The void didn't echo. Sound needs walls. This place was a thought with the volume turned down.
"Dramatic," a voice said, like it was rating a cheap wine. "Messy, but dramatic."
I didn't turn because I didn't have a head. I didn't breathe because there was nothing to oxygenate.
Awareness hung like a mobile—balance without gravity.
"Akagiri Kurotsuki," the voice went on, and I could hear its smile. "Grandfather's hound. Parents dead at seven. Raised into a scalpel. Six mercenaries removed, employer dismissed in his bath. Tonight, you tried to out-math a firing line. You made it interesting."
The dark folded and a man existed where there hadn't been anything. Late thirties, cheap suit worn like a robe, tie loosened, hair the kind that refuses to choose a direction.
He sat on a plastic folding chair that belonged in a school cafeteria, sipping from a chipped mug that said #1 BOSS in flaking letters.
"God?" I asked, because sometimes masks fit too well to ignore.
"Depends on the language," he said, lifting the mug in a toast. "Afterlife admin, The Almighty, Upper management. None of the titles come with a raise." He looked past me, or through me, or at me—it was hard to tell from the wrong side of existence.
"You're not screaming. That's refreshing."
"Wasn't much of a screamer," I said. "Bad for business."
He barked a laugh, genuine, brief. "Fair. You did good work with what you were given. Shame about the bloodline grudge. Children really do ruin everything."
"Noted," I said, and let the silence work.
Good interrogators hate silence.
Bad ones fill it.
He didn't mind it. He let it sit between us until it turned into a third guest.
"You want the pitch?" he asked finally. "You know there's a pitch."
"There's always a pitch."
"Attaboy." He set the mug on nothing; it didn't fall. "You qualify for the Second Life Package. Your file pings for… let's call it sustained intent. Most people drift. You didn't. You went from point A to point B with a ruler and a knife. I appreciate commitment."
"Where?" I asked.
The only question that mattered—location is half the kill.
He smiled like a magician about to pull out a rabbit that bites.
The dark around us changed temperature—colder, thinner, edged. Images unspooled without light: a white mask with a hole behind it; black robes that moved like weather; swords that sang when they were honest. Buildings with paper walls and stone hearts. Names I'd heard on screens and from friends' mouths spilled like coins: Soul Society.
"Bleach," I said.
"Bleach," he confirmed, as if we were talking about a train schedule. "I was surprised someone like you watches anime. Either way, you'll start in Northern Rukongai. Seventieth district or thereabouts. Hard ground. Hungry people. Good for wolves who need to pretend they're sheep."
"I watch anime between jobs," I said. "It keeps the hands clean."
"Cute," he said, and stood. The chair vanished like a guilty thought.
"You're fun," he said, and I could feel the signature on a document I couldn't see. And then he continued, " Don't forget Wolves who forget they're wolves end up as rugs."
"Noted."
"Then we're done." He reached out. Not a hand—an idea of a hand, warm like a memory. "One last kindness: you died hard. You don't deserve to wake in pain."
"That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me," I said, and meant it.
He grinned, a human grin. "Try not to make me regret it."
The void thinned until it became light. Not hospital light.
Not interrogation light.
There was a sound like a page being turned, and for a second I felt the weight of a small body curled up around an empty stomach, and the prickle of eyes watching from alley mouths, and the itch of chains I couldn't see yet.
"Akagiri Kurotsuki," the man said, voice already fading, "welcome to your second life. Learn fast. Hunt faster. And remember—power without control is a dinner bell."
"Understood."
"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought, "the boy's name was Chigetsu Kei. If you borrow it, wear it well."
The light broke like surf and swallowed me.
For a breath that wasn't a breath, I felt myself tied to something cold and still on a cracked street, the tang of stolen bread in a small mouth, the thunder of feet that didn't stop to help—and then impact.
A tap to the forehead like a promise. Steel swishing in air.
A voice saying, Don't be afraid.
Blue washed everything clean.
Darkness returned, but it wasn't empty anymore.
I smiled where no one could see. Information first.
Strength second.
Then the hunt.
The sheep's skin settled over my shoulders, warm and familiar.
Underneath, the wolf stretched and sharpened his teeth.