The city of Karakura was still cloaked in the pre-dawn quiet of late summer. It was August 28th, a Sunday, and the sky was a deep shade of navy, only the faintest pale line on the horizon hinting that the sun would soon rise. Most of the town still slept, their windows dark, their streets nearly empty save for the soft hum of street lamps and the occasional bark of a distant dog.
The rhythmic sound of running shoes striking asphalt broke through the silence. Yasutora Sado moved at his steady, disciplined pace through the narrow streets, his broad shoulders damp with sweat, his breath visible in the cool morning air. His legs carried him with practiced consistency. He wasn't running for speed—he was running for endurance, for control, for focus.
Chad's mind, as usual, was quiet. He wasn't the type to fill his solitude with words. Instead, he absorbed the subtle details of the city around him: the faint rustle of leaves as the breeze swept down from the riverbank, the low hum of an air conditioner buzzing from a nearby apartment, the faint smell of early bread baking at a corner shop that had just opened its shutters.
As he turned down a wider road, the familiar outline of Gonzales Gym came into view, its sign dark for now, but the place already calling to him. The gym was a second home to Chad, a place where his imposing frame and raw strength found discipline in the form of boxing. Though his powers as a spiritually aware fighter were unlike anything a normal human could train for, Chad never abandoned the sport. The rhythm of the gloves against sandbags, the stance, the guard, the breath—these things grounded him in a world that was still human, still real.
As he turned onto a broader street, the familiar silhouette of Gonzales Gym emerged ahead, its sign still unlit, yet the place already pulling him in. To Chad, the gym was more than bricks and sweat—it was a second home, a sanctuary where his towering build and raw power were shaped by the discipline of boxing. Though his abilities as a spiritually aware fighter surpassed anything ordinary training could offer, Chad never sought to wield his strength selfishly. His goal was to refine it, to become someone capable of protecting his friends when the moment demanded it. The rhythm of fists pounding sandbags, the stance, the guard, the breath—these rituals anchored him to a world that remained human, remained real.
He slowed his pace as he neared the gym, letting the cool pre-dawn wind dry the sweat across his skin. For a moment he stood there, glancing at the horizon where the first faint strokes of orange stretched across the deep navy sky. Morning was coming, and with it, another day of discipline.
The Gonzales Gym itself was modest but alive with spirit. Its walls, chipped and cracked, bore the scars of years of relentless training. Faded posters of legendary fighters clung to the plaster like ghosts of inspiration. The scent of leather, chalk, and sweat lingered in the air even from outside, as if the building itself remembered every punch thrown within. It wasn't flashy, not polished or luxurious, but for those who stepped inside chasing strength, it was sacred ground.
The day before, Chad had spoken with his coach, asking permission to use the gym despite it being closed that Sunday. He had expected to find it empty, a quiet place where only his heartbeat and fists would echo. But when he stepped inside, the faint shuffle of feet and a low chuckle told him otherwise.
"Coach Miguel?" Chad's deep voice rumbled with surprise.
Standing near the ring, Miguel turned at once. A man in his forties, Miguel was tall and broad-shouldered, his presence commanding despite the years since his retirement. His square jaw was dusted with a peppered beard, and his brown eyes carried both warmth and steel. A plain T-shirt clung to his chest, shorts loose around his muscular frame. Though his hands were calloused and his left knee bore the stiffness of old injuries, he carried himself like the fighter he had once been—a boxer whose brutal left hook and fluid, almost poetic footwork had made him a rising star in the international scene, until fate cut him short with one devastating blow that ended his career.
"Buenos días, Tora." Miguel greeted, switching effortlessly between Spanish and Japanese as he always did. He clasped Chad's massive hand in his own and gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Earlier than I expected, eh?"
Chad tilted his head slightly, his expression calm, almost unreadable, but his tone carried quiet curiosity. "I thought the gym would be empty today."
Miguel smirked, leaning back slightly with that easy charisma he never lost. "Something came up. An old friend dropped by out of the blue. Figured I'd catch up… and see if the bastard wasn't too rusty."
Chad stepped further into the gym, the floorboards creaking softly under his heavy strides. He moved toward the row of lockers where his gear was kept. His movements were methodical, practiced.
"You came here to move, not to brood, muchacho," Miguel said with a half-grin, his voice carrying that gravelly mix of authority and warmth. He leaned against the edge of the ring, arms crossed, watching closely as Chad adjusted his stance near one of the sandbags. "Show me what you've got." Miguel's voice carried both authority and encouragement.
Chad exhaled through his nose and threw the first punch. The sandbag jolted back violently, chains squealing as it swung. He followed with another, then another—left, right, hook, straight. The rhythm built quickly, each impact resounding through the quiet gym like thunderclaps. His frame was immense, but his movements had control, every strike crisp and efficient.
Miguel tilted his head, observing closely. "You've been keeping up with your roadwork."
"...Yeah," Chad replied quietly, focusing on his rhythm.
The bag rocked again as Chad unleashed a slow, controlled combination: jab, cross, left hook. His hook carried raw power, the kind that would rattle a man's bones if it landed.
Miguel's sharp eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening slightly as he watched. There it was again—that mix of pride and frustration.
"Perfect build, perfect reach, natural power… Dios mío, if you had the hunger for the ring, you'd be unstoppable," Miguel muttered under his breath, not intending Sado to hear.
Still, he called out, his coach's instinct kicking in. "Guard up, Tora! Don't drop your shoulder when you swing! Your opponents will see that coming a mile away."
Chad gave a short nod and adjusted immediately, his expression calm as stone, though sweat glistened along his brow. He never argued, never complained—he simply listened and refined. That discipline was something Miguel both respected and resented; the boy had all the makings of a champion, but no desire for the crown.
After a few more minutes, Chad slowed his pace, stepping back and rolling his shoulders. He turned his head toward Miguel, speaking in his usual low tone. "Gracias, Coach Miguel."
Miguel smirked faintly, waving the thanks away. "Don't thank me, chico. Thank that iron will of yours. Most boxers would've burned out by now."
There was a brief silence, filled only by Chad's steady breathing and the faint sway of the sandbag. Then Miguel straightened, glancing toward the back of the gym.
"By the way," he said, voice casual but carrying a hint of something else. "That old friend I mentioned… he's in the locker room now, getting changed. Haven't seen him in years."
Chad blinked, curiosity flickering in his usually stoic expression.
Miguel chuckled, tapping his chin. "Wouldn't be a bad idea for you to have a little spar with him. Test your guard against someone who knows what they're doing. What do you say, muchacho?"
The faint creak of hinges cut through the stillness of the gym. Both Sado and Miguel turned their heads as the door to the locker room swung open.
A man stepped out, tall and broad-shouldered, his frame carrying the weight of years of discipline and combat. His features were sharp, with short light-gray, almost silver, hair that caught the faint glow of the gym lights. His brown eyes were steady, observant, scanning the room with the quiet intensity of someone used to measuring every detail around him.
He wore a dark purple A-shirt trimmed in white, the fabric stretching over his muscular chest, paired with bold green athletic pants. As he walked, his movements were deliberate, grounded, the kind that spoke of experience—someone who had fought, trained, and lived through far more than just sparring sessions. A strip of gauze dangled from one of his hands as he casually wrapped his knuckles, pulling it tight with practiced efficiency.
Miguel's lips tugged into a playful grin, breaking the silence. "This is Sergeant Guru," he announced in a teasing tone, as though unveiling a showpiece.
The man snorted, his expression flat but not without a trace of humor. "Your nicknames are still terrible, Miguel." His voice was deep, steady, with the kind of weight that didn't need to rise to command attention. "By the way, I think your toilet's busted."
Miguel let out a grunt, folding his arms across his chest. "That's thanks to some punks who showed up yesterday. Haven't had the time to fix it yet."
It was then Sado realized Miguel hadn't just been joking about the title. "Sergeant" wasn't some exaggerated nickname—it was likely a rank this man had worn.
Guru's eyes shifted, locking onto Sado. He gave him a long, measuring look, his gaze traveling from Sado's towering frame down to his planted stance, then back up again. His lips tugged faintly into something between approval and disbelief.
"So this is the kid you were talking about?"
Chad straightened slightly, polite as always, his voice calm but clear.
"My name is Yasutora Sado. I'm a student at Karakura High School. Fifteen years old."
For a moment, silence hung in the gym.
Guru's brows shot up, his expression hardening in disbelief. "Fifteen?" He looked Chad up and down again, scanning the teenager's hulking frame as if trying to find the lie hidden somewhere in it. Finally, he cut his eyes back toward Miguel, whose smirk hadn't faltered in the slightest.
Miguel lifted his shoulders with a kind of smug pride, as if Chad's presence alone was enough of an answer.
Miguel broke the silence with that half-playful, half-commanding tone he always used when he wanted to push his students into something.
"So, how about the two of you do some sparring?" He clapped his hands together, as if the decision had already been made. "It'll be good for you, Tora. And good for you too, you stubborn old man—let's see if you've still got any reflexes left."
A comical drop of sweat ran down Sado's temple at Miguel calling the sergeant old, since the man looked younger than Miguel himself—maybe in his early thirties, or even a bit younger.
The sergeant arched a brow, his eyes cutting back to Miguel with a look that shifted between skepticism and amusement.
"You never change, do you? Always throwing the kids to the wolves."
"He's not just any kid," Miguel replied firmly as he stepped closer, giving Sado's shoulder a light pat as though presenting a prodigy. "This boy's got something you need to see."
Guru narrowed his eyes, studying Sado again. For a brief moment, the air seemed to grow heavier, as though he was weighing not just the boy's body, but his very spirit. After a long exhale, he tightened the wrap on his wrist and nodded.
"Fine. I'm in."
Sado, respectful as always, simply inclined his head in a small nod. There was no arrogance in his stance.
Inside Gonzales Gym, there was a truth everyone knew but rarely spoke aloud: Sado had no fair opponents in that ring.
In sparring matches, he was always a problem. While everyone else wore extra protection—thick foam headgear, rib guards, whatever they could—Sado stepped into the ring needing almost nothing. And even then, the outcome was always the same: he won. Every time.
But it wasn't the winning that bothered Miguel. It was the way.
With his trained eyes, honed by years of experience and a sensitivity for the subtleties of human movement, Miguel could see it clearly that Sado was always holding back.
He never threw punches at full power, never stretched the full reach of his strength, never allowed his opponents to feel the true weight of his presence inside the ring. Miguel knew nothing about spiritual energy or the otherworldly battles Sado had been through, but he knew how to read a fighter. And every fiber of his instinct screamed: this kid is hiding something.
To Miguel, that was almost a waste. Not of talent, but of heart. Because the ring was supposed to be a place where you gave everything, without reserve.
And now, seeing Sado face-to-face with his old friend, hardened by a life of discipline and battles, Miguel felt a flicker of hope. Maybe this time… Sado wouldn't have the option of holding back.
The silence broke with the dry sound of velcro ripping through the air. Sado was slipping on his gloves, his movements calm, almost solemn.
Across from him, Guru did the same, tightening the black gloves around his fists. He fixed his gaze squarely on Sado, his expression firm, his voice low and resolute.
"Just so you know… I don't have the maturity to go easy on kids."
The words hung in the air—heavy, final.
And Sado, calm as ever, simply lifted his gaze and gave a nod. Not a trace of fear crossed his face.
**
The bell above the door chimed softly as Orihime Inoue stepped out of the small neighborhood bakery, a warm paper bag cradled in her arms. The faint scent of freshly baked melon bread clung to her clothes, lifting her mood as easily as the morning breeze teased at her long orange hair. She hummed to herself as she walked, her steps light and cheerful as though the world itself might begin dancing if she skipped just a little harder.
For a while, she let herself get carried away by the little joys—how the sky was slowly being brushed with pale pinks and golds as dawn crept in, how the bread still radiated warmth against her chest, how the sleepy streets of Karakura felt like they belonged only to her at this early hour.
But even Orihime's brightness couldn't keep certain thoughts at bay.
Her smile faltered, just slightly, as her mind drifted back to the day before. Rukia had returned to the Soul Society. Orihime had stood there, trying to smile, trying to wave cheerfully like always, but deep down she had felt the hollow ache of loss gnawing at her chest.
The memory of Senna were still vivid in Orihime's mind. Yet, Rukia had explained that everything connected to Senna would vanish. They would all forget her, because she wasn't supposed to exist.
Orihime stopped walking, hugging the paper bag a little tighter against herself. "Then… why do I still remember her?" she whispered under her breath, the morning wind carrying her words away.
Her eyes softened with confusion. She knew she wasn't supposed to, that memories were supposed to slip away. But when she closed her eyes, she could still see Senna's face clearly, could still feel the weight of her presence.
She bit her lip and forced her feet to keep moving. Dwelling on it wouldn't help.
Still, her thoughts shifted again, this time to Ichigo and Yato.
Ichigo had been silent ever since. Orihime worried about him; the way he carried his pain was so heavy, as if he had to bear it alone. And Yato… she didn't know him as well as Ichigo, but he was still her friend, and she had seen his face, seen the tears he didn't try to hide. In Orihime's mind, Yato was, in a way, quite similar to Ichigo—just without concealing his emotions.
And then there was Uryū.
Orihime furrowed her brow slightly, her eyebrows drawing together as she walked. He hadn't answered any calls, hadn't given any sign of life for days. That wasn't like him—not at all. Uryū could be distant at times, even a little cold, but he was reliable. Predictable. His silence gnawed at her with a different kind of unease.
By the time Orihime reached the corner of the street, her once-light steps had slowed, the weight of her worries settling in. She looked down at the bag in her arms, then up at the brightening sky.
Suddenly a familiar voice called out, soft but clear enough to pull Orihime from her wandering thoughts.
"Orihime?"
She blinked, turned her head—and there stood Tatsuki Arisawa, hands tucked casually into the pockets of her track pants, her short black hair slightly ruffled from the morning air. The tomboy's dark eyes carried their usual sharpness, but there was a flicker of surprise in them. She tilted her head, lips quirking just a little.
"You're up early," Tatsuki remarked, clearly unused to seeing her best friend out and about at this hour unless it was for school.
Orihime's face lit up instantly, her smile blooming like sunlight breaking through the clouds. "Tatsuki-chan! Good morning!" she chirped, hugging the warm paper bag of bread closer to her chest. "I was just buying a few things! Actually, I was even thinking of stopping by your house later—if Aunt Junko wouldn't mind, of course."
Tatsuki gave a small shrug, her tone casual but not unfriendly. "No problem, she wouldn't mind."
Orihime's head tilted, her curiosity bubbling up as naturally as her cheer. "So what are you going to do now?"
"I was just out for a walk," Tatsuki answered, her voice low, almost weary. "And praying I don't run into any Hollows to ruin my morning." She sighed, falling into step beside Orihime without hesitation. "After that, I'll probably head to the dojo for a bit. The others are starting to get worried since I've been showing up less."
"Oh!" Orihime clutched the bread bag dramatically against her chest, her eyes sparkling as though struck with a sudden, brilliant idea. "Then Tatsuki-chan will demonstrate the legendary power of the Invincible Dragon?!" She shifted into a playful karate stance, her voice brimming with excitement as though announcing an epic battle.
Tatsuki groaned, dragging a hand down her face. "That nickname again…"
"But it's so cool!" Orihime countered instantly, bouncing slightly on her heels as if the very thought filled her with joy.
The "Invincible Dragon."
It was the title Tatsuki had earned after winning the national tournament, hailed across Japan as the strongest girl in the country. Few knew the full story: on that very day, Tatsuki had been enduring grueling training under Yoruichi, preparing for the impossible mission of rescuing Rukia from the Gotei 13. Exhausted and battered, she had still forced herself into the tournament, refusing to back down. Her tenacity had been so overwhelming, her final fight so relentless, that the audience crowned her with a name that stuck.
Tatsuki let out a low grumble, shoving her hands deeper into her pockets. "I really don't like that nickname," she muttered, shaking her head.
Orihime tilted her head, puzzled. "Eh? But why, Tatsuki-chan? It sounds so strong! Like a heroic title!" Her voice lifted, dramatic, as if announcing the presence of some legendary warrior. "The Invincible Dragon, feared by all, admired by millions!"
"Yeah, yeah," Tatsuki sighed, rolling her eyes. "It sounds cool, I'll give you that. But the truth behind it… it doesn't sit right with me."
Orihime blinked, her playful stance softening. "What do you mean?"
Tatsuki slowed her steps, her gaze drifting toward the quiet morning streets as if the answer weighed more heavily than she wanted to admit. "The girl I faced in the finals… she wasn't just strong. She was experienced. Every move she made, every counter, it was sharp, precise—like she'd been training her whole life for that one moment. I was already exhausted from training with Yoruichi-sensei, my body wrecked from pushing myself too far. Honestly, I shouldn't have even stepped into that ring."
Orihime clutched her bread bag closer, listening intently, her warm brown eyes wide.
"The fight was brutal," Tatsuki admitted. "Every time she knocked me down, I stood back up. Every time she landed a strike, I forced myself to push through it. I didn't give her a chance to breathe. And in the end…" Tatsuki's voice faltered for just a moment before she forced herself to go on. "She looked at me... saw that I wasn't going to stop, no matter what... and she surrendered."
Orihime's lips parted slightly, as if the words struck deeper than she expected. "So… you won."
"Yeah." Tatsuki's laugh was short and humorless. "I won. Everyone cheered, called me 'Invincible Dragon' like I was some kind of monster. But that victory…" She shook her head, her eyes dark with the memory. "It tasted bitter. She didn't lose because I was stronger. She gave up because I wouldn't stop. There's a difference."
For a few moments, silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the waking city.
And then, almost as if on cue, Tatsuki smirked faintly, kicking a loose pebble across the sidewalk. "Of course, a few minutes later I was bragging to anyone who would listen about being the national champion." She gave a half-shrug. "Can't let everyone see me sulk, right?"
Orihime giggled softly, her hand rising to cover her smile. "That's very Tatsuki-chan of you." She tilted her head, curiosity sparkling in her eyes. "Ne, Tatsuki-chan… now I'm really curious! What was your opponent like? The one from the final match."
Tatsuki rubbed the back of her neck, her expression tightening as if she had to dig through half-faded memories. "Honestly… I don't even remember her name. I just know she wasn't from Karakura High. Different uniform, so she must've been from another school."
Orihime leaned closer, almost bouncing on her feet. "Ehh? You don't remember her name? But you fought her in the finals of the national tournament!"
Tatsuki gave an awkward shrug. "What can I say? I'm not good with names." She let out a short breath before continuing. "But I remember her look. Long braid—reached almost to her waist. Sharp eyes, the kind that could slice you open before her fists even touched you. And she was strong. Every punch she threw had weight behind it. Like… if I slipped even once, it would've been over."
As Tatsuki spoke, Orihime's imagination ran wild. In her mind's eye, the opponent transformed into a towering mountain of muscle: a scary amazon-like figure with arms like tree trunks, her braid snapping through the air like a whip. Orihime pictured her stomping across the ring, every step shaking the ground, the crowd gasping in terror.
"Uwahhh…" Orihime whispered dramatically, her eyes widening as her imagination grew more and more ridiculous. "So she was like… a giantess warrior princess with fists that could crush boulders?!" She even raised her arms in an exaggerated pose, pretending to flex muscles she didn't have.
Tatsuki stopped walking for a moment, staring at Orihime blankly before sighing hard. "…You always take things too far."
The two girls continued walking side by side, their conversation drifting off into silence as the streets of Karakura slowly stirred with the first signs of life. The faint glow of the rising sun stretched across the storefronts, painting the glass with soft hues of orange and gold.
Tatsuki's steps came to a sudden halt. Her gaze shifted to the side, locking onto a small convenience store. Through the clear glass, she spotted a familiar figure.
Yato.
He stood at the counter, his tall frame slouched slightly forward as he handed over a few items to the cashier. He wasn't wearing anything flashy—just a pair of loose dark pants, a plain white long-sleeve shirt, and simple flip-flops. Yet, despite the casual clothes, he looked strangely out of place. His posture was heavy, weighed down by something invisible, and there was a hollowness in the way his eyes moved—distant, unfocused.
Tatsuki froze, her hand instinctively tightening in her pocket. She wanted to march in there, to ask him if he was okay, but her feet refused to move. Instead, she muttered under her breath, her voice quieter than usual.
"…He looks… really worn out."
Orihime followed her gaze and softened immediately. Her warm eyes lingered on Yato before flicking back to Tatsuki. She could read her friend too well, and there was no mistaking the hesitation written all over her.
So, Orihime did what Orihime always did—she pushed, gently, but firmly. With a mischievous smile, she gave Tatsuki a little nudge with her elbow. Then another.
"Go on," Orihime whispered cheerfully, her tone carrying both encouragement and a spark of mischief.
Tatsuki flinched at the push, her cheeks heating up just slightly. "Wha—hey! I don't need to." She scowled, trying to mask the sudden thump of her heart. "Rukia could handle that kind of thing better than me anyway."
Orihime tilted her head, her smile softening into something more sincere. "Rukia's back in Soul Society," she reminded gently. Her gaze flicked toward Yato again, concern shadowing her usually bright features. "And… since what happened with Senna, he hasn't really looked like himself."
The words hit Tatsuki harder than she expected. She stood still for a beat longer, her fists tightening in her pockets, before she exhaled through her nose and muttered, "…Damn it."
With hesitant steps, she finally began moving toward the store, each one feeling heavier than the last. Orihime, watching from behind, clasped her hands together just below her chin, eyes sparkling with both excitement and support as if silently cheering her on.
The glass door chimed softly as Yato stepped out of the store, a small plastic bag dangling from his hand. The morning breeze caught the hem of his loose white shirt, but he barely seemed to notice, his gaze distant and his shoulders heavy.
Just as he reached the sidewalk, he stopped when he saw Tatsuki standing there. For the briefest moment, his tired eyes seemed to sharpen, registering her presence. Then, in his usual casual tone, he greeted her:
"...Hey."
Tatsuki blinked, caught off guard. She hadn't expected to be face-to-face so suddenly. Folding her arms, she shifted her weight to one leg, trying to play it off like coincidence. "Oh. Yato. Didn't think I'd run into you this early."
"Guess the world's small like that." His voice was flat, but not unfriendly, like someone who had long forgotten how to put real energy into casual conversation.
They stood there a moment, and Tatsuki felt the silence pressing between them. She wasn't great at this—at trying to lift someone's mood, at finding the right words to soften the shadows in another person's eyes. Her chest tightened with the frustration of it. She wanted to say something that mattered, something that could pull him out of that emptiness, but the words wouldn't come.
So instead, she stuck to short, simple questions.
"…You doing okay?"
Yato gave a small shrug, not quite looking at her. "I'm alive."
"You sleep at all last night?"
"A little."
"Eating properly?"
"Bought food, didn't I?" He lifted the bag just slightly, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.
Tatsuki puffed her cheeks in irritation, turning her face away with a faint huff. It wasn't like she was good at these kinds of conversations to begin with, but him giving such clipped, casual answers only made her feel more useless. Still… she couldn't just walk away.
"…I was gonna head to the arcade nearby," she muttered after a pause, her tone almost defensive, as if daring him to dismiss it. "Haven't been there in a while."
For a second, she thought he'd just brush it off. But then Yato's eyes, tired as they were, flicked toward her. His expression didn't brighten much, but there was the faintest shift, like he was weighing the idea. Finally, he exhaled, running a hand through his black hair before letting his shoulders loosen.
"…Arcade, huh?" He gave the smallest nod. "Yeah. Why not. Could use a distraction."
Tatsuki blinked, caught off guard by his agreement. She hadn't actually expected him to say yes. A faint warmth crept into her chest, though she kept her face set in its usual serious expression, masking it.
"…Good. Let's go then."
They began walking side by side, the morning streets opening before them, the distance between them both physically small yet emotionally heavy—though maybe, just maybe, it had gotten a little lighter.
As Tatsuki and Yato started down the street, Orihime lingered behind just a moment, turning her head to give her friend a bright thumbs-up. Her wide smile and shining eyes made it clear what she meant: You can do this, Tatsuki-chan.
Feeling oddly proud of herself for playing matchmaker, Orihime spun on her heel—only to bump lightly into someone passing by.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" she exclaimed, bowing slightly in instinctive politeness.
The other girl hardly reacted, her attention buried in the book she was holding. It wasn't a light novel or school material, but something denser, the cover marked with mature lettering. Without even lifting her eyes from the page, the girl answered in a calm, almost distracted tone:
"No problem."
Orihime tilted her head, blinking curiously. She couldn't see the girl's face clearly, but her eyes caught small details: the school uniform and the long black hair woven neatly into a single braid that swayed gently as she walked. Before Orihime could ask more, the girl slipped past, her gaze never leaving the book's print, as if the world around her barely existed.
"…Weird," Orihime whispered to herself, but then she brightened again, deciding not to dwell on it
**
Meanwhile, Tatsuki and Yato walked in quiet tandem, the sound of their footsteps filling the otherwise still morning street. For a while, neither said a word—until Yato broke the silence.
"…Hey, Tatsuki. Think you could teach me karate sometime?"
Tatsuki blinked, her steps faltering for a moment. She turned to look at him, half-expecting him to be joking. But Yato's face was calm, serious in that quiet way of his, his black hair shifting lightly in the morning breeze.
Karate? she thought, incredulous. Yato wasn't the type. Ever since she'd known him, he always avoided fighting for its own sake, always shrugged off the idea of martial arts or structured training. And yet—she'd seen firsthand how terrifyingly strong he could be, how much his powers set him apart. Someone like him didn't need karate. So why ask?
The question rolled in her chest, but she decided not to push for an answer. Instead, she crossed her arms, a sly smirk tugging at her lips.
"…You know what? Fine. But don't think I'm gonna go easy on you." Her smirk widened into something more mischievous. "Actually, this is the perfect chance for me to finally give you the beating I promised you back in Soul Society. Remember that? When you scared the hell out of me, making me think you were dead?"
Her voice carried a mix of irritation and relief, the memory sharp even now.
Yato chuckled faintly under his breath, not defensive, not mocking—just quietly amused. "Guess I deserved that."
Tatsuki's smirk softened for half a heartbeat, though she quickly turned her face forward again, hiding the slight warmth that crept into her chest.