Ichigo's day had not started out as a disaster.
It hadn't started out great, to be fair. Aizen had insisted on a meeting with everyone. And for some godforsaken reason that included him. Ichigo had started his morning by walking downtown, entering the slick law firm that doubled as Aizen's headquarters. His school unform was tucked into his backpack. He had learned from experience that everyone at the meeting would give him shit if he walked in wearing it. The men that worked for Aizen sometimes forgot that he was only eighteen, and the reminder was sure to set them off.
You like your curry spicy right? Really spicy? Really really spicy?
He reread the text and resisted the urge to smile as the elevator took him to very top of the building. He couldn't just cut the whole day. Orihime had cooked for him. The gesture was achingly, unbearably sweet. No matter how many times she did it, Ichigo's heart would almost explode when she pushed a lunchbox into his hands. Between Orihime and Yuzu, Ichigo barely skipped meals anymore. He didn't deserve them, these young women who expressed their love for him through food.
Not love. He mentally corrected himself as a secretary waved him through to Aizen's office. It was presumptuous to hope that Orihime loved him, that her kindness was an expression of love. Orihime's kindness was merely an expression of her being Orihime. It was easy for her, instinctive. She was kind in a way Ichigo had previously assumed did not exist in real life. Through some miracle he had simply gained enough proximity to benefit from her good heart.
The office was large, sleek. Tall windows lining the walls, an imposing mahogany desk and overstuffed leather chairs. It was the office of a very successful lawyer, or – more accurately – a mildly successful criminal. Aizen, he learned, had found his law degree more useful as a cover than a profession. Still, there was something academic in him. In the ruthless, dispassionate way he made decisions and gave orders. It was part of what made him dangerous.
Everyone else was already there, chatting in low voices among themselves. A dozen or so men, most of them at least ten years older than Ichigo. Their attire ranged from designer suits to hoodies and track pants, but everyone bore a unifying mark; a simple and striking tattoo of a raven, wings spanning from collarbone to adam's apple. Ichigo alone had resisted this branding, and he would sometimes see Aizen's eyes linger on the blank skin of his neck with distaste.
The man himself was seated behind the desk, tall, broad, immaculately styled. It was almost repulsive how clean-cut and trustworthy he looked. Aizen cleared his throat and the chatter died down. As everyone settled into seats around the desk Ichigo found a spot against the wall to lean on. He did not want to be here long. Perhaps Aizen sensed this because he said "Don't fret Kurosaki. We'll have you out of here in time for Algebra. Would you like a note for your teacher?"
The others snickered, and Ichigo did his best not to let the annoyance cross over his face. At least half of Aizen's associates were the type to take an eye roll as a personal offense, and pure dumb machismo usually took over from there. It wouldn't be the first time he'd gotten into a fight with someone in this room. Hell, as long as no one pulled a gun it was scarcely a challenge. But he couldn't do it this morning. Orihime was waiting for him.
The meeting started. Predictably, news was mostly bad. A new chief of police had been appointed, Inspector Rukia, and attempts to get her on the gang payroll were proving unsuccessful. Aizen liked to have high-ranking law enforcement in his pocket, but this had become more difficult in recent months. The city of Karakura was thriving under its new mayor, Byakuya Kuchiki, a stern-faced but undeniably effective elected official. There was less desperation on the streets. Fewer cops willing to take bribes, fewer addicts willing to borrow money from loan sharks like them.
Aizen's casinos and strip clubs were seeing dips in business for the first time. His drug shipments were failing to find local distributors. Vice in all its forms was on the decline and the city was rejecting Aizen like an invading virus. Even his own gang was beginning to grow sparse. Word was that Nnoitra – conspicuously absent today – had skipped town a few weeks earlier. The remaining members were a strange mixture of loyal followers, criminals blackmailed into submission, and saps with no marketable skills who needed the money.
As Aizen went through the laundry list of problems the mood in the room tensed. Ichigo could see gruff-looking men folding their arms and making displeased eye contact with each other. No doubt they were beginning to doubt Aizen, sniffing around for any weakness in him.
But Aizen smiled, all charm and relaxed confidence. "Of course, some of these reports are worrying. You may be forgiven for thinking that we are on the decline." His eyes hardened in a way that made it clear you would not be forgiven for thinking this. "That is not how I do business. In fact, this strikes me as an excellent opportunity. Sure, low petty crime may be disappearing, but we have been outgrowing that kind of work for years. I'm no longer interested in feeding the baser impulses of the public. I have set my sights much higher gentlemen."
With that, Aizen picked up the phone on his desk "Bring it in darling."
The receptionist – a slight looking girl with dark hair and large eyes – walked in carrying a briefcase that looked far too large and heavy for her. Ichigo swallowed back his instinct to help, instead watching as she set the case down in the middle of the room.
"Thank you Momo, that'll be all." Aizen said, getting up from his desk and waving her away. She gave him a quick nod and a small, admiring smile before she left.
"For too long," Aizen began, "we have been dependent on the underbelly of this city to make a profit." He made his way to the center of the room, "But there are other cities. Places with more established criminal networks, and more fierce gang rivalries…" Aizen began unlatching the suitcase. "There is one thing these gangs need, one thing they can never get enough of." He lifted the lid, and everyone peered in.
Guns. Military style machine guns.
"Gentlemen, I propose that we feed a much hungrier underbelly."
The men exchanged looks, some pleased, some apprehensive.
"We have established some very promising contacts. In Tokyo, in Osaka. Make no mistake, the buyers are willing, and the rewards are plenty." Aizen scanned the room with an alert, piercing gaze. "Of course, bigger fish means greater risk. You may even be asking yourselves if it's time to jump ship." His eyes seemed to settle on Ichigo for the smallest fraction of a second. "Make no mistake. I am very invested in keeping each and every one of you in the organization. I think you will find me very convincing."
The meeting wrapped up shortly after this speech. Everyone filtered out slowly, each man seemingly lost in his thoughts. Ichigo was no exception, his head was so loud he barely heard Aizen call out behind him, "Kurosaki, stay behind a moment."
Reluctantly, Ichigo turned to face him as the room emptied. Momo closed the door, leaving them alone. Aizen had settled back into his desk, and he beckoned Ichigo to sit before him. "Kurosaki. What do you think of my little plan?" His voice was light, conversational, as if he and Ichigo were friends or business partners.
Ichigo shrugged, feeling as if Aizen were setting him up for a trap. "I think you'll make a lot of money." He said simply.
Aizen nodded, smiling at him almost warmly. "We'll make a lot of money. You think I don't notice how well you've served me these past years? You are good at this life Kurosaki. I can't say the same for everyone I've employed."
Ichigo did not respond. Agreement would commit him to a future within the organization, but dissent rarely went unpunished. Better to stay silent and let Aizen get to the point.
Aizen did not seem bothered by his lack of reaction. "Yes," he continued, "I can't say the same for everyone I've employed. Take Nnoitra for example. He was just a kid when I found him – a bit like you actually. I always liked him. Followed orders. Could take a punch like a brick wall. I always thought he would rise through the ranks for years to come." Aizen sighed, shaking his head like a disapproving parent. "And then I send him to pick up a shipment across town. A substantial shipment of opioids from America. A few hours pass and he doesn't get back to me. I send someone else and they tell me the drugs are gone from the warehouse – and Nnoitra is nowhere to be found."
Aizen continued shaking his head as he retrieved an envelope from his desk drawer, pulled out several pictures and began laying them across his desk for Ichigo to see. "Poor kid. Thought he could sell my drugs, use the money to make a life for himself in some other town."
The pictures were grainy but unmistakable. Nnoitra, lying on the pavement somewhere. Blood pooling around his head. His long skinny body crumpled into unnatural angles like a misshapen doll. The images made nausea rise in his stomach, but Ichigo kept his face frozen, calm.
"It's funny," Aizen said, and his smile was indulgent, "people who turn their backs on me never seem to make it more than a step or two away. I'm glad we don't have this problem, Ichigo. You're my best attack dog. It would be a shame to put you down. Especially now when your future is looking so bright."
Ichigo wanted to rip the smile right off Aizen's face. Instead he said "You need me for anything today?"
Aizen collected the pictures, taking his time to arrange them back in the envelope before answering. "Just a small thing. I received a report that some rival gang members are skulking around the warehouse. Gin's men I imagine. We can't have them seeing the new gun shipments. Swing by there on your way to school. Scare off anyone you find."
This was all the invitation Ichigo needed to rise out of his seat with a curt nod. He could feel Aizen's eyes on him as he walked away. His hand was on the door handle when Aizen spoke again.
"You know there is one thing that brings me some comfort Ichigo." Aizen's voice was soft but very clear in the quiet room. "About the whole Nnoitra business. I think to myself, at least he was alone. The kid had no family. No adorable sisters depending on him. Not even a little girlfriend who would miss studying in the park with him. A mercy. Don't you agree?"
Ichigo stood very, very still for a moment, his hand remaining on the doorknob. He wanted to leap across the room and kill Aizen with his bare hands. Neutralize the threat to his sisters. Neutralize the threat to Orihime. But this was only bait. He could not let Aizen know how deeply vulnerable he was to the idea of his loved ones being harmed. He opened the door and left without another word.
As he walked to the warehouse, Ichigo's thoughts raced. He thought of how stupid it had been of him to associate publicly with Orihime. Of course Aizen would have had someone tail him. He would need to be more vigilant in the future, avoid going out with her while they were being watched. Aizen had to believe that she was nothing to him – someone not even worth threatening. His determination to protect her from Aizen's attention burned white hot in his stomach, and the impossibility of the task felt secondary. He would find a way to do it.
The warehouse was nondescript, a weathered building that sat at the edge of the docks downtown. Aizen liked to ship smuggled goods here, store them until he found a distributor. Usually drugs, but sometimes stolen electronics or counterfeit money. One time Ichigo had been there when a truck full of exotic animals had pulled up, tigers and leopards that Aizen sold to some rich creeps.
Occasionally, members of rival gangs would linger around, trying to pilfer some merchandise or information. With the new gun business in its early stages, it was obvious why Aizen was extra paranoid. Ichigo walked the perimeter of the warehouse quietly, keeping an eye out for movement. The morning was clear and still, serenely quiet. The ocean was an undisturbed sheet of blue stretching into the horizon. Ichigo tried not to think about Nnoitra, how he made one last trip to this warehouse before it all came crashing down.
Ichigo finished his lap of the building with nothing to report. He was about to leave when he caught the slightest movement in the corner of his eye. A flash of blue that was wholly distinct from the ocean.
And then Grimmjow was upon him.
Grimmjow was new to Karakura. Ichigo had seen him trailing around with Gin's gang for a few months now. He was strong and solid, with a slightly feline face that made him look mean and clever. Gin was a drug kingpin who liked to collect new members from local underground fight clubs. No doubt this was where Grimmjow had been recruited. The first time Ichigo had seen the man he had guessed immediately that he would be an aggressive rival. But he had never had the opportunity to fight him.
Until now.
Grimmjow had him on the ground in moments, a wild grin on his face. In the fraction of a second it took him to orient himself, Grimmjow had grabbed hold of Ichigo's hair and cracked his head onto the pavement with a sickening force. Ichigo slipped away from the other man's grasp just in time to avoid another blow, getting to his feet and taking a few steps away, blinking as his head spun. Grimmjow scrambled up and ran to him, swinging his fist.
Ichigo dodged the punch easily enough, causing Grimmjow to lose his balance and careen into a wall. Undeterred, he bounced back with blow that found Ichigo's ribs. And so began their wild, chaotic fight.
He had never met an opponent like this before. Ichigo was faster, but Grimmjow was stronger and had seemingly no regard for his own wellbeing. He pounced on Ichigo again and again, leaving himself wide open to be punched, kicked, elbowed. No matter how much punishment Ichigo inflicted, Grimmjow came back scratching, clawing, biting. Twice, Ichigo felt the edges of his vision darkening as Grimmjow's hands squeezed his throat. Each time he forced him off by grabbing a handful of blue hair and wrenching Grimmjow's head violently to the pavement, causing Grimmjow to growl in a kind of animalistic indignation.
The cycle continued for what felt like hours, both of them accumulating injuries at a reckless, frantic pace. When Ichigo landed a solid kick to Grimmjow's head he was sure the force would knock him out cold. Instead, Grimmjow took a few unsteady steps back and tackled into him like a footballer, driving his skull into Ichigo's stomach and lifting him off his feet for several breathless moments.
They landed on the ground together, and Ichigo used the momentum of their fall to pin Grimmjow down. There was still a wild, unsettled grin on the man's face. Something about this expression – the carnal unbridled delight of it – caused pure icy dread to settle in Ichigo's stomach. Ichigo could win this fight – he knew this – but he was utterly convinced that he would have to kill Grimmjow to do it.
Perhaps Grimmjow sensed this. His grin relaxed a fraction, he looked up at Ichigo with clear open eyes and said, "This has been fun. Let's play again soon." Grimmjow hurled Ichigo off him with what must have been his last remaining strength and did the most unexpected thing of all.
He ran away.
It was not a frightened run, more like the run of a child who had been called in by their parent for dinner. Ichigo watched him go, feeling a mixture of relief and dissatisfaction. They would face off again. This was not over.
He dragged himself to a sitting position and took stock of his body. It had been a nasty fight, with little room for self-preservation. The force of being pushed into pavement again and again had left scrapes and cuts all over him. His throat ached when he swallowed, and Ichigo could almost feel the finger marks darkening on his neck. His ribs stung sharply on the inhale. Sore but not quite broken – a stroke of luck. His hands felt raw and tender, and his head was…heavy. Very heavy. His eyes as well. Ichigo let himself lie back and close his lids. Just for a moment.
Hours later he woke from the cold. It was raining violently, and he was so cold it hurt. He had no sense of the hour, and for a crazy moment he actually wondered if he might make it to school in time. But the sky was dark. He had slept through the day.
Ichigo knew from experience that his brain – bashed repeatedly against his skull – had taken him out of consciousness as an act of last-ditch protection. Still, the lost hours unsettled him. He vaguely recalled that there were things he had intended to do with those hours.
Orihime. Orihime had been expecting him.
Ichigo got up slowly, trying to orient himself. No sound of traffic from the road in the distance, scarcely any lights on the horizon. It was late, probably past midnight. He looked around – meaning to gather his things and leave – but there wasn't much to gather. Ichigo's backpack had been thrown to the ground early on, its contents scattered and waterlogged. He didn't care much for his school things but was disheartened to see that his phone was just an assortment of broken glass and plastic. He couldn't call her. He couldn't let her know he was ok.
Maybe she isn't worried about me. A small, hopeful voice posited in the back of his head.
Ichigo wanted to believe this, but he couldn't. He thought about Orihime – the warm intensity with which she fussed over everyone in her life – and knew that she would be worried. She had likely been worried for hours already.
The thought was unbearable. Somehow more acutely painful than any cut or bruise he had taken today. And so, Ichigo brushed himself off and headed to her house. His feet carried him there with little input from his conscious mind. Ichigo simply needed to see her. If he saw her, he could neutralize her worry. He could make this right.