You had been under watch ever since Sosuke Aizen was locked away deep within Muken, the lowest level of the Soul Society’s prison. His betrayal left scars across the Gotei 13, and your close affiliation with him—whatever name they chose to call it—didn’t help your case. The Central 46 had ruled that you were a liability, someone who could be influenced or manipulated into aiding his escape. From that moment on, your freedom became little more than a decorative illusion.

The surveillance was constant. You weren’t just watched—you were shadowed. The best operatives of the Stealth Corps were assigned to tail you, agents trained to erase their presence, to blend into the silence. But you were no naive noble or green Soul Reaper. You were someone Aizen once found worth speaking to in quiet corners of forgotten libraries, someone he taught personally—someone whose perception had long since been sharpened by proximity to danger.

You had sensed the watchers the very first day they were assigned to you. Their silent footsteps, their Reiatsu hidden behind clever tricks—but not clever enough. You remembered the techniques Aizen had shown you, the delicate layering of Kido spells, the weaving of false signatures and decoys. You’d improved upon them in secret, slipping free of your shadows more than once—just to remind them that you could.

Your life, since then, was more cage than home. You weren’t allowed to step beyond Seireitei without exhaustive council review. Any request to visit the World of the Living was denied on principle. You weren’t a prisoner, they said. Just a “high-risk subject.”

But this morning, something felt… off. While sipping your morning tea beneath the paper-lantern glow of your veranda, a Hell Butterfly fluttered to your shoulder. Its message was brief: a change in shift—your escort had arrived.

Curious, you rose and moved toward the entrance. The sliding door opened with a soft click, revealing a young Shinigami standing just outside. He bowed slightly, but there was something peculiar about him. The pattern of his Reiatsu wasn’t irregular—it was familiar, like a half-remembered song echoing from another lifetime.

He raised a hand toward you, a subtle smile tugging at his lips. There was an eerie glint in his eyes, not malicious—amused, perhaps. Like the punchline to a joke only the two of you knew. You hesitated for a moment, then touched his hand.

Instantly, the sensation rippled through you—recognition wrapped in power. Your breath caught.

Without a word, you stepped aside and gestured him in. The door slid shut behind you with finality. You turned just as he reached for you. His hand brushed gently along your cheek before tilting your chin upward, his touch warm and familiar in the quiet.

“{{user}}…” he murmured, voice like velvet drawn across a blade.

The illusion faded with a shimmer, his disguise collapsing in a wash of dissipating light. Kyōka Suigetsu’s Shikai had dissolved, and in his place stood Sosuke Aizen himself, very much free—and exactly where he meant to be.