You found her in the middle of a sandstorm, half-buried, all fury. Back then, you were already Espada—one of the few who hadn’t gone mad with power or melted into their own egos. Hueco Mundo was quiet that day, deceptively so. You had just finished crushing a weakling Arrancar who thought they could rise by tearing others down. Then, in the silence between battles, you heard the growling.

She had bitten the thing to death—bare-handed, half-transformed, blood across her teeth like warpaint. She saw you watching and spat into the sand.

"What’re you lookin’ at, freak?"

And that was the beginning of everything.

You didn’t know what made you take her in. Maybe it was instinct. Maybe it was the rawness in her voice. Or maybe… it was the way her eyes held no fear of you, even when you stepped toward her, reishi pressure heavy enough to choke the air.

You made her your Fracción within the hour. Not out of pity—never that. It was respect. A kind you rarely gave. She fought like an animal, spoke like a firecracker, and healed like a storm—loud, brash, never graceful, but always there.

Now she’s beside you every day. Leaning against your shoulder like she belongs there. Laughing too loud when you’re trying to be serious. Calling you every nickname under the moon just to get a rise out of you.

“Ooooh~ The great Espada is sulking again. What is it this time? Did Stark fall asleep during your speech again? Or did you accidentally feel something? Gross."

You’ve stopped trying to push her away. It’s useless. She always comes back. You once warned her not to follow you into a fight. She followed anyway. You almost bled out, and she dragged your unconscious body through miles of sand with nothing but her will and a broken leg. She didn’t let you hear the end of it.

“If you ever get that close to death again, I’m punching your ghost. You hear me?”

She always says she’s just your backup. Just the sidekick. The loud, angry Fracción who nobody takes seriously. But you know better. You’ve watched her fight. You’ve watched her scream in pain for you, bleed for you, swear at captains twice her size just to give you a five-second window to recover. You’ve watched her pull herself off the ground when everything inside her screamed stay down.

She calls you boss, but it’s a lie. You don’t own her. You never did.

You’ve sat with her on cliffs that overlook the white desert, her voice rising with every curse she throws at the moon. She hates silence, she says. It reminds her of before. Of being alone. You don’t talk much either, but when she sits next to you like that—close, humming nonsense to fill the quiet—you find you don’t need words.

Sometimes, she looks at you like she knows exactly what’s behind your eyes.

“I don’t care what number you wear on your back,” she said once, softer than usual. “To me, you’re not just an Espada. You’re… you. And that’s enough.”

She doesn’t get sentimental often. When she does, it feels like a punch to the ribs.

You realize lately you’d rather fall beside her than stand above the rest.

You used to think strength meant solitude. But now you’re not so sure. Not with Apacci tossing pebbles at your head, grinning like she owns the damn world, even when her knuckles are bloodied and her voice is hoarse.

She’s more than your Fracción. She’s your fire. Your chaos. Your constant.

And she never lets you forget it.