Resonance in Monotone
Isolation
I
Written by Dragenruler
Perched atop the lower rooftop of a residential development, Hisana surrendered herself to the captivating spectacle of the morning. Nature's harmonious serenity intertwined seamlessly with the discordant screech of the city, creating an enthralling symphony that enveloped her senses. The world, in its ceaseless dance, unfolded before her eyes.
It was an unpredictable rhythm of life's ebb and flow, reaching just beyond her fingertips. Her foot mimicked the pulse of this intricate ballet, drumming to the beat of the chaotic yet mesmerizing cadence.
In Tokyo, the morning rush embodied the essence of life's delicate balance between tranquillity and chaos, and Hisana was determined to capture this ephemeral masterpiece. Driven by an insatiable thirst for a rush that made her feel alive, she had stealthily ascended the structure,
And now embraced in the morning's melody, Hisana surrendered to the caress of the wind, its whispers brushing away the last traces of sleep from her eyes, her tresses pirouetting across her forehead.
With the first light of dawn stretching across the horizon, coaxing the threads of night to unravel, the sky transformed into a symphony of misty coppers and fiery crimsons. Golden rays breathed life into her, illuminating every crevice of the world, granting her the liberating gift of freedom.
This stunning sight beckoned her with a rebellious opportunity—one she couldn't ignore.
The thrill of trespassing sent adrenaline coursing through her veins. The audacity of her actions only intensified the exhilaration. Something pushed her forward, urging her to confront the small boundaries set before her, and enter a world beyond them.
A deep sigh escaped her lips, permitting the morning light to slip through the cracks of her carefully constructed walls. An ache bloomed deep within, and she suppressed a silent cry, the weight of her emotions threatening to overwhelm her.
Perhaps, in the rush of excitement, she sought solace, hoping to cleanse herself of the remnants of the past—of herself—and emerge anew, akin to the birth of dawn.
Since her youth, Hisana had found solace in the strokes of her brush and the lines of her pencil. Art had been her outlet, allowing her to unravel the knots of her soul. But even within the confines of artistic expression, she found herself entangled in a constant battle. Each stroke, each line, seemed to echo her inner struggles, mirroring the relentless shifts within her.
And photography? It provided an escape for her since her move to Tokyo—a gateway to a world of calculated risks and momentary respite. Slowly but surely, she pushed against the boundaries. Yet, the constraints continued to cling to her like an unwelcome companion.
The sharp sting inside her cheek jolted her from her thoughts, the bite a silent warning compelling her into action.
Her fingers moved with purpose, adjusting the camera's settings with practiced precision. Light and shadow merged through the lens, capturing the intricate dance of the colours of dawn painting the sky. A smile bloomed across her face, mirroring the innocent glee of a young girl.
With swift expertise, she worked, and the camera clicked, freezing the moment, and encapsulating the atmosphere.
Spanning her camera downwards, her gaze suddenly intensified, and her focused sharpened. She zeroed in on what would be an obscured alley if she wasn't only a few levels up. The shadows, once amorphous and indistinct, now revealed clandestine movements and whispered secrets.
The air thickened with tension as four shadowy forms slithered through the alley, their movements stealthy and clandestine. Their silent conversation blended with the morning hum, creating an eerie soundtrack to the unfolding drama—until it shattered. A bow of submission from one of the four shadows marked the turning point, a display of defeat that sent shivers down Hisana's spine.
Her grip tightened around the camera, and her heart pounded against her ribcage as if demanding release. The atmosphere crackled with unspoken animosity, yet amidst the chaos, a new figure emerged, commanding attention. His aura exuded nobility and authority, each step resonating with purpose. His presence engulfed the scene, eclipsing everyone else and ensnaring Hisana in a trance.
Hisana's fingers trembled against the camera, capturing not just his image but his essence. Waves of his fury washed over her; its display inconspicuous but unmistakable, like the dance of lethal blades amidst the swirling petals of cherry blossoms, it whispered of an imminent storm; a breathtaking spectacle to come, laced with danger.
The thought engulfed her. It warmed her from within before blooming into a wanton ache, ardent with hunger, devouring even the darkest corners of her thoughts.
"Yakuza…" Her voice emerged as a featherlight murmur, ringing hollow against the roaring of her heart. She hurried into a crouched position, her attention torn between his figure and the ongoing struggle of the four men in front of him, where the underling with bright red hair and tattoos animatedly exchanged profanities.
The escalation was sudden, but expected, and a violent struggle erupted between him and the defeated man. Bodies intertwined, locked in a fierce confrontation, their movements blurred as they traded punishing blows, staining the concrete with crimson. The man with the red hair was relentless in his strikes, reducing his opponent to a defeated puppet sprawled in a heap. His pained groans melded with the city sounds, forming a morbid melody.
In a fluid motion, her finger flicked, capturing the scene permanently within her memory and the viewfinder. Common sense urged her to leave, but still embroiled with recklessness, Hisana remained rooted to the spot. She was unwilling to untangle herself from the sudden raw reality of Tokyo's underbelly.
Radiating a beacon-like glow, the ember of his cigarette burned as he inhaled, guiding her gaze back to him. With a flick of his wrist, he discarded it, and a veil of smoke curled around him, forming an intoxicating shroud. The acrid scent of tobacco lingered before seeping into every breath she took.
"More." Her voice sounded unfamiliar, a distorted echo of her usual tone. The ache in her belly became overwhelming, leaving her trembling with unfamiliar sensations that danced along her nerves. The camera shook in her grasp, yet she clung to it, capturing not just a shifting moment but a piece of an enigmatic puzzle that had woven itself into her morning.
During the chaos, a profound stillness enveloped Hisana, defying the laws of probability into a collision of his power and her vulnerability, listening to her silent mantra, "Look at me."
With a titled head, his eyes locked onto her, connecting them forever. A blush painted her skin in vivid hues, ignited by the electrifying current that coursed through their gazes. It spread like a blazing inferno, and scorched her heart. The pull felt inexplicable, defying any reason from her, and pulled her in like a moth bewitched by his flame. She was ensnared.
In the briefest moment when he relinquished her gaze, her body stiffened. Her clammy hands betrayed her, and the camera slipped through her grasp, crashing to the ground in a jarring symphony of silence, scattering like confetti upon impact.
The sudden hush that fell over the alley became harrowing, each second stretching endlessly. But amidst the suffocating stillness, the stormy depths of his gaze drew her back. With narrowed eyes, coupled with a furrowed brow, he commanded his underlings to ignore her presence.
Reluctantly, the underling with red hair yielded, his mutterings incomprehensible as the focus shifted to the bruised man, now forced into a submissive posture by the collective effort of the others.
However, it all faded into the periphery of her consciousness, her gaze fixated solely on his eyes. Within their possession, she found herself adrift in a boundless grey ocean, consumed by the currents of warmth that coursed through her veins. A subtle hint of metal teased her palate, intensifying the sensations within her, her breath uneven.
His lips, thin and pale, curved into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile, hinting towards a secret unknown to her. Her heartbeat was relentless until the explosive eruption of a gunshot shattered their connection, yanking her back into reality.
Like a ragdoll, the kneeling man collapsed onto the ground, his blood seeping into the cracks of the concrete, pooling, and intertwining. The firearm was undeniable in his hand, a silent proclamation of his identity.
Immediately, Hisana recoiled, scrambling away on all fours, trying to put as much distance between herself and him as possible. Her hands shook uncontrollably, glistening tears welled up in the corners of her eyes as she fumbled to gather her belongings.
She needed to gain control of herself.
…yet.
Something tugged at her, an impulse that defied understanding - an innate instinct that propelled her back. Each step wavered, betraying her, and she followed, despite herself.
And there he waited; a storm raging beneath his calm façade, bidding her an indifferent farewell before handing the gun to the man with red hair and tattoos. Each motion was a display of control. Gunfire still thundered in her ears, challenging everything she knew. Her breath was heavy, and with jittery legs, Hisana propelled herself away, releasing herself back into reality.
She fled, desperate to escape.
However, she couldn't; the memory of his gaze haunted her, seared into her skin and subconscious. It was a reminder of something that defied reason, leaving her torn between the pull of something unknown and the harsh reality she desperately clung to.
Since that moment on the rooftop, her nerves teetered on the edge of a precipice, a precarious balance between paranoia and obsession, compelling her into a self-imposed prison within her apartment. Time itself had slowed into a crawl. Each creak from the outside world echoing like distant gunfire, winding around her stomach like a coiling knot.
The walls, once her sanctuary, now mirrored the barriers she erected in her mind.
However, only in the safety of her home did the weight of her fear slither through her consciousness, unearthing suppressed emotions. He was to blame – all of it. The web of violence he spun ensnared her in a spectacle of murder, offering her only further entrapment.
Just like – No.
A shudder rippled along her spine; his lingering gaze etched deep within her, a turbulent storm of grey snaring her in its unyielding grip. Her thoughts shifted between resolute determination and gnawing self-doubt, chaining her in a prison where doubt whispered against the walls and truth eroded her skin.
In the seclusion, Hisana clung to the illusion of safety, yet the barren shelves in her kitchen echoed the emptiness within. A silent plea resonated with her growling stomach, forcing her to venture out for groceries. Concealed beneath a surgical mask and a low-brimmed cap, she stepped into the world outside.
Every creak and rustle reverberated through her; the faintest shuffle of feet made her heart skip a beat. Darting into the closest supermarket, her steps quickened with urgency. Her fingers trembled as she clutched the basket, knuckles turning white under the strain. The sharp scent of disinfectant hung in the air, the hum of refrigerators a low, persistent buzz adding to her unease.
Darting through the aisles, her eyes scanned the faces, searching for danger. She snatched a handful of vegetables, quality an afterthought, and dumped them into her basket. Every passing second sent shivers down her spine.
His gaze, a haunting enigma, defied logic, and reason, weaving around her like an invisible thread that tugged at her senses. Each breath tightened into a constricting knot in her throat. The urge to look over her shoulder became unbearable, as if by doing so, she could summon him from her imagination.
Suddenly, a stillness overcame Hisana as she pretended to be engrossed in an item on the shelf. She clutched an object absentmindedly. Her mind consumed by memories of stormy eyes when fragments of his face emerged and dissolved like whisps of cigarette smoke. The smell of it wafting through the air.
Summoning her courage, she flickered her gaze beyond the safety of her surroundings.
Closer and closer, a figure crept from the distance, bridging the gap between them until a pair of shoes invaded her line of sight, holding her captive and motionless. But it wasn't just the feeling of confinement that bothered her, she realised.
No, it was the profound warmth that washed over her, engulfing her like a blazing inferno. Her blood surged with newfound vitality, burning with each flutter of her heartbeat, and setting her core aflame.
She tried to reassure herself, but her body rebelled, sinews taut like a bowstring. Reality's icy fingers pierced her consciousness, sending a shiver down her spine as it peeled away the layers of her thoughts, exposing the depths beneath her lies and hidden truths.
His memory had etched itself deep within her. It cast a shadow over her, and now she was certain of his presence. Yet, she felt powerless to lock eyes with him.
"But it is…" The words escaped her thoughts, carrying an uncanny familiarity. They were her own. Ripples of warmth cascaded from her core, each throb beckoning her toward uncharted territory where his eyes lured her, promising an existence of freedom and control. Every fibre of her being yearned to answer it.
Oh… Oh no.
The revelation struck with the force of a thousand waves, relentlessly scraping away at the solid foundation she had built over the years. Brick by brick, it tumbled, leaving her feeling exposed. Her eyes widened, but the weight of it still held her captive, preventing her from mustering the courage to meet the gaze of the person beside her with a smile. The man, unaware of her turmoil, began to drift away, navigating toward the next aisle, leaving her behind. The stinging smell of cigarettes faded.
Her fingers clenched around the item, the dampness on her hands now a bittersweet reminder of her vulnerability. She shook her head, attempting to regain control. Tucking the item into her basket, she concealed it among the groceries.
Navigating the aisles, he beckoned, enticing her to steal a glance back and confirm her suspicions. She refused, remaining steadfast, her gaze fixated ahead. Hisana tried to anchor herself, each breath deeper than the one before.
Her steps quickened. The world around her blurred into a hazy tableau of faces and sounds, a reminder of her reality. She loaded her arms with groceries, wanting to portray normalcy, but her heart drummed in her chest. In a flurry of movement, she burst out of the store. The wind whipped through her hair, as if discouraging her flight and trying to push her back. Despite the fear, a strange sense of defiance swelled within her.
The barren cabinets stood empty, untouched witnesses to her consuming thoughts in the days that followed. Her kitchenette transformed into a shrine of neglect—bags of groceries forgotten, fresh produce on the verge of spoilage, and her stomach's rumblings relegated to background noise.
Eating seemed impossible when she was being devoured from within, leaving no room for mundane activities.
The weight became unbearable. Her fingers danced across the canvas, trails of charcoal marking its surface. A fervour guided her hands, a trance-like state stripping her heart bare, and the rawness pulsated with each beat, unveiling the shadows of her darkest thoughts. Yet in this exposure, a peculiar calm settled over her—an unsettling tranquillity born from the unravelling of long-suppressed emotions.
It was wrong…
So wrong. The reason for it stained her hands, the chalky texture etched onto her skin. Her fingers pleaded for respite, exhausted from the relentless grip of artistic pursuits. Hours took their toll, leaving her hands trembling and the fatigue seeped through the very core of her being.
Her eyes strained. Hisana traced lithe figures, finding solace in inhales and exhales. Calm, yet her heart refused to be tamed, beating like a caged bird desperate to break free. Sketches spiralled into desires. Familiar yet unfamiliar, ambiguity shrouded them. She shaded and defined their curves, an ache heavy within her.
Charcoal danced, weaving a tapestry of emotions across paper. Each stroke a glimpse into her soul. In the figures, she freely existed, tension leaping off the page. Their bodies spoke a language words couldn't; wanton and intimate, they unfolded in front of her in climax.
Unable to resist, she succumbed to her weakness, sinking teeth into her cheeks as a rush of warmth spread through her until a sudden crack shattered the concentrated silence. In the next moment, Hisana sought the broken charcoal beneath her bedsheets, leaving behind a trail of black marks.
In the dimly lit kitchenette, Hisana had her phone nestled between her ear and shoulder, her fingers deftly directing a sharp blade, slicing through an onion. The pungent stench stung her eyes, making her stomach grumble and demand sustenance after her bout of neglect over the past few weeks. Clothes that used to sit snug were slack against her figure. Mixing the ingredients, her hand bumped the portable hob, eliciting a twitch in her shoulders at the sudden collision. Soon, the kitchen came alive with the aroma of crisping vegetables, but her gaze remained downcast.
"Things haven't exactly turned out the way I imagined," She admitted, her voice only pouring vague fragments of reality through the phone, "Perhaps I need to reconsider and move back?"
Her voice felt like a haunting echo of a former self, but only three weeks had slipped by since that fateful morning. Time seemed to tickle at her senses, defying her with progression while she struggled to hold any concept of it. Her sense of self became ephemeral.
The etchings and portraits were sprawled across her futon, and under the low light, figures spun a vivid tale of desire. The weight of their eyes and limbs bore down on her, their hunger relentless as they collided, devouring each other – a silent plea for her to continue her dance with fragmented emotions akin to theirs. All of it – rooted in her own obsession. But she couldn't continue to surrender to it.
Their frenzied figures, etched in charcoal and acrylic, intertwined on canvas, calling out to her with silent pleas for attention. Now only reduced to a mere memory, it still kindled something within her. His eyes, she recalled every detail, possessed a mesmerising shade of grey, akin to an emerging storm that bore into her soul with thunderous authority. Somehow, Hisana convinced herself of her mental stability, citing her increased ventures outside her apartment and her return to work as signs of normalcy.
"Do you intend to return to the clinic? You'd always be welcome, but is it really what you want?" Rukia's question hung in the air, gentle yet probing. Biting the inside of her cheeks, Hisana's lip trembled, her voice somewhat raw, "I-," she wavered, "I feel like a stranger." Her pause lingered longer than intended, before Hisana quickly added, "It's like I abandoned you."
The room held its breath, the air thick with unspoken emotions, as an unsettling truth gnawed at Hisana from the depths of her conscience. It wasn't a lie. A sense of neglect towards her sister had nestled within her since she moved to Tokyo, only because her entire adult life had been defined by the role of caregiver. Rukia was always her priority. Focusing on herself felt foreign – wrong even, for someone so inherently wretched.
Amid the heavy silence, the pan sizzled; her gaze locked on the crackling moisture.
"Hisana, you deserve happiness and a life of your own," Rukia's words held a delicate yet unwavering conviction, demanding introspection, and an honest confrontation with the truths Hisana had long evaded. However, as Rukia knew all too well, such sentiments often led to arguments.
"Have you been trying what I recommended?" The question lingered, a reminder of the support Rukia also offered, even during their disagreements.
"Yes," The lie slipped from her lips almost instinctively, a primal reaction driven by the overwhelming need to shield her sister from the burdens of her harsh reality. Despite their deep love for each other, and Hisana's relentless efforts to raise Rukia, their lives had been fraught with challenges of a child raising a child.
An ache gripped Hisana, her own mantra of blame echoing since the tragedy. Rukia suffered, and in her own eyes, she was underserving because of it. Which meant that there was only one certainty in her life: her sister. Hisana would sacrifice all. But now, alone, the weight of her memories became a suffocating weight, invading her mind, she replayed moments she yearned to forget.
"Continue being consistent. Something will come," Rukia's words stung like a soft touch on a raw wound, "Are you using the website and keeping it updated?"
Closing her eyes, Hisana swallowed the lump that had settled in her throat before murmuring a response, her voice low and obscured as the chicken sizzled in the pan. The tantalizing aroma of the saucy mixture filled the air, but there was no comfort in the familiar dish – one of Rukia's favourites.
"If you say it one more time, but with feeling, then I might believe you, Sis," came her sister's retort, a playful challenge that tugged at the drooping corners of Hisana's mouth.
Biting back a giggle, Hisana pulled away from the frying pan and reached for a bowl of beaten eggs, pouring them into the pain with practiced ease. The crackle of cooking eggs added a pleasant melody to the room's odd ambiance. "Is that sarcasm for your older sister? Here I thought that was reserved only for Ichigo-kun," she replied, her voice suddenly light, a hint of warmth lacing every word.
"You're just a bad liar," Rukia declared, her response quick and unapologetically honest, as always.
"And here I thought I raised you better," Hisana countered with a chuckle, the sound a welcome relief to the previously wearisome atmosphere. Rukia's cheerfulness was always infectious.
Her laughter mingled with her playful huff, "I carry myself at the utmost dignity. I am a lady," Rukia quipped.
An abrupt thud from the other end of the phone drew a curious quirk of Hisana's eyebrow. She listened intently as her sister responded with an eager squeak, the muffled sound of a tongue sticking out filtered through the speaker on her phone. While the playful banter was not unexpected, it felt a bit inappropriate.
"Behave now," Hisana chimed in with a motherly tone. Teasing words bounced back and forth in the background, offering Hisana a welcome distraction—an opportunity to push away the tendrils of previous hurts. The timbre of Ichigo's voice suddenly sprung from the phone, catching Hisana off guard and nearly causing her to drop it from her shoulder. Glancing at her dinner, the pot of oyakodon simmering on the hob, she waited with bated breath for their playful banter to subside.
Over the years, Rukia and Ichigo's relationship unfolded as a complex tapestry, a testament to the strength of their bond that consistently left Hisana in awe. Rooted in teenage romance, their love had weathered difficult trails. She was a silent observer, witnessing their blossoming connection, their mutual support becoming admirable – and enviable.
"I'm still here," Hisana reminded them, her gaze drifting to the almost finished oyakodon. With a dissonant acknowledgment, she switched off the hob, letting the simmering sounds of her cooking fade.
"I apologize sincerely for the buffoon-" came her sister's voice again, reconnecting as another thud echoed through the receiver in the background. "But really, is everything alright? Did something happen?"
Hisana's eyes snapped upwards; she seized the phone, her hands trembling. "No!" she sputtered, her throat constricting and dry. "No-no." Additional words caught in her throat, refusing to emerge while the truth fought to remain silenced.
Rukia could never know.
His gaze demanded hers from across the room, and she finally succumbed once more. Her eyes lingered longer than necessary on the slew of art across the wall with easels piled against each other in a frantic rush. She had captured him and the whole scene perfectly. Crimson seeped across the canvas, mingling with shadows of horror that twisted through the alleyway, tendrils of smoke framing his eyes. In her art, she allowed herself to coexist with him, perpetually reliving the moment.
Clearing her throat, Hisana turned around, her head bowed against her trembling hand.
"Nothing happened," she forced a steady tone, her words quivering before she inhaled, "What I said was the truth; it feels like I abandoned you—and I am struggling to accept that." It was easier to probe an existing wound in their relationship than to risk creating a new one. Hisana chastised herself for being such a terrible sister.
"You can't self-sacrifice everything, Hisana," Rukia's voice, soft yet tinged with caution and anger, tightened Hisana's heart, the words an accusation. She covered her eyes with her hand, the truth laid bare between them. "I can stand on my own feet, thanks to you, but you deserve your own life, to heal."
"You're right," Hisana said, shoulders slumped by the weight of the past. "I am so proud of you, Rukia."
Tears threatened to spill from the corners of Hisana's eyes, but she fought to keep them at bay. Hisana knew she had failed at everything else in her life, but Rukia, like a lone star in a night sky of mistakes, was the only thing she had done right.
"I'll do my best," Hisana said, her promise lingering in the air. But Rukia, who knew every nuance of Hisana, knew her sister too well to fully believe it.
Standing amidst the narrow aisle of the convenience store. Her movements were mechanical, each gesture executed without conscious thought – a stark contrast to her whirlwind thoughts. Every inch of her uniform felt suffocating, bound to her skin. As she placed each product on the shelf, it was as if she was stacking weights upon her chest, allowing herself to become lost within herself.
Her days bled together like watercolours on a canvas, their edges blurring and merging into an indistinguishable smear as Hisana's sketchpad and apartment continued its transformation into a labyrinth of emotions delicately etched. Each stroke carried the vestiges of his piercing gaze, lingering in the recesses of her mind like an indelible mark.
Amidst these swirling emotions, her sister's voice echoed, a reminder of the real-world intruding into her artistic cocoon. The conversation, a delicate dance between love and frustration, lingered in the air like an unresolved chord, its vibrations blending with the chaotic symphony playing in her mind.
Though her grip on reality had returned in the weeks that followed, she refused to let the memory of his intensity fade away—the way his eyes bore into her, witnessing all her sins and secrets. It was a mesmerizing dance, and in stark contrast to her, he stood a masterpiece of order. At the mere thought, her fingers twitched, her body still responding to the echo of his presence.
It proved effortless to be consumed by that morning – him, an innate connection refusing to release its grip on her. However, the initial urgency had given way to a profound sense of foolish insignificance, and the reality of her existence stung. In the vastness of everything, she was nothing more than a fleeting moment of unimportance, a mere blip. However, her frenzied obsession found fuel in a flicker of something she had long forgotten.
Regrettably, her life had to press on; the mundane necessities persisted beyond her thoughts, pulling her back into the harshness of reality. Or maybe, that was the narrative she fed herself; a justification to fulfil the promise to her sister? But what did she want? The revelation hit her like a slap, its sting reverberating through her mind—a reminder of something she'd rather avoid confronting.
Hisana's brows knitted together, her insistence to prod at her scars, perpetually reopening old wounds and deepening the marks, seemed rather masochistic. Moreover, her conversation with her sister held an undeniable truth. 'What am I doing here?' she pondered; she had ventured to Tokyo in search of what? To abandon a fulfilling receptionist role at the Kurosaki Clinic close to her sister, only to find herself stuck as a convenience store clerk in pursuit of idiotic aspirations.
What was she truly pursuing?
It was too facile, replaying her life like scenes from a blurry movie, each frame carrying its weight of memories and regrets where moments begged to be erased, scrubbed from her mind. The mere thought of them tightened her chest, a suffocating heaviness settled within her. Every step she had taken, every choice, seemed not her own; any desperate attempt at freedom remained elusive, bound by the consequences of her actions.
And then there was that morning. The image of him, of her, of that alleyway, simmered beneath her skin. Her excitement too palpable - her desire to be forced down, begging underneath his steady gaze, revealed her yearning.
Yes. This was punishment. And she was woefully deserving of it.
With an abrupt shake of her head, Hisana ripped herself from her consuming thoughts, completely oblivious to the world around her, failing to register the familiar jingling ding of the entrance chime, signifying a new presence in the store.
"Excuse me," The utterance brushed against her ears. Hisana's skin prickled, the response as involuntary as her reaction. In a reflexive motion, she shuffled backwards, creating a small but perceptible distance between herself and the unexpected visitor.
Her lips parted as she tried respond, "Ah-yes," her voice barely more than a whisper before she collected herself.
Her eyes, widened by a mix of curiosity and trepidation, analysed the woman's features. Kindness emanated from her, tucked behind a pair of glasses that framed her round face. The woman was a portrait of meticulous elegance and simplicity combined; every element of her attire was thoughtfully chosen, and every strand of her neatly styled brown hair in place. Yet, there was a modesty in her demeanour, a down-to-earth presence that felt calming.
A patient smile played upon her lips, a soothing balm to the initial tingle of nerves dancing along Hisana's skin. Under the gentle weight of the woman's aura, the remnants of anxiety dissipated with each measured breath. Hisana dipped her head in a bow, hands coming together in a gesture of respect and politeness. "Yes," Hisana confirmed softly, her voice steadier now. "How can I help you?"
The woman's smile widened in response, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, eyes holding a glint of purpose. "I am here to help you, Marugo-san," she stated, her words carrying reassurances that reached beyond the surface.
Hisana's heart leapt within her chest before settling into a rapid rhythm. The implications of the woman's words were inconceivable, and her question tumbled from her lips. "I am sorry, have we met? Did you use to work here?"
Her question has her burn red, studying the woman before her more thoroughly for familiarity, but there was none – they weren't of the same class. The woman's smile, unwavering in its sincerity, seemed to reach out in comfort.
"Shirogane Mihane," she introduced herself with grace that carried formality; accompanied by a subtle bow, her movements felt intentional. "I am the personal secretary of a prominent businessman and art enthusiast, Kuchiki Byakuya," she paused, "and he recently acquired a gallery in Ginza."
The name rang a distant bell, a whisper of recognition that she couldn't quite grasp. However, the weight of this revelation began to settle upon her. Straightening her own posture, Hisana sought to match the woman's poise, her fingers instinctively intertwining. A lump formed in her throat, prompting a reflexive swallow. In that moment, Hisana felt momentarily unsteady.
"A-and how am I involved?" The flush that crept up her neck burned, her words coming out in a rush.
Shirogane Mihane's smile remained steadfast, her genuine enthusiasm reaching beyond social niceties. She brushed a few stray strands of hair away from her face, revealing more of her countenance and eagerness. "He is actively seeking a featured artist to showcase with the launch of the gallery, and he came across your profile online. He believes you would be the perfect artist."
A pause followed, pregnant with the weight of the moment. The woman tilted her head slightly in acknowledgement, a gesture conveying both empathy and understanding. "While I understand how unorthodox this appears," she began, "He is quite serious, as is this offer to meet with him."
There was a shift in her stance, her movement as fluid as water, as she produced a pristine, white business card from her pocket. The card glistened in the dim, artificial light; a tangible embodiment of the path available to her. Her steady hands held the card out like an offering, bridging the familiar and unknown.
"I have scheduled a meeting for tomorrow. I am certain you can arrange something with your schedule," the woman encouraged. Her gaze swept over the convenience store, a fleeting acknowledgment, before her focus returned to Hisana.
Hisana's eyes shifted towards the proffered card, her heart pounding. Slowly, realization dawned upon her, her fingers twitched in response before she reached out to accept the sturdy material. She remained silent, her lips pressed together in a firm line, controlling her breathing.
Her hands held a promise of a future she had scarcely allowed herself to dream of, and a shadow of uncertainty danced through her mind, its tendrils twisted tighter with every passing second. Shifting her gaze back and forth between the woman and the business card, Hisana's voice broke through its tight hold.
"Shirogane-san," she began, her voice trembling and her cheeks flushed with a deep hue of red, "surely you are jesting, are you not?"
Mihane responded swiftly, her tone and gaze fixed. "My employer does not jest." She flicked her finger against the card, the gentle tapping sound resonated with the rhythm of Hisana's heart. "You have a meeting scheduled tomorrow. The details are written on the back."
Vivid and formidable, fragments of his face loomed in her mind. A rush of energy surged through her, making her limbs tingle, and come alive. With a mixture of awe and disbelief, Hisana took a step back. In a silent reflex, Hisana's gaze swept over the woman before her, but as soon as doubt crept in, she dismissed it.
"Are you-" Hisana's question faltered, her voice unable to articulate the rush of her thoughts.
"If you can allow me to offer a suggestion," Mihane leaned forward, gesturing with an open palm towards Hisana, her smile reassuring. "Kuchiki-san has a no-nonsense approach; I would advise you to take a selection of your artwork to the meeting. He'll want to assess your portfolio and ascertain your capabilities."
The woman's dark brown eyes shimmered behind her glasses, reflecting the world around her like polished mirrors. Her gaze shifted to her watch, a gesture both precise and purposeful. A ripple of warmth spread between them; her polite smile contagious.
"It was lovely meeting you, Marugo-san," bowing slightly, Mihane emanated a sense of quiet dignity and began to retreat, fading into the backdrop as she stepped away with the same grace that characterised her entrance.
Cupping her face in her hands, Hisana sought refuge, squeezing her eyes shut. Warmth of her blush radiated against her skin and a cascade of self-criticism echoed in her mind, each thought a sharp arrow piercing her consciousness.
What was wrong with her?
The business card tugged at her hand, as if gravity itself had a hold on it. The words inscribed on its surface shimmered, inviting her to accept. Her gaze traversed the textured material under her fingertips, absorbing every nuance from the golden emblem to the white background. She flipped the card over, revealing the back.
Kuchiki & Marugo
10:30 15 July
53 Marunouchi Avenue, Chiyoda-ku
As the elevator doors closed, her heart fluttered, enveloped in a sea of strangers. Draped in muted hues of grey and brown, she exuded an aura of lifelessness amidst the vibrant surroundings. Instinctively, her foot tapped softly in dissonance with each sharp ding of the elevator. Soft tendrils of obsidian framed her face, a few frayed strands danced against her forehead as her fingers idly toyed with her portfolio case, looping it round and round.
Curious and apprehensive gazes flickered towards her, while others deliberately edged away, maintaining a safe distance. Her stomach clenched, a coiling sensation threatening to unfurl itself. She was the outsider. The elevator hummed with affluence, her misplaced presence a stark contrast.
The elevator ascended, and the crowd thinned. When the fading murmur of footsteps whispered the farewell of her final companion, Hisana inhaled sharply, standing in solitude as the doors glided together with a decisive thud. Her posture gave way to her nervousness, hunching with one arm supporting herself, her finger continuing its tangle with the tag on her case.
"You can do it," Hisana whispered, a futile attempt at encouragement. "This is real." Despite stubborn doubts, she persisted, clinging to her thoughts. The fear gnawed, eager to consume any flicker of confidence, any sense of self-worth. Amidst the web of negativity, something inexplicable propelled her forward—a force whispering of freedom, igniting a flicker of sickening hope in her heart.
Closing her eyes, the memory of his thunderous eyes materialised. He beckoned her closer.
"Fear, that is all this is," Hisana clung to the word, however warmth swirled across her skin.
With unexpected abruptness, the elevator ceased its ascent, its ding echoing like an early morning gunshot. Her heart leapt, and she tightened her grip on her portfolio case, the uncomfortable moisture on her hands betraying her self-assurances.
When the doors slid open, Hisana's resolved wavered. Her body stood frozen, the weight of indecision pulling at her like an invisible chain. The air crackled around her, torn between hesitation and the magnetic pull beckoning her to step into a realm of possibilities. Hisana shook her shoulders, attempting to dispel the tension, but it felt like a flimsy façade.
Somehow, she willed herself to gather her wits and depart the elevator. A pristine marble floor welcomed her, immediately engulfing her in an aura of opulence—a world wholly unfamiliar and extravagant, where every element felt modern. The lobby exuded understated elegance, curated to perfection.
It was beautiful, yet she couldn't help but think that it needed colour.
Following the rhythmic tapping of a keyboard, she approached a sleek marble monolith serving as the receptionist station. The receptionist sat slightly obscured behind the desk except for irradiated pearl earrings glinting with light. Her hair fell in a cascade of silk, meticulously styled into a sleek bob.
"Excuse me," Hisana spoke softly, her tone warm but uncertain. Her gaze wavered; the receptionist's unreadable expression eroded her composure, revealing a vulnerability that flitted across her eyes.
Despite it, Hisana pushed forward, clenching her teeth as she locked eyes with the woman. "I am here to see Kuchiki-san—I have an appointment for 10:30," her words tangled on her tongue. "I am Marugo Hisana." She raised her portfolio bag with a measured, almost delicate movement, bringing it into sight.
However, the receptionist's gaze slid past Hisana without the slightest sign of recognition, back to the computer screen. A symphony of clicking keys punctuated the room as her fingers danced across the keyboard, each stroke furthering her detachment. Seconds stretched into an almost elongated, painful span until Ms. Cold Stylish Bob addressed Hisana with a raise of her chin. "Feel free to sit down, Marugo-san. Abarai-san will be here shortly to accompany you," the woman said, her voice formal and composed.
With an intake of breath, Hisana's lips pressed together in a thin line. She nodded in acknowledgement, her smile controlled. 'Abarai-san?' She thought.
Accepting the offered invitation, her movements were slow but cautious, as if trying to match the formality and opulence of the environment. Lavish designer chairs positioned at the edge of a window offered an ideal perch for taking in a spectacular view. The sprawling city lay before her, a patchwork of towering skyscrapers, bustling streets, and pockets of greenery providing moments of respite from the urban jungle. In the distance, the iconic Tokyo Tower rose majestically, a symbol of the city's blend of tradition and innovation.
Something suddenly clicked; this was the colour.
The minimal architecture, almost clinical in its aesthetic, was a deliberate canvas of simplicity. The monolithic marble and structured lines were not a design choice devoid of purpose, but a conscious decision to serve as a backdrop for the spectacle that was Tokyo city.
Her smile flickered to life with a sense of quiet delight—a shared understanding between her and the beauty surrounding her, a secret connection. Tracing the lines of the distant horizon, the world and its opportunities expanded. Yet, the beauty faded into the background, her attention yanked away by an unfamiliar voice, "Ah, Marugo Hisana?"
Attuned to respond appropriately, her body reacted almost on its own accord. Her gaze snapped from its wandering to the voice, readiness painted her posture, and she prepared to respond with a greeting, already poised for a respectful bow. Words teetered on the edge of her tongue; however, her mind hit an unexpected snag at the man before her, causing her smile to falter before vanishing. In a heartbeat, the beauty of the atmosphere was smothered by stiffness. Her breathing raced, each inhale frenetic, mirroring the pounding of her heart.
No—rooted in place, a fragile thread of understanding weaved through her chaotic thoughts, resulting in a barely perceptible quirk of her lips; her intuition was right.
His hair blazed against the monochrome palette of the office like a defiant fire. Tied back in an attempt at purposeful conformity, its vibrant hue rebelled against the cold, unfeeling marble. It wasn't just his hair that etched him into her memory, outlandish as it was, but the tattoos that sprawled across his skin, marking him as one of the figures from that morning. His eyes were a deep shade of brown, holding a mischievous glint. He stood steady, waiting with a knowing anticipation for her response, stirring a sense of uncharacteristic camaraderie and determination within Hisana.
"Y-yes," Her voice, initially tremulous, found steadiness as she squared her shoulders, and with a sharp inhale, Hisana continued, "Having Kuchiki-san's attention on my work is a great honour."
A quiet voice cautioned her; the notion of her corpse submerged in Tokyo Bay cemented the potential danger of the meeting. Her every nerve went taut, scolding herself when warmth settled in the pit of her stomach, 'What is wrong with you.' This was nothing like her excursions.
His grin unwound, disappearing behind an unimpressed expression, heavy with impatience and hidden tensions. Leaning back in a nonchalant slant, his hands slipped into the recesses of his pockets. The abrupt shift in demeanour took Hisana by surprise, a pang of uncertainty harried her into second-guessing her actions.
"Guess we should get a move on; Kuchiki-oyaban's time is valuable." He shrugged his shoulders, indicating with his head. The words, while casual, held an undercurrent of an unnegotiable command.
Her eyes flickered, her expression bleak at the honorific, "Ah-yes!"
Without waiting, Abarai guided her through grand corridors; his steps, slow and light, created a rhythm in the silence that enveloped them. It wasn't long before his steps ceased; polished doors adorned with intricate carvings welcomed them with a radiating tension that emanated from beyond. Her skin prickled, as if his gaze was fixed on her from behind the doors, waiting for her to step through.
A curse hung on the top of her tongue, restrained only by her need to present herself properly. Her own fanciful daydreams led her here; refuge was merely an illusion, and the brunt of that truth, well, she was about to confront it.
'Stop this,' she chastised herself, 'inappropriate, and vile is what you are'.
'What a lie you wanted this.' She thought.
"There ya' go, Hisana-san. I'll wait here." His voice intruded like an unwelcoming guest, disrupting her thoughts, and causing a frown to crease her brow. The room engulfed her before she could retort to the improper use of her name, and guided by Abarai-san, the doors clicked shut behind her, separating them.
A palpable shift wrapped through the atmosphere; its weighty presence intensified the tempo of her heartbeat. Beauty that outshone even the lavish lobby lay before her with an expansive view and bookcases, yet it all wilted into insignificance; she was tethered to a singular focal point. His piercing grey eyes. Their intensity remained unyielding, as cold, and deep as the abyss. So clear and so close, but still too far. Framed by long black hair, his high cheekbones and angular face held an air of refined elegance, their precise features a testament to the permanence of his demeanour.
She was a helpless captive in the depths of his gaze.
He adorned countless sketchbooks and canvases; each angle, each nuanced detail, had found a permanent place in her memory. She was spellbound, immobile, her blood simmered beneath her skin, pumping life into her being for the first time since that morning. He stood from his desk, his stance exuded nobility, a living embodiment of authority and power. Instead of fear, an intriguing resonance coursed through her veins, drowning out his words.
As he motioned her way, Hisana stood entrapped, like a startled creature caught in the gaze of a predator. The atmosphere shifted as his voice gained a frigid edge, every word calculated, yanking her away from her daydream, "are you devoid of hearing?" His gaze narrowed.
In a hushed tone, Hisana shook her head and murmured, "No?"
"It is impolite to disregard someone. I shouldn't be required to instruct you in proper etiquette."
Hisana's face burned a deeper shade of red; and quickly, she lowered into a profound bow. With each passing moment, the certainty of her demise increased, whether at his hands or her own.
"Ah… I humbly apologize, Kuchiki-sama," she stammered. His determined scrutiny moulded her lips into a firm line, and her teeth sank down until pain mingled with her words, "I did not mean to exhibit such rudeness. I beg your pardon."
A defiant lift of her eyes contrasted her compliance; a struggle between audacity and adherence collided in her behaviour and widened gaze. Hisana paused, her fingers twitched against her leg while words caught in her throat and with a determined breath, Hisana stepped forward, her tone reflecting the calculated risk she was taking, "Rest assured, Kuchiki-sama, I have been a witness to nothing."
Once she started, she couldn't stop, and any reluctance she felt had vanished, replaced by an eager outpouring of words, each racing to be heard, "And even, hypothetically, if I did witness anything early in the morning, I value trustworthiness, just like you. I can't utter a single word to any event because I never saw anything. Therefore, I am no threat to anyone." She forced her stop.
Pins and needles skittered across her skin as he offered a subtle nod; however, his stoic façade remained unyielding. The rosy hue of her blush climbed up her neck.
"For what reason would I end your life?" His question resonated through the room, causing Hisana's heart to skip before resuming in a frantic, disorientated rhythm. His eyes held a hint of something she couldn't quite fathom; her body responded involuntarily with a tightening at her core as she clenched her tights.
"I am a man of commerce," his voice unfurled, "as my secretary must have duly informed you; I have recently acquired an art gallery, one of prominence, positioned along Namiki Dori, in the district of Ginza." An illusive quirk tugged at the edges of his lips, stirring a curiosity within her.
'Was this a game?' The thought struck her. There was no mistaking him, so, he had to know who she was?
"Your talents," his phrase was a serpentine caress, "captured my attention a few weeks back."
The weaving of his words weren't mere utterances; they tugged at something deep within her. It wasn't overt, but a measured subtlety that he displayed. Moving with calculated grace, he sought a change of environment and gravitated towards a luxurious lounge, where supple leather seats beckoned, and an uninterrupted view of Tokyo sprawled beyond. A tumbler of rich amber liquid glinted under the sunlight on a nearby table.
"The visual arts have long captivated my interest. Now, take a seat." His hand extended with poise, coaxing her towards the plush leather of the couch opposite him.
Though the image of a cat-and-mouse dance played in her mind, however, she was certain he would find it affronting – he wasn't a cat, and her behaviour aside, she certainly wasn't a mouse. As she settled into her seat, back straight and legs pressed together, gratitude laced her words, "Thank you, Kuchiki-sama."
The subdued hues of her attire formed a striking counterpoint to the opulent leather of the couch, the understated tones accentuated the vibrant purples emanating from her eyes. "Ah," her eyelashes fluttered while her fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, "I seem to have misunderstood the intention. I don't get many- if any inquiries." Lying held her no advantage. There was a sudden lightness in her from his commands, a release of tension that made her heart skip.
"As such, I expect to see your portfolio. Do show me," He wasn't asking.
Her hands betrayed her, trembling as she reached for her portfolio. Digging her teeth into the raw flesh of her cheeks, the sting uncomfortable but welcoming when a coppery tang flooded her senses. An icy ripple of observation swept over her; the warmth of his despotic gaze danced along her spine.
Hisana squared her shoulders with humility that felt almost religious in its reverence, a portrait of obedience in her posture. Her legs crossed, an attempt to alleviate the blossoming ache that pooled between them – it wasn't appropriate.
Gingerly, she began to unfold her portfolio, a carefully curated compilation of her art. Old acrylic paintings mingled with charcoal sketches, her hands moved with assurances as she presented each piece, offering the narrative of every artwork, its intent, its significance, and her thoughts. Each piece was met with minimal response; his nods were perfunctory, and his aura signalled a genuine lack of interest. His gaze swept over the pieces before settling on Hisana, evoking a sense of unease resembling a child seeking validation. The corners of her mouth briefly faltered.
"If this is the pinnacle of your capabilities, it falls short of expectation," his tone was devoid of emotion. The words were like a whip, the unexpected lash striking her chest and causing her heart to plummet, her shoulders slumped under the heaviness of his critique.
"Iamsorry," she sputtered, her hand moved to shield her heart.
The moment rang hollow, and the room grew colder. A chill surged through her, and a sudden hush fell over the space, the words from his thin lips muffled. Everything blurred, until his expression shifted; the subtle furrow of his brow and tightness of his lips jolted her out of the reverie.
"Do you find the need for repetition regularly, Marugo-san?" He paused, "as I do not."
His words were clipped, "Your current work fails to meet the desired level for my standards. Do you have additional pieces of your art to present?" It was a command. The weight of his words settled heavily in the room, a palpable force that urged her into motion, an instinctual response that overruled any hesitation.
"My sketchbook," she murmured, her fingers already working to delve into the depths of her bag, retrieving the item in question. Her heart thudded, the rapid rhythm reverberating through her veins as Hisana extended the sketchbook towards him. It was an offering that held more than just her art for his perusal.
The urge to flee clawed at her, whispering for her to escape. Yet, she clung to the shreds of her resolve. Sinking her teeth further into her cheeks, the ache and coppery taste almost unbearable, but to ground herself, the habit had comfort. Her gaze avoided his, fixed instead on the back of her sketchbook while he carefully turned pages.
The pages sounded like the ticking of a clock, counting down the moments until her fate would be decided. It felt like he was stripping away her layers, exposing what laid underneath when he analysed each page. Her chest tightened, making breathing a struggle; the tension in the room swelled, almost suffocating in its intensity. After a while, he paused, and the silence deepened. Fixed on a particular page, his intense observation drew her back to the rooftop memory. Unable to tear her eyes away from him, she sat, waiting.
"My initial assessment was indeed correct, Marugo-san. With work of this calibre, you shall be my featured artist." His voice was a delicate caress and command, each word a measured note that played on her emotions. Like a warm embrace, his words enveloped her, immediately dispelling the suffocating weight that had settled on her chest, leaving her floating. A smile, bright and uncontainable, blossomed on her lips, its radiance almost painful in its intensity.
"Thank you, Kuchiki-sama," mixing gratitude with curiosity, she said, "which piece did you like most?" Moving closer with self-assured grace, he handed her the open sketchbook. His fingers brushed against the pages, revealing the sketch. Her smile retreated, replaced by widened eyes as she absorbed the page before her.
The corner of his mouth showed a nearly imperceptible quirk, "A remarkably accurate depiction, and I must admit, it holds a degree of flattery."
Both bold and intimate, the sketch depicted her depravity.
It was a creation born after that morning from an obsessive and passionate frenzy, lines etched onto the paper with a fervour that made them rough, almost crude, yet imbued with an authenticity and talent that radiated raw emotion. His figure sprawled across the page, a testament to the power that defined him in real life, she captured him in the rawest form, fully exposed – sinewy muscles converged into perfection, exuding a primal strength. Beside him lay a woman with her eyes, the resemblance evident, her form, constrained and equally nude, were tainted with emergent bruises from rough intercourse.
The room become constricting, leaving her with no refuge. Her veins pulsed, the rush of blood beneath her skin flushed her whole-body crimson, and the impulse to flee was oppressive; urging her upwards, to seize her portfolio, and make a hasty escape. Societal politeness and social grace felt insignificant.
Her trembling hands slammed the sketchbook shut, the resounding thud mirrored her intent to lock away the pages, to silence their revealing whispers. Almost frantic, her scattered works were hurriedly shuffled back into the case.
"Uhm-Iamsosorry, I h-have to-" The words stumbled out. A sinking feeling knotted her stomach, expanding and consuming, causing her shoulders to curl inwards. She had laid herself bare, letting him peer into the corners of her soul that she herself had barely explored outside of her art, secrets that she had fought to keep supressed.
He saw everything. Not only sketches of them, but of that morning; vivid lines that pulsed with the same intent, the visceral reality of the blood that stained the concrete and the turbulent depths of his stormy gaze. But as if a direct response to her attempted retreat, a folder appeared before her, his movement graceful and controlled.
"We have gone ahead and prepared your contract," his voice, though soft, carried the sharpness of his intent, a tone mirrored by the raised arch of his brow that casted faint shadows, enhancing the dominance of his gaze, and challenging her. "I recommend that you review it thoroughly, although I must say it is quite a generous offer. I anticipate that you may find it impossible to decline."
Still caught in her own flustered movements, she paused, her eyebrows shot upwards as she fixated on the folder. Inhaling, she stammered, "T-thank you."
In a flurry, she snatched the folder from his hands with a desperate fervour. Jolting from her seat, she bolted halfway to the door. The audacity of her actions wasn't lost on her, and a flicker of self-awareness warned her that if he intended harm, she probably just sealed her own fate. 'Wait,' her mind urged stilling her steps, and she pivoted, casting one last look in his direction.
"My secretary will get in touch to arrange the contract's retrieval and discuss the commencement. You can anticipate scheduled meetings, as part of the process." An abrupt sternness settled across his features, yet, behind the façade, something stirred, resembling an impending storm.
"Be prepared for these," his words floated between them, a vague command laced with a mysterious tinge.
Abandoning any pretence, Hisana dipped in a bow, obeying as she veered her eyes away from the intenseness of his stare. She brushed her legs together, warmth spread through her core, becoming increasingly uncomfortable. Clinging to her portfolio case, it became an anchor, preventing her from crumbling beneath her own embarrassment.
"Yes-"
"Keep in mind," his words interrupted. Her breathing stopped, waiting. "Meetings themselves don't always define the nature of one's intentions and the balance of our arrangement- and you, Marugo-san, remains a matter of contemplation. As you leave, Abarai-san will return your camera, it seems to hold significant personal value." A frigid chill seized the office. With a curt gesture, he dismissed her, and Hisana felt the iciness of his demeanour pierce her heart, however, she obeyed, lost for words, her nod was faint and her footsteps reluctant.
It has been a long good years since I have written a full story for this Fandom... So I guess I am back?
I have already written out over 60,000 words and 125 pages of this story, and it is still growing.
Good Luck for anyone sticking along with this thoroughly enjoyable journey with me.
Please leave a review and let me know what you thought.