He sees his target by a side table in the party room; her hair drawn back with pins and ribbons and her face layered with makeup to hide its age. She wears a silk kimono that would be traditional if it had an extra yard or two of fabric in it and holds a long stemmed glass in manicured hands.

When he approaches her, it’s with an aggressive stride he never uses in his daily life; a squaring of the shoulders and a swinging of the arms, not the slouch he’s so comfortable in. Stomping feet and a cocky grin, everything he can do to be visible and noticed. He wears a tailored suit that is artfully undone at the collar and sleeves and makeup to darken his complexion and add lines to his face, because he doesn’t bother with henge tonight. His tongue nudges at the back of his canines, searching for a toothpick that isn’t there.

She smiles at him, at his bold introduction of himself and the knowing way he flips back the tail he’s tied his hair into. She’s jaded, he knows, from the moment she greets him and not looking for play or love games or anything lasting. His flattery is exact; artfully constructed and artfully delivered, and he doesn’t have to layer it or make it subtle, because she’s doesn’t want anything more out of this then a single night.

Twenty minutes later, they go up to a room.

She is beautiful under her clothes, in a painstakingly sculpted way that he wouldn’t appreciate even if she were his preferred gender. Muscles that are shaped to be attractive and not functional flex under his hands, and he considers his timing and options and lets her pull him down onto the bed.

He is thorough with her. Under his hand; against his leg; at the mercy of his tongue; he keeps track of her pleasure, and waits until she’s done and ready to fall asleep, because he isn’t crass like that. Poison he’s immune to on the end of his tongue for the last kiss and if she notices the odd taste, she’s too sleepy-satisfied to care.

He slips from the bed as she slips into a coma, dying slowly. He has time to clean himself and erase all traces of his presence from this room. Makeup is touched here, and here, and the suit is again worn sloppily. A blanket is pulled up over the body -- the last touch of a considerate lover -- and he swaggers out of the room, throwing knowing grins and smug smirks at those that saw them ascend the stairs.

From the mansion to the streets he travels, and then to the forest beyond the village walls. He changes to the pants and shirt and vest he left out with the trees and cuts the suit into pieces before burning it.

When he travels home, it is fast and silent, an ease of motion that is as ingrained in him as breathing. Pushing legs and flexing arms and every muscles responds just the way he intends it to because he knows the strength and use of each. A toothpick that could become a weapon is worked from one corner of his mouth to the other.

From forest to village walls and human faces as familiar to him as the body he utilizes. Sardonic smirks and shrugged shoulders and the indifference isn’t entirely honest, but it’s not false either because he’s done this too many times for it to sink in that deep. He’ll even make jokes about it later, maybe, but there’s still one person who’s got to know first, and from his own mouth.

He sees his target waiting on the corner outside the admin office; his hair is short and held back by the Konoha headband and his face shows its age and its scars without shame. He wears a uniform battered with use and smiles in that ‘welcome home’ way that no one else in the world can imitate.

When he approaches him, it’s with a laid back amble that he uses for situations serious and mild; a slanting of the shoulders and bending of elbows that belies his capabilities. Silent footsteps and a crocked half-grin, but it doesn’t matter who notices, because there is only one other person in the world right now.

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