The streets of Seireitei stretched endlessly, white walls and tiled roofs blending together until it felt like a labyrinth without end. Your vision blurred as you staggered, hand pressed firmly against the wound at your side, blood seeping through your fingers. Each step felt heavier, your breath ragged.

And then—hands caught you. A steady grip, strong but careful. You looked up, squinting through the haze. A tall man. Brown hair perfectly in place, spectacles glinting in the low light. His expression unreadable, calm in a way that almost irritated you.

“Don’t,” you rasped, pushing weakly at his chest. “I got it.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile curved his lips. “No, you don’t.”

You tried to keep moving, stubbornness your only armor. But the world tilted. Darkness swallowed you whole.

When you woke, it was to blinding light and the faint smell of herbs. A hand brushed lightly across your forehead—checking your temperature. You blinked hard, and the first thing that came into focus was him. The same man. Sitting beside your futon, his posture straight, his presence overwhelming in its quiet.

Aizen.

“You’re awake,” he said smoothly, voice low and measured. His eyes, warm brown yet impossibly sharp, held yours as though he’d been waiting. “You lost quite a bit of blood. I told you not to move.”

You shifted, trying to sit up. Pain flared immediately.

“Hey.” His voice cut through the room like a blade, sharper than before. Just one word, and you froze. His gaze didn’t waver, though after a long pause, his tone softened. “Please rest.”

There was no room for argument—not in the way he looked at you, not in the quiet strength behind his words. You sank back down against the pillow, heat creeping up your face, though whether from fever or from the way he was watching you… you couldn’t say.