[The presence of the vegetables in the fridge stakes a flag in Sasuke's mind; such food isn't easily preserved for long periods of time. Like everything else in this apartment, it feels its owner simply got up and left. A day ago, maybe two. The sense is eerie, and it does nothing to calm the heavy burden of paranoia that lives in him at all times.

Rokurou seems at home in the kitchen, that relaxed and comfortable aura certainly more than Sasuke feels — or perhaps the man is simply better at disguising any ill ease. Still, when he's addressed, he doesn't hesitate to come forward. He shrugs the sleeve of his right arm up, rinsing his hand under the warm water of the sink.]

They did. [It was less concerning than the diminishing of his powers. He can make anything a weapon; his eyes, and his chakra, are not replaceable.] I've been wondering why. It doesn't feel as if there is anything dangerous in this place, but that could change.

[Case in point: if this man wished to attack him, Sasuke would have to fend for his life. He isn't worried about being able to do so; it seems everyone is equally incapacitated.

He washes the vegetables first, then organizes them in a colorful array near the cutting board. Then he stops, and looks down at the knife in his hand. ... He hasn't cooked since losing his left arm. Such a minor task would never have been difficult before, but like this...

Very awkwardly, and precariously, he begins with the lettuce. At least this doesn't require much precision.]

You seem to come from a similar cultural background as myself. [The name, and also the clothing, in particular.] You're the first I've met.