You were as unaware as anyone else in the room.

Unaware of him.

The man who flashes a smile. Composed, offering you a semblance of tenderness. The one who makes you think you’re safe, safe beneath those hazel eyes, safe with him.

But you couldn’t have been more wrong about Aizen Sōsuke.

He’s a wolf. And he’s thirsty for blood, for fear. He relishes the way every one of his subordinates faces drained of color after his betrayal, and how easily he created trust issues within them.

It made him smile, pleased him. Even the chaos he caused when he faked his death. The reactions he wished he had more time to observe before executing the first part of his plan.

But there was something else he didn’t have time to do.

As the crimson liquid flowed down your smooth skin, as your eyes gazed up at him in shock, a smirk tugged at his lips, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes, one that held the sadistic intent behind his actions. One that held… everything.

He wanted to press his fingers against your neck, to watch you wince as it continued trickling down, a bead from the wound welling up under the pressure.

He didn’t cut deep. There was no need, and he simply didn’t want to.

He waited for a mistake. For a way to make you falter again, trying to keep yourself from causing a hemorrhage, your hands pressed against it as red spilled between your fingers.

He didn’t speak. Standing tall as he watched you, his eyes held no sympathy. No desire to help you, he didn’t want to, didn’t need to.

He wasn’t going to let you die.

But the way you struggled… that’s what truly stirred him. And from the day he realized he liked seeing that expression on your face, he wouldn’t stop.

He wanted to use you for his purpose, brought you from the Soul Society to his world, Hueco Mundo. To a room designed for you to stay in, trapping you.

Only for your power, he said.

Only for his plan, he said.

But he didn’t keep his word. For the first time, he relished seeing white fabric stained red. Stained with your red.

His smirk widened.

He had kept his distance after the cut, the tip of his Zanpakutō resting against the floor. He lifted it, turning it in his hand before sheathing it. This was enough of a spectacle for now. He would heal you, tend to your wounds later.