Sakura collapsed back against the side of her bed with a stifled burp of satisfaction. As it turned out, her unwittingly adopted assassin (and suspected thief-at-large) had somehow misappropriated not just two, but ten riceballs, and Sakura (having single-handedly demolished seven of the ten) was still recovering from her self-inflicted food coma.

"I unequivocally refuse," she said out-of-the-blue, as she started to collect the remains of the riceball wrappers scattered around her in sluggish movements. The incriminating evidence was furtively scrunched up in her palm and shoved beneath the bed behind her, out of sight.

At her abrupt non-sequitur, half-quizzical vermillion eyes flicked towards her.

Sakura crossed her arms. "No one's going to die," she elaborated with a determined set to her jaw. "because I'm going to break that blasted curse if it's the last thing I do."

The man stared at her for a long moment. It was impossible for Sakura to tell what he was thinking, and eventually she was forced to drop her gaze. 'Damn those stupid, unsettling eyes,' she cursed inwardly, trying not to fidget under his intense scrutiny.

"You are a most… singular master," he finally said.

Sakura's head whipped up, awkwardness instantly morphing into indignation and anger. "Don't call me that!" she snapped. "the idea of owning another human being makes me sick. My name is Sakura. I'd appreciate if you used it."

The man blinked. "Very well then." he replied after a beat. "…Sakura."

There was something about the way her name sounded, when spoken in that silky, elegant tenor, that made her pause. Her pulse skittered. Sakura studiously ignored it. "What're you called?"

"'Assassin', generally."

Sakura rolled her eyes, wondering if he got some perverse pleasure out of being deliberately obtuse. "And does Mr. Assassin have a name?"

He glanced away, turning to look out at the lights of the city. "I did, a long time ago."

Sakura watched as a dark strand of hair, having escaped the confines of his low ponytail, fell forward to partially hide his face. He was likely dangerous, very possibly mentally unstable, not to mention a complete and total stranger, but a part of her couldn't help but feel pity for this man and his unenviable predicament. She waited, hoping he would reveal a tiny sliver of his identity.

"...Itachi," he finally said, almost haltingly, as though he were on the brink of forgetting altogether. "My name was Itachi."

"Well, Itachi," Sakura replied, testing out the soft syllables on her tongue. "Do you want to be free or not?"

The assassin – Itachi – turned back to her.

"Was that a rhetorical question?"