His was a world of starched white collars, and bow ties, and emerald necklaces with gems brighter than his eyes. It was a quiet, sterile world, and the child liked it.
The baby was an unnatural presence.
It always cried, the dreadful thing, and Mummy needed it to be quiet for her big dinner party that night.
The child entered the parlor with blood on his hands, on his face. "The baby is quiet now, Mummy," he told her. He prided himself on being honest.
After the funeral, Ulquiorra was sent to the asylum, not knowing what he did wrong.