A/N: Chapters 9 and 10 are supposed to be just one chapter as a whole, but judging on how long it was, I decided to split it up for the sake of the readers' own sanity. (Even I get a little annoyed reading something nearly 9k words long in one sitting.) With that said, the ending for this chapter might come off as a little abrupt.


Jushiro was about to contemplate the apparent strangeness of it when a flash blinded him, followed by a crack and an ear-splitting boom. The quaking earth beneath him suddenly gave way to emptiness and, before he knew it, he was swallowed up by the very gaping jaws of darkness.

Chapter 9: State Your Name!

The midday sun hung high and mighty in the cloudless blue sky, bathing the streets and buildings of the Seireitei with a warm, generous light. Many a shinigami were complaining about the scorching heat, so it was quite a wonder how a fellow comrade of theirs managed to awaken with a sneeze while drenched in cold sweat.

After a second sneeze that sent her toppling over the edge of the bed and on to the hard floor, Izumi was a little more than halfway out of slumber. She curled up in a tight ball, twisting the quilt around and under her, and tried hard to block out the solidity of the floor that dug persistently into her side.

Finally, after what felt like hours, Izumi rose groggily to her feet. The cold floor burned her soles, shooting freezing shock waves up through her body. She only managed to take a step or two before tripping and falling flat on her face. Pain shot through her nose and mouth, excruciating, causing her to choke on her own blood.

Blood...?

Warm, thick liquid filled her mouth from an unknown source. Panic rising fast within her, Izumi parted her teeth slightly, letting the fluid trickle down the sides of her mouth. Going against her own will, she raised a trembling hand and stuck an index finger into her mouth. Upon the slightest prod, her tongue seemed to have split apart, torn from the inside out. Instinctively, she bit down on her forearm, squeezing flesh between teeth to numb out the pain. Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes as double agony sent heated needles through nerves, but that only made her sink her teeth further into her own flesh. She wasn't sure whether the blood that gathered in her mouth was more from her tongue or her skin.

Izumi's brain could only scream at her to stop, and, when she finally gave in, she found deep teeth marks in her forearm. Beads of blood oozed from the small puncture wounds, but that wasn't what stole her attention. More blood dripped from her chin, leaving glistening splotches on the floor.

"What the...?" The piercing ache in her tongue cut her off short. She squeezed her eyes shut, clasping a hand over her mouth. Once the pain faded away, she climbed to her feet and rushed to the bathroom where staring at the torn mass of muscle in the mirror did nothing to quell her fears.

She stood there, eyes wide open, for several minutes as she tried to figure out just what had happened. Countless thoughts ran through her mind. Questions, without the hope of being satisfied with an answer, twisted and intermingled with one another until they finally accumulated into a jumbled mass, so incoherent, that it moved Izumi's feet backwards in a cowardly retreat from the nauseating reflection in the mirror.

Oblivious to how many steps she was taking, Izumi continued her slow withdrawal. But no matter how much she wanted to take her eyes off the blood, she couldn't. It was only when her heel hit something cold and metallic that her questions dispersed, train of thoughts interrupted. She whirled around and, seeing the object on the floor, stumbled back with a startled choke.

Lying there, sheathed in the black scabbard that would have made it go unnoticed in the darkness of the room, if not for its clay red hilt, was a zanpakuto.

Izumi slowly exhaled, thumping her chest with a hand so as to ease back her pounding heart. She bent down to pick it up and opened her mouth to speak when she remembered the torn muscle. Even swallowing caused the pain to flow anew, like a sudden blast of water bursting forth from a punctured dam.

Izumi settled on the edge of the bed, the zanpakuto resting across her lap. She drummed her fingertips on the scabbard for a while, allowing the faint prickling of spiritual pressure emanating from it to calm her nerves. Once she was sure that she could walk around on her own two legs without fear of crumpling into a heap on the floor, much thanks to her shaky knees, she left the sword on the bed and went about tidying the room. Despite the confusion, the spring in her step was unperturbed, solid proof of how deeply she had slept that night in comparison to the nights before. In no time, the housewife instincts, that had long-since been embedded within her, kicked in, giving her groggy system a much needed jump start.

The quilt was smoothed out, folded and placed upon the bed; pillows were beaten back into shape and set side by side, and the bloodstains on the wooden floor were wiped away, leaving little to no smears.

Once the bedroom was returned to its normal state, neat, tidy and satisfying, Izumi retired to a hot shower. When the faucet was turned on, a blast of icy water sent her leaping away. She slipped, and a sharp thud against the wall squeezed out a swear, bringing with it more blood from her mouth. Mentally cursing her ill luck, she braced herself and stepped under the icy shower.

So much for hot water.

She made a mental note to file a complaint to the landlady. This had happened countless of times before, despite her repeated complaints. Sometimes she thought that the landlady was just a rich old hag with nothing more than minced meat for brains.

Several minutes later, Izumi came out shivering, wrapped in nothing but a thin towel. Staying under that blasted shower a second longer would, no doubt, mean an icy death for her. She donned one of her old academy uniforms, which had seemed to shrink since the last days spent schooling, letting out a sigh of relief as the fabric warmed her. From the counter top, she fetched a roll of bandages that had been left there for easier access – having an EleventhDivision member as aspouse required bandages to be placed all around the house – and had allowed Izumi to sooner dress the puncture marks on her forearm. With that done, she grabbed the zanpakuto that lay on the bed awaiting its master and padded out into the kitchen.

A sweet, yet bitter, whiff of herbs and red beans greeted Izumi, but her confusion only doubled when she found a bowl of half-finished herbal soup on the table, and a pot still full sitting on the stove. She stood in the doorway, unable to take another step as further puzzlement settled in.

When the hell did I...?

She gave herself a square smack in the face, which triggered a sting worthy to rival the slap Jushiro had given her days before.

But the smell nor the sight before her didn't change one bit.

Izumi shook her head and, with an uneasy feeling weighing down upon her chest, picked up a bowl and used the ladle to scoop up some soup. Better not leave it there to waste. The ingredients weren't exactly cheap, and every last drop of soup was like a delicacy to Izumi's unrefined taste buds. Jushiro didn't know it though, for there was no need. Knowing the man, he'd only make a big fuss.

Completely aware of the constant stinging in her tongue, Izumi tried not to rush the liquid. Although her housewife instincts had already been roused again, she still had a bad penchant for being hasty and overly aggressive. A bad case that could act as the ultimate proof was when she had charged for the pink-haired child – now her lieutenant, although she still found it hard to believe – which had rewarded her with a nasty bump in the back of her head and a terrible nosebleed.

Thinking about the lieutenant brought her to realization that she was supposed to be at work cleaning the corridors and hallways of the Seireitei along with other low-ranking shinigami of the Eleventh Division.

Placing the empty bowl on the table, Izumi leaned back with a nasal sigh, making another mental note to reheat the soup and send it over to Jushiro once work was over. She knew she was late, but waking up to a couple of abnormalities could screw with one's brain until one couldn't grasp anything of importance any longer.

Izumi stood up after what felt like minutes of fighting back drowsiness. She took a glance at the soup, pushing away a feeling of nervousness and storing it in the back of her mind.

When did I cook it? When?

Shaking her head to rid it off questions – distractions, if you will – Izumi gripped her zanpakuto tightly for reassurance, and headed out into the late morning, unconsciously swallowing a mouthful of fresh, coppery blood.

xxx

Upon arrival at the Eleventh Division grounds, Izumi snuck in, successfully staying unnoticed by the other members. If she were to be caught running late by the Third or Fifth Seat, there was, undoubtedly, going to be hell to pay. If that childish lieutenant caught her...well, Izumi would rather go through hell and back than play another one of her stupid games.

Entering the open courtyard that served as the outdoor training ground, Izumi could hear shouted taunts and mocks that showed no shame of being thoroughly coloured with profanities.

The Third Seat – the bald man with the odd colourings at the edges of his eyes – stood in the middle of the courtyard, surrounded by other lower-ranking shinigami. Their zanpakuto were drawn and, following the insults and taunts thrown their way, they flew at their superior with blades raised high and ready, shrieking battle cries at the top of their voices. The Third Seat merely side-stepped, dodging aimless blades, blocking the slightly better ones and throwing off the balance of a handful of shinigami that managed to correctly target his middle.

All of them ended up in a large heap, moaning and groaning, while their superior remained standing, showing not even the slightest hint of exhaustion.

"That the best ye guys can do?" The Third Seat scoffed, balancing his sheathed zanpakuto that hadn't been released even for a split second throughout the assault on his shoulders. "Man, what a fuckin' drag. Y'all ain't nothin' but a bunch o' wimps. Worse than what we got last year."

Izumi wanted to make a big round around the courtyard to get to the barracks on the other side, but it was more than too late when the seated officer's eyes fell upon her.

"Hey, you!"

She stopped, fear and panic already freezing her to the spot. Now around two dozen pairs of eyes had fixated themselves on her, and she felt the heat rising to her cheeks. Crookedly, she turned around, trying not to show that she was scared shitless.

"M-m-me?"

"Yeah, the red 'n' white dumbass try'na escape trainin'. Get over here!" He gestured with his zanpakuto, and Izumi had no choice but to obey, biting her bottom lip at the insult.

She joined the ranks of the other shinigami that had surrounded him once again, positioned in their battle stance with their zanpakuto at the ready. Before she could even draw, they rushed forward with fierce screams and shrieks as if they were participating in an all-out war. Their harsh cries sent shivers down Izumi's spine, but all she could do was watch, stunned, as the men were thrown to the side one by one, landing hard on the ground with loud thuds. The bigger ones caused a slight tremor of the earth that did nothing to ease her shaky knees.

Despite not having her zanpakuto out, Izumi was still paying attention to the sparring. With that said, she couldn't understand how she hadn't realized the battle lust present in the Third Seat's eyes until his face was before her own, so close that the tips of their noses were nearly touching. The next thing she knew, her gut came spilling out of her mouth and onto the ground. Away she flew, landing with a sickening crack that seemed to split open her shoulder blades and shake her inner organs to their very core.

Unable to even move, Izumi lay sprawled out on the ground, vulnerable and semi-conscious, wondering just what in the name of shit gods just happened. Her head spun, and she could have sworn that there were potatoes that had sprouted arms and legs dancing before her eyes.

"That's what ye get when ye don't pay attention, asswipes!" the Third Seat shouted, his voice rough and stern.

But, to Izumi, it sounded like he was yelling through water. His words were incoherent. She didn't really bother to decipher them though, for she was too busy thanking the shit god who had thrown her into this mess, only to allow her to live. That god probably wanted her to suffer, and loved watching how things played out.

Somebody nudged her head, but she didn't pay any heed. A rather familiar face came into view, but her vision was so hazy that she let her eyelids drift to a close instead of taking the effort to squint. A harsh kick in the ribs sent her twisting around to lie on her side and double over, clutching the injured spot. Pain wracked her whole body as she choked, stunning her brain so much that it caused the dizziness to double.

"Get up, fool!"

Someone grabbed her by the collar and hoisted her up so carelessly that she nearly fell back down on her face. She shook her head to clear the dizziness, and rubbed her eyes till the mist of confusion was gone. Standing before her with an expression like that of a cornered rabbit in denial was none other than Aramaki Makizo, the officer under whom she served.

"You idiot! What in the Rukon's name are you doin'?"

Izumi stared at him, dazed. "What?"

Aramaki raised a shaking fist, and she screwed her eyes shut and awaited the punch. But it never came.

"The hell are you doin', dumbass?" he repeated, shoving her shoulder instead. "Why are you late? This may be your second day on the job, but that ain't no excuse to be lazin' 'round at home while we stand in for you, hear me? You're lucky Madarame didn't notice, or you'd be in for it."

Absently, Izumi herself noticed that Aramaki liked saying things like "or you'd be in for it" when he didn't know what "it" actually meant. She decided to keep that to herself as she rubbed the side of her head to ease the dizziness.

"What the hell're you still standin' 'round here for? Go on into the barracks, check the roster and get on with your job, you lazy-ass fool!" Aramaki barked, though he sounded a little too...raw at giving out orders.

Nevertheless, Izumi scampered towards the barracks, avoiding eye contact with any shinigami to prevent further embarrassment – though she was pretty sure that the level of shame now imprinted on her cheeks was at its peak and couldn't go any higher no matter what else happened.

As she approached the barracks, Izumi could hear the harsh sounds of clashing zanpakuto, wrestling rather barbarically in their fierce battle for dominance. Quietly, she slipped inside and hugged the wall, padding her way to the duty roster pinned up on the notice board on the opposite end. Her eyes searched the room, sweeping back and forth and back, on the lookout for any other officers who would seize the chance to chew a new recruit's head off.

The large group of shinigami gathered at the center of the hall was carrying out more or less the same activity as Madarame was out in the training grounds. The only exception was that the superior – which, Izumi guessed, was a seated officer much lower than the Third Seat judging on the level of his spiritual pressure – was taking on a shinigami one at a time. The rest of them stood around and watched, and when their comrade was flung away, another brave soul stepped up to try his strength – only to be thrown further than the last.

Izumi kept her head down and her pace quick. She scanned through the roster and, after knowing where she was stationed, stole out of the barracks just in time to evade the officer's roaming eyes. Through the hallways and corridors she weaved, head bent, eyes to the floor, looking up every now and then just in time to avoid slamming head-on into a conveniently placed wall or column or a passing squad mate. Her head was already back to normal, nausea gone, but her back still ached from the hard fall. She wouldn't be surprised if she found the edges of her shoulder blades chipped off and jagged.

Suddenly, Izumi paused in her tracks. She took several steps backwards, coming to stop beside a door that seemed all too familiar. Out of curiosity, she opened it and was greeted with a cluttered storeroom filled with janitorial equipment and the like. This was the storage where that unseated shinigami from yesterday had gone to pick up supplies, and from which came the broom Izumi had used to sweep imaginary dust from the streets of the Seireitei. She picked up the best broom that she could find, an old one that had lost most of its "hair", and, with an irritated sigh, went off in search of her station.

The living quarters and bathroom weren't all that hard to find. Izumi could smell the stench coming from the restroom before even setting eyes on it. Pinching her nose, she braved the odour that seemed to turn the surrounding atmosphere into a sick greenish colour, crossed the large hall where bunk beds and mattresses lay strewn all over the place along with stray clothes and sandals and socks, and entered the bathroom.

To say that it was plain was an understatement. Izumi expected it to be simple with no decorations whatsoever to brighten it up. Proving her wrong, the white-tiled walls glared back at her without any sense of welcoming, proudly exhibiting pale yellow and bright red stains in all their glory. And the smell, doubtless, came from the walls themselves.

Izumi stood frozen in the doorway, taking in the sight of the artistic Eleventh Division members' handiwork, mouth hanging precariously by her jaws.

"What the hell're ye starin' at?"

Izumi whirled around at that bark, coming face-to-face with the same unseated shinigami she first encountered the day before. He stepped out from one of the toilet stalls, carrying a mop and a bucket of dirty grey water. His eyes widened to the size of saucers when they saw her.

"You!"

A grin tugged at the corners of Izumi's mouth as he marched up to her, relieved that someone actually remembered her after just one encounter. "Hey th-"

The man launched the head of the wet mop into her face, and the dirty, soapy water mixed with gods-knew-what clogged her eyes, nose and mouth. With a battle cry, he smothered her with the mop, driving her back against the wall.

"Bitch! I don't fuckin' care what the hell ye're try'na prove. It's haemorhagegin', 'n' I ain't gonna say otherwise! 'N' I can't fuckin' believe ye dare leave me here t'clean up m'self. Ye stupid lazy-ass bastard, let's see how ye like this!" he cried, a sadistic grin spreading wildly across his expression, as he continued ramming the head of the mop into her face. He clearly didn't care whether he would be responsible for a new recruit's death or not. "How d'ye like that, eh?"

Izumi was beginning to suffocate. Breathing became harder with the increasing pressure – the foul-tasting water only made matters worse – and she did the only thing that seemed at all logical at that moment: she swung a foot between his legs.

Upon connection, his grip on the mop loosened altogether, causing him to drop it. Izumi jumped away as he crumpled to the floor, cringing at the scream of agony he elicited without reserve.

"You trying to kill me or something?" she demanded, frantically wiping the dirty mess from her face on her sleeve, cursing loudly at the stains smearing the uniform's white fabric.

"Fuckin'...bitch..." he managed to snarl between gritted teeth, cupping his nether region in both hands as if he were carrying precious water through a scorching desert.

"What was that?" Anger flaring, she stepped over to him and grasped a handful of his collar from behind. At the contact, he swung a fist around and into her jaw, sending her crashing to the wet floor with a loud cry of pain.

"How d'ye like that, eh?" he yelled, a grin of satisfaction spreading from ear to ear despite the burning sting below his navel.

With eyes squeezed shut so tightly till tears began forming at the edges, Izumi held her aching jaw. She had quickly gotten used to the sting in her tongue whenever she talked, but now it felt like the man's fist had shattered her jaw and ripped apart her tongue, creating agony so great that all she could do was crouch there, supporting herself on knees and elbows, mentally shrieking curses at him and the shit gods.

Quite a while passed where the air, dense with spiritual flares, seemed to cause the restroom walls to shrink inward.

The two shinigami knelt on the mucky floor, in puddles of water and urine, each coping with their own pain. Only their haggard breathing interrupted the heavy silence, with the man's being rougher while Izumi tried hard to hold hers in. But when she nearly choked on her own breath, she lowered her head and let herself pant. Making some noise was better than dying, anyway.

As she watched her breath cause ripples in the pale yellow puddle, Izumi thought absently that if her jaw wasn't fractured by the end of the week, she'd pay tribute to the gods that so wanted her to suffer, laughing at them in the face for successfully proving them wrong.

That is, if she managed to survive the week.

She felt the warmth of blood flow from her tongue and drip onto the floor, and a vision of Saito stumbling through the doorway late at night, injured, bloody, and sometimes drunk, flashed through her mind's eye. She'd fuss over him every time, but all he would do was shrug it off like being beaten up was the most usual thing in the whole of Soul Society.

Well, for an Eleventh Division recruit, it was the most normal thing.

Izumi could never understand it before, but now, after having gone through beatings by the lieutenant, the Third and Tenth Seats as well as an unseated shinigami who happened to be her partner for the day, she could relate to it quite well.

Enlisting in the Eleventh was really, in a way, begging for death.

In short – Izumi shook her head at her idiocy as the stench of urine finally made itself known to her stunned brain cells – it was a bad, bad idea to begin with. This was clearly no place for a petty housewife.

The first one to recover was the man, and the pressure within the room changed, raising it to a height impossible for any unseated shinigami to achieve in a second. He stood up, forcing his legs not to shake as the abused area still pulsed with a dull ache, and marched over to where Izumi was crouching.

Though his spiritual pressure burned with threats and challenges, she refused to look up at him. It wasn't that she was bowing down to him. Absolutely not. Scared? Yes, but there was no way in hell she was going to submit to someone who had the nerve to punch a woman in the face. Besides, she was still in the midst of ridiculing herself for being an idiot, for kicking the guy in the nuts in the first place. That was the essential ingredient for a death wish.

"That fuckin' hurt, asswipe!" he growled, planting a foot on her shoulder. "I should kill ye."

Izumi grasped his foot but made no motion to remove it. Instead, she returned his glare, though not as menacingly. Hers looked too much like that of an amateur, and he couldn't help but throw his head back with a nasty, condescending laugh. The heat returned to her cheeks, but she tried her utmost best to ignore it by digging her fingernails into his socked feet. Once she caught her breath, she forced out a scoff and, ignoring the sharp sting in her troublesome tongue, said, "Wait till I clean up the washroom…then…then you can kill me."

His laughter was immediately cut off, eyes widening a little at the retort as a wave of surprise took over him at that very instant. They stared at each other, trying hard to drill into the other's soul and figure out just what the other was thinking. Sparks of electricity seemed to form between them, the beginning of an animosity between a senior and his junior.

But, despite the increasing venom within their glares, their efforts weren't as futile as they had first thought. For, after a short while of silence that seemed to pass by like a fleeting zephyr, both of them found something in the other that said more than words ever could.

It felt strange, both to Izumi and her assaulter, but that swift emotion was enough to convince them that continuing the fight wouldn't give rise to any benefits whatsoever.

After making the hard decision of whether or not to kill her right then and there, he scoffed, and removed his foot as he bent over to grab her collar. Expressing little to no effort, he hoisted her to her feet. He was a head taller than she, and Izumi, still holding her aching jaw, blinked up at him in puzzlement.

"...Thanks," she muttered as he turned his back on her and bent down to pick up the mop. She reached for it, feeling a little guilt chewing the back of her heart. "I'll… I'll do it."

He threw the mop over without much hesitation, but even after she caught it he still didn't take his eyes off her. She grimaced, clutching the mop tightly.

"What d'you want now?" She nearly wanted to spit out an unfavourable noun, but decided against it at the last second. Better to keep things the way they were than make them worse.

He rested his forearm on the hilt of his zanpakuto and leaned back against the sink, looking up at the ceiling with a seemingly aloof nature. "Murakami's woman, eh?"

Izumi pursed her lips so tightly that when she released them they were stark white, all colour drained from them. Why was it that people around here kept referring to her as "Saito's woman" or "Murakami's woman?" She had felt the irritation when Madarame first called her that yesterday during the line-up, but had stashed it away in the back of her mind to deal with during a later time. Despite how much she wanted to ignore it though, the "title" kept resurfacing now and again, causing it to become more and more blatant. Ridiculous even.

Everyone had a thread of patience, and Izumi's just snapped when the man raised an eyebrow in expectance after a few seconds of not receiving a reply from her.

"I'm not just Saito's 'woman', I'm his goddamn wife! You're making it sound like I'm his damned whore or something!" Izumi didn't care whether or not she got the tenses mixed up. She didn't give a shit about all that redundancy and, thankfully, the man didn't seem to give a rat's ass either. "Haven't you guys ever heard about something called 'names'? Everyone has a fucking name. I have a name – and it's not 'Saito's woman', goddamn it!"

Another look of surprise fleeted across his otherwise nonchalant expression, and Izumi prided herself in it. But then, he turned his head to face her, dark eyes fiercely boring down into her own. And, when he spoke, his hiss made her swallow a huge lump that had suddenly lodged itself in her throat.

"What's yer name, then?"

All the confidence that had built up during the previous few seconds of her little outburst dissipated into thin air, leaving her an insignificant, defenceless housewife once again. She took a step back as his spiritual pressure flared, effortlessly dwarfing her own.

"What's yer fuckin' name, woman?" he all but bellowed. His voice bounced off the walls of the small toilet, rattling the metal stall doors and shaking Izumi's eardrums right down to their very core. The intensity of his tone sent a rushing wave of shock through her whole body, causing it to tremble against its own will.

Izumi nearly choked on another larger lump in her throat. She forced it down with much difficulty. Her knees started trembling again, buckling under the presence of a much larger spiritual pressure, and her feet wanted so much to turn on their heels and run out the door at that very instant, but she held her ground. She forced herself to. If she couldn't face such a... petty challenge, how could she seek out revenge? If she couldn't hold her own against an unseated shinigami, there was no way in the name of the Seireitei could she face Saito. Not now, not ever.

Gripping her fists so tightly that her knuckles turned bone white, she took a step forward. She held the mop by her side while the other hand came to rest on the base of her zanpakuto's hilt. The prickling sensation sent shivers up her spine, mutely sending her a challenge akin to the one it gave before, when she ran her fingers along its blade for the first time within ages.

And, like before, she accepted it.

A nasty little voice crawled out of the darkness and whispered sinister tricks into her ear, mocking, taunting and degrading, but she resisted. For better or for worse, she still accepted it. There was no way was she going to back down now, not when she had come this far.

"I'm..." Stop shaking, damn it! "I'm…Murakami Izumi!" There you go! She raised the mop and pointed the head at him, almost hearing the echo of her late husband's proud laughter in her ears, lending her his strength and telling her…ordering her not to submit. No, she hadn't come this far just to back down. If this man wanted her to give up and go home, he could keep on dreaming, because there was no goddamn way was she going to run off like a dog with its tail between its skinny, frail legs.

The man stared at her for a moment longer. Then, as if satisfied that she finally found herself, he pushed off from the sink and stood facing her. His left hand rested on his zanpakuto, much like Izumi's, and they appeared to be like mirror images of each other, except for the question of gender. Not meeting her eyes, he prodded the inside of his cheek with his tongue, as if in thought. When she was about to lose her patience and snap at him again, he, much to her confusion, broke out with laughter. It wasn't the mean laughter like moments before, but a more…hearty one instead.

Izumi gritted her teeth, feeling like a fool. "The hell are you laughing at? Who the hell are you?"

His laughter bounced from the walls and flew back at her, and she felt it entering her very body; rumbling through her like a little earthquake. She swallowed, but couldn't deny the tiny part in the darkest corner of her heart that wanted to just join in and laugh along.

When he had calmed down, he allowed himself a grin which showed yellowing teeth and a missing canine, thumbing his nose in a rather playful way.

"Name's Nakanishi Sogen." Faking arrogance with a scoff, he raised a hand and nudged the mop, which hung mere inches away from his face, to the side. "'N' I'm yer damned senior so don't go stickin' mop heads in m'face, kid."

Izumi pursed her lips, wary of the change in his nature, then said hesitantly, "Or correcting your 'haemorrhagegin' thing?"

Surprisingly, Sogen didn't explode with fury at the sound of his mistake being shot back at him yet again, but he didn't really take it that leniently either. His grin vanished, replaced with a yellow grimace, as he jabbed the tip of his index finger into the centre of her forehead roughly enough to make her stumble a few feet backwards.

"Ye do whatever ye want kid, but don't come anywhere near m'haemorrhagegin', 'derstand?" He flung the bucket at her, and when she caught it, the dirty water sloshed over the sides and stained her uniform. "This ain't time t'be playin' games. Get to work, ye hear me?"

With a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other, Izumi obeyed her senior's orders, returning the shove he gave her in the back with a simple nod, but the both of them knew that those minor gestures, however insignificant and overlooked, could possibly symbolize the beginning of a lasting camaraderie.

And as they temporarily parted ways, Sogen to start on the bathroom and Izumi to complete the toilet, a faint feeling of warmth pooled at the bottom of their guts as they recalled the childish scuffle earlier on, unbelievably brought about by something as trivial as a mispronounced word.

As Izumi turned to look at the bloodstained mirror, a red bucket with a broken handle flew right past her nose and crashed into the far wall, followed by a loud and indecent curse from the doorway.

"Wipe that goddamn smile off'a yer face, ye lil' shit!"


Beta-read by: Laerkstrein