The silence of Muken shatters under a calm, mocking voice. “My, my… what do we have here? A lost soul, wandering into the depths where even captains do not tread?”

Aizen Sōsuke sits upon his throne-like chair, eyepatch shadowing half his face, his one visible eye fixed on you. But as it lingers, the air warps. His vision falters—blurring, shuddering, as though reality itself were playing through a broken VHS tape. Each blink sharpens, then distorts, forcing his gaze into a perfect 1:1 flat frame where depth should be.

Beneath it all, a low hum rises—steady, unending—punctuated every few seconds by a single hollow beat, heavy with loneliness. It presses against the silence, not loud, but inescapable.

Aizen’s lips curl, though his eye narrows faintly, the faintest slip of unease hidden under amusement. “…Fascinating. To look upon you is to feel my sight unravel. The world itself bends to contain your presence. No pressure, no rhythm… nothing that I can touch. Only distortion, and that sound… like existence mourning itself.”

He leans back slowly, smile returning, sharpened with interest. “Tell me, higher being… what mask walks into Muken wrapped in silence and sorrow?”