East Rukongai, District 62—Hanakare.
The ragged boy and girl had no idea a terrifying presence had set eyes on them.
"We're out of food again, Gin."
The girl stared at the thin back ahead of her, sorrow clouding her face.
"It's fine, Rangiku. The grandpa who gave us dried persimmons last time is really kind. We'll help him with chores again—he'll definitely give us lots of persimmons!"
The boy's wounded left hand held the girl's right, tight.
"It's you, not us… Am I too useless, Gin? I only slow you down."
They weren't walking fast, yet every few steps the girl had to stop, gulping for air.
Her frail body since childhood made surviving alone in the cold District 62 impossible.
If not for meeting the boy, she would have starved to death in some nameless corner.
"It's okay, Rangiku. I told you—I'll protect you."
He stopped and looked seriously into her wet eyes.
"But if this goes on, Gin, your body…"
She reached to touch his exhausted frame, but he caught her hand halfway.
"I'm fine, Rangiku. We can both live through this."
He raised his other scarred hand and rested it on her short wavy orange hair.
Seeing the obvious lie in his smile, she let him stroke her head, then wiped away two bright drops at the corner of her eyes.
"Mm. We can live through this."
For a moment, both hearts filled with bright hopes of tomorrow.
About a quarter-hour later.
They reached the place where that kind old man lived.
Right as they arrived, the old man rushed out of the house.
"Daokou-dono! Where are you going?"
The boy pulled the girl aside and called after the retreating back.
"Shinigami-dono has come!"
Dust swirled where he'd run; only those words remained.
Shinigami-dono?
Years on these streets told the boy what that meant.
He had seen Shinigami before—he'd even boasted to the girl he'd seen a captain.
Even if that captain had only flashed by in the sky, he had seen him.
But not every Shinigami earned "-dono" from the jaded residents of 62, who'd seen blood and blades aplenty.
It meant the visitor was at least seated-officer class.
Why would a Shinigami like that come to a chaos-ridden district like 62?
"Maybe we should hold out a little longer, Gin? I think I can make it another day…"
The girl lightly tugged his worn sleeve, afraid to use force.
He had planned to wait for the old man to return—until he saw her pale lips and frail body.
"No, Rangiku. You have to eat today."
He clenched his teeth. He could still just about endure. She couldn't. With her fragile health, she mustn't starve any longer.
"But…"
"No buts, Rangiku. Stay here. This is a residential area, and a Shinigami-dono is nearby. It'll be safe. I'll be right back."
He'd wanted to bring her with him.
But she hadn't eaten properly in days, and who knew when she would again—he couldn't bear to drag her any farther.
If she could spend even a little less strength, she should.
This was the housing ward, not the wild outskirts they lived in. Experience told him it was safe here—so long as no Hollow wandered in by mistake.
Soon he spotted the Shinigami-dono amid the crowd.
Short black hair; eyes deep as a starry sky; a steady face; crisp black shihakushō; a smile like spring sunlight.
He stood among the Rukongai folk without airs, warmly explaining the traits of certain herbs.
No Shinigami visiting District 62 had ever shown such kindness.
"What a gentle Shinigami-dono…"
The thought slipped from the boy's heart.
With a few questions, his goodwill soared.
This Shinigami-dono was from the "gentle-sounding" medical division—Fourth Division of the Gotei 13.
He was even that division's vice-captain (no wonder he was so gentle)!
And he'd come to District 62, Hanakare, to hire locals to collect medicinal herbs—for good pay afterward.
The boy learned the details: gather ten plants. The reward for ten would feed and house him and the girl for at least a month.
"I have to tell Rangiku right away!"
He rose on his toes outside the circle, glanced at the herbs, burned every feature into memory, and sprinted back to her.
"There's a place in District 60 with the best persimmons. Rangiku always wanted to try them. Once we get paid, I'll take her."
He grinned at the future. Everything seemed to be turning toward happiness.
If not for the man who appeared… it would have.
Air vanished. His brain seized.
He forgot—at first—to hide himself.
Luckily, the man didn't seem to notice him.
But what he saw—
A bespectacled man in a shihakushō slid a hand into the girl's chest and pulled it out.
Blood sprayed, dyeing the ground beneath her.
She moved like a puppet on strings, her body at the man's mercy. Pain warped her face, and yet her eyes were hollow and blank.
"No—!"
He screamed inside. His fingers dug into his palms until they bled.
He didn't dare make a sound. He knew he must not.
He was no match for that man.
Because the man wore a shihakushō. Because the man was a Shinigami.
Never had he hated anyone so much; never had he wished to erase someone so completely.
No—there was hope.
He remembered: there was another Shinigami in 62.
That gentle Shinigami-dono. The Fourth's vice-captain.
If it was him—he could do it.
The boy turned to run, glancing back at the girl's blood-slick form.
Please wait for me, Rangiku!
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