Two years could pass like water through cupped hands.
Iki Susami stood ten years old on the busy streets of Karakura Town, watching humanity flow past him like a river that had forgotten he existed. People walked with purpose—briefcases swinging, phone calls happening, lives unfolding in a thousand mundane directions. None of them could see the spiritual pressure that rolled off him in gentle waves, or sense the ancient presence that used his lungs to breathe.
To them, he was just a tall child with dark skin and braided hair, standing still while the world rushed by.
"Stay close," Yaho called from the doorway of a supply shop, a bag of rice slung over his shoulder. Thirty now, he'd grown a few gray hairs at his temples—premature aging brought on by stress, probably. "We'll be done soon, then we can head back."
Iki nodded but didn't move toward his uncle. Something had caught his attention. A presence, faint and damaged, coming from somewhere nearby. It tasted wrong—not threatening, just... broken. Like shattered glass trying to hold water.
"I need to check something," Iki said.
Yaho's expression shifted immediately to concern. "What kind of something?"
"I don't know yet. But it's hurting." Iki tilted his head, tracking the sensation like a wolf following scent. "I'll be back soon."
"Iki, we talked about this. You can't just wander off in the city. There are Hollows, there could be Soul Reapers monitoring the area—"
"I'll be careful," Iki promised, already walking away. His tone remained flat, emotionless, but something in his posture suggested determination that wouldn't be swayed by reasonable concerns.
Yaho watched him go, torn between following and finishing the shopping. Finally, he called out: "Five minutes! If you're not back in five minutes, I'm coming to find you!"
Iki raised one hand in acknowledgment and disappeared into the crowd.
The alley was three blocks away, tucked between a closed pachinko parlor and an apartment building that had seen better decades. Narrow, dark despite the afternoon sun, it smelled of standing water and rotting garbage. Rain from the previous night still dripped from a rusted fire escape, creating a rhythmic percussion against puddles.
Iki entered slowly, his footsteps silent despite the shallow water.
The presence was stronger here. Broken and terrified, wrapped in layers of despair so thick it felt physical. And underneath it—barely perceptible—a trace of spiritual energy that marked its owner as something more than human.
Fullbringer, Iki thought. Young. Traumatized. Dying, maybe.
He found the source behind a dumpster, curled against the alley's brick wall.
A boy. Maybe eight years old, though malnutrition made it hard to tell. Pale skin mottled with bruises—fresh purple overlaying faded yellow-green. Dark hair matted with dried blood. Clothes that might have been nice once but were now torn and soaked through with gore.
And his face—
The right eye was gone. Just an empty socket, crusted with blood that had long since stopped flowing. The left eye remained—a single point of ocean blue staring at nothing, wide and glassy with shock.
In the boy's small hands, looking impossibly large: a Desert Eagle handgun. Chrome barrel still faintly warm. Finger resting on the trigger guard.
The boy's head turned at Iki's approach. His functional eye focused with difficulty, as if dragging itself back from somewhere very far away. When he saw Iki, his body tensed—animal instinct recognizing potential threat.
"Stay back," the boy croaked. His voice was raw, barely human. "I'll—I'll shoot you. I've already killed. I can do it again."
Iki stopped walking but didn't retreat. He simply stood there, breathing slowly, studying the broken child before him with that characteristic empty expression that somehow conveyed more depth than emotion ever could.
"You're hurt," Iki observed. "And you've been here for a while. Days, probably."
"I said stay back!" The boy raised the gun with trembling hands. It wavered in his grip, far too heavy for someone his size to hold steady. "I don't want to hurt anyone else, but I will if you make me!"
"You don't want to hurt me," Iki said with quiet certainty. "You want to not be hurt. There's a difference."
The gun continued to shake. The boy's breathing came in ragged gasps, on the edge of hyperventilation. "You don't know anything about me. You don't know what I've done."
"I know you're scared. I know you're in pain. I know something terrible happened, and you're waiting to die because dying seems easier than whatever comes next."
The boy's face crumpled. "How—"
"Because I can feel it." Iki took one slow step forward. "Your spiritual pressure. It's faint, almost nothing, but it's there. You're like me. Different from normal humans. And that difference has brought you nothing but suffering."
Another step. The gun barrel tracked him, but with decreasing conviction.
"My name is Iki Susami," he continued, voice remaining that same flat monotone that somehow carried warmth despite its lack of inflection. "I live at an estate in the forest with my uncle and a girl named Yukina. We're all different too. All carrying things that make us targets. But we're safe there. Protected."
"There's no such thing as safe," the boy whispered.
"Maybe not completely. But safer than this alley. Safer than dying alone while the world walks past and pretends not to see."
Iki was close now, within arm's reach. Close enough that the gun's barrel pressed against his chest. The boy's finger twitched on the trigger—not pulling, just trembling with indecision.
"You don't have to hold that anymore," Iki said gently, looking down at the weapon. Then his dark eyes lifted to meet that single blue one. "Whatever you did to survive—whatever you had to do—you don't have to keep carrying it alone."
He extended his hand. Palm up, open, offering without demanding.
For a long moment, nothing moved. Even the rain seemed to pause, droplets hanging suspended in air like the world itself was holding its breath.
The boy stared at that offered hand. Wanted to refuse it. Wanted to swat it away, to snarl that help was a lie and kindness was just another form of cruelty waiting to reveal itself. His entire life had taught him that trust led only to pain.
But something in Iki's presence made that refusal impossible.
It was like standing near a warm fire after freezing for hours. Like finally being able to breathe after drowning. The pressure that emanated from Iki—that spiritual weight that came from carrying the Soul King's Lungs—created a zone of absolute calm. Within it, panic couldn't quite take root. Fear couldn't quite grip tight enough to strangle.
The boy's hand lowered. Just slightly. Just enough.
And Iki took that as invitation.
He sat down beside the boy, right there in the filthy alley water, heedless of his clean clothes getting soaked and stained. Sat close enough that their shoulders almost touched, but not quite. Close enough to offer presence without imposing it.
Then he simply breathed.
In and out. Slow. Rhythmic. Each inhalation drawing ambient reishi toward him in invisible currents. Each exhalation releasing it in calm waves that washed over the space between them.
And gradually—so gradually the boy almost didn't notice it happening—his own breathing synchronized. His gasps slowed. His trembling decreased. The gun's barrel dipped until it rested against the ground.
For the first time in eight years of existence, Kuro Nakamura felt peace.
The memory came unbidden, flooding through the cracks in his defense.
He'd never known his real parents. His father died before he was born—Hollow attack, they'd told him later. His mother died during childbirth, her body unable to survive the trauma of both labor and the spiritual assault that had occurred during pregnancy.
The couple who adopted him—they'd seemed kind at first. Smiling. Welcoming. Promising to give him the family he'd lost.
The first time they hit him, he was three years old.
It had started small. A slap for crying. A shove for asking questions. But it escalated, as these things do. By the time he was five, the man who called himself "father" would come home drunk and take out his frustrations with fists and feet and belt. The woman who called herself "mother" would watch with empty eyes, occasionally joining in when the mood struck her.
They never hit where teachers could see. Never left marks that would draw attention.
And Kuro—because that's what they'd named him, "black," like the bruises they painted across his skin—learned quickly that resistance only made it worse. That crying only fed their hunger. That existing at all was his fundamental crime.
By eight years old, he'd stopped feeling most emotions. Stopped expecting rescue. Stopped believing tomorrow could be different from today.
Until the night he found the gun.
His adoptive father had kept it in a locked drawer. But Kuro had learned to pick simple locks years ago—survival skill acquired through necessity. He'd opened the drawer looking for money to buy food, since they often "forgot" to feed him for days.
Instead, he'd found salvation.
The Desert Eagle felt impossibly heavy in his hands. Cold. Solid. Real in a way that hope never was.
And when his adoptive father came home that night, drunk as always, already unbuckling his belt—
Kuro shot him.
The sound was enormous in their small apartment. The kickback nearly broke his wrist. But the man fell, surprise frozen on his face, red spreading across his chest like the bruises he'd given Kuro but permanent, so much more permanent.
His adoptive mother had screamed. Had lunged at him. Had called him monster, demon, ungrateful wretch—
Kuro shot her too.
It was easier the second time.
And then he'd run. Taken nothing but the gun and the clothes on his back. Run through streets that blurred together until he found this alley, this garbage-strewn sanctuary where he could finally stop moving.
Three days he'd been here. Three days without food or water or medical attention for the eye his adoptive father had stabbed out the week before with a screwdriver for "looking at me wrong."
Three days waiting to die or be found, unable to decide which would be mercy.
The memory released him, leaving him gasping.
Iki was still there beside him, still breathing that impossibly calm rhythm. And somehow—impossibly—Kuro heard himself speaking.
"I killed them," he whispered, voice cracking. "My parents. The people who adopted me. I shot them both and I didn't—" His chest hitched. "I didn't feel sorry. I felt glad. Glad they were dead. Glad they couldn't hurt me anymore. Does that make me a monster?"
Iki turned his head, those dark empty eyes studying Kuro with unsettling focus.
"No," he said simply. "It makes you someone who chose to live."
"But I took their lives—"
"They were taking yours. Slowly. Painfully. Death by a thousand cuts is still death." Iki's expression didn't change, but something in his tone carried weight. "You defended yourself. That's not monstrous. That's survival."
"The law won't see it that way. I'm eight years old. I murdered two people."
"You're also spiritually aware. Different from normal humans. Which means normal laws don't fully apply to you." Iki paused. "And even if they did—my uncle knows people. Ways to make problems disappear. We can protect you if you let us."
Kuro stared at him, at this strange boy who spoke about murder and protection with the same flat affect, who sat in filthy water like it was a throne room, who radiated calm that made even Kuro's lifetime of trauma feel manageable.
"Why?" Kuro managed. "Why would you help me? You don't know me."
"Because everyone deserves a chance to be free from their chains." Iki looked down at the gun still clutched in Kuro's hand. "And I'm going to break chains that are much larger than yours. Starting with the small ones seems like good practice."
It should have sounded insane. Should have set off every alarm bell in Kuro's damaged psyche.
Instead, it sounded like hope.
"Iki!"
Yaho's voice echoed down the alley, sharp with worry. Footsteps splashed through puddles as he ran toward them, guitar already in hand, face cycling through relief and alarm as he took in the scene.
His nephew. Sitting in garbage water. Next to a child covered in blood. Who was holding a gun.
"Step away from him," Yaho said carefully, fingers resting on strings. "Slowly, Iki. Whatever you're thinking—"
"His name is Kuro," Iki interrupted. "He's a Fullbringer. He's been hurt very badly for a very long time. And I'm bringing him home."
"Iki, he has a gun—"
"Yes. He used it to escape people who were torturing him." Iki's tone remained factual. "The gun is his trauma made physical. Taking it from him right now would be cruel. He'll let it go when he's ready."
Yaho stared at his nephew, then at the broken boy beside him, then back. His mind raced through possibilities, calculations, risks. This was insane. Bringing home a child who'd committed murder, who was still armed, who radiated trauma like heat from a forge.
But then his philosophy surfaced: One in four hundred trillion. Every life is a miracle.
And looking at Kuro—at this child who'd survived literal torture, who'd found the strength to fight back when fighting back seemed impossible—Yaho saw the miracle.
Saw the value.
Saw the family member he hadn't known they needed.
He lowered his guitar slowly. Knelt in the water despite his own clean clothes. And smiled with all the warmth he'd spent thirty years cultivating.
"Kuro," he said gently. "My name is Yaho Susami. I'm Iki's uncle. And if you want a safe place to live—a real home where no one will hurt you ever again—we have room."
Kuro's functional eye widened. "You... you're serious?"
"Deadly serious." Yaho's smile didn't falter despite the pun. "We're a strange little family. Different. Dangerous, even. But we protect our own. Always. And if Iki says you belong with us—" He glanced at his nephew. "—then you belong with us."
"I still have the gun," Kuro said, as if testing whether honesty would break this impossible offer.
"Keep it for now. We'll talk about it later, when you feel safer." Yaho extended his own hand, echoing Iki's earlier gesture. "But I need you to trust me enough to let me help with that eye. And with whatever other injuries you're hiding. Can you do that?"
Kuro looked between them—uncle and nephew, both offering hands, both radiating a sincerity that his lifetime of abuse insisted couldn't be real.
But Iki's presence made doubt impossible. Made trust feel... achievable.
Slowly, using his free hand—the one not clutching the gun—Kuro reached out and took Yaho's offered palm.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
They walked through the city like a strange procession.
Yaho led, carrying the supplies he'd purchased, one hand ready to reach for his guitar at the first sign of trouble. Iki walked beside Kuro, his calm presence acting as spiritual sedative, keeping the boy's panic at manageable levels. And Kuro himself moved like someone in a dream, gun hidden in his jacket pocket, functional eye darting nervously at every sudden sound.
People passed them without notice. A few glanced at Kuro's disheveled state and looked away quickly—that instinctive aversion to acknowledging suffering in public. No one stopped them. No one asked questions.
By the time they reached the forest road leading to the estate, the sun had begun its descent toward evening. Golden light filtered through the canopy overhead, painting everything in shades of amber and shadow.
"Almost there," Yaho said encouragingly. "Just another kilometer."
Kuro had stopped looking around nervously. Instead, he'd fixed his attention on Iki, watching the way the older boy moved—fluid, purposeful, completely at ease in his own skin despite carrying something ancient and broken. There was something hypnotic about it. Something that made Kuro feel like maybe, possibly, he could learn to move that way too.
"Can I ask you something?" Kuro said quietly.
Iki glanced at him. "Yes."
"Earlier, you asked if I wanted to live or survive. What did you mean?"
Iki considered the question for several steps before answering.
"Surviving is continuing to exist," he said finally. "Breathing, eating, sleeping. Going through the motions because your body hasn't stopped yet. Living is—" He paused, searching for words. "Living is having purpose beyond mere existence. It's choosing to engage with the world rather than just enduring it."
"And you think I can do that? Live, not just survive?"
"I know you can. Because you already made the choice." Iki's dark eyes held steady on Kuro. "When you picked up that gun, you weren't choosing death or survival. You were choosing agency. The right to determine your own path. That's the first step toward actually living."
Kuro felt something crack in his chest—not breaking, but opening. Like a door sealed shut for years finally moving on rusty hinges.
"I don't know how," he admitted. "How to live, I mean. I've spent my whole life just trying not to die."
"Then we'll teach you." Iki's tone remained flat, but the promise carried absolute certainty. "Yaho will teach you philosophy. I'll teach you control. And Yukina—" A pause, as if he was struggling to describe her. "Yukina will teach you that some people believe in you even when you can't believe in yourself."
"Who's Yukina?"
"The girl who lives with us. She's ten, like me. She's..." Iki trailed off, clearly unsure how to explain Yukina's intensity. "You'll understand when you meet her."
They passed through the estate's spiritual barrier, and Kuro gasped.
The pressure change was immediate and dramatic. Outside, the air had felt normal—just regular atmosphere. Inside, it felt thick. Rich. Like breathing cream instead of water. His skin prickled with ambient reishi, and some deep instinct he didn't know he possessed recognized this place as sanctuary.
"The barriers are maintained by generations of spiritual energy," Yaho explained, noticing Kuro's reaction. "They keep Hollows out and provide a safe space for people like us. You'll feel strange for a few days while you adjust, but then it becomes natural."
The estate itself emerged from the forest like something from another era. Traditional Japanese architecture—weathered wood and paper screens, curved roof tiles and stone gardens. Lanterns already glowed in the gathering dusk, warm light spilling from windows like promises of safety.
"We're home," Yaho announced.
And then the front door slid open, and a girl appeared.
She was small, energetic, dressed in something that looked like it belonged in a fairy tale—all ruffles and ribbons in shades of pink and white. Her black hair was tied in twin braids, and her brown eyes went wide when she saw their group.
"Yaho-san! Iki!" She bounced excitedly, then froze when she noticed Kuro. "Who—"
Her gaze swept over him: the blood, the bruises, the empty eye socket, the way he stood slightly behind Iki as if using him as a shield. And her expression cycled through curiosity, shock, and something approaching disgust before settling on dismissive indifference.
"Oh," she said flatly. "You brought home a stray."
"Yukina," Yaho said warningly.
"What? I'm just saying—" She waved vaguely at Kuro. "He's all dirty and broken and... why is he here?"
"Because he needed help," Iki said simply. "His name is Kuro. He'll be living with us now."
Yukina's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—surprise, confusion, jealousy, and finally reluctant acceptance because Iki had spoken.
"Fine," she said, crossing her arms. "But don't expect me to take care of him. I'm not a nursemaid."
She turned on her heel and marched back inside, dress swishing dramatically.
Kuro watched her go, then looked at Iki. "She doesn't like me."
"She doesn't know you yet," Iki corrected. "And she's... protective. Of me, specifically. You're competition for attention she thinks belongs to her."
"That's insane."
"Yes," Iki agreed. "But she's still family. You'll get used to her."
Yaho ushered them inside, already planning treatment for Kuro's injuries and explanations for the complex social dynamics he'd just walked into. But as they entered the warm, lamp-lit interior of the estate, Kuro felt something he couldn't quite name.
Not happiness. Not safety. Not anything as simple as hope.
But maybe—just maybe—the possibility that those things could exist.
That he could exist beyond survival.
That this strange boy with empty eyes and divine breath had just given him the most precious gift imaginable:
A future.
That night, after Yaho had treated Kuro's injuries and settled him in a spare room, after Yukina had gone to bed with a dramatic huff about "random boys taking up space," after the estate had settled into peaceful darkness—
Iki found Kuro standing at the window of his new room, staring out at the garden.
The gun sat on the bedside table. Still within reach, but no longer clutched like a lifeline.
"Can't sleep?" Iki asked.
Kuro shook his head. "Too quiet. I'm used to... I'm used to being afraid at night. Without the fear, I don't know what to feel."
"That's normal. Your body needs to learn new patterns." Iki moved to stand beside him, looking out at the moonlit garden. "It will take time."
"How much time?"
"As much as you need."
They stood in comfortable silence for a while. Then Kuro spoke again, voice very small:
"Thank you. For finding me. For not running away when you saw the gun. For—" His voice cracked. "For treating me like a person instead of a problem."
"You are a person," Iki said matter-of-factly. "A damaged one, yes. But still a person. Still valuable. Still deserving of kindness."
"I don't know if I believe that."
"You don't have to believe it yet. Just let us prove it to you." Iki turned to leave, then paused at the door. "And Kuro? That question I asked in the alley—about living versus surviving?"
"Yes?"
"I need you to decide. Because if you're going to stay here, if you're going to be part of this family—I need you to live. Not just exist in a nicer cage. Actually engage with the world. Learn. Grow. Become someone who chooses his path rather than just reacting to circumstances."
Kuro met his gaze with that single blue eye—the eye that had seen too much suffering but somehow hadn't gone completely dead.
"I'll try," he whispered.
"Good." Iki's expression didn't change, but something in his posture suggested approval. "That's all anyone can do."
He left, closing the door softly behind him.
And Kuro stood there in his new room, in this impossible sanctuary, feeling the weight of a question that suddenly seemed answerable:
Do you want to live, or do you want to survive?
For the first time in eight years—
He thought he might choose to live.
Far away, in the depths of Hueco Mundo, a Hollow looked up suddenly.
It had felt something. A shift in the spiritual world. Something small but significant.
Three broken souls gathering under one roof.
Three children marked by trauma, carrying powers beyond their understanding.
"Interesting," the Hollow murmured. "Very interesting indeed."
It filed the information away for future reference.
Because broken things were either weapons waiting to be forged—
Or kindling waiting to burn.