2:30 a.m.
Something was different, and Hachi could sense it.
He had been sound asleep just a few moments ago, dreaming pleasantly, until a strange sensation ghosted at the edge of his subconscious, like fingertips gliding lightly over skin.
Hachi was a master of kido. In his previous life as lieutenant of the Kido Corps, he had been well-renowned for his mystic abilities. He could perform the highest level kido with only a thought, so much was it a part of his being.
Few soul reapers truly understood kido. Even the ones who could use it skillfully did not fully trust it, choosing rather to use their blades than a force that, to them, might as well have been magic. It was not so with Hachi. To him, kido was a way of life, an extension of his body. A way of interacting with the world.
There were only two others besides himself that Hachi would extend the same regard to as a fellow kido specialist: his former captain and teacher, Tensai, and perhaps the gentle, young woman who was now acting as lieutenant to the despised soul reaper traitor, Aizen.
Hachi's rejection from the Soul Society and new hollow powers that had been forced upon him had not weakened his connection to kido, but strengthened it. Before he built this life for himself in the world of the living, he had already been a master of defensive kido, of creating and maintaining barriers.
That was how he knew the exact moment that little Orihime slipped through the barrier he had erected outside their home at Shinji's request. That was how he knew exactly how significant it was that she was capable of doing this, when no human, let alone soul reaper, vizard, or hollow, should have been able to.
He had a lot to learn about this little human girl. That is, as soon as he could find her and bring her safely back home.
2:54 a.m.
Orihime's legs had brought her far. She was already out of familiar territory, further than she remembered traveling with Mashiro or Kensei on one of their shopping trips or expeditions to bring back food. Further even than she went for school. Her legs didn't know where they were taking her, but something else inside her did. Orihime knew it was the same power that allowed her to detect where the warehouse was hidden, and she trusted its sense of direction.
She continued along the dark streets, staying as close to the buildings as possible. Orihime did not see any other people, and she did not want to encounter any. Any other child Orihime's age would have been terrified at being out at such a late hour, even with the comforting presence of parents nearby. But Orihime had a purpose, and that gave her courage.
The sensation was getting stronger with each step, the feeling of anticipation building up in her chest. She quickened her pace and turned the corner, certain that that was where she would find what she was looking for.
What she found was another row of houses, the street just as deserted as the last. Even the homes looked uninhabited—several of the yards were overgrown, the grass almost reaching her waist and the weeds poking up through the cracks in the concrete. Though all of the houses looked abandoned, there was one house that stood out from the rest in terms of neglect and disrepair. This was the house that Orihime knew she was being led to.
What Orihime did not know, however, but was beginning to suspect, was that this house had a peculiar and violent history. Five years ago, a middle-aged couple had bought the house and moved in from out of town, bringing their teenaged son and infant daughter with them. The family had only occupied the house for a few days before they were mysteriously and brutally murdered.
By ghosts, she heard Taro whisper in her head.
But Orihime had no way of knowing for sure that this house was the same one she had been told about. She had no way of knowing if any of the things Taro had told her that day were true.
Besides, Orihime told herself, she was too old to believe in ghost stories.
She willed herself to take a step further, and then a step after that, until she was standing in front of the tiny metal gate. It looked like it had been delicately wrought, the arch fashioned to look like ivy entwined with tiny roses, and Orihime could imagine that at one point it had been quite lovely. But now, parts of it had crumbled or been torn off, and rust grew in the wounds. It, along with the house it guarded, truly looked like it belonged to a family of ghosts.
Orihime pushed it forward easily—it was unlatched. She followed the walkway up to the house, passing a weathered looking "For Sale" sign protruding out of the overgrown lawn.
She gently placed her foot on the lowest step leading up to the front door, expecting it to creak. But it kept its silence and she took another step until she was standing in front of the door.
This is it, Orihime thought. This is the last chance I have to turn around. She could easily picture herself cocooned in her bed in the safety of her room with her family just down the hall.
But she reached out and lightly pressed against the door. It was unlatched, just as the gate had been, and swung open easily.
Orihime stepped inside, expecting to see bloodstains on the floor and deep gashes in the wall. She saw none of this, no signs of any kind of scuffle. The house looked as if it had been well taken care of before it had been abandoned. Dust covered every surface in sight—there was no way anyone had entered the house in several years. Orihime was tempted to call out but decided against it.
The glare from the streetlight extended into the entranceway, but Orihime pulled out the flashlight she had grabbed just before she left, congratulating herself on her good sense. Looking at it reminded her of her family sitting in a circle telling stories. She had thought about waking them just before she left, but knew they would never have let her go. Flashlight gripped tightly in her hands, she headed up the stairs.
She went in the first room she saw, where the door was flung wide open. The room was bare except for a few basic furnishings—a bed, desk, and bookshelf. There were few personal artifacts in the room—a few books on the bookshelf, a button-up shirt strewn over the headboard. Orihime looked around the room curiously, trying to shake the feeling that she had been in here before. She decided to leave and look in the next room.
The door to the next room was shut and Orihime opened it carefully and stepped in, looking around. Based on the crib pushed up against the corner, she guessed that whoever lived here last must have had a baby. She wondered what had happened to it. If this truly was the house that Taro mentioned, then the little infant girl had gone missing and could still be alive.
No, Orihime thought. If half of what Taro had said was true, there should have been some evidence of an altercation, some sign of a fight—and she had found none. This was a normal house, and had probably had just been abandoned for a better home. There was nothing strange about it, she told herself, almost believing it. Her senses had led her here, but now they were being frustratingly silent and she wanted nothing more than to go home. Orihime turned to exit the room, inwardly scolding herself for thinking she would find something here.
The door slammed in her face.
3:01 a.m.
It was three in the morning, it was raining, and Jiro wanted to go home.
He was working at a convenience store, just a mile down the road from where a little girl was exploring an old abandoned house by herself. She had passed the store on her way, but Jiro hadn't noticed. Even if he had looked up from the magazine he was lazily flipping through, he wouldn't have been able to see her through the thick downpour.
He sighed, bored. He hadn't had any customers for the last hour and a half. And even they had been dull, refusing to respond to his friendly attempts at conversation in an effort to keep the monotony of working the nightshift at bay. He almost welcomed the rowdier customers then—as long as they weren't too rowdy—because their liveliness brought at least a little bit of energy to the store.
He flipped another page. Just like with the girl, even if he had looked up at that moment, he wouldn't have seen the dark silhouettes flitting by so fast, it was as if they were flying. He wouldn't have seen that all the shapes—eight of them, in fact—were carrying swords, and that one of them was as big as at least four grown men put together while another was only slightly bigger than the girl he hadn't noticed earlier.
Instead, he turned to the next page, sighing. It was going to be such a boring night.