She's the extractor, not that she looks it. Most people walk on by her without realizing that she can–and will make their lives agony beyond their imagining to get what she wants. She comes in looking like little more than a florist's daughter: low necked shirt, mesh, a short skirt and a bundle of flowers wrapped up. Her gloves are long and made of thick leather which the poison can't quite get through. She plucks a hybrid rose and examines it a moment. Let the prisoner think a geisha has come to him; she's had training in that manner as well. Unlike Sakura who wore her heart on her sleeve, Ino could be the honeypot, the poison thorn.

Kurama! Kurama, go right to baa-chan! Get to her or I'm going to smack you, believe it! “Ha,” Kurama mutters under his breath, and deliberately turns away from the hospital, heading for the market instead. “You're not in the driver’s seat right now, brat. Let’s see how you like it.” Kurama! Kurama, don’t you do anything— “Sorry, can't hear you,” Kurama says smugly, and drowns out Naruto's voice from his inner world with all the spite of twenty-three years spent watching his host shovel down a truly nauseating amount of ramen each day.