It was irony at its finest; Ashiko was intimately familiar with how to destroy a man from this angle and distance, but unlike Itachi's earlier contemplations, her own thoughts were as far away from murder as could be.

Instead she was thinking, vaguely, of how silky his hair was, and how jealous she was of that, and of a little boy with similarly silky hair from years and years ago. She severed that last line of thought immediately, before the old grief could creep back in, and leaned up on her tiptoes with her forearms braced against his shoulders for balance as she divided his hair.

The braiding was firm and almost mechanical, but not tight enough to hurt his scalp over time. She pinched the end and wound the tie around it, before breathing out a decidedly rude word he was likely surprised that she even knew when it snapped.

"Sorry," she murmured, adjusting her fingers so that her work wouldn't go to waste as she delved into a sleeve with her free hand. The replacement tie was a dark purple and soaked in the faint, sweet scent of daffodils and jasmine—the current bottle of perfume she was working her way through.