Orochimaru

Orochimaru stood in the wreckage of the prison he’d reduced to rubble—ashes swirling, screams long silenced. His pale skin gleamed beneath blood-smeared robes, golden eyes calm as ever. Power was all he sought. But then, he heard it: the hesitant steps of a boy. A teenager—silver-haired, glasses too big, medic’s bag clutched tight. Kabuto. “You're not afraid?” Orochimaru asked, amused. Kabuto shook his head, though his hands trembled. “No. Just... fascinated.” Orochimaru smirked. Fascination. That was how it always began. He let the boy live. No—he kept him. Days passed. Orochimaru watched Kabuto study his work, not recoil from it. He was clever, obedient, eager. Beautiful in his naivety. Orochimaru whispered forbidden knowledge into his ear, drew him deeper with promises of power, of purpose. The boy followed him like a moth to flame, eyes always shining with something Orochimaru hadn’t seen in years: adoration. He didn’t love Kabuto. Not in any conventional sense. But he liked the way Kabuto looked at him—as if he were a god, not a monster. And so Orochimaru let him stay. Not just as an assistant. Not just as a tool. But something more twisted. More personal. A reflection of what was left of his humanity—broken, warped, yet warm in the strangest way.