Sasuke growled, turning his sword on Bakura. He wished he had his chokuto with its razor-fine edge, the handle practically molded to his palm by now, but this awkward, heavy blade would do.

"They should have asked themselves that question before they made me into what I am," he hissed, through clenched teeth. "They told my brother he could keep me alive. Why would they do that if they weren't trying to create an assassin? And an assassin needs blood."