When Ichigo steps out to the World of the Living, he listens to the Senkaimon door slam shut behind him. It fades out of this dimension with a soft woosh sound. He takes a deep breath, trying to ignore the feeling of unease settling in his stomach.

He doesn’t look back.

It’s his first time here since he died. He thought it would be different this time. He’s not sure what he expected to change, but everything still looks the same.

The trees stand in a neat line on the outer edge of the sidewalk, just where the kerbstone meets the street. Long, distorted shadows stretch across the ground, threatening to vanish as the sun starts to dip below the horizon. The sky burns pink and orange at its edges, then fading into a summer blue farther above.

He hears his neighbor’s dog barking at one of the by-passers—a busy-looking man wearing a fancy suit, his hand holding up a cell phone to his ear. Ichigo catches a scrap of conversation about accounting numbers and taxes and fees and such, and he’s instantly relieved to be dead. He’ll take the paperwork and mission reports over finance spreadsheets any day.

And then, after the man disappears in the distance and the dog returns to its wooden shelter further in the neighbor’s backyard, Ichigo is left alone on the street. With nothing to distract him, his attention lands on the driveway to a familiar house he used to call home.

The gate is open for some reason—did Isshin expect him to pull up here with a car? He scoffs. Doesn’t matter.

He starts walking closer in slow wide steps. Looks the house over—same roof, same facade. The blinds on the windows are open, but the lights in the house aren’t lit yet.

The garden in front of the house is kept neat, housing a cluster of small cup-shaped flowers. They bloom proudly along their gravel beds, silky petals of vivid reds, yellows and pinks, golden centers catching the sunlight.

What are they called? Yuzu will know.

Nothing has changed at first glance, and that’s mostly comforting to Ichigo.

Except there’s one thing that’s missing.

There are no spirits, he muses. No Hollows lurking nearby—good, he should hope so—but also no Souls as far as his senses tell him. He’s relieved at that realization—perhaps the local Shinigami finally picked up the slack. He’s trying to tell himself he feels happy about it, and yet he cannot shake the bittersweet taste in his mouth.

Odd to see Karakura being so normal, huh? Zangetsu comments, stealing the words from right underneath his tongue. Or whatever the mental equivalent is.

Makes me feel like even more like a freak of nature.

But that’s your biggest appeal, King~

Ichigo snickers under his breath. That’s your opinion.

Zangetsu doesn’t even hesitate. Yours too, seeing how I outfreak you by a mile and yet you’re still hooked.

He’s got a point, Ichigo has to admit. Zangetsu’s more unhinged moments have become… somewhat charming as of late, and Ichigo, for once, refuses to consider it a cause for concern.

He stops at the front porch. The doorbell to the right of the entrance door is glaring him down.

He should quit stalling, he’s painfully aware of it, but a part of him wants to summon the Senkaimon and return home. Tell Rukia to cancel his vacation day. Maybe there’s still time to organize tomorrow’s training session and give notice to the rookies. Hell, he doesn’t want to deal with any of this shit so badly that even Soul Society’s soul-sucking bureaucracy would be preferable in comparison.

His stomach twists uncomfortably at that thought.

“I’m such a piece of shit,” he mutters out loud, palms of his hands clenched so hard that his nails are digging into his skin. He savors the pain.

No, stinky, says Zangetsu in a disapproving tone. What did I say about bad-mouthing yourself?

That it’s insulting to Zangetsu as a proxy—Ichigo hasn’t forgotten.

“But it’s Mom’s memorial.”

It’s such a fucked up thing to admit. Especially after last year.

Don’t care, he insists. And we both know it’s not about the memorial itself—it’s about everything else.

Maybe, Ichigo allows. It doesn’t make it much better in his eyes, though, ‘cause the result is the same, no matter the reason.

Zangetsu must sense that there’s no arguing with Ichigo, so he drops the subject and nudges his attention towards the doorbell. Think we’ve been standing here long enough?

They have—just delaying the inevitable. He forces himself to raise his hand, feeling as if it turned to steel.

Well, here goes nothing, he thinks to Zangetsu, as he presses the wretched thing underneath his fingertip. He braces himself, carefully wiping his face of any emotion.

A moment later, there’s a sound of soft footsteps on the other side of the door. A clink of the key being turned. And then it opens, revealing Yuzu’s face brightening up as she sees him.

“Ichigo!” she exclaims, and suddenly he’s enveloped in a tight hug. Her arms are wrapped around his waist, and he only takes a fraction of a second to hug her back. “I missed you,” she murmurs into his robes.

“Missed you too, Yuzu.”

One of his hands brushes through her hair, tucking a stray strand behind her ear. It’s gotten long—tied up in a high pony-tail and reaching just underneath her shoulder blades. She’s gotten taller, too, now coming up just under his nose.

She looks more and more like Mom by the day.

Yuzu gives him one final squeeze before she takes him by the wrist, practically yanking him inside.

She shuts the door and as Ichigo tries to re-orient himself, he’s hit with a meaty scent. It makes his mouth water a little.

“I’m cooking dinner right now, so if you aren’t too hungry, you can wait till I’m finished. Shouldn’t take too long now.”

He follows her down the hallway and stops by the kitchen’s doorstep. He doesn’t go inside—the kitchen feels too hot. “It smells delicious.”

“Thanks!” she beams. The working space on the counter seems cluttered, a large pot sitting on top of the stove, with dishes scattered around—Ichigo probably disturbed her right in the middle of the cooking when he rang the bell.

He doesn’t comment on it.

“Or if you’re too hungry to wait,” she continues with her offer, “we still have some leftovers in the fridge.”

“Nah, I think I’ll wait,” he grins. “Your stew smells too good to pass.”

Her gaze softens into something familiar. “Alright, then.”

“Anyone else home?” he asks, eyeing the door by his right hand. He expected Dad and Karin to show up by this point.

“Yeah.” She puts the wooden spoon across the pot and lowers the heat down to low, then comes out of the kitchen and opens the door of the living room. “Dad! Ichigo’s home!”

Okay, he thinks to himself, might as well get it over with, and follows Yuzu into the living room.

“Oh!”

Isshin is laying on the couch, legs crossed, his head now turned sideways towards him. He’s holding a remote control in his right hand. The TV is tuned to a sports channel—a baseball game. Ichigo briefly catches an image of the pitcher throwing a ball across diamond-shaped field, before turning his attention back to Isshin.

“Well, I’ll be damned! Welcome back, Ichigo.”

Unsure of what to say, Ichigo offers a simple, “Hey.”

With a press of the mute button, Isshin cuts off the commentator mid-sentence. “Come give your Daddy a biiig hug!” He stands up, stepping into Ichigo’s personal space and throwing his arms wide.

“Cut it out, I’m not a child anymore,” Ichigo mutters as he side-steps to avoid Isshin’s attempts at physical contact, causing him to hug the air instead. Yuzu chuckles at the goofiness of that sight.

When Isshin collects himself, he gives Ichigo a look of pure betrayal. “You’re so mean to me, Ichigo,” he whines, “I haven’t seen you in over a year!”

Ichigo shrugs. That’s not going to work on him and they both know it. “Well, I’m here now, sooo…” he trails off.

“And that’s what’s important,” Isshin concedes.

For a moment, he looks over Ichigo, head to toe.

Ichigo shifts uncomfortably, feeling hot in his cheeks. He knows he isn’t under scrutiny, not anymore. And it has been a long time since they last saw each other. Yet, the attention still makes him feel hyper-aware of his own skin, questioning if he imagined the way his body had filled out.

“You look older,” Isshin comments, a hint of concern seeping into his voice. “You shouldn’t be aging this fast. Is everything okay, kid?”

“I’m good. Just losing the baby-face.” He doesn’t think he physically aged a full human year, but he supposes he can ask Isane about it on his next check up. He’s still trying to wrap his mind around the rate of aging in Soul Society.

“If you’re sure…” Isshin sounds entirely unconvinced, but willing to let it go. Ichigo appreciates that.

“Yeah, don’t worry.”

“And everything else? How’s your new position?” Then his expression shifts. “I had to hear from Urahara that they made you a Lieutenant,” the complaint obvious.

Ichigo cringes internally. I swear to god, he and Kyōraku are like old ladies at the market.

Worse, replies Zangetsu cheerfully.

“You know how the job is, ex-Captain Shiba,” Ichigo fires back. Isshin lets out a bark of laughter at that. “Mostly dealing with training the squad members and paperwork—got used to it. Rukia’s the one that handles all the mission assignments and interpersonal drama, though.”

“I’m proud of you for handling everything like a champ.”

Ichigo cups the side of his neck. “Thanks.”

Isshin only hums in acknowledgement.

There’s a moment of silence that Ichigo doesn’t know how to handle, so he says, “By the way, Rangiku and Hitsugaya told me to say ‘hi’. Rangiku said you should stop by at some point. She’s gonna drink you under the table.”

Isshin lets out a boisterous laugh. “Tell her she’ll have to wait until I kick the bucket for real,” he says, his grin turning more nostalgic. “But I’ll take her up on it when I’m dead.”

“That’s so morbid, Dad,” Yuzu chastises him with a disapproving look on her face. “You shouldn’t joke about it.” Then she turns to Ichigo. “And you,” she points at him. “You’re not jumping into danger, are you?”

He rolls his eyes. “The only combat I’ve seen for the past year are the sparring sessions with my zanpakutō spirit. You can rest easy.”

“Good,” she replies, relief sapping the tension away from her posture. A small smile appears on her face. “Keep it that way.”

“You’re still sparring with your sword?” Isshin quips in, surprised.

Ichigo’s stomach churns. He bites down the sharp, None of your business, that was reflexively forming on his tongue, and forces himself to remain calm.

He wonders if Isshin is searching for something in Ichigo’s reaction. If he’s prodding for a reason.

Whatever the case, Ichigo can’t let himself slip around him. Can’t get too defensive, can’t show that he cares too much. He can’t forget to keep his thoughts inside, when he’s speaking to Zangetsu. Or reach out for the handle of his blade like he usually does when he subconsciously seeks comfort.

He’s been on edge about it since he got here.

“And what, let myself get rusty?” he says in a joking tone, with all the ease he doesn’t feel. Good enough cover up.

“Fair enough.”

Isshin doesn’t get it—he never will—and Ichigo will never admit to his relationship with Zangetsu, because it’s theirs.

No need to put it under the microscope for anyone else to question and prod and tell them they’re perverting the oh so sacred bond between the master and their blade. Or whatever the fuck nonsense they teach them at the Academy.

He couldn’t care less about what he’s supposed to do as a Shinigami and how he’s meant to forcefully bend Zangetsu to his will. Clearly that approach isn’t working, since good two thirds of the officers haven’t even been able to learn their blade’s name.

And Dad, having been a Captain and all, should know best that it takes decades to master the Bankai after attaining it—if you’re doing it the old fashioned Soul Society way, that is—and he still expected Ichigo to drop all contact with Zangetsu? Like it’s a chore to tend to your blade past immediate need in battle?

It’s insulting.

So sue Ichigo for not itching to find out what names his father would call him this time. He doesn’t need his opinions where Zangetsu is concerned, and it’s not out of shame or cowardice that he chooses to keep their relationship in private.

(He’s so full of shit again—he’s just scared shitless of facing Isshin’s judgment.)

Can’t blame you for wanting to keep me all to yourself, King, Ichigo hears from Zangetsu’s side of the bond. But I don’t think he was looking for anything in particular. Calm down.

It snaps him out of his own head.

He’s right. Isshin isn’t suspicious of them. He’s not looking to confirm or deny anything.

The concept of loving your zanpakutō spirit is so beyond anything in Soul Society, it might as well not exist. Not just impossible, it’s not even one of the options.

He sends a silent, Thanks, to his partner and tries to find his footing again.

“Where’s Karin?” Ichigo asks, both to change the topic, but also because he’d like to see her. He missed both his sisters immensely during his stay in Soul Society and he has so little time even now that he’s visiting.

“Yuzu?” Isshin looks towards her, raising his eyebrow.

“She’s in her room, Dad.”

“She better be,” Isshin mutters under his breath. “Can you go get her?”

“Of course,” she says lightly, then opens the door and disappears into the hallway with fast-paced steps.

A moment of silence stretches between them yet again. Not because he ran out of things to say—Ichigo just always waits for Isshin to bring up something first. He’s more comfortable letting Isshin steer the conversation. It's a habit he built up in his childhood, after Mom’s passing and before he came out.

When it's obvious that Isshin isn't keen on starting a new topic, Ichigo decides to ask, “And how's Karakura? Are the twins doing okay?”

Isshin halts for a moment, voice dropping low. “It's been difficult. For all of us.” He pauses. He looks… worried? Troubled? It’s hard for Ichigo to put his finger on it, but it’s uncanny. “Not much has changed in the grand scheme of things. I work in the clinic. The girls work hard with their studies. Yuzu wants to apply to a culinary university, Karin wants to pursue sports—they’re both good kids. But the house feels more empty, and I don't remember the last time we ate a meal together, like a family.“

“Dad…”

“We’ll be okay. Don’t worry about us too much. Just—they both took your passing hard.”

Ichigo’s throat closes up. He feels like he just swallowed a boulder. He knew that would be the case, logically. God knows he’d be a shell of himself if either of them took his place. And yet, hearing it laid out like that, so simple and clear, hits him all over again.

He had nightmares about them getting hurt for weeks after. Not being there to save them.

Guess I worried too much about the wrong kind of hurt.

“I’m sorry,” he says weakly, and it’s not even close to being enough, but he can’t undo his death and the apology is the only thing he can offer.

Isshin shakes his head. “Not your fault. Unless you killed yourself,” he makes an attempt at a joke, but it falls flat.

On a technicality, that’s exactly what happened. Not on purpose, obviously, but there’s only so much spiritual pressure a human body can withstand before it gets crushed under the weight of its soul.

When Ichigo doesn’t say anything for a long moment, Isshin sighs, “Look. Maybe you could stop by more often. At least for them, if nothing else.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Ichigo nods. He could stop by more often, maybe… “I’d have to take it up with Rukia first.”

Isshin’s face brightens up. “Excellent!” His tone makes Ichigo’s stomach sink. “I’m telling you—the girls will be beside themselves to have you by their side again.”

“Jesus Christ, Dad, chill a little. I didn’t promise anything, yet.”

“But you said—”

“That if I did, I would have to get Rukia’s okay first. I didn’t promise anything for sure. There’s too much that isn’t up to me.”

He hates when Isshin twists his words like that.

“Okay, okay. So maybe I went a little too fast,” Isshin sighs with a soft chuckle. “I just got excited see my kid more often, that’s all.”

“Damn, Ichigo,” Karin’s voice calls out from behind him. Both her and Yuzu got downstairs at some point, though Ichigo isn’t sure when this happened, nor how much they’ve heard. He doesn’t want to think about it either. “You’ve been here for five minutes and you’re already fighting with Dad. Gotta be some kind of record.”

Karin steps into the living room and leans on the wall by the door.

“We’re not fighting.” He frowns. Like, sure, he’s tempering Isshin’s expectations so that he doesn’t get overexcited, but that’s a far cry from arguing. Their fights usually look a lot different.

Yuzu’s sharp voice comes from the hallway, “Do you have to egg them on?”

“Do you have to be such a joykill?” Karin counters, crossing her arms on her chest. “All I said is true and since I was dragged out of my room for this—yeah! I am gonna speak my goddamn mind.”

“Don’t be so dramatic,” Isshin says with a disapproving stare. “I called you to come and greet your—brother.”

“Right. I almost forgot how much you’re obsessing over him nowadays.” She rolls her eyes.

“Karin,” he says her name slowly, carefully—like an unspoken threat.

She groans, leaning further back on the wall for the support. “Fine. Hi, Ichigo. Looking good for a dead guy. It’s good that you stopped by this time, I’m sure Dad’s gonna have a field trip with that.”

Ichigo blinks, dumbfounded.

“There—can I go back to my room now?” she asks, eyes fixed on Isshin expectantly.

“I didn’t raise my daughter to be this rude.”

“Well, tough shit,” she mutters, “I’m outta here,” and then walks away, ignoring Isshin’s calls after her. Yuzu just steps to the side of hallway to let Karin pass.

“What was that?” Ichigo mutters, but his question goes largely ignored, because Isshin takes five quick steps around the sofa to get near Mom’s poster hanging on the wall next to it—opposite to where Karin was standing just a few moments ago.

“My dearest wife!” In all his familiar theatrics, Isshin falls to his knees, clasping his hands together in a fist above his head. “Our daughter has grown up to be so disrespectful! Our own flesh and blood!” he continues his wailing. “Unbelievable!“

Ichigo shoots Yuzu a knowing look. Yuzu just shakes her head with an exasperated sigh. Despite the lack of words, the message is clear—Dad will be dad, we can’t do anything about it.

“Am I being punished for my mistakes? Oh, where have I gone wrong?”

He’s being such a creep, Zangetsu’s distaste is obvious. It’s comforting knowing that he is not alone in his disgust of Isshin’s behavior. It makes him feel little less insane.

When is he not? Ichigo replies. Seems like it’s gotten worse now.

Zangetsu has stayed silent for the most of the altercation, but Ichigo could feel him close to the front, paying attention to Isshin’s behavior.

“Be serious, Dad,” he says.

“It’s just so sad,” Isshin says, wiping away a non-existent tear from his eyes. Thankfully, he does actually cease his theatrics after that.

He sits down on the sofa with a groan. “Kids these days have no respect for their elders.”

Whether that was a joke or not, Ichigo can’t be sure. So, he just ignores it.

“Is something going on with Karin?” he asks instead.

“Puberty,” answers Isshin with a wave of his hand. “Oh, the woes of being a teenage girl…”

It didn’t look quite that simple to him, whatever is making Karin act out like this. But it tracks—Isshin had been ignoring Ichigo’s issues until they blew up in his face, when Ichigo was that age. Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.  

Ichigo bites his tongue.

Yuzu coughs to get their attention. “I’m going to the kitchen,” she says. “I need to check on the stew.”

“I’ll go with you,” Ichigo blurts out, “I can help out.”

Yuzu gives him a surprised look. “Are you sure?”

“Dead serious.”

I see what you did there, Zangetsu grins at his joke.

“Don’t you start,” Yuzu narrows her eyes and points the index and middle finger at him in an ‘I’m watching you,’ gesture. “But thanks. For offering.”

“I guess we’ll catch up more at dinner,” says Isshin, laying down on the sofa again, back into the comfortable, lazy position he was in, when Ichigo got here first.

“Yeah,” Ichigo says.

“Shouldn’t take too long,” Yuzu mentions, before gesturing for Ichigo to follow her into the kitchen.

Isshin hums in acknowledgement, then takes the remote controller. He unmutes the TV.

The kitchen is smaller than Ichigo remembers. It feels cramped—especially due to the mess of the cooking process. Dirty dishes are piled up in the sink, and there’s a cutting board on the counter, vegetable peels piled on top of it. Jars and packs with spices and seasoning are placed conveniently within the reach of the stove-top.

The smell is wonderful—the scent of cooking meat and potatoes makes his impatient stomach growl. He didn’t eat anything since the lunch break—couldn’t bring himself to.

Told you so, quips Zangetsu, thinking back to the end of Ichigo’s shift. He pestered him to eat something before coming to the World of the Living, but Ichigo only brushed him off. He was too tense to feel hunger.

Yes, yes, darling, you’re always right. Ichigo suppresses a laugh at the feeling of exasperation coming from Zangetsu. I guess I’ll try not to eat the entire pot when Yuzu finishes it, he jokes.

Who are you kidding, you’ll inhale it.

Yeah, he admits. Zangetsu is right. Four years on testosterone and he still tends to underestimate his appetite.

“Sorry about the mess,” Yuzu says, as she assume her position back at the stove. “I’m making the meat and potato stew.”

“Beef or pork?”

“Pork. Dad likes it better.”

If pressed for answer, Ichigo will admit he prefers beef—he finds the texture of pork far too disparate for his liking, and he’s not the biggest fan of the fat either. But he’s not about to start complaining about Yuzu’s food. He knows from experience how much time and effort it is to keep something warm on the table every day.

“Most of the cooking is already done,” she continues, “I just need to blanch the noodles and peas.”

“What do you need me to do?” he asks. He’s more than competent in the kitchen, but he would hate to make nuisance of himself because he’s in Yuzu’s way.

“You can clean up the counter for now,” she says, pulling out a small pot from the cupboard under the sink and filling it with warm water. “And then the dishes.” She sets it next to the pot of stew, setting the gas of the stove-top on fire.

Ichigo nods. “On it.”

He works fast, scooping all the stray potato peels that fell out of the cutting board and onto the kitchen counter, and putting them back on the pile. Some pesky motherfuckers have fallen on the floor so he picks them up as well. Then he walks with the board to the trash can behind the door to dump the peels. He makes sure not to restrict Yuzu’s movement as she reaches into one of the upper cupboards for the noodle pack.

Next, as if on autopilot, he grabs the bottle of soy sauce to put it away, only to be stopped by Yuzu. “I’m still going to need this. The broth is a little undersalted.”

“Right, sorry.”

He takes the empty noodle packaging from her and throws it out as well.

Dishes next. Soap, sponge, hot water. There’s a couple of bowls that need washing. Two mugs. One pot. Nothing is egregiously disgusting or dry. It’s probably only been there since morning.

Right. It’s Thursday. Yuzu wouldn’t have been home until later in the afternoon, at which point she needed to start cooking the stew.

The monotony of scrubbing and putting away the wet dishes in this familiar old kitchen gets him into a headspace—completely zoned out, but also serene, in a way. This might be the first time since he stepped foot into the house that he doesn’t feel those annoying jitters right under his skin. He’s not sure whether that’s a good or a bad thing.

It’s not until Yuzu says, “Here, how’s this?” and puts a spoon in his mouth, that he returns to himself.

The umami of dashi stock is nicely complemented by the saltiness of the soy sauce and the taste of the meat and veggies incorporated into the broth. And underneath all that, there’s a subtle hint of tangy sweetness—mirin. It came together really nicely.

“I like it.”

“Does it need more salt?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “If anything, a dash of rice vinegar.”

Yuzu tastes another spoon of the broth herself. “Yeah, you’re right.”

At that, Ichigo goes back to finish the dishes. He scrubs and rinses the remaining mugs, then decides he might as well clean the sink, while he’s at it. It’s not terribly dirty, but it could stand to get a scrub.

Mostly, he just wants to help take some chores off Yuzu’s plate. He hated doing the clean up after cooking, when it was his responsibility as the eldest daughter. When you’re tired from cooking and hungry, the last thing on your mind is dealing with the mess you’ve left behind. But each time he put it off, it only came back to haunt him later—after the meal, the next day—whatever. Yuzu is much more disciplined than he used to be. She never let up on the chores.

He’s watching the soap bubbles pop and drain as he washes the sink with hot water, leaving behind a shiny, polished metal. It’s nothing special, but he’s satisfied enough with the results.

None of this should have been Yuzu’s responsibility, he thinks to himself. He’s acutely aware of it. As the older brother, he should have just sucked it up and stuck with the chores.

Yours neither, Zangetsu says, but Ichigo is having none of it.

She was only ten when Ichigo refused to keep cooking for his father and cleaning after him. Barely a year older than Ichigo was, when Mom died, and he had to fill in her shoes.

And then he got himself mixed up with Soul Society and Aizen, and by the time he lost his powers and returned to his mundane old life, Yuzu had fully replaced him and he got… complacent.

That’s not what I meant, Zangetsu says, tone impatient. A feeling of frustration is bleeding through the bond to Ichigo. Where was your sorry excuse of a father?

He’s tired.

Zangetsu. Can we not?

Fine. For today.

He knows what Zangetsu is getting at—but what does it matter? Yuzu still ended up handling it all at the tender age of ten.

He looks at her, but she’s enamored with the chore—taking the pot off the heat. She wipes her forehead, then turns to Ichigo, “And done! I’ll leave it to sit for a bit, though.”

“Yeah,” he says as he sits down behind the dining table. “If I’m being honest, I don’t want to deal with the whole circus yet.”

Yuzu grimaces, but joins him at the table. “Tell me about it! They’ve been driving me crazy, lately.”

Yeah, I bet.

“What’s going on with them?” If anyone is going to give him actual answers about what happened to everyone in this household in his absence, it’ll be Yuzu. “They’ve always clashed bad, but this was something else…”

“Dad’s just being stupid about Karin’s friend group.”

“Karin’s friends? But they’ve hung out together for the longest time? I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

“Yeah, but she joined the soccer club—on the boys’ team.”

“Took her long enough.” Nothing so far seems like that much out of the ordinary.

“Right, but Dad is making a huge deal out of it. He doesn’t like that she’s hanging out with so many boys,” Yuzu rolls her eyes, air-quoting the last part with a mock-impression of Isshin.

Ichigo cringes. Of course. What else did he expect? “Did he try to stop her from going there?”

“You bet! Even grounded her when she ignored him! And then she sneaked out for a match last week.”

“He must have loved that.”

“Like hell,” she sighs. “They’ve been constantly at each other’s throat since then.”

“And you?” he asks.

Yuzu looks up at him. “Me?”

“How are you holding up. With the two of them.”

She picks at the edge of the placemat in front of her. “I'm fine?” She doesn’t sound too sure of herself.

“If it ever gets too much—”

“I know—I have the Soul Tickets.” She drops the mat. “But seriously, you can't expect me to come running to you every time Karin gets a little rude or Dad gets a little crazy.”

“I know.” He exhales. “I just feel bad that I can't be here.”

“Ichigo.” Firm. She meets his eyes. “I'm fine.”

(Drop it.)

“Okay.”

The kitchen clock ticks. Ichigo looks at his hands on the table, sitting there in silence. He doesn’t press further.

Yuzu pushes her chair. “I'll just go set the table.” She stands up.

“Okay,” he repeats.

The atmosphere at the dining table starts off. Karin is sitting opposite to Ichigo, but she’s only looking into her plate, picking out pieces of potatoes and meat with the chopsticks and then letting them fall back to the broth. She’s not paying attention to the awkward small talk that Yuzu—who is sitting next to her—is trying to make, nor Isshin’s nonchalant demeanor, oblivious to everyone else’s discomfort.

Ichigo tries to engage—he compliments Yuzu’s food, cracks a joke about the dishes, and steers the conversation away from the heavier topics like tomorrow’s memorial or Karin’s attitude or Dad’s abysmal attempts at parenting.

He chooses the holy grail of the safe topics—complaining about Soul Society’s bureaucracy, to which Isshin takes an opportunity to go on a rant about the efficiency of electronic systems in the Human Realm and how, quote, they should just get Kisuke to build them the internet or something.

Ichigo doesn’t point out the ridiculousness of that statement. “I’d love to see that,” he says with a chuckle instead.

Zangetsu is right there with him in his mind, laughing at the idea of Urahara personally installing optical cables under all of Soul Society, while the several hundred year old spiritual beings struggle to figure out the difference between the web browser and the search bar.

The heaviness lifts up, at least in part, and Ichigo relaxes enough to let himself enjoy the meal.

He even asks about the baseball match that Isshin was watching, then listens to him shit-talk the entire team. Apparently, ‘those incompetent losers,’ as Isshin calls them, lost, because they were ‘half-asleep’ the whole time, and only ‘woke up’ for the final ten minutes of the match.

Yuzu chastises him for being mean—“I’m sure they were trying their best,”—but seeing his Dad get this fired up about something that matters so little makes Ichigo chuckle fondly.

He doesn’t even notice that dinner is almost over until he dips the chopsticks in to look for more noodles, only to find nothing but broth left. He sets them on the table, then picks up the bowl and downs its warm contents in one go.

“Yuzu, that was amazing,” Ichigo says after he puts the now-empty bowl on the table. “Thanks for the meal.”

She beams at him. “I’m glad you liked it!”

“It was a bit plain—in my opinion. Definitely undersalted,” interjects Isshin, also having just finished his portion.

“Oh,” Yuzu says weakly. “I suppose.“

“And I’m still a little hungry,” he continues in the same breath.

“Do you want seconds?” Yuzu extends her hand, waiting for his bow. “Let me.“

“No.” he waves his hand dismissively. “I’ll get the leftover chicken from yesterday. I liked it better.”

“There you go again,” Karin murmurs under her breath, speaking up for the first time during the dinner. She tears her gaze from her bowl of half-eaten stew to directly address Isshin. “Nitpicking stupid shit.”

Isshin’s eyes narrow. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” she shrugs, but her eyes are raging and the palms of her hands are tightly clenched into fists. “You always criticize everything and everyone.”

“What are you talking about?” he asks. “All I said was that I would have liked more salt in the dish.”

“Yeah,” she laughs, but her voice lacks any humor. “Like you can’t pick up a shaker and season it to your taste. And what about yesterday?” she pauses, stubbornly staring Isshin down. “You complained that the chicken was dry. Now you’re saying you liked it better. Almost like Yuzu’s food can never be good enough. Because it’s not Mom’s, right?”

“Don’t bring Masaki into this. It sullies her memory.”

“Everything I do lately sullies her memory, somehow,” she complains, rolling her eyes. “Can’t have my style, my interests, because you want me to be more like Yuzu—you say. But then you want Yuzu to be more like her.”

“Give me one example—” he starts, but it’s a bad idea, because it seems that Karin was waiting for Isshin to say something like that. She interrupts him before he can even finish the sentence.

“Oh, Karin,” she says in a deeper, mocking voice “why don’t you grow out your hair like Yuzu? Why do you have to wear such baggy clothes? They don’t fit you very nicely. You shouldn’t play soccer with boys—because apparently, every single friend on the team is out there to sleep with me, and we can’t have that because that would make me a whore.”

“Karin,” Isshin says in a warning tone, glaring her down. “You’re out of line.”

“Oh, I am, am I?” She laughs. It’s bitter. “What about Ichigo? Is he out of line too? You seemed to think so.”

The fuck? he mouths at her, but she isn’t paying him any attention, looking only at Isshin.

“This isn’t about him.”

“It was about him this morning, when you were whining like a little baby about how he’s not gonna show up again because he thinks he’s too good to pay respects to Mom, now that he’s a Lieutenant. He’s been dead—like, actually dead for a year and even he can’t escape your criticism.”

A shiver of ice washes over Ichigo and glues him to the chair when he hears Karin’s words. He’s looking at Isshin in disbelief, mouth wide open. He can’t believe it.

But Isshin doesn’t address him. He’s clenching his jaw before he bites out, “That’s enough.”

“Oh, I’ve barely started. And how about Mom? Obviously, she’s the only one that can be perfect, but I bet if she was out there in Soul Society, you wouldn’t even bother with the memorial. You’d probably be complaining about her leaving you.”

“Karin,” he hisses out in a low, dangerous tone that Ichigo has never heard from him before. His fists are clenched, noticeably shaking. “Go to your room.”

She stands up, unfazed by her father’s cold fury. “With pleasure,” she says in a voice full of venom. And then she leaves, her side bumping into Ichigo’s shoulder.

The physical contact gets Ichigo out of the stupor, and he’s suddenly aware of the rising fire in his chest. “The fuck, Dad?!” he barks out, clenching the palms of his hands. “Why wouldn’t I come to Mom’s memorial?!” Heat runs into his face—cheeks and forehead—and his breathing gets faster and heavier. The tug of his Gentai Kaijo seal reminds him to keep his reiatsu in check.

The expression on Isshin’s face is blank. He doesn’t look uncomfortable or ashamed, there’s no hint of regret in those eyes.

Does he really think so little of Ichigo? The realization sends a sharp jolt of pain to his chest.

He learned not to expect anything from his father, and yet he still finds new ways of disappointing Ichigo.

“I don’t know,” Isshin says, narrowing his eyes, tone of voice turning more accusatory the more he speaks. “You didn’t show up the last time.” He raises a pointed eyebrow at Ichigo.

Are you fucking kidding me?

“Because I was dying!”

“Well, you were done dying in time for the memorial!”

Ichigo can’t believe his ears. “You asshole!”

He died barely a month before the memorial, did he expect Ichigo to show up when he was adjusting to Soul Society and grieving his own death—his own life that was taken away from him? He was so far out of it that the time flew by and away from him, and he only realized afterwards, that the day of Mom’s memorial had passed.

He still hates himself for missing it, despite Zangetsu’s best efforts. At times, he almost believes his partner.

But hearing Isshin say that, when he has no idea what Ichigo was going through—it snaps something inside of him.

“No wonder Karin hates your fucking guts!” he yells out, and when he sees Isshin’s eyes harden and hands clench, he takes it in and savors the feeling.

He hit where it hurts. Good.

Isshin recovers quickly, though. He shakes his head, as if refusing Ichigo’s words. Stubborn geezer. “Karin is a hormonal teenager! She just likes being difficult right now!”

Ichigo’s mind reels at his words—Isshin is so out of touch it hurts. It also explains a whole lot of his behavior early on in Ichigo’s transition.

“Because you practically told her to cut off her entire friend group!”

“A girl her age shouldn’t be hanging out with a bunch of—perverts! I’m just looking out for her, as a father should!”

Oh, now that’s rich.

“So I was allowed to fight spirits that devour human souls in my free time but Karin can’t even meet with her soccer group?” His laugh is dry, cynical. “Are you listening to yourself, old man? Have you finally lost your mind?”

“Well, that’s what you wanted, isn’t it?!”

Ichigo’s blood is boiling with anger to the point of trembling.

“Did I ask you to keep me in the dark while you knew about everything that was going on? While I blamed myself for Mom’s death for years?” He has to consciously remind himself not to jump out of the chair and throttle Isshin right then and there.

“You wanted me to treat you as a man and I did!”

“What do you—?” He doesn’t really register Isshin’s words. They don’t make sense, until—it finally clicks in his mind. “Are you really telling me if Karin or Yuzu got powers instead, you would have intervened sooner?”

“Really?!“

Isshin looks genuinely at a loss at first, gasping for air like a stupid goldfish that jumped out of the tank. He stutters, “No, I—maybe—” His face twists in an ugly grimace, composure shattering under the pressure.

Ichigo knows he should stop feeding into it, or it’s just going to keep getting worse.

He also doesn’t want to. Not now.

“So you’re just full of shit and used my gender as an excuse to quit parenting. Father of the year!”

“Don’t you dare—I did everything I could for you—all on my own at that! I gave you the roof over your head, clothed and fed you! Do you know how many parents don’t even do that! And this is the thanks I get! I even let you dress however you pleased. Do you know how hard it was to sort out your uniform with your school, the new spelling of your name—hell, I pulled so many favors at the hospital just to get your hormones prescription!”

“Sure! After you treated me like absolute garbage for two years! And not even a single apology! How rich coming from you!”

“Is that what you want?” Isshin scoffs, as if he finds the mere idea of it repulsive. “An apology?”

“No, I know better than that.” Ichigo says through gritted teeth. No apology is a hundred times better than fake apology to shut him up. “There’s no point in it. I don’t want to just be paid lip service.“

But Isshin continues, as if he hasn’t heard Ichigo. “Do you want me to apologize for taking time to get used to it? When you decided to change your gender—you—you can’t just expect me to snap my fingers and like, adjust within 5 minutes! Of course I made mistakes in the beginning!”

“I didn’t expect you to be perfect, I just expected you to not be cruel!”

“When have I ever been cruel?”

“When you used my dead mother against me!”

There’s a moment of stunned silence.

Then Ichigo adds, “And fuck, you just did it again.”

He remembers being freshly twelve, mere days after his egg cracked, and giving himself an ugly haircut, because he couldn’t stomach immortalizing his long bright locks in a class picture they were taking the next day. The haircut he gave himself was uneven—too short in some places and too long in others. He had to get it cleaned up by a hairdresser, who, despite Dad’s long requests and pleas, couldn’t make it look unequivocally feminine.

When they got home, Dad didn’t stop muttering about the hairdresser. It wasn’t a flattering choice of words. “She made you look like a soldier. Stupid bitch.”

“It’s okay,” Ichigo tried to calm him down. “I really like how it looks.”

Now, he knows that it was the wrong thing to say. But then—then he said it with his whole chest. Hoping that his own satisfaction would be enough to quell Dad’s anger.

“What,” he scoffed back then, almost as if laughing at his own joke, “do you wanna be a boy?”

Ichigo could have laughed it off. Said that just ‘cause he likes the short haircut, doesn’t mean he has to be a boy. Which is technically true for others—Tatsuki, for one—but he’d be lying for himself. So instead, he said, looking up expectantly at his Dad, “Maybe. Would that be so bad?”

His father blinked at him. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah…”

He shook his head. “Out of question.” And then he said a bunch of stuff that Ichigo made effort to forget over the years.

And he succeeded, for the most part—except for one thing.

Isshin was staring at Mom’s poster, but he didn’t fall to his knees, didn’t burst into tears, didn’t try to hug the wall. He simply looked away from Ichigo, fixing his gaze on his wife’s cheerful face, and asked, “What do you think your mother would say about that?”

For the first time since her death, Ichigo’s eyes filled up with tears, as he choked out, “Well, why don’t you go ask her?” and ran upstairs to his bedroom.

The hitching sound at the table snaps him out of the memory and back to reality.

Yuzu—whom Ichigo forgot was still at the table—is furiously wiping her eyes with the back of her hands.

Shit, she’s crying.

“I swear! We can’t even eat together,” she forces out between her sobs. “I’m done—done trying to make one normal meal for this family.”

“Yuzu—” Ichigo starts, but he’s cut off by the sound of Yuzu’s chair being pushed away as she stands up and steps away from the table.

“No. Fuck both of you! And fuck Karin, too.” Pause. “Fuck all of you!“

And then she’s gone.

Ichigo looks once more towards Isshin, who looks pale as a ghost. “Good job, Dad.”

Another unpleasant surprise of the day comes when he opens the door to his old bedroom, only to find Karin sprawled all over his bed, face down and headphones on—blasting the music so loud that even Ichigo can hear the faint sound of it.

He comes up to the bed and shakes her shoulder with one hand. “Hey. Hey!”

She immediately jumps upwards to sit up, eyes flicking left to right until they focus on Ichigo. Her posture relaxes and with a roll of her eyes, she takes off the headphones and chucks them away at the lower side of the bed. “What do you want?”

“My room,” he says. “What are you even doing here?”

“It’s my room now, idiot. Go away.”

“Since when?”

“Since you kicked the bucket. Go. Away!” she says more forcefully, glaring up at him.

“And where am I supposed to go, genius?” He crosses his arms.

“I don’t care,” she shrugs. “The guest room. I guess.”

“Since when do we have a guest room?”

“Since always. Third door on the left.”

“That’s Dad’s study room.”

“He never uses it and it has a couch. What else do you need?”

Annoyingly, he can’t find any fault in her logic.

“…Fine,” he mutters. He’s too tired to fight her on it and a part of him that doesn’t feel bitter and betrayed can recognize that ousting her from the room she’s been using for over a year would be an asshole move on his part.

He turns to the door.

“You know where the spare pillows and blankets are!” she calls out after him, as he starts closing the door.

He gets them from the drawer under Isshin’s bed. Fortunately, his father is still downstairs, somewhere in the living room, so Ichigo just quickly grabs what he needs and then bolts to the study room. He honestly doesn’t want to cross roads with him and if he could leave, he would already be back in Soul Society. The urge to open the Senkaimon is higher than ever.

The only thing stopping him is the thought of his Mom.

He can make it in this house till tomorrow. He’s been through worse.

The moment the door to the study room closes, he finds himself sitting on the couch, staring at the grayish-blue carpet. He left everything on the floor beside the couch—he doesn’t feel like setting it up right now. He leans back, sagging into the crease.

He doesn’t have a room in this house, anymore. He feels like a stranger here.

Guest room, he muses.

It’s so obvious in retrospect. Why wouldn’t they use an empty room for something else? The world doesn’t stop turning when you die. But for some reason, the thought didn’t even occur to him.

This was a bad idea. He should have come tomorrow and meet everyone at the memorial.

He reaches out, Zangetsu?

The response is immediate. King.

You’ve been awfully silent, he points out. He hadn’t felt anything coming from his partner since the beginning of the dinner. It’s unlike you to not have an opinion on anything and everything.

Oh, I have opinions, Zangetsu says, but if I let them through, you might’ve killed him.

Still might, he jokes.

I can help with that, Zangetsu offers.

Ichigo still doesn’t feel like doing anything, but since that’s unlikely to change, he figures he might at least get it over with. At least with the set up out of the way, he can at least try to get some rest.

He doesn’t bother with pulling out the couch. It’s just one night—he’ll be fine. He sets up the bedsheets relatively quickly, then throws the pillow and the blanket across the couch. His robes and socks are the next to go—onto Isshin’s chair.

When he’s just in his boxers, he turns off the lights and slips under the covers.

The couch is too slim and fairly uncomfortable—he can feel the individual springs underneath his back. But at least it’s long enough for him. A part of him worried if he’d have to dangle his feet from the edge—but no. He fits in there well enough.

He tosses to his side.

The fight keeps replaying in his mind, over and over, like a broken record.

He thinks he’s too good to pay respects to Mom.

It stings that this is what his own father thinks of him.

It stings even more that he can see why.

And all the trans shit—what came over him to make him bring it up? Ichigo should feel relieved that they don’t talk about it. What good would it even do? He should be grateful that Isshin changed his tune eventually, for reasons that elude Ichigo to this day. He shouldn’t be so hung up on bygones.

Zangetsu, he reaches out, can you help me out? He’s getting frustrated and annoyed that he can’t fall asleep.

He hasn’t needed Zangetsu’s interference after his first month in Soul Society, and he was proud of that. Regarded it as a sort of accomplishment that he adjusted to his afterlife. He feels like this encounter with his family made him regress to what he was like before, but he can’t afford to spend the whole night overthinking.

You need to be up at ass o’clock tomorrow, Zangetsu reminds him, but I’ll help. Always.

A moment later, Ichigo feels a gentle tug on his soul, and then a falling sensation. He lands with a thud into a comfortable king-sized bed in a familiar room in one of the skyscrapers in their Inner World. Zangetsu’s favorite.

He’s there with Ichigo, laying by his side, eyes scanning Ichigo’s face in concern. A pale hand reaches out to him, brushing the unruly hair away from his eyes and shifting downwards to cup his cheek. Ichigo leans into the touch like a sunflower searching for the sunlight.

He moves closer, puts his hand over Zangetsu’s bare shoulder, who, in turn, slips his past Ichigo’s waist. Their kiss is just a slow press of their lips, lasting just a short moment before they break apart, but they stay close enough to feel each other’s breath on their faces.

“I needed that,” Ichigo says in a whisper. He’s used to going about his day with Zangetsu dematerialized, but being back in Karakura put him on the edge he feels only rarely nowadays. “I was going insane.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I can imagine—I was there.”

“Oh, shush, you smartass.”

He untangles his limbs from Zangetsu’s. Lays on his back, staring blankly at the white ceiling above him.

“What’cha thinking about, partner?”

“Just—tomorrow. There’s still the memorial to attend to.”

“And then we’re back to pushing pencils in Soul Society,” Zangetsu reminds him.

Yeah. He can manage that. But… “Then there’s the next year. And the next.”

Zangetsu nods, carefully, but doesn’t say anything.

“And the next after that—until when? Until Dad dies?” Ichigo shakes his head. The words he’s letting out of his mouth make him sick to his stomach, but he can’t stop himself. “Except he’s a Shinigami, so he can stick with the routine even after that.”

He doesn’t realize he’s clenching his fists, until Zangetsu pries his right one open and entwines their fingers together. Ichigo shifts back on his side, face to face with Zangetsu.

“I don’t know,” Zangetsu mutters.

Ichigo’s eyes burn. “It’s not like any of this shit even matters—she isn’t in any sort of afterlife!”

He almost chokes on the sob that rips out of his throat after that.

Yhwach absorbed her soul like he did all other Quincies during Auswählen, and now his corpse is rotting on the Soul King’s throne, cut in half by none other than Ichigo himself.

He wonders what she would think of him now, if she saw him as he is. If she would even recognize him. What she’d think about Zangetsu. What she’d say.

He tries to imagine it, but his memory fails him—he cannot conjure a clear image of her beyond the unmoving poster on the wall in the living room. He cannot remember the sound of her voice. He cannot even guess if her reaction would be more in line with what he wishes for, or if she’d take Isshin’s side. There’s just… nothing.

His chest clenches in pain and a string of ugly and wet sobs wreak havoc on his body.

Throughout it all, Zangetsu just keeps him in his embrace, picking up the pieces of his heart and holding them together like they’re something precious.

The next day, he wakes up about two hours before they’re supposed to head out to the grave. He feels absolutely exhausted, and it takes him a while to fully become conscious. Half an hour later, he’s dressed and capable of processing thoughts, he lays on the couch, staring religiously at the screen of his soul pager in his hand.

No orders.

No emergencies, either.

Seems like all the spiritual activity in Karakura disappeared with Ichigo.

Logically, he knew that was the case. Leaking his reiatsu left and right with no control made for an attractive hunting spot, so when you take that away, it only reasons that the Hollows will cease with it. So, yeah, he assumed that Karakura would become less of a freakshow—but he didn’t expect it to become that mundane.

Had everything been his fault?

King, you’re forgetting Aizen, Zangetsu interrupts the stream of his thoughts before it grows into another one of his annoying spirals. He basically made Karakura a Petri dish for his experiments. Not to mention the presence of Urahara’s stupid MacGuffin marble.

Right, true.

Ichigo had noticed that some of the Hollow activity subsided following Aizen’s defeat, but he never connected the two together. It makes him feel marginally better.

Don’t worry, Zangetsu adds, and Ichigo can almost hear the smirk in his voice, you’re not the center of the universe.

No, just the center of yours, Ichigo fires back.

Zangetsu gets back at him with no care in the world. That’s not exactly a new thing, he chuckles.

It takes Ichigo aback and makes him choke on his own spit. Saying such embarrassing things so easily…

King, he sounds almost disappointed. I am literally your zanpakutō spirit. That was true way before we started dancing the horizontal tango.

Shut up! Ichigo thinks at him. Idiot.

Thankfully, Zangetsu takes pity on him and stops the ruthless teasing. Are you going to go get breakfast?

Ichigo grimaces. I don’t really want to go downstairs yet. He doesn’t know what’s awaiting him down there, and he’s not too eager to find out. Maybe it’ll be fine—more of the same old, with Isshin shrugging off the conflict and moving on. But he doesn’t want to risk it spilling.

And as if on cue, he suddenly hears the muffled voices of Karin and Isshin, yelling at each other through the hallway. He can’t quite make out what’s being said, but the tone and volume are unpleasant enough to make him wince. The exchange ends with a sudden slam of the door and loud stomping down the stairs.

Yikes. There’s his answer.

You know, I was going to nag you to eat something, but I don’t have it in me to force you to go after whatever the fuck this was, Zangetsu says, and sends him the mental equivalent of a ‘there, there,’ pat.

Ichigo decides to kill the remaining ninety minutes by performing a thorough inspection of Isshin’s book collection, which—he finds—consists of mostly medical guides and encyclopedia. Apparently, Isshin is subscribed to a peer-reviewed medical journal—in English!—of which Ichigo finds three years worth of volumes.

On the top shelf of the bookcase, there are four books, borrowed from the library, each with a notice running out in the upcoming month.

The desk drawers are full of notebooks containing Isshin’s handwritten notes. He even finds professional correspondence between him and Ishida Ryūken.

Karin said that Dad never uses this study, but that’s not what it looks like to Ichigo.

When Ichigo finishes ramaging through Isshin’s shit, he briefly considers doing the same with the computer. He’s pretty sure he could guess the password. But then Zangetsu reminds him that he’s probably better off not knowing his father’s search history, and yeah. That’s a compelling point.

So he ends up sitting on the couch, once again glaring at his silent soul pager. After ten minutes of mindless boredom, he decides to type out a message to Rukia.

Before he can start brainstorming another time-killing activity, he hears a knock on the door.

“Ichigo, are you up?”

It’s Yuzu.

“Yeah!” he calls out. He opens the door to greet her. “Just got dressed up!” he says. A little white lie never hurt anyone and he was pretending to be asleep anyways.

Yuzu’s hair is in a sideways braid, draped over her left shoulder. The end of it is tied with a pretty yellow bow, matching the color of her long summer dress with a flowery pattern. She looks appropriately fancy for the memorial. Ichigo feels underdressed in his shihakushō. He wants to kick himself for not thinking of borrowing some fancy clothes from Renji.

“You should get down,” Yuzu says, voice guarded. “Dad wants to go already.”

“Yeah, I will,” he says with a nod. “Before we go, though…”

Yuzu looks at him expectantly. “Yeah?”

“I’m sorry for ruining the dinner yesterday. I shouldn’t have fought with Dad in front of you. I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

He still feels pretty terrible about it. Usually, when he fought Isshin back when he was alive, he would at least make sure Yuzu and Karin weren’t there to witness it. He got sloppy, he supposes. Common sense died with his mortal body.

Yuzu just shrugs off the apology. “It is what it is. Dad was pretty out of line. Don’t worry about me.”

“Still,” he insists, “I shouldn’t have taken the bait. You were just trying to make it a nice reunion dinner for everyone.”

She makes a grimace. “Maybe I should just stop trying to force it.”

He sighs. He’s not sure what to say. He doesn’t wanna tell her to just give up, but it also isn’t fair to her to continue being this binding glue to the family, when other members don’t put in the same amount of effort. Himself included.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, because it’s the only thing he can offer her. “We don’t deserve you.”

Yuzu gives him a small smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Well, you’re stuck with me regardless.”

He chuckles. “Lucky us.”

Lucky indeed.

As it turns out, Ichigo isn’t the only member of the Kurosaki family taking it more casually, not that it counts for anything. Karin is only mildly underdressed, compared to Isshin’s suit and Yuzu’s dress, but she still outdresses Ichigo with a short-sleeved button up and black trousers.

Both her and Isshin are waiting for them outside. Isshin is cheerfully yapping her ears off about how wonderful this year’s memorial will be. Karin is pretending to not exist.

It’s just like him to pretend like nothing happened, he thinks at Zangetsu. It used to drive Ichigo crazy when he was younger. Then he considers the alternative. But better than being sulky on a day that already sucks enough as it is.

Not a very high bar to pass, Zangetsu comments.

“Since we’re all here now, we can finally go!” Isshin proclaims, like he does every year. “Everyone, behind me!”

“We know the way,” Karin says, rolling her eyes. “It’s our eleventh memorial, plus however many times we went outside of that.”

Isshin shakes his head, puts his hand on Karin’s shoulder and shakes his head. “Just let me have this.”

“Fine. Whatever you say, Dad,” she says with a chuckle.

“Excellent!” And with that, Isshin starts to lead the way.

Ichigo’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise. He looks questioningly at Yuzu, but she just shrugs with a ‘You know how they are,’ smile. Karin sounds… exasperated, for sure, but it’s a far cry from how she was yesterday at the dinner, or even today in the morning.

You think they talked? Zangetsu asks, fully engaged in the gossip.

Doesn’t sound like them, but I guess?

I wanna be the fly on the wall during that conversation.

Zangetsu! Ichigo hisses out at his partner. Stop trying to be funny. I’ll look insane if I laugh.

I can’t turn it off, King. It’s a part of my charm.

Charm, my ass—

However, their bickering is interrupted by a quiet, “Hey,” from Karin a moment later.

“Hey,” Ichigo says, a little at a loss. She doesn’t seem to be interested in staring the conversation, so he offers, somewhat awkwardly, “Nice weather today, huh?”

“Yep, sunny,” she says, sarcasm seeping into her voice. “It’s exactly what I wanted to talk to you about.”

“Geez, a guy can’t even make small talk without his younger sibling making fun of him nowadays.” He rolls his eyes, as if to say, What do you expect of me? You were the one who approached me.

She just shakes her head. “Nope, not in this economy.”

“Goddamn. And here I was thinking that I was kinda rich in the afterlife.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope. Turns out I had a salary the whole time I was a substitute,” he laughs. “Imagine my surprise when fucking Byakuya hands me the key to a vault worth three years of salary.”

She whistles. “Holy shit. They actually paid you for all the trouble.”

No amount of money is worth all that trouble, Zangetsu chips in, but Ichigo decides to ignore him in favor of staying engaged in the conversation. It’s the first positive interaction he’s had with Karin since coming here, he can’t afford to zone out on her.

“Apparently,” he says, amused.

“So,” she starts, putting her hands to her pockets, averting her gaze from Ichigo. “Yuzu told me than you told Dad off for me.”

“I told him off for me, too,” he points out. He doesn’t remember exactly what he said in the heat of the moment—not all of it, at least. He knows he brought up Karin at some point, but by that point he was seeing red.

“Good. I mean—as you should,” she says, eyes still transfixed on the ground. “But I still wanted to say thanks.”

“You don’t have to thank me for that.” And he means it. It’s not like he brought her up from some sort of altruism—he just couldn’t stand his father’s hypocrisy. Quite frankly, there’s more he could and probably should have told him off for.

“I know. I just appreciate it.”

“Okay then, I’ll take it.”

“And I’m sorry for being an ass earlier.” She finally looks at him. Her gaze guarded. It pains Ichigo to see her like that around him, but, there’s not much he can do about it.

He shakes the feeling away, instead once more focusing on Karin “It’s okay,” he shrugs. “Dad got what he deserved.”

“No, I mean, I was unfair to you, too.”

That’s not the way he remembers it. “You told him off on my behalf. I don’t see anything you have to apologize for to me.” He offers her a smile. “Plus, I kinda get it. Can’t say I would be much different if I was in your shoes.”

He would be much worse. Has been worse. In fact, the worst of his clash with Isshin resulted in pushing housework on his then-ten year old little sister for years on end. What is even Karin’s sharp tongue compared to that?

“Knowing you, you’d probably be worse.”

“Hey!” he yells out, mock-offended. “You’re not supposed to agree with that.”

“Too bad.” She sticks out her tongue at him, before returning back to Yuzu.

Maybe this memorial will not be a complete disaster, after all. Mom deserves better than everybody being at each other’s throats. Ichigo supposes he will let it go—that whole fight with Isshin—however bitter he feels about biting his tongue once more.

He zones out for the rest of the hike, letting Karakura pass by him in a blur.

They only stop once, when Isshin bumps into an old lady that must be his patient from the clinic. He exchanges pleasantries and wishes of good health with her, but she doesn’t hold them up for too long. Soon enough, they’re walking uphill towards the shrine—the last stretch.

Coming here feels different. It has, since learning about the spirits and Soul Society and Grand Fisher. It feels almost ironic, showing up here in these black robes, with a sealed zanpakutō strapped to his side.

He can indulge in a fantasy—one in which he’s just a regular Shinigami officer assigned to Karakura, ready to cut down threats lurking in the shadows. Eleven years too late. But then he remembers Yhwach. Even if there was someone to save her from the Hollow, it wouldn’t have made any difference.

It’s bittersweet.

Before, he would torment himself with what ifs and maybes and drown in guilt and misplaced responsibility, but at least he could have pretended that she’s safe and sound, somewhere. Now he’s robbed of that world where he took another path and changed everything, and he wonders if it’s for the better or worse. Perhaps a bit of both.

When they finally reach their destination, the shrine comes into view—a familiar red gate. Then the cemetery spreads out beyond it, just like he remembered.

The graves are spaced out in neat rows, weathered granite and marble catching the sunlight. Some are meticulously maintained, others show the signs of time taking its toll on them, with small cracks in the headstone and grass creeping up around the edges. The air smells like earth and wild flowers that are blooming all over the landscape.

His mother's grave sits toward the back left, exactly where it always has. The stone is clean—Isshin's work, he figures. He probably stops by semi-regularly, to not let Mom's grave fall into disarray.

His own gravestone sits just a few paces away from hers. He'd known, logically, that he'd have one. But seeing it now, actually standing in front of it, feels more than surreal.

I kinda forgot about it, he nudges his partner through the bond.

It’s so bland. I don’t like it, says Zangetsu stubbornly, and Ichigo can tell that if he were materialized, he would be shaking his head with his arms crossed on his chest. He’s probably doing that in the Inner World right now. At least, they should have engraved your Shikai on it. Amateur work.

Ichigo suppresses a chuckle. Noted, I’ll give your feedback to Dad after the memorial.

Much appreciated, King.

“Okay,” Isshin says when everybody catches their breath, “Let's get to business.”

The twins are already moving toward the small shed near the cemetery entrance without being told. They emerge a minute later with a two buckets—one filled with water, the other holding clean up tools—ladle, broom, cloth.

Isshin takes the ladle first, pouring water carefully over the gravestone, letting it run down the carved surface and rinse away the accumulated dust. Karin pulls at the weeds around the edges with quick, efficient movements. Yuzu sweeps the area around the base, clearing away loose dirt and debris.

Ichigo joins in without being asked, helping to wipe the stone with the cloth. It's quiet work, but within a few minutes, the grave is clean and presentable.

Isshin pulls out a small stick of incense from his pocket and lights it, the smoke curling upward in a thin gray line. He plants it in the stone holder at the base of the grave.

“There,” he says. “Much better.”

Karin sets down a bottle of sake. Yuzu leaves a rice ball on a small plate.

Ichigo steps forward and draws his zanpakutō. He taps the hilt against the stone once, right in the middle of it, the way he would for a konsō. The seal doesn’t form, of course—there's no soul here to guide. He does the purifying ritual anyway.

Isshin watches, and something in his expression softens. He reaches over and squeezes Ichigo's shoulder once before turning his attention back to the grave.

“Well, Masaki,” he says, his voice taking on that particular cadence he uses when he's about to talk for a while, “you won't believe the week I've had at the clinic.” He pauses, a smug sort of satisfaction crossing his face.

“I finally published that paper. The one Ryūken said would never work. Had to sit through his snide comments and nitpicks, but I proved him wrong. Not that he'll admit it. That man's too proud. The reviewers gave me a workout, though. Especially that pesky reviewer number two. He just kept contradicting himself in the latter rounds out of spite. I hope he sleeps with his pillow warm on both sides.”

He chuckles, shaking his head. “But on the brighter side, remember Mrs. Yamada? The old lady with the arthritis I mentioned the last time? Bumped into her on the way here, actually. She's doing much better after the physical therapy. Gave me the biggest smile. That made my whole day.”

His expression softens again as he shifts his gaze to the twins for a second, before returning his attention back to the gravestone. “The girls are doing well. Diligent with their studies and preparing for university, even though they still have two years before they graduate. Both of them are good kids, Masaki. Really good. You'd be proud of them. And Ichigo,” Isshin glances over to him. “You needn't worry about our eldest, Masaki. Ichigo is doing just fine. A Lieutenant of Squad 13, would you believe?”

He pauses, looking down at the grave with something tender in his expression. “We're managing. We're going to be okay. I hope you can see that from wherever you are.”

Ichigo bites his lip. His eyes are stinging, but he blinks a couple of times to get the waterworks under control before they spill.

Yuzu steps up next, folding her hands in front of her. “Hi, Mom.” She takes a breath. “The house is doing well. I keep it nice and clean for you. I repainted my room in the spring, and Dad finally helped me replace the broken tile in the bathroom. I've even been keeping the garden going—the moss roses you planted are still coming back every year.” She pauses for a second, smoothing the front of her dress. “Also!” her voice grows stronger, more cheerful. “I want to apply to a culinary school. I've been researching programs. I haven't decided which university yet, but I wanted to tell you anyways.” She takes a pause, before taking a step back. “Please, keep watching over everyone.”

When she goes to her previous place, her eyes meet with Ichigo’s for a moment, then slide over to Karin, who shoves her hands in her pockets. She doesn’t move closer.

“I don't have anything new, except for the soccer team that I joined. They’re a lot of fun,” she says bluntly. “Dad is insufferable as always. Ichigo is still dead. And filthy rich in the afterlife. Allegedly. Yuzu is slowly losing her mind over Dad and me—don’t let her tell you otherwise. But I’ll try to be less of a nuisance for her.” She's looking at the grave but her voice is flat. “All of us still miss you a lot. It is what it is.” She pauses. “I’ll see you next year, Mom.”

That's so Karin that it almost hurts.

Isshin is already sniffling into a paper tissue. He doesn't say anything about it, or about any of their speeches, and Ichigo is grateful that their father remains modest in his theatrics for now.

Right. It’s his turn next.

He stares at her name carved in the stone, the dates underneath. Then looks towards his own grave. Then back to Mom’s.

He knows for a fact she would not take the news easy. But it seems like Isshin already broke the news of Ichigo’s passing last year.

“So,” he coughs uncomfortably. “A lot to catch up on.” He shifts his weight. “You know some of it already—probably.” He hesitates.

He briefly considers telling Mom about getting top surgery, a milestone he’d always been excited to reach, but it happened a few months before the Quincy War. I bet Dad already brought it up last year, he reasons with himself.

Plus, it feels awkward, after yesterday. The argument opened up a can of worms that Ichigo would very much like to keep sealed. He doesn’t want to somehow agitate Isshin and ruin the rest of the memorial.

He would also prefer to only talk about mundane, ordinary stuff, but seeing as he’s been dead all this time, his only choice of topic is his afterlife.

He takes a deep breath. “I found out you were a Quincy. That Ishida is technically my cousin.” He lets that sit for a moment. “I wish I knew some of these things earlier, but I guess it all worked out in the end.”

He pauses, then switches to a silent prayer. Something for Mom’s ears only. I found out the truth about Zangetsu. We get on pretty well nowadays. I hope you’d approve.

At that, he feels a light squeeze of his hand. The sensation is entirely mental, coming from Zangetsu’s side of the bond. Corners of his lips twitch, forming a small but easily noticeable smile. His posture relaxes, as some of the tension leaves his body.

“Dad already told you about my new Lieutenant gig. The paperwork drives me crazy, but, y’know, life in Soul Society is not all bad. I think adjusted pretty well, all things considered. My friends have my back—Renji and Rukia. They helped me get used to everything. They’re great, Mom. I think you would like them.”

Sorry for kicking the bucket so early. Miss you a lot.

He hopes she wouldn’t nag him about it too much, though that’s probably just a wishful thinking.

Then he adds, “I’m sorry for missing your memorial last year. I’ll make sure to be there to catch up next year. See you.”

He steps back.

A beat of silence passes, and then he hears from the bond, Nothing new with me either. Still making sure your idiot son doesn't get himself killed—permanently, that is. You’re welcome, by the way. A beat of silence. Be back next year, Mom.

Ichigo keeps his face blank. Zangetsu's grumpiness cheers him up, in a way. The heaviness in his chest lets up, just a little.

You just wanted the opportunity to insult me, he thinks at Zangetsu in mock-accusation.

Zangetsu doesn't miss a beat. Oh, no, what gave it away?

Your face. Ichigo bites down a smile and looks away.

They linger near the grave for a while after that. Nobody moves to leave right away.

Isshin is the one standing the closest to the grave, looking at the grave with his hands in the pockets of his suit. A cigarette is tucked between his lips, smoke rising slowly out of the butt, and for once, he doesn't say anything at all.

Ichigo decides to humor Yuzu and stay for lunch. He figures he owes her that much, and he would have felt bad for bolting back to Soul Society the moment they return.

Zangetsu teases him for his decision, You were ready to jump the ship yesterday, but he lacks his usual ruthlessness. Bleeding through the bond, Ichigo catches a hint of pride mixed in his amusement.

Oh well, Ichigo plays along, all casual, I’m a new man today.

And I wonder who replaced your father.

Zangetsu says it in jest, but he’s right—Isshin has been oddly tolerable the whole day, and his speech at the memorial is still fresh in Ichigo’s memory. Ichigo wonders, if maybe he’s been too harsh on his father yesterday. He chooses not to dwell too much on it. At lest for now.

The lunch goes over relatively well. They eat leftover stew—or chicken, in Isshin’s case—and the conversation stays light even when the topics from yesterday’s dinner surface.

Karin brings up her upcoming match on Saturday and Yuzu starts immediately fretting about the weather forecast, which earns her an unimpressed stare of her twin. Isshin interjects that while he’s on board with Karin’s hobby now, he still distrusts those ‘heathens’, as he called them, and goes into excruciating detail, that if any of them mistreat her, he’ll hunt down the twerp's address and shave his eyebrows in his sleep. It’s so cartoonish and over the top, that all three of them burst out in laughter.

The twins finish eating in good spirits, and Ichigo reaches for seconds. Yuzu notices, definitely pleased with herself, judging from the smug smile she shoots at Ichigo. Isshin is the last to finish his meal—he asked for the bowl of stew after he practically wiped his plate clean. He does not hesitate singing praises to Yuzu's cooking—both meals this time.

Nobody pushes back their chair to signal the end of lunch, although a heavier kind of silence settles over the Kurosaki household. Ichigo can see it written all over his father's face, his sister's faces—they're all thinking about it. Ichigo is the one who says it, as he stands up.

“I should head out soon.”

He didn't pack anything for this visit—has everything but his blade in his pockets—and when he straps a sealed Zangetsu to his hip, it's truly the time for him to go.

The others follow him to the hallway, waiting to give Ichigo their goodbyes.

Surprisingly, Karin speaks first.

“Don't die again,” she says, leaning against the wall near the front door, arms folded, with the air of someone who just happens to be in the vicinity. Very nonchalant of her.

“Working on it.”

“Good.” She pushes off the wall. A beat, then, without looking directly at him, “I don't suppose you'll be able to make it to my match on Saturday.”

“I'm not sure,” he answers honestly. “I can try asking Rukia for another vacation day, if you want.”

“I mean, you don't have to. Just—if you're coming, let me know at some point before the actual match.”

“Will do, boss.” He does a mock-salute, at which Karin rolls her eyes.

“Later, Ichigo.”

Yuzu glances at Ichigo. He gives her a small nod, and then she closes the distance. He pulls her in without making much fuss. She hugs back hard—both arms, the way she always has. She's always sought out comfort in physical contact.

He lets go first and Yuzu folds her arms to her chest. Her stance is relaxed, despite the sadness in her eyes.

“I'm glad you came,” she says.

“Me too,” he says. “I missed both of you a lot.”

She gives him a look—fond, but a little pointed. “Don't be a stranger, Ichigo.”

He nods.

“I mean it.” She takes a steadying breath. “Take this.” And suddenly he’s handed a small box, wrapped in checkered red and white cloth. “For your journey.”

“Yuzu. I cannot—”

“Don’t. Please, I want you to take it.” She gives him a small smile. “It will give some piece of mind.”

He smiles in return. “Fine.”

Finally, she manages, “Have a safe travel,” before she disappears into the house.

Ichigo stares at the spot she was in for a second, throat tight. He can’t blame her for going away like that.

Isshin coughs, getting Ichigo’s attention. “How about I see you off?”

“Sure,” Ichigo says, fighting the urge to frown. He clearly wants something from Ichigo, and that puts him a little on the edge, but it’s been pretty peaceful today, so he doesn’t protest.

He looks at Karin leaning against the wall. “See you, Karin—hopefully soon. I love you and Yuzu a lot,” he says as he opens the door, and then steps outside of his childhood house with his father by his side. “Can you pass it over to her, for me?“

Karin lets out a heavy sigh and for a moment Ichigo is worried. But then—

“You’ve got it. Now go! Just don’t get all mushy on me.”

He gives her a nod.

Isshin doesn’t say much initially. They only walk down the driveway, towards the gate that stands open, same as when Ichigo arrived. Out on the street, the afternoon has gone quieter. Even the neighbor's dog has retreated somewhere. The light has pulled east, and their shadows stretch long ahead of them across the path.

Ichigo stops at the gate. Doesn't step through yet.

“So.” Isshin rocks back slightly on his heels, hands in his pockets. “Leaving after only one night, huh.”

“You know how it is. Duty calls.”

“Does it really?”

Ichigo meets his eyes. He shakes his head. “Nah. But who else would burn Soul Society to the ground?”

Isshin snorts—short, not quite a laugh—and looks out at the street like he's staking something out. When he looks back, his expression has settled into something akin to shame.

“I spoke to your sisters this morning. Before you were up.”

Ichigo waits.

“Yuzu was furious. Karin too. Obviously.”

Checks out.”

“We mended things, though. I think.” He tilts his head slightly. “I can't claim to understand half of what Karin said to me, but—we're okay.”

Ichigo doesn't say anything, for a while. Leaves the space for Dad to finish his train of thought.

He used to want more from Isshin than this. The full accounting of how he fucked up and how he’s going to make up for it, the specific acknowledgments, all of it laid out in order. He's grown out of expecting it, mostly. He was just setting himself up for the disappointment.

“I figured,” Isshin says, and then stops. Adjusts his weight, the way he does when he's committing to something he hasn't fully rehearsed. “I owe you an apology, too. For how I behaved during your stay.”

Ichigo goes still.

Takes a moment to check he’s not dreaming. Files through the last thirty-odd hours and comes up empty for precedent—because there isn't any. Isshin doesn't do this. He fights and digs his heels in and weathers the storm until everyone around him gets tired first, and then he resets—shows back up at breakfast like whatever happened the night before was a shared fever dream nobody agreed to remember. He'll crack jokes and ask Ichigo to hand over the remote so that he can get back to his program.

He has never, in Ichigo's living or dead memory, volunteered an apology first. Not the kind that matters.

Huh.

“Appreciated,” Ichigo says, because it's what comes out, and it isn't a lie.

Isshin nods once. His gaze drops, and he fidgets with his hands. “And you were right to call me out. About how I treated you, when you first came out.” He says it carefully. Like he's been holding it at arm's length until now and has finally decided to set it down properly. “I should have done better. Masaki would have been furious with me.”

Then, quieter, “She would have been proud of who you became.”

Through the bond, Zangetsu makes a sound that isn't quite a whistle—the impression of one through the bond. Since when does Goat Face have emotional intelligence? No edge or bite to it, just genuine surprise coming from Zangetsu that Ichigo feels as well.

And then, more solemn, He's right, you know. You do know that. Right, King?

Ichigo's throat closes up, almost making a sound. His vision starts blurring, eyes burning.

He blinks. Once. Twice. Gets it under control.

“Don't get sentimental on me, old man,” he says. His voice comes out almost right. “I'll start thinking someone switched you out overnight.”

The corner of Isshin's mouth moves. “I have my moments.”

“New development.”

“Eleven years late.”

“Yeah,” Ichigo says. “A bit.”

“But I’ll make up for it—Ichigo, trust me.”

Out on the street, a car passes. The neighbor's kid kicks a football over the fence and out on the street.

“Thanks, Dad. Means a lot to hear you say it. Really.”

Isshin makes a rough sound in his chest. “Of course.” Then, “You're all grown up. I know that. But I still worry about you.”

“You don't need to.”

“I know, I know.” He waves it off. “It's just in the job description.”

Ichigo exhales through his nose. “Whatever you say, Dad.”

“So.” Isshin's tone shifts. “I spoke to Kisuke yesterday after the dinner.”

What an abrupt change of topics, Zangetsu notes, and Ichigo agrees. The segue is jarring enough that Ichigo didn’t see it coming.

“Okay…” Ichigo says, because he doesn't know where this is going yet and it seems safer to let it arrive on its own.

“He said he'll be able to help you out.” Isshin is looking at him pointedly, demeanor shifting from apologetic to determined. His hands come out of his pockets, that particular enthusiasm surfacing when he's convinced himself that something is a good idea. “After some research, of course. And maybe a couple of exams—just to get the baseline. But if anyone's going to figure this out, it's Kisuke. You know how he is.”

“Help me out with what, exactly?”

Isshin gives him an odd look, like the answer should be self-evident. “Phalloplasty, of course.”

Ichigo freezes up.

He doesn't move. Doesn't let anything through his face. There's a moment—brief, probably invisible to Isshin—where he consciously corrects his stance. Hands at his sides, jaw level, breathing even.

And there's the other shoe dropping, Zangetsu says, more disappointed than anything else, although there's a cold undercurrent of controlled fury underneath.

“No,” Ichigo says.

Isshin frowns. “What?”

“No.”

“What do you mean, 'no'?”

“It means ‘no’.”

“But—” Isshin shifts his weight. The enthusiasm hasn't converted to frustration yet. He's still in the stage where he thinks the problem is that Ichigo hasn't understood him correctly. “You've wanted this for years. Since before you had words for it, if I had to guess. And then you died before you ever got the chance, and I can't imagine there's any way to get this done in Soul Society—”

There isn't. That's a fact.

Soul Society doesn't acknowledge trans people, of course there are no medical procedures for transitioning.

It had been sheer dumb luck Hanatarō found out about him during that first break-in to save Rukia, and not someone else—and that when he kicked the bucket and ended up a permanent resident of Soul Society, Hanatarō connected him to Isane, perhaps the only person who is both qualified and willing to provide testosterone for him.

So Isshin isn't exactly wrong.

He's also not someone Ichigo owes an explanation to.

“I'm not letting Urahara touch my junk,” Ichigo says flatly. The sick science freak would probably just get off on how abnormal Ichigo is and make him his personal guinea pig.

Isshin lets out a long, disappointed sigh. “Ichigo. Be reasonable. You don’t have other options—would you rather that Kurotsuchi does it instead?”

“No.” The mere suggestion makes him feel sick to his stomach.

“So you agree—”

“No!” he say it with more force this time, just so that Isshin can get it through his thick head. “No one is touching my junk!”

“Then you’ll never become a real man!”

Ichigo freezes.

Double checks to make sure he heard correctly.

Shakes his head.

I don’t know what I expected, he thinks to himself. Zangetsu stays silent.

“Real man,” he repeats.

Isshin's face shifts. He realizes what he just said and tries immediately to backtrack. “You know I didn't mean it like that—”

“Didn't you?” Ichigo's voice comes out flat. He's staring at his father like he's looking at a stranger, and maybe that's all Isshin ever was.

“It was just a slip of the tongue—”

“I don't know, I think it was pretty telling.” Ichigo shakes his head again in resignation. “Never mind. This is pointless.”

“Ichigo—”

He's just so damn tired.

He crosses the gate without finishing the conversation and summons the Senkaimon with the blade of his sword.

“I'm going home, Dad. See you next year.”

He steps in, listening to the Senkaimon door slam shut behind him.

He doesn't look back.