Ding~ Peach Garden Road Station. Please prepare to disembark with your belongings and exit through the rear door.
Higashi Shuuichi didn't try to interfere with the workings of this world. He stayed at the office until the familiar hour of 9 p.m., then took his time leaving the building, boarding the nearly empty bus that stopped near his apartment.
It was a strange little habit from his past life.
In a city where the subway reigned supreme, buses—slow, meandering, prone to traffic—had become obsolete for most young professionals. But for Higashi Shuuichi, riding an empty bus home alone, watching the city flicker by, had always been one of his few private pleasures.
And in this world, sculpted by his inner Hollow, he was able to relive that rare indulgence.
After stepping off the bus, he followed muscle memory to a convenience store, picked up an instant noodle cup, and bumped into a young man at the checkout. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the man's phone wallpaper—Matsumoto Rangiku, from Bleach.
Seriously? Even here, I run into a Bleach-loving otaku?
He rolled his eyes internally, made his way back to the apartment complex, tapped his access card at the gate, rode the elevator up, and reached his front door. He keyed in the passcode—just as he had countless times in his past life.
But when he opened the door, he froze.
There stood Matsumoto Rangiku—bare-legged, in an orange plaid apron, spatula in hand, orange house slippers on her feet.
"Shuuichi-sama?! You're home already?!"
Rangiku gasped in surprise, scurried into the kitchen to put the spatula down, then rushed back to the door with slippers in hand.
Drawn by the commotion, Sayako Dōmasa emerged from the bedroom, wearing only a white T-shirt that clung too tightly to her curves and a tiny pink miniskirt.
Higashi stared, caught off guard. This scene… felt familiar.
Only, Rangiku had been wearing even less in his memory. Sayako had dressed more demurely. And in the memory he had, she didn't wear those black-rimmed glasses.
And the girl on the couch, laser-focused on a PS4 fighting game—was that Soi Fon?
"Rough day at work, huh~ Shuuichi-kun~"
Sayako's voice was so soft, it chilled him. His inner Hollow—it had been digging. Sifting through his memories and fantasies. And using them.
Soon, the smell of food drifted out of the kitchen.
Soi Fon cheered from the living room as she landed a final blow in-game, throwing her hands in the air. "Shuuichi-sama!"
As he chatted with Sayako, Higashi confirmed it—none of these familiar figures had real memories. They weren't Shinigami. They lacked Zanpakutō, lacked spiritual pressure. They were puppets—NPCs molded from his recollections and some "reasonable" fantasies.
But even knowing that, the sensory experience was overwhelming. The night ended with heavy breathing and tangled limbs, and Shuuichi found himself disturbingly satisfied.
Just as he set up a low-level Kidō alarm and prepared to drift off, the doorbell rang.
A shrill buzz, unnatural in the silence of the night.
"Who is it?"
Fully alert, Shuuichi dressed, grabbed his Zanpakutō, and looked through the peephole. Two people stood outside—a man in his mid-twenties, and an older woman, at least in her late fifties, wearing pajamas.
"I'm Lao Gu, a member of the resident committee. This young man here says your noise tonight kept him from sleeping!"
Before the old woman finished speaking, the young man began pounding aggressively on Shuuichi's door.
"Open the fuckin' door! You think it's fine to screw around this late?! You've been at it forever! People are trying to sleep!"
Shuuichi frowned.
The old woman… he recognized her vaguely. And the young man… his face tickled something in Shuuichi's memory, but he couldn't place it.
Maybe just some background character his Hollow picked at random.
But the guy's behavior didn't line up with his complaint. He wasn't just mad—he was desperate.
"He's pretending it's about noise," Shuuichi muttered, "but what he really wants… is for me to open the door."
Why?
Shuuichi wasn't fooled by appearances. He knew he wasn't in the real world. Every anomaly had purpose. His Hollow didn't craft this world for comfort.
Its goals were simple: devour him entirely, be devoured by him, or lose in battle—temporarily yielding control of Hollowfication.
Only three outcomes.
And just as he pondered whether to open the door—
Click.
The lock disengaged.
The door opened on its own.
Suddenly, Shuuichi remembered why that old woman had felt familiar.
She was the wife of his former landlord.
Shit.
Too late to stop it now. Charging the door recklessly would only bring risk.
He took a step back.
Reiatsu surged outward. As the door swung open—
Fuzan.
He swung without hesitation. He didn't care what collateral damage this would cause—whoever stepped in was getting cleaved.
But the sensation...
Déjà vu.
It was like in the elevator.
Even after invoking Tsuisei, with his spiritual pressure, his Kidō should've been enough to slow even a fall from 10,000 meters.
And yet the elevator had fallen.
Now, Fuzan, a slash that had parried Kenpachi Zaraki's full-force strike in Soul Society, that had disabled him during Bankai—felt like slapping someone with tofu.
"Is there something wrong with my Reiatsu?"
The young man surged forward, grabbing Shuuichi by the throat.
No more hesitation.
"Tactics of the Warlord… Bankai—Laughter Sheathed in Steel!"
Bankai erupted.
The house cracked, Reiatsu boiling, yet the young man didn't flinch.
"Not my Reiatsu," Shuuichi realized.
This man... he's a construct. A fixed rule in this world.
Tsukigiri. Flow Severance. Hadō 99—Goryūtenmetsu!
He threw everything at him.
Nothing worked.
The young man closed the distance, fists clamped around Shuuichi's neck.
Vision dimmed. Breath fled.
And darkness took him.