"Fate's Crossing

Chapter 1: A Night of Broken Souls**

## **Chapter 1: A Night of Broken Souls**

The cold wind whistled through the cracks of the old Yamanaka house, a hollow echo that reverberated through the empty halls. The house, once vibrant with life and laughter, had long since fallen into disrepair. Dust lingered on the shelves, and the soft glow of the dim lighting only added to the oppressive atmosphere that hung over it like a suffocating shroud.

Ino Yamanaka, a young woman of twenty, sat quietly at the worn kitchen table. Her long blonde hair cascaded down her back, but her once-vibrant eyes had dulled over the years. Yet, despite the pain she carried inside her, she had trained herself to smile. A smile that was thin, fragile, and never reached her eyes. It was the mask she wore—always trying, always hoping that maybe, just maybe, today would be different.

Tonight, Ino had prepared dinner for her father, as she did every night. She placed the simple meal on the table, the warmth of the food contrasting starkly with the coldness that seeped into her bones. She knew he'd be home soon. She could hear his footsteps in her mind before they even reached the door—the heavy, dragging steps of a man who no longer cared for anything but his own misery.

Her heart clenched, the familiar knot of fear tightening in her stomach, but she forced herself to keep that smile on her face. She needed to believe that maybe, tonight, there would be no anger. No rage. Just silence.

The front door creaked open with a slow, agonizing groan, and in walked her father—Ichirou Yamanaka. His face was lined with bitterness, his eyes sunken and hollow. The man he used to be was long gone, lost in the depths of his grief. He barely glanced at her as he stumbled into the kitchen, the smell of alcohol clinging to his clothes.

"Welcome home, father," Ino greeted him softly, her voice trembling slightly but her smile intact. She stood by the table, her hands nervously gripping the chair in front of her. "I made dinner for you."

For a moment, there was silence. Ichirou's eyes, glazed with intoxication, slowly turned to her. His expression, blank at first, twisted into something dark and ugly. Without warning, his hand flew through the air and connected with her face—hard. The sound of the slap echoed through the small kitchen like the crack of a whip.

Ino's head snapped to the side from the force of the blow, her cheek instantly stinging with a burning pain. She staggered, her hand instinctively coming up to cradle the side of her face. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she fought to hold them back, to keep standing, to keep smiling.

"Why?" she whimpered, her voice barely above a whisper. "Why did you do that?"

Her father's eyes narrowed, filled with a venomous hatred that chilled her to the core. He stepped toward her, towering over her trembling figure, his fists clenched at his sides. "Why? *Why?*" he spat, his voice dripping with malice. "You still have the nerve to ask me that, after all these years?"

Ino's heart pounded in her chest. She had heard these words before, the accusations, the blame. But each time, they cut deeper than the last.

"You *killed* her!" he roared, his voice trembling with fury. His hands gripped the edge of the table so hard his knuckles turned white. "Your mother—Maha—she's dead because of *you*! If it wasn't for you, she'd still be alive! You *stole* her from me the moment you were born, you wretched girl!"

The words hit her like knives, stabbing into her already fragile heart. Ino had no memories of her mother, only the stories she'd heard from others—stories of a loving, kind woman who had died giving birth to her. Her whole life had been haunted by that tragedy. The weight of her mother's death had always been too much for her father to bear, and every ounce of that grief had been turned into hatred for the daughter he blamed.