, but relentless tackling by people much larger than her as the sirens began to get louder and louder.

"It's the cops!" A man shouted at the top of his lungs.

A stampede broke out almost instantly and with it, Sakura was swept off her feet and it took all her effort to get back on them. As the crowds parted in different directions, taking her along in circles, she found her vision failing her.

Blurring, spinning, heart throbbing, and thoughts thrashing—everything began to meld together. Abominations became the faces of the people around her—eyes dark and soulless—with wicked smiles as they hauled their winnings into carts and steel contraptions. The only lights that illuminated the scene were those of fires scaling to the top of buildings. Voices—screaming, laughing, shouting, and hollering slowly become one high pitched frequency that completely deafened her.

Turning to her left the only thing, the only recognizable figure, living or inanimate, was him—the man that had chased her down like a dog. He approached coolly, and collectedly. She could have sworn that there was an almost satisfied smirk playing on his lips. His eyes, sharp and steady, stared straight through her. Her own, exhausted and frightened, glazed over as she suddenly collapsed with her next step.

Her body felt as though it was fading—her heart slowing, and all the noise that sought to render her deaf slowly becoming the echoes of nothingness in her ears. Only those black working boots stepping closer and closer could be made out among the blur.

She didn't want to die!

Having spent every single moment of her life hoping to make a difference it couldn't end here. It couldn't possibly all end here—, with nothing to her name but a few diplomas and a license. What sort of life was that? Was this really all there would be to it? All that she was going to be allowed to do before she left this world? It would hold no value. It would hold no place in time—she was only eighteen—all of it and everything she had done would be for nothing.

She regretted not spending more time with her family.

Every fight with her sister, every excuse she made to her parents for pushing herself to the limit, and every time she declined to ditch her studies and actually live for once— she regretted not doing more with what she had. She regretted it all in a single moment because in the end, her life became neither her's nor the world's.

It was now his.

He would take it from her.

Sakura closed her eyes—the entire world disappeared.

Eyes fluttered awake allowing the light to flood into her senses. The ground below her was soft and loamy. Above her loomed a figure whose lips were twisted miserably, with tears that clung to the edge of her jaw. Her blonde hair was highlighted by the sun behind her, allowing her glow to seem all the more godly. She had never seen this woman, and yet she instinctively reached her hand out to her. Taking her hand in hers she allows the pull of her body to come and bring her feet deep within the dirt.

All around her, the fields were green and full of life, but the eyes of the person were focused on a single leaf—red and dying—before it scattered to the winds.

"It is time for you to return to him." Her voice was broken, without warmth, devoid of hope. "This winter will be the harshest, for he intends to sow his seed within you and reap from you an heir. He has made his intentions clear, and I cannot protect you."

Turning around, she would see him there—a figure clad in armor, red eyes peering behind the darkness of his helm. He was massive, skin covered with dark cloth and the shadows from the iron of his armor. Though she could tell not whom he was, he was familiar, so much so a knowing over takes her senses. He had been there for a while, long before the other had taken notice. As if habit , she parted from the woman to go with him.

Standing before him, she dwarfed in his height. He held in his hand, a two pronged staff—a bident which was taller still. The wind began to howl as they simply stood in silence before each other—bringing a chill over the field; though the sun shone fiercely over the landscape the first snow began to fall. Raising his weapon above his head he aimed it directly over her heart, eliciting a gasp from the woman.

Before it plunged into her...

She closed her eyes again.

Though Sakura jolted awake she did not scramble or toss her hands out to claim reality. Eyes opened with a slow rise carrying an unrivaled sharpness eliciting the man's attention. . She did not feel the breeze nor the ground. She could not hear the moaning of fowl winds. Instead, what she heard, saw, and felt simply screamed out reminding her all to clearly of what would be beyond these walls—the city.

It did not take her long to realize that this was not at all her house. The room they were in seemed in distress and disrepair—walls stained brown from unfixed leakage, and the popcorn ceiling cracked with chunks missing without pattern. The fan creaked over the distant sound of shots and police car wails. The shouting and barking of dogs followed the echo of fired weapons coming from a street or two down.

Her body had been strewn on the bed, legs akimbo, but neither did she feel any grogginess nor their sore spots. Instead, what she felt was the throbbing of her head, as though it had been hit off the curb pavement. Sitting up properly she looked around the room slowly taking in the colored television set, a table with an empty whiskey bottle and an ashtray that was dangerously full.

It was then that she saw him—staring right at her with a cigarette between his lips, and a gun in his hand. His eyes, even more of a crimson than before, were glowing even brighter—the only other source light in the night-lit room.

"Well," he drawled, smoke escaping with every breath. "You've cost me a hell of a lot of trouble, Persephone."