Part 14.5 Soul Society

...

The air here felt thinner. Not because of altitude, nor due to the looming presence of spiritual pressure—no, this was different.

This was the weight of watchful eyes.

Jūshirō Ukitake stood beneath a sky not quite dark, not quite light, the in-between hush of twilight casting strange shadows over the secluded courtyard where he met them.

Michael and Gabriel.

Even here, far from prying ears, he knew they weren't alone.

It was expected.

Soul Society would never allow Heaven's Faction to move unwatched.

Even if they said nothing, even if their presence alone remained neutral, beings such as Michael and Gabriel were too dangerous to be left unchecked. There were likely spells woven into the very air, barriers stretched thin between unseen walls, subtle layers of containment.

It did not matter.

The angels were aware.

They had expected this.

Michael stood composed, golden hair catching the faint glow of the evening. His expression remained unreadable, though Ukitake did not mistake the sharpness in his eyes. Gabriel, on the other hand, was far less concerned with maintaining an air of diplomacy. Her piercing gaze swept the area, as if dissecting the very air, before settling on Ukitake with clear impatience.

"You've made us wait."

Ukitake smiled, slow and tired. "I had my duties to attend to."

Gabriel scoffed, crossing her arms. "Of course. How fortunate for you that your duties always seem to delay your answers."

Michael remained silent, watching.

Ukitake's smile didn't falter. "Surely you understand," he said lightly. "Matters within Soul Society cannot simply be spoken of freely."

A lie wrapped in truth.

He was bound.

Bound by more than duty. More than loyalty.

Central 46 had ensured that no word of real substance could leave his lips. He could stand here, engage in conversation, even imply—but the moment he revealed anything beyond carefully approved knowledge, the vow would constrict. His words would twist into meaninglessness, his voice stolen by the very laws that governed Soul Society's secrecy.

It had been the price of their continued patience with him.

The angels knew.

And yet, they played the game.

Michael finally spoke, his voice smooth, patient. "Then tell us what you can."

Ukitake tilted his head slightly, feigning thoughtfulness. "That depends. What exactly are you seeking?"

Gabriel's expression darkened. "We aren't fools, Ukitake. The disturbances in Karakura Town are not random. You know that. Soul Society knows that." Her wings shifted behind her, the faintest flicker of celestial energy rippling through the air. "And yet, you expect us to believe that you have nothing of worth to share?"

Ukitake exhaled slowly.

They weren't wrong.

But that didn't mean he could give them anything useful.

"Balance is... delicate," he murmured, choosing his words carefully. "That much, I can say."

Gabriel narrowed her eyes. "A meaningless answer."

Michael, however, smiled faintly. "No. A confirmation."

Ukitake met his gaze.

Michael's golden eyes gleamed with something unreadable. "The balance has been disturbed before," he continued, watching Ukitake carefully. "In ways Soul Society would rather forget."

The silence that followed was not empty.

It was measured.

Ukitake said nothing.

Because he couldn't.

Gabriel's lip curled slightly. "And still, you give us scraps."

Ukitake's smile didn't change. "I give what I can."

Another truth.

Another lie.

Michael sighed, tilting his head slightly. "Very well. Then let me ask you this—what does Soul Society intend to do about these disturbances ? " 

Ukitake let out a slow breath, his gaze unreadable as he measured his next words carefully.

"We investigate, as we always have."

Michael's expression did not change, but there was something in his golden eyes—something sharp.

Gabriel exhaled through her nose, clearly unimpressed. "And when your investigations fail to yield results? When these disturbances grow beyond Soul Society's control?"

Ukitake's smile remained, patient as ever. "Then we will act accordingly."

Gabriel scoffed. "Vague assurances from a man bound by silence." Her piercing gaze narrowed. "How convenient."

Michael raised a hand, a silent signal for restraint. Gabriel stilled but did not step back, her wings flexing slightly before settling once more.

"We understand the constraints placed upon you," Michael said, his voice steady. "And yet, it is difficult to ignore the weight of absence."

Ukitake did not move, but he knew precisely what Michael was implying.

Absences.

Disruptions.

Urahara. Yoruichi.

Those names hung unspoken, lingering in the air like ghosts. They were not forgotten, nor was their disappearance unnoticed.

They had not returned.

And yet, no one asked why.

Because they already knew.

Ukitake's fingers curled slightly at his sides. His voice remained as light as ever. "Soul Society is ever-changing. Some faces remain, others fade into history."

Michael nodded, as if that answer was expected.

Gabriel, however, was less patient. "You make it sound so natural." Her voice was softer now, but no less cutting. "And yet, we both know some things do not fade so easily."

The implication was clear.

Some things were not meant to be spoken of.

Some names were not meant to be uttered.

Aizen. Gin. Tōsen.

Those who had once held power, who had been removed—one way or another.

Ukitake did not flinch.

"We all play our roles," he said simply.

Michael exhaled, tilting his head slightly. "Indeed."

There was a long, quiet pause between them. The sky above remained still, the weight of unseen eyes pressing against their meeting.

Finally, Michael spoke again.

"We have no interest in reliving old battles," he said, his voice smooth but firm. "But neither do we wish to be caught unaware when history decides to repeat itself."

Ukitake studied him carefully. There was something deliberate in the way Michael phrased his words, something that hinted at an awareness beyond what he had expected.

Michael and Gabriel had come with their own intelligence. They were not asking for the truth.

They were testing how much he was willing—or rather, able—to confirm.

Clever.

And yet, Ukitake had played this game long enough.

"As I said," he murmured, his voice carrying just the faintest weight beneath it. "We investigate. We act accordingly."

Michael's smile did not fade, but something about it sharpened.

Gabriel sighed. "A pointless conversation."

Michael glanced at her before turning back to Ukitake. "Perhaps. Or perhaps, it has served its purpose."

Gabriel scoffed but said nothing.

Michael stepped forward slightly, his wings shifting behind him as his gaze held Ukitake's. "Tell me, Captain Ukitake—how long do you believe silence will hold?"

The words were light, but the meaning was anything but.

Silence did not last forever.

Truths did not remain buried.

Ukitake met his gaze, and for the first time in the conversation, he allowed his exhaustion to show—just briefly.

"Long enough."

Michael studied him for a moment before finally nodding.

A silent understanding.

No more would be said.

No more needed to be.

Gabriel, still dissatisfied, turned on her heel first. "This is a waste of time."

Michael watched her go before offering Ukitake a final, lingering glance.

Then, without another word, he followed.

As the celestial figures departed, Ukitake stood alone beneath the dimming sky, the weight of the conversation settling over him like a quiet storm waiting to break.

He let out a slow breath, his gaze drifting toward the heavens.

For now, silence would hold.

For now.

*Cough.*

The sound was quiet, swallowed by the vast emptiness of the courtyard, but it echoed in Ukitake's skull like a knell. A sharp, wet sound, thick with something unseen.

Pain flared in his chest, deep and searing, as if something inside him was unraveling thread by thread. He did not stagger, did not let his expression shift, but his fingers curled against the sleeve of his haori, white fabric catching the light of the moon just as his breath caught in his throat.

Michael and Gabriel were gone. Their forms had disappeared into the shadows beyond the threshold of Soul Society's walls, their wings no longer piercing the sky.

And yet, the weight of their presence lingered.

Anger.

It was subtle, controlled, hidden behind Michael's carefully measured words and Gabriel's sharpened gaze. But it was there, woven into the smallest of gestures, the flicker of celestial power in their wake.

They were angry.

And that was what unsettled him the most.

He had seen angels before. Met them in war, in uneasy alliances, in the quiet of diplomatic arrangements where both sides pretended their pasts did not burn beneath their feet.

Michael was many things. A warrior. A leader. A creature of impossible patience.

But anger?

Anger was beneath him.

Gabriel, perhaps, had always burned hotter, but even she had her limits—limits Ukitake had never expected to see breached in the confines of a civil conversation.

And yet, they had reacted.

Not with cold, distant disapproval. Not with thinly veiled amusement or vague condescension.

But something else. Something raw.

Something personal.

Cough.

This time, it was harder to suppress.

He lifted a hand, hiding the blood that splattered against his palm before it could be seen. His fingers trembled just slightly before he closed them into a fist, as if trapping the evidence would make it any less real.

A quiet, bitter chuckle curled at the edges of his breath.

"The Soul King is as helpful as always," he murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Of course.

This was the way it had always been. The way it would always be.

Silence.

Even now, with celestial figures treading too close, with whispers of disruptions that Soul Society hadn't dared to amuse, with the the entity that ruled above all remained indifferent.

Ukitake closed his eyes for a brief moment.

The pain did not fade.

Hmmm he should meet Unohana...

Hopefully it won't be at the time for when she will be hunting down Gabriel.

Tho it seems like both of them would have to wait as a Jigokuchō, flew towards him.

...

Laughter. The clink of glasses. The hum of a city still awake in the deep hours of the night.

A dimly lit bar, hidden away in the backstreets of a town where no one asked questions. The kind of place that had seen its fair share of men trying to drink their past into oblivion, and yet, two of its current patrons were a breed apart from the usual drunks and dreamers.

At a small, secluded table, two figures sat, the weight of history on their shoulders, yet both too amused to let it show.

Kisuke Urahara and Azazel.

The former Captain of the 12th Division leaned back lazily, his ever-present fan flicking open and closed in a slow, rhythmic motion. His bucket hat was tilted just enough to obscure his eyes, but the smirk on his lips was undeniable. Across from him, the fallen angel was equally relaxed, a smirk of his own playing at the edge of his mouth as he swirled the amber liquid in his glass. His wings, black as the abyss itself, were nowhere to be seen—he had long since learned to blend in.

Azazel took a slow sip of his drink, exhaling with a satisfied sigh. "Ahh, now this—this is real whiskey. None of that cheap mass-produced garbage Heaven tries to pass off as 'pure'."

Urahara chuckled, taking a sip of his own. "You'd think divine beings would have better taste."

Azazel's smirk widened. "Oh, they do. They just pretend they don't. Holier-than-thou types like Michael—he wouldn't admit it, but I bet he'd kill for a sip of this right about now." He took another slow drink, savoring it. "But then again, he'd rather die than admit I was ever right about anything."

Urahara hummed, tapping his fan against the rim of his glass. "And yet, despite all that bad blood, here you are. Drinking with me, of all people."

Azazel let out a low chuckle, eyes glinting with amusement. "Come on, Urahara. You and I both know we're not so different." He leaned forward, resting an elbow on the table. "Outcasts. Mad scientists. The ones who saw the bigger picture when everyone else was busy licking the boots of higher powers."

Urahara's smirk widened slightly, though his gaze remained sharp beneath the brim of his hat. "Flattering, but I don't recall getting thrown out of Soul Society. I left on my own terms."

Azazel scoffed. "Sure. And I 'fell' on my own terms." He raised his glass in mock toast. "The best lies are the ones we tell ourselves, eh?"

Urahara clinked his glass against Azazel's, chuckling. "Touché."

They both drank, letting the quiet hum of the bar settle over them. The air between them was light, but only on the surface. Beneath the alcohol, beneath the laughter, there was something else—an unspoken weight, the kind only men who knew too much could carry.

Azazel exhaled through his nose, swirling his glass. "So. Soul Society's walking on eggshells, Heaven's getting all twitchy, and I hear whispers about Karakura Town being a hotbed of all kinds of interesting phenomena." He arched a brow at Urahara. "That got anything to do with you ? "

Urahara didn't answer right away. Instead, he took another sip, savoring the burn of alcohol before sighing. "Ah, you know me, Azazel. I wouldn't dare meddle in such things."

Azazel gave him a look that was half-amused, half-exasperated. "Bullshit."

Azazel set his glass down with a smirk. "Come on, Urahara. You can dance around the truth all you want, but you forget—I'm a professional at sniffing out bullshit. And right now? You're practically swimming in it."

Urahara chuckled, tilting his head slightly. "Oh, Azazel, you wound me. Here I thought we were simply catching up over a friendly drink."

Azazel scoffed, leaning back in his seat. "Yeah, yeah. You and I both know there's no such thing as 'just catching up' between guys like us." He ran a hand through his dark hair, his sharp gaze flickering with something deeper. "So let's not waste time. What's really going on ?"

For just a moment, the lazy rhythm of Urahara's fan stilled.

It was slight. Barely a flicker. But Azazel caught it.

And that told him everything.

Azazel smirked. "Ahh... there it is. That little hesitation." He tilted his head. "Means it's even worse than I thought."

Urahara sighed dramatically, snapping his fan shut. "You're persistent."

Azazel grinned. "And you're predictable. Now spill."

Urahara leaned forward slightly, lowering his voice just enough to be drowned out by the ambient noise of the bar. "You already know about the disturbances in Karakura Town."

Azazel nodded. "Hard to miss. Between Hell's Gate appearing out of nowhere and those weird spiritual surges, even Heaven's getting antsy."

Urahara's smile was unreadable. "Don't worry. It's been taken care of. And Soul Society will be on their tiptoes for a while."

Azazel gave him a flat look. "Yeah, see, that's the part that doesn't add up." He gestured vaguely with his glass. "If it was really handled, you wouldn't be sitting here, drinking with me, in a bar wrapped in a barrier strong enough to keep God himself from eavesdropping." He narrowed his eyes. "You're dodging, Urahara and it sure as hell isn't working "

Urahara chuckled, tapping the rim of his glass with his fan. "Oh, Azazel, you wound me. Here I thought we were simply catching up over a friendly drin—"

"Cut the shit."

The humor in Azazel's tone was gone. His golden eyes gleamed sharp and knowing, all pretense of casual amusement stripped away. "You don't drink with people just to 'catch up.' You drink when you need something. Because drunk people are easier to convince." He exhaled, his voice dipping lower." So, let's drop the act. What's got you so worried that you called me of all people?"

Urahara hummed, taking a slow sip before sighing dramatically. "You make it sound like I'm not just enjoying the company."

Azazel raised an unimpressed brow.

Urahara grinned behind his fan. "Alright, alright. Most of the problems are handled. Aizen's sealed, Soul Society's on high alert, and for once, I don't have a rogue scientist breathing down my neck." He flicked his fan shut with a snap. "But... we've got more eyes on us than usual. A lot more."

Azazel leaned back, resting an arm over the back of his chair. "That's what happens when you let a war play out in the human world, Urahara. People notice." He took a sip, then smirked. "Angels, devils, the Yokai factions still licking their wounds, and probably a few opportunistic stray gods. Japan's turned into a supernatural hotbed, and you're acting like this is a surprise?"

Urahara's smirk didn't waver. "Surprised? Not at all. But concerned..." His voice dipped slightly, his fan tapping absently against the table. "Let's just say I'd rather not have any of them finding something—or someone—they shouldn't."

Azazel tilted his head slightly. "Someone?"

The shift was almost imperceptible, but the atmosphere changed.

His golden eyes studied Urahara, watching the way his fingers drummed against his fan, the way his usual carefree smirk held just a touch too much patience. And then, like a switch flipping, realization settled over Azazel's features.

His smirk thinned. "You're looking for someone." His voice was quieter, heavier. "And if it's got you playing cautious, it's not just anyone."

Urahara met his gaze, his fan stilling. His voice was light, almost casual. "I need you to find someone."

Azazel let the silence stretch before exhaling through his nose, setting his glass down. "You're stalling." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "Who?"

Urahara took another sip before answering. "Kurosaki Ichigo."

Azazel's fingers stilled over his glass. His usually relaxed posture went rigid, just for a second, before he blinked. Once. Then again.

"...Misaki's kid?" His voice was slower now, cautious, like he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly.

Urahara nodded.

Azazel's smirk vanished. His fingers twitched. "You're telling me my nephew—shut the fuck up, Urahara, I told Misaki I'm his uncle, so I'm his fucking uncle—left Karakura?"

The memory hit him like a fist to the gut. He'd been too drunk that night, barely able to stand, but when he saw the baby... No, he didn't want to remember. Didn't need to. The details were a blur, but the promise he made to himself was crystal clear— He was the kids nephew, almost put himself into a binding vow actually.

Even if not by blood.

Urahara closed his mouth, then shrugged. "That's the working theory."

Azazel scoffed, shaking his head. "No way. That brat was glued to this town. You're telling me he just left?"

Urahara's smile was a little too knowing. "That's what I need you to find out."

Azazel's golden eyes darkened. "And what's Isshin doing about it?"

Silence.

Azazel's grip on his glass tightened. "Urahara."

Urahara exhaled, looking almost apologetic. "Isshin... doesn't know."

The air in the bar shifted.

Azazel didn't move. Didn't blink.

Then—

A sharp crack split the air.

The glass in his hand shattered.

Whiskey dripped from between his fingers, pooling onto the table, seeping into the old wood. He barely reacted, only flexing his hand, letting the shards tumble free.

Urahara didn't flinch.

Azazel exhaled through his nose, slow and measured, like a man restraining himself from throwing a punch. His golden eyes were darker now, laced with something past irritation—something close to rage.

"That idiot." His voice was a low, quiet growl.

Urahara chuckled, waving a hand as if to brush away the tension. "Now, now. Isshin has a lot on his mind."

Azazel shot him a look. "Everyone has a lot on their mind. That doesn't mean you stop paying attention to your own damn son."

Urahara hummed. "Which is why you're looking for him."

Azazel clicked his tongue, drumming his fingers against the table. "Tch. And here I thought we were just drinking for fun." He exhaled sharply, standing up. "Fine. I'll find him."

Urahara grinned. "Knew I could count on you."

Azazel rolled his shoulders, cracking his neck. "Yeah, yeah. But let's get one thing straight." His golden eyes flickered, sharp as a blade. "When I find him? I decide what happens next."

Urahara's smirk never wavered. "Oh, I know."

Azazel narrowed his eyes. "Not Soul Society. Not you. Not Isshin."

Urahara leaned back in his chair, sipping his drink like none of this was life-altering. "You might have to fight Isshin for him."

Azazel scoffed, turning away. "Then he'd better be ready to lose."

For a moment, the words hung between them, heavy with the kind of tension that didn't need raised voices to be dangerous.

Then Azazel exhaled, rolling his shoulders back as if physically forcing himself to calm down and think trough his drunken mind, 

God damn Urahara, or that piece of shit Soul King damn Urahara... Nah God has a better chance of damning him.

"Alright," he muttered, voice rough from barely checked irritation. "How do you even know he left? Maybe he's just crashing at one of his friends' places, laying low until shit blows over."

"Because I scoured every nook and cranny in this town."

The voice slid into the conversation as smoothly as its owner moved.

Azazel's head snapped to the left just as Yoruichi dropped lazily into the seat beside Urahara, her golden eyes gleaming with amusement—and just a hint of mischief.

Dressed in casual human-world attire, she looked at ease, like she hadn't just appeared out of nowhere, but the slight, knowing smirk tugging at her lips said otherwise.

Azazel's jaw tightened. "Tch. Of course you did."

Urahara chuckled, sipping his drink. "She's thorough."

Yoruichi propped an elbow on the table, resting her chin in her hand. "Every street, every alley, every rooftop, every one of his friends' places—including the ones that don't like us snooping." She tilted her head toward Azazel, her smirk widening. "You want to guess what I found?"

Azazel's fingers tapped impatiently against the wood of the table, his irritation bleeding into reluctant curiosity. "...Nothing?"

"Less than nothing." Yoruichi's tone was light, but there was a distinct weight beneath it. "No scent. No traces of lingering reiatsu—not even the ghost of his presence. It's like he never existed in Karakura to begin with."

That gave Azazel pause.

He frowned, crossing his arms. "That's not normal."

"No," Yoruichi agreed, her gaze sharpening. "It's not."

Azazel exhaled through his nose, staring at the whiskey in his shattered glass as if it held answers. "...Damn it."

Urahara, ever the observer, watched him with that same unreadable smirk. "Now you see why I called you."

Azazel ran a hand down his face, dragging out a slow breath.

And then twitched when he heard the familiar voice 

" What the hell do you mean by Ichigo not being in Karakura town ?! " Isshin screamed out clearly also showing that he had been here for a while

"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU MEAN, ICHIGO'S NOT IN KARAKURA?!"

The entire bar rattled as the force of Isshin's voice practically shook the wall, and for a moment, Azazel swore the liquor bottles behind the counter trembled.

Azazel didn't so much hear him as feel him—his spine tensed on instinct, golden eyes flicking up just in time to see a broad, disheveled figure stomping toward their table with all the grace of a rampaging bull.

Isshin Kurosaki.

Former Captain.

Questionable father.

Currently very pissed off.

The man was practically vibrating with barely contained fury, his wild black hair messier than usual, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked like he might snap his own teeth. His haori—half tucked into his belt for some reason—flapped behind him as he stormed over.

Azazel barely had time to blink before Isshin slammed both hands onto the table, making what remained of Azazel's drink jump.

"The hell is this bullshit, Urahara?!" Isshin snapped, his dark eyes blazing as he turned to the shopkeeper. "You knew Ichigo was gone, and you didn't tell me?!"

Urahara, to his credit, didn't so much as flinch.

"Well," he drawled, lifting his glass with a calm smile, "in my defense, you weren't invited to this little gathering."

Isshin's brow twitched violently.

Azazel sighed, already bracing for the incoming explosion.

"You knew Ichigo was gone, and you didn't tell me?!"

Urahara, ever the picture of nonchalance, merely swirled his glass. "Well," he mused, voice as casual as ever, "in my defense, you weren't invited to this little gathering."

Azazel let out a short breath.

Here we go.

Isshin's eye twitched. "Kisuke."

The lack of his usual exaggerated theatrics made Azazel's brows lift slightly.

Urahara, ever unbothered, simply lifted his drink to his lips. "Oh, come now, Isshin, you do have a habit of making things more dramatic than necessary. I was just about to—"

Isshin moved.

In a blur of motion, he yanked Urahara forward by the collar, nearly spilling the shopkeeper's drink all over the table.

Azazel blinked.

Oh.

So he was skipping the usual antics.

Isshin's voice was low, quiet—dangerous in a way that made even the background hum of the bar feel too loud. "When were you going to tell me, Kisuke?"

Urahara's fan, still in his grip, lightly tapped against Isshin's wrist. "Now, now, let's not start breaking furniture. Yoruichi will be very upset if she has to drag your unconscious body out of here."

"Kisuke."

Azazel sighed, rubbing his temple. "Alright, alright, let's not turn this into a bloodbath."

Isshin released Urahara with a sharp tch, stepping back but still radiating barely restrained frustration. He exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. "Why?" His voice wasn't as loud now, but it held something worse. "Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

Urahara straightened his shirt, adjusting his collar like nothing had happened. "Because I didn't want you reacting like this before we had answers."

"Answers?" Isshin's eyes flashed. "The only answer I care about is where my son is."

Azazel, having had enough of the back and forth, finally spoke. "We don't know."

Isshin turned to him sharply. "What?"

Azazel exhaled, arms crossing over his chest. "We don't know where he is. Yoruichi checked everywhere in Karakura, and there's no trace of him."

Isshin's fists clenched at his sides. "Ichigo wouldn't just leave."

Azazel's golden gaze met his. "And yet, he's gone."

The two men stared at each other, neither willing to back down.

Then—

"You're worrying over nothing," Yoruichi's smooth voice cut in.

She materialized on a nearby seat, having slipped in without a sound. One leg crossed over the other, her expression unreadable as she leaned back. "It's Ichigo. He's not some helpless kid."

Isshin's jaw tightened. "That's not the point."

Azazel let out a sharp breath. "No, the point is—when I find him, I decide what happens next. Not Soul Society. Not you. Not Urahara."

The air shifted.

Isshin froze.

Slowly, his gaze turned to Azazel, and for the first time that night, his frustration settled into something far colder.

Urahara sighed dramatically, waving the bartender over with the air of a man far too used to handling problem children. "Honestly, can't take you two anywhere."

Azazel straightened, rolling his shoulders, the tension in his frame settling into something razor-sharp. His golden eyes locked onto Isshin, the amusement from earlier all but gone.

"I meant what I said, Kuro—" He stopped himself, something bitter curling in his voice. "No." His lip curled, and his next words landed like a blade. "You don't even deserve that name, Shiba."

The room stilled.

Isshin's expression barely shifted—but the air around him did. The casual, disheveled demeanor, the man who played the fool, all of it vanished.

For the first time that night, the Captain of the Tenth Division stood in his place.

Slowly, too slowly, Isshin exhaled through his nose. His dark eyes, usually so full of mischief, turned unreadable. "You wanna say that again?"

Azazel didn't so much as blink. "I don't need to."

Urahara's fan snapped open, hiding the smirk on his lips. "Ooh, now that one's gonna leave a mark."

Azazel ignored him.

Isshin exhaled, cracking his neck slightly. "You?" His voice was too calm now. "You think you get to decide that?"

Azazel met his gaze evenly. "Yes."

The tension in the air spiked.

Yoruichi sighed, clearly sensing where this was heading. "Boys—"

Isshin moved.

Azazel barely had time to react before Isshin's fist was coming for him.

He caught it—just barely—his boots skidding across the floor from the force.

"Damn," Azazel muttered, shaking out his hand. "You are holding back, aren't you?"

Isshin's jaw tightened. "That's my son. I am family."

Azazel's golden eyes gleamed. "Yeah? Then act like it."

Silence.

The words hit harder than any punch.

For a moment, Isshin said nothing.

Then—

"...You think I don't know that?" His voice was quieter now, rough around the edges.

Azazel didn't respond.

Isshin exhaled heavily, some of the fire in his stance dimming. He ran a hand through his hair again, shaking his head. "Damn brat." He clicked his tongue. "Fine. You wanna play the all-knowing uncle? Be my guest. But when we find him—I decide what happens next."

Azazel smirked, but there was no humor in it. "We'll see."

Urahara clapped his hands together. "Now that that's settled, shall we get back to drinking?"

Isshin groaned. "You drive me insane, Kisuke."

Urahara grinned. "Flattery will get you nowhere, my dear friend."

Isshin sighed, rubbing his face. "Ichigo, you better be okay, or so help me..."

The bar settled into a heavy silence after Isshin's outburst. The air was thick, charged, the unspoken weight of everything lingering between them like a blade pressed to the throat.

Isshin exhaled sharply, rubbing his face as if to physically force himself to calm down. His fingers trembled slightly, but not with fear—with fury.

"Alright," he muttered, voice still rough with barely checked emotion. "How do you even know he left? Maybe he's just crashing at one of his friends' places, laying low until shit blows over."

Urahara and Yoruichi gain an amused look as Isshin repeted what Azazel already asked.

But still Urahara repeated what was already said.

"You think we didn't check that?" His usual teasing lilt was absent. "Orihime, Chad, Ishida—none of them have seen him."

Isshin's jaw tightened, but Urahara wasn't done.

"His sisters don't know anything either. Karin says she hasn't seen him in weeks, and Yuzu... You should talk with her. "

Isshin went still.

No trace.

Not even a lingering flicker of his son's presence?

He swallowed the sudden, unfamiliar sensation curling in his chest—fear.

Azazel exhaled through his nose, crossing his arms. "And that's not the weird part."

Isshin's head snapped toward him.

Azazel's golden eyes burned into his. "You haven't asked the real question yet."

Isshin's fingers curled into a fist. "And what question is that?"

Azazel leaned forward slightly, voice lower now. "Not just where he is." His next words landed like a hammer. "Why did he leave? He would never leave his family behind, what made him leave?"

Isshin opened his mouth—paused.

For the first time since storming into the bar, he hesitated.

Why would Ichigo leave?

His son, the same kid who fought like a cornered animal just to protect Karakura, his friends, his family—wouldn't just up and disappear without a damn good reason.

Would he?

The silence was thick, stretching uncomfortably.

Then Urahara spoke, his voice softer than before.

"...He found out."

Isshin blinked, the words not quite registering.

Azazel frowned, his expression shifting into something sharper. "Found out?"

Urahara's fan stilled. "About his mother."

The silence shattered.

Isshin's breath caught.

A slow, creeping dread slithered into his bones.

No. No, no, no.

"...What do you mean?" His voice came out rough, strangled.

Urahara closed his fan, watching Isshin carefully. "He knows about Masaki's Quincy blood."

CRACK.

A glass splintered in Azazel's grip.

Whiskey dripped onto the table.

Isshin continued his breath turned ragged. "How?" His voice was shaking now, but not from weakness. From something trembling beneath the surface.

Urahara exhaled. "Does it matter at this point ?" He leaned back, his voice too casual, too light. "But if you had to guess, who do yo—"

Azazel's voice exploded. "You mean to tell me that kid went seventeen years without knowing he was part Quincy?"

Silence.

Urahara sighed, his fan flicking open again. "I wouldn't say it was a good plan, but yes, it was decided that it would be kept hidden. "

Azazel's golden eyes flashed dangerously. "Oh, for fuck's sake."

The chair scraped back violently as Azazel stood up, his hands slamming onto the table. "You kept it from him?!"

"IT WASN'T HIS PROBLEM!" Isshin snapped, his voice raw with something Azazel had never heard from him before.

Desperation.

Guilt.

Urahara watched them both, unfazed, but his eyes were unreadable.

Azazel's lip curled. "Not his problem?!" His voice dripped with fury. "Isshin, are you actually listening to yourself right now?"

Isshin pushed up from his chair, his spiritual pressure spiking just slightly. "I did what I had to! I—"

Azazel's voice cut through him like a blade.

"You had to do what, Isshin?"

His voice was razor-thin, precise—like he was picking Isshin apart, piece by piece.

"Break Masaki's promise?"

Isshin's breath hitched.

"Make him think he was insane when he talked about seeing spirits?"

Isshin flinched.

Azazel leaned forward, the force of his words pressing down, down, down.

"Did you even explain to him the truth of the world?"

Isshin's fists clenched.

Azazel's voice dropped lower, and somehow, that made it worse.

"You knew how dangerous his existence was. You knew what was coming for him." His golden gaze burned, unwavering. "And he wasn't even aware of it."

Isshin's spiritual pressure cracked.

It wasn't loud.

It wasn't explosive.

The bar didn't shake.

The walls didn't tremble.

And yet, it felt like something had shattered.

The weight of failure. Of betrayal. Of truth.

Then—

Azazel's gaze shifted.

Slowly.

Unforgiving.

To Urahara. To Yoruichi.

His breath came slow, steady—but the rage simmering beneath it was anything but.

"You..." His voice was lower now, heavier. "Urahara... Yoruichi..."

The names left his lips like a curse.

Azazel stopped.

His muscles tensed—his entire body thrumming with something primal, raw.

And then he felt it.

The weight on his back.

His wings.

Somewhere in his anger, his black wings had unfurled.

Dark. Commanding. Absolute.

For a long, breathless moment, he stood there, shadows pooling beneath him.

Then—without another word—

He left.

And immediately started his search.

Unseen by him, there was a Jigokuchō, flying down towards the bar he just left.

...

The First Division Headquarters was silent, the air thick with expectation.

The captains of the Gotei 13 stood in disciplined formation, their Haori pristine, their postures rigid. Behind them, their lieutenants mirrored their stillness, each carrying an expression ranging from concern to quiet contemplation. Some stood with their hands clasped behind their backs, others with arms folded, but none dared speak out of turn.

At the center of the room, placed atop a small, elevated platform, lay the shattered remains of a broken object, small and unassuming, yet its implications shook the very foundation of Soul Society.

The remnants of Kurosaki Ichigo's Substitute Shinigami Badge.

With its destruction, it's safety system instantly brought it back towards soul society, a last ditch effort to save any information etched into it.

Or rather—what little was left of it had.

Cracks lined its surface, deep and jagged, as though something had tried to forcefully extract something from within it before obliterating it completely. There were traces of tampering—subtle yet undeniable—evidence that someone had altered it before its destruction.A dead silence stretched across the room, tension thick enough to cut through.

Then—

"This is... problematic."

Kurotsuchi Mayuri's voice slithered through the stillness like a scalpel through flesh. His golden irises gleamed beneath the eerie glow of his face paint, fingers twitching ever so slightly in what could only be described as irritation.

"No, no, no. This is beyond problematic. This is infuriating," he muttered, his fingers flexing as though itching to reach for the broken artifact and pry apart its secrets and save any information he might have missed before he reported it. "Who tampered with it?" No one answered immediately.

"The badge should have remained untouched," Byakuya Kuchiki said at last, his voice as crisp as the white of his Haori. His steel-blue gaze flickered toward the broken remnants. "And yet, this suggests otherwise."

Mayuri scoffed. "Oh, it doesn't just 'suggest' anything, Kuchiki-taichō." His painted lips curled into a mocking sneer. "It shows that someone has been interfering. The security measures should have made this impossible. Which means..."

A grin split his face.

"We have a traitor."

The words hung like a noose.

A traitor.

The room shifted.

Yamamoto did not move. Did not speak.

But the pressure of his repressed fury settled over them all, suffocating as the weight of an executioner's blade.

"And what of Kurosaki Ichigo?"

Soi-Fon's voice was sharp, cutting through the unease like a dagger. Her arms were crossed, but her stance was as rigid as steel. "Is he accounted for?"

Silence.

Then—

Shunsui Kyōraku let out a slow sigh, tipping his straw hat downward. "We don't know."

The air stilled.

Tōshirō Hitsugaya's frown deepened. "What do you mean, we don't know?"

Soi-Fon's gaze sharpened. "Are you saying you've lost him?"

Shunsui exhaled, scratching the back of his head. "Well, you see... there isn't exactly something to lose when it practically doesn't exist." His usual drawl held something heavier beneath it. "Ichigo's presence in Karakura Town has completely vanished."

A pause. Then—

"...What?"

Hitsugaya's voice was controlled. But beneath the surface, something sharpened.

The implications were not lost on anyone.

Kurosaki Ichigo was missing.

And if someone had gone through the effort of tampering with his badge, then this was no simple case of a rogue Substitute Shinigami going into hiding.

Something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

Yamamoto's ancient eyes burned beneath the weight of this revelation. His voice, when it finally came, was unrelenting.

" Captain Soi-Fon."

She straightened immediately. "Sir."

"You will begin an investigation— quietly. This is not to reach Central 46."

A covert operation.

Her gaze flickered, but she nodded sharply. "Understood."

Then—another voice, soft but firm.

"I will assist."

The captains turned as Rukia Kuchiki stepped forward.

She stood among the lieutenants, her violet eyes set in cold determination. "I know Karakura Town better than most. I know Ichigo better than most."

A pause.

Byakuya's gaze lingered on her, but he did not speak.

Behind him, Renji Abarai shifted slightly, hands fidgeting—then froze, realizing where he was.

Rangiku Matsumoto, sensing the tension, sighed quietly. "Here we go..." she muttered under her breath.

Beside her, Iba Tetsuzaemon adjusted his sunglasses, but said nothing.

The lieutenants were all listening, though their captains stood at the forefront.

Yamamoto studied Rukia for a moment. Then, he nodded.

"Very well."

...

Kurosaki Ichigo was missing.

And the more Rukia thought about it, the more wrong it felt.

She stood among the lieutenants, her body stiff, her expression unreadable. But inside, her thoughts swirled like a winter storm.

Ichigo would never just disappear.

Not without telling someone.

Not without a fight.

Even when he had been at his weakest, when his Reiatsu kept decreasing and all but disappearing after the war, he had never once looked lost. Never once looked like someone who would run.

But now, he was gone.

No traces of his Reiatsu. No lingering presence. 

It was as if he had been erased.

A sharp chill settled around her before she realized it.

Subtle, but there.

A creeping frost laced the air around her zanpakutō, a quiet response to the storm inside her chest. She loosened her grip before anyone could notice, before the cold became too obvious.

Calm down.

Her fingers clenched.

The truth was—she wasn't calm at all.

Ichigo had saved her.

And not just from execution, not just from the laws of Soul Society.

No—he had saved her.

Before him, she had been alone. Before him, she had thought she could handle everything on her own.

She had been wrong.

She had come to rely on him more than she had ever intended.

More than she had realized.

That idiot—he always made it look so easy. Always acted like it didn't matter how much he was hurt, as long as everyone else was safe. Always shouldered burdens that weren't his to carry.

She had watched him throw himself into battle over and over again, reckless and unrelenting, but she had never truly feared for him.

Because he had always won.

Because Ichigo didn't lose.

Because no matter how battered he was, no matter how much blood he lost, no matter how hopeless things seemed, he always stood back up.

But now?

There was nothing.

No warning.

No struggle.

Just... gone.

The air around her dropped another degree.

She took a slow, steady breath.

If he had been taken, she would find him.

And then she would drag him back.

No matter what it took.

She wasn't losing him.

Not now.

Not after everything.

Never.

...

The room was heavy with silence after Rukia's request.

Then—

"We'll be joinin' the investigation."

The casual drawl belonged to Shinji Hirako, standing just off to the side, hands in his pockets, his usual smirk in place.

No one reacted immediately, but the shift in the air was unmistakable.

Kensei huffed. "Tch. Not like we're doin' this outta charity. Kid's been in more messes than half the people in this room combined." His arms were crossed, his tone edged with irritation. "Ain't exactly comforting knowing he just up and vanished."

Mashiro bounced on her heels. "And it sounds way more fun than standing around here listening to old men talk!"

Lisa adjusted her glasses, flipping a page in the book she'd been reading. "Besides. He's one of us."

It wasn't a question.

Hiyori scoffed. "Feh! Not like you lot got a better handle on this! Ichigo's tougher than he looks, but if he's in trouble, you think you can just sniff him out and fix it? Right, sure. That always works out."

Shinji's smirk widened slightly at the other's Shinigami's replies "So? What's the call, old man?"

For a moment, there was no response.

Then—

"No."

Yamamoto's voice was absolute.

The word landed with the finality of a closing gate, the weight behind it crushing all opposition.

Shinji didn't flinch.

Neither did anyone else.

But the way his hands slipped from his pockets, fingers flexing slightly—that said enough.

Hiyori bared her teeth. "Tch! The hell does that mean?! We just sit back and twiddle our thumbs?!"

Hiyori's spiritual pressure flared with her words, but before she could trully go of, Shinji lifted a hand—calm, but firm.

A silent wait.

Then, Yamamoto continued.

"I will not allow Soul Society's security to be compromised further." His voice carried no anger, no irritation—only iron-clad certainty. "The Gotei 13 has already suffered its losses. I will not weaken our defenses by allowing yet another contingent of captains to leave their posts for an investigation that requires precision, not brute force."

It wasn't just a refusal.

It was a decision.

One that would not be overturned.

But that wasn't the only reason.

Shinji knew it.

They all did.

The old man wasn't about to say it outright, but there was a lack of trust, not unwarented trul—

Who the fuck is he kidding here.

"Tch." Kensei exhaled sharply through his nose, muttering something under his breath.

Mashiro pouted. "Boooring."

Lisa barely reacted, adjusting her glasses as she kept reading.

Hiyori gritted her teeth but didn't push further.

Shinji?

His smirk never faded.

But his eyes—they knew exactly what Yamamoto wasn't saying.

"Ah well." He rolled his shoulders, rocking back on his heels. "Worth askin'."

Then, just like that, he turned on his heel, walking off without a fuss.

The Vizards followed.

No resistance. No argument. No need.

...

The heavy doors of the First Division's hall shut behind the departing Vizards, leaving the remaining captains and lieutenants steeped in an unsettling silence. The meeting had ended, but the tension remained—a thick, lingering presence in the air.

A few exchanged quiet glances. Others simply stood in place, deep in their own thoughts.

But one person was far from silent.

A slow, deliberate tap echoed in the chamber.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Kurotsuchi Mayuri's golden irises gleamed as he drummed his fingers against his arm, his painted lips curling ever so slightly.

"Kurosaki Ichigo is missing," he repeated, voice dripping with something almost playful, as if savoring the taste of the words.

The broken remains of Ichigo's Substitute Shinigami Badge sat in the center of the room, the cracks running deep, jagged as if something had attempted to forcefully alter or extract something before its destruction.

Oh, how... intriguing.

He would have loved to study it further before bringing it here, but of course, they had insisted on making a spectacle of it. Tch. No matter. He had already analyzed enough before arriving.

The badge should have never returned in this state. The security measures—his security measures—should have made tampering with it impossible.

And yet... someone had interfered.

And now, Kurosaki Ichigo was gone.

Completely.

Without a trace.

Not a single lingering strand of Reiatsu, not a flicker of presence in Karakura Town. It was as if his very existence had been erased.

Mayuri found that unacceptable.

"A mystery, indeed," he mused aloud, tilting his head. "And yet, here we are, standing around doing nothing about it."

A sharp breath. A barely concealed scoff.

Soi-Fon's voice cut through the silence, sharp as a knife. "Your whining is unnecessary, Kurotsuchi."

Mayuri's grin widened. "Oh, but is it?"

"You've been assigned to research the remains of the badge. Focus on that," Byakuya added, his cold, precise tone leaving no room for argument.

Mayuri almost rolled his eyes. How dull.

"Yes, yes, of course. I would never question an order from our glorious Captain-Commander," Mayuri drawled, his mockery barely disguised. "Though, if I may be so bold, might I suggest that this situation warrants more than just quiet research?"

His grin sharpened. "After all... we have a traitor in our midst."

A ripple of unease spread through the room.

Soi-Fon's eyes narrowed further. "Explain yourself."

Mayuri gestured toward the ruined badge. "The security measures placed on Kurosaki's little trinket were designed to prevent precisely this sort of tampering. And yet, here we are." He tilted his head, tapping a gloved finger against his chin. "Which means someone has either found a way to bypass my security..."

His voice lowered, dripping with amusement.

"Or someone with inside knowledge did it themselves."

A traitor.

A leak.

Mayuri could practically feel the tension coil tighter.

"You speak as if this is fact," Tōshirō Hitsugaya said, arms folded, his icy gaze unshaken.

Mayuri merely grinned. "Oh, but isn't it? Would you like to place a wager on it, Hitsugaya-taichō? Because I do so love to be proven right."

"A traitor would mean someone in Soul Society has intentionally helped Kurosaki Ichigo disappear," Byakuya stated, his gaze cold and unreadable. "That is not a claim to be made lightly."

Mayuri's grin did not waver. "And yet, no one is denying it, are they?"

Silence.

The heavy doors of First Division Headquarters swung open with an echoing boom, a gust of wind rushing in as if the weight of the outside world itself had been thrust upon them.

The captains of the Gotei 13 stood in formation, their gazes turning towards the sudden disturbance. Even before they saw the figures entering, they felt them.

Not just the pressure of their reiatsu—but the weight of who they were.

Kisuke Urahara.

Yoruichi Shihōin.

And—most suprisingly—

Shiba Isshin.

The last of them stood at the forefront, his usual easygoing nature stripped away. He wasn't smiling. He wasn't joking. He was standing tall, the white fabric of a captain's haori draped over his shoulders—an image that hadn't been seen in over three — Nearly four — decades.

The captains shifted. Some barely reacted, their discipline unshaken, while others exchanged quick glances, their surprise subtle but unmistakable.

Even Mayuri Kurotsuchi, ever the detached observer, momentarily halted his musings, golden irises gleaming with something close to irritation.

Isshin didn't waste a second. He reached into his sleeve, pulled out a Jigokuchō, and tossed it onto the ground. The small, black-winged butterfly hit the polished floor with a sharp clack—shattered, its form broken.

A cold silence spread through the room.

Isshin's voice was devoid of theatrics. It was low, direct, and filled with something close to rage.

"Explain."

No unnecessary words. No introductions. No pleasantries. Just one demand.

Yamamoto, ever unshaken, tapped his staff against the floor once.

"Kurosaki Ichigo is missing," the Head Captain stated, his voice as firm as the steel of his blade.

Isshin exhaled sharply, but he didn't look surprised. That was worse. That meant he had suspected.

"When?" he asked, his tone tight.

"His presence in Karakura vanished shortly after the celestial delegation's meeting ended," Byakuya Kuchiki stated evenly.

Isshin's grip on his sides tightened. His voice dipped even lower. "And you're just now telling me this?"

"The matter is being handled," Soi-Fon cut in sharply. "This is an internal investigation, and you—"

"Shut the hell up."

The words weren't shouted, weren't growled. They were flat. Sharp. A knife to the throat.

Soi-Fon's glare darkened, but Isshin was already stepping forward, his focus locked onto Yamamoto.

"You mean to tell me," he continued, his voice like a low thunder, "that his badge—a device meant to track him—was destroyed... "

His breath was steady, but his fists clenched at his sides.

"And none of you noticed until now?"

The accusation landed.

A few captains visibly stiffened.

Shunsui, ever the mediator, let out a slow sigh, adjusting his hat. "Now, now, Isshin. No need to start pointing fingers just yet."

Trying to calm the situation down as he saw.

Yamamoto's eyes burned seeing Shiba Isshin once more.

"The matter is being handled," he repeated, his voice like grinding stone.

Isshin scoffed. "Yeah? Really?" He gestured at the broken badge lying at their feet. "Because it sure as hell doesn't look like it's being handled."

Mayuri's grin twitched wider. "Well, now that we've established the obvious, shall we move on to—"

"Shut your mouth."

Mayuri Kurotsuchi actually stopped talking... Feeling the captains pressure upon him.

Isshin exhaling through his nose before turning to Yamamoto again. "You already failed once. When Masaki died."

The temperature in the room increased as...

Unohana's fingers twitched slightly at her side.

Soi-Fon's expression remained unreadable.

Hitsugaya stood utterly still.

And Yamamoto...

For the first time, a flicker of something burned behind his ancient gaze.

"You let the Quincy massacre happen, and you let my wife die to that hollow because of your obsession with 'balance'—" Isshin took another step forward, his Reiatsu pressing against the room, "—and now, when I find out my son has disappeared, you expect me to just accept that you're 'handling it?'"

Yamamoto's voice was low, dangerous. "You overstep, Kurosaki Isshin."

Isshin laughed.

It was short, breathless, furious.

"Oh, I overstep?"

Yoruichi, sensing where this was headed, placed a hand on his arm. "Isshin."

He didn't shake her off, but he didn't acknowledge her either. His dark eyes were locked onto Yamamoto's, daring the old man to challenge him.

"Let me make something crystal clear," Isshin said, his tone dipping into something razor-sharp. "I am not asking permission to get involved. I don't care what Central 46 says. I don't care what Soul Society says. I sure as hell don't care what you say."

Yamamoto's grip on his cane tightened.

Isshin's next words cut.

"I will find my son. And if I find out that your inaction led to this—" his voice grew impossibly sharp, "—then there won't be a damn thing you can do to stop me."

For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then—

Yamamoto closed his eyes.

"You will do as you will."

It was not approval.

It was not an order.

It was a warning.

Isshin didn't care.

With a final glance at the broken badge, he turned and strode toward the door.

As he...

Finally...

Finally done what he should have done years, decades ago.

He stopped believing and being a part of Soul Society, as his Hayori started to burn.

Urahara tipped his hat, sighing. "Well, that went about as well as I expected."

Soi-Fon glared at him. "You should leave as well, Urahara."

He grinned. "Oh, but I wouldn't dream of missing out on all the fun... And who do you think invited me here ? " 

Yamamoto, ever unshaken, tapped his staff against the floor once.

"We will proceed without him."

The statement was final. Absolute.

The gathered captains remained still, absorbing the words in silence. Some exchanged brief glances—Shunsui, ever the observer, tipped his hat forward slightly, while Soi-Fon's lips pressed into a thin line. Mayuri's grin twitched, but he remained silent, his golden irises gleaming with something unreadable.

It was Yoruichi who finally broke the silence.

"You should have expected that."

Her tone was light, almost amused, but there was a sharpness beneath it, a knowing edge.

Yamamoto's eyes did not waver. "It was inevitable."

Yoruichi hummed, crossing her arms. "Then why waste the effort pretending you could stop it?"

Shunsui sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, Yoruichi, sometimes appearances matter more than results."

Mayuri scoffed. "Tch. And sometimes, delaying the inevitable just makes a mess of things."

Soi-Fon shot him a glare, but before she could say anything, Urahara let out a soft chuckle, fanning himself lazily.

"So," he drawled, "what's the plan, Captain-Commander? Because I assume you didn't call me here just to tell me things I already figured out."

Yamamoto turned his gaze to Urahara, the weight of his presence bearing down on him.

"You will oversee the search for Kurosaki Ichigo."

Silence.

Then—

Urahara's grin didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened. "Oh?"

Yamamoto continued. "Your familiarity with Karakura Town, along with your... unorthodox methods, may prove useful. You will report directly to First Division."

The captains remained impassive, though Shunsui let out a low whistle under his breath.

"Now that's interesting."

Soi-Fon narrowed her eyes. "We're trusting a man exiled from Soul Society with this task?"

Yoruichi smirked. "My, my, so suspicious, Soi-Fon. You really think Kisuke would try anything when all of Seireitei has its eyes on him?"

Urahara simply grinned. "I certainly wouldn't."

Yamamoto ignored the exchange, his focus solely on Urahara.

"There will also be an observer from Heaven's Faction stationed in Karakura Town."

The shift in the room was immediate.

Mayuri clicked his tongue. "A nuisance."

Soi-Fon visibly tensed. "You're allowing direct oversight?"

Yamamoto's voice was steel. "It is not a matter of allowance. It is a necessity."

Urahara let out a slow exhale. "Hoo boy."

Yoruichi chuckled. "You really thought I wouldn't find that out on my own?"

Yamamoto remained unmoved. "It changes nothing."

"Oh, it changes everything," Yoruichi replied, golden eyes gleaming with mischief. "Now we know you're actually worried."

A flicker of something passed through Yamamoto's ancient gaze—something that might have been irritation, but it vanished before it could settle.

"You will not interfere with the observer," he continued, ignoring the remark. "You will not engage with the observer. You will not obstruct their presence in Karakura Town in any way."

A heavy silence followed.

Then—

Urahara sighed, waving a hand. "Sure, sure. Wouldn't dream of it, I already know how much of a blabber mouth I can be." He tilted his head slightly, lips quirking up. "But you do realize restricting me from talking to them just makes me more interested, right?"

Soi-Fon's glare sharpened. "This is not a game, Urahara."

"Of course not," Urahara said, grinning. "I take my job very seriously."

Yoruichi laughed. "That's what worries them."

Shunsui exhaled dramatically. "Well, there goes the element of surprise."

Mayuri's grin twitched. "Oh, this will be delightful. I do wonder how long before he ignores that order entirely."

Urahara simply winked. "Oh, come now, Mayuri. You wound me. I am very obedient."

Yamamoto, ever unwavering, finally broke their dialogue.

"Kurotsuchi," he said, his voice steady, absolute. "You will assist Urahara in his investigation."

A sharp, almost unnatural stillness followed.

Mayuri Kurotsuchi's golden irises twitched, his fingers curling against his arm as his painted lips pulled into something halfway between a sneer and a restrained outburst. "Oh?" he drawled, voice laced with venom. "How... utterly delightful."

His fingers twitched again, barely restrained irritation crackling beneath his words. "Yes, by all means, let us assign me to assist the exile, the very man whose brilliance led to such... fascinating developments in spiritual science." His voice dripped sarcasm, but there was something sharper beneath it. "Truly, an inspired decision, Captain-Commander."

Shunsui sighed, tipping his hat forward as if to hide his amusement. "Now, now, Mayuri, don't sulk. You wouldn't want us to think you were afraid Urahara might be better at this than you, would you?"

Mayuri's fingers twitched violently, his teeth grinding behind his lips.

"Tch. Hardly," he sneered, his painted face twisting in distaste. "If anything, this ensures that whatever findings he attempts to hoard will not be lost in that wretched little shop of his." He exhaled sharply through his nose, his shoulders stiffening as his irritation only grew. "Though, let's be honest, Urahara will inevitably stumble onto something, won't he?" His sneer deepened. "He always does."

Urahara, for his part, merely grinned behind his fan. "Why, Mayuri, I'm touched. Such high expectations from you!" He chuckled, eyes gleaming with amusement. "Rest assured, I'll make sure you get some credit for all the hard work I'll be doing."

Mayuri's hands twitched again. His patience was fraying at the seams.

Yamamoto ignored their back and forth. His eyes burned with quiet intensity as he continued, "Urahara's prior research into restoring Kurosaki Ichigo's powers suggests he is already more aware of Kurosaki's origins than he lets on." His gaze didn't waver. "And given the current circumstances, that knowledge will prove necessary."

A heavy pause.

A quiet crack sounded as Mayuri's nails dug into his gloves.

Urahara's fan stilled for just a fraction of a second before resuming its lazy rhythm.

Shunsui hummed, his gaze flickering toward Urahara with unspoken curiosity. "That's a fair point, isn't it, Kisuke? You have been awfully invested in Ichigo's... recovery."

Urahara simply smiled, but his usual playful ease felt just a fraction too measured. "Oh, come now, Kyōraku. You wound me. I simply care about my dear student's well-being."

Mayuri's sneer twisted into something darker, more irritated. "Yes. Of course. And I am the model of restraint."

Soi-Fon scoffed. "If you two are done bickering, the matter at hand still stands." She turned her sharp gaze back to Yamamoto. "What are our next steps?"

Yamamoto exhaled, his grip tightening slightly on his cane. "Karakura Town will remain under our surveillance. Soi-Fon, you and your division will investigate any anomalies in the area."

Soi-Fon bowed her head slightly. "Understood."

Yamamoto's eyes then flickered toward Urahara. "Find him."

Urahara's smirk lingered, but his eyes held something unreadable. He dipped his head slightly, his hat casting a shadow over his expression.

"As you command."

Mayuri let out an audible scoff, his irritation bubbling over. "Well, this is shaping up to be a complete waste of my talents—"

Yamamoto's gaze cut toward him. "You will do as you are ordered."

Mayuri's sneer twitched, but he bowed his head—just enough to obey, but not enough to hide his barely restrained disdain.

Yoruichi, standing to the side, let out a soft laugh. "Oh, this is going to be fun."

Shunsui sighed. "That's one way to look at it."

Yamamoto tapped his staff once, the finality in the sound silencing any further arguments.

"This meeting is concluded."

One by one, the captains turned to leave, their Haori billowing behind them.

As Urahara passed Mayuri, he leaned in slightly, his voice a teasing whisper. "Don't worry, Mayuri, I'll let you assist me as much as you want."

Mayuri's fingers twitched again, his jaw tightening.

Yoruichi smirked. "Try not to kill each other before you find anything useful."

Urahara chuckled, tipping his hat. "No promises."

...

Leaving behind Kenpachi Zaraki who fell asleep listening to this boring discussion.

...

To be continued !

Yo been a while... well idc.

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