Resonance in Monotone

Solitude

II

Written by Dragenruler


Broken - Noelle Johnson


The phone's gentle glow bathed her features in a muted tone, casting the room in a sorrowful ambiance. Night arrived, embracing the buzzing cadence of cicadas and the distant rush of cars. The whir of the fan yielded to silence, leaving only the rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the virtual keyboard to echo through the night.

His name, 朽木 白哉, emitted a subdued intensity on the screen, the characters exuding a solemn, poetic resonance. Delving into her search, her gaze bore down with a quiet insistence as the search results loaded instantly, presenting a condensed profile that offered a comprehensive overview of Byakuya Kuchiki's life. The page displayed a spectrum of professionally posed photos, some captured recent moments while others provided a glimpse into the past.

Her finger hovered over the information. Kuchiki Byakuya, the current head of a family steeped in old wealth, a lineage tracing back to the feudal era of Japan. Born into affluence, he wielded luxury, freedom, and authority with the grace befitting his position. The information was extensive, revealing his contemporary endeavours, and the colossal power vested in the Kuchiki family. She had met one of the most influential families in Japan — a powerhouse of political, economic, and financial might.

However, details about his youth were sparse, confined to schooling and a handful of professional accolades. Photos of various Kuchiki family members graced the screen, but Byakuya, with his penetrating grey eyes, emerged as the most prominent family member in recent times.

Immersing herself in articles and scrolling through images, an unexpected grip clenched at her chest. It wasn't merely a pang; it manifested as a visceral ache, a cruel embrace that tightened with every heartbeat. The intensity surged as she paused at a particular photo. There he stood - a silhouette of quiet elegance enveloped in a sleek, charcoal-grey suit. Kuchiki Byakuya exuded modern refinement, his posture impeccable and his aura commanding.

His sharp eyes held a silent intensity, reaching through the screen and probing the depths of her own solitude. Strands of well-groomed, obsidian hair framed his face, emphasizing the composed expression veiling the storm of emotions within. Yet, beneath the veneer of sophistication, an undeniable loneliness lingered—a isolating remnant that resonated with her own familiar ache.

It clung to him, subtle yet palpable, like the haunting fragrance of wilting cherry blossoms, its fragile beauty fading into desolation. Each inhale became a struggle, the weight of her breath unbearable. It wasn't just a photo; it was a mirror, a reflection of confinement. An instinctive urge overwhelmed her and the discomforting dullness in her chest grew.

Hisana's throat tightened. Clicking back to retrace her steps, she attempted to banish the gnawing pit inside her and redirect the focus of her search: "Kuchiki and the Yakuza." More results flooded in, but instead of authoritative articles like before, she found herself navigating through a maze of conspiracy theories and online forums speculating about the family's connection to the Yakuza and the government. Hisana found nothing helpful, nor trustworthy.

Undeterred, she clicked into another forum, only to find herself in what seemed like a fan page dedicated to him. She winced at the cut-out images of his face surrounded by hearts; nevertheless, she continued scrolling through the page as if searching for a hidden gem of information. Growing disheartened, she switched off her phone, discarding it into the darkness underneath her blanket.

"Why me?" The question fell faint in the silence; a whisper lost in the empty space of her room.

She couldn't fathom it. In the grand scheme of things, she was insignificant — nothing more than a homeless mutt navigating the unforgiving streets. The realisation stung, and she shook her head, attempting to dispel the thoughts. With a huff, she twisted onto her side, the soft glow of Tokyo's nightlife outlining the contours of her kitchen.

Though he framed it as a choice, it wasn't. Wouldn't it have been simpler to erase her, to discard her? Why squander an opportunity on a girl like her, unworthy and despicable, someone only deserving of nothing?

Her afternoon had revolved around the ceaseless effort to wipe away tears, and as fresh ones gathered in her eyes, stinging with intrusion, she rubbed them in exasperation. She felt exposed, like an offering for him to devour, surrounded only by the fragments of her vivid dreams and the enclosing void of her existence, its confines crushing.

A sudden, piercing sensation cut through her, catching her breath, and compelling her to press her face into the pillow. Fingers clenched the soft fabric as her body trembled, a languid heaviness invading her taut sinews while tears saturated the pillow. For a brief instance, her mind flirted with visions of a reborn spring, the fragrance of cherry blossoms wafted through her consciousness—an elusive symphony of happiness and freedom, always just out of reach.

The suffocating pressure gripped her chest; each suppressed sob amplified the constricting of her lungs until, overwhelmed, Hisana shifted onto her side, gasping for the sweet release of air. The realisation stabbed at her, the pain twisted before gradually dissolving into nothingness, leaving her enveloped in the darkness that stretched across the vast, desolate emptiness of her apartment.

Catching her breath, she turned away from the window, her gaze faintly returning to the kitchen. The contract drew her focus. The moment she walked through the door, she had signed it; her fate etched in the inked lines that now bound her to him.


Within a mere week, she found herself caught in a whirlwind of events; from the certainty of the contract to parting ways with the dull routine of her convenience store job, the rapid succession of changes transpired too swiftly for Hisana to fully comprehend. Morning broke on an early Monday, officially marking the commencement of their entanglement—a day filled with the promise of new beginnings.

Namiki Dori flaunted its unique charm as Hisana stepped onto its pavement. The sky, painted in muted pastels, cast a tranquil atmosphere upon the towering structures lining the district. Wandering the winding streets, Hisana turned a corner, unveiling opulent boutiques whose glass storefronts dazzled like crystalline spectacles, capturing the delicate hues of the awakening sun.

As she approached, her steps slowed to a deliberate pace; a moment of breathless astonishment overcame her. The gallery was encased in a transparent wall, laying bare its secretive charm to any observant passersby. In the daylight, a delicate ballet of brightness unfolded across the expansive white walls, and golden streaks adorned the flawless floor. The faint fragrance of the prior night's rain lingered.

Hisana took a slow, deliberate step forward, her eyes fixed on the emptiness within the gallery, a breath of reverence slipping from her lips. A subtle shake of her head conveyed her internal disbelief; is this the gallery that would showcase her art? Clasping the bag, her fingers strained, knuckles whitening. In a protective stance, shoulders bowed, she donned layers that muted her presence, her long, dark hair serving as a cascading shield, a barrier against the world.

From the outside, the gallery's interior seemed uninhabited, with lights off and the space vacant.

"Marugo-san, I hope the commute was easy." Responding to the voice she had grown familiar with, Hisana faced the speaker; their familiar rhythm had turned into a comforting companion over the past week. Shirogane, as always, presented herself as the epitome of perfection—crisp appearance, brown hair neatly tied in a bun, and kind eyes reflecting beneath her glasses.

A shy smile lit up Hisana's face. "Apart from a congested train, it was."

Shirogane mused, her manicured finger tapping against her cheek. " It might be worth considering a move to the area."

Uncertain how to reply to such a notion, Hisana blinked. Securing an affordable place in Sumida had been a stroke of luck; the ongoing development in the ward had driven rental costs up, restricting her options to the older sections within her budget. If Hisana's contract with Kuchiki Byakuya was any indication, Shirogane would be exceptionally well-compensated as a personal secretary. However, she appeared intentionally oblivious to the obvious contrast between their circumstances.

Their greeting was brief and somewhat superficial. Shirogane steered the conversation, unlocking the gallery and ushering Hisana inside. The space, reflecting the same simplicity as Kuchiki Byakuya's offices, expanded upon their entry.

The open design provided an unhindered sightline across the extensive emptiness with only a marble reception desk near the back wall. A small door, once opened, exposed a hallway with three entrances: one leading to a bathroom, another to a petite kitchenette, and a third to an unexpectedly unique loading bay.

"It's advisable to steer clear of the loading bay for now, Marugo-san. Some matters within the group are yet to be finalised." Shirogane's eyes crinkled at the corners, a trace of concern momentarily shadowing her expression. Her hands carefully smoothed an invisible crease on the fabric of her skirt. "With your presence here, things are bound to get busy."

A crease formed on Hisana's forehead, her gaze followed Shirogane's towards the door, and suddenly the small hallway stretched endlessly. In a heartbeat, a rush of vivid memories engulfed her—the colours of dawn, the seeping pool of blood, the echoes of footsteps, and the overpowering smell of tobacco.

A visceral chill tingled down her spine, the memories potent and haunting. Her fingers interlaced and then flexed instinctively. The air bore her unvoiced questions, an invisible strain that set Hisana's heart into a staccato of apprehension. Detecting Hisana's disquiet, Shirogane sidestepped any notion of an explanation. Rather dedicating her energy, with infectious zeal, to pinpointing necessary improvements and allowing the tension to dissipate as she hurried them away, continuing the induction.

Ascending the staircase, Hisana's clasped hands tightened. Light cascaded through the glass, painting the scene with a range of lively hues that blurred the distinction between the confines of indoors and the expansive world beyond. Reaching the second story, she felt the pull of anticipation. Here, shielded from public view, awaited an additional room—an atelier.

Shirogane gestured with a smooth motion, directing attention to the room. "This is where you'll be," simultaneously, her shoulders eased into a relaxed posture, and the warmth in her eyes spilled over into a crinkled smile.

In awe, Hisana's gaze danced between Shirogane and the atelier. The scent of aged oak, intermingled with the sweet metallic fragrance of dried paint and the earthy notes of sketchbooks, surged in, evoking a wave of nostalgic emotions. Her hand naturally sought her mouth, teeth sinking into her nails as she queried "Is everything newly acquired?"

The room basked in the glow of natural light, courtesy of a grand skylight that adorned the ceiling, infusing every corner with a comforting warmth. An antique oak table stood against the wall, its surface adorned with an array of jars housing paintbrushes, each meticulously arranged like soldiers. Shelves decorated the surrounding walls, a symphony of organized chaos—housing sketchbooks and tubes of paint in a kaleidoscope of hues; every conceivable colour lay at the ready. Nestled beside the table, an easel and a plush stool stood. Canvases of varying sizes leaned against one another, neatly hidden by the oak table.

Shirogane's smile, gentle yet knowing, expressed understanding. "You're aware, Kuchiki-san esteems excellence and precision. He's committed to providing you with all the resources you need."

Caught off guard, a storm of thoughts raged through Hisana's mind. In this unfamiliar world, her capacity for composed behaviour resembled a delicate, but old porcelain doll—once flawless, now bared with visible cracks. The question escaped in a hushed tone, a mere whisper slipping through the barriers of her covered mouth. "Why?"

Despite Shirogane's eager explanations, Hisana's gaze drifted, and her thoughts screamed, overpowering the words. An undeniable sense of disconnection took root within her, creating a subtle but persistent knot that tightened with each passing moment.

Adjusting her glasses with a composed grace, Shirogane's tranquil demeanour seemed to expertly counter Hisana's. "Kuchiki-san places great trust in your contribution to make this gallery successful. He sincerely believes that without your involvement, it won't reach its full potential," Shirogane's voice carried a calm assurance.

"I'm unable to accept this."

The sigh that slipped from Hisana carried a burden, its heaviness akin to the oppressive tightness in her chest—a relentless companion, coiling around her like a shroud woven from threads of self-loathing. As the words hung in the air, her shoulders slumped beneath an invisible weight.

Her voice, when she spoke again, wavered like a fragile seam on the verge of unravelling. "I appreciate Kuchiki-san's trust, but it is too much." A tremor coursed through her fingertips. Seeking an anchor, Hisana unconsciously clutched the edge of the table, her hands finding relief in its cool surface. Avoiding Shirogane's gaze, her eyes drifted downward, tracing patterns on the table.

"Ah," the faint acknowledgment drew Hisana's brow into a thoughtful furrow. Her gaze snapped towards Shirogane's softened expression, capturing the deliberate folding of Shirogane's hands. "I completely understand. Given that it's only been a week, it's completely normal to feel overwhelmed."

Hisana vehemently shook her head, "No—" Blinking, she briefly averted her gaze, the taste of copper heavy on her tongue, mirroring the painful truth of her words. "It's the kindness."

Shirogane released a soft, melodious chuckle, briefly covering her mouth. "Kuchiki-san possesses a multitude of qualities; I would rather characterize it as a strong commitment to ensuring the success of his assets." Her warm smile persisted, the amusement in her eyes tender and enduring, gently negating the tension in the air. "Your growth is a significant part of that commitment, and he is actively investing in you."

An immediate retort echoed, 'He shouldn't,' but the words festered as bitter thoughts.

"I've still got a few things for you, including the keys to the gallery and a laptop for work." Shirogane's words flowed with a sense of anticipation, and without waiting for a response, she gracefully drew closer to Hisana. Her hand moved gently, a subtle guide. "Your upcoming meeting with him is set for this Thursday, and I've scheduled it in your diary. Being fully funded on salary, he anticipates rapid progression and looks forward to discussing conception pieces."

"Surely, you're jesting, Shirogane-san – for Thursday?" Hisana's heart lurched, coming to an abrupt standstill.

Shirogane gently placed her hand on Hisana's shoulder, offering a comforting touch, her expression earnest. "No need to worry, Marugo-san. Kuchiki-san is ensuring that you have everything necessary to excel in your role. If there's anything specific you require or if you have any concerns, please don't hesitate to let me know. I'm here to support you."

The bitter thoughts brewed, yet she restrained herself from uttering them. Tension manifested in the lines etched across her forehead—a silent wrestling match that Shirogane's warm smile couldn't entirely ease.

Leaning in with a conspiratorial air, Shirogane shared, "Marugo-san, just so you know, I am genuinely excited about your collection. Kuchiki-san's choice has my full support and enthusiasm."

Shirogane's warm smile flickered for a moment, replaced by a subtle understanding as Hisana cautiously extracted herself from Shirogane's supportive hand. The sheer magnitude of the challenge created an overwhelming current that threatened to sweep away any traces of self-assurance. Despite the tumult, a dim beacon of hope persisted, casting a fragile light amidst the ache, and sinking feeling nestled within Hisana's chest.


Her Monday stretched out like a blank canvas after Shirogane's departure; a relentless barrage of self-doubt splattered across the day. Each attempt at conjuring ideas faced brutal self-critique, akin to harshly scratching out poorly conceived sketches. The discarded notions—some drowning in mundane mediocrity, others swallowed by the shadows of creativity—stood out like stark, colourless blemishes on her aspirations. None seemed remotely worthy of presenting to Kuchiki Byakuya, especially not for the coveted chance to secure her life.

As the impending spectre of his inevitable rejection loomed large in her thoughts, it evoked the disastrous memory of their first encounter. The anticipated iciness of his words hung in the air, poised to pierce through her once more. With the approach of midnight, her frustration transformed into desperate dejection, weariness pulling its weight heavily within her eyes. The burden threatened to drag her into the depths of surrender, where the nagging remains of self-loathing resonated in the stillness of the night.

When Tuesday morning emerged, Hisana found herself retracing the contours of her memories: from the initial fascination that stirred her heart and the vice-like grip of shock and fear to the burning heat of desire pulsating at her core. Each emotion wove a distinct thread in the fabric of her recollections. Yet, it all culminated in the ultimate shame of openly embarrassing herself before him, having exposed her derisory thoughts. It was in this crucible of emotions that inspiration began to sprout, drawing from the raw and unfiltered array of human experience.

By that afternoon, she discovered herself deeply immersed in exploration—researching artists, studying techniques, and delving into the labyrinth of the human psyche. A singular thought permeated her mind: what emotions does he experience? Wednesday had slipped away unnoticed, leaving behind tangible forms of her concepts in abstract figures and artistic techniques on paper, ready to confront his unyielding scrutiny. Despite the boom of inspiration and productivity, a lingering concern persisted that night as she rehearsed the presentation of her ideas. Hisana reflected that the challenge laid not only in her ambitious vision but also in her fumbling delivery. Perhaps, she hadn't planned with the meticulous structure required, allowing her aspirations to burgeon excessively.

Still, it proved powerless against the unexpected surge of excitement coursing through her veins. Its energy was so tangible that it resonated all the way to her fingertips, adding a subtle skip to her step. Pouring her entire being into the project over the past few days, weariness failed to deter her as she found herself utterly consumed the moment inspiration blossomed within her.

Each passing moment seemed to lift her heart, as if, for a fleeting instant, it dissolved the shackles that bound her. However, the stinging ache persevered in her heart, a haunting emptiness that carved through her existence and pricked at her persistently. Her artistic endeavours had only ever offered temporary respite, just like now, and it served as a constant reminder—an insistent whisper that she didn't deserve this, and happiness wasn't hers to claim.

In the silent expanse of the gallery, only her presence dominated it. Shirogane's caution heightened the solitude within the building, the void of any activity except her own accentuated the isolation. And, on Thursday morning, Hisana stood before the extensive glass doors, art case in hand, shifting uneasily from foot to foot. The doors yielded to her touch, and the alarm was disarmed. At the threshold, a man with a mop of familiar red hair and tattoos that seamlessly blended across his skin awaited her, rendering her frozen.

Her eyes dropped from his deep brown gaze, finding refuge in studying the floor beneath her feet. As he inspected her with a raised brow, she shifted uncomfortably, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. Leaning against the marble desk, a phone pressed to his ear, a faint hum of conversation filtered through the receiver. Honestly, she should have seen him from outside, and she wasn't sure why she hadn't noticed him before. A subtle fidget in her stance and the twirl of a strand of hair around her finger betrayed the unease that now enveloped her.

Leaning backward, he casually raised his hand, greeting her with a lazy hello using two fingers and mouthing a nonchalant 'yo.'

Hisana blinked, her calm facade momentarily disrupted as her eyes flickered past him. A hesitant wave unfolded from her hand, its slow ascent mirroring the awkward curve of her lips. Behind him, movement stirred, and another man emerged from the back door. With a swift, almost imperceptible withdrawal, he disengaged himself from her, his figure vanishing into the back room with the newcomer.

'No,' she scolded herself, shaking off the tendrils of her awkwardness. Time was a luxury she couldn't squander, not now. Nonetheless, the memory of her past actions lingered, a haunting spectre she vehemently refused to allow a reprisal. 'Strength lies in composure. Do not waver,' she urged, a silent command echoing with unwavering strength in the recesses of her thoughts.

Her fate rested in Byakuya Kuchiki's hands, a force she could barely sway—a subtle vice clamped around her chest, a silent weight settling in. Breaths, once rhythmic, now stumbled and shortened, as if the air itself had thickened. Sighing, Hisana withdrew from the entryway and ascended the stairs to the atelier. With a meeting scheduled with him later, she needed to be diligently prepared. Having already rehearsed her presentation, she sought to revisit it for a final time, ensuring the coherence of her thoughts.

As the morning transitioned into afternoon, Hisana finally paused her obsessive practicing around lunchtime, seizing the opportunity to survey her work. Neatly stacked and organized on the easel were her concept pieces, the room now devoid of the earlier whirlwind of her racing mind and drumming feet. Biting into her nail, she scrutinized the stack through furrowed brows, contemplating any potential additions as she returned to rehearsing her ideas in her thoughts. Shaking her head, she stepped away, running a hand through her loose tresses that curtained around her face, fingers tangling with her dark hair.

"Not too shabby," his voice cut through, direct in its camaraderie, "might even catch the boss's eye if you keep it up."

The abrupt words startled her from her focused reverie, leaving her wide-eyed and momentarily breathless. A gasp escaped her lips, and her fingers instinctively clutched onto her shirt tightly over her frantic heart.

"If you don't mind, I would prefer not to be startled again," Hisana mumbled. Her glare was short-lived as she looked up at the man, her eyes trailing the prominent tattoos displayed across his forehead that wound down his neck. It was an aesthetic her sister would likely find appealing, Hisana pondered silently. However, she didn't particularly think much of them; the desire felt lost on her.

With his palms exposed and up, he shrugged, entering the room completely, his grin big. "You need to be aware of your surroundings. Who knows who might get 'cha one day?" He laughed, the sound echoing through the room, and Hisana couldn't help but find it a bit unnerving.

Hisana blanched, unable to string together a retort. She just stood there, patting down the wrinkles of her attire where she had clutched it. His cockiness wasn't something she expected so blatantly. It hung in the air like an uninvited gust, disrupting the quietude of her usual surroundings—an abrupt intrusion that left her speechless.

His brown eyes scanned her up and down, lingering for a moment on the unexpected attempt at elegance. A quirked eyebrow betrayed his surprise. "What's with the fancy getup? Ain't your usual style," he leaned in slightly with a nod, "Not bad, though."

A subtle flush tinged her cheeks at being caught out, having deliberately chosen the only elegant attire in her closet for the day. She stood clad in a well-fitted, subdued navy-blue blouse, its simplicity enhanced by subtle pleats. This was accompanied by comfortable low-heeled boots and grey slacks, a departure from her usual choice of muted sneakers and skirts.

Her voice left behind a trail of uncertainty, "thank you Abarai-san?"

His posture immediately eased into a slight slouch, and he absentmindedly scratched the back of his head. With a casual gesture, he shifted his long red locks from his ponytail to drape over his shoulder. His lips pressed firmly, "Just call me Renji. No need for all that formal stuff."

The abrupt candour of his request caught her off guard—after all, they had only properly met twice now. Hisana winced, her teeth sinking into the tender flesh of her cheeks. As the sharp sting subsided, she carefully navigated the words on her tongue before responding, "I'm sorry, Abarai-san." Her voice stumbled in its delivery, "I believe maintaining a certain level of formality is more appropriate." She hunched her shoulders, hands nervously clasped together in front of her.

Uncomfortable silence settled in, its tension tugging at Hisana's heart with awkward force. Though not frightened, the unfamiliar circumstance left her disoriented. Her usual composed facade slipped away, and she struggled to navigate the situation, keenly aware of the potential for further embarrassment in front of the group.

His grin faded into a firm line, his gaze intensifying as he crossed his arms. "It's just a name. Quit playin' the timid little mouse, alright? Be yourself."

Her heart hammered against her chest, and a flush of anger momentarily engulfed her.

"It's not about timidity; it's about respecting the context." Hisana instinctively straightened her posture, the remark shooting through her like a sudden jolt of electricity. Swiftly, it dissipated, leaving her fingers caught in the delicate bracelet adorning her wrist, which she twirled.

"Damn it, that ain't what I was getting at." He mumbled; frustration etched across his features as he looked away in distant contemplation. It only lasted for a few seconds, before his gaze fixated on her again, an unfamiliar intensity in his eyes. "I'll be straight with you, in case Mihane wasn't. You're one of us now, but that doesn't mean you're safe."

Hisana looked at him, her eyes wide and visibly upset. She opened her mouth, but she was immediately interrupted, "We won't lay a finger on you, boss's orders straight up. But you know how it goes when there are new faces in charge; the old-timers start throwing their weight around. Don't take any crap, and if something's happening, make sure I'm in the loop, alright?"

There was a strain in his words, an unresolved tension that clung to the atmosphere, causing Hisana to feel a sense of disquiet. She blinked, slowly piecing together the information and what little she understood from it. Her reserved smile, like a fragile blossom, flickered in the tense atmosphere. "Of course, Abarai-san, but-"

Renji pointed sharply and declared, "Swear on it, or the boss is gonna have my head. No room for timidity here." His unwavering tone left little room for negotiation, and the weight of his words hung in the air, intensifying the unease that had settled over the conversation.

Pausing for a moment, Hisana absorbed the weight and unease of his words. Her gaze met his sudden stern expression. She swallowed, reluctant but nodding in acquiescence, needing more time to unravel the meaning of his request.

"I promise."

Renji Abarai grunted a curt, "Good," and visible relief eased the lines of his face. Without a moment of acknowledgment of what had just transpired, his gaze shifted beyond her to the clock on the wall. He added, "Leave now; otherwise, you'll catch the boss in a foul mood for being late. So, move it."

Snapping her widened gaze to the clock, she took in the time. Instantly, an unexpected swear slipped past her lips, a soft gasp escaping as she hurriedly muttered an apology. Simultaneously, her hand covered her mouth as she rushed to compile all her belongings and visual concept mock-ups, the urgency propelling her into a whirlwind of movements.

Renji barked out a laugh, "Hah! Called it! Knew you had a mouth on you, Tanaka owes me ten thousand yen."

Despite the embarrassment colouring her skin, she disregarded the warmth blooming across her face and the challenge embedded in his words. Biting harshly into her cheeks, the taste of copper welcome, she held in a motherly reprimand for another time. In a flurry, she gathered everything and, with a quick bow, rushed out of the atelier.


Seated on plush leather, Hisana was engulfed in an air of quiet opulence. Tokyo's commanding view, framed by the expansive window, resembled a living painting, each detail etching itself into her memory. Bookcases adorned the walls, and her eyes traced their curves, seeking a glimpse into the world behind Kuchiki Byakuya's enigmatic gaze.

Her fingers idly sketched patterns on her knee as she awaited the conclusion of Kuchiki's brisk phone call at his desk. His smooth and controlled voice hummed through the office, sparking her curiosity. Seeking distraction, her eyes roamed, exploring the room's details—the ornate book spines, the play of sunlight on glass surfaces.

"Regarding the previously discussed accounts, what is their current status?" Hisana's attention shifted involuntarily as she overheard the next sentences following a stalled pause. "Ensure it doesn't attract unwarranted attention," quickly followed by, "Proceed with caution. Additionally, maintain vigilant observation over our competitors." The words lingered, entwining Hisana in the delicate dance of eavesdropping while maintaining a facade of indifference.

Returning her focus to the display of her concept boards, perfectly arranged, she recognized that this went beyond her future and artistic aspirations. It concerned her life. Strands of black hair delicately clung to her cheeks until she brushed them behind her ear, revealing more of her face. As she discarded the familiar mask of reticence, determination sparked in her eyes, and she thought, 'Just like I practiced,' squaring her shoulders with a deep inhale.

On a slow exhale, Hisana focused on steadying her racing nerves. The breath she released felt like tangible relief—a smooth caress against the tension prickling her skin, permeating the marrow of her bones. It wasn't anxiety but a subtle awareness that kindled this sensation. Almost crackling with shared intensity, a magnetic pull at her heart emanated from the palpable response of his gaze.

Turning her head instinctively, Hisana followed the pull. His presence expanded beyond the room's confines, his focus an undeniable force. A flicker of anticipation and recognition ignited in her eyes as she met his gaze. Frozen for a moment, she stared, and he waited—not in observation, but in exploration.

Quickly, Hisana regained composure. A soft smile brightened her face before she stood, bowing in greeting to dispel any previous embarrassment. "Kuchiki-sama, I am thankful for the opportunity and for your gracious kindness."

"I apologize for the delay, Marugo-san," he uttered. His face, a bastion of unwavering dignity and control, revealed little of the complexities within while his eyes narrowed. Stepping away from the imposing presence of his desk, his tall, slender figure exuded sophistication, adorned in a meticulously tailored grey suit. As he settled into the plush leather couch opposite her, the room seemed to yield to his refined presence.

Gesturing for her to resume her seat, he remarked, "Your preparedness is noted, and I expect appropriate conduct moving forward."

"Certainly," Hisana replied, folding her hands into her lap, fingers interlocking as a blush warmed her cheeks. "I—" She stumbled, "My sincere apologies for my behaviour, Kuchiki-sama. I wasn't quite myself, and I assure you it won't happen again."

"Apologies acknowledged. I expect you to maintain control in the future." His response, brief as it was, lacked the anticipated sting. However, the furrow in his brow at her fidgeting fingers weighed on her more than his words, causing her stomach to plummet as if laden with lead.

A sense of foolishness crept in; bravado seemed futile when she couldn't fake it. Lowering her gaze, she bowed her head, fingers hastily separating and smoothing over her trousers. The weight of failure pressed upon her shoulders, the palpable tension in the room amplifying the unease that made her nerves increasingly visible.

"Drink." His calm voice echoed through her, snapping her attention back to the present.

Only then did she notice the glass of water extended toward her—the realisation crashing like a breaking wave. The command provided an unexpected respite from her thoughts. Gingerly, she accepted the glass, their fingers brushing against each other, sparking a heat in her core as goosebumps rose on her skin.

Her smile deepened, genuine now, as she took a sip. Never breaking eye contact, she complied with his command. With a subtle tilt of his head, he acknowledged her gesture, a fleeting spark of interest disrupting his otherwise composed demeanour. "Drink all of it," the command was sharply delivered. Instinctively, Hisana nodded. His gaze, diverted from its usual stoic focus, traced a brief path from hers to the glass.

Silent observation accompanied each measured sip, every drop disappearing like a whispered secret. As she concluded, his gaze resumed its familiar composure. It was as if the water had left a gentle imprint, a delicate warmth infiltrated her nerves, slowly unwinding the tension coiled within her. A gentle exhale escaped her, carrying away the remnants of nervousness, replaced by a newfound ease that settled in the lines of her features. With deliberate grace, she returned the glass to the table, carrying herself with a lighter, freer air.

"Thank you, Kuchiki-sama," the timidity that once tinged the edges of her lips transformed into a radiant expression, extending to the corners of her eyes. A purple sparkle danced in her gaze, reflecting from her navy-coloured blouse.

"Let us proceed without further interruption, shall we?" He maintained impeccable posture, surveying her work before him. Leaning forward, he rested his forearms on his thighs, awaiting her response.

Swallowing, Hisana nodded—the affirmation more for herself. A few tresses escaped from behind her ear, almost curtaining her face. "Of course," she agreed softly, her smile suddenly tight-lipped. Her hand extended, indicating toward her work to keep her hands from fidgeting. As she began, her words poured out, "As you can see, Kuchiki-sama, I've been working over the last few days, putting together my ideas and expressions, and-"

In one fluid movement, he held up his hand, halting her thought mid-sentence. "What is the overall theme?"

"Emotion," Hisana answered immediately, her eyes wide, and eyebrows lifted.

He nodded, tilting his head, his gaze stern and void of emotion. "And how many pieces?"

"Eighteen." He arched his brow at the number before sceptically zeroing in on her.

"That is quite a lot to achieve by December. Are you certain about your capabilities?" His voice, cold yet tinged with curiosity.

Cautiously, Hisana's gaze flickered downwards as she tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear, fully exposing her face to him, her blush evident across her pale skin. Without hesitation, she responded, "Yes." A lingering pause ensued, and Hisana seized the moment to calm her drumming heart. Shielding herself with a smile, she carefully built the words in her mouth before declaring, "I can do it."

A palpable shift coursed through the room, rendering her body weightless, head afloat—a welcome, almost comforting sensation. His eyes thundered, delving deep into hers. It might not have lasted longer than a second, but it felt like an eternity. Her heart fluttering at the warmth that surged within. Somehow, her breathing remained steady, and her smile retained its softness.

"Eighteen pieces finished by the first of December," he agreed. Her gaze snapped to his lips, and she unconsciously pressed her legs together, straightening her trousers to control the urge in her hands. Leaning forward, the aroma of cedar and incense mingled with jasmine and tobacco infiltrated her senses. The idea of being enveloped by the scent deepened her blush, and, as a reprimand, she bit harshly into the sides of her cheeks. Inappropriate thoughts were not acceptable.

"Now, explain these eighteen pieces to me." His facial expression, while still stoic, appeared less rigid.

Hisana eagerly nodded, redirecting her thoughts to her work. "Each set will be centred around two specific emotions, and within that, there will be three paintings each to convey them." She began, her eyes searching for any signs of approval as she struggled to keep her voice composed.

Suppressing the surge of disquiet, she hesitantly reached for the first board. His gaze followed, examining the lone figures in empty spaces. Cool, muted tones emphasized the distance and detachment. "I'll begin with isolation and solitude," she explained, her gaze fixed on the board, her chest aching at the thought of sharing such intimate emotions. "It delves into the silent struggle within, the introspection born of isolation. I aim to express," her voice faltered briefly, but she quickly regained composure, eyes avoidant, "loneliness and the yearning for connection." Pausing once more, she inhaled deeply, "and the struggle to break free."

She pressed forward. The next board she grabbed showcased figures in the throes of struggle, with light and shadow accentuating the battle between despair and determination. "The second set explores desperation and resilience. It captures the anguish of the darkest moments but also emphasizes the strength that arises from them."

Somehow, it became easy to lose herself in her explanations, and gradually, as she continued, eagerness overtook hesitation, and her eyes bloomed with a desire to share, to peel back the layers of her work. Her voice gained strength, and her words flowed seamlessly. Hisana became almost enthralled, her excitement palpable as she shifted to the next board, depicting tense figures with loose brushstrokes. "Frustration and Release," she declared with newfound enthusiasm. "I want to convey the shift from frustration to relief and cathartic release."

Her body moved with gentle animation. The following board welcomed them with uplifting poses, bright colours, and natural elements. "And because amidst challenges, there's always hope. That's why the focus is on hope and renewal."

It was as if the room buzzed with her energy; her eyes sparkled. Even for the next one, there was no reservation, and no blush; her stomach felt solid, and her heart remained calm—no embarrassment or shame showed, her practiced words ready.

"That blossoms into passion and desire." The board depicted entwined bodies and intense gazes, mostly shaded in grey with vibrant colours. "It's about the embrace, the sense of longing and connection. And it all leads to serenity and tranquillity," she declared with finality, pausing shortly before exposing a board with soft colours and relaxed poses. "In the midst of chaos, finding inner peace is an art itself. It's about finding serenity in life's storms."

The infectious radiance of her smile seemed to dance in the air, spreading through the environment. It casted a warmth that could be felt to the bone. Her chest bubbled with lightness, her posture straight but soft, before turning her gaze back towards him.

Immediately, Hisana paused.

Although his expression remained stoic, his intense gaze softened, and the grey depths of his eyes became unfathomable as he observed her, transfixed. Her body reacted on its own accord; the increase in her heart rate echoed, and an intense heat scorched beneath the surface of her skin, flushing her body. A longing ache bloomed between her legs, making her skin feel uncomfortably sensitive.

On instinct, Hisana tilted her head; her eyes felt heavy while caught in his. With graceful movement, she settled her fingers against her collar, the soft caress scorching her skin as she pushed some hair over her shoulder, exposing her neck. In a breathless murmur, she ventured, "...Kuchiki-sama?"

His gaze briefly shifted towards her exposed neck, the unyielding pause almost too much, before his eyes locked onto hers again. He leaned slightly forward, and his tantalizing aroma of cedar and tobacco invaded her senses. His tone, low and calculated, murmured, "Marugo-san, your passion for your art is palpable. It's a rare and captivating quality."

Her breathing halted, and the ache at her core begged her across the table, but she forced herself to maintain composure, holding his gaze. Just as she couldn't bear it any longer and was about to act, his gaze, intense and probing her soul, receded. He sat back, his demeanour shifting into the analytical, and gestured towards one of her planning boards on isolation and solitude.

"The cool tones effectively convey isolation," he began, his tone now a blend of intellectual curiosity and genuine interest. "But consider experimenting with the brushstrokes to enhance the feeling of distance. Play with texture to create more depth and emphasise the emotional struggle."

Raising her brows, Hisana hadn't anticipated insightful commentary on various artistic elements. Despite her surprise, she nodded in agreement, suppressing the sparked nosiness within her at his unexpected knowledge. Excitement pushed her forward, almost lifting her from her seat. She needed to calm the rapid fluttering in her chest yet found herself eager to hear more of his advice.

With quiet attentiveness, Hisana nodded, listening intently and absorbing any advice he had to offer. As they went through each board individually, she expanded her notes with new ideas and comments.

Hisana found a refreshing sense of clarity as his advice swept through her thoughts like a breeze, lifting the pressure off her shoulders. What started as a few minutes turned into thirty, with him delving into specific elements of each concept. He shared insights that went beyond the surface, revealing a profound understanding of the arts.

She held her tongue, swallowing the questions that threatened to spill out. The desire to learn more about him had her skin itching. 'This is work—your life,' Hisana chastised herself. 'Don't do anything foolish.'

"The recurring themes and symbols are effective," he noted, his gaze sweeping over all the boards before returning to her, peering into her big, attentive eyes. "Consider refining the symbolism to create a more nuanced narrative. I would encourage you to experiment with incorporating subtle details that will enrich the understanding."

"Of course, Kuchiki-sama." A fire seemed to consume her, her fingers twitching in eagerness to get started, to breathe life into his comments. Acknowledging his expertise, an unconscious yearning to know more about him tugged at her. She fought to keep her actions in check, struggling with an internal desire to explore both the art and the man in front of her.


His words acted like nurturing seeds, planted in the fertile soil of her mind. With each passing day, they continued to sprout. The heat of their encounter lingered, but it no longer consumed her as it once did. Instead, his words and knowledge became a gentle caress—a guiding force, urging her to immerse herself fully in her art, to unravel the raw emotions beneath it all and expose them. All for him.

Her own hidden ambition played a crucial role. The upcoming deadline of the first of December loomed, with only four meetings scheduled. This required her to produce at least four paintings per meeting, swiftly showcasing her worth. Despite lacking full confidence, she had little choice but to align her ambition with overperformance, a promise to highlight the value in her life, whatever that might be.

Hisana grappled with the canvas before her, already prepped with her planning sketches. The board lay hastily spread across the table for easy access. For a moment, she pondered the shift in her life. She had, albeit somewhat, willingly embraced the circumstances that now defined it. No longer a passive observer, she found herself ensnared, the threads of destiny weaving her further into a realm where art, long-forgotten ambition, and the mysterious charm of Kuchiki Byakuya coalesced.

It was a kindness she didn't deserve, a gravity that her work and talent might not inherently warrant. She found herself enamoured, consumed by it all. His advice wove itself into the fabric of her being. The value he perceived in her felt blinding, the gravity and analytical depth of his gaze accompanied by an unexpected softness in his voice. He possessed an intimate understanding of art, unmistakably so. And in the vast sea of choices, he chose her—an affirmation that resonated deep within her, unlike anything before.

None of this was anticipated from the man whose eyes were seared into her mind, the memory a blend of smoke and blood—arousing a fervour within her, born of a smothered part.

Amidst her all-consuming ambition, inspiration, and the fleeting whispers of freedom, she inadvertently obscured her most significant weakness—herself. Now, she faced the daunting task of descending into the labyrinthine recesses of her own soul, unearthing buried emotions, and laying them bare, including memories better left forgotten. It was an inescapable journey, an expedition not driven solely by her art or survival, but one tethered by the threat of fate woven through the inked lines of their contract, fortified by the commanding arsenal of power and wealth at his disposal.

Her chest tightened, each breath a laboured effort as if the weight of her emotions pressed upon her lungs. In this constricting discomfort, her mind raced, a tempest of inspiration and pain colliding within. It felt as if a storm brewed beneath her ribcage, thundering thoughts echoing in her ears. Each heartbeat was like a surge that threatened to overwhelm her senses.

But she couldn't. Not now.

She had chosen the atelier's largest canvas, her breath becoming a rhythmic anchor—a deliberate inhale and exhale, a desperate attempt to stay grounded, to feel the solid support of her own two feet against the wooden floor. However, as she delved deeper, slowly crawling into the recesses of herself, the breath transformed into an almost endless stream. An aching void settled within, its profound emptiness stretching into infinity, the echoes of their absences reverberated through the vast expanse of the canvas.

Could she recall a single moment in her life untouched by the tendrils of the haunting presence? Its familiar coiling brought an almost perverse sense of comfort; the grip tightened, lashing at her, devouring every aspect of her.

The timing was unfortunate; she had chosen the wrong moment to begin, especially during this time. July had bled into early August, and as with every passing year since nineteen, she would inevitably spiral deeper nearing the end of the month. Yet, here she was, actively seeking it out before the impending descent.

Hisana only had to conjure their faces in her mind, and in a fleeting second, the weight of it all would engulf her. The memories of what she did—what she caused. The pain inflicted on Rukia. The void left in the lives of their parents.

The air clung to the weight of memories, and her brush trembled in her hands. However, she pushed through, pouring aspects of herself onto the canvas. Gradually, the muted whispers of profound loneliness began to resound, each stroke echoing the haunting spectres of her past. She stood on the precipice of her own history, a place where shadows of guilt and sorrow cast long, stretching fingers, reaching into the recesses of her soul.

Grief enveloped her like a suffocating cloak, tightening its grip around her chest, turning every breath into a struggle. Tears welled in her eyes, her shaky hands navigated the canvas, each stroke transcended the mere subdued pigments on canvas; they were the remnants of her silent screams, the unspoken apologies. The texture of the paint mirrored the turbulent landscape of her emotions — rough in some places, smooth in others, a chaotic mosaic reflecting a life disrupted.

A grimace of anguish contorted her face, her jaw clenched in a silent battle against the pain that spilled forth. The loneliness, a heavy burden carried for years, unwound in the bold strokes, a tragedy of missed conversations and unshared laughter.

Hours began to blur into an incomprehensible existence, merging into a relentless stream of creativity and obsession. This time, the immersion cut deeper, a journey too painful. Her life became an eerie blend of colours, mirroring those on the canvas before her. The emptiness of the gallery lingered at the edges of her awareness, and she refrained from exploring, cocooned within the atelier's silence. While horrified in her creative descent, she basked in the solitude, unaware of the ticking clock, as she continued to spiral inward, succumbing to her own demise.

The second canvas stood poised, awaiting its own completion, still drying. The transition from day to night had quietly flowed, casting the atelier into darkness. She resisted the urge to switch on the lights, welcoming the embrace of shadows. Whether there were still lingering souls in the gallery, she couldn't discern, just as they remained oblivious to her solitary presence.

The cold floor stung with a biting precision, the chill seeping into her bones, serving as a stark reminder of her mere existence. Beside her lay another canvas. Its material battered and broken, bearing long rips and tears that mirrored the onslaught on her spirit. Her clothes clung lifelessly to her frame, blending into the muted emotional landscape painted by the very splattered hues on her canvases—an unbearable release of the toll on her soul.

The relentless drumbeat in her chest, each pulse a painful reminder of her enduring existence. The weight of responsibility, self-blame, and the oppressive cloak of grief bore down on her, manifesting in the relentless choke of sobs that threatened to escape, constricting her throat, and leaving her gasping for air. Her red-rimmed eyes stung with exhaustion, tears leaving trails down her cheeks.

The pain was overwhelming. It surged through her, an agonizing ache that cut deep. She tried to atone for her mistakes, but deep down, she knew it was beyond the reach of forgiveness.

In the hushed stillness beyond midnight, the studio held its breath, punctuated only by the haunting rhythm of her heartbeat and the muffled wails escaping her lips. Paint-splattered and emotionally drained, Hisana found herself standing at the edge of despair. As her gaze traced the two paintings, each brushstroke held the strain of her breaking point.

This was the reason she always fled, evading the truth. She was weak, utterly wretched, deserving every ounce of pain inflicted upon her. Suppressing another sob, Hisana clamped her hand over her mouth. Her mind swirled with self-blame and self-hatred, plunging her into a relentless sea of despair.

On the atelier floor, among the remains of her creative fervour and haunting memories, Hisana reached for her neglected phone. With trembling fingers, she located the familiar number and composed a simple yet weighted message to her sister, "I'm sorry..." The words bore the burden of a thousand unspoken apologies, a desperate cry for understanding amidst the overwhelming emotional storm that had drowned her. Each letter seemed to carry the torrents of her pain, a silent plea.


Her phone persisted with a relentless buzz, a constant reminder of the messages she had been avoiding.

Five days ago:

Rukia's concern echoed through the screen, "What happened?" Genuine worry laced her words.

"Is everything okay?" Another inquiry from Rukia followed, revealing two missed calls in the call log.

Four days ago:

"Sis…" Rukia's plea illuminated the screen, accompanied by two new missed calls.

"I'm worried; please call me back." Rukia's concern deepened, intensified by two more missed calls.

"Sis, if you don't answer – I won't have much choice but to do something drastic." Rukia's virtual threat reverberated with the gravity of the situation.

Three days ago:

"Please talk to me. Or at least, let me know that you are alive." Rukia's words carried poignant desperation, accumulating three more missed calls in Hisana's log.

A lone missed call from Ichigo added to the stirring unrest. "Hisana, we are worried – please call Rukia," his message pleaded.

Yesterday:

Message to Rukia:

"I'm okay… I apologize for causing you worry." Her detached and overly formal response did little to quell the storm of concern, especially when she received no response.


Embracing the conviction that sunlight was a remedy for the soul, Hisana stepped into the world from the dim depths of her apartment. She wore an ensemble that mirrored the muted symphony of her emotions, the fabric enveloping her like a protective shell—a subtle veil of melancholy shielding the abyss within. She secured her hair, revealing her face, yearning for the golden warmth of the sun to dissolve the desolation etched in her eyes.

With a backpack slung over her shoulder, Hisana carefully stowed her sketchpad, pencils, and a refreshing bottle of cucumber water. Stepping away from the oppressive darkness of her thoughts, its tendrils tried to pull her back, but she resisted, choosing instead to find solace in the unexplored corners of Tokyo.

Arisugawa Park in Hiroo, though a bit of a trek from Sumida, beckoned to her. It stood as a haven of natural beauty yet unexplored since her arrival in the city. As she approached, the park exposed its vibrant palette, showcasing lush foliage thriving under the August sun. The air held a gentle warmth, occasionally stirred by the soft rustling of leaves in the breeze. Well-kept pathways wound through the landscape, leading to an expansive pond that sparkled in the sunlight, adorned with water lilies. Ducks and koi fish glided gracefully through the water, contributing to the serene atmosphere.

Regrettably, the park failed to evoke the intended feelings of happiness and lightness, yet it managed to quell the ache in her heart. Finding comfort on a weathered but inviting bench beneath the leafy canopy, Hisana allowed the sunlight to envelop her, casting a gentle dance of shadows on the path below. The air resonated with the distant murmur of life, a soothing melody that mirrored the quiet longing within her soul.

The passage of time became elusive as Hisana remained seated, bathed in the sun's comforting embrace. Life carried on beyond her reach, a poignant reminder amplified in the stillness that surrounded her. A small smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but the sudden weight in her eyes compelled her to rub at the sensitive skin. The sun, like a comforting shawl, offered a temporary refuge from the storm within.

Eventually, Hisana retrieved her backpack. With sketchpad in hand, she set out to translate the nuances of the park onto paper. Pencils danced across the page, skilfully capturing the intricate play of light and shadow. The subtle breeze carried away some of the burden on her shoulders, and, for a fleeting moment, she experienced a sense of relief. However, like a fleeting mirage, it slipped from her grasp.

So, she tried again, attempting to immortalise another scene. And then another. Yet, with each stroke, the hollowness in her chest only deepened, echoing the emptiness within her.

Frustrated with her futile attempts, Hisana abandoned her sketchpad, stowing it away in her backpack. The sun dipped low on the horizon, casting the city skyline in hues of golden red. The afternoon air resonated with the symphony of cicadas, contributing to the soundtrack of a Tokyo summer. An ache throbbed in her forehead, prompting a furrow in her brow. Closing her eyes, she shifted backward, pulling her legs upward and inward as she hugged herself, tilting her head backward and exposing the vulnerable slant of her neck.

'What was the point in anything?' she thought despondently.

Hisana inhaled sharply and deeply, feeling the oxygen fill her hollow being.

"Marugo-san?"

The timbre of his voice echoed through her, catching her off guard as she hadn't expected anyone. Slowly, her eyes slid open, and through their narrowed gaps, she found herself face to face with a pair of curious grey eyes. The afternoon sky surrounded his tall, looming figure. As the realisation dawned on her, her head snapped back up, eyes widening to take in his unexpected presence.

His neatly tied-up hair revealed wet tresses clinging to his neck, and carefully crafted sideburns framed his ears, where sleek wireless earbuds nestled snugly. An athletic ensemble, tailored with precision, clung to his form. The sleek blend of moisture-wicking material traced the taut lines and subtle definition of his physique. Tapered, breathable leggings underneath basketball shorts encased his legs, allowing for unrestricted movement while showcasing the sinewy strength beneath.

'Otherworldly…' The thought made her already aching heart skip a beat.

"Kuchiki-sama?" she softly questioned, doubting her eyes. She furrowed her brows, her fingers caressing the ache in her temple, and winced.

"Do you need assistance?"

"Ah—" She snapped her shoulders upward once the realisation of his physical presence hit her, curling her arms inwards as she folded her legs, attempting to block his eyes from analysing her further. Not recalling his question, her response, delivered in a questioning whisper, was hesitant, "Yes..."

Not wanting to give him time to respond, a ghostly smile lingered on her lips as she slowly strung along a sentence, "What are you doing here, Kuchiki-sama?"

The slight hint of curiosity left his gaze when a subtle raise of his eyebrows answered her. An awkward pause lingered, before Hisana reluctantly nodded with a quiet hum, "I apologize, it's rather obvious – I didn't take you for a runner."

A little lie didn't hurt if it meant saving whatever was left of her face…

"Exercise is a crucial aspect of maintaining physical prowess," his response was calm and measured.

It felt unsettling. The stifling ache settled in her chest, an emptiness that sank deeper into her stomach. He was close, yet impossibly distant, as if she could run toward him but never bridge the gap. The familiar passion had become a distant memory, and the spark of attraction seemed like a mere ember, struggling against the suffocating darkness within her.

Her bottom lip trembled, caught between her teeth as she sensed his gaze lingering. Her eyes fluttered away, thoughts empty, before the unbidden question spilled from her mouth, "What does it feel like?"

He didn't offer an immediate response. His typically deliberate movements slowed, and his gaze shifted downward as he settled beside her on the bench. The air surrounding him seemed to quiet, and without thinking, Hisana ran her hand over her hair, smoothing down any unruly strands. In the depths of her soul, amid the constant painful ache in her chest, she silently prayed he understood.

"Freedom," the pause, while brief, resonated with an internal gravity, "It offers clarity, a measured dance of precision and control, similar to how the air can feel both crisp and invigorating."

In the cadence of his words, the ache within her chest twisted, a silent dance of shadows that deepened with every utterance. She fought back a sob—somehow, he understood. It struck a chord, a fleeting resonance that carved a delicate edge to the ache—a quiet reminder of a connection she couldn't fathom deserving.

Hisana's gaze flickered away, before fully becoming distant, her fingers clasping at a few loose tresses behind her ear. A heavy silence hung between them, pregnant with unspoken words and the shackles of her emotions. She nodded in acknowledgment, biting her lip before admitting in a reluctant whisper, "That sounds wonderful." As she released a deep exhale, a profound sense of understanding emerged from the weighted emptiness drowning her, "I apologize; I fear I've exhibited unprofessionalism thus far."

"Ah," his deep voice reverberated, his words calculated and deadpan, momentarily holding her tears at bay, "the strict standards of recreational professionalism. I must confess, I left my tie and briefcase at home. A grievous oversight, indeed."

'What?'

She remained in stunned silence, her mind grappling with the absurdity of his stoic humour. Then, as it dawned, a spontaneous eruption of laughter bubbled forth. Unrestrained and genuine, the laughter spilled from the depths of her being—a cascade of release that softened the tense contours of her shoulders. Overwhelmed by this unexpected turn, Hisana couldn't contain herself. She pressed her face into her knees, not just to hide escaping tears but also to muffle the bubbling glee that threatened to spill. Her shoulders shook with the collision of conflicting emotions.

The muffled giggles persisted, evolving into a physical strain as the ache in her chest transformed into the cramping of her muscles. What bizarre reality had she stepped into on this morning?

A man of Kuchiki Byakuya's stature, born into a life of opulence and influence, where power and danger were constants. That morning was seared into her memory, where she witnessed the revelation of his true nature—a display of authority carved in every line of his commanding presence. The pungent scent of tobacco hung in the air like an ominous prelude, blending with the heavy weight of the gun he wielded and the vivid redness of blood staining the scene. Her fingers twitched involuntarily at the recollection.

Yet, he had spun a joke to ease her burdens?

Lost in contemplation, she turned to meet his gaze. Her smile, unfiltered and gentle, played on her lips, and her eyes crinkled with an intimate warmth as she studied his stoic profile. His stormy grey eyes, cool and composed, stared forward, sharp as a blade. The aristocratic lines of his nose and the firm set of his jaw conveyed an air of unyielding determination softened only by the faintest hint of a curve in his lips.

Tilting his head, he welcomed her stare, his grey eyes a tempest of emotions she couldn't quite decipher. Yet, her smile somehow brightened, the thud of her heart becoming more pronounced. In that shared gaze, it felt as if she had stumbled upon something beyond words. For a suspended moment, they stared, lost in each other, enveloped by the sounds of the park; a melodic blend of rustling leaves, distant laughter, and the gentle murmur of a flowing stream. Everything else faded away—the pain, the desires—leaving only an everlasting sense of content, a shared heartbeat in the quietude of a sunlit afternoon.

But she was weak.

Abruptly, she severed their connection, smoothing out her skirt before encircling her arms around her legs once more. Balancing her chin on her knees, she fixed her gaze straight ahead. On an exhale, she finally remarked, "It seems we both have our moments of impropriety, then."

She wanted to add, 'More so for me,' but she bit her tongue.

As she absorbed the warm glow of twilight enveloping the park, a bitter taste coated her mouth. The stinging ache returned to her temple, eliciting a wince. While her current state wasn't entirely unfamiliar, the depth of this descent felt uncharted, stirring a fleeting sense of worry within her. The urge to reach out to the man beside her, to plead for forgiveness, for his freedom, briefly flickered.

"Do you like it?" His casual question made her heart jump.

Lifting her eyebrows and widening her eyes, she asked, "the park, you mean?"

"Nature," he clarified, a contemplative pause punctuating his words. "Your camera contained images predominantly focused on landscapes and cityscapes."

A torrent of memories surged through her, crashing against the crumbling walls of her composure with relentless force. Each heartbeat echoed a sharp pang, a rhythm of pain pulsating through her veins. Breathing became a strained endeavour, stifled by the grip of resurfacing emotions, as if an invisible hand tightened around her throat. Locked in a silent struggle, she resisted the pull, teeth clenching onto the delicate flesh of her cheeks, embracing the intense pain. A tremor, barely perceptible, coursed through her frame, and with a subdued nod, she acknowledged his question.

The words burned, but she couldn't stop them. "I find comfort in exploration and nature—it serves as an outlet much like my art. However, as you have observed, Kuchiki-sama, I do tend to get swept up in the process." In the aftermath of her admission, she clasped her hands by her knees, the crescent moons of her nails embedding into the tender flesh of her palms. The sting of pain surged, and her teeth clenched, breaking the delicate skin, coaxing forth a bead of blood.

"I understand," he spoke, his voice carrying a controlled gravity. His gaze shifted toward the surrounding scenery, capturing the play of sunlight through the leaves, offering her a momentary respite. "An admirable quality, yet it's crucial to maintain balance and mindfulness in the process."

A faint quirk touched the corner of his lips, almost imperceptible. "But I also enjoy nature."

Her pulse quickened, the rhythmic thud resonating in her ears, and an uncontrollable smile painted its way across her face. Its haunting sadness only deepened its poignant beauty. Unable to find words, Hisana locked eyes with him, his slate-coloured gaze silently urging her onward.

Minutes stretched indefinitely as they sat together. A strange and tender warmth seeped into her soul, easing the harsh shadows that loomed. The acute ache in her chest gave way to a gentle throb, a stirring discomfort that, despite the pain, seemed almost endurable. Amidst this quiet resonance, her thoughts fixated solely on him.

'Who is Kuchiki Byakuya?' Her heart posed the question, its curiosity unburdened by the usual tendrils of desire that often intertwined with her thoughts of him.

She reluctantly averted her gaze, noticing the encroaching night. Gradually rising, her bones emitted audible clicks as stiff muscles protested. With a resigned acceptance, she stood, unapologetically exposing every facet of herself—swollen-faced, her hair tied back, she melded into the muted clothes that draped her figure. There seemed little point in attempting to salvage her dignity after the embarrassment of their encounters.

Grabbing her bag without a word, Hisana retrieved a bottle of cucumber water, her movements sluggish yet purposeful. She extended it to him, her smile faltering, and her voice small, "Please take my water; you must be thirsty from running and then sitting with me in this heat."


The train journey blurred into a haze, a passage of moments that eluded perception. Disconnected, her chest cradled the remnants of a heavy yet intangible burden, her mind echoing with thoughts of Kuchiki Byakuya. Climbing the stairway to her second-floor apartment, Hisana turned a corner in the hallway and came to an abrupt halt. The air tightened around her, and she gasped, her backpack sliding from her shoulders with a slackened grip.

"Rukia?"

The name lingered, a suspended note that shifted the atmosphere. Rukia's response was swift, her head snapping towards Hisana with urgent decisiveness. Stepping away from the doorway, her stare remained fixed, a prepared rucksack stood at her feet.

Rukia's onyx-black hair framed her face, a sleek bob just beyond her chin. Identical purple eyes bore into Hisana with intensity, furrowing brows accentuated her concentration, and lips pressed into a firm line conveying what words could not. A pregnant pause enveloped them, crackling with unspoken tension. The corners of Rukia's lips hinted at a subtle downturn, a nuance that spoke volumes. Silence reigned, broken only when Hisana, moved by a rush of emotion, ran toward Rukia, embracing her as she always had.

She clung to Rukia, arms encaging her, unwilling to let go. "What are you doing here?"

Rukia remained motionless, arms at her side, reluctantly acquiescing to the hug. Her fingers tentatively grasped onto the loose fabric of Hisana's shirt, a subtle stiffness betraying her discomfort.

"Don't do that to me again," Rukia breathed out quietly.


Took me a few days longer than intended, but finally finished editing chapter 2. I did end up changing a few things, especially with dialogue, but it has definitely paid off!

I am going to try and stick hard to my once a month updates – but it takes time to finalise the chapters to the standard where I am happy, adding to life as well.

Always, I'd love to hear thoughts, and get feedback – I love engaging with my readers.