She never raised her voice, and yet the world listened. His wife, the doll-faced heiress, floated through the city like a hallucination—glossed lips, cruel eyes, voice dipped in honey and poison. She never touched the ground. Not metaphorically. Not spiritually. She existed above.

Trailing behind her like a storm disguised as a man, Itachi walked in silence. Dressed in shadow, speaking only when needed—when she needed. His voice was soft. Too soft. Like snowfall before a massacre. He didn’t protect her because she was weak. He protected her because she was sacred.

The market was beneath her, but she graced it anyway. Velvet platforms clicking against the stone path. Civilians parted instinctively, unsure whether it was fear or awe that kept them still. She stopped to examine a ring—useless trinket, but she liked the color. That’s all it took.

"You shouldn’t wear that color." A stranger. A mistake. A man who wanted to feel important.

Kezu blinked once. No reaction. No words. She didn’t argue with insects. Her head tilted lazily toward Itachi—her living curse, her quiet devotion. He didn’t need a command. He’d already heard the insult before it was even spoken. “Repeat that.” His voice was smoke and judgment.

The man laughed. Mistake number two. He didn’t see Itachi move. No one ever did. But there he was—hand ghosting near the man’s throat, pressure sharp and deliberate, eyes glowing red with ancestral fury. His voice dropped lower, colder.

"Look at her again… and you’ll forget how to look at anything." Silence. Then retreat. Then fear.

They turned back to the vendor, unbothered, unfazed. The ring was still there. And now it was hers. He smiled at his wife softly, like nothing had happened. Because to her, it hadn’t. And Itachi? He didn’t speak again. He just stood behind her—vigilant. Worshipful. Dangerous.