Resonance in Monotone

Isolation

I

Written by Dragenruler


Wicked Game - Daisy Gray


Perched atop a residential building's lower rooftop, Hisana found herself captivated by the morning's unfolding drama. The peaceful serenity of nature intertwined with the city's awakening, creating a symphony that ensnared her senses. Before her, the world performed its endless ballet, a blend of predictable rhythms and unexpected flourishes that seemed just out of reach. Her foot tapped in harmony with this complex dance, a physical echo of the city's vibrant pulse.

In Tokyo, the morning rush epitomised life's intricate dance between calm and tumult. Hisana, driven by a craving for the visceral thrill of freedom, had stealthily climbed to this vantage point. Wrapped in the daybreak's embrace, she let the wind's gentle whispers clear the remnants of slumber from her senses, her hair dancing lightly across her forehead.

The dawn's early light, with its palette of soft coppers and fiery crimsons, stretched across the horizon, weaving the departing night into a new day. The sunrise imbued her with a sense of renewal, illuminating the world's hidden corners and offering her a fleeting taste of herself.

This breathtaking view presented a tantalising chance for rebellion—a call to adventure that Hisana couldn't resist. The thrill of her trespass, the sheer audacity of her presence here, heightened the rush. An inner voice spurred her on, challenging her to breach life's small confines and venture into the unknown.

A deep sigh broke free, allowing the morning's light to penetrate the armour around her heart. An ache stirred, and she stifled a silent sob, the intensity of it nearly overwhelming. In this exhilarating moment, she intended to capture the unfurling beauty. Doing so was reminiscent of a purge, a cleansing from the shadows of her past, yearning to emerge reborn with the day.

Art had always been Hisana's refuge since childhood, a way for her to untangle the complexities of her life. Through painting and drawing, she expressed herself, and each piece revealed something deeper within her.

However, after moving to Tokyo, photography became another sanctuary. It offered a means to navigate a world filled with calculated risks and brief reprieves. Allowing Hisana to press against life's edges, seeking expansion, yet she found herself continuously ensnared by invisible chains that bound her to familiar constraints.

The sudden sting inside her cheek snapped Hisana back to the present, a painful reminder nudging her into action. Her fingers danced over the camera with deliberate intent, adjusting its settings with the ease of long practice. Through the lens, light and shadow intertwined, capturing the ephemeral beauty of dawn's palette splashed across the sky. A smile, pure and childlike, spread across her face as she immersed herself in the beauty of nature.

She worked fluidly, the camera clicking in harmony with her movements. With each motion she made, the camera's shutter danced, sealing the allure of the morning into every photograph.

Then, her attention shifted, drawn to an obscured alley visible only from her elevated perch. The shadows, once formless, now hinted at secretive exchanges and stealthy figures.

Silence gave way to a charged atmosphere as four figures emerged in the alley, their approach meticulous and hidden from view. A gesture of surrender from one—a defeated bow—cut sharply through Hisana's peaceful morning watch, stirring an unsettling chill.

Her hold on the camera tightened, heart racing as if trying to escape her chest. The scene crackled with a silent, palpable hostility, and then, he appeared. A figure of unmistakable authority stepped into view, his very presence altering the dynamics of the alley. His steps, measured and commanding, drew Hisana's gaze, trapping her in a rapturous trance.

Trembling, Hisana captured not just his image but the essence of his power. The aura of his anger washed over her, silent but deadly as blades among cherry blossoms, hinting at a looming storm—a dangerous yet rousing spectacle.

It ignited a strange, fervent heat that consumed her thoughts entirely.

"Yakuza…" The word escaped her lips, a whisper lost amidst the pounding of her heart. She crouched lower, her focus divided between the enigmatic figure and the exchange happening below, where an underling with vivid red hair and tattoos stood out, his profanity-laced tirade cutting through the morning.

The conflict escalated abruptly, as inevitable as it was violent. A fierce struggle unfolded between the man with the red hair and his defeated adversary. Their bodies entangled in a brutal dance of aggression, their rapid punches blurring into a visceral display that left the concrete stained crimson. The relentless assault rendered the defeated man a mere shadow of resistance, his pained groans merging with the city's ambient noise into a grim melody.

Hisana's finger moved reflexively, capturing the scene through her lens. Common sense screamed at her to flee, yet a reckless curiosity fixed her to the spot. She found herself hypnotised, unable to detach from the scene unfolding before her.

The ember of his cigarette glowed, drawing her gaze towards him once more. He exhaled softly, and the smoke encased him in a mystical aura, casting his sleek black hair and sharp, regal features into a scene pulled from a shadowy realm of elegance. The sharp scent of tobacco filled the air, weaving its way into the fabric of her senses.

"More," she found herself whispering, the word sounding alien, distorted. A longing ache surged within her, sending tremors of unknown emotions skittering across her nerves. The camera quivered in her grip, yet she held on, desperate to capture the enigmatic display.

Amidst the chaos, an eerie calm enveloped Hisana, a silent plea emanating from her core. Look at me.

And then, as if summoned, his eyes found hers, forging a connection that seared into her very being. A flush of heat washed over her, a reaction as intense as it was unexpected, kindling a fire that threatened to consume her. She found herself ensnared by the undeniable allure of his eyes, her usual shields of logic and caution dissolved in the face of a pull that was as bewildering as it was irresistible.

When his attention shifted, a shock of dejection caused her hands to falter. The camera slipped from her grasp, tumbling down in a cacophony that pierced the morning's tension – her heart plummeted in tandem, its impact scattering silence like shattered glass.

The eyes below snapped upwards, predatory, and alert, sending a sinking stone in the pit of her stomach. A suffocating quiet encased the alley, time stretching into infinity. The undeniable authority of his bearing pulled her gaze back to him, his grey eyes beckoning. He communicated his intentions with an almost imperceptible nod, a gesture that instructed his men to dismiss her. The red-headed subordinate's compliance came slowly, his dissent whispering into nothingness.

For Hisana, everything outside his gaze faded into insignificance. Immersed in the stormy sea of his eyes, she found herself adrift, carried on the currents of a warmth she suppressed. The faint taste of metal lingered on her tongue, amplifying the rush, leaving her breathing in jagged, uneven pulses.

The slight curl of his lips hinted at hidden depths she couldn't fathom, sending her heart into a wild chase. Their moment, fragile as spider silk, was shattered by the violent punctuation of a gunshot, ripping through the air, and severing their connection as if it were nothing but a wisp of smoke.

The man before them crumpled like a marionette with its strings cut, 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.

Pure instinct propelled Hisana backward–she moved on all fours, her limbs ungainly. Her hands quivered, tears looming as she scooped up her belongings. However, a strange compulsion drew her back, an inexplicable force that contradicted logic. With each hesitant step towards him, her resolve faltered.

He stood there, the eye of the storm, his calm exterior belying the finality of his actions. Offering a detached farewell, he passed the weapon to the red-haired man. The echo of the gunshot still rung in her ears, a brutal challenge to her understanding of the world. With laboured breath and shaky legs, Hisana turned to leave, thrusting herself back into reality.

She ran, driven by a desperate need to escape the gravity of what she'd witnessed.

Still, she couldn't shake the memory of his gaze, indelibly etched into her very being. It was a haunting reminder, leaving her suspended between an irresistible draw towards the unknown and the physical world she fought to remain grounded in.


Since the incident on the rooftop, Hisana found herself on the brink, her psyche teetering between paranoia and an unsettling fascination. Confined within her apartment, she felt time distort, every external noise heightening her senses, resonating like a distant gunshot. The walls that once offered comfort now reflected the mental barricades she had erected, trapping her in a prison of her own making.

Within the silent sanctuary of her home, the truth uncoiled like a dark blossom, each petal a layer of suppressed emotion. At its heart was him – the architect of the violence she had witnessed, entwining her fate with a dark narrative of murder, trapping her in another shadow.

She recoiled at the thought – no.

A shiver coursed through her. His image, especially those storm-grey eyes, haunted her with a severity that felt carnal. Imprisoned in a fortress of her own making, she grappled with a dual-edged sword—on one side, a fierce resolve: on the other, a shadow of doubt. Scepticism whispered through the bars, and the truth, relentless and unyielding, chiselled away at her soul.

Hisana clung to a fragile sense of protection within her four walls. However, the hollow kitchen shelves, devoid of life, were an echo of the inner emptiness that she could not escape. Only when compelled by necessity and a growling stomach, she ventured out, her identity concealed behind a surgical mask and the brim of a cap, seeking anonymity in the outside world.

Stepping into the open, each sound magnified in her ears; the merest whisper of movement in her vicinity set her heart into a thunderous rhythm. She hurried into the nearest supermarket, the automatic sliding doors hissing shut behind her. Her grip on the basket was tense, knuckles turning white under the strain as she hastily reached for it. The sharp scent of disinfectant hung in the air, the hum of refrigerators a low, persistent buzz adding to her unease.

Navigating the aisles, her gaze darted between faces, vigilant for any sign of danger. Vegetables were hastily chosen and tossed into her basket without regard for quality, her movements swift and jittery.

His presence, though absent, felt ominously close, his gaze a spectre that defied reason, pulling at the edges of her consciousness. Each breath seemed to tighten around her throat, the urge to glance over her shoulder growing increasingly insistent, as though such an action might conjure him into existence.

Feigning interest in the items on a nearby shelf, Hisana paused, her hand reaching for a product, while the memory of those stormy eyes plagued her thoughts. His face flickered through her mind, like an elusive wisp of cigarette smoke, its scent enveloping her senses, leaving her lost.

A figure advanced with a deliberate slowness, its presence looming larger with each step, until the gap was bridged by a pair of shoes stopping squarely in her view, chaining her feet to the earth and her heart to her throat. It wasn't merely the sense of entrapment that unsettled her; rather, it was an unexpected warmth that consumed her, igniting her veins with a fervour that pulsed, setting her very soul ablaze.

Hisana sought to calm herself, but her body remained defiant, strung tight. The cold grasp of reality brushed against her, sending shivers through her as it stripped away the veils of self-deception, laying bare the raw truth hidden beneath.

In her mind's eye, he materialised, waves of warmth cascading from his very presence, pulling her toward an abyss where his eyes held the promise of freedom and control. Each pulsating surge of heat drew her in, an irresistible seduction, inviting her to navigate the realms that lay within his intense gaze.

Oh… Oh no.

Realisation crashed over her, dismantling the carefully constructed defences of her mind, brick by brick, leaving her exposed. Her eyes widened in shock, yet the weight of this epiphany pinned her in place, sapping her strength to even attempt a smile at the unsuspecting person beside her. The man, without thought, moved on, disappearing further down the aisle as the scent of cigarettes dissipated.

Her grip on the item tightened, the moisture on her palms intolerable. Shaking her head to dispel the fog of her thoughts, she placed the item in her basket, burying it beneath other groceries.

Without thought, she navigated the aisles, the temptation to glance back, to validate her suspicions, tugged at her. However, she resisted, her focus forward. Hisana took deep, deliberate breaths, thankful for the self-scan option. She loaded her arms with groceries, wanting to portray normalcy, yet her heart betrayed her, pounding a frantic rhythm.

She burst from the store, leaving behind order for a world that immediately dissolved into a chaotic blur of humanity and noise. The wind seemed to catch her hair in a playful yet insistent grip, whispering reasons to resist, to turn back with its breathy urging.


The cabinets stood barren, silent witnesses to the upheaval of thoughts that had consumed Hisana in the ensuing days. Her kitchenette had morphed into a shrine of neglect—groceries left untouched, fresh produce teetering on the brink of decay, while the persistent hunger pangs became relegated to the background.

Eating lost its meaning, overshadowed by an internal void that devoured her bit by bit, leaving scant space for the trivialities of daily routine.

The burden she felt grew insurmountable. Her fingers moved across the canvas in an intense dance, charcoal streaks marking its surface. She was drawn into a trance, her essence laid bare on the canvas, each pulse of her heart revealing the darkness lurking in her psyche. In this vulnerability, however, she found an odd sense of peace—a disquieting serenity emerging from the chaos of unleashed sentiments.

It felt wrong...

So profoundly wrong. The cause of it marked her, the remnants of charcoal ingrained in her skin. Her fingers, weary from their relentless creation, ached for relief. The hours waned, leaving her hands quivering, the exhaustion permeating her very core.

Her eyes, heavy with fatigue, followed the contours of ethereal figures, seeking peace in the rhythm of their imagined breaths. However, her heart rebelled, thrumming against its cage, yearning for escape. The sketches evolved, intertwining with her desires, enigmatic yet intimately known. She imbued their forms with depth, each line heavy with unspoken desire.

Charcoal pirouetted across the page, a ballet of her innermost emotions. Each stroke offered a glimpse into her soul. Within these figures, she found a transient escape, their entwined forms communicating in a language beyond words—wanton and intimate, their narrative unfolding in silent climax.

Yielding to her impulses, she bit down, the sharp pain a fleeting distraction as a warmth suffused her, until the stark sound of snapping charcoal punctured the air. Startled, Hisana scrambled for the fragmented piece beneath her sheets, leaving smudges of black imprinted on the fabric.


In the dimly lit kitchenette, Hisana had her phone tucked between ear and shoulder while her fingers skilfully steered a sharp blade through an onion. The slicing motion was rhythmic, yet her attention was divided, her thoughts swirling as the pungent stench stung her eyes and her empty stomach growled in protest. Her clothes, once fitting snugly, now hung loosely.

The kitchen slowly filled with the enticing aroma of crisping vegetables, but Hisana's gaze remained downcast.

"Things haven't exactly turned out the way I imagined," she confessed only fragments of truth into the phone, "Perhaps I need to reconsider and move back?" Her voice, once vibrant, now sounded like a ghost of her former self. Time mocked her since that morning, marching forward while she felt trapped in a standstill, her identity slipping through her fingers like sand.

The clutter of her living space mirrored the clutter of her mind, with her futon swamped by an array of drawings and portraits. In the subdued light, they came alive, narrating tales that resonated deeply of her own fragmented feelings. The figures, rendered in charcoal and acrylic, seemed to beckon her, urging her to engage once more with him, her obsession. But, she resisted, plagued by memories and a gaze that pierced her soul — a pair of stormy grey eyes that she couldn't forget.

"Do you intend to return to the clinic? You'd always be welcome, but is it really what you want?" Rukia's words broke through her reverie. Hisana bit the inside of her cheeks, her voice trembling, "I- I feel like a stranger." The admission was heavy, marking the expanse that Hisana's move to Tokyo had carved between them, a physical distance that paled in comparison to the emotional expanse that now stretched between them.

There was a brief pause before Rukia spoke, "Hisana, you deserve happiness and a life of your own," propelling Hisana towards the truths she had long buried. She knew what this was. What her sister was attempting with her invitation to self-examination, a gentle nudge for Hisana to peel back the layers of the past. However, she also knew that Rukia was acutely aware, from the scars of past conversations, that her well-intentioned prompts could quickly spiral into disputes.

The pan sizzled, breaking the tense silence that followed. Hisana's knuckles whitened as her grip tightened on the handle, its heat seeping through her fingers.

"Have you been trying what I recommended?" The inquiry abruptly cut through the line. Hisana's eyes flitted to the stovetop, the sizzling contents hissing and popping.

Then, with practices ease, Hisana replied, "yes." The world slipped from her lips. It was a defence mechanism, a well-worn shield forged from her fierce determination to protect her sister from the harshest of truths.

"Continue being consistent. Something will come," Rukia advised softly, but her words stung like a soft touch on a raw wound. "Are you using the website and keeping it updated?"

Closing her eyes, Hisana fought against the tightness in her throat, her response barely audible over the sizzle of chicken in the pan. The rich aroma of cooking filled the kitchen, another reminder of the distance between them; she was preparing one of Rukia's favourite dishes without her.

"If you say it one more time, but with feeling, I might believe you, sis," Rukia teased, a playful challenge that managed to coax a smile from Hisana, briefly lightening the heaviness in her heart.

With a soft laugh, Hisana pivoted away from the stove to add eggs to the pan. "Is that sarcasm I detect, reserved only for Ichigo-kun?" she teased back, her tone brighter, infused with a warmth that had been previously missing.

"You're just a bad liar," Rukia's quick retort was laced with affectionate honesty, eliciting a fond smile from Hisana, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

Hisana playfully rolled her eyes, "and here I thought I raised you better."

Rukia's jovial claim of dignity was interrupted by a sudden thud on her end, sparking Hisana's curiosity. While their banter offered Hisana a precious distraction, the unexpected inclusion of Ichigo's voice in their conversation brought a new dynamic, momentarily catching Hisana off guard as she juggled between the phone and her cooking.

The interruption offered a brief glimpse into the world that Rukia had created for herself without her. Even when they were younger, Hisana was left awestruck by the bond shared between Rukia and Ichigo, particularly when Rukia was struggling – and Hisana always failing as her guardian. With a shake of her head, she banished those relentless, gnawing thoughts.

"Behave, I'm still here," Hisana gently interjected, her gaze settling on the nearly completed oyakodon. With a soft click, she turned off the hob, the bustling sounds of her cooking subsiding into a quiet hush.

"I apologise for the buffoonery," Rukia's voice cut through the silence as another thud sounded in the background. Hisana couldn't help but picture her sister's animated expressions as she continued, "But really, is everything okay? Did something happen?"

At that moment, Hisana's eyes widened; her grip on the phone tightened, a sudden tremor in her hands. "No!" she blurted out, her voice cracking with the effort to sound normal. "No-no," she stammered, the words tangling in her throat, the truth struggling against the confines she had built around it.

From the other side of the room, Hisana's eyes found her art, a vivid confluence of her deepest emotions and memories. The canvases encircling her spoke volumes of the narratives she dared not utter, with one painting embodying a moment too intimate, too burdened with sorrow, to ever be spoken. Crimson bled into the fabric of the canvas, entwining with the embrace of shadows, capturing the essence of the scene with unerring accuracy. His gaze harboured an entire universe of contrasts—horror meshed with beauty, a moment suspended in time, steeped in the blood of a past that came before him. It was a place where they could coexist.

Hisana took a deep breath, steadying herself as she whispered in a voice barely above a murmur. "Nothing happened," she insisted, each word measured. "I feel like I've left you behind—and that's a truth I'm still trying to come to terms with." She confessed, shifting the course of their exchange to touch upon a pain she could bear to reveal.

"You can't keep sacrificing everything for me," Rukia's words struck Hisana, who instinctively brought her hands to her face. "I've learned to stand on my own because of you, but you also deserve to find your own path, to heal."

"You're right," Hisana admitted, the weight of years pressing down on her shoulders. "And I am so, so proud of you, Rukia."

Tears welled up, threatening to breach the barriers of her composure, but Hisana fought them back. In the depths of her heart, she held the unshakable belief that, despite her many failures, Rukia was her one unequivocal success—a radiant bloom in the desolate landscape of her past.

"I'll do my best," she breathed out, the promise soft and wavering like a leaf in the wind. Familiar with every nuance of Rukia's character, Hisana could discern that her sister, ever perceptive, recognised the weakness in her words.


Hisana stood in the narrow aisle of the convenience store, her movements automatic, an opposition to the disarray of her thoughts. Each action, though mechanically precise, felt like an additional weight on her already burdened chest. The uniform that hugged to her skin was more a shackle than mere clothing.

Her days merged into one another, indistinct and muddled, much like the watercolours bleeding into each other on a canvas — their distinct boundaries lost. Back in her apartment, amidst the clutter, Hisana's sketchpad continued to bear witness to the stormy eyes that refused to forsake her. His gaze, etched in her mind, still lingered like a shadow, defining, and confining her world beyond her sisters' grounding words.

As the weeks waned, Hisana gripped the memories with a fervour, unwilling to let go. Reflecting on his imprint, however, left her feeling overshadowed, as if she were merely a sidenote in the grand narrative of existence.

The simple demands of life beckoned, ushering her from the realm of fanciful obsession back to the solid ground of obligations that knew her name all too well. Was her commitment to her mundane routine simply a deterrent, concealing her from the pursuit of her heart's true yearnings? If she dared to be honest, she knew the blame could be traced back to the Spectres of the past, those persistent shadows that dance at the edge of her consciousness.

Despite her resolve, a part of her still wished for something greater, a longing rekindled by the passion she thought she had subdued. The question haunted her. Had she really left a mundane job at the Kurosaki Clinic, abandoning the comfort and proximity of her sister, for something she could never allow herself to pursue again?

Hisana found it all too easy to lose herself in the reel of her life's memories, each one playing out like scenes from a film blurred by motion. These memories constricted her chest with a suffocating heaviness, as if her every decision, every step taken, was dictated by forces beyond her control, leaving her true desires out of reach.

Which is why that morning stood out, images of him and her in that alley, branding her soul with a heat nearly insufferable. Her eagerness, the palpable desire for his enveloping presence, disclosed her true self. Shaking her head as if to dispel the engulfing torrent of thoughts, Hisana forgot the world around her, not even noticing the sound of the entrance chime signalling a new customer's arrival.

"Excuse me," a voice gently broke through her thoughts, jolting Hisana into action. She instinctively took a step back, creating a small but significant distance between herself and the newcomer.

Managing to muster a response, Hisana whispered, "Ah-yes," her voice a soft, before she quickly composed herself.

Her widened gaze took in the woman standing before her. There was an air of kindness about her, accentuated by the glasses that framed her gentle round features. Dressed in understated sophistication, each element of her attire was selected with deliberate care and her brown hair sculpted to perfection. Her presence was like a warm breeze, inviting and gentle, wrapping around the store.

A warm smile graced the woman's lips. Hisana bowed, a gesture of respect and readiness to assist. "Yes," she said, her voice now carrying a steadier tone, "How can I help you?"

The woman's smile broadened, a spark of purpose in her eyes as she adjusted her glasses. "I am here to help you, Marugo-san," her statement resonated with a depth that spiralled towards Hisana.

Hisana's eyes widened, her heart beating faster as she processed the woman's words. "Forgive me, but have we been introduced? Did you previously work here?" she asked, her cheeks flushing. As she scrutinized the woman for any sign of familiarity, it became clear they were worlds apart. However, the woman's smile remained, filled with genuine reassurance.

"Shirogane Mihane," the woman introduced herself with a poise that spoke of her formal role, her bow mirroring the deliberate grace of her introduction. "I am the personal secretary to a well-known businessman and art enthusiast, Kuchiki Byakuya," she paused for a moment, allowing the name to settle, "and he has recently become the owner of a gallery in Ginza."

At the mention of Kuchiki Byakuya, a spark of knowing flickered in the depths of her memory, however, it was too dim and distant to illuminate any connection. Hisana nodded, slowly absorbing the full weight of Shirogane's words. The significance of the message began to take hold, and she instinctively straightened her posture, mirroring Mihane's composed presence. Her fingers, however, remained tightly intertwined as a lump formed in her throat.

"A-and how do I come into this?" she questioned, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

Shirogane Mihane's smile remained steadfast, her enthusiasm piercing through the formal veneer. With a graceful gesture, she brushed stray strands of hair from her face, revealing an eagerness that was both inviting and profound. "Kuchiki-san seeks a featured artist for his gallery's launch. Your work online captured his attention, and he believes you embody the perfect choice for this honour."

The pause that followed was heavy, burdened with the gravity of her words. Mihane tilted her head, her expression softening, acknowledging the surreal nature of their conversation. "I realise this may seem sudden," she continued, "but the offer is genuine, and Kuchiki-san eagerly awaits the opportunity to meet with you."

Then, with a grace reminiscent of flowing water, Mihane brought out a business card, its flawless white surface shimmering under the fluorescent ambiance. She extended it to Hisana, presenting an invitation into the unknown.

"I've arranged a meeting for tomorrow. I am confident you can make the necessary adjustments to your schedule," Mihane suggested, her eyes briefly scanning the convenience store before settling back on Hisana with steady focus.

Hisana's eyes and fingers locked onto the card, her pulse quickening. As she clasped it, it felt like cradling a delicate dream deferred. But the scars of past wounds murmured words of caution, memories of when dreams had morphed into monsters.

"Shirogane-san," she began, her gaze shifting back to the sophisticated woman, her voice trembling and her cheeks flushed, "this must be some kind of jest, surely?" Her eyes widened as she waited a response, brows furrowing.

Mihane's response was immediate, her tone as firm as her gaze. "Kuchiki-san does not jest," she assured, her finger tapping the card in a rhythm that matched the beating of Hisana's heart. "Your meeting is set for tomorrow. You'll find all the details on the back."

She took an involuntary step back, her gaze darting over Mihane. Suddenly, his grey eyes, storm-wrought and compelling, surged through her consciousness, kindling a blaze within Hisana that awakened every dormant sinew of her existence. However, as quickly as it surfaced, Hisana quashed it, her burgeoning question faltering on her lips, unvoiced.

Mihane, sensing her hesitation, leaned in, offering guidance with a gesture of open-handed sincerity. "May I suggest," she began, "that you bring a selection of your artwork to the meeting. Kuchiki-san values directness and will want to review your portfolio personally to understand your vision and skills."

Through the lens of her glasses, Mihane's eyes sparkled, reflecting the world with startling vividness. Her glance at the watch was a subtle cue, an elegant endnote to their interaction, pre-emptively silencing Hisana's potential reply.

"It was lovely meeting you, Marugo-san," Mihane remarked, dipping in a bow that radiated a peaceful resolve as she readied to leave. Her exit, as serene as her entrance, left a lasting mark of tranquillity, a gentle whisper of peace that stayed in her wake.

In the quiet aftermath, it was only when the remnants of peace ebbed away that Hisana retreated behind her palms, immersing herself with closed eyes. The warmth of her skin mixed with the price of self-condemnation, creating a relentless audit of her personal failings.

Within her grasp, the business card hummed, whispering of veiled opportunities. The ornate details danced under her gaze, the golden symbol gleaming brilliantly, a disparity to the pure white paper. Flipping the card, Hisana's eyes absorbed the appointment details written on the back:

Kuchiki & Marugo

10:30 15 July

53 Marunouchi Avenue, Chiyoda-ku


When the elevator doors sealed shut, Hisana's heart fluttered, an anomaly amidst a sea of indifferent strangers. Cloaked in the nondescript greys and browns of her attire, she was a wisp of lifelessness set against the elevator's elegant occupants. Unconsciously, her foot tapped a discordant rhythm to the elevator's chimes, while loose strands of her dark hair framed her almond-shaped eyes. Her fingers, caught in a dance, twirled her portfolio case in endless circles.

Around her, curious glances flickered before darting away, as if she was a contagion to be avoided. Her presence in the elevator, lively with the silent opulence of its passengers, marked her as an interloper in this world of affluence. As the elevator ascended, the space around her grew incrementally less crowded, until the last of her companions exited, leaving her in an isolating silence.

Behind the closed elevator doors, her posture deflated. She leaned for balance, her fingers knotted around her portfolio's tag, reciting a silent mantra, 'you can do it. This is real.' His gaze, as vivid in her memory as if he stood before her, compelled her forward when fear sought to chain her feet. 'It's merely nerves,' she consoled herself, a wave of heat washing over her at the thought.

Without warning, the elevator ceased its ascent, its arrival bell ringing with the abruptness of a storm's first thunderclap. Her fingers clenched around the portfolio case, her palms slick.

Upon the elevator doors gliding open, Hisana stood frozen, her once-steadfast resolve began to tremble before the uncharted expanse ahead. With more effort than usual, she managed to shrug off her hesitation, armouring herself in a constructed guise of certainty.

The moment her steps met the lustrous marble floor, she was immersed in the lobby's quiet luxury. Here, elegance was whispered through clean lines and a modern aesthetic, each detail from the texture to the lighting a piece of a larger, meticulously arranged puzzle of modern refinement. Though undeniably beautiful, Hisana couldn't shake the feeling that it lacked the vibrancy of life's true colours.

Guided by the methodical tapping of a keyboard, Hisana navigated towards the reception area, a striking edifice of sleek marble that doubled as the receptionist's station. The receptionist herself was partially hidden behind the expanse of the desk, save for the radiant glimmer of her pearl earrings that caught the light with every movement. Her hair fell in a sleek waterfall, cut in a bob that was the epitome of precision, mirroring the refined grace that filled the room.

"Excuse me," Hisana interjected, halting the rhythmic tapping. The receptionist's inscrutable gaze eroded her bravado, dimming the light in her eyes.

Still, Hisana persevered, meeting the receptionist's gaze with a determined effort. "I'm here to see Kuchiki-san—I have an appointment at ten-thirty," she stumbled slightly over her words. "My name is Marugo Hisana." With a deliberate grace, she lifted her portfolio bag into view, presenting it for acknowledgment.

The receptionist's attention, however, drifted back to her computer screen, dismissing Hisana with a glance. The room was filled once more with the sound of keystrokes, leaving Hisana in a moment that stretched painfully long. Finally, with a slight tilt of her chin, the receptionist addressed her. "Please take a seat, Marugo-san. Abarai-san will arrive shortly to guide you," she stated, her voice a model of professional detachment.

Hisana inhaled deeply, her lips forming a tight line as she nodded. 'Abarai-san?' The name echoed in her mind, unfamiliar.

She moved towards the seating area with careful, measured steps, keenly aware of the luxury that surrounded her. The chairs by the window promised not just comfort but a view of the city that sprawled endlessly before her. Tokyo unfolded like a tapestry of life and motion below, the dense clusters of skyscrapers, vibrant streets, and verdant patches weaving together a scene of dynamic beauty. Tokyo Tower stood in the distance, a symbol to the city's melding of tradition with progress.

In this vista, Hisana found the colour she thought the lobby lacked. The understated elegance of the lobby, with its monolithic marble and clean lines, wasn't devoid of creativity but a purposeful canvas set against the vibrant life outside. A smile of genuine delight and understanding brightened her face.

Lost in the horizon, she barely noticed the approach of a new figure until a voice intruded, "Marugo Hisana?"

At the sound of the man's voice, Hisana instinctively braced for interaction; she stood taller, her stance embodying alertness, with her response teetering on the edge of articulation. However, the sight of the man halted her words in their tracks, her smile fading into a momentary eclipse of poise. What once was an atmosphere of captivating charm now tightened around her, her breaths racing to keep pace with the frenzied rhythm of her heart.

Despite it, a flicker of recognition sparked a subtle curve on her lips; her intuition had not misled her. The man's red hair, a vibrant rebellion against the office's monochromatic scheme, was pulled back. What anchored him in her recollection wasn't the bold statement made by his hair, but rather the intricate tattoos that wove across his skin, marking him as the underling from that morning.

His deep, brown eyes twinkled with an unspoken mischief as they greeted hers, the amusement in his gaze clashing with her widened stare and rapid blinking. Caught off-guard by the unexpected approach, she swiftly stitched her composure back together, her face becoming a flawless mask of calm.

" Y-yes, Abarai-san, " she began, squaring her shoulders, her stance firming. "It is an immense honour to have Kuchiki-san consider my work." While her statement projected strength, a voice inside hummed with caution, spinning a tale of threat that draped her senses in a cloak of chill.

His expression shifted suddenly, the playful ease fading into a mask of impatience, his posture relaxing into a casual lean. "Let's not waste time; Kuchiki-oyaban expects us," he said with an implicit urgency that brooked no argument.

With a hasty "Ah-yes!" of acknowledgment, Hisana hastened to follow Abarai's lead through the opulent corridors, the soft echo of their footsteps the only sound in the silent expanse. They paused before doors adorned with intricate carvings, the weight of anticipation hanging heavy in the air, as if the very atmosphere awaited her entrance.

Engulfed in contemplation, Hisana admonished herself for the thrill that coursed through her uninvited. 'This is the outcome you sought, yes?' a facet of her whispered, even as she dismissed the thought.

"There ya go, Hisana. I'll be right here," Abarai stated curtly, his informal address aggravating her further. Before she could gather her thoughts for a reply, she found herself within the room, the door's click sounding a definitive note, sealing her fate.

Upon crossing the threshold, Hisana was consumed by an air rich with intensity. Immersed in a splendour that outshone the lobby's allure, all else dimmed to mere shadows, leaving only the magnetic pull of his aura as her sole focus. The grey of his eyes was a cold, piercing force, closing the gap between them with the mystery of the deep sea. His dark hair, framing his face and accentuating his high cheekbones, painted a picture of refined beauty.

Entrapped in his unwavering gaze, she felt like prey ensnared by the scrutiny of a predator, her movements stopped yet her senses heightened. When his voice finally punctured through her thoughts, its icy edge snapped her back to reality. "Are you devoid of hearing?" His narrowed eyes bore into hers, demanding her attention and breaking the trance she had fallen into.

"No?" Hisana's voice wavered, her fingers twisting against her leg.

"It's impolite to disregard someone. One would expect that basic manners do not require instruction," he chastised, prompting a deep flush to spread across her face as she bowed deeply, her heart teetering on the edge of drowning into her stomach.

"My apologies, Kuchiki-sama," she managed, caught between the pain of biting the inside of her cheeks and the weight of his gaze. Her eyes lifted slightly, defiance flickering within her compliance. Taking a breath, she ventured into territory fraught with risk, "I assure you, Kuchiki-sama, my presence here is without consequence."

Words spilled from her in a hurried flow, crafted to neutralize any doubt, "Even if I had witnessed anything, my discretion is paramount. I've seen nothing that would compromise you or anyone else. I pose no threat." The resolve in her voice was a bet against the odds.

His head dipped in a quiet gesture of acknowledgment, sending her senses into overdrive, his impassivity undisturbed. "I fail to see any reason for causing harm to you," he mused, throwing her heart into chaos, his eyes lit with a complexity beyond words.

"I deal in business endeavours," he continued, "as you have been made aware, I've recently ventured into the art world, having acquired a prominent gallery in the Ginza District." Barely there but unmistakably present was the soft curl at the edge of his mouth, hinting at layers of complexity. "I noticed your talent several weeks ago," he revealed himself.

Her body reacted without permission, a deep-seated clenching that was echoed by her legs drawing together. His words were not just heard; they were felt, drawing on strings deep within her in a way that was neither brash nor negligible but with a controlled strength that asserted his dominance.

Leading her towards a more intimate setting, he gestured to 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. He motioned towards the settee. "Take a seat, Marugo-san. The visual arts have always been a passion of mine."

Despite the imagery of a cat-and-mouse game teasing at the edge of her thoughts, Hisana knew such comparisons would be unwelcome—he was no cat, and she, certainly not a mouse. As she took her seat, maintaining an upright posture, she expressed her thanks, "Thank you, Kuchiki-sama."

Her simple attire contrasted sharply against the luxurious leather, her eyes—a vibrant purple—glinted against the dark colour. "Ah," she started, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, "I misunderstood the nature of this meeting. My work seldom attracts inquiries." Embracing honesty felt like the only viable option, especially as a newfound sense of lightness, sparked by his guidance, lifted a weight from her shoulders.

"Bring me your portfolio," he instructed, his tone leaving no room for refusal.

With hands that trembled, Hisana reached for her portfolio. She pressed her teeth into her cheek, embracing the discomforting sting when a coppery flavour washed over her. It was grounding, even as she felt his despotic gaze scrutinising her behaviour. She positioned herself with a humility that felt almost religious in its reverence, a portrait of obedience in her posture. Her legs intertwined, a subtle manoeuvre to soothe the emerging ache that gathered unbidden – hardly the epitome of decorum.

Carefully, she revealed her artwork: a blend of old acrylics, oils, and charcoal sketches, each accompanied by her commentary on its intent and significance. His responses were minimal, and his nods were perfunctory, his interest absent when his gaze returned to her, leaving her feeling like a child, exposed, and seeking approval.

"If this represents the extent of your capabilities, it is insufficient," he commented. The critique was like a whip, the unexpected lash striking her chest and causing her heart to plummet, her shoulders slumped under the heaviness of his words.

"I'm sorry," she rushed out, a hand instinctively moving to her chest as if to shield her heart from further injury.

The room seemed to grow colder, a silence surrounding them that muffled the outside world, including the words from his lips. It was only his slight change in expression—a furrowed brow, a tightness around his mouth—that snapped her back to the moment.

"Do you find the need for repetition regularly, Marugo-san?" he asked sharply. "Because I do not appreciate such redundancy." His next words cut deeper, "Your current collection does not meet my gallery's standards. Do you have anything else to show?" It was not a question, but a demand, pressing her to act despite the situation and his presence threatening to overwhelm her.

"My sketchbook," Hisana whispered, her fingers already diving into her bag's depths to retrieve the intimate journal. Her heart's tempo escalated, its beats echoing through her as she presented the sketchbook to him—an offering that held more than mere illustrations.

Despite an overwhelming urge to escape, she fixated herself to the moment, biting down on her cheeks to endure the pain and taste of copper—a small sacrifice. She couldn't meet his gaze, focusing instead on the sketchbook's spine when he began to leaf through the pages, each turn echoing like a ticking clock marking the countdown to her future.

It was as if with each page, he peeled back layers of her being, laying bare her essence for scrutiny. The room's air grew thick, her breathing laboured under the weight of the space. Then, he stopped, his attention captured by a particular sketch. Hisana found herself drawn back to a poignant memory; her eyes locked on him as she awaited his verdict.

"My initial judgment stands corrected, Marugo-san. Your talent secures your place as my featured artist." His words, both a caress and decree, lifted the oppressiveness that had clung to her, and left her afloat. It ignited a radiant smile on her face —its light so pure, the honesty of it was almost searing.

"Thank you, Kuchiki-sama," she responded, "May I ask which piece spoke to you most?" He shifted, the sketchbook in hand, and as he turned it towards her, their fingers briefly met—a touch that revealed the page in question.

Her smile faltered, giving way to widened eyes. The sketch, a bold and intimate portrayal, captured a moment of raw, passionate excess. It was an artwork born of desire; the lines rough yet brimming with fervour and authenticity. The depicted figures were unmistakable – him captured in his rawest form, fully exposed, and beside him, was a woman. Her eyes were a mirror of her own. She was constrained, and equally nude, her skin tainted with emergent bruises from rough intercourse.

The room's walls seemed to close in. A flush swept through her, the urge to flee now a roaring demand in her veins. Politeness and propriety became trivial in the face of such exposure.

With a decisive motion, she snapped the sketchbook shut, the sound imitating her desperate wish to bury those revealing secrets forever. Gathering her scattered works with a haste born of self-hatred, she contemplated flight, societal expectations be damned.

"Uhm—I'm so sorry, I have to—" Her apology tumbled out, disjointed from panic. A profound unease twisted within her, compelling her shoulders to hunch as if to shield herself. She had unwittingly laid her soul bare, her sketches a window into the depths she only dared explore in solitude.

He had seen it all—the raw depictions not just of them but of that harrowing morning; each stroke imbued with the intensity of their encounter. But, as she faltered, poised to flee, he presented a folder with effortless poise, halting her escape.

"We've prepared your contract," he stated, edged with authority, the subtle arch of his brow casting a shadow that seemed to underscore the gravity of his gaze. "I advise you to review it carefully. It's a generous offer, one I suspect you'll find compelling."

Frozen, Hisana could only muster a whispered, "T-thank you," before hastily grabbing the folder. She made a hasty dash towards the door, her mind racing with the implications of her undignified departure. 'Wait,' a voice within her insisted, prompting her to stop and cast a backward glance.

"My secretary will coordinate with you for the contract's finalisation and discuss the next steps," he continued, his sternness belied by an undercurrent of something more—a storm brewing beneath the calm. "Be ready for what's to come," his advice stirred more questions than answers.

Driven by a mix of obedience and an urge to escape his penetrating gaze, Hisana dropped into a deep bow. The ache between her legs mounting. Her grasp on her portfolio case served as a lifeline, steadying her from crumbling beneath her own thoughts and the biting sting of disgrace.

"Yes—"

"Remember," he interjected. "The nature of our meetings does not solely define our arrangement—or your role within it. As you leave, Abarai-san will return your camera. It appears to hold particular significance to you." With his dismissal came an unexpected chill, as if his voice had the power to summon the cold from the depths, encasing her in an icy stillness that lingered stubbornly, well beyond her leave. A stark contrast to the warmth fluttering inside her, a divergence that felt like stepping from shadow into sunlight.


It has been a long, good years since I have written a full story for this Fandom...

I have already written out over 60,000 words and 125 pages of this story, and it is still growing. But I finally thought it was time to start posting it after about a year of writing.

Please leave a comment and let me know what you thought.