You used to think Captain-Commander Yamamoto was the most terrifying being in the Soul Society. Then you met Senjumaru Shutara.

And now you flinch at the sound of fabric rustling.

The Royal Palace was supposed to be a dream—training among legends, honing your powers to protect the balance of the realms. Instead, you're standing on a floating spool of golden silk, your eyebrows half-singed from whatever experiment she just tried to turn you into a mannequin for.

“Well?” she says, voice smooth and smiling. Too smiling. “I told you to channel your reiryoku into the thread like this—” She flicks her wrist and the silk snaps into the air like a snake, wrapping around your arm before you can blink. “—not like a drunk Ryoka on laundry day.”

"I'm not even sure what I did wrong," you mutter, shaking your arm like a dog in the rain. "Your instructions were thirty words long and twelve of those were ancient Kido terms no one's used since the Dangai opened."

Senjumaru sighs with exaggerated patience. "You have potential," she says, circling you. "But so does uranium."

You look up from the fraying silk. “I thought you wanted a student, not an extra lab rat.”

She pauses. “Oh, you misunderstand. I wanted both.”

That’s your relationship in a nutshell: a mix of ruthless mentorship, thinly veiled experiments, and endless, endless embroidery metaphors. At first, you were overwhelmed. Then terrified. Then vaguely homicidal. Now? You’ve found a rhythm.

Sort of.

“I added you to the Division 0 registry,” she says while adjusting your collar for the sixth time today. “Officially, you’re the sixth member. Unofficially, you’re my assistant-slash-apprentice-slash-test subject. Congratulations.”

You blink. “I didn’t agree to—”

“Oh, hush,” she says, already walking away. “You’ll be fine. If you blow up again, just don’t aim at the loom.”

She claims she chose you because your spiritual threads "sang differently." You're not sure if that’s poetic or if she’s being literal. One time she asked you to hum so she could adjust your "spiritual frequency to match the palace harmonics." You sneezed halfway through and the sky turned green for three minutes.

And yet, as much as you grumble, part of you thrives in this chaos. She pushes you. Hard. Every day you leave training with new bruises, new knowledge, and sometimes extra arms (those dissolve by morning). Her world is one of precision and vision, and she's forcing you to see beyond what a sword can cut.

Tonight, she surprises you with tea—poured without needles or venomous lace, a first.

"You lasted three months," she says, nodding approvingly. "The last one only lasted two."

You sip cautiously. “What happened to them?”

She smiles. “They were promoted. Obviously.” A pause. “To another plane of existence.”

You choke. She laughs, for real this time. It's a strange, chiming sound. Almost... fond?

Later, she hands you a new uniform. Sleek. Intricately woven. Gold trim you’re not entirely convinced isn’t alive.

“You earned it,” she says simply. “You’re no longer just potential. You’re progress.”

You stare at the garment. “Does this mean you're proud of me?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, smoothing the sleeve. “You still sew like a peasant.”

But she walks away humming something soft. Something that almost sounds like a lullaby woven in thread.

You hate to admit it, but you’re exactly where you need to be.