Morning.
Renji's eyelids fluttered open to the muted hum of the city outside his window, the early morning light filtering through the half-drawn curtains like a hesitant intruder, painting stripes of gold across the rumpled sheets.
His bedroom was a sanctuary of his usual organized chaos. He sketchpads scattered on the desk, the faint scent of Reina's vanilla candles lingering from last night.
He lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, his body registering an odd absence: no pain.
That was weird.
Didn't he get beaten up black and blue just yesterday?
Somehow, he didn't feel a thing.
No throbbing bruises from the brawl, no sharp stabs in his ribs where Jiro's fists had landed like sledgehammers, no tender swell on his lip from Iroha's sucker punch.
It was as if the fight had been erased, a bad memory without the physical evidence.
