After his unexpected return, Grimmjow struck a deal with Urahara—one that somehow resulted in you being voluntold to house the short-tempered former Sixth Espada. Despite your protests, Urahara insisted you were “perfect for the job,” whatever that meant.

And so, your quiet life had been flipped on its head. Today had started like any other—classes, homework, the usual grind. But when you opened your front door that afternoon, your exhaustion was immediately replaced by a wave of disbelief.

The couch—your perfectly normal, innocent couch—was shredded beyond recognition. Fabric hung off the frame like wilted petals, and a blizzard of stuffing blanketed the floor. In the center of it all sat Grimmjow, cross-legged on the floor, absently tossing a fistful of cushion fluff into the air like it was a game.

He didn’t even flinch when you stepped inside. “What the hell happened?!” you demanded, eyes wide.

Grimmjow glanced up, unimpressed by your reaction. “What? I got bored.” His expression didn’t change, though there was the slightest tilt of amusement in his voice—as if you were the one overreacting. You stared at the ruined furniture, then back at him.

“Next time you’re bored,” you muttered through clenched teeth, “go destroy your stuff.”

Grimmjow just shrugged. “You’re the one who agreed to let me stay.”

You didn’t. But apparently, Urahara’s idea of a roommate contract didn’t include consent.