When Gin walks by the Second Division's headquarters he widens his smile unnervingly at the ever-attempting-to-be-stoic secret ops who happen to have business in the area. He smiles because he can't help but wonder what his own file says. He has no illusions that his public and probably much of his private life is enumerated and sequestered somewhere in a dusty store room. Sometimes he is almost curious enough to employ his own means to obtain it, for curiosity's sake. But it seems such a bother as he can guess what was inside. And none of it is very interesting compared to what they missed.
But on a very rare occasion a member of his division is removed quietly, black clad stony men appearing and disappearing, soundless except for the rustle of the proper papers of release to be signed. Then Gin signs happily with strokes deliberate, knowing full well the inescapable grasp that is the maggot's nest. The slow death that is somehow more merciful than a deep pit of killing stone. Yes, on those occasions he wonders if once upon a time his own papers had ever crossed Captain Aizen's desk.
Papers and memory then softly obliterated by benevolent mirrors and fog.
Gin smiles because he knows he is on borrowed time he'll never give back.