"Gamma squad to the armory, estimated time of departure fifteen minutes." The intercom crackled with static as the words bled through, heavy with finality.
Renji froze for a heartbeat, the metallic announcement echoing in his skull. The armory—its doors had always been a barrier between him and the real world, a line separating dreamers from soldiers. Now, those doors were open. The fact alone was staggering, a weight on his chest that pressed harder with each step he took toward them.
His boots clicked against the polished floor of the barracks, too loud, too sharp. Doubts hissed in his head with every step. This isn't for you. You'll die out there. You're just an Empty Vessel. The voice was relentless, slithering through his thoughts like smoke. He had studied enough to know what this was—the biology of fear, adrenaline flooding his veins, the fight-or-flight response. He had read over a thousand textbooks, memorized theories on human physiology and psychology. Knowledge gave him names for the symptoms, but it didn't give him the strength to silence them.
His palms were clammy, and he flexed his fingers to stop the tremor that betrayed him. It didn't work.
At the armory's threshold, a hulking Beta operative stood guard, rifle slung casually across his chest. The man's eyes, sharp as steel, locked onto Renji as he approached.
"Get in there and load up," the guard barked, voice like a gunshot.
"Yes, sir," Renji snapped back instantly. Reflexive obedience was second nature here. Any delay, any hesitation, could be written down as insubordination—a fast ticket to punishment or dismissal. He couldn't afford either.
The moment he stepped inside, the air changed. The armory was colder, sharp with the smell of gun oil and steel. Weapons gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights—rows of rifles, blades polished to a cruel sheen, crates of ammunition stacked like bricks of fate. This was the place where lives were armed, where decisions carried weight far beyond their steel.
And then came the voice he dreaded.
"Well, if it isn't the Empty Vessel."
Renji stiffened. Ryu Takeda, taller, broader, and smugger than he had any right to be, leaned against a rack of shotguns. His lips curled into a sneer, and another trainee beside him—Koji—snickered.
"Maybe he's here as the cleaner," Ryu chuckled. The laughter echoed off the walls, sharp and cutting, like knives digging between Renji's ribs.
Renji lowered his gaze, teeth pressing hard into his tongue to stop the words from spilling out. He knew if he answered, they'd twist it. They always did.
Before the taunts could fester further, another voice cut through the air.
"Shut it, you fools."
Hanzo. His only real friend in this pit of sharks. Hanzo's dark hair framed sharp features, but it was his eyes—warm brown, usually soft—that now blazed with warning. He stepped closer, his presence enough to make Ryu falter.
"You're still here because your powers are useless against demons," Hanzo snarled, "or worse—you failed the promotion exams."
Ryu's grin slipped, his bravado faltering, though he muttered, "Let him fight his own fights."
Hanzo's gaze darkened another shade, and Ryu shut up, pretending sudden interest in a rack of grenades.
The tension drained, leaving a silence buzzing in Renji's ears. Hanzo turned, studying him.
"You okay?"
Renji nodded quickly. "Yeah. Always."
"Yeah, right," Hanzo scoffed. "You're about as convincing as a rookie trying to bluff in cards." His lips curved into a crooked grin. "Want me to beat them up for you?"
"No." Renji's answer was firm, surprising even himself. He forced himself to meet Hanzo's eyes. "You were cool enough just stepping in. But if you fight them, you'll risk expulsion. And if you're gone… I've got no one left."
Hanzo studied him, then let out a low whistle. "Fine. But the offer's always open." He turned, fingers trailing across a display of blades before stopping at a set of vicious-looking throwing knives. The steel gleamed under the lights, curved edges promising violence. He lifted two with reverence. "Wickedly beautiful," he whispered, almost in awe. Then he grinned. "Want one?"
Renji shook his head, stepping toward the firearms. "Nah." His hand hovered, then settled on a pair of Desert Eagles. Heavy, cold, intimidating. He gripped them, the weight grounding him. The smell of gunpowder and oiled steel filled his nose.
He didn't like guns. Their sound was violent, final, a thunderclap that tore silence apart. But that distaste was nothing compared to the thought of being close enough for a demon to tear him apart with claws or teeth. Guns, at least, gave distance. And he had one thing—one saving grace—that no one could mock.
I can aim. I can aim well.
He tightened his grip, trying to drown out the whispers, the laughter, the doubts. His heart beat heavy, but beneath it, quieter, was something else. Something that refused to die.
Hope.
The intercom buzzed again, jolting everyone. "Gamma squad, prepare for deployment. Ten minutes."
The squad straightened, energy rising like static before a storm. Some cracked jokes to mask their nerves. Others inspected weapons with manic precision. Renji slid his guns into their holsters, the leather biting against his hip.
Hanzo clapped him on the shoulder. "First mission, huh?"
Renji managed a tight smile. "Feels like I'm already halfway to hell."
Hanzo's grin widened. "Good. That's the right mindset. Hell's easier when you expect the fire."
Renji exhaled, trying to steady himself. He didn't know if he'd come back from this, didn't know if this would be the last time he stood under the sterile lights of the armory. But he knew one thing: this mission would mark him. Whether as proof of his worth, or as the abyss's next meal—that, only the night would decide.