The red wheels of the Sharingan were spinning.

And a man's arms snapped, a hoarse cry, a splash of blood.

A tear.

A flower unfolded, drooping, reaching for darkness when it could have had sunlight, calling outwards, its sweet voice the sound of hearts breaking. Petals curled and trapped a wolf. A painted wolf. A black wolf.

One red eye caught her. A plea inside a teardrop.

A canvas was cleaned, discarded. Done.

The wolf was just a wolf.

"Sasuke-kun."

And the flower was really just a bud.

"Sakura."

But she was his flower and perhaps, one day, would bloom again.

For a painted wolf.