District 62 of East Rukongai, Hanakare.
Two ragged children—a boy and a girl—still had no idea how terrifying the presence was that now had its eyes set on them.
"We're out of food again, Gin…"
The girl looked sadly at the boy's thin back in front of her.
"It's okay, Rangiku. The old man who gave us those persimmons last time is a good person. If we help him out again, I'm sure he'll give us even more!"
The boy's scarred left hand tightly gripped the girl's right.
"It's you, not us… Am I just useless, Gin? Always dragging you down…"
Though their pace was slow, the girl had to stop every few steps, gasping for air.
She'd been frail since birth—too weak to survive on her own in the cold, ruthless 62nd District of Rukongai.
If she hadn't met this boy, she'd probably have starved to death in some nameless alley long ago.
"It doesn't matter, Rangiku. I told you, I'll protect you!"
The boy stopped and turned, looking seriously into her tear-filled eyes.
"But if this keeps up, Gin… your body…"
She reached out to touch his exhausted figure, but her hand was quickly caught halfway.
"I'm fine, Rangiku. We're both going to survive this!"
He shook his head, then placed his other, equally battered hand on her messy, wavy orange hair.
She knew he was lying with that brave smile—but she let him pat her head anyway, letting him wipe away the two crystalline tears at the corners of her eyes.
"Yeah… we'll both make it through."
In that moment, both children clung to their dreams of a better future.
Fifteen minutes later—
The boy and girl arrived at the home of the old man they'd mentioned.
Just in time to see him rushing out of his house in a panic.
"Grandpa Doukuchi! Where are you going?!"
The boy quickly pulled the girl aside and shouted toward the vanishing silhouette.
"There's a Shinigami here!"
The man vanished down the street, leaving only those words.
A Shinigami?
Having wandered Rukongai for years, the boy knew well what that word meant.
He'd seen them before. Even bragged to Rangiku that he'd once seen a captain—though it was just a blur of robes flying overhead.
But not all Shinigami were called "sir" by the people of District 62. Not unless they were someone important—someone powerful.
This one must be at least a seated officer.
What was such a high-ranked Shinigami doing in a chaotic district like theirs?
"Gin, maybe… maybe we can wait a little longer? I think I can hold on another day…"
Rangiku tugged gently on his tattered sleeve, not daring to pull too hard.
He wanted to wait for the old man to return too—but when he looked at her pale lips, her fragile frame…
"No, Rangiku. You have to eat something today!"
He clenched his teeth. He could hang on a bit longer—but not her. With her body so weak, she couldn't go another day hungry.
"But…"
"No buts. Stay here. This is a residential area, and there's a Shinigami nearby. You'll be safe. I'll be back soon!"
He'd wanted to bring her with him.
But she'd already gone days without food. He couldn't bear to drag her around anymore.
If she could save even a little energy, she should.
And besides, this wasn't the wilderness—they were in a populated district. So long as no Hollows wandered in, this place was safe.
The boy quickly found the Shinigami amid a gathering crowd.
Short black hair, deep eyes like starlit skies, a calm face, a clean-cut black Shihakushō, and a warm, gentle smile.
He stood right there among the people, cheerfully explaining the properties of medicinal herbs—something no Shinigami in District 62 had ever done before.
"What a kind Shinigami…"
The boy felt it in his heart.
After speaking to him, that feeling only deepened.
The man was from the Fourth Division, the medical corps. No wonder he was so gentle.
And he wasn't just any member—he was the lieutenant.
Even better, he was here to recruit locals to help gather herbs, promising generous compensation in return.
The boy learned that just ten of these herbs would be enough to feed him and Rangiku for a whole month.
"I have to tell Rangiku!"
After quickly memorizing the herbs' traits with a few glances, he turned and ran.
"There's a place in District 60 that sells the best persimmons. Rangiku always wanted to try them. When I get paid, I'll take her!"
The boy smiled to himself, full of hope.
Everything seemed to be going right.
If only that man hadn't appeared.
Suddenly, his breath caught.
His body froze.
He forgot to hide himself.
Fortunately, the man didn't seem to notice him.
But what he saw—what the boy saw—burned into his mind:
A man in a Shihakushō. Glasses. Reaching into Rangiku's chest with one hand—and pulling something out.
Blood sprayed, soaking the earth beneath her.
The whole time, Rangiku moved like a puppet—lifeless, empty-eyed, yet her face twisted in agony.
"NO!"
He screamed inside, fingers digging into his palms until they bled.
But he didn't make a sound. He couldn't.
He wasn't a match for that man.
Because that man wore a Shihakushō. Because he was a Shinigami.
For the first time in his life, the boy felt pure, unfiltered hatred. The desperate, seething desire to erase someone from existence.
No—he still had hope!
There was another Shinigami nearby.
That kind one—the lieutenant of the Fourth Division.
He would help! He had to!
The boy turned and ran, one last glance back at the blood-soaked girl.
Wait for me, Rangiku!
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