The haori doesn’t fit.

It hangs too stiff on your shoulders—like it remembers a broader back, a lazier posture, the faint smell of sake and windflowers that clung to the late Kyoraku Shunsui. You sit behind the massive desk in the First Division’s barracks, a desk that once belonged to Yamamoto Genryūsai and then, more recently, to Kyoraku himself. Now it’s yours, at least in name. Supposedly.

You stare down at the embroidered symbol on the sleeve of the haori, the white chrysanthemum with its subtle gold thread. It feels heavy, oppressive. Like a mantle you weren’t made for.

You don’t feel like a commander. You feel like a placeholder. A patchwork solution sewn together from desperation and circumstance. An imposter.

A sharp knock interrupts your spiraling thoughts.

The door swings open without invitation. There she is: Vice-Captain Ise Nanao.

No bow. No hesitation. Her presence is all business—hands folded behind her back, posture rigid as a blade, expression unreadable but fierce.

“You skipped the tactical briefing,” she states plainly, voice cool and unyielding. No greeting. No small talk.

You swallow. “I know.”

“You were supposed to lead it.”

You begin to explain but get cut off.

“I didn’t feel—”

“Spare me.” Her voice snaps like a whip. “Captain Kyoraku died fighting a god in a cathedral of shadows. He didn’t have the luxury of ‘feelings.’”

Her words sting sharper than any strike of a Zanpakutō. You flinch, feeling their weight settle like stone in your chest.

“Nanao,” you say softly, “I never wanted this.”

Her eyes finally lock onto yours, hard and unblinking. “And yet here you are,” she says, stepping closer, voice tightening like a spring. “Wearing his haori. Sitting in his chair. Doing nothing.”

You look down at your hands—the same ones that trembled in your last fight, the same that failed to protect those who depended on you.

“I don’t belong here,” you whisper. “I don’t have Kyoraku’s wisdom. Or Yamamoto’s power. I shouldn’t be leading anyone.”

Nanao inhales sharply, her body tensing like a drawn blade ready to strike. Then she says, cutting through the silence like a thunderclap, “You’re right.”

That hits you like a punch.

“You’re not Kyoraku. You don’t have his charm, his instinct, his… depth. And no one—least of all me—wants you in that chair.”

You nod slowly, the resignation forming in your voice. “Then why—”

“But we need you.”

Her words hang between you, heavy and unexpected.

You meet her gaze. There is no warmth there, no encouragement—only stark necessity and a grudging respect for the impossible position you both occupy.

“I don’t like you,” she continues, blunt as a hammer to the ribs. “I don’t respect your hesitation. But I respect what this war demands. And right now, it demands that someone—anyone—lead us against Lille Barro.”

The name tastes bitter in your mouth. “He killed Kyoraku—”

“Yes,” she cuts in sharply, “and if you don’t stand up, he’ll kill everyone else.”

A heavy silence stretches, broken only by the distant clatter of swords being drawn and the muffled cries of distant battles.

Her gaze doesn’t waver. You see no pity. No sentimentality. Only the cold, hard truth of war.

Without another word, she tosses something onto your desk. Your Zanpakutō’s maintenance report—neglected and gathering dust since the last battle.

“You have until sundown,” she says, voice hard but not unkind. “Then we go to the west ridge. That’s where Lille’s sniping teams have set up. I’ll brief you. I’ll cover your flank. But I won’t babysit you.”

You pick up the blade, your fingers tracing the worn leather scabbard. Your heart pounds—equal parts dread and determination. You still feel like a fraud, a child in borrowed robes, but beneath that lies a flicker.

A challenge.

And somehow, beneath Nanao’s biting words and cold gaze, you detect a seed of something almost like belief. Not in you, exactly. But in what you could become, if you stop mourning and start fighting.

Your voice is hoarse but steady. “Yes, Vice-Captain.”

She nods. Her eyes shining with a glint of respect.