Evening didn't simply fall over Karakura — it drifted in gently, like a tide creeping up a shoreline. The sky dimmed from molten gold into a violet haze, cicadas singing their tired chorus while the river carried thin streaks of reflected sunset.
Ethan walked alongside Rukia in uncomfortable silence, the dried specks of Hollow residue still clinging to their sleeves. The fight had ended twenty minutes ago, but the tension between them hadn't.
Not even a little.
Rukia's steps were quiet, measured—too measured. Ethan knew her walk by now: the way she carried herself like she belonged to rules stricter than physics. But this silence? This wasn't discipline.
This was suspicion.
Worse—hurt suspicion.
The kind she'd never voice unless she was forced to.
Ethan exhaled.
Just say something.
A joke. A comment about the river. Anything.
He opened his mouth—
"Ethan."
Her voice cut the air cleanly, and he shut his mouth again.
Rukia stopped walking, turning to face him. The wind pressed her hair gently to the side, revealing eyes that were no longer neutral.
They were sharp. Searching.
Almost… disappointed.
She didn't accuse him at first. She just studied him with that piercing Kuchiki stillness—like she was peeling away all of his excuses layer by layer.
"Back during the fight," she said finally, "you acted before the Hollow even moved."
Ethan forced an easy expression.
"I have quick reflexes, I guess—"
"No."
She stepped closer. "It wasn't reflexes."
He swallowed.
Rukia held his gaze with cold precision. "You predicted its movement perfectly. Not by reading its reiatsu or footing. You knew. Before it happened."
Ethan said nothing.
Her voice lowered. "And your reiatsu… reacted strangely."
There it was.
The thing he'd hoped she would chalk up to nerves or battle adrenaline.
She hadn't.
"What did you see?" Ethan asked, quiet.
Rukia's eyebrow twitched upward—surprise at his question rather than denial.
"I didn't see anything," she said. "I felt something."
She glanced away briefly, as though recounting the sensation sent a chill down her spine.
"It wasn't a spike. It wasn't growth. It wasn't anything a Shinigami should produce."
Her eyes returned to his, steady.
"It folded. As though… something else was inside it."
Ethan's heart clenched.
No—no, no, she was too perceptive. Too sharp. The Panel hummed in the back of his consciousness, its gentle interface glowing softly:
[RISK ASSESSMENT: Level 2 Anomaly Detected
Subtle shift in subject RUKIA KUCHIKI's analytical pattern.]
[RECOMMENDED ACTION: Partial Truth Fabrication + Emotional Dampening]
He ignored the prompt.
Rukia's expression softened, but only barely. She took another step toward him, the distance between them evaporating.
"Ethan," she said quietly, "I need you to tell me the truth."
He hated how gentle she sounded.
It would've been easier if she barked orders at him.
Ethan looked at the ground for a moment, pretending to think through the chaos of the battle. Then he forced himself to meet her eyes again.
"I don't know what you sensed," he said, steady. "I wasn't using anything special. I've just been… training hard. Captain Unohana pushes us. Maybe something's changing in me."
Rukia didn't blink.
"And yet your reiatsu behaves like nothing I've ever seen," she murmured.
Ethan inhaled slowly, keeping his face relaxed.
"Then maybe your senses are off today."
She flinched.
Only slightly, but enough for him to see it.
"Do not mock me," she said, voice tightening. "You know my perception isn't something that wavers."
Ethan regretted the jab instantly.
"Rukia, I wasn't—"
"You were."
Her voice grew quieter, not louder, and somehow that hurt more.
She took a slow breath.
"I've encountered Shinigami of every division. I've trained with lieutenants. I've fought Hollows for decades."
Her eyes softened as her voice dipped into something almost sad.
"And I've never felt reiatsu behave the way yours did."
Ethan wanted to tell her the truth.
Not about the Panel—but that he respected her too much to lie.
But he couldn't.
Not now.
Not yet.
So he lied one more time.
"I don't know what to tell you," he said softly. "Whatever you felt… it wasn't intentional."
The river murmured behind them. A lone car passed on the street above, headlights briefly painting the guardrail gold.
Rukia didn't respond immediately.
Instead, she looked at him—really looked at him—as though weighing not his words but the space behind them.
Then her shoulders lowered just slightly.
A controlled exhale.
"You're hiding something," she said—not an accusation, not anger.
Just a truth spoken aloud.
Ethan felt the words land like stones in his stomach.
"But," Rukia continued, tone shifting warmer, "you are not reckless. And you are not malicious. If you were either, I would have sensed it from the start."
Ethan blinked, surprised.
Rukia stepped past him, stopping just close enough for their shoulders to almost touch.
"I won't report this. Not yet."
A small relief washed over him, but it was immediately tempered by what came next.
"But if whatever is happening inside you becomes dangerous—to you or others—I will act. I won't hesitate."
Ethan nodded. Quiet.
"I understand."
Rukia started walking again, the glow of streetlamps tracing the edges of her silhouette.
"Good," she said without looking back. "Because I'm not your enemy, Ethan. I want you to survive this."
Ethan followed, his steps heavy.
The Panel flickered:
[EMOTIONAL STABILITY: Declining
REIATSU SUPPRESSION: Efficiency Reduced by 4.3%]
[SUGGESTION: Initiate Isolation Training or Distance From Witness RUKIA KUCHIKI]
He ignored it.
But for the first time, he wasn't completely sure he could keep ignoring it.
Rukia didn't turn around, but her thoughts lingered in the air between them like the fading echo of a bell.
She wasn't convinced.
She wasn't angry.
She was worried.
And that—somehow—was worse.
She walked ahead into the deepening night.
Ethan followed, wishing he could tell her everything.
And knowing he absolutely couldn't.