Pepsi House
Shiraishi slid open the wooden door of the establishment known as Pepsi House.
The first person he noticed was a striking young woman, a black mole accenting her lip. She wore a black and purple kimono and knelt on a futon before a low table.
To her east and south sat two others: a frail old man in his seventies or eighties, and a lively girl no older than twelve or thirteen. The scene looked like an ordinary family meal—peaceful, warm, domestic.
Shiraishi paused. He had arrived at an awkward moment. But leaving now would be ruder than staying, so he closed the sliding door and bowed slightly.
"Forgive me, Mr. Yagyū, for disturbing your lunch."
"It's no trouble," the old man replied, putting down his chopsticks. His eyes swept the room with quiet authority before he ordered, "You two—across the street."
"Yes," the two women answered, standing up at once. Their obedience suggested this was not their first time dealing with such interruptions.
"Please sit, honored guest," Yagyū Ichirō said with a broad smile. Meals can be delayed. Guests cannot. In his line of business, courtesy was a matter of survival. The wrong word, the wrong pause, and one might end up headless.
Shiraishi slipped off his worn sneakers at the entry and walked forward, glancing at the women leaving.
"They're my wives," Ichirō explained calmly. "Rest assured, I never leak my clients' information."
Shiraishi raised an eyebrow. At Ichirō's age, the women looked more like daughters—or granddaughters. "Mr. Yagyū, you're still vigorous even at this age."
The old man chuckled with pride. "Spiritual power is a marvelous thing. It grants strength to the body long after age should have taken it. Without it, even the young lose their drive." Catching Shiraishi's look of disapproval, he cut himself off. "Forgive me. Let us get to the point. What do you need?"
Shiraishi folded his arms. "A quiet place to live. Not too far from here. Preferably somewhere Hollows appear often. I enjoy fighting them."
Ichirō's eyes narrowed. "Have you broken any laws? Don't misunderstand—it's important I know, so I can arrange matters properly."
The Yagyū family's dealings were extensive. They catered to both petty criminals who broke Seireitei's laws and nobles who needed discreet services. Their survival depended on serving the latter faithfully. They would never risk harboring open traitors who sought to rebel against the Soul Society.
Shiraishi answered plainly. "In a fit of rage, I killed Hasegawa Taizō, Fifth Seat of the Onmitsukidō, in West District Three."
Ichirō's expression shifted to respectful recognition. "Ah. So you are Shiraishi-sama. My apologies. I do know of a place suitable for you. The referral fee is five thousand kan."
Shiraishi grimaced. In West District Three he had scraped by for four years—three of them spent struggling with the language and being swindled by petty nobles, leaving him two thousand kan in debt. Only in the fourth year had he begun to earn enough to climb out of the hole. He opened his cross-body bag and placed his entire savings—3,800 kan—on the table.
"Can't the price be lower? This is all I have."
Ichirō twirled his beard thoughtfully, then shook his head. "Five thousand is the minimum. To shield you from the Kido Corps' scrying in West District Ten, I must bribe contacts in the Department of Research and Development. But—" He paused. "I've heard of your deed in District Three. You're no common debtor. I'll accept this for now. Pay me the rest later."
Shiraishi nodded. "Agreed. I'll find work locally to make up the balance."
Ichirō swept up the bills, counted them, and continued: "The Shinigami stationed in West District Ten is the son of an old acquaintance. He was placed in the Thirteenth Division for form's sake, but his temperament is gentle, and he avoids combat. If a Hollow appears, he'll leave it to you, then claim the record later. Will that bother you?"
Shiraishi shook his head. "Not at all. I don't need credit—only the experience of the fight."
"You guessed correctly," Ichirō smiled faintly. "I also place a few Outer Rukongai men there. If they stand in your way, kill them. No one will care." He spoke as if ordering poultry for a meal.
Shiraishi frowned at the casual cruelty but replied only, "We'll see."
"As long as no Onmitsukidō patrol happens to cross your path, you can live there unnoticed for as long as you wish," Ichirō assured him.
"Perfect," Shiraishi said. He wasn't one to wander aimlessly; four years in District Three had proved that.
Ichirō stood, fetched a folded map from a wall cabinet, and handed it over. "Here. This marks Kawakami Saburō's station in West District Ten. Tell him I sent you."
"Understood." Shiraishi scanned the dotted line drawn from Pepsi House westward, ending at a mountain shaped like a bull's horn.
"I won't disturb your meal further, Mr. Yagyū."
"If anything displeases you, tell me. On the honor of Pepsi House, I'll see it corrected."
Shiraishi was already gone before the old man finished speaking. His sneakers at the entry had vanished.
The window rattled lightly in the breeze.
Shiraishi was already outside, leaving Stone Village behind. His pace quickened, spirit pressure flowing as he propelled himself forward with repeated Shunpo.
There were no physical borders between the Rukongai districts—only an invisible shift. Shinigami sensed it as the density of reishi thinned the further one went from Seireitei.
Shiraishi felt the change in the air as he entered West District Ten. Slowing his pace, he compared the map to the terrain. Before he reached Bull Horn Mountain, his senses flared. Several reiatsu signatures pulsed nearby.
"How rude," he muttered, adjusting his grip on his weapon. "I suppose it's time to greet my new neighbors."