Resonance in Monotone
Vulnerable
X
Written by Dragenruler
Miss Me Too - Griff (piano version)
"My uncle... he was responsible for my father's death."
A sharp, cold sting pierced her, like winter wind on bare skin, numbing her from the inside out. His words froze the room before they even fell.
Hisana's hand hovered, trembling—unsure whether to touch him or pull back. Then her fingertips grazed his arm. It was not planned, just an overwhelming need to connect, to show him she understood.
Byakuya's eyes stayed fixed, his expression poised on the edge of something. Almost too softly, he continued, "Since childhood, my father struggled with a severe kidney condition. It was progressive, but manageable, even as it began affecting his heart and lungs."
Her eyes searched his face, his words deepening the shadow over her heart, merging with the ache that had long lived there. All she found was the darkened existence they shared.
"My uncle isn't a blood relative. He earned his position in the group through years of service, climbing the ranks until he was close to my grandfather. His marriage to my aunt brought him into the family." Byakuya blinked, his gaze falling to the floor.
He lifted his cup, savouring a sip of tea. As it passed his lips, Hisana noticed a crease forming between his brows. Gently, her thumb traced circles on his shirt.
It was unclear whether her touch was for her or him, but it prompted him to set down his cup. His eyes shifted to their point of contact, his lips pressing tighter.
"His motivations are irrelevant," he admitted, his grey eyes drifting like ash, the fire within them extinguished, leaving only smoke and silence.
"In the past, my uncle wasn't unkind. He was driven, loyal, even humble. But my grandfather is a strict man, one who believes in upholding the family's system, even when it conflicts with his own views. Something happened—I was young at the time, so the details are unclear—but it fractured the family."
Hisana felt it, the shadows of her past reaching into the present, merging with his words, forming a pulsing entity in her chest. His name slipped from her lips, barely a whisper. "Byakuya-sama…"
Suddenly, he leaned forward, setting his cup back on the tray. His dark eyes fixed on hers as he tilted his head. "By that time, my uncle had gained significant influence within the group, controlling both its legal operations and the more concealed aspects."
"It was around then that my father's health began to decline—though not severely at first. We moved back to the family estate with my grandfather. But soon after, his health worsened. Sudden, severe declines became more frequent."
Her fingers continued their gentle, circular motion across his arm, coaxing him to go on. His voice remained measured, but she sensed an echo that mirrored the ash lingering in his gaze.
"The situation left me under my grandfather's care, and within the influence of the group. I was temperamental and rash, as many are at that age. My grandfather disdained it, and my uncle exploited it. Meanwhile, my father grew increasingly powerless as his health deteriorated into full kidney failure."
He paused, his gaze flickering past her, as though seeing something far off. "Even then, my father remained a kind man. He always did his best."
Unexpectedly, Byakuya leaned back into the cushions, compelling her to draw closer. Hisana tucked her legs beneath her, sinking into the space between them.
"My uncle likely assumed he would become the next head of the group, if my father couldn't. But he's not blood. He and my aunt had no children. It was only when my grandfather stepped down, and I became the family head, that I fully understood the extent of my uncle's anger and my grandfather's pride."
Byakuya flexed his hand, fingers splaying wide before curling inward again. "My grandfather knew. Perhaps not at first... but certainly afterward."
Her heart skipped. "I'm so sorry," Hisana said, stopping her gentle caresses before intertwining her fingers with his. Byakuya froze.
His gaze wandered over the curve of their joined hands, pausing on the bruises marking her wrist, the darkened skin throbbing beneath his eyes. His thumb brushed her knuckles in a soft, almost absent-minded gesture, lost in thought.
The caress made her want to reach out further. Byakuya stayed silent, his expression hardening while her throat tightened, and breath grew shallow. His gaze shifted from her wrist to her neck, where her robe had slipped, revealing her collarbone and the silk of her pyjamas.
The bruises there seared into his consciousness. Hisana wanted to say something—anything—but the words stuck, trapped by the intensity in his gaze.
Instead, she squeezed his hand. Pain shot through her joint, and a wince followed. Byakuya broke the silence. "This is my father's legacy, and I am committed to fulfilling it."
"My family has always been powerful, with no need to engage in illegal activities. My uncle, however, holds a different view, and he has many supporters within the group. He seeks any opportunity to create discord and undermine my authority, all to seize control."
The golden light bathing the room dimmed to a mere whisper of heat. Beyond the windows, the sparkling city became a ghostly outline. Everything faded—except for him. Crisp, clear, the only thing that mattered.
"You…" Byakuya paused, brow furrowed, fingers grazing his chin. In an instant, his hand dropped to the arm of the sofa.
Her heart trembled; the room felt too small, the walls too close. Despite it all, Hisana leaned closer, tightening her grip on his hand, bracing herself for the words to come.
Tilting his head at her, he continued, "We've met before."
Hisana froze, her fingers pressing into his. "We've met before...?" she echoed, shaking her head. "That can't be true. I'd remember…"
"It was many years ago, just before my father passed," Byakuya said, his attention shifting to the panoramic window, the twinkling cityscape holding something more. "He took me to Ehime. I was sixteen, and you must have been eleven. I remember finding you in a tree, sketching the sky—not just its appearance, but the way it felt."
It all fell into place. The scattered thoughts, the nagging doubts—and suddenly, she understood what he had been trying to show her all along.
"Then I saw you on that rooftop. You were different, but still lost in your own world."
She studied him. His hair caught the low light, an ethereal sheen softening his expression. His grey eyes deepened to the shade of night, and his features, a blend of sharp lines and delicate grace, were framed by a perfectly tailored shirt. When they first met, he had appeared before her—neat, indifferent, almost godlike…
But now she saw him; far beyond the flawless facade.
"I recognised you immediately." The world held its breath in the silence that followed, and perhaps Hisana did too.
"I hired you not only because of what you witnessed that day, though it was a factor. Your talent was what truly stood out. The gallery is a project close to my heart, and your sketches showed me you still had a connection to something deeper, something not lost. You needed a way out, and I offered it."
Salt filled her mouth, unshed tears pressing against her throat. Byakuya seemed lost in a place Hisana could not reach, but his hand stayed steady in hers, anchoring them together.
"It wasn't just to shield you from the burden of what you witnessed or financial," he continued, his voice low, wrapped in the warmth of the golden light. "My hope was to give you a chance to rediscover that part of yourself, to look beyond the immediate and capture the essence of what you see, as you once did."
Her smile was fragile, like a glass ornament—beautiful in its transparency, but etched with fine lines that told of every crack. "Like the sky?" Hisana whispered.
Behind him, the city glittered, distant stars reflected in the glass. The universe conspired, slowing time so that every detail imprinted on her soul, sealing her fate in a single breath.
Her gaze fell to her wrist, where dark bruises marred her skin in the delicate light. She withdrew her hand, pulling her legs against her chest to hide the bruises on her collarbone. The words hovered on her lips, trembling—like a fragile bird too frightened to take flight.
"I thought I wanted you to end my life…" The words escaped, unable to be contained. "But the truth is, I don't want to die. I never really did."
His gaze held her, an unwitting witness to the war between her heart and mind. The truth loomed, terrifying in its inevitability. Her voice flickered, a fragile flame caught in the wind, as she admitted, "I've only ever wanted to live."
"And I despised myself for it… more than anything. Even more than losing my parents." The intensity overwhelmed her, and she curled into herself, tucking her head onto her knees. "It was easier to bury it all beneath the weight of responsibilities, convincing myself I had to be strong for my sister. That my life was hers now. That I had no right to want anything for myself. It made it bearable... pretending it was all for her."
Once the first tear broke free, the rest followed, streaming down her face. "But the truth is... I was terrified. Afraid that if I stopped, even for a moment, I'd have to confront the part of me that longed for more. The part that wanted something for myself."
She burned, her cheeks searing with the heat of it. Turning to Byakuya, she paused. His hands trembled.
The words tangled in her throat, choked by tears that refused to stop. Just when she thought she might drown in it all, his hand crossed the space between them, wiping her tears away.
Closing her eyes, she let the world fall away, leaving only his touch. "It was always there…" Hisana whispered. "Wanting something besides pain—to be cared for, to let go. The truth is, I've been running. Not just from the reality that I wasn't doing it only for my sister, but because I was too afraid to admit I wanted to be free."
"You," she said, the word cracking as it left her lips. Her lashes lifted. Lavender eyes locking onto his. "With you, Byakuya-sama, I wasn't running or pretending."
Neither moved—waiting for something, or perhaps nothing at all. Maybe it did not matter. Maybe they were simply lost in each other.
Her voice returned, soft at first. "You never asked for more than I could give. Even what happened… I wanted your reaction."
"I know," Byakuya said, his words burning long after they left him.
Hisana hummed, lifting herself from her knees. His hand trailed from her cheek to her neck, fingers threading through her hair. The press of his thumb at her nape twisted a knot deep in her stomach, as though he had found something hidden within her, something she had not realised she needed.
Tears clung to the corners of her eyes, stinging—punishing her for daring to think she could stop crying.
"I wish I could remember…" She wiped the gathering moisture away. "I don't want to pretend anymore. You've always known what I needed, even when I didn't. I don't want to decide... I never have."
Byakuya paused, his eyes distant, searching for something in the space between them before he said, "At the atelier, you offered me everything. And I didn't accept it."
Her response was immediate, "you thought I betrayed you..." A dull ache spread through her chest, not sharp enough to break her, but deep enough to wound.
She could feel him searching her, looking for something he longed to find but feared was not there. She wanted to look away but could not. Instead, her fingers found his hand resting in her hair. She grasped it, pressing her palm into his as she whispered, "It hurt you. I could never…"
His face moved toward hers, so subtly she barely noticed until his lips brushed hers. Her breath stilled. The kiss was soft, like a sigh; a gentle press that lingered, warm as sunlight behind closed eyes. A touch that did not ask or push, but simply rested, giving without needing.
And then, it was gone.
Her lashes fluttered, half-lidded, avoiding his gaze. "It seems there are still things we both need to acknowledge, Byakuya-sama."
She released his hand, lingering before fully retreating. A smile touched her lips, a fleeting, fragile thing. The kind of smile that did not need to last to be remembered, as if it existed only to hold onto something slipping away. Her eyes found the distant twinkling lights of the city, the hazy glow blending with the golden warmth of the apartment. The night outside felt so far away, yet it pressed in, wrapping around them.
"It's late," Hisana murmured, her voice drifting into the stillness of the room.
Byakuya's response was equally quiet. "You should rest, Hisana."
His words settled into her bones. She did not move immediately, holding onto the moment a little longer. It stretched out, waiting for what would come next.
When nothing did, she rose from the sofa, her fingers tugging her robe tighter around her chest, covering her neck. She turned away, each step carrying her further, but something in her heart tugged her back.
Hisana stopped at the edge of the room, glancing back at him one last time. The golden light cast shadows across his face, leaving parts of him in darkness. Behind him, the city shimmered, a blur of lights that no longer mattered. He sat against the white sofa, his hand tangled in his dark hair.
Her heart clenched at the sight. He looked like a portrait of everything undone—raw, broken. He was the one who had stripped her bare, exposing every truth she had tried to hide from herself.
Just as she turned to leave, Byakuya's words were so soft they almost failed to reach her. "He will not harm you again. I will see to it."
Her throat tightened—not because she doubted him, but because it was unnecessary. What she needed was the truth she wanted to give him, the truth he deserved.
"Byakuya-sama," she whispered, her voice steady, though everything ached, "don't let him take any more from you."
Her eyes remained on him for a second longer, memorising how light and shadow cradled him. And then, with a final breath, she turned, stepping into the darkened corridor. The warmth of the room faded behind her, leaving him alone.
Sleep clung to her, reluctant to release its hold. The bed whispered for her to stay a little longer, warmth melting into her body. Everything was soft—the pillow beneath her head, the sheets grazing her legs, the covers resting over her. She did not move. She could not. A part of her wished to stay here, never fully waking, never remembering what had brought her to this place.
Her fingers twitched, muscles aching as her body stirred, pulling her from the fog of sleep. Her throat was sore, a dull throb pulsing in her neck, and her wrists burned with an ache that felt wrong. Slowly, she shifted, the sensation jarring, and turned to see bruises crawling across her skin.
It came back slowly at first, like distant whispers, then sharper, more demanding. Her breath hitched.
Suddenly, with a mechanical hum, the curtains slid open. Light flooded in, forcing her to sit up, blinking against the brilliance of the Tokyo skyline. The city stretched out before her, vast and commanding, but it only reminded her of the night before.
She pulled herself from the bed, standing still. The soft carpet beneath her feet hummed, as if it, too, understood her need to pause. It would be easy—too easy—to sink back into that cocoon of warmth, to forget the world outside. Not now.
Her footing was steady, the truth settling into her bones. Things felt different—lighter, but fuller, more real, even through the sting of her bruises. Last night had left her with an undeniable truth, one she could no longer ignore.
Her gaze fell on a chair by the far wall. Draped over it was a set of clothes—bought for her. She stepped closer, brushing her fingers against the soft wool of the jumper. Simple. Sophisticated. Something to hide her bruises.
The cost… the effort… it's too much. The thought circled in her mind, inescapable, especially when her eyes flicked to the clothes she had discarded the night before, rumpled and forgotten on the bathroom floor.
She exhaled and reached for the new outfit. Slipping into the clothes felt like slipping into new skin. But the ache in her wrists, the bruises on her neck—they were still there, hidden but present. The feeling stirred in her chest, slow at first, then too intense; a wave she could not hold back. Bitterness followed. Kōga Kuchiki. He had taken enough. Too much. The bruises would fade, but something would remain, shadows clinging where they never belong.
It roared inside her, a fire feeding on air, pushing her to move. She gathered her things, throwing them into a bag with quick, angry motions. Muted curses filled the room, noise that matched the storm inside her.
Then her hand closed around the pyjamas, and the noise stopped. The fire still burned, but softer now, quieter. Hisana stood still, letting it sink in. She had spent too long caught between moving forward and falling back. So had he.
Her tongue found the wound on her cheek. The sting made her flinch, but she pressed again, tracing it—not to feel the pain, but to map out what had been. In that touch, she promised herself it would never happen again.
She folded the pyjamas slowly, her thumb brushing the hem one last time before placing them in the bag. With a final glance around, she stepped into the corridor. Once in the living space, her gaze drifted over the curated décor. The white sofa gleamed in the morning light, indifferent, as though it had scrubbed itself clean of every word, every emotion revealed the previous night.
There was no trace of Byakuya. Silence greeted her when she turned toward what felt more like a foyer than a genkan. Only her shoes waited alongside a few pairs of house slippers. Slipping them on, she gave the space one last look, then walked away, the grand door shutting behind her.
As she made her way to the elevator, she noticed the luxury around her: the brass trim along the mahogany walls, the chandelier casting soft light above. Yesterday, she had been too lost in her tears and Byakuya's warmth to care. Now, curiosity flickered, but it did not linger.
When the elevator doors parted, it revealed the lobby's polished marble floors and perfectly arranged bouquets. Attendants moved across the space; their uniforms tailored. She passed the front desk when she heard it.
"Hisana."
She whipped around. "Renji-san." There he was—the unmistakable flame of red hair tied back, tattoos on full display. For a moment, it felt like nothing had changed; he had not been absent from her life for weeks.
His brown eyes narrowed, a scowl tugging at his lips. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked, arms crossing over his chest.
A laugh escaped her before she could stop it. And it felt good—until it no longer did. She had missed him, missed their conversations, the friendship she thought they had built. But the hurt came quickly. Back at the gallery, he had turned away without a word, without giving her a chance to explain.
Renji shifted, his hands fidgeting, unsure where to put them. "You haven't lost it, have you?" he mumbled, his words awkward.
He knew. He had to.
When her laughter faded, she only stared at him. She wanted to tell him off, but her throat ached, strangling the words. Another thought bubbled up instead; had he eaten the treats she had left behind, or forgotten them like he had forgotten her?
What was his excuse? The question burned, but the words stayed locked behind her teeth. She needed him to acknowledge it, though she was not sure she wanted him to.
Renji rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes flicking from the floor to her. "Hey, you eaten yet? Mihane left some stuff in the kitchen when she brought over those clothes."
Her lips tightened, and she shook her head. Food had not crossed her mind since yesterday.
Silence grew between them, rising like a wall, brick by brick. It felt like they were speaking without words, separated by something neither of them could cross.
Renji's mouth opened, then closed. He sighed, his hands falling from his neck. Finally, he blurted, "You alright?"
Heat burned behind her eyes, her stomach twisting at the question. "As alright as anyone could be, I suppose," she replied, the words sharp, automatic.
"Yeah," he muttered, trailing off before sighing again. "Look, I'm not letting you go like this. Go back up and eat—"
"I'm going to the atelier," Hisana cut him off. She did not blink, did not shift—just held her ground.
He drew in a breath. "What? Hell no!" His eyes narrowed. "Why the hell would you wanna do that?"
The smile tugging at her lips was not soft or kind. It was brittle, polite—holding back things she chose not to say.
"Just go upstairs and get some food," Renji muttered, his words clipped and dry. He shifted, turning away with a quick, frustrated motion.
"Okay, Renji-san," Hisana said, calm despite the tightness in her body. Without another word, she pivoted on her heel and headed for the exit.
"Fuck! Just eat something first, alright?" Renji's footsteps shuffled behind her, quickening as they drew closer. She pressed forward; her steps faltered, however, she did not stop.
Hisana barely made it out of the building before his hand caught her arm. His grip was insistent, pulling her to a stop. There was no need to turn around. Without a word, she followed, though her destination was non-negotiable. They were going to the gallery. That was final.
Renji grumbled but relented, his frown stiffening. Hisana did not need to ask why. The answer was obvious: Kuchiki Byakuya.
As she settled into the back seat, Yuki Ryūnosuke's green eyes flicked to her in the rearview mirror. Renji's flame-red hair peeked above the front seat. The scent of leather and him filled the car. The ride passed in silence—no words, no music—just the rhythm of their breathing.
Outside, the city blurred past in fragments, too fast to notice. Her fingers traced patterns on the fabric of the bag in her lap. Only when the car slowed and pulled behind the gallery did she pause. Before the tires stopped, she was already pushing the door open, her foot hitting the concrete as the car stilled.
She did not glance back at the murmured curses and hurried movements behind her. The loading bay door stood to the side. She had no intention of entering that way.
Without pause, Hisana slipped into a narrow passage between the buildings, moving quickly but not quite running. The turns felt uncertain, each corner a guess. She knew where she was going, even if the path was not clear. Behind her, footsteps echoed, her name bouncing off the walls, growing closer.
Finally, the path opened into a sunlit square near the gallery. Stopping for a heartbeat; her breath was tight in her chest. Then she straightened; shoulders back, head high, and moved forward again.
Her fingers tightened around the bag as she crossed the square, people flowing around her. One second, the wide square stretched before her, and in the next blink, she was inside, the gallery's glass walls swallowing her whole. The light was too bright, the pristine space overwhelming.
She could feel Hinamori's eyes. "Marugo-san?" Her name was a question. Hisana knew—Hinamori knew.
She had just begun to respond when the glass doors groaned open. A gust of air ruffled her hair, followed by heavy footsteps.
"What the hell were you thinking?" Renji's words came out in a breathless rush, his chest heaving.
She looked back at him. Suddenly, her skin felt too tight, her heart pounding as if the heat inside might burn through her bones. It was not sadness, though it carried the weight of something unresolved. And it was not rage, though it burned like one.
"I'll be in the atelier," was all she managed before moving.
She ascended the stairs, her steps light. Behind her, there was a brief, unnatural pause before the sound of shuffled steps followed. Once inside the atelier, she tugged off the wool jumper, placing it and her bag on the oak table. Cool air hit her, sending a shiver down her spine.
Her gaze dropped to the bruises—a map of purple and blue etched across her wrist. She registered them as mere facts, an observation. Nothing more. The dull ache in her chest was pushed aside.
"Hisana!"
"Marugo-san—"
Both Hinamori and Renji froze at the entrance, mid-step, like statues caught in the wrong moment. Shock rippled across their faces, mouths slightly open, eyes wide. A flush crept up their necks as they struggled—and failed—to decide where to look.
"Could you both give me a moment, please?" she said. Without waiting for a response, she was already searching the atelier and her memory.
Not even an hour had passed when something—someone—appeared in her peripheral vision. Focused on the painting in front of her, she caught the outline of a red ponytail peeking from the entryway. Renji hovered there, assessing, before creeping in, his steps cautious. In one hand, he held rice balls; in the other, a folded shirt.
He held them out, his brown eyes dragging over her from head to toe, measuring every detail—and finding it exasperating.
"I brought you a shirt, but I guess you don't need it anymore, huh?" he muttered, his scowl contorting as his gaze shifted between her neck and wrist. The bruises darkened his expression.
This felt worse than being caught shirtless. The paintbrush trembled in her hand when she turned to face him. "I always keep a spare set of clothes for painting." She gestured to the bag and folded jumper on the table. "The jumper looks expensive, and I didn't want to ruin it."
"Oh," was all he said, as if not expecting such a practical explanation. "Right. So, I'm guessing there wasn't food in that bag either?"
"No, just the essentials." Her lips curved into a small, easy smile—the kind meant to disarm. With a light laugh, she brushed the tension aside, nothing more than dust on her sleeve. "But it's thoughtful of you, Renji-san, to bring me food and clothes."
It happened in stages. First, his shoulders tensed. Then, his breathing quickened. Finally, his voice snapped—brusque, rapid, spilling out faster than he could stop it. "Enough of this crap!"
Her reply stung rather than soothed. "How do you want me to respond, Renji-san?"
Just for an instant, her eyes betrayed her. "My wrist aches. My neck too... Am I supposed to keep living like a ghost, as if I'm not really here? Is that all my life is meant to be?"
Her words were not loud, but they hung there, waiting for the curtain to drop. And it did, in one big swoop.
"You stopped—" Lips parted, then snapped shut. The words gathered in her throat.
A thorn pressed against her ribs, sharp in her chest, never breaking the skin. When she spoke again, her words no longer meant to cut—bruised petals, but not sharp.
"Your concern means a great deal to me, Renji-san." Pressing her lips tight, the words came anyway. "Am I okay? No."
"I'm sorry if I caused you worry. I know you're only trying to help." Hisana watched him, and though Renji remained still, his eyes dropped before meeting hers again. "But I need to do this. Just like I needed to come to the atelier. You may not understand it, and I can't explain it in a way that will make sense to you."
The light in the atelier seemed to dim, or maybe it was her words, shifting the space around them, marking something irreversible. "But, please, trust me this time. I deserve that from you."
Straightening, she lifted the paintbrush, hovering above the canvas, waiting for her voice to catch up. When she spoke, her words were lighter, carrying the warmth of familiarity. "It's a bit chilly in here, so if you don't mind leaving the shirt... and those rice balls do look delicious."
Quiet filled the atelier, broken only by the hum of the city outside. Warm light filtered through the skylight, casting a soft glow over scattered canvases and brushes, blending with the scent of turpentine. Hisana leaned against the oak table, tearing small pieces from a rice ball.
Rice clung to her fingertips as she studied the canvas, debating whether it was finished. A fractured skyline had emerged, fragmented shards surrounding a woman at the centre. Each piece felt broken and reassembled—not perfectly, but with purpose.
She doubted anyone could grasp it; even she struggled to fully comprehend. Whatever it was remained trapped inside her, never finding its way out.
Taking another bite, Hisana wiped her fingers on her apron. It was familiar, comforting in its own way. The room was quiet. Bruises lingered beneath her skin, pain like cracks beneath the surface. Her thoughts brushed the fractures, but instead of shattering, they held, light still shining through.
When he entered, Hisana did not blink. But she felt it—the ripple of his presence, the subtle insistence that usually made her stop and listen. Today, though, something in his eyes stopped her. They were darker, the intensity worn down.
"Hisana," he said, voice low, her name carried on the same breath as the night before.
"Byakuya-sama," she replied, his weariness bleeding into her own.
Her bruises throbbed—muscles stiff and sore, the memory of hands pressing too hard still fresh. His gaze lingered on the marks that peeked from beneath her shirt, and her skin prickled. In response, Hisana lifted the second rice ball, the only offering she could think of. "Would you like one?"
"You shouldn't be here," he said softly, a rasp threading through the words. "It's not the right place for you now."
Her hand faltered, the rice ball hanging between them. Then, with a quiet sigh, she let her shoulders fall. "Perhaps... but being alone, wallowing in sadness, would be far worse."
His silence was louder than any words. Unblinking, his eyes stayed on her, and the tightening of his mouth spoke the rest.
"I told you last night, Byakuya-sama... I want to live." Her fingers traced the grain of the table, feeling its worn surface. "You offered me this opportunity, and I accepted it."
She extended the rice ball again, her smile small but genuine, flickering at the corners. "Are you sure you don't want to try one?"
He did not respond immediately, just exhaled before stepping closer, his arm brushing against hers. "Does it have spice?"
Blinking, a giggle escaped before Hisana could stifle it. The sound felt out of place, like sunlight breaking through clouds, but it bubbled out all the same. "Do you like spicy food, Byakuya-sama?" she asked, her curiosity piqued.
Before he could answer, she shook her head. "It's teriyaki chicken."
Somehow, it felt lighter now, easier. His posture had loosened, and she found herself breathing more easily. Whatever had shifted was subtle, softening the room.
Hisana watched his gaze drift to the painting—the fractured skyline, the woman at its centre. His reaction was almost imperceptible, but she sensed it; the way the broken lines and deliberate fragments settled in his mind.
"From this morning onward, my uncle will be too busy to cause trouble." His tone was quiet, but final, like the closing of a chapter.
As his fingers brushed hers, he took the rice ball, pausing with a slight lift of his brow. "Is there miso?" he asked.
Her body leaned in—unintentional but impossible to hide. She caught his eye and shook her head. When he looked away, her smile bloomed, warmth pooling in her gaze. He was utterly serious, unaware of how ordinary this felt, even amid everything that had happened.
"A year ago," he began again, his voice formal and distant, as though the lightness had never broken through, "I initiated an audit across all our subsidiaries and associated entities. Officially, it was framed as routine corporate governance."
"In truth, the purpose was to uncover unethical behaviour, mismanagement, and violations of corporate by-laws by board members and senior stakeholders, including family." His words fell like constant rain, unhurried but certain.
Her hand rested near his on the table, not touching, but close enough that the warmth of his skin bridged the small gap between them. "I had to act on this information sooner than planned. This morning, a failure to uphold fiduciary duties and instances of self-dealing triggered a full board review."
"Within the next few days, my uncle will lose key allies, replaced by individuals of my choosing." He continued, the rice ball in one hand, his other a whisper against hers.
Hisana listened, though the details drifted in and out, some parts clear, others slipping away, beyond her grasp. However, the core of it remained undeniable.
She understood enough to know it was for her.
"To ensure transparency and long-term stability, I've also initiated inquiries into companies tied to my uncle—something that will draw the attention of the Financial Services Agency." Only after he finished speaking did he take a bite of the rice ball. He chewed slowly, his brow furrowing as he set it down with a grimace.
Hisana stared ahead, unmoving. Her voice came barely above a whisper. "Why?"
"This was set in motion before you," he said, his tone casual, matter-of-fact. "As the head of my family, it's my responsibility to protect it."
The ease with which he said it—so calm, as if it were nothing—was a stone sinking in her chest. He spoke without noticing the weight of it, but Hisana did.
She had not planned on moving. She had not even meant to. But she turned and hugged him. Her arms tightened around him, her cheek pressing against his chest as everything hit her at once. All of it—the fear, the gratitude, what he had done for her—was tangled in the way her fingers gripped his shirt, in the way her breath caught in her throat.
"Thank you," she whispered.
The bruises still whispered too, their presence persistent, but distant. The pain remained, however, its hold had loosened, becoming little more than a shadow.
The cold greeted her before her eyes even opened. Hisana stayed motionless, anchored by the futon, though it barely held back the bite of winter creeping through the room. She tugged the blankets closer, but the chill seeped through, indifferent to her efforts. The wind pressed against the cracked windowpane, rattling it.
A wince tugged at her face, though she remained still. Pain drifted through her body, elusive and scattered. Whether from the bruises on her skin or the raw sting inside her cheek, it was inconsequential. The ache spoke only of what had passed, not of what was yet to come.
This morning carried a different weight. The familiar heaviness in her chest had eased, lightened. The air, cold yet fresh, felt like a deep breath after surfacing from the ocean's depths.
Slowly, she pushed herself up, testing the resistance in her limbs. An ease spread through her. For a moment, she stayed there, savouring the stillness.
But calm was not enough to keep her. She swung her legs out of the futon, her feet meeting the icy floor, the cold biting through her socks. The weak morning light, barely filtering through the curtains, did little to chase away the shadows that clung to the room. She could still feel them—her past, her burdens, and Kōga's hands, lingering like a bruise that refused to fade.
As the sun crept closer to breaking through, she stretched her neck, releasing the last traces of tension. The light, though faint, was enough. Enough to remind her that today, she could live.
True to his word, Kōga had vanished; no trace, no hint of his presence. Whatever Byakuya had set in motion had kept him away, at least for now. However, the thought of him persisted, scratching at the edges of her mind. How long until he returned? The only certainty was knowing that, no matter what, Byakuya would stop him. But even that knowledge felt heavy, like a chain tightening—not around her, but him. A reminder that he, too, was bound. Bound to choices others had made, paths others had carved.
A soft pull tugged at her chest as her fingers traced the canvas. Him. It was not breathlessness, but a slow, heavy pressure. The colours, once vibrant, had dulled. Not from time, but from the moment he had last seen it, weeks ago. His painted eyes seemed to wait, as if silently asking her to rewrite their story. She had captured his grace, his quiet command, but the kindness in his gaze, that had been for her.
He had not seen it the way she had meant. Now, the painting held a different memory—the way he had looked at her that day, his eyes clouded with hurt, with anger, seeing only betrayal. Her fingers curled into her palms before falling, empty, at her sides.
Byakuya had given her a piece of himself, something he kept hidden from the world. Yet, even then, there were parts of him she could never fully reach. It was so easy to slip back into the past, and she let herself drift to that day in the atelier, after their kiss. How she had confessed, exposed herself, only to look up and find him gone.
'He came back for you,' the thought whispered. Hisana wrapped her arms around herself, her hand brushing the corner of her rollneck, hiding bruises that still ran deeper than they should.
She could not equate the two. Kōga's hands had no voice, no kindness. They were tight around her neck, intent only on taking. But Byakuya's... Each strike against her bare skin had been a command, but also permission: to feel, to want, to surrender and still remain herself. Hindsight was something Hisana knew well, her heart a reflection, caught in the shadows of memory. As she stared at the portrait of Byakuya, those memories hovered; wide-eyed, clawing. Close, but never close enough to touch.
A voice cut through the fog of her thoughts, its comfort reaching her before she even turned. "Mastering the art of emotion and flattery requires a delicate touch."
"Shirogane-san, you're always so kind with your compliments," Hisana replied, allowing a soft smile to form.
"Of course, I'm honest. But please, don't tell Kuchiki-san," Shirogane added with a playful lilt.
Stepping beside Hisana, Shirogane appeared polished and poised, though her professional demeanour was tempered by the kindness in her expression.
"Only if you help me hide the evidence," Hisana teased, her tone light.
Together, they each took a corner of the painting, lifting it. They adjusted it until it aligned perfectly with the wall. Hisana gave it one last glance before covering it, concealing the image from view.
As they stepped back, the soft sound of footsteps filled the room. Hinamori appeared in the doorway, her eyes immediately seeking out Hisana. She entered, followed by two men with their sleeves rolled up to their forearms.
"Marugo-san, have any other paintings been finalised and signed off? We can take them to the gallery," Hinamori asked, her tone casual, though her wide eyes betrayed her eagerness.
Hisana's gaze drifted over the covered canvases, her fingers trailing along the edge of Byakuya's portrait. These paintings felt like fragments of herself—shattered pieces, carefully assembled to form something whole.
Some still awaited his final approval, but she did not need it. When he saw them, he would understand. He would see them as she did: perfect, just as they were.
She moved toward the finished paintings with the ease of greeting old friends. Some still needed more work, but those that were done carried a completeness she could feel. Uncovering the finished ones, she turned to Hinamori with a gentle smile. "These are ready."
"That makes fifteen finished out of eighteen," Hinamori noted, approaching the paintings. "With four weeks left until the exhibition, you're right on track." The two men stepped forward, carefully inspecting the pieces.
"It's beautiful, especially the rough textures," Hinamori said when one of the men lifted a painting, handling it with reverence, as if he could sense the depth in what he held.
"Is she hiding from herself, or from the world?" Hinamori mused thoughtfully.
The words curled around Hisana's heart, but she did not flinch. They hovered, fragile, waiting to be felt. And she let them in. They wrapped around her like thread, taut but unbreaking. As she stood with them, the tension slowly eased, slipping through her fingers like dissolving mist.
"Marugo-san's talent is undeniable," Shirogane added, stepping closer. "The depth of emotion here, it's remarkable. Almost overwhelming."
Hisana's smile softened, her gaze drifting upward, thoughts wandering toward the open Ehime sky—vast, untouchable. 'Feeling the sky', she mused. Her fingers, once tense around the collar of her rollneck, gradually relaxed, letting the fabric slip free, urged by the quiet pull of the horizon.
She had always felt too much, her heart fragile as glass. Blaming herself had come easily, especially when her past remained a blur; vague, faceless figures at the tea house, visitors whose names she had long forgotten. She wished she could bring them into focus, especially the boy in the tree. But that memory stayed elusive, a half-remembered dream. Still, deep down, she knew. It had been him.
Then, Hisana's eyes landed on the painting. When she spoke, her voice was composed with a sense of time slowing. "I see it as survival—something we all do, even when we forget how to move forward."
Tilting her head, she acknowledged, "but, Hinamori-san, two of those weren't originally planned for the exhibition. There are still five more paintings left to finish."
Hisana almost laughed at the way Shirogane stiffened, adjusting her glasses, while Hinamori stepped back, her face going blank for a moment before her brow furrowed. "That's a very tight deadline, Marugo-san. Is that even possible?"
"Well, yes," Hisana admitted. She was not naïve about the time and effort her work required. Turning to Shirogane, she asked, "When will Kuchiki-sama be back?"
There was a brief pause as Shirogane pulled out her phone, scrolling efficiently, the screen reflecting off her glasses. "Kuchiki-san returns from London in a week. Tanaka-san has scheduled your final meeting for the end of November, which gives you two weeks."
Hisana nodded. The time would pass quickly. Too quickly, perhaps. Looking back at his covered portrait, at the painted eyes—still waiting, still searching. Time always slipped away when she needed it most.
There was no time to drift. Hisana could not afford second-guessing. Success meant living fully, without hesitation, and she had no time left to lose. She slipped her headphones on, sealing herself off from everything but the steady pulse of the music and her thoughts.
It was just her, the rhythm, and the work ahead.
A soft pop melody pulsed through her headphones, its beat flowing through her limbs as her hand glided over the canvas. Cross-legged on the stool, paintbrush in hand, her foot tapped to the tempo. Her palette was serene; washed-out blues, dusty rose, and pale earth tones blending effortlessly.
She was not thinking about the bruises, or the shadows. Everything felt as it should. She was not even thinking about the painting. Her thoughts drifted like leaves on a breeze, floating in and out.
For the first time in what felt like forever, Hisana simply painted.
Her hand moved with easy, instinctive strokes, the brush dancing across the canvas. Pale blues and soft greens blended, fading into one another as if the colours themselves had found peace.
The painting asked nothing of her. It simply was. And when the chorus reached its peak, Hisana found herself nodding along, her body and the music in perfect harmony.
The music never stopped, and neither did she. Days blurred together, time slipping into a background hum; a familiar rhythm she no longer questioned. She was doing fine, more than fine, really. Yet, a small, quiet part of her still waited for the other shoe to drop, for the shadows to return. But she pressed on, losing herself in the rhythm.
Hisana danced, her body moving as naturally as her brush on the canvas. Lost in the music, the world beyond faded, leaving only the pulse of her heartbeat in sync with the beat. Her hand swept fluid strokes, hips swayed, lips mouthed the lyrics—until it all stopped.
A touch. Light, but enough to make her heart lurch.
Her breath caught; she jerked away, the paintbrush tumbling from her fingers. Eyes wide, she gasped as her headphones slipped off in a sharp motion. Spinning around, she froze, met by soft grey eyes that held more than words could.
"Byakuya-sama." His name stammered out, catching in her throat. Heat rushed to her cheeks, her gaze flicking to the clock. The time hit her like a stone—how had it gotten so late?
"I didn't mean to lose track of time," she breathed.
Her eyes darted past him, drawn to the group standing just behind. Tanaka stood at the front, sharp and impassive, while Renji's red hair and inked tattoos peeked above unfamiliar faces. Shirogane's glasses glinted under the skylight, her smile offering quiet kindness.
They were all watching her.
Hisana swallowed, mouth dry, and bowed to hide her burning blush. "I'm sorry, Kuchiki-sama. If you'll allow me a few minutes, I'll prepare the paintings right away."
"No need. It will be handled."
His voice was as practiced and indifferent as ever. But Hisana knew better. She saw beyond the formality, glimpsing the person beneath. A small smile flickered across her lips. She stepped back, and with a single glance from him, the group stirred. That was all it took.
They moved into action, knowing exactly what to do. Shirogane and Tanaka stepped aside while Renji directed the others, the unfamiliar men heading straight for the covered paintings along the edges of the atelier. They began retrieving them, one by one.
Hisana felt the unspoken rhythm guiding the room. It pulled her in too. She bent to pick up the fallen paintbrush, wiping the bristles against her apron before heading to clean it. She risked a glance at Byakuya. His presence controlled everything, like a conductor guiding a symphony.
She let herself fall into the flow, rinsing the brush with turpentine, then water, then carefully reshaping it. The hum of movement filled the room, but her focus stayed on the brush.
And then, a flicker at the periphery of her vision.
She turned, wiping her hands on her apron, and froze. One of the men stood before Byakuya's portrait, his hand hovering over the cover as if about to lift it.
Her heart tightened.
Before she could think, her hand shot out, firm around the sheet. The man looked up, startled, meeting her eyes with a curious glance. She softened her grip, offering a polite smile. "Not this one."
He stiffened, about to rise, when a firm hand landed on his shoulder. Renji appeared behind him, his red hair striking against his dark eyes.
"You heard her," he said, voice gruff.
"Thank you, Abarai-san," Hisana said, the echo of footsteps and murmured exchanges filling the atelier. The wood creaked underfoot when the man moved away, but Renji waited, his gaze lingering before he turned to follow, leaving her to set the room for Byakuya.
When she turned back, the atelier had transformed; her paintings perfectly aligned, ready for viewing. Byakuya's gaze moved over the canvases, then rested on her, dwelling just long enough to make her heart stumble. In his eyes, she could almost hear his thoughts.
That unsettled her—more than she wanted to admit. 'You've got this,' she told herself. The words wrapped around her heart like a mother's embrace, but the unease remained.
Slowly, she stepped closer, her heart racing. Reaching out, Hisana rested a light hand on his arm. "Byakuya-sama... if you'd like, I could walk you through the paintings."
Heat rushed to her cheeks, but the words were out, and there was no taking them back.
He did not respond immediately. After a few heartbeats, his eyes flicked toward the others in the room. Without a word, the unfamiliar men left, guided by an unspoken command. Renji took his place against the back wall, standing at attention beside Shirogane and Tanaka.
When Byakuya's gaze returned to her, it was as impassive as ever; cool grey, unreadable. But then, something shifted. A flicker of lightness, almost playful, tugged at the corner of his mouth. She barely registered it before it vanished, replaced by something deeper—something that pulled her in so completely she almost missed—
"There's no need, Hisana."
The words were plain enough, but they threw her. They could have meant anything, or nothing, depending on how she chose to hear them. A response rose in her throat, but she swallowed it. Instead, she nodded, stepping back, giving him space, and herself.
Her hand brushed her neck, then grasped her wrist. The shadows clung to her thoughts; familiar, heavy, their claws sharp, ready to drag her down. Something, though, had shifted: a warmth spreading before they could. And Hisana remained calm, watching him.
Byakuya was tall, his black hair sleek and unruffled, falling just past his shoulders. His eyes saw through everything while revealing nothing. His beauty was cold, like a statue: perfect. Especially now, as he paced in front of the lined-up paintings. He paused every so often, not just to absorb the brushstrokes, but the intention behind them.
She had always thought his indifference was solid, unbreakable. Now, she saw more; of humanity beneath the surface. He was not a god. He was not unattainable. He was human. So human it hurt to see how much he suppressed it.
Hands clasped loosely in front of her, Hisana waited. Byakuya stopped in front of the largest piece. The oil painting glowed with muted light, capturing the final moments of twilight, just before the world goes still. The figure at the centre was not asleep, but at peace.
Then, he turned toward her, his grey eyes resting on her with a kind of approval more felt than seen. "You've outdone yourself."
"Thank you. I'm just glad the pieces turned out as I hoped." Hisana lowered her head, glancing up at him through her lashes. Her smile followed: unpractised, unrehearsed. Almost too much to give, yet there it was.
Her fingers brushed her apron, a habitual gesture. "I'm almost done. Just a few final touches on two more paintings, and then everything will be ready for the exhibition next week."
Byakuya moved closer to another painting, his gaze tracing every detail, each stroke. He leaned forward, his hands sliding into his pockets.
The painting held two figures, their bodies intertwined, vulnerable in their closeness. Every curve, every line exposed, the brushstrokes alive with passion that felt both raw and delicate—like the moment might dissolve at any second.
Hisana felt heat rising up her neck. She fought the urge to fidget, waiting for his reaction.
"An intertwinement that feels both powerful and fleeting." Hisana inhaled at his words, her lips pressing together as his voice wrapped around her, words carefully chosen. "There's something in its simplicity. In what's shown, and what's left unsaid."
Then he looked at her, his grey eyes darker. "It was ambitious to take on so many pieces for the exhibition. Especially in oil." A pause. "Even more impressive, to have completed them ahead of schedule, this time with your name on them."
"It may seem ambitious. I didn't want to do less than what was expected." Hisana said. There was no rush in his eyes, just a deliberate sweep over her.
She stepped closer to the paintings, gesturing to them one by one. "I've already arranged everything with Hinamori-san. The prices, names, and the gallery's percentage are all set. They're ready to be taken downstairs with the others." Her hand hovered over the painting she had been working on when they entered. "The final touches should dry quickly."
Byakuya nodded, the corners of his lips shifting, lifting the mask of indifference he wore so well. "You've been thorough. I see you've already taken care of the gallery."
Before she could respond, he had already turned, his attention shifting to the trio standing behind them.
"Abarai, prepare the paintings with Hinamori." His voice was low, the kind that did not demand obedience—it simply expected it. Renji gave a brief nod, his eyes meeting Hisana's for a fleeting second. His hand twitched, hovering as if he might give her a thumbs up, but he hesitated, lowering it instead. Hisana remained still as he left the room.
Byakuya turned next to Shirogane and Tanaka. "How does my schedule look for the day?"
Her fingers curled around the collar of her rollneck, exposing the faint, yellowed remnants of bruises, faded with time. Her heart twisted, and she smoothed the fabric back into place, crossing her other arm over her chest. She followed Byakuya, her mind racing. 'Where was this going?'
Tanaka answered without hesitation, her chin lifting as if she had been anticipating the question. "Kuchiki-san, you have Marugo-san until two o'clock. After that, there's the merger meeting with Vanguard Capital and Asahi from three to four. At four, there's an advisory session with Komamura-san. Finally, at half past five, we'll review your schedule and finalise travel plans for Australia in December."
Hisana's brow furrowed, mentally calculating the hours, but her focus soon shifted to Byakuya's expression. A flicker at the corner of his mouth, a slight tightening near his eyes—showed the faintest trace of dissatisfaction. "And tonight?"
Tanaka stiffened, her complexion paling. "You're scheduled to attend a gala for the Cystic Fibrosis Foundation, led by Ukitake Jūshirō."
Something unreadable crossed his expression, and Hisana swallowed hard, unsure why any of this mattered.
"I presume next week follows a similar schedule," Byakuya remarked, his voice revealing nothing. Hisana's heart raced beneath the bruises she kept hidden. Was he trying to—
"What about this weekend, Shirogane?" Byakuya interrupted her thoughts.
Shirogane took a controlled breath, her fingers smoothing down her skirt before she spoke. "Saturday morning, you have tennis with Soi Fon, who's visiting from Hong Kong. She's only available then to discuss the expansion. In the evening, you'll attend the Charity Gala for the American Chamber of Commerce in Japan, where you'll deliver the keynote speech. Sunday is the Art Luncheon to promote Marugo-san's exhibition for next week."
Her fingers twitched, reaching toward him. "Byakuya-sama..." She said, trying to catch his attention.
Whether he noticed or not did not matter. His focus remained elsewhere, "Abarai can attend and deliver the keynote."
Tanaka and Shirogane exchanged quick glances, their expressions tightening. However, Byakuya dismissed their reactions. Then, finally, he acknowledged Hisana. His stormy grey met her wide lavender eyes.
"Hisana, I will have someone collect you on Saturday evening. We will have a celebratory dinner."
Her heart soared, only to plummet just as quickly. Without thinking, her hand moved to her neck again, brushing over the hidden bruises. His gaze followed. The crease in his brow deepened, the answer forming even before she could speak.
"I'm sorry, Byakuya-sama... but I won't be able to attend." The words came out heavy, pulling her lips into a reluctant frown.
He did not need to say anything. She felt it in the way he shifted.
"I will be back for the exhibition next week, Byakuya-sama. But after I finish the last touch-ups tomorrow..." she said, her voice trembling. "I'll be moving back to Karakura Town."
There was a strange thrill in saying it aloud, a sudden sense of control over him, over the situation. But it came with a creeping heat, a prickling under her skin. Her heart pounded, reminding her how dangerously close she was to letting the truth spill from her lips, to defy the lie she had just told.
She stood outside the apartment, the winter night wrapping around her like a shroud. Above, a few lights glowed, cutting through the dark, but the rest of the world had already been swallowed by shadow.
There was no choice now—she had to go through with it. Byakuya believed her, though the tension in his jaw and the look in his grey eyes made it clear he was not happy. Maybe she was running, and she knew it, but only for a week. Just enough time before the exhibition.
She shifted, her luggage scraping against the pavement. The cold seeped into her bones as she waited.
Looking back, the pattern was undeniable. She was her own worst enemy—pulling away just when things started to come together. She did the same thing to him in Hayama. A familiar knot tightened in her chest, the same mantra circling in her mind: 'It wasn't the right time for them.'
It should have been simple. Something that just worked, without all the extra complications. Not that she had much experience with any of this. Reality, or maybe just her, had a way of twisting things, turning what should be easy into something tangled.
"Enough," Hisana whispered to herself. "You've said what you said. You're here now." She furrowed her brow and bit her nail.
Voices echoed from the stairwell, drifting up before the figures came into view. Rukia's laugh, light and easy, followed by Ichigo's teasing. Their footsteps broke the quiet. A smile crept across Hisana's face, rising from somewhere deep. She dropped her hands to her sides, straightening when they approached.
They had not noticed her yet, too absorbed in each other. Walking side by side, Rukia's hands were tucked into her jacket pockets, while Ichigo carried a grocery bag in one hand, his free hand occasionally brushing hers. It seemed natural. Familiar. As an outsider looking in, it was all Hisana wanted for her sister: for someone to look at her like she was the only thing that mattered.
And Rukia had that. Somehow, the thought made Hisana's chest feel too tight.
"Hisana?"
It was Ichigo who noticed her first, his amber eyes filled with the same question Rukia voiced. "What are you doing here? Did something happen?"
Rukia's gaze was fixed, looking her over. Her lavender eyes caught the light in a way that reminded Hisana of her own. There was something unreadable in her expression, a tension that made Hisana's smile tighten.
"No, nothing like that." Hisana waved off their concern, but her smile faltered when she saw Rukia's expression; wide eyes, lips parted, as if she could not quite believe her.
"I finished the paintings earlier than expected," Hisana explained, stepping closer. "With the exhibition next week, and all of us attending, I thought it'd be a good time to take a short break and visit."
Before they could respond, she placed her hands on Rukia's shoulders and pulled her into a hug. It was not rushed, just a quiet, familiar gesture, the kind of warmth Hisana offered when words were not enough.
"I promise, that's all it is," she said, pulling back just enough to meet Rukia's eyes. The flicker of uncertainty there told her the gesture had landed.
Turning to Ichigo, Hisana took in his rigid stance, his expression set in that tough façade he had worn since his teenage years. Always trying to seem stronger than he needed to be.
She appreciated it—the way he cared for her sister, the way he looked after her. Without hesitation, Hisana pulled him into a hug as well. His shoulders tensed beneath her touch, and he stood stiff, unmoving. But then, slowly, his breath released, his body relaxing, though his arms stayed at his sides.
"Thank you," was all Hisana said to him.
Reaching for her luggage, she turned away. Behind her, Rukia and Ichigo exchanged a glance. Hisana pretended not to notice, or maybe she chose not to.
The apartment was cozy, it always had been. Hisana made sure of that, filling the space with warmth, especially during the cold winter months. A single kerosene heater hummed in the corner, casting a flickering light over the low table where she sat across from Rukia and Ichigo, their arms brushing now and then.
The windows were fogged from the cold outside, blurring the view of the dark street below, where winter had long settled in.
Hisana held a beer in her hand, the can slick against her fingers. She took a slow sip, trying not to grimace. Beer had never been to her taste; too bitter, too heavy.
"You didn't need to cook," Ichigo muttered, then hesitated, his expression softening. Despite the gruffness in his voice, he added, "But... that was really good."
The table was cluttered with the remnants of dinner—empty plates, chopsticks resting in bowls. Hisana smiled softly. "It's the least I could do, especially since I didn't give you any notice."
Rukia stayed quiet, her gaze fixed on Hisana, tracking every subtle shift in expression, every small gesture, as if trying to figure something out. Hisana's hand drifted to her neck, brushing it absentmindedly, a fleeting gesture, but enough. Rukia's gaze sharpened, catching it.
"How are your classes going? Graduation is coming up soon for you, Rukia. And Ichigo, you've still got another two years, right?" Hisana leaned back against the cushions scattered across the tatami floor.
The sharpness in Rukia's eyes softened, a smile tugging at the corners of her lips. It wavered, but it was there, and that was all Hisana wanted. Rukia nodded. "I'm hoping to land a graduate position by April, ideally in Karakura or Tokyo. There are a few companies I've got my eye on, but the competition is intense."
She took a swig of her beer, her smile growing more natural as she peeked at Ichigo. "Ichigo's also looking into hospital placements in Tokyo for his practical years."
Hisana noticed the flush creeping up Ichigo's neck, his cheeks tinged pink beneath the rim of his can, tilting it to his lips.
"That's good," Hisana sighed, her fingers drifting to the collar of her rollneck, playing with the fabric. She refused to acknowledge the way both Rukia and Ichigo's eyes narrowed on her.
Everything about them seemed effortless; the way their glances and touches fell into place naturally, like breathing. She remembered watching them as teenagers, once thinking they were an odd pair of bickering friends. But now, all she saw was ease. Simplicity. Not like her life, where everything had become knotted, tangled. But she wanted to fix it.
Suddenly, Rukia leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, her gaze sharp. "And what about you, sis?"
Hisana's mouth went dry. She looked down, her expression folding inward as an unwanted thought passed through her mind. When she glanced back at Rukia, her smile flickered—solemn, before vanishing. "To be honest, it feels a bit surreal. So much has happened since I left for Tokyo, and I'm still trying to make sense of it all."
There was no immediate response. The heater clicked softly, shifting into a new cycle. Outside, the wind brushed against the windows, like fingers testing the edges of warmth.
Hisana shifted, taking another sip of beer, her brows knitting together. "I gave up on painting professionally years ago. It still doesn't feel real, like I haven't truly achieved anything. I just... want to feel happy about next week."
"The exhibition is next week," Ichigo said, his tone low and easy. "Maybe it'll feel more like an achievement then?" He leaned back on one hand, relaxed.
Rukia hummed softly, nodding almost imperceptibly. "Or is it something else?" she asked, her voice too light, like she was trying to hide the real question.
"Rukia!" The name came out sharper than Hisana intended, and she winced. But it was too late. The look on Rukia's face said she had heard it.
Rukia's reaction was swift. She pushed away from the table, turning her head aside. Ichigo instinctively placed a hand on her back. Hisana's stomach twisted, her heart sinking with each passing second.
Swallowing hard, Hisana said. "I'm sorry. That wasn't fair."
"It's okay..." Rukia mumbled, her eyes flicking toward Hisana before she took a long swig of her beer, keeping her distance from the table.
"No, it isn't," Hisana admitted quietly. "And I'd rather you not pretend it is." Her gaze dropped to the floor, unable to meet their eyes. The silence was unbearable.
With a sigh, Hisana stood and crossed the room to sit beside Rukia. She slipped her arm around her sister's shoulders, pulling her into an embrace. Rukia did not resist.
As Hisana's arm tightened around her, Ichigo stood. "I'll clean up." He gathered the bowls from the table, the chopsticks clinking against the porcelain. Without another word, he slipped out of the room, giving them the space Hisana was grateful he knew they needed.
The silence lingered, but it did not last long.
"The someone... He cares for me, deeply. But..." Hisana's voice broke the quiet. "It's complicated. Sometimes it feels like I'm still swinging between extremes, and I don't want to tempt fate again." She took a sharp breath. "I've realised it only matters if I'm doing it for myself."
Rukia lifted her head, her sharp eyes locking onto Hisana's. They were so bright, so full of intensity, that Hisana could not help but smile, even though she already knew what Rukia was about to say.
In a firm whisper, Rukia said, "You're overthinking it."
"I know," Hisana murmured, her hand tracing up and down Rukia's arm.
"You shouldn't push things away just because it's complicated. And avoiding things out of fear of tempting fate? That's only holding you back." Rukia's voice was calm, even gentle, but there was an unmistakable conviction behind it. "Doing it for yourself is important, but you don't have to shut people out to do that."
Hisana looked at her sister, and all at once, she saw the young girl she had raised—the child who had once been her whole world. Raising Rukia had swallowed her life. And looking at the woman her sister had become, it was almost too much to bear.
Her smile bloomed, carrying a solemn beauty, the kind of smile that held joy wrapped in sadness. "Rukia, I'm truly sorry for pushing you away."
She pulled Rukia closer, resting her head on her sister's shoulder. Her gaze drifted over the room, unchanged since she had moved out. The heater clicked again, the sound sharp in the quiet. Hisana squeezed Rukia's arm.
Rukia remained still, but her voice was clear. "You're not telling me who he is."
"It doesn't really matter anymore." Hisana shook her head, still holding her sister close. "Your sister's turned into a big old Christmas cake now." She let out a soft, sheepish giggle, knowing how bad the joke was. Even so, her free hand lifted, fingers brushing the collar of her turtleneck.
The change was immediate. Rukia pulled back abruptly, her eyes narrowing as they zeroed in on the spot Hisana had just touched.
"What's wrong with your neck?"
The question hit like ice, freezing her in place. This was not something she ever wanted to explain—not now, not even weeks later. The fabric around her neck suddenly felt too tight, pressing against the bruises. Her hand moved to tug at the collar, as if to hide the truth further.
But Rukia's gaze held her, unwavering. Framed by strands of dark lashes, her ruffled hair softened the intensity in her eyes. Hisana knew—Rukia was not asking because she did not know. She was asking because she already did.
Her throat went dry. She tried to speak, but the words withered before they could form. Rukia's shoulders slumped, her eyes lowering as she began to rise.
A sharp, suffocating feeling bloomed in Hisana's chest. Before she could think, her hand shot out, catching Rukia's. Wide, questioning eyes met hers. Without speaking, Hisana pressed Rukia's hand to her own throat, against the fabric that felt like it was choking her, the truth bound tight beneath it.
Only then did Hisana find her voice, a small, hollow sound. "I'm okay. Really, it's fine," she repeated, over and over.
The room seemed to stop. Everything else faded into the background—the rhythmic click of the heater, the distant sound of dishes being washed, the howl of the wind outside. Rukia's fingers moved slowly, carefully rolling down the fabric to reveal the faint, yellowed bruises. They looked softer now, fading memories.
Her bruises had been matter-of-fact, but this—this was excruciating. Rukia's reaction was not soft. Her hand stilled, her breath catching as she stared at the marks. No words, just the slight tremor in her hands and the way her gaze flickered, struggling to process the truth laid bare before her.
"What happened?" Rukia's voice was tight, the words sputtering out when no explanation came.
Opening up felt like stepping into a room with all the lights on: every flaw, every crack exposed. It felt like the quiet destruction of the person Hisana had always needed to be.
Her throat tightened, the fear of being seen making her want to turn away. However, she wanted more; she wanted to be understood. She wrapped her fingers around Rukia's hand, her thumbs brushing over her sister's knuckles in a soothing rhythm. Tears welled in her eyes, shimmering but held back.
The way Hisana held Rukia was as much for herself as it was for her sister. "It's something that won't ever happen again," she whispered, the words more a promise than a statement.
WHELP. Another surprise chapter, which still coincides with her painting series, as she technically did two extra paintings.
I'll be honest. I'd have preferred to do another read through and edit, but it was just messing with my mind, and I began spiralling into second-guessing my whole writing style. So decided to simply post it as it is. I seem to be doing that a lot.
I can't believe we have gotten here. And I was really worried about the reception of the previous chapter, and kind of this one, as healing isn't linear. But I also did not want anyone to think Hisana took that massive of a step back.
But I had to stay true to her character in the story, and the arch she is going through, while untangling everything tangled. Which again, I hope this is what shines through, in both Byakuya and Rukia as well.
Also, Christmas Cake is an old, outdated sexist term used in Japan to refer to women over 25 not married yet.
As always, thank you for reading this chapter. Any and all thoughts are welcome, whether a review, favourite or follow, or just upping my view count!