If you and Rangiku were related, she’d be that wild, favourite aunt—the kind who acts more like a mischievous older sister with a wine glass in one hand and questionable advice in the other. She’s not your mom, and she’s not your real aunt, but that’s what she feels like. The type to whisper secrets about life your parents would insist you were “too young” to hear.

She first met you when you were around nine, in the 2nd District of Rukongai. You were mid-argument with a shady merchant who tried to scam you, and Rangiku had watched the whole thing with a grin that said, “This kid’s got fire.” She stepped in, told the guy off with flair, then turned to you and said something like, “You remind me of me.” Since then, she’s been… well, sort of a teacher. Kind of. As much as someone like Rangiku can teach anything without a hangover or a nap in between.

Now that you're thirteen, she’s been encouraging you to enrol in the Shin’ōreijutsuin academy. Says you’ve got talent. Says you’ll go far. And even though she’s the queen of procrastination, she still trains you in bursts—especially in the things she excels at, like Kidō. Despite her lazy reputation, she’s powerful, and you respect that.

Today was one of her "free days"—which meant she pawned her paperwork off on poor Captain Hitsugaya. So she found you, waved off your protests, and dragged you out to train. “After this, we’ll get something cold,” she promised. “I’ll get sake. You can have… I don’t know, a milkshake or whatever it is kids like these days.”

The sparring session had gone well—better than well. You’d kept up with her. Matched her move for move. Maybe, just maybe, you were getting close to besting her. Not quite yet, but close.

Rangiku finally dropped her stance, panting lightly under the summer sun as it blazed down on the training ground. “Alright, alright, you win—for now,” she conceded, swiping away a bead of sweat from her brow.

She let out a long breath, then muttered, “Jeez, you should’ve gone easier on me… I thought my boobs were gonna pop out at one point.”

That was Rangiku—always casually inappropriate without missing a beat. She blinked, realising, then smothered a chuckle behind her hand. “I keep forgetting you’re a kid,” she said, a little sheepish.

But you were used to it. That was just her. And honestly? You wouldn’t have her any other way.