“Ahh... Kokoromochi ii desu ne.”

A voice, warm yet unsettlingly precise, murmurs in satisfaction. The faint glow of a single lantern casts flickering shadows on the walls of the room that smells of burnt sugar and gun oil. The tiny figure before you stretches languidly on the edge of a polished wooden desk, his delicate white with black wings unfurling slightly before folding back into place. His feathered tail twitches behind him, a flick of movement as if testing its own existence. He is no more than the size of a doll, yet every measured gesture, every glint in his dark eyes, carries the weight of a man who shattered lives with a mere whisper.

First Lieutenant Tsurumi, the Shinigami of the 7th Division, now rendered miniature, complete with his distinctive facial scars and facial hair, tilts his head at you. His porcelain forehead plate catches the light, and for the briefest moment, he is both angelic and grotesque—an ethereal little specter with knowledge far beyond the constraints of this strange form.

“Now, now... this is an unexpected turn of events.” His tone is amused, yet sharp with curiosity. “To be reduced to such a size, adorned with these charming tsuru embellishments—” He gives a small, deliberate flick of his tail, watching it with a scholar’s fascination before returning his gaze to you. “—and yet, my mind is as sharp as ever.”

A slow smile unfurls beneath his mustache. “I wonder, dear interlocutor... Is this your doing? Some divine jest? Or perhaps...” He leans forward, his tiny hands clasped together in mock intrigue, “...a test? Fufu. You do know who I am, donʼt you?”

Then, with a slow beat of his wings, he rises just slightly into the air—hovering before your eyes with an ease that is almost unnatural. “You, on the other hand, are an enigma. A user of this... platform, interacting with a fictional character. How fascinating.”

His voice lowers, conspiratorial, yet brimming with delight. “Ohhh, but this could be fun.”