She sat comfortably, back straight, in a classic red barstool. At a bar. With her drinking problem. She liked the taste, the rush, the numbness, that alcohol gave her. That overall thrill of a special liquid high. It all blanked out the sadness she truly felt; overruled the loneliness, the hopelessness. It helped her forget that painful knowledge of being the only one left, the fact that her dearest friend was never coming back…

Long healthy red hair, high-lighted with strawberry blond and orange, flowed down past her shoulders, perfectly straight. And her innocent candy-red eyes were rimmed with a delicate pink.

Her nimble fingers held themselves tightly onto a tall, cylindrical glass. It was half full with a thick tomato-soup like liquid, accompanied by a partially eaten celery stick. A barely visible pink lip imprint decorated a single spot of the glass neatly. This was her fifth drink.

Tingles rushed faintly up her nerves and atop the surface of her skin. Because of her drinking problem. She couldn't think clearly, if she thought at all. Because of her drinking problem. Her eyes situated themselves on the celery stick protruding from her Bloody Mary.

"Miss Rukia, you put up a magnificent show. Why don't you take the money from Mako at the door and go home? You deserve some rest after such an amazing performance," rumbled the sweetly deep voice of the oh-so caring bartender, Tatsu. He was a kind boy. Only about twenty-three. Punk-styled white hair with bloody red tips for every layer. Grey eyes. One of the redheaded girl's close friends.

Rukia smiled stupidly (drinking problem, you fools!), glancing up to gaze momentarily at Tatsu. A small nod on her part and before she knew it, the bartender was right beside her, tugging on the sleeve of her red mini-kimono, dragging her through the crowd of club-hopping patrons up to the burly bouncer that seemed to be keeping Rukia's earnings.

The man wasn't very big, but he compensated for that by being scary. His eyes were a deep scarlet, intense and mysterious. His hair was spiked in certain places, but most of it was perfectly straight and reached the middle of his back. A blue bandage if some kind wrapped itself around his forehead, giving him that Vincent Valentine look. He seemed to be going for it anyway. Mako did indeed also have a very pretty long-barrel gun tucked away in a holster strapped to his leg. And this man was glaring at anyone who passed him by, arms crossed. Signature.

"Hey, Mako! Roo's goin' home. Give her the money so that she can go," Tatsu yelled above the techno-themed music.

Rukia giggled for no apparent reason, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. She was drunk. That much was obvious.

"I see." Mako's seemingly permanent frown remained intact as he stuffed a thick wad of yen in the redhead's white obi. Stepping to the side to let her through, he scrutinized every movement she made. It was out of necessity. He didn't like it when she was drunk.

"Thaaaaaaank you," Rukia said, a bright smile pulling at her lips, still being a mindless zombie. Mako only nodded as he gently nudged her outside. The giant rusty metal door closed behind her, slowly.

She was standing at the mouth of a dark alley, staring down the shadow of the moon illuminating the streets. It was a noiseless night. Even the club music was silent out in the alleys and streets. But she didn't really care.

A drunken grin lifted the corners of her lips. Taking a clumsy step closer to the opening of the alley, she placed her tiny hand on the musty wall of the building she worked at, of which she never paid attention to. She took another stumble toward the street.

Then something heavy and blunt managed to nail her right smack in her frail shoulder. Pain shot through her veins, and a weak shriek followed soon after. Her arm became numb and she couldn't move that appendage. Agonizing pain strangled the order to adjust, jerked her body off track. It hurt. Unbearably so. And it scared her.

"Pretty girl, aren't you?" a husky voice grumbled cruelly, taking a harsh hold on Rukia's long hair and yanking her backwards against the very...smelly newcomer. "So unable to fight back, too, eh? Ha! Lucky me," he laughed roughly, sliding a free hand over her mouth.

Rukia shuddered against the musty scent this stranger gave off. The 'vomit feeling' washed over her, drowning out the drunken state she was in. Another pull on her hair. Fire seemed to tear across her scalp. Explosions danced in her probably dislocated shoulder. Disgust wafted through her nostrils. But fear beat her through and through.

The night was strangely unforgiving tonight.

The man howled with sick laughter, his hands gripping her arms tightly, slamming the fragile girl into the wall opposite the club. And he did that quite harshly. Repeatedly.

Even though her body was certainly suffering from internal bleeding or broken bones, the poor girl refused to let the pain shine through. She couldn't. Otherwise this...icky man would just keep going and going and going. Rukia watched the street shake left and right as she collided with the wall a few more times.

But it stopped. And even though the weakening beating had stopped, she still found herself tumbling into the wall again, scraping down and into a tiny pool of her own blood. She was bleeding...? The man loomed over her, giving her one last disarming punch across the face, and moved his hands to quickly undo his belt and pants.

Little did either of them know that someone else's presence entered the alley at this point. He gave off a frightening, threatening, angry air. But they failed to notice.

"I think that's enough." Cool, superior. Malice hidden by a polite facade. Wait. Is that...?

Bruising pressure equaled gone. But the pain was still there. Visibly. She could feel it. Her eyes were shut tightly, but she could still feel the pain etched on her skin... The broken-ness of her ribs, the dislocated joint of her shoulder, the sharp and deep cut across her cheek, the shattered lump she once called a lion's nose.

Tears trickled from her eyes, soft sobs rolled off her tongue.

"Rukia. Don't cry." That quiet yet forceful silk voice. "Let's go." Just like him to do that. He wasn't much of a helper.

But at least he was back.

Such a cliché. A creep from the shadows, beating a beautiful girl with a drinking problem until she could not even think about fighting back, just so that he could...well, 'do the deed'. And a superior and powerful anti-social hero just so happens to calmly come across this demented scene. He probably murdered the drunken man, and welcomed the girl to come home. So fucking cliché.