Fifth Division barracks, the lieutenant’s office.
Aizen Sōsuke sat alone at his desk, the moonlight outside filtering through the paper window and throwing a cold sheen across his glasses.
His fingers tapped lightly at the tabletop, a soft and steady rhythm.
“Silas…”
He said the name under his breath.
The conversation at the training grounds that afternoon replayed itself clearly in his mind.
That white-haired youth’s flawless expression, the small movements, the careful answers.
“His Spiritual Power Level is held at somewhere around the twelfth rank, though there are slight fluctuations. Hard to say whether he conceals it on purpose.”
“His Shakkahō incantation was precise, but the spiritual pressure output was slightly thin. It looks as though he throttled the power deliberately.”
“Offered a lieutenant’s invitation, he showed pleasure, then hesitated and declined. It’s possible his heart is set on another division, and yet it seemed somewhat forced.”
Aizen picked up his teacup and took a gentle sip.
“What is it you’re hiding, Silas?”
He rose and walked to the window, looking out toward the Shin’ō Academy.
Aizen’s thoughts drifted back many years.
Back then he had been an ordinary member of the Fifth Division.
Exceedingly gifted, and never once ostentatious.
Every mission completed exactly right, never poor enough to draw complaint, never fine enough to draw attention.
He had managed his own performance carefully, like a spider lurking in the dark, quietly spinning its web.
Until he mastered Kyōka Suigetsu.
Until he uncovered the secret of the Hōgyoku.
“Now that I think on it, he is somewhat like me.”
Aizen said it softly to himself, his gaze deep.
“Hide, observe, and produce the appropriate reaction at the appropriate moment.”
“I only wonder how deep your capacity truly runs.”
Aizen returned to his desk and turned to another page of the report.
It recorded every mark Silas had earned across the five years since he enrolled.
His past marks in Zanjutsu, Hakuda, Shunpo, and Kidō, along with his theory and academic coursework, were all set out in detail.
Overall evaluation: lower middle of the Elite Class, with the potential for steady progress.
Aizen gave a light chuckle.
He thought back to their encounter in the West District Two valley a few days earlier.
Did he really fail to notice us then?
Aizen had harbored his doubts from the start.
And if he did notice, how did he manage it?
“Is his sense for the spiritual fluctuations of Kidō unusually keen? No, that doesn’t seem right… Or could it be a resonance with the power of the Hōgyoku?”
Whichever it is, it merits further observation.
And observation calls for a closer distance.
More importantly, it calls for a small test.
The moonlight shifted and lit his calm profile.
The expression on it was as gentle as ever.
And there was a trace of amusement in it.
The post of President of the Shin’ō Academy was held concurrently by the Fifth Division’s third seat, so as the division’s lieutenant, Aizen naturally had easy access to the academy’s arrangements.
He drew out the academy’s schedule for the term.
“Konsō internship in the Human World, fifth-year Elite Class, in three weeks.”
The Human World, where Hollows surface without warning, was the most suitable place to arrange an accident.
Aizen took up a pen and began writing something on a note.
With a creak, the office door was pushed open.
Aizen set the note aside without hurry, and by the time he looked up at his visitor, a gentle smile was already in place.
“Captain Hirako. Still not resting at this hour?”
Hirako Shinji leaned against the doorframe, his long blond hair gleaming coldly in the moonlight.
He tilted his head and studied Aizen with that particular look of his, lazy and sharp at once.
“Neither are you, Lieutenant Aizen.”
Hirako drawled it as he strolled in.
“What kind of paperwork has our Dragon of Paperwork toiling away this late? Need a hand?”
He crossed to the desk, picked up the document laying out the Shin’ō Academy’s current schedule, and leafed through it.
“Only some routine arrangements for the academy’s internship, Captain Hirako.”
Aizen smiled.
“Hardly worth troubling yourself over.”
Hirako went through it once.
Nothing out of place, sure enough.
His eyes flickered as he set the document back on the desk, ignoring the conspicuous note at its side entirely.
Just like Kyōka Suigetsu.
Hirako drew his hand back and tucked it into the sleeve of his shihakushō.
“Hardly worth it? Where student safety is concerned, nothing is hardly worth it.”
He snorted.
“Besides, things have been restless in the Rukongai and the Human World lately. Unexplained soul disappearances are on the rise. Makes me wonder whether those idiots in the Tenth Division on guard patrol are doing their jobs at all.”
He walked halfway around the desk and finally stopped opposite Aizen, leaning down.
“I hear there was an enormous fire out in West District Two of the Rukongai. The Twelfth Division sent people to look into it and turned up abnormal spiritual pressure fluctuations. Sadly, they couldn’t work out who was responsible.”
Aizen’s brow creased faintly, his expression turning serious.
“That is unfortunate. Perhaps a Shinigami was practicing Kidō privately out there and set it off by accident.”
“Perhaps.”
Hirako straightened up, his tone pointing at nothing in particular.
“Speaking of which, cases of Hollows attacking Shinigami and Rukongai souls have climbed sharply of late. Oddly enough, our Support Squad always gets word inexplicably late.”
“That is a failure on our part. The Captain-Commander called me in personally to have words about it. Why do you suppose that is, Aizen…?”
“My apologies, Captain Hirako. I’ll do my utmost to find where the process is breaking down. It won’t happen again.”
A brief silence settled between the two of them.
The air in the office seemed to freeze, nothing audible but the ticking of the clock on the wall.
Hirako stared at Aizen for a long moment, then suddenly clicked his tongue.
“Forget it.”
He turned and walked toward the door.
“Aizen. You’d do well to remember this. As long as you do your work honestly, I won’t make trouble for you.”
He stopped at the door and turned his head, the moonlight lighting half his face while the other half stayed buried in shadow.
“But if you really are scheming at something that would harm the Soul Society, then I will drag you out of it myself.”
With that he pulled the door open and walked out.
Aizen sat where he was, the smile on his face fading by degrees.
He took off his glasses, drew a cloth from his robe, and wiped the lenses slowly and methodically.
The lenses were clean as new, and they gave back his calm eyes.
“Captain Hirako,” Aizen murmured to himself, “your intuition is as sharp as ever…”
Unfortunately, intuition cannot serve as evidence.
He put his glasses back on, finished the note, folded it carefully, and slid it into a particular envelope.
There were no markings on the envelope, but he knew this letter would be in the hands of someone he could deploy by tomorrow morning.
He had already drawn up the special arrangements for the fifth-year internship in the Human World.
That done, Aizen walked to the full-length mirror in the office.
The reflection was neatly dressed, its expression gentle.
Anyone who saw it would take him for a modest, dependable superior and comrade.
The moonlight shifted and lit the whole of the mirror.
The Aizen in the mirror had the faintest curl at the corner of his mouth.
The Aizen outside the mirror still wore that gentle smile.
Inside the mirror and out, the two overlapped and merged.
Indistinguishable from one another.