Itachi stepped into her room, the soft click of the door sealing away the echoes of marble halls and political banter.
Po greeted her immediately with a slow blink from the windowsill, his white fur glowing faintly in the moonlight.
She scratched under his chin as she passed, and he gave a regal purr of approval.
Her heels were the first to go. Then her earrings. Then the silk.
A hot shower. Ten quiet minutes of steam and water and silence.
By the time she slipped into her black satin pajama set, her hair still damp and skin cooled from lavender soap, the world outside had shrunk down to just her and Po.
She slid into bed, pulled her phone from the nightstand, and opened the group chat.
Itachi: Hawaii this weekend, everyone.
A pause.
Konan: How long did it take for your uncle to offer this apology?
Itachi: Less than five seconds.
Kakuzu: I won the bet. Transfer my winnings.
Deidara: Don't forget to bring sunscreen, everyone. I'm not sharing. Again.
Hidan: Are we allowed to sacrifice coconuts?
Nagato: No.
Izumi: I'm wearing all black on the beach and none of you can stop me.
Sasori: Black doesn't absorb heat. It consumes it. There's a difference.
Itachi smiled, phone resting against her chest for a moment.
Po curled against her hip, his black-painted claws flexing against the duvet.
Laughter still buzzed faintly in the group chat, but Itachi wasn't reading anymore.
Her mind drifted—unbidden—to the street corner.
The bike.
The bag of lunches.
That rough shirt with the curry stain.
The way he'd looked at her like money was the insult, not the gift.
"You don't buy kindness with money… or feelings."
She didn't like being remembered.
But somehow, he'd carved out a space in her thoughts with nothing but a scoff and a pair of brutal forearms.
She lifted her phone again. Opened Contacts. Typed in the number from memory—she hadn't forgotten a single digit.
Then hesitated at the name field.
What do you even call someone like that?
She tapped the box, paused.
Then slowly typed:
Shark Guy
It fit.
Something about the dark blue hair. The muscle. The unblinking honesty. The sense that if he bit you, it wouldn't be personal—it would just be nature.
She stared at the name for a second.
Saved it.
The room was quiet now.
Po had curled into a soft ball at the foot of the bed, his breathing slow and steady. The house outside her walls was a quiet machine of purpose and legacy.
She didn't have to guess what anyone was doing.
Madara and Father were almost certainly hunched over the shogi board by now, speaking in low voices about acquisitions and alliances masked as "partnerships."
Sasuke was asleep—he always was at this hour. His alarm would go off at five-thirty. He liked discipline. He loved school. He would never be late.
Obito was probably on the couch downstairs with a glass of wine, watching some K-drama with dramatic violin music and too many beautiful people whispering in the rain.
Shisui?
Already planning centerpieces and table layouts for the new Uchiha resort launch.
Every piece in place.
Every player predictable.
Except one.
Her gaze shifted to her phone again.
What is he doing right now?
Drinking? Sleeping? Watching old kung fu flicks with his feet on the table?
Still riding that rusted bike through the city, laughing at streetlights?
She opened their thread—still blank, still unnamed.
Her fingers hovered for a second.
Then she typed:
Itachi: Do you deliver at night?
She hit send before she could think twice.
The message lit the thread, clean and bold.
One line.
Bait dropped.
Now the wait.
Her message hung on the screen for a full twenty seconds.
Then—
Typing…
The notification blinked once.
Then a photo dropped into the thread.
Dim lighting.
Concrete walls covered in messy, beautiful sketches—sharks, koi, dragons, abstract linework with teeth.
In the foreground: an empty tattoo chair. Black leather.
Fresh ink trays on a metal tray. A faint smear of red on a latex glove beside it.
Below the image:
Shark Guy: Night shift. Client's late. Want some ink, princess?
Itachi stared at the photo.
And for the first time all day—
She actually considered saying yes.
Itachi: Tattoos are something only people with short memory would carve to remember. I'm not that kind of person.
The reply came almost instantly.
Shark Guy: Suit yourself.
Blunt. Unbothered.
But she wasn't finished.
She set the phone down on the nightstand, rolled off the bed, and padded across the room in silk and shadows.
Her laptop sat on the corner desk, disguised beneath a poetry collection and an old Louis Vuitton clutch. No one in the family ever touched it.
Not even Po.
She flipped it open, fingers already moving before the screen fully lit.
No one knew what she could do with a keyboard. No one except Uncle Obito—who caught her at age ten bypassing the mansion's internal firewalls—and Shisui, who helped upgrade her VPNs like it was a sibling bonding ritual.
It all started the day she poured a bucket of water over her third-grade teacher's head during a prank war with the Akatsuki.
The teacher wrote a stern note home.
She hacked into Father's email, deleted the message, and rerouted it to the recycling bin with a forged "Issue resolved" response.
Not because she feared punishment. Uncle Madara would have never let that happen.
But because she didn't want her father to send an apology.
The teacher didn't deserve one.
Now, eight years later, her fingers moved just as fast.
Kisame's number. Bounce it through three proxy chains. Cross-check telecom data with traffic cameras.
Fifteen minutes later, she had a pinpoint location. A small industrial building tucked between a ramen stall and a pawn shop.
She smirked.
Her fingers moved again.
Text to Genma: Car. Now. Quiet route. Don't tell anyone.
Genma: On my way. Princess dress or trench coat tonight?
Itachi: Leather. Obviously.
She shut the laptop.
Stood.
Po blinked up at her, tail flicking once.
Itachi met her own reflection in the mirror.
A smirk ghosted across her lips.
Let's see what kind of teeth this shark really has.
The Rolls-Royce disappeared around the corner, taillights vanishing like the end of a promise.
Itachi stood in front of the small industrial building, its concrete walls tagged with faint remnants of old street art and half-ripped flyers. One buzzing neon sign lit the sidewalk: INK & BONE.
She adjusted the collar of her leather jacket, fingers brushing the cold zipper.
Before she could take a single step forward, the shop door swung shut with a sharp click.
Kisame was already there.
Leaning against the frame. Door closed behind him. Shirt rolled up to his elbows. Gloves off. A streak of ink across his forearm.
He looked at her like she was an unexpected storm cloud.
"Damn," he said. "Didn't think you were the type to spy on people."
Itachi didn't blink.
"You think too highly of yourself."
Her tone was perfectly flat. Polished like stone.
"I was strolling the streets. And here you are. Maybe you're the one spying on me."
Kisame gave a low chuckle, wiping his hands on a black towel.
He nodded toward the ramen stand next door. Steam was curling out from the open window like an invitation.
"You're not about to tell me you were heading to this dumpy ramen shop too, are you?"
Itachi tilted her head.
"Perhaps."
Kisame raised a brow. Didn't press.
Just turned and walked toward the stand, footsteps solid on the cracked pavement.
She followed.
Because of course she did.
The ramen stand was barely more than a wooden awning propped against concrete.
An old neon sign buzzed overhead, its flickering kanji more memory than legible. Steam curled from the pots behind the counter like smoke from a battlefield.
As they stepped in, the owner—a hunched man with a toothpick between his lips and a weathered towel slung over one shoulder—looked up and immediately grinned.
"Kisame!" he barked like a welcome home. "You still owe me for that last bowl."
Kisame snorted. "Add it to my tab, old man. I'm here to make it worse."
The man didn't even ask what he wanted.
He already turned, pulling bowls from a rack, slicing green onions with muscle memory, ladling broth that had been simmering since dawn.
But then—
His eyes caught something.
He froze mid-motion.
Itachi.
Sitting down beside Kisame with perfect posture. One leg crossed over the other.
A beige Prada dress under a fitted Gucci jacket. Louboutin boots resting lightly against the greasy floor.
Red lipstick flawless. Hair pinned like silk. Fingers too delicate for ramen chopsticks.
She didn't even glance at the menu.
The owner blinked.
Once.
Twice.
As if trying to reset his own vision.
"You… with him?"
Itachi lifted a brow, not quite answering. Not quite denying.
Kisame just leaned back and grinned.
"She's slumming it."
The man grumbled something under his breath and turned back to the stove, muttering curses about Tokyo's fashion crimes.
Itachi rested her chin lightly on her hand and looked straight ahead.
She did look out of place.
She looked like royalty seated in a mechanic's garage.
But that was the point.
And the ramen was already starting to smell better than any five-star plate she'd ignored all week.
Kisame leaned back on the stool, elbow resting lazily on the counter as the scent of broth thickened in the air.
He glanced over at her—at the way she didn't flinch when the ramen guy slammed a pot lid, at how her heels didn't quite touch the grimy floor. Perfectly poised. So clean she looked almost edited into the scene.
He smirked.
"You clearly don't live around here."
Itachi didn't look at him.
He continued, voice rough with amusement.
"What was it? You escaped from your castle because your parents forced you to pick between a vacation in Miami or Paris?"
She turned slowly, her gaze cool.
"Paris is dreary in the winter," she said. "And Miami ruins my hair."
Kisame blinked. Then gave a low laugh—deep, real, from somewhere in his chest.
He nodded once, impressed.
"Fair enough."
Their ramen bowls dropped in front of them with a clatter.
Steam rose between them, thick and fragrant.
Itachi picked up her chopsticks with the same grace she'd use at a gala. Broke them apart. Stirred the noodles once.
Then—
"Where would you go," she asked, not quite looking at him, "if you didn't owe old men ramen debt?"
Kisame slurped a mouthful of noodles, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then leaned slightly forward.
"I'd still stay here," he said simply.
Itachi paused, chopsticks mid-air. Her gaze slid to him, curious despite herself.
"Why?"
He didn't answer right away. Just sipped the broth, slow.
Then:
"Don't you want a better life?"
Kisame chuckled, deep and unhurried.
"Define better."
She said nothing.
He tapped the counter with one finger, voice steady.
"I sleep when I want. Work when I feel like it. Eat good food. Punch the occasional idiot. No meetings. No contracts. No one asking me to smile for cameras."
He glanced at her.
"I do what I want now."
Then added, softer:
"I'm free."
Itachi stared at him for a second longer than she meant to.
Free.
She didn't respond.
Just looked down at the steaming bowl in front of her.
The broth shimmered slightly. The noodles looked honest, handmade—tangled like threads from a world that had never once touched silverware.
She shifted her gaze to the chef.
Stained shirt. Burn scars on his forearms. A cigarette tucked behind one ear.
Absolutely filthy by any Uchiha kitchen standard.
Itachi exhaled slowly through her nose.
This was not dinner at the estate.
This was not cutlery polished by hand or sauces reduced for seven hours.
This was… street.
Unfiltered. Unsanitized. Unapologetic.
And yet—
If she wanted to understand this world—the one Kisame walked through like a stray god—then perhaps it started with this.
Not information.
Not blackmail.
But a bowl of ramen.
She picked up her chopsticks again. Stirred gently. Lifted a bite to her lips.
And took it.
Quietly.
Without complaint.
Kisame watched her over his bowl, a grin just barely tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He didn't say a word.
But for the first time, she wasn't just slumming it.
She wasn't pretending to belong.
She was choosing to stay.
It wasn't until she set her chopsticks down that she realized—
Her bowl was empty.
Not half-eaten. Not politely tasted and abandoned.
Gone.
She stared at it for a second, as if the broth had vanished in some trick of shadow and steam.
Kisame leaned back on his stool, arms folded, watching her with that damn shark grin.
"Bet you've never eaten from a place like this before."
It wasn't a question.
It wasn't mocking, either.
Just an observation. Laced with something she couldn't quite name.
Itachi reached for the napkin slowly, dabbing her lips with mechanical grace. She didn't meet his eyes.
"No," she admitted.
She set the napkin down, folded perfectly.
Then added, flat:
"But I'll remember it."
Kisame's grin widened.
"Good."
She stood up without a word.
Reached into her jacket.
Pulled out a crisp stack of ryo—neat, pressed, clean as power.
She placed it on the counter in front of the chef with quiet finality.
"This," she said, voice calm and precise, "should cover his debt."
The chef blinked. Looked from the money to Kisame, then to her, stunned speechless.
Kisame stood up beside her, his expression shifting.
"I didn't ask you to pay for me."
Itachi turned slightly, chin tilted just enough to glance at him.
"I didn't pay for you."
She paused. Just long enough for the weight to land.
"I simply thanked you," she said, "for being the reason I tasted the best ramen in my life."
And with that, she stepped away from the stand—her heels clicking softly against the concrete, the scent of broth still clinging to the air like a secret.
Kisame didn't follow immediately.
But he was definitely watching.
Kisame stepped away from the ramen stand without a word.
Didn't look at her.
Didn't gesture for her to follow.
He just moved—shoulders loose, steps unhurried, like the night belonged to him and always had.
Itachi hesitated only for a breath.
Then followed.
She didn't know why.
Curiosity, maybe. Arrogance. Boredom.
But whatever it was, he didn't stop her.
And that was enough.
The building was tucked between a pawn shop and a vending machine glowing dimly in pale blue. The only signage was the faint flicker of neon script: INK & BONE.
Kisame pulled open the door. Stepped inside.
Itachi followed silently.
And stopped.
The shop was low-lit and pulsing with quiet life.
Not loud. Not sterile. Just alive in a way she didn't expect.
The walls were a patchwork of chaos and care—paper sketches pinned like trophies, all hand-drawn.
Koi swirling with teeth. Wolves with three eyes. Ghosts with spine-bared grins.
Ink bottles lined a steel shelf like soldiers, each capped in color-coded precision. A faint hum of electric tattoo guns buzzed from the back room like restless snakes.
There was a shark mural along the far wall—stylized, brutal, beautiful.
And beside it, a leather chair.
Not regal. Not polished.
But clean. Used. Trusted.
The kind of chair people bleed in.
The kind of place people came to mark something permanent.
Kisame tossed his keys on the counter, not looking back.
"This isn't a gallery," he said over his shoulder. "You don't have to look impressed."
But Itachi wasn't looking to be impressed.
She was looking for something else.
She just didn't know what yet.
She paused near one of the sketches pinned to the wall. Ink on yellowed paper, raw and precise. A hand. Open-palmed. Fractured by jagged lines like lightning. Or veins. Or cracks in something once whole.
She stared at it.
"Do people come here to remember something," she asked, "or to forget?"
Kisame didn't turn.
He was at the back now, washing his hands under a narrow stream of water. The sound of it filled the room like static.
"Both," he said. "Depends on the scar."
She glanced sideways, toward the shark mural—sharp teeth, glass eyes, swimming through blackness.
"In my world," she said, "we don't carve memories."
She stepped toward the leather chair.
"We bury them."
Kisame shut the water off with a flick of his wrist. Dried his hands on a towel.
Then leaned back against the counter, watching her.
"So what's the game plan?" he asked. "You going to report back to your little rich girl gang and say you tried ramen and slummed it with a tattooed freak?"
Itachi didn't smile.
"I don't share toys."
That made him laugh. Rough and real, sharp as gravel in his throat.
"Cute," he said.
Then her gaze dropped.
To his bare forearm. The ink there—clean lines of something tribal, something old. But there weren't many. Just enough to count on one hand. For a tattoo artist, he was… restrained.
"Why don't you have more?"
Kisame blinked.
"What?"
"Tattoos," she said simply. "You carve other people like it's nothing. But your own skin's almost untouched."
He shrugged. Voice quieter now.
"Because I only carve what I want to remember."
A pause.
Then he looked at her, something harder in his eyes now.
"And there's not much of that yet."
Itachi said nothing.
Just stood there. In his world.
Still not moving.
Still not leaving.
Itachi drifted toward the workbench.
Everything was meticulously arranged—needles, gloves, caps of ink lined like little soldiers, the gun itself resting on a folded towel like a weapon between wars.
She reached out.
Her fingers brushed the cold metal of the machine—just barely. Curious. Intent.
Behind her, Kisame's voice cut through the silence. Low. Steady.
"Don't touch things you won't understand."
She didn't flinch. Just turned her head slightly, enough for him to see the corner of her mouth curve—barely.
"I could say the same to half my professors," she said.
He stepped closer.
Not enough to touch.
Just enough for her to feel it—his presence behind her, tall and real and immovable.
"But I'm not your professor," he said.
It wasn't flirtation.
It was a warning.
She withdrew her hand slowly. But not out of obedience.
Out of decision.
Because she knew this game.
And she never played to lose.
The door creaked open with the sound of rusted defiance.
Boots heavy on concrete. The faint scent of smoke and cheap liquor trailing in like a second presence.
Tall. Scarred. Shirt half-buttoned like he'd lost the battle with it on the way in.
He walked in like he owned the floor, glancing around with a grunt until his eyes landed on her.
Then he stopped.
Brows raised. Head tilted.
He looked her up and down like a riddle that didn't belong in his crossword.
"Well, shit," he said. "She doesn't look like a prostitute."
Then, to Kisame:
"Or did you hire an expensive one and spend your whole fortune?"
Silence.
Kisame didn't even flinch.
Itachi turned her head slowly, like royalty forced to acknowledge a barn animal.
Then, perfectly calm:
"Expensive, yes."
She stepped back from the bench, arms folded lightly.
"But only because I charge extra for men with breath that smells like regret and lighter fluid."
Zabuza barked a laugh.
Kisame just shook his head, grabbing his gloves.
"She's not here for you, Zabuza" he muttered. "Try to behave for once."
Zabuza unbuckled his belt like a man preparing for surgery.
"Long as she doesn't faint at the sight of real ink, we'll be fine."
Itachi didn't move.
But her silence was louder than most men's threats.
She should've left.
That was the plan.
Drop a line, stir the shark, walk away before her perfume faded.
But she didn't.
Instead, Itachi sat.
Crossed her legs in the empty corner chair like she was in a boardroom.
Hands folded. Back straight. Eyes sharp.
She wasn't sure why. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe it was the fact that she had never seen the process before—not outside of television and glossy magazine spreads.
But watching Kisame work wasn't like those.
It was precise.
Intentional.
Almost quiet.
He didn't posture. Didn't explain what he was doing. Just snapped on gloves, laid out his tools, and pressed the stencil against Zabuza's thigh with care that didn't match his brutal appearance.
Then came the sound.
The hum of the machine.
Like a blade being tuned in real time.
Ink met skin.
Zabuza didn't make a sound, but the tension in his jaw said enough.
Itachi leaned forward slightly, studying.
Not the pain.
The focus.
Kisame's eyes didn't drift once. His hand was steady, unshaken. Controlled.
It wasn't violence.
It was craft.
She didn't speak. Not yet.
But for the first time in a long while—
She was watching something she didn't understand.
And wanting to.
The machine buzzed steadily, its rhythm almost hypnotic.
Kisame leaned in, guiding the needle with the kind of focus that felt religious.
Zabuza barely grunted, his eyes on the ceiling, breath controlled.
Then Kisame spoke, voice casual, without looking up.
"Picked up a new stray tonight."
Zabuza smirked. "Yeah?"
Kisame nodded toward Itachi with a tilt of his chin.
"Crazy rich. One of those gold-plated types who got curious about what it smells like down here with the rest of us."
Zabuza chuckled. "Curious, huh? Let me guess. Daddy bought her Tokyo and she got bored?"
"Something like that," Kisame said. "Probably thought the ink would smell like rebellion and sex."
Itachi said nothing.
Didn't move. Didn't flinch.
Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze didn't leave Kisame's hands.
Zabuza glanced at her again, almost disappointed she wasn't biting back.
"She's quiet," he said.
Kisame shrugged. "Rich girls talk too much when they're scared. She's not scared."
That made Zabuza pause.
He looked at her again—closer this time.
Then back to the ceiling.
Kisame kept working, ink blooming into black steel across scarred skin.
And Itachi watched.
Still silent.
Still there.
Like a storm pretending to be fog.
Three hours.
The buzzing never stopped.
Neither did Kisame's hands.
Itachi didn't move once.
She sat through the whine of the needle, the smell of blood and antiseptic, the occasional grunt from Zabuza, and the low, snide commentary meant to poke at her nerves.
But she never took the bait.
And when it was done, Kisame leaned back, peeled off his gloves, and wiped the inked blade clean.
Zabuza swung his leg off the chair with a grunt, rolling his shoulders.
"That's good work," he muttered, glancing down at the now black-marked skin. "Might even scare off the next idiot who picks a fight."
He stood. Buttoned his pants. Turned to leave—
And paused as he passed Itachi.
She stood now, too. Perfectly poised. Unruffled.
As if the last three hours hadn't touched her at all.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Nice tattoo," she said, cool as silk.
Zabuza raised a brow.
She smiled—just enough to be dangerous.
"If you get a matching brain someday, it might even look intimidating."
Zabuza stared.
Then barked a laugh—loud, echoing, unhinged.
"Alright, alright," he muttered, limping toward the door. "This one's got teeth."
He didn't look back.
But Kisame did.
His smirk was slower this time.
Like maybe the shark had finally smelled blood.
It was nearly 4AM.
The city had softened into that strange hush between the late and the early—where only neon, insomnia, and regret moved through the streets.
Inside the shop, the buzz had died. The gloves were gone. The blood cleaned. The chair empty.
Itachi stood up.
Kisame had already stepped outside, locking the back cabinet with a lazy turn of the key.
"I need to lock this place," he said without turning. "But if you'd rather sleep here, I can leave it open."
She stepped into the doorway, the wind brushing cold across her collarbone.
"I can't skip class," she replied.
And that was the end of it.
Or should have been.
She walked out, heels sharp on the concrete.
Then she paused.
Just outside, beside the curb, the bike sat—sleek, black, quiet as a dare.
Her gaze lingered.
Kisame noticed.
He turned, one brow raised, smirk already forming.
"What?" he said. "Gonna tell me you want to ride a bike for the first time too?"
Itachi didn't answer at first.
Didn't even look at him.
She just stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until her fingers brushed the seat like it was something sacred.
"I might want to be reckless today," she said softly.
That made Kisame grin—wide and real.
He straddled the bike, hands on the grips.
"Well then," he said, voice low, "climb on, princess."
She did.
Graceful as a whisper.
No hesitation.
Her hands rested lightly on his shoulders—not clinging. Just there.
He revved the engine once.
It roared.
And then the shark and the princess vanished into the sleeping Tokyo streets.
The motorcycle purred to a stop behind the Uchiha mansion.
The back entrance loomed ahead—gated, trimmed in ivy, and flanked by silent guards who looked like they'd just witnessed a UFO landing.
Kisame glanced up at the towering estate, the endless rows of shadowed windows.
He clicked his tongue.
"Could get lost in this place."
Itachi slid off the bike, adjusting her jacket like it was armor being resettled.
"Effective playground for hide and seek," she murmured. "My cousin and brother could never find me when we played as kids."
Kisame leaned forward slightly on the bike, one foot still on the ground.
"Well. Hope you peeked in enough tonight, princess."
His voice was low. No teasing. Just something close to real.
"If you ever want to explore again—"
He tapped the handlebar once.
"—you've got my number."
Itachi didn't answer.
Didn't turn.
She just walked toward the door, heels muted against stone.
The guards at the entrance stood like statues, eyes wide.
She stopped beside them.
Lifted a single, elegant finger.
"Not. A word," she said softly. "Or I'll expose your search history to Uncle."
Every one of them nodded like their pensions depended on it.
And just like that—
She slipped through the door, silent as fog.
Up the stairs. Past the rooms. Into her bedroom.
Po lifted his head as she entered.
She didn't say a word.
Just kicked off her heels, shrugged off the jacket, and collapsed onto the bed—still in her dress.
Eyes closed.
A faint trace of ink still on her fingers.
Sleep came fast.
And somewhere in her dreams, a shark circled—slow, grinning, just out of reach.