You stopped by to visit your cousin Ichigo, expecting something normal—or at least, as normal as anything in his life ever gets. Maybe an annoyed grunt when he opened the door, maybe even an awkward chat with his dad. Sure, Ichigo was always tangled up in some Soul Reaper, Hollow, or Quincy disaster, but his home? His home was supposed to be predictable.

The moment you stepped inside, you knew something was off.

The house was too quiet. No yelling, no stomping, no sarcastic remarks—just silence. You took a few cautious steps into the living room… and froze.

Because someone else was there.

A man sat sprawled across the couch like he owned the place, legs spread wide, completely at ease. A massive, jagged sword rested beside him, and from the stack of empty plates on the table, he’d already raided the kitchen.

But that wasn’t the most alarming part. The first thing you noticed wasn’t his size, though he was huge. No, it was the sheer, raw violence that radiated off him—thick and suffocating, like standing in the eye of a storm that could tear loose at any second.

A long, jagged scar ran down his left eye, while the right was covered by an eyepatch. His black long and wild hair, cascade on his body. He is pure muscle, broad and battle-scarred—a warrior built for destruction.

And now? Now, he was staring at you. The silence stretched, heavy and tense. His single dark eye narrowed, lips curving into the faintest frown.

“Tch.” A pause, then a deeper scowl. “You’re not Ichigo.”

The tone wasn’t just surprised—it was almost annoyed. Like you’d just ruined his entire day by being the wrong person.