Kuchiki Rukia was quiet as she walked along the long corridors, her stocking-clad feet stepping softly on the smooth, mahogany floor. Behind her followed the butler, back bent as was his customary respectful posture. The pair moved within the exceptionally solemn and grave household, their footfalls soft and reserved. The air was slightly chilly in the corridors, and the young female suppressed the urge to tug at her expensive black silk blazer, which concealed her immaculate white blouse underneath. Faintly cold as she might be, any act that revealed such vulnerability of what she was feeling was an act worthy of disapprobation from her Family Head. A small thing, but an entire life of having been raised in such a manner was enough to keep her self-conscious about any giveaways in her otherwise perfectly guarded behavior.
As such as what a Kuchiki should always behave.
They stopped before a pair of closed shoji doors, and the butler reached forward quietly, raising a wrinkled hand to politely knock on the soft papery surface. Rukia lowered her head, and together the duo waited several seconds of silence before the family attendant spoke, in hoarse, respectful tones, "Rukia-sama is here, My Lord."
The hush stretched on. The manservant dipped his white head at last in response to the wordless assent and began to open the tall, elegant doors. He paused slightly, however, to regard his young mistress thoughtfully before murmuring to the woman in a low tone, "Forgive my impudence, but please try not to stay too long, Rukia-sama. The Lord has been very worried about the Lady as of late, and therefore he is a little less tolerant than usual…"
She nodded, and despite her cool demeanor, her stomach was beginning to recoil slightly. The Kuchiki Head, after all, was not the only one who happened to be very worried. "I understand."
The paper doors finally parted in a whisper, and Rukia entered briskly into the large room that followed, the attendant falling behind her. She eventually stopped in the center of the luxurious chamber, and bowed, dark bangs brushing her face, then straightened up meekly.
A tall, raven-haired man clad in jet black sat on a large velvet armchair, his gaze unwaveringly directed to a woman curled beneath thick blankets on a large double poster bed right beside him. His large ringed hand was entwined with her smaller pale—and similarly ringed—one on the folds of the satin sheets. On the timber bed stand situated behind him Rukia could see a half-filled bowl of porridge sitting on a placed silver tray, as well as a bottle of medical pills. A maid was positioned nearby in the corner of the dimly-lit spacious, lavish bedroom, ready to assist when needed.
Rukia spoke softly in a greeting. "Nii-sama, Nee-sama."
The other woman, who looked eerily similar to Rukia, smiled tenderly at her sister from where she quietly lay. While their features no doubt resembled the other, this woman looked somewhat older, and she also lacked the rosy, pink sheen of Rukia's complexion, as well as the aura of healthiness the other emanated. The Lady of the Household was beautiful, but she was not filled with life and vigor anymore. Her great beauty seemed almost ethereal.
Hisana Kuchiki was very ill.
"Rukia." The tall man's baritone voice was unfathomable as he languidly addressed his sister-in-law. Like his wife, he, too, was an extraordinarily attractive being, but unlike Hisana, the steel in his beauty was unyielding and as intimidating as the dark silver in his unreadable eyes. "Have you wrapped up your recording today?"
She inclined her head obediently at once. "Yes, Nii-sama. The recording went well. In fact, today would mark the last day of the recording."
"And what of it?" Byakuya's voice was emotionless.
Rukia did not allow herself to falter where others would have in his presence. "The studio album is mostly finished, sir." She added briefly, knowing the tacit male's point, "But that does not call for a time of stagnation. I, certainly, will not allow this to happen."
His silence indicated his satisfaction with her answer. Or as satisfied as Kuchiki Byakuya would ever be with her.
Being in a family of famous musicians was not an easy thing. Being adopted into the family, however, was another thing entirely.
It was worse.
The Kuchiki clan was a very famous, much celebrated—not to mention of aristocratic heritage -family internationally, and their outstanding legacy was not one to be looked down upon. All members of the family—whether they were still around or no longer were—had been renowned for their incredible ability, being celebrities in the music business, or at the very least were affiliated with music in some way. And they were immensely talented in what they did: music, as many critics had commented in awe, ran in their blood.
Rukia knew that Byakuya's father—now deceased and whom she had never met—had been a very famous songwriter, one who had written hit tunes for numerous talented and wildly popular singers. Byakuya's grandfather, on the other hand, had been even more well-known than his son; he had been an era-defining classical singer and actor. He had also been the president of the acclaimed Kuchiki music label company, home to some of the biggest stars in the world. Byakuya had taken over the ropes as the current—and just as, if not more, wildly successful—president since he had barely reached adulthood. His name was household knowledge around the globe, and it was a name that stirred much fervor amongst women and music lovers alike.
Her brother-in-law was, after all, widely recognized as an eminent pianist, and he had single-handedly composed exotic piano pieces that turned out to be one feverish hit after another all over the world. When those long adroit beautiful fingers graced the keys of a piano, it was as if shimmering magic had flowed through his touch and into the yielding instrument—the haunting melody that resulted from the mesmerizing dance of his slender digits on the white-and-black keys were something that was to behold. His pieces were never happy pieces. His music was not known to be cheerful nor light-hearted. They were dark pieces, heavy with weight and the blackened chill of life. It was music that Rukia herself had fallen for, long before her sister had met him, long before she herself had met him.
In his life, Rukia was certain, there were only a few things that truly mattered in the heart of the unruffled, quiet and immensely artistic male: Music, and the delicate woman that was his lover.
She herself did not fall into those few things.
"Oh, sweetheart." Her sister's soft voice beckoned her fondly. "Come on over here."
Rukia smiled back at her beloved older sibling, and hesitated as she glanced at Kuchiki Byakuya. He said nothing, and she gladly took it as permission to approach the older female. Quietly she lowered herself by the side of the bed gingerly, feeling the heavy softness underneath her. She tried not to look at her older brother, and directed her eyes quietly at her sister.
Hisana disentangled her hand softly from her husband's grasp, and wrapped both arms, thin and frail within the long silk sleeves of her very expensive nightgown, around Rukia's lowered shoulders. Rukia hugged her back.
After a few seconds, she withdrew, and smiled at her sister. "How are you feeling?"
"Fine, fine." Her sister waved the question away as she leaned back against the silk pillows. It seemed even the mere act of sitting up proved tiring for her, and Rukia knew seeing that displayed the truth in the answer she was seeking. She felt her heart throb in worry for her sister, who was still speaking. "Have you had dinner, my love? There are some muffins left over downstairs in the kitchen if you're still peckish, and I think maybe we can heat up some of the porridge as well for you—"
"I've eaten already. Please don't worry about me. Worry about getting better."
Hisana paused, still smiling gently. "With the both of you here doing that for me all the time, surely I can at the very least worry about you?"
Rukia faltered when Byakuya, who had remained in the velvet armchair, suddenly rose. Dressed in an artistic black traditional kinagashi, the tall man proved to be a very regal and intimidating figure, and her feeling of being overwhelmed only intensified further when he rose from his originally seated position. Rukia moved slightly back in respect as he leaned towards his wife, the loose long silky locks of his dark hair falling across the perfect features of his face.
"Rest." His rich voice, while far gentler with his wife than it had been with Rukia, was quietly compelling. It was, she knew, an order.
"Byakuya-sama…" Hisana protested weakly. He reached out gracefully and gathered the sheets further over her chest, the satin flowing in smooth cadence over her slight form. Byakuya glanced to the maid, who had remained positioned in the corner of the room, and upon sensing the direction of her employer's gaze on her she quickly moved to the bed stand, and obediently further dimmed the already dim amber ceiling lights by tweaking the switch hidden behind it on the wall. The lighting of the opulent bedroom darkened to the point that the occupants' faces were cast in shadow.
"I will join you shortly." Her brother's voice was calm as he—still bent over Hisana's supine form under the sheets—gently brushed a loose strand of his wife's hair back from her cheek. Rukia was glad that the room was dark, for she could feel herself flushing from her awkwardness at the open intimacy her brother-in-law was behaving with his sister. It was a foreign kind of gentleness of which he had never displayed to her, or anyone else, for the matter.
Glad that her sister was able to get her rest, Rukia was about to wish her goodnight and excuse herself when her brother unexpectedly spoke again, this time towards her.
"Rukia."
"Yes, Nii-sama?" she said, surprised.
He said nothing in response, but began moving across the large space of his bedroom. Taking in his wordless command, she followed his footsteps, feeling confused. The butler had left the room already, no doubt waiting outside for his next orders. However, Byakuya glided in the opposite direction away from the main door, heading instead towards the door that led to what she knew was his study room, which was directly connected to his bed chamber that he shared with Hisana.
More curious than ever, Rukia followed him as he opened the adjoining door with a slender hand. The bright lights within it were on, and a bright streak of it cut into the hushed golden dim of the bedroom, illuminating Hisana's white-clad figure on the bed like a surreal halo. Rukia hastily entered the study room, and shut the door firmly behind her.
She was not surprised to see a massive grand piano—Fazioli—situated in the corner of the plush chamber. The polished sleek back lid of the exotic piano was currently shut, but she knew for a fact that this was a piano that her brother visited every evening. Even as she watched, he moved to the instrument, and almost absently traced a long finger—pianist's fingers, she thought—over the gleaming raven cover of the piano. She could tell that there was something weighing on that astute mind of his.
Rukia glanced around. A genuine Stradivarius violin was enclosed in clear glass from the far end corner of the room. While she knew no current living member of the family specialized in the violin, it had once belonged to one of Byakuya's famously deceased relatives. Shelves loomed all around her, tall and made of timber. Theory books were stacked neatly within them, and numerous music sheets were piled upon the grand oak study desk. She could see clear, old-fashioned cursive markings on the sheets, a clear indicator of her brother's sophisticated handwriting. However, she noticed that there were also neat cut-outs of newspaper articles lying in the center of the desk, with an expensive paperweight sitting on them; articles, she realized, that contained medical news of the sort.
She knew, then, what was weighing on his mind.
"Sit." His voice was indifferent and indecipherable.
She obeyed, lowering herself onto the chair opposite his desk. "Thank you, Nii-sama."
A wordless minute ticked by.
"You are, I should hope, aware of the gravity of your sister's condition." He had not moved from the grand piano; his dexterous fingers were still tracing the lid thoughtfully, but he made no action to lift it. Rukia half-wanted him to; she was eager and yet also afraid to hear him play live. This was an honor that even herself, as his sister-in-law, did not often have. His private chambers, after all, were constructed to be sound-proof.
"Yes, Nii-sama," she agreed. She was more than just aware—she was worried to death. Her sister's health had always been delicate. There had been too often a time where she had been bedridden from one severe illness after another. Each time she took longer than before to recover, despite the aid of excellent physicians, and each time her suffering grew harsher and harsher.
Hisana suffered from almost every ailment that could plague an individual; she had severe anemia, and thus required the prescription of iron pills and vitamin supplements which she took regularly. She also suffered from asthma, and although she did not experience attacks often, they would come out of nowhere and were definitely a cause for concern. As a result, Byakuya had made sure that wherever she went, she had her inhaler by her side. Being an exquisite lounge singer and dancer in a renowned, high-standing hotel of Hokkaido before she had met Byakuya, she had retired from her career shortly after her marriage due to the complications of her health.
This time, however, was the longest she was taking to recover from her current bout of illness.
Byakuya was finally moving away from the piano; gracefully he seated himself on the large velvet armchair—similar to the one in his bedroom—behind his oak desk.
"This is a concern that must be addressed," he spoke. His dark grey eyes, the color of a controlled storm at bay, bored into hers. "I am certain your sister's wellbeing should be of upmost importance to you as well."
"Of course, Nii-sama," Rukia said, suppressing the wave of indignation his words had elicited within her. Did he think he was the only one who cared about Hisana? "The doctors here are trying their best, I'm sure. The latest doctor you hired is one of the best doctors in Japan, after all—"
"On the contrary," Byakuya responded calmly, "he is not."
"N-Nii-sama?"
Her brother's tone was cool and candid. "His reputation and work is commendable, but he is not the best within the country."
Rukia blinked, trying to mask her confusion. "I-I see, Nii-sama. Then what should we do?"
Byakuya lifted the paperweight with a long-fingered hand, and carefully took out a piece of one of the newspaper cut-outs underneath. His dark eyes raked the paper, and for a short moment no one spoke. She could feel tension pricking at her skin.
And then-
"Ichigo Kurosaki," Byakuya stated simply. "Have you heard of this name?"
Rukia widened violet eyes.
Of course she had heard of that name. It was the name that had swept across Japan, and goodness knows how many countries, for several years.
It was the name of a famous thoracic surgeon who had risen to bold prominence in his field in recent years. He had become quite a celebrity. What had marked the young male as superior compared to his colleagues was that he specialized in almost everything, not to mention his incredibly young age. While medical practitioners specialized in treating certain aspects of the medical field, he was a gifted doctor who seemed capable of handling every category within medicine. A genius, professors and medic critics had stated. He had skipped a few years in high school to head straight to medical school before utterly acing it due to his natural prodigy in medicine. Graduating several years earlier than most people from a hailed medical university at the top of his year with a doctorate, he then went on to become one of the most successful doctors the world had ever known.
Kurosaki Ichigo's achievements didn't stop there. Rukia knew that he had managed to diagnose several mysterious symptoms of illnesses that had plagued a number of patients and puzzled many senior doctors. That in itself had made impact, and advanced research in the medical community. A few years after that, more news came: Midway during a crucial surgery a blackout had horrifically occurred, sending the surgery theatre in complete darkness and utter panic for a few minutes. The male surgeon in question, however—the famed young Kurosaki himself—had calmly continued on with the operation in the dark, having memorized the placement of every inch of the kidney they had been treating within the patient.
The news had been huge; even Rukia, who was a very busy individual and thus was not always reading the news, had heard of this occurrence shortly after it happened, and she had been stunned and terribly impressed with this doctor in question. And it took, she knew, a lot to impress her, let alone her older brother.
Kurosaki Ichigo. They were speaking of one of the top names in the medical field here. He might be young and less experienced than the other senior doctors, but he had achieved far more within the short span of time since his debut, and was a genius in areas that the latter were not. He was also a highly sought doctor.
"Yes, Nii-sama," Rukia said eagerly, feeling hope lighten in her chest. "I have heard of this name! May I know if perhaps, you are considering—?"
Byakuya lowered the article back onto the oak of the large desk, and Rukia realized then, as she peered closer, that some of the articles were headlined regarding said young surgeon.
"Considering him is one thing," Byakuya said evenly. "Tracing him is another."
"Tracing him?"
Byakuya's silver eyes cut into her own sharply, and she realized—her stomach sinking—with dismay that his demeanor reflected disapproval.
"I hope you will endeavor to enlighten yourself further on current affairs, Rukia," he spoke coolly. "If you have read the news lately, you should know of certain things."
Rukia struggled with the urge to bite her lip. This was not the first time she had received a quiet rebuke from her brother-in-law, far from it—she was used to the coldness and indifference he regarded her—but in recent years, since her hard work in the musical line of business and her successful debut, she had been happier at the idea that, just perhaps, he was prouder of her, or at the very least, she had received some of his approval for successfully carrying on the musical heritage of the Kuchiki Family. Having let her guard down somewhat, the acidic tone in his unexpected censure was like a slap in her face.
"I apologize, Nii-sama," Rukia said, raven head bowed with an air of repentance. "I will try my best to improve in the future."
Byakuya's long fingers stirred gracefully against a printed piece of music sheet on his desk, as if they were dancing across the keys of an imaginary piano. His aristocratic narrowed ashen eyes were as inscrutable as ever.
Soundlessly, he moved and abruptly lifted the same newspaper cut-out he had been reading just mere moments ago, before sliding it across the table to her.
Gingerly, Rukia picked it up with another contrite small bow of her head, and read, subdued.
The revelation was shocking. About a year ago, the surgeon had vanished from the spotlight; vanished completely. He had resigned from the hospital he had been working in—or at least, the latest one from the line of prestigious hospitals he had worked in throughout the number of years in his career—without a reason, without any other word at all as to why he was leaving. The hospital, not to mention the rest of the medical and scientific community, had been shell-shocked. They had lost a valuable asset in what could have been the next medical breakthrough in virus research.
A rare, once-in-a-generation talent, one senior heart surgeon had said with regret, was gone.
And for the rest of the year, he remained missing, refusing, for some reason, to show himself to the world once more. He had, someone had noted, always been a private person, one who was not keen on fame and its benefits. It was only after he was gone when one realized how little they knew of his personal life. All anyone knew was that he was rumored to have returned back to Kara City, an exotic island where his mother's family—his mother had not been pure-blooded Japanese—had lived in. Any attempts made by fellow doctors or scientists who had traveled specifically to the foreign place had failed in bringing him back; those who had tried had said that he refused to show his face before them.
Some patients had been heartbroken, she read. The patients he had attended to had been besotted with him, and his unexplained and sudden departure was a bitter blow for them. A few of them even refused to accept treatment until Dr. Kurosaki came back, much to the frustration of many of their physicians.
What a charmer the doctor seemed to be, Rukia thought grimly. She generally did not like particularly charming men.
They came with the power to hurt others.
Having finished the article, Rukia looked back up at her brother, her small elfin features determined. She had come to a decision, one that had been unconsciously made from the moment she had taken the article in her hands. "Nii-sama. I want to find him. They say he's in Kara City, right? I would like to go there and try to persuade him to treat Hisana."
Byakuya regarded her impassively. "Oh?"
"He is Hisana's best hope for a recovery right now," Rukia went on tightly, her manicured hands clasped together on the piece of paper above her lap. "If he treats Hisana, I'm sure we'll be able to see some results. Maybe even a long-term recovery for Hisana." She looked at her brother beseechingly. "Let me go and find him, Nii-sama."
Byakuya's long lashes lowered for a short moment, casting dark shadows across his perfect cheekbones. He spoke flatly. "You have just finished recording your third studio album, have you not?"
Rukia faltered, but only for a second. "We can postpone the release date."
"Indeed." He closed his eyes, and with that she allowed herself to look fully at him, at the elegant features of his profile, at the curve of his sooty eyelashes. Her beautiful brother, regal and patrician as he was, looked almost vulnerable then. "As it happens, there are pressing medical appointments that call for my attention here in Japan, in regards for Hisana."
"I understand, Nii-sama. I will make sure I find him myself."
He opened his eyes once again, and the glacial iciness had returned to his expression. The thought that he was vulnerable was immediately fleeting and surreal. His words held a finality that she recognized.
"Hisana's condition is first and foremost your priority. There is nothing that holds higher importance than her health. You would do well to keep that in mind when you embark on your trip."
Rukia stepped out from the steamy fog clouding her bathroom, closing the door behind her, dressed in just her thick comfy cotton bathrobe. Her short dark hair—freshly shampooed and washed—was wrapped up tightly within her towel, which she had used to fold around her wet locks in the shape of a turban. Stretching tiredly, she walked bare-footed to her large bed, red toenails glinting, before dropping herself down onto the soft mattress. Looking around, she smiled at the vintage records positioned in her shelves. She was not old-fashioned, and knew that time had long passed that invention, but rather simply enjoyed collecting them. Time might have passed such an invention, but the music it produced still lived on.
She did have CDs, of course. Her prized possessions were the mesmerizing piano pieces from her brother's CD albums, and until today she didn't know if Byakuya knew that she listened to his music more than she did her own. In her life, her musical muse consisted in the form of two people: her sister, and her brother-in-law.
Her sister had inspired and shaped in her the genres of music that suited her tastes best: vintage, jazz and blues. Since she was small she had watched her sister perform; her sister, who had struggled to make ends meet for both of them, by taking up a profession in a five-star hotel as a widely admired lounge singer. Hisana was the most breathtaking songstress Rukia had ever seen, and until today, it was the memory of the slender feminine figure standing on the wine-lit stage—the long pink nails dainty as she held the vintage microphone in her small hand, feathers whispering across the delicate curve of her shoulders, her soprano voice purring mellow, sultry tunes that reverberated all around the hall—that flashed across her mind whenever she opened her own mouth to sing.
Hisana's vocal range had been something Rukia greatly revered—it spanned several octaves to which she accessed with little to no effort, at least for the performances leading up to her early retirement. It was saddening, not just for Rukia, but also for the hotel when Hisana had ceased her theatrical career onstage shortly after her wedding.
Rukia sighed, before sitting up, bending over from the foot of her bed and pulling her laptop from her study table onto her lap. She leaned back against the headboard of the bed, so that the curve of her spine rested comfortably against her pillows. Surfing the internet, she suppressed a smile as she saw the most searched entry all over the globe at the moment: her name.
Her musical career was taking off; had taken off, in fact, for the past five years.
She coughed. Perhaps it was due to the stress just now, but the tense conversation with her brother had left her shaken and exhausted, and her throat presently felt sore and itchy. She reached over and poured herself a cool glass of plain water from the large bottle sitting on her tray by her bed stand. The liquid felt refreshing and soothing against her throat.
She blinked as her laptop screen glowed suddenly. A Skype call was coming in, and easily she recognized the name of her manager, emboldened in large letters on the screen.
Rukia clicked accept, not caring that her hair was swept up in a towel, that her face was devoid of make-up, and that she was only dressed in her bathrobe. Her manager had seen all sides of her, including when she was naked, anyway.
A small box materialized and unraveled itself on the screen, and the camera zoomed in, revealing the heavily tattooed features of her manager as he peered at the lens. The inked tattoos were black and vivid beneath the sharp widow's peak of his hairline, from which his crimson mane was tied into a long ponytail at the back of his head. The man was not exactly the epitome of an average manager; she should know that, especially from all the wild years they had shared together in their childhood. Since she was young he had been her all-time best friend, all-time confidant, and sometimes lover, mostly on drunken and lonely nights when neither knew better. He was loyal to her brother, having received financial aid from the latter before—and he had chosen to repay the debt by burying himself as part of the esteemed Kuchiki label company since his graduation from school.
"Hey, Renji," Rukia greeted him, sipping from her glass of water. Her voice came out hoarser than she liked, and she scowled.
"Maybe it's a good thing you're going on that trip," Renji said. Dressed in a long-sleeved buttoned shirt that clashed horribly with his hair, he waved an opened can of beer at her. She could tell that he was sitting in his own bedroom—a large body-length poster of her own self was plastered on his wall. "Looks like you're losing your voice from all the recording recently. You should take a break before releasing the latest album anyway."
She stared at him disbelievingly, nearly spilling the water all over her laptop. "You know? I was just going to tell you!"
He grinned sheepishly. "Of course I know. I'm your manager. Your brother talked to me about this a couple of days back and we discussed the likelihood that you might be leaving Japan for a few days. He has to let me know in advance, since I need to tweak the dates of your tour and album release, plus make the trip's preparations for you. It's supposed to be a secret trip, so we'll have to keep this quiet from the press."
Rukia lowered the glass, feeling increasingly unsettled. "I can't believe you didn't tell me as soon as you knew!"
"I felt I didn't have the right to say anything until the President personally told you himself, Rukia. I'm really sorry."
"Well, why did any of you even bother asking me since everything has already been decided for me in the first place?" Rukia snapped bitterly, before drawing her breath quickly in an attempt to cool her simmering anger. The annoyance and ire she was feeling was unexpected; it rose in her like a tidal wave, something she had long thought she was capable enough to suppress before. When it came to emotions, she, as a member of the renowned Kuchiki clan, was expected never to let it overcome her. Such was the appropriate conduct of a member of an aristocratic family.
It wasn't Renji's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault, really. She herself had been the one who had volunteered to go for this trip (even if Byakuya had planned this from the very start), and she didn't regret her choice one bit, especially if it meant that she could help her sister recover. Byakuya, who was busy handling Hisana's medical affairs here in Japan, couldn't make it for the trip, thus leaving her in charge to carry out this task. Renji had simply done his job as her manger—and Byakuya's subordinate—by following orders. Her anger (and, loathe as she was to admit it, hurt) were irrational.
It simply hurt her that her brother placed his wife's needs as far more importantly to him than his sister-in-law's feelings.
"Rukia—"
"It's fine, don't worry," she cut him off calmly. The young female had managed to collect her nerves once again, and her customary steely façade had clicked back into place. "So what have you prepared for the trip?"
He hesitated, but went on. "Firstly, how much do you know about this surgeon you're looking for?"
"Not a lot," Rukia admitted. As she spoke, she was typing the name Ichigo Kurosaki into the internet search bar. The image results that came out were painfully little; whoever this man was, he was evidently not a fan of having his photos taken despite his fame. But then again, the article she had read earlier had stated that the young doctor was indeed a very private person.
Talented and mysterious, she thought dryly. A dangerous combination within a man, especially to women. Her mind flitted unconsciously to the patients whose hearts he had broken due to his disappearance. How many of them were women?
A lot, she could guess.
It was never good to be attracted to a man like that. She would know.
The ache in the back of her sore throat seemed to throb.
It took Rukia a few seconds to realize Renji was speaking again. "His father is Japanese. His mother, though, is of mixed blood, and she grew up with her family in Kara City, so that's basically his mum's hometown. Kara City is becoming quite a big tourist attraction as of late, you know. It's a secluded little island all on its own, and it's slightly smaller than your average city, but exotic in its own way. I've booked a plane ticket for you to get there, and I'll be joining you in a couple days' time if things don't go well, since I need to sort out some of your stuff here in Japan first. Delaying your album is no joke."
"Tell me more about his parents." Rukia had finally found a photo of the male surgeon. It was not a clear picture, but he had been posing alongside some senior surgeons and accomplished medical researchers in the photograph. All of them were dressed in long white overcoats. Due to the lack of clarity in the photo, she could just barely make out his glossy black hair and unfriendly—yet somewhat attractive—not to mention strikingly youthful features. He was a tall man, she realized as well, noticing that he towered over several of the other occupants in the photo. "Are they still alive?"
"I'm not sure about that." Renji shook the can of beer thoughtfully. Its contents made a sloshing sound. "His father was also a doctor, though, and a damned good one at that, but he was never as famous as his son. He retired some years ago and moved into his wife's hometown. If I'm not wrong, his wife was a nurse or something like that."
"An entire family of medical practitioners," Rukia mused. She could relate to that, somehow. Picking up her glass, she drank from it again, feeling her sore throat prickle in discomfort.
"We don't know about that," Renji corrected. "We don't know anything about his siblings, for one, assuming he has any. Anyway, Rukia, listen—" He leaned closer to the camera. "When you reach Kara City, go look for the Ishida family. They know your brother personally and are on good terms with him, as you know. Maybe you can ask them some questions, though I can't be sure if they'll answer. As for lodgings, there is only one hotel in the whole of the island, and I've already booked a room for you."
The Ishida family. She remembered them. They were reputable and excellent doctors in their own right, though not quite in the genius category that Ichigo Kurosaki was rumored to belong to. Occasionally they came to Japan for medical conferences, and being a well-established, pure-blooded noble family themselves (though Rukia had heard that the family was becoming rather estranged in late years), they held polite and amicable ties with the Kuchiki Clan.
"Look, Rukia," Renji pressed on relentlessly, his dark eyes narrowed, "Remember, if you can't find this doctor, or if you can, but he refuses to come and treat Hisana-san, don't beat yourself up about it. He seems a pretty irresponsible fellow, if you ask me, considering he disappeared without so much as a word to his colleagues. There are tons of good doctors in the world, and if you can't find one, it doesn't mean the end of the world for your sister."
"There are tons of good doctors," Rukia agreed, "but how many of them can carry out a kidney transplant in the dark, Renji?"
Renji looked disgruntled, and he sucked noisily on the brim of the beer can, as if to verbalize his disapproval as loudly as he could.
"I've read about that," he muttered. "I'm pretty sure the reporters exaggerated that, Rukia. The blackout probably happened before the surgery itself started, I'll bet—if there was a blackout at all. People will write anything for a good news story, especially journalists. You should know that, Rukia, with the paparazzi. They hunt you down like hawks."
"Speaking of which," Rukia interrupted. "Kara City is a small secluded island, right? So how likely is it that people there will recognize me?"
Her answer, she came to realize as she glowered from where she stood in the aisle within the coolly air-conditioned airport of Kara City three days later, was not one she liked to hear. The lower portion of her face was currently hidden behind the confines of a surgical mask, and her large heavily made violet eyes were obscured by massive Ray-Bans. A silk green scarf was coiled around her chignon, the material styled similarly to the turban-like shape that she had crafted with her towel that night. The rest of her attire consisted of a white-and-black pencil dress that fit the soft curves of her slender, petite form perfectly, as well as a pair of six-inch stilettos (she was, as always, eager to compensate for her height) with which she strutted confidently.
Renji had stated that he was not sure if she would be recognized, but her growing popularity as a singer was not something to be taken lightly, and she was better off not taking any risks. Hence her ridiculous choice of wear in regards to concealing her face, which was making her feel increasingly like a terrorist as she moved hastily along the airport, towing her luggage behind her. The occasional stares that she was attracting from all around her were not helping.
I'm doing this for Hisana, she thought determinedly, feeling the heat of the stares seemingly burn into the back of her neck. At least they didn't recognize her, since no one had burst into excited screams or was asking for her autograph, as was what she was accustomed to back in Japan. I'm doing this for her.
Soon she was approaching the automatic sliding glass doors of the airport, which pulled apart. She stepped out, and inhaled. The air was cool in Kara City, and she had to admit that the scene that greeted her was pleasant. The sky was a clear blue, and it was not too warm, neither was it too cold. It was rare for the temperature to sit well with her like that, and she resisted the urge to pull down her surgical mask to fully enjoy the refreshing air. It felt nice, though she supposed she wasn't wearing the mask solely to disguise her face; her sore throat had worsened over the past three days, much to her dismay, and her voice had now been reduced to a hoarse croak, most unlike her usual smooth mezzo-soprano tones. She did have a valid reason to wear it, after all, but this did not make her feel any less discomfited.
The mask was ridiculous, really.
Rukia hastily moved to the curb, and peered at the taxi stand, indicated by a slightly peeling yellow stand. The place was shockingly deserted—save for a parked delivery truck containing numerous massive bouquets of flowers on the back of it, with a florist brand she vaguely recognized plastered on its hood—something she was not expecting. She had known Kara City to be a 'secluded little island', as Renji had said it to be, but hadn't he also mentioned that tourism was becoming quite a thing here? But then again, this was barely the peak time for vacation, since tourism was mostly at its peak in December or somewhere in the midst of summer. Both times were quite a while away.
She sighed, and exhaled raspy coughs, glancing idly at the green-topped trees in the distance. A few cars—none of them taxis, unfortunately—shot past her, tires pressing against gravel. Her throat felt sorer than ever, and she cursed. The effects of the lozenges Renji had given her were wearing off. He had been very worried about her, and she didn't blame him, since her career depended a great deal on her voice—she was a singer, after all.
The automatic doors behind her suddenly slid open again, and she turned, and stared through the lenses of her Ray-Bans.
A tall young man had stepped out, holding a water bottle loosely in his hand. He was dressed in a long V-necked cardigan sweater (with nothing else underneath), which clung to his broad powerful shoulders, as well as long skinny ripped jeans and leather army boots. He looked, she thought, like a delinquent of some sort. His overlong silky hair, framing the angular features of his attractive, arrogant face, were a bright vivid orange, and she found herself staring incredulously at the windswept locks.
He looked faintly familiar, but she was too distracted by the vibrant shade of his hair to dwell upon it. As Rukia watched, the strange male strode lazily to the parked delivery truck, the one with the flowers gathered in the back of it, one large slender hand taking out car keys from his jean pocket. He tossed it around his long fingers carelessly.
She started. So he was the delivery boy who owned the truck? The gears in her mind started working furiously, and she immediately sped up, her stilettos clicking against the cement of the pavement.
"Wait!" Rukia shouted, her voice a hoarse wheeze due to her sore throat, but nevertheless coherent all the same. "You there, boy! Give me a ride!"
The young man—he was hardly a boy, she realized, seeing upon a closer look that he was in his mid-to-late twenties, not to mention the tall masculine build of his figure—paused right before the door of the old truck, his brows rising. His golden eyes looked amused as they raked her heavily obscured face, taking in the sunglasses and surgical mask, as well as the scarf around her hair.
Rukia flushed. "So is that a yes or no?" she snapped. Her voice, traitorous as it was, came out as a cracked croak, not unlike a frog's warble, a terribly far cry from her usually elegant voice. The woman's flush deepened, and she didn't know whether to be thankful for her mask for hiding her cheeks.
"That would be," the delivery boy drawled, as he opened the driver's door of the truck, "a no."
A/N: I don't know if people are aware of the original fic I wrote years ago (like, really, years ago. Maybe three years ago? Or was it four?). During that time Heal Me was the first debut fan-fiction I had ever penned. I was, by all means, an amateur (I still am, of course. Only I am now an amateur with different ideas from before.). I made friends, I felt, through everyone who had reviewed and followed that fiction long ago. Of course, as time passed, I changed, and I felt that I couldn't continue Heal Me anymore. It was spiraling into a hot mess, and while I love a hot mess of a story, this was a hot mess that made me cringe, and my direction of what a piece of fiction pertains is no longer the same. I left it alone for a couple of years. I had to rewrite the whole thing from scratch, and PLEASE note: this version is nowhere similar to the original one. You don't have to read the old to get the new one.
I hope you enjoy the new—and much different—version.