Nai_asobrab
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Aizen Sousuke sat on the engawa of the Eighth Division’s traditional house, watching the garden bathed in pale afternoon light. Nearby, Sayuri played on a mat, laughing as Shunsui entertained her with clumsy but charming fan tricks. To anyone looking, the scene was idyllic—the picture of a harmonious family. Yet, within Aizen’s mind lingered a restless void.
He had always had plans, intricate schemes that bent situations and people to his will. Even in chaos, he thrived on direction, on the clarity of his goals. Now, for the first time, he found himself adrift and unanchored.
Now, he lived on autopilot: caring for Sayuri, addressing trivial matters with Shunsui, and occasionally advising his companions. But beneath it all, he felt like an actor reciting lines he hadn’t written.
"Is this what normal people do?" he murmured, gazing at the sun’s reflection in the calm garden pond. "Do they simply... exist? No plans, no goals, just moving moment to moment?"
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Shuhei stood before the bloated, mutilated corpse of a woman, the stench of decay thick in the air. He felt nothing—no sadness, no disgust, only a hollow emptiness. Lighting a cigarette, he let the smoke dull the world around him, blending with the overwhelming stench. His gaze drifted over the grotesque details: the bloated body, discolored skin, and exposed entrails overtaken by insects. She was unrecognizable, another casualty in a growing list, her identity a task for later.
“Sorry,” he muttered, unsure if the apology was for her, himself, or the state of the world. The warmth of the cigarette was the only comfort against the cold void within. Each body was a reminder of what was lost, yet they all felt increasingly unreal, as if he were watching through a fog.
He glanced at the unmoving clouds above, offering no rain to wash away the sight or the smell. Crushing the cigarette against a rock, he flicked it aside. Though he knew he had to report the body and organize its removal, he lingered, staring at the remains, gripped by the same emptiness—and the urge to light another cigarette.
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Aizen's true motivation was absolute control. Having power was not enough; it was essential to shape beings, manipulate lives, to create something that was entirely a product of his own will.
Yet, as his cold eyes observed her, a shadow of disappointment clouded his thoughts. She was not perfect.
"No... not perfect," he thought, a silent whisper laced with subtle bitterness. Hinamori had indeed been shaped, but not from the beginning. Her mind and heart had already been touched before he intervened, formed by other hands. She was an incomplete vessel, a useful tool, but limited.
Perfection... True perfection would be something he had crafted from birth, something pure and malleable, like clay in the hands of a sculptor. A life that he could shape in every detail, free from external influences, without prior marks. A life that existed solely to serve his design, breathing only to fulfill his will.
A child.
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What shines doesn’t always need to be seen. by Nai_asobrab
Fandom: Bleach (Anime & Manga)
18 Dec 2024
- Words:
- 257,596
- Works:
- 2
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- 2