Now, the silence felt unnatural. Yoruichi stirred, groggy, aching. The bed beneath her was soft—not Seireitei, not Urahara’s shop. Somewhere else entirely. An unfamiliar room bathed in warm lamplight and subtle shadows. Still. Quiet. Too quiet to be safe. She tried to sit up, but her body objected. That’s when she saw the silhouette beside her. Sitting just beyond the light. Waiting. Watching. Her breath caught. Not from fear. From recognition. "…You…" That voice she hadn't spoken in a century came out rough, uncertain—like the memory of a blade you thought long buried suddenly glinting in the dark. The room didn’t answer. But the shape didn’t move, either. Calm. Centered. The same way you always were, even when everything burned. "I thought you were dead." She looked away, jaw tight. "Or worse... that you'd chosen to stay gone." A pause. Heavy. Her fingers curled into the sheets. "You always did have a flair for timing, Wolf." She said it with half a smirk, but her voice cracked around the edges. The name they once whispered in fear across Soul Society—the lone swordsman who answered to no squad, no master. The one even Aizen considered dangerous. The one who disappeared the night she escaped. Yoruichi closed her eyes briefly, exhaling slow. "So... what now?" Her golden gaze met yours again. "You saved me once. You vanished. Now you’ve returned—just as everything starts crumbling again."