Smoke still curled upward from the distant hills. The air held the metallic taste of burned reishi. The wind carried ash across the stone walkways, dragging with it the scent of old memories.

Shunsui stood at the crest of the scorched hill, his pink-flowered haori fluttering faintly behind him like a wounded flag. His straw hat was gone—lost in the scuffle or left behind on purpose. His gray eyes, normally half-lidded and unreadable, were now sharp. Focused.

He had not drawn his blade yet.

Not yet.

You stood across from him, just a few yards away, the wind snapping your uniform—black, not that of a Soul Reaper. Your spiritual signature was masked, but your presence was unmistakable. Even cloaked in an enemy’s colors, even shrouded in hatred and centuries of silence—

He would know you anywhere.

He had always known you.

“Been a while,” he said.

His voice was low, carried by the wind, but clear.

You didn’t answer.

He smiled, faintly.

“Ah, giving me the silent treatment again. Just like old times.”

Your hand tightened around the hilt at your side.

He noticed.

“I thought you were dead,” he said after a pause, gaze dropping briefly to the bloodstained earth. “Thought maybe the war took you. Or maybe you left on purpose. Couldn't tell. I just remember waking up one day and realizing... you were gone.”

You raised your weapon—not fully, not yet—but the message was clear.

Shunsui tilted his head.

“Are we doing this?” he asked, voice quiet. “Really?”

“You’re in my way.”

Something flickered behind his eyes. Not surprise. Just... a crack. An old one, reopened.

“You used to say that,” he murmured, stepping forward. “When you were tired of waiting for me to stop flirting with Nanao. Said I was always in your way.”

You didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe.

“Except,” he continued, softer now, “back then you smiled when you said it.”

The silence between you stretched long and taut, like a string drawn too tight. It might’ve snapped—should’ve snapped—but it didn’t.

Not yet.

One hundred years ago the 8th Division gardens had always been your meeting place.

In spring, the sakura petals would fall like snow, and Shunsui would be lounging in the sun, haori half-off, hat over his face, bottle of sake beside him, pretending to nap.

You’d call him lazy. He’d call you beautiful.

You’d glare. He’d grin.

He’d reach for your hand.

You’d let him.

And in the quiet moments, between duties and battles, you let yourselves believe it would last. That your worlds were aligned, however briefly, however impossibly.

But then came the whispers.

Whispers of forbidden power. Of fractures between realms. Of your choices.

And one night, without a word, you disappeared into the dark.

Still silence.

Until the wind shifted.

And you moved.

Fast.

Your blade was nearly at his throat in an instant—spiritual pressure snapping through the air like lightning across an oil-slicked sky.

But his hand was already on his sword.

Clang—

Steel met steel.

The sound rang sharp and clean, echoing down the hill.

Shunsui didn’t move from his spot—barely even flinched—but his blade was half-drawn now, just enough to catch yours at the edge. His eyes met yours, calm but alive. You saw it there, the pulse of his real self behind the charm and sake.

Captain. Killer. Lover.

“I guess talking’s off the table,” he said, pushing back just enough to throw you off balance.

You twisted with practiced grace and came again—low, fast, aiming for the side. A cut meant to wound, not kill.

He sidestepped, body fluid like smoke, and drew his blade in full this time.

He didn’t aim for blood.

Not yet.

You lunged again—and this time, he stepped in close, too close, spun behind you, and hooked one blade around your wrist. Not to disarm.

To hold.

“You never let anyone get close when you’re serious,” he murmured into your ear.