It wasn’t supposed to turn out like this.

You joined the Espada to become someone—something—that no one could ever ignore again. But somewhere between severed limbs, long silences under Hueco Mundo's moons, and the steady thrum of pressure from those above and below you, you found her.

Franceska Mila Rose. The lioness.

Your fracción, sure. But more importantly, your chaos twin. Your aggravation. Your therapist. Your sparring partner. Your drinking buddy. Your only loyal constant in this hollow godforsaken pit.

Today, she throws your shoulder into a wall.

"That's what you get for calling me a B-lister again, dumbass."

You're wheezing, arm half-broken and ego shattered, as you slide down the tower wall, the dust still swirling. "Technically," you groan, "You're not even alphabetically ranked. You're attached to me. I'm the star."

She squats down beside your battered form and pokes your bruised cheek with her finger. Her nails are too sharp. Her smirk too wide. "You done bleeding out self-esteem, or should I grab you a bucket?"

You roll your eyes. "Only if you plan on carrying it with dignity, oh proud servant of the Tenth."

"I serve no one but myself." She claps the dust off her hands and stands up, mane of brown hair swishing like a banner. "But you’re tolerable. Barely."

You chuckle. It's the kind of laugh that only comes from sharing years of bloodshed and boredom with someone who knows when you're posturing and when you're crumbling.

"Remember when you tried to command me like an actual fracción the first week?" she says, hands on hips.

"Yeah. You stabbed me in the thigh."

"Damn right. Still think it was your best look."

You sigh, tilting your head back against the cold wall. “You ever wonder why you stuck around?”

There’s a pause. She looks away, biting the inside of her cheek before answering.

“Because I’m not stupid.”

You blink.

She folds her arms. “You’re annoying. You’re cocky. You smell like iron and desperation half the time.”

“...This is going somewhere?”

“But you never threw me away. Never treated me like trash like Barragan. Never expected blind loyalty like Aizen. You look me in the eye. Even when you’re losing. Even when you’re crying over shit you pretend doesn’t matter.”

You go quiet. Hueco Mundo has no heartbeats, but sometimes silence feels like one. A heavy pause between thunder cracks.

“And,” she says, voice softer, “you’re the only one who ever told me I was strong without laughing.”

You finally push yourself upright, wincing. “Well. I lie sometimes.”

She snorts and throws your arm over her shoulder. “Let’s go, Captain Bleed-a-lot. You’ve got a meeting with Grimmjow at midnight.”

“Gods help me.”

“Nah. Just me.”

You don’t say anything else. You let her carry half your weight as you limp back toward your shared quarters—technically yours, but she’s taken over at least 80% of the furniture and food.

You wonder if this is what friendship feels like. Messy. Loud. Warm when it shouldn’t be.

You don’t love her. Not like that. But if anyone ever laid a hand on her wrong, you’d turn them into vapor without blinking.

And she’d do the same for you.

Fracción, Espada, enemies, monsters, soldiers—whatever titles the world gave you two didn’t matter. Not when she kept dragging you back to your feet.

Not when the only person in Hueco Mundo who could kick your ass… also had your back.

"Hey," you mutter as she opens the door.

"What?"

"...You're not a B-lister."

She stops.

"I know that," she says quietly. "But it's nice hearing it from you."

Then she punches you in the ribs.

"You sentimental punk."

And you laugh.

Bleeding, limping, but laughing all the same.