webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The morning sun had long since surrendered to the heavy, grey twilight hanging over Konoha, and within the walls of the Nara compound, the silence of the day had been replaced by the rhythmic clatter of dinner preparations. Shikaku stood near the entryway to the living room, his muscles tight beneath the familiar, coarse fabric of his jonin flak jacket. He felt the weight of his own body pressing against his bones, a dull, aching reminder of the long night spent in his study. The air in the house was thick with the scent of simmering miso and the sharp, earthy sharpness of freshly sliced ginger. It was a domestic scent, clean and rooted in a reality that felt disturbingly fragile today.

Yoshino moved gracefully between the kitchen nook and the low wooden dinner table, her movements fluid and practiced. She wore a simple, pale yukata with a floral obi that drew attention to her slender frame, and her short dark hair stayed perfectly in place as she set out the ceramic bowls. Every clink of porcelain against the wood sounded like a tolling bell to Shikaku, a sharp, crisp intrusion into his internal monologue. He watched her hands—so steady, so deliberate—and felt an irrational surge of protectiveness mixed with a cold, hollow dread. She was the anchor, and yet, the anchor did not know the storm he had brought into their home.

Shikamaru sat on the edge of the woven tatami mat, his back slightly hunched as he shifted his weight with a heavy sigh that practically rattled his ribs. He looked exhausted, his spiky hair flattened at odd angles as if he had spent the afternoon pressing his face into a desk, and his chin rested heavily in his palm. The Chunin vest he wore caught the dim lamp light, casting long, angular shadows across his cheekbones. He was a mirror image of the man Shikaku had been at his age, yet there was a softness around his eyes that Shikaku could no longer identify in his own reflection.

I should be thinking about the logistics, the deployment ranges, the probability of failure, Shikaku thought, his eyes tracing the line of Shikamaru’s jaw. Instead, I am watching my son breathe.

He watched as Shikamaru lazily swiped a finger across the table, tracing the grain of the wood with a look of profound, soul-deep boredom. It was the face of a boy who believed the world was an inconvenience he could nap through, and for a fleeting, jagged second, Shikaku felt a desperate, clawing envy for that ignorance.

What a drag, Shikamaru muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to vibrate against the floorboards. Being a ninja is getting less about the thrill and more about filling out endless paperwork. I spent four hours today just verifying mission logs from the last quadrant. It is enough to make me want to retire before I even hit my prime.

Shikaku shifted his weight, his black shinobi sandals squeaking almost imperceptibly against the mat. He forced his facial muscles to relax, though he felt a faint, uncontrollable tremor in his right hand. He shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his trousers, clenching his fingers into a tight fist until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. The physical act of suppressing the tremor felt like holding back a landslide with a single piece of silk.

That is the nature of the hierarchy, son, Shikaku said, his voice coming out slower and more measured than he intended. The administrative weight increases as you advance. You cannot expect to keep playing at the genin level forever, not when the village relies on the records you manage.

He watched Yoshino pause, a bowl of rice held in her hands. She turned toward them, her expression a mix of weary indulgence and sharp maternal instinct. She shot a pointed look at Shikamaru, her eyebrows arching in that specific, dangerous way that had kept both father and son in line for decades. Her eyes were kind, yet there was a glint of steel beneath the surface, a testament to her strength as a pillar of their small, isolated world.

Don’t start your complaining before the food is even served, Shikamaru, she said, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of authority. Your father has spent his entire life working through those very same papers, and he hasn’t complained half as much as you have in the last ten minutes. Perhaps if you focused on the precision of the task instead of the boredom, you would be finished in half the time.

Shikamaru let out a puff of air, his gaze dragging upward to meet his mother’s. He didn't look offended, merely resigned. He moved in a slow, languid motion, adjusting his position on the mat to sit slightly more upright. It was a gesture of concession, one he had performed a thousand times before. The interaction was so perfectly, agonizingly normal that Shikaku felt a lump form in his throat, tight and obstructive as a jagged stone.

I’m just observing the inefficiencies, Mom, Shikamaru replied, his tone dry as dust. If the structure wasn’t这么 tedious, I wouldn’t have to spend so much time complaining about it. It’s an efficient system of venting pressure, really. If I didn’t complain, I might actually have to think about how useless it all is.

He offered a small, crooked smirk—a lazy, unimpressed grin that mirrored his father’s own habitual expression. It was a joke, a throwaway bit of cynical wit that usually drew a chuckle from Shikaku, but tonight, the sound of his son’s voice felt like a heavy tolling bell. Shikaku felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline in his chest, a reaction as involuntary as the tremor in his hand. He looked at Shikamaru, really looked at him—the way his hair cast that familiar shadow, the way he held his posture with that practiced apathy—and he saw the boy he was meant to destroy to secure a future he no longer believed in.

He felt the weight of the forbidden scroll, now locked behind the heavy door of his study down the hallway, pulling at his consciousness like an iron weight. Every word Shikamaru spoke was a sharp blade, cutting into the barrier Shikaku had spent his entire life building. Yet, here they were, in the warm, golden light of the living room, arguing about paperwork and dinner.

A muffled, jagged laugh bubbled up in Shikaku’s chest, escaping before he could restrain it. It was a harsh, brittle sound that felt entirely out of place in the domestic quiet. The humor of the thought—that the fate of the world hung on the very son who found paperwork to be the greatest enemy of his peace—was a grotesque, twisted irony that he couldn't push away.

Shikamaru blinked, looking up at his father with a mild, confused furrow in his brow. A couple of stray strands of hair shifted as he tilted his head, his dark eyes studying Shikaku with a momentary spark of genuine curiosity that pierced the veil of his usual apathy. The shift in his expression was so subtle, so profoundly human, that it made Shikaku’s heart ache with a physical, crushing pressure.

What’s so funny, old man? Shikamaru asked, his voice dropping into a slightly more conversational, less bored register. Did I miss the punchline, or is the concept of my existential dread just that entertaining tonight?

Yoshino chuckled, resting the final serving bowl on the table with a soft click. She looked between them, her eyes softened by the familiarity of the scene. The domestic warmth felt like a physical blanket, heavy and suffocating in its normalcy, and for a moment, Shikaku felt like he might drown in it.

Well, you are the most dramatic twenty-year-old in the village, Shikamaru, Yoshino said, her tone teasing and light, lacking any real malice. Maybe your father is just realizing that you inherited his flair for making simple things seem like grand, insurmountable tragedies.

Shikaku continued to laugh, the sound becoming smoother, more controlled, even as his internal world felt like it was collapsing into a heap of ashes. He wiped a hand across his forehead, leaning his weight against the door frame. He could feel the pulse in his neck, heavy and rhythmic. He managed to force his features into a mask of weary, paternal warmth, the kind he had worn for years with effortless ease.

It is just, Shikaku started, his voice steadying, though it carried the weight of a confession he would never speak aloud, it is just difficult to reconcile the boy who could find a tactical solution to an invading army with the boy who thinks a pile of administrative logs is a threat to his very existence. Your priorities are, as always, uniquely yours, my son.

He watched as Shikamaru rolled his eyes, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips, and it was that look—that casual, unguarded happiness—that finally broke the last of Shikaku’s composure. The contrast between that moment and the cold, unyielding reality of the scroll was too much to bear. The room seemed to tilt, the golden light of the lamps growing far too clinical, too harsh, as if exposing the secret he kept buried beneath his ribs.

He had reached his limit. The laughter had served its purpose, a cruel bridge that spanned the gap between his duty and his love, but he could no longer stand in the center and pretend the bridge was stable. The weight of his own existence in that room, amongst the people he loved, felt like a betrayal of the very peace he was trying to secure.

He pushed himself away from the door frame, his legs feeling heavy, almost wooden. He needed the silence of the study, the dark, sterile isolation where he could convince himself that the sacrifice was a matter of strategy, not a death warrant for the future he was currently holding in his own home. He looked at Yoshino, then back to Shikamaru, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long.

I’ve heard enough about your paperwork struggles for one evening, he said, his voice coming out with a strained, quiet authority that he didn't quite recognize. I have some remaining details to finalize regarding tomorrow’s deployments. Please, go ahead and eat without me. I need to handle this before the sun rises.

Shikaku took a step back, the shadow of the doorway already reaching out to claim him, and forced a final, tight smile in their direction. He turned, the movement deliberate and slow, and excused himself from the table, walking away into the deepening gloom of the hallway, leaving his family behind to continue their conversation.

The morning sun had long since surrendered to the heavy, grey twilight hanging over Konoha, and within the walls of the Nara compound, the silence of the day had been replaced by the rhythmic clatter of dinner preparations. Shikaku stood near the entryway to the living room, his muscles tight beneath the familiar, coarse fabric of his jonin flak jacket. He felt the weight of his own body pressing against his bones, a dull, aching reminder of the long night spent in his study. The air in the house was thick with the scent of simmering miso and the sharp, earthy sharpness of freshly sliced ginger. It was a domestic scent, clean and rooted in a reality that felt disturbingly fragile today.

Yoshino moved gracefully between the kitchen nook and the low wooden dinner table, her movements fluid and practiced. She wore a simple, pale yukata with a floral obi that drew attention to her slender frame, and her short dark hair stayed perfectly in place as she set out the ceramic bowls. Every clink of porcelain against the wood sounded like a tolling bell to Shikaku, a sharp, crisp intrusion into his internal monologue. He watched her hands—so steady, so deliberate—and felt an irrational surge of protectiveness mixed with a cold, hollow dread. She was the anchor, and yet, the anchor did not know the storm he had brought into their home.

Shikamaru sat on the edge of the woven tatami mat, his back slightly hunched as he shifted his weight with a heavy sigh that practically rattled his ribs. He looked exhausted, his spiky hair flattened at odd angles as if he had spent the afternoon pressing his face into a desk, and his chin rested heavily in his palm. The Chunin vest he wore caught the dim lamp light, casting long, angular shadows across his cheekbones. He was a mirror image of the man Shikaku had been at his age, yet there was a softness around his eyes that Shikaku could no longer identify in his own reflection.

I should be thinking about the logistics, the deployment ranges, the probability of failure, Shikaku thought, his eyes tracing the line of Shikamaru’s jaw. Instead, I am watching my son breathe.

He watched as Shikamaru lazily swiped a finger across the table, tracing the grain of the wood with a look of profound, soul-deep boredom. It was the face of a boy who believed the world was an inconvenience he could nap through, and for a fleeting, jagged second, Shikaku felt a desperate, clawing envy for that ignorance.

What a drag, Shikamaru muttered, his voice a low, gravelly drawl that seemed to vibrate against the floorboards. Being a ninja is getting less about the thrill and more about filling out endless paperwork. I spent four hours today just verifying mission logs from the last quadrant. It is enough to make me want to retire before I even hit my prime.

Shikaku shifted his weight, his black shinobi sandals squeaking almost imperceptibly against the mat. He forced his facial muscles to relax, though he felt a faint, uncontrollable tremor in his right hand. He shoved his hand deep into the pocket of his trousers, clenching his fingers into a tight fist until his knuckles turned a bloodless white. The physical act of suppressing the tremor felt like holding back a landslide with a single piece of silk.

That is the nature of the hierarchy, son, Shikaku said, his voice coming out slower and more measured than he intended. The administrative weight increases as you advance. You cannot expect to keep playing at the genin level forever, not when the village relies on the records you manage.

He watched Yoshino pause, a bowl of rice held in her hands. She turned toward them, her expression a mix of weary indulgence and sharp maternal instinct. She shot a pointed look at Shikamaru, her eyebrows arching in that specific, dangerous way that had kept both father and son in line for decades. Her eyes were kind, yet there was a glint of steel beneath the surface, a testament to her strength as a pillar of their small, isolated world.

Don’t start your complaining before the food is even served, Shikamaru, she said, her voice soft but carrying a sharp edge of authority. Your father has spent his entire life working through those very same papers, and he hasn’t complained half as much as you have in the last ten minutes. Perhaps if you focused on the precision of the task instead of the boredom, you would be finished in half the time.

Shikamaru let out a puff of air, his gaze dragging upward to meet his mother’s. He didn't look offended, merely resigned. He moved in a slow, languid motion, adjusting his position on the mat to sit slightly more upright. It was a gesture of concession, one he had performed a thousand times before. The interaction was so perfectly, agonizingly normal that Shikaku felt a lump form in his throat, tight and obstructive as a jagged stone.

I’m just observing the inefficiencies, Mom, Shikamaru replied, his tone dry as dust. If the structure wasn’t这么 tedious, I wouldn’t have to spend so much time complaining about it. It’s an efficient system of venting pressure, really. If I didn’t complain, I might actually have to think about how useless it all is.

He offered a small, crooked smirk—a lazy, unimpressed grin that mirrored his father’s own habitual expression. It was a joke, a throwaway bit of cynical wit that usually drew a chuckle from Shikaku, but tonight, the sound of his son’s voice felt like a heavy tolling bell. Shikaku felt a sudden, sharp spike of adrenaline in his chest, a reaction as involuntary as the tremor in his hand. He looked at Shikamaru, really looked at him—the way his hair cast that familiar shadow, the way he held his posture with that practiced apathy—and he saw the boy he was meant to destroy to secure a future he no longer believed in.

He felt the weight of the forbidden scroll, now locked behind the heavy door of his study down the hallway, pulling at his consciousness like an iron weight. Every word Shikamaru spoke was a sharp blade, cutting into the barrier Shikaku had spent his entire life building. Yet, here they were, in the warm, golden light of the living room, arguing about paperwork and dinner.

A muffled, jagged laugh bubbled up in Shikaku’s chest, escaping before he could restrain it. It was a harsh, brittle sound that felt entirely out of place in the domestic quiet. The humor of the thought—that the fate of the world hung on the very son who found paperwork to be the greatest enemy of his peace—was a grotesque, twisted irony that he couldn't push away.

Shikamaru blinked, looking up at his father with a mild, confused furrow in his brow. A couple of stray strands of hair shifted as he tilted his head, his dark eyes studying Shikaku with a momentary spark of genuine curiosity that pierced the veil of his usual apathy. The shift in his expression was so subtle, so profoundly human, that it made Shikaku’s heart ache with a physical, crushing pressure.

What’s so funny, old man? Shikamaru asked, his voice dropping into a slightly more conversational, less bored register. Did I miss the punchline, or is the concept of my existential dread just that entertaining tonight?

Yoshino chuckled, resting the final serving bowl on the table with a soft click. She looked between them, her eyes softened by the familiarity of the scene. The domestic warmth felt like a physical blanket, heavy and suffocating in its normalcy, and for a moment, Shikaku felt like he might drown in it.

Well, you are the most dramatic twenty-year-old in the village, Shikamaru, Yoshino said, her tone teasing and light, lacking any real malice. Maybe your father is just realizing that you inherited his flair for making simple things seem like grand, insurmountable tragedies.

Shikaku continued to laugh, the sound becoming smoother, more controlled, even as his internal world felt like it was collapsing into a heap of ashes. He wiped a hand across his forehead, leaning his weight against the door frame. He could feel the pulse in his neck, heavy and rhythmic. He managed to force his features into a mask of weary, paternal warmth, the kind he had worn for years with effortless ease.

It is just, Shikaku started, his voice steadying, though it carried the weight of a confession he would never speak aloud, it is just difficult to reconcile the boy who could find a tactical solution to an invading army with the boy who thinks a pile of administrative logs is a threat to his very existence. Your priorities are, as always, uniquely yours, my son.

He watched as Shikamaru rolled his eyes, a small, genuine smile playing on his lips, and it was that look—that casual, unguarded happiness—that finally broke the last of Shikaku’s composure. The contrast between that moment and the cold, unyielding reality of the scroll was too much to bear. The room seemed to tilt, the golden light of the lamps growing far too clinical, too harsh, as if exposing the secret he kept buried beneath his ribs.

He had reached his limit. The laughter had served its purpose, a cruel bridge that spanned the gap between his duty and his love, but he could no longer stand in the center and pretend the bridge was stable. The weight of his own existence in that room, amongst the people he loved, felt like a betrayal of the very peace he was trying to secure.

He pushed himself away from the door frame, his legs feeling heavy, almost wooden. He needed the silence of the study, the dark, sterile isolation where he could convince himself that the sacrifice was a matter of strategy, not a death warrant for the future he was currently holding in his own home. He looked at Yoshino, then back to Shikamaru, his gaze lingering for a fraction of a second too long.

I’ve heard enough about your paperwork struggles for one evening, he said, his voice coming out with a strained, quiet authority that he didn't quite recognize. I have some remaining details to finalize regarding tomorrow’s deployments. Please, go ahead and eat without me. I need to handle this before the sun rises.

Shikaku took a step back, the shadow of the doorway already reaching out to claim him, and forced a final, tight smile in their direction. He turned, the movement deliberate and slow, and excused himself from the table, walking away into the deepening gloom of the hallway, leaving his family behind to continue their conversation. «The Shadow's Endgame», part 3. Fanfiction — Naruto.

A Quiet Evening with Family. The Shadow's Endgame — Naruto fanfiction | Fanfica

A Quiet Evening with Family

Hidden Leaf

Shikaku Nara has uncovered an ancient technique that could bring eternal peace—the complete eradication of chakra from the world. But the ritual demands a sacrifice no father should make: the willing life of his own son, Shikamaru, a shadow user. As Shikamaru learns the truth, he must decide whether to shoulder his father's burden or let the cycle of bloodshed continue. In a world where shadows hold power, the final move on the shogi board may change everything—but at what cost?

The Shadow's Endgame — A Quiet Evening with Family

Parte 3: A Quiet Evening with Family