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The summons had been phrased like an afterthought, slipped into the hum of Hueco Mundo’s endless white like a pebble tossed at his back.
Aizen requests your cooperation.
That had been enough.
Starrk walked with his hands buried in the pockets, boots echoing against the pale tile as the air shimmered with heat that never quite warmed. The towers of Las Noches loomed ahead, all hollow grandeur and sterile geometry, the kind of place that pretended nothing ugly ever happened within its walls. He hated it for that. Or maybe he hated that he didn’t care enough to hate it properly.
Lilynette paced beside him, smaller steps sharp and quick, her presence a constant flicker at the edge of his awareness—familiar, grounding, loud in a way the world never was anymore. Her pink eye was already narrowed, her mouth twisted into a scowl she’d been wearing since Szayelaporro’s name had been mentioned.
“I don’t like this,” she said flatly, breaking the silence that Starrk had been perfectly content to let stretch. “At all.”
He didn’t look down at her. His blue-grey eyes stayed fixed ahead, unfocused, taking in corridors and arches without really seeing them. “You don’t like most things,” he replied mildly.
“That’s different,” Lilynette snapped, throwing her arms up. “This is him. The creepy one. The one who smiles like he’s already cut you open in his head.”
“That doesn’t narrow it down much around here.”
She shot him a look sharp enough to draw blood. “You know what I mean, Starrk. Szayelaporro doesn’t just summon you. Especially not you. You’re the Primera. You don’t run lab errands.”
He shrugged, the motion lazy, almost careless. “He said Aizen wanted it.”
“That’s exactly why I don’t like it!” She stopped walking for a beat, forcing him to slow if he didn’t want to leave her behind. “Did you even check with Aizen?”
He glanced sideways at her then, just briefly, one brow lifting in faint surprise. “Why would I?”
Lilynette stared at him like he’d just admitted to forgetting how to breathe. “Why—? Starrk, that’s not an answer!”
“If Szayel Aporro’s lying,” he said, tone unbothered, “he’ll regret it.”
“That’s not reassuring!”
“It is to me.”
They resumed walking, Lilynette muttering under her breath as she fell back into step beside him. Starrk let her words wash over him, half-heard, half-ignored. Concern had a way of sliding off him, like rain on stone. Not because he thought himself invincible—far from it—but because effort itself felt heavier than any threat.
Szayel Aporro was… annoying. Invasive. His spiritual pressure always crawled rather than pressed, worming under the skin instead of announcing itself outright. But dangerous? Perhaps. Everything was, in its own way. Starrk had long since stopped ranking dangers. They all ended the same.
Besides, if Aizen’s name had been used, then this was either sanctioned—or it would become a problem someone else would clean up. Preferably quickly.
His gaze drifted to the horizon of white walls and long shadows, mind already slipping into that familiar fog of detachment. A test. A drug. Whatever it was, it would be over soon. He would endure it, as he endured everything else, and then return to the quiet of his room.
Lilynette huffed loudly at his side. “You’re brushing this off.”
“Mm,” he agreed.
“You always do that.”
“Still alive.”
“That’s not the same thing!”
He allowed himself a faint, tired smile at that, one that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It’s close enough.”
Ahead, the architecture began to shift—sleeker, sharper, tinged with the unsettling precision of Szayel Aporro’s domain. The Eighth Espada’s sector rose like a wound carved cleanly into Las Noches, sterile and wrong in a way that made even the air feel watched.
Lilynette’s steps slowed. Her eye flicked from the looming entrance back up to Starrk’s face. “If something goes wrong,” she said quietly, more serious now, “I’m not leaving you.”
He stopped then, just long enough to rest a hand on her head, fingers lightly tapping the helmet of her hollow mask fragment with absent affection. “I know.”
That, more than anything, was why he wasn’t worried.
Straightening, Starrk took one last look down the corridor ahead, then continued forward, brushing aside the unease curling faintly at the back of his mind.
It’ll be fine, he told himself.
It always was.
The lab smelled wrong.
It wasn’t the sharp tang of blood or the rot of decay—those were honest things, things Hueco Mundo wore openly. This was cleaner than that. Sweet, almost, layered with sterilizing chemicals and something faintly metallic that clung to the back of Starrk’s throat the longer he breathed it in. The walls gleamed too brightly, polished bone-white broken by glass vats and articulated instruments that hummed softly, as if whispering to one another.
Starrk stepped inside without hesitation.
Lilynette followed, but this time she didn’t keep her usual half-step ahead or wander restlessly. Instead, she shuffled closer, close enough that her shoulder brushed his side, her presence pressing warm and solid against his side. He noticed it without comment. Noted it the way one noted gravity—constant, expected, reassuring.
Szayel Aporro Granz stood waiting for them at the center of the lab, framed by softly glowing monitors and an array of syringes arranged with meticulous care. He smiled when he saw Starrk, lips curving slowly, deliberately, as though the expression itself were an experiment.
“Ahhh, Primera,” Szayel Aporro purred, spreading his arms slightly. “How punctual. How reliable.”
Starrk’s eyes slid over him, uninterested. “You said Aizen wanted this.”
“Indeed,” Szayel Aporro replied smoothly, adjusting his glasses. “And you came without fuss. Truly admirable. One could always count on you to be… cooperative.”
Lilynette bristled beside him. “Spit it out already. What do you want him to do?”
Szayel Aporro’s gaze flicked to her, amused, before returning to Starrk. “Straight to the point, then. Very well.” He gestured toward one of the monitors, where slow-moving readings pulsed like a heartbeat. “I’ve been developing a compound designed specifically for Arrancars—an enhancement, if you will. A temporary amplification of spiritual output. Increased efficiency, heightened regeneration, sharper instincts.”
“Drugs,” Lilynette muttered. “Great.”
Szayel Aporro ignored her. “Nothing grotesque. Nothing permanent. Merely a push. Think of it as… potential realized.”
Starrk listened in silence, posture loose, hands still buried in his pockets. Enhancement didn’t interest him. Neither did potential. Both sounded exhausting.
“And the risks?” he asked flatly.
Szayelaporro smiled wider, as though he’d been waiting for the question. “Oh, minimal. Dizziness, perhaps. Nausea. Vomiting, in some cases.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Hardly worth mentioning.”
What he didn’t say lingered unspoken in the air, heavy and unseen.
He didn’t mention how the compound interacted differently with Espada-level souls. How it agitated the core of an Arrancar’s being, digging claws into the very concept of their Aspect of Death. How it might force that aspect to surface violently, attempting to merge with the body, dragging Resurrection forms screaming toward manifestation whether the vessel was ready or not.
He didn’t mention how such strain could fracture a soul.
Instead, he inclined his head toward Starrk with exaggerated respect. “And who better to test it than the Primera himself? Your spiritual pressure is… exquisite. Stable. If anyone could handle a simple enhancement, it would be you.”
Lilynette’s fingers curled into the fabric of Starrk’s jacket as she growled, “He’s not your lab rat!”
Starrk exhaled slowly, ignoring Lilynette’s outbursts. He was already tired. “Where do you want me?”
Szayel Aporro’s eyes gleamed. He gestured toward a reinforced chair near the center of the room, its armrests fitted with subtle restraints that hummed faintly with dormant energy. “Right there, if you please.”
Starrk crossed the lab without hurry and sat when directed, the chair cool beneath him. He leaned back slightly, spreading his legs in an almost slouched posture that made it clear he felt no threat here—or simply didn’t care enough to acknowledge one.
Lilynette hovered close, scowling. “You don’t have to do this.”
“It’ll be fine,” he said again, the words automatic now.
Szayel Aporro prepared the syringe with reverent precision, the liquid inside shimmering faintly as it caught the light. Starrk rolled up his sleeve, exposing the light skin of his forearm. He removed his glove and rested his hand palm-up on the armrest, fingers relaxed, vulnerable in a way he barely registered.
Lilynette made a low, unhappy sound in her throat. “I really don’t like this.”
Starrk didn’t look at her. He stared at the ceiling instead, at the sterile lights reflecting back a distorted version of himself. He just wanted it done. Over. One more obligation checked off, one more thing endured so he could return to the quiet.
Szayel Aporro approached, needle poised. “Try to relax, Primera. This will only take a moment.”
Simple, Starrk thought dully.
And let it happen.
“Just a pinch,” Szayel Aporro said lightly, as if he were discussing a mild inconvenience rather than piercing the soul of the Primera Espada.
He tapped the vial with a gloved finger, the sound sharp and delicate. The liquid inside shimmered again, viscous and faintly luminous, clinging to the glass as though reluctant to move. Starrk watched it with distant curiosity, eyes half-lidded, and expression slack with disinterest.
Lilynette’s glare could have cracked bone. “You touch him wrong and I swear—”
Szayel Aporro chuckled softly. “Such devotion. How charming.”
He didn’t wait for permission. The needle slid into the vein at Starrk’s wrist with clinical precision. Szayelaporro depressed the plunger slowly, reverently, as though savoring the moment.
At first, nothing happened.
No surge. No spike. No immediate backlash that would have satisfied the Eighth Espada’s thinly veiled hunger for spectacle. Starrk felt the familiar intrusion of foreign reishi entering his bloodstream, cool and unwelcome, but his face didn’t change. He didn’t tense. Didn’t react. He stared past Szayel Aporro, gaze unfocused, already half elsewhere.
Then the burn followed.
It crept along his veins like liquid fire, subtle at first, easy to dismiss. Starrk registered it distantly—an unpleasant heat spreading up his forearm, curling inward toward his chest. He didn’t flinch. Pain had long since lost its novelty.
“Hm,” Szayel Aporro murmured, eyes bright behind his glasses. “Fascinating. No outward discomfort. As expected of the Primera.” His smile widened. “Oh, I simply cannot wait to see what happens next.”
The needle slid free. Szayelaporro straightened, discarding it with careless elegance as Starrk lowered his arm, fingers curling once before relaxing again.
Lilynette leaned in close, eye flicking over his face. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he said quietly. “It’s… nothing...”
Szayel Aporro clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace. “You know,” he said conversationally, “it’s funny. Lord Aizen has always been so particular about consent.”
Starrk’s gaze sharpened a fraction.
“What do you mean?” he asked.
“Oh, nothing dramatic,” Szayel Aporro replied, waving a hand. “I merely mentioned the possibility of testing an enhancement compound. He said it would be acceptable… if a volunteer stepped forward.”
He paused, then smiled over his shoulder.
“I may have taken some liberties with how I conveyed his involvement.”
The words settled slowly.
He used Aizen’s name.
Starrk felt it then—not anger, not surprise—but a dull, sinking weight in his chest. Lilynette had been right. Again. And he hadn’t bothered to check. Hadn’t cared enough to question it. Because it was easier to assume than to engage.
Szayel Aporro continued, voice bright. “Technically speaking, Lord Aizen doesn’t know this is happening at all.”
Lilynette snarled. “You lied.”
“Oh please,” Szayel Aporro scoffed. “I improvised.”
Starrk exhaled slowly through his nose. The burn intensified, spreading now in earnest, threading through his bloodstream and sinking deeper. He felt it coil around something older than flesh—around the dense core of his being.
“And now that it’s in,” Szayel Aporro went on, clearly pleased with himself, “there’s no need for half-truths. The compound should enhance your power in a manner similar to a forced Resurrección. A push toward manifestation, without the need for conscious release.”
Starrk’s head turned sharply.
“Forced,” he repeated.
His eyes slid to Lilynette.
She stood there, tense, angry but unchanged—no spike in pressure, no distortion, no sign that whatever was happening to him was bleeding into her. For now. Relief flickered briefly through him, quickly smothered.
But if this escalates…
Szayel Aporro didn’t seem to notice the look. Or perhaps he did and didn’t care. “Of course, one must account for variables,” he said airily. “But you are the Primera Espada. Exceptional. I doubt there will be any—”
“The top three Espada aren’t allowed to use Resurrección in Las Noches,” Starrk cut in.
Szayel Aporro waved the concern aside. “A technicality. This isn’t a true release. Merely an enhancement. A catalyst.”
The burn surged again, sharper this time, and Starrk clenched his jaw. Something shifted in his chest—deep, heavy, familiar. That vast, aching quiet. The endless stretch of solitude that defined him, that pressed inward when stirred, threatening to swallow everything else whole. It clawed upward now, responding to the intrusion, agitated.
His spiritual pressure trembled, a low vibration humming beneath his skin.
Starrk forced it down.
Not here.
Not in front of him.
He leaned back into the chair, shoulders loose, expression carefully blank. If Szayelaporro was watching for cracks, he wouldn’t be given the satisfaction. Whatever this drug was doing—whatever it was trying to wake—Starrk would keep it buried.
The quiet receded, reluctantly, simmering just beneath the surface.
Blue-grey eyes lifted slowly to Szayel Aporro, unreadable.
“…You should’ve told me,” Starrk said evenly.
Szayel Aporro’s smile sharpened. “Where would be the fun in that?”
Starrk rose from the chair slowly.
Not because he was weak—but because moving too quickly felt like inviting something to slip loose.
The burn in his veins had settled into a deep, insistent thrum, a pressure coiled tight beneath his skin. His spiritual energy pressed outward, testing boundaries, restless in a way it rarely was. Annoyance tugged at him, sharp and unwelcome, as he forced it down—compressed it into a narrow, disciplined line the way he always did. Control came with habit. With distance. With not wanting anything. He reached for his glove and slid it back onto his hand, tugging it snug over his wrist, concealing the faint tremor that had begun to ripple through his fingers.
Szayel Aporro’s golden gaze followed the motion immediately.
“Oh?” the Eighth Espada hummed. “And where do you think you’re going, Primera?”
Starrk didn’t look at him as he turned away from the chair. “I’m done here.”
“So soon?” Szayelaporro’s tone was mockingly disappointed. “Really, it shouldn’t last long. A couple of hours at most. Harmless, truly.” His eyes narrowed slightly as they tracked Starrk’s arm.
The tremor hadn’t stopped.
Starrk turned fully then, the movement deliberate. His jaw set, the line of his mouth hardening as irritation finally bled through the cracks of his usual indifference.
Szayel Aporro smiled wider. “Ah. There it is.”
“I expect a report,” he continued, voice light, conversational. “I’ll need to know what worked, what didn’t. What needs fixing. Tweaking. You understand.”
Starrk said nothing.
Silence stretched.
Szayel Aporro tilted his head. “After all, your little pet Privaron Espada is quite adept at documentation, isn’t she? I imagine she’ll be thrilled to assist. I expect a very detailed report.”
Something snapped.
Not violently. Not explosively.
But the air shifted.
Starrk’s reiatsu flared—just a breath of it, sharp and cold, like a blade half-drawn from its sheath. His eyes darkened, annoyance crystallizing into something far more dangerous.
Akeelah.
Szayel Aporro shouldn’t have mentioned her.
Normally, Starrk didn’t react. He let slights pass, let insults dissolve into the endless quiet he carried. But things had changed since her fall from Segunda months ago. Since he’d seen what that loss had taken from her—and what it had tried to take from him.
He’d made it very clear after that.
She was his.
And anything that came near her did so under his protection.
Szayel Aporro’s smile faltered, just barely.
Lilynette felt it before she understood it. She stepped closer to Starrk instinctively, drawn by something she couldn’t name. Her spiritual pressure shifted subtly, leaning toward his like iron filings toward a magnet. She didn’t notice the pull.
Starrk did.
The reaction was immediate—and wrong.
His own reiatsu surged in response, eager, reactive, pressing toward her presence as if seeking anchor or expression. The drug burned hotter, feeding the instinct, coaxing the pressure outward.
No.
Before she could reach him, Starrk shifted—one smooth step backward, just out of her reach. Distance snapped the thread taut and weakened it. The pressure eased, settling back into something manageable.
Lilynette blinked, confused. “Starrk?”
“I’m fine,” he said quickly, perhaps too quickly. His voice was steady, but his posture had changed—subtly guarded now, shoulders squared, space carefully maintained between them.
He turned his attention back to Szayelaporro, eyes cold.
“You’ll get nothing,” Starrk said flatly. “This was your experiment. Figure it out yourself.”
Szayel Aporro clicked his tongue. “Such hostility. I only meant—”
“I don’t care what you meant.”
The air around Starrk tightened, his presence suddenly heavy, oppressive in a way he usually took pains to avoid. It was a warning. A reminder.
Bring her up again.
See what happens.
He was not in the mood to play games anymore.
Without waiting for a response, Starrk turned and started for the exit, boots echoing sharply against the lab floor. Lilynette hurried to follow, casting one last suspicious glare over her shoulder at Szayelaporro.
Behind them, the Eighth Espada watched with undisguised fascination, fingers twitching as he noted every detail—the tremors, the flare, the restraint.
“Oh,” Szayel Aporro murmured to himself, delighted. “This is going to be very interesting indeed.”
The doors slid shut behind them with a soft, final hiss.
Starrk didn’t slow.
His stride lengthened instead, boots striking the pale floor in long, measured steps that echoed down the corridor. The sterile air of Szayelaporro’s sector gave way to the broader emptiness of Las Noches, but the relief he expected never came. The burn in his veins deepened, no longer content to linger quietly beneath his skin. It pulsed now, insistent, each beat syncing unpleasantly with his heart.
Lilynette jogged to keep up, scowling. “Unbelievable,” she snapped. “I told you. I told you this was a bad idea. You didn’t even check. You never check!”
He didn’t answer.
“You just hear Aizen’s name and that’s it, right? Head empty, walking forward like a damn—hey. Are you even listening to me?”
Still nothing.
Starrk’s jaw was tight, his expression carved into something distant and closed. He kept his gaze forward, focused on nothing in particular. Talking required energy. So did reacting. He needed all of it right now just to keep everything… still.
The tremor in his arm worsened.
It crept from his wrist to his forearm, subtle at first, then harder to ignore—a faint, involuntary shudder that rattled through muscle and bone. He flexed his fingers once inside the glove, hoping the movement would mask it. Instead, the burn flared hotter, spreading like molten wire up his arm and into his shoulder.
His skin felt wrong.
Cold. Damp. As though his flesh couldn’t decide whether to burn or freeze.
He swallowed and kept walking.
You’re fine, he told himself.
He was the Primera Espada.
This was nothing.
But solitude rose anyway.
It always did.
That vast, suffocating quiet pressed in around his thoughts, thick and heavy, trying to drown everything else out. The drug stirred it, agitated it, pulled at the edges of his mind until the familiar spiral threatened to take hold—memories blurring into emptiness, the sense that he was too much and not enough all at once.
He pushed back.
Not here. Not now.
Lilynette’s voice cut through the fog, sharper this time. “Starrk… stop.”
He slowed despite himself.
She moved in front of him, forcing him to halt, her single pink eye narrowing as she looked him over properly. “Okay. No. You don’t look fine.”
“I am,” he said automatically.
“You’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You’re pale,” she shot back. “And you’re sweating. And you haven’t told me to shut up yet, which is honestly the biggest red flag.”
He exhaled, annoyed more at himself than her. “It’s just a stupid drug. It’ll wear off.”
“Uh-huh.” She reached for him. “Let me see—”
“Lilynette, don’t—”
Too late.
Her fingers closed around his wrist.
The contact was brief.
It was enough.
Pain detonated up his arm like a lightning strike, white-hot and sudden, ripping a sharp breath from his chest before he could stop it. The burn surged violently, racing straight to his core, slamming into his chest with a force that made his vision blur.
His spiritual pressure spiked.
Not outward—yet—but inward, compressing violently, screaming for release. The drug seized on the connection, on the proximity, feeding off it eagerly, trying to force his power forward, dragging his Resurreccion toward the surface like a chain yanked too hard.
His knees buckled a fraction before he caught himself, teeth clenched hard enough to ache. Lilynette felt it then—the sudden shift, the pressure snapping tight—and her grip loosened instantly.
“Starrk—!”
“Don’t,” he said sharply, voice low and strained.
He pulled his arm free, stepping back again, distance re-established by sheer necessity. Space helped. It dulled the edge, just enough for him to shove the surge back down, burying it beneath layers of discipline and refusal.
He would not let it happen.
This was his mistake. His failure to care enough to check. And Lilynette wasn’t going to pay for it.
The pressure settled reluctantly, humming beneath his skin like a caged thing. His breathing evened out with effort, every muscle locked tight as he forced his body to obey.
Lilynette stared at him, fear finally cracking through her anger. “You’re not okay.”
He straightened slowly, shoulders squaring, expression smoothing back into something neutral—something practiced. “I said I’m fine. Just drop it.”
She didn’t believe him.
Neither did he.
But Starrk turned and started walking again anyway, because stopping meant acknowledging it. And acknowledging it meant risking losing control.
And that…
That wasn’t an option.
They kept moving.
The corridor stretched on in long, pale lines, endless and unforgiving, and Starrk matched it step for step—steady, forward, away. Lilynette stayed at his side, stubborn as ever, her shorter strides quickening to keep pace.
“You’re not doing this,” she said sharply. “You don’t just shut down and pretend nothing’s wrong. Talk to me.”
He shifted slightly, just enough to put a sliver of space between them.
She noticed, her jaw tightened. “Stop doing that.”
“I’m not—”
“You are,” she snapped. “Every time I get close, you move. What, am I suddenly radioactive now?”
He didn’t answer. The burn was worse again, licking up his arm, coiling tight in his chest. His breathing stayed even only because he forced it to. Each step felt like balancing on a blade.
Lilynette reached out again, fingers closing around his arm, determined this time to make him listen. Spirit energy trying to merge at contact.
The pain hit instantly.
It clenched his chest hard enough that his vision flashed white, panic flaring sharp and sudden—an ugly, unfamiliar spike that made his heart stutter. His spiritual pressure surged in response, furious and reactive, slamming against its restraints, desperate to get out.
“Don’t—!” he snapped.
The word came out harsher than intended, sharp enough to cut.
Lilynette froze.
Her eye widened, shock flashing across her face. Starrk never snapped at her like that. Ever. They argued, constantly, loudly—but words had never been weapons between them.
“What is your problem?” she shot back, anger flaring hot to cover the sting. “I’m trying to help you!”
She shoved him.
It wasn’t hard. It didn’t need to be.
The contact, paired with his irritation, his spiraling control, was a terrible mix. His back hit the wall with a dull thud, the corridor suddenly feeling too narrow, too close. The pressure surged again, clawing upward, and with it came words he didn’t mean—couldn’t stop.
“Just stop,” he said harshly. “You’re making it worse.”
The sentence landed like a blow.
Lilynette stared at him, anger faltering, hurt bleeding through instead. Her mouth opened, then closed, her shoulders stiffening.
“You…” Her voice wavered. “You don’t mean that.”
Starrk couldn’t look at her.
If he did, he’d break. He’d apologize. He’d reach for her. And if he did that, if he let himself close again, he didn’t trust what the drug would make his reiyoku do—or what it might drag her into.
So he turned on his heel and walked away.
“Starrk!” she called after him, scrambling to follow. “Where are you going?!”
“Just leave me alone,” he said over his shoulder, the words clipped, wrong, edged with something sharp and final. “I’m just going for a walk.”
He heard her stop.
He didn’t look back.
“Fine!” Lilynette shouted after him, voice cracking despite herself. “Go then! See if I care!”
He kept walking.
Behind him, Lilynette stood frozen in the corridor, fists clenched at her sides, breathing heavily, her single pink eye burning as tears welled—whether from anger or hurt, she couldn’t tell. She glared at his retreating back, at the tense set of his broad shoulders, the rigid way he held himself as if the world were trying to tear him apart.
He never left her behind.
Never spoke to her like that.
They were meant to be together. Always. No matter what.
And now he was walking away.
Starrk followed the northern path without thinking, his feet carrying him along the most familiar route, the one etched deepest into memory. The corridor opened, the air shifting subtly as the exit drew nearer—the place where he and Akeelah normally liked to walk together, where silence felt less heavy when it was shared.
Now there was no one.
The panic pressed tight in his chest, his spirit pressure trembling under the strain of sheer willpower alone. He forced his face blank, his steps steady, refusing to let anything show.
He couldn’t afford to stop.
He couldn’t afford to go back.
If staying away was what it took to keep Lilynette safe—if solitude was the price—then he’d pay it.
He always did.
--
Lilynette stood there for half a heartbeat, staring after him.
The corridor swallowed Starrk whole—white walls, long shadows, his presence receding until even his spiritual pressure was nothing but a tight, distant hum. It felt wrong. Wrong in a way that scraped at her chest and made her teeth grind.
He never left her behind.
Her hands curled into fists.
“Oh, no,” she muttered, anger snapping hot and bright through the hurt. “You do not get to do that.”
She spun on her heel and broke into a run. If for some reason she could not touch him there was only one other arrancar Lilynette trusted to help.
Her boots slapped sharply against the stone as she tore through Las Noches, weaving through the Privaron sector without slowing. Lower-ranked Arrancar scrambled instinctively out of her way, sensing the edge to her mood even if they didn’t understand it. She clipped a shoulder here, skidded around a corner there, pink eye blazing.
Shutting me out. Like hell.
She turned sharply—
—and slammed straight into a small body.
“Oy—watch it—”
The voice cut off mid-yelp.
Pale hands came up quickly, steadying her before she could rebound, fingers careful despite ending in claws. Lilynette blinked, scowling up at a familiar cat skull mask and a pair of large, twitching ears above messy silver hair.
Corazon Pérez.
The Delegar’s golden eyes had gone wide, pupils sharp as he looked down at her like she snapped him out of thought, head tilting slightly as if listening to something beneath the noise of the halls. His silver hair messy but tied back in a short braid
“…Hey Lily, you okay?” he asked, quieter now.
She stepped back immediately, shrugging off his hands. “I’m fine Cora…”
He wasn’t convinced. His ears flicked again, gaze narrowing with concern as he studied her face. “You don’t look fine.”
“Yeah, well,” she huffed, scrubbing at her eye irritably. “I’ll explain later. I need to see Akeelah. Now.” Side stepping the slightly taller boy to start running down the hall towards Akeelah’s quarters.
Corazon straightened, ears angling back as he processed that. “She’s not in this sector she had to go over some reports with Gin!” He called after her, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder in the direction opposite of the Privaron sector all the way across Las Noches.
Lilynette let out a frustrated growl, sharp and feral. “You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
She pivoted and bolted past him again, barely slowing as she shot back, “Thanks Cora!”
Corazon watched her go, stubby tail twitching uneasily, golden eyes following her frantic retreat down the corridor as he raised his hand in a silent confused wave.
She ran harder.
Her breath came quick, anger fueling her legs as she tore across Las Noches, muttering under her breath. “Idiot. Absolute idiot. ‘I’m fine,’ my ass—”
She rounded the final corner toward the reporting hall—
—and collided with something far less forgiving.
The impact knocked the air from her lungs, sending her stumbling back a step. She looked up, already glaring, ready to bite someone’s head off—
And froze.
Blue eyes glared down at her, sharp and predatory, lips curled in immediate irritation. A broad, scarred torso loomed in front of her, spiritual pressure bristling like a challenge even at rest.
Grimmjow Jaegerjaquez.
He looked down at her like she’d personally offended him by existing in his path.
“Tch,” he sneered. “Watch where you’re goin’, brat.”
Lilynette’s eye narrowed dangerously.
“Oh,” she snapped, planting her feet. “Perfect. Just what I needed.”
Grimmjow’s lip curled as Lilynette squared up to him, the faintest hint of amusement flashing in his eyes—mean, sharp, predatory.
“Got a death wish, pup?” he snarled, leaning down just enough to loom. “Or are you always this loud when you run into people?”
Lilynette bristled instantly. “Oh, please. Like I’d be scared of you. You’re just mad ‘cause someone smaller than you isn’t kissing your ass.”
That did it.
Grimmjow’s spiritual pressure flared in a sharp, hostile spike, teeth flashing as he barked a short, humorless laugh. “Tch. You got a mouth on you for someone who’s only alive ‘cause the Primera keeps you around.”
His gaze flicked down the corridor briefly, searching—expecting, perhaps, the heavy, suffocating presence that usually followed her.
Nothing.
He frowned, irritation deepening. “Where is he?” Grimmjow muttered. “Did he finally leave you behind?”
Lilynette’s eye burned. “Say that again.”
A quiet click echoed down the hall.
The sound was soft. Controlled.
Final.
The door to the reporting room slid shut behind Akeelah Belhjorra as she stepped into the corridor, her long coat falling neatly into place as she turned.
Her sharp purple eyes lifted—and fixed immediately on the scene before her.
Grimmjow, bristling with aggression.
Lilynette, flushed, breathing hard, fury and worry tangled tight.
Starrk not with her.
Akeelah didn’t raise her voice.
She didn’t need to.
“Getting bored enough to pick fights with children now, Sexta?” she asked coolly.
The words landed flat and cold, deadpan as a blade laid gently against skin.
Grimmjow stiffened, then turned on her with a snarl. “What’d you say, Privaron?”
Akeelah met his glare without flinching, lifting her chin as she stepped forward, deliberately closing the distance between them. Her posture was straight, arms neatly tucked behind her back, composed—defiant not through force, but through refusal to yield. Her reiatsu didn’t flare. It didn’t need to.
It was contained. Dense. Watchful.
Grimmjow’s attention locked onto her fully now, blue eyes narrowing as he sized her up.
She spared a glance sideways at Lilynette then, quick but thorough. Noted the tension in her shoulders. The heat in her cheeks. The frantic edge beneath her bravado.
Something’s wrong, Akeelah realized immediately.
Grimmjow scoffed. “Heh. What, did Starrk finally let you off your leash?” he taunted, grin sharp with expectation. “Or did you sneak out while he wasn’t lookin’?”
Akeelah didn’t rise to it.
Didn’t bare her teeth. Didn’t flare.
She only arched a brow slightly, expression dry, almost bored. “If I were on a leash,” she replied calmly, “you wouldn’t be breathing long enough to ask. Plus, I would be enjoying the finer things of life then, well…” She lowered her lashes slightly gesturing almost lazily towards the taller blue haired man, “listening to you bully a child.”
“Bitch.”
“Mm, very mature. I haven’t heard that one before.”
The faintest hint of sarcasm edged her tone—not sharp, not loud. Controlled.
Grimmjow’s grin twitched, irritation flashing where amusement had been. “Tch. You’re mouthy for someone who fell from Segunda.”
Akeelah’s gaze didn’t waver. “And you’re still Sexta,” she said evenly. “Despite all that barking.”
That earned a low growl.
She stepped past him just enough to stand closer to Lilynette, presence subtly shielding without being obvious. “Shouldn’t you be finishing your patrol report?” Akeelah added, tone mild but pointed. “If I recall correctly, Lord Aizen was quite clear about wanting those submitted promptly.”
Grimmjow stiffened.
The reminder hit its mark.
His eyes narrowed, jaw tightening as his irritation fought with reluctant obedience. He clicked his tongue sharply. “Tch. Don’t act like you can order me around.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” Akeelah replied coolly. “Just… reminding you.”
For a moment, it looked like he might push it anyway.
Then he scoffed, turning away with a sharp wave of his hand. “This isn’t over,” he muttered, casting one last glare over his shoulder. “Both of you.”
With that, Grimmjow stalked off down the corridor, his spiritual pressure spiking once in frustration before fading into the distance.
The hall fell quiet again.
Akeelah exhaled slowly and turned fully to Lilynette, eyes softening just a fraction.
“…All right,” she said quietly. “Now tell me what happened.”
Because whatever it was—
Starrk wasn’t here.
And that alone meant it wasn’t small.
Lilynette surged forward and wrapped her arms around Akeelah’s middle, burying her face against the front of her coat with a force born more of desperation than intent. It was sudden. Clumsy. Entirely unlike her.
Akeelah froze.
Every muscle in her body coiled tight in an instant, spine going rigid as instinct screamed danger. Her breath hitched sharply, a sharp inhale caught too high in her chest as her mind flashed—too fast, too vividly—to restraints, to hands that weren’t gentle, to moments where touch meant loss of control rather than comfort.
Her hands hovered uselessly at her sides.
For half a second, panic clawed up her throat.
It’s Lilynette.
It’s not a stranger.
You’re not trapped.
She closed her eyes, jaw tightening as she forced herself to stay present. The corridor didn’t change. The weight against her wasn’t crushing. It was small. Trembling. Hurt.
Slowly—carefully—Akeelah rolled her shoulders, easing the tension out of them one deliberate breath at a time. The urge to push Lilynette away dulled, replaced by something heavier and far more difficult.
Concern.
After a moment, she lifted one hand and rested it awkwardly against Lilynette’s back, fingers stiff as if unsure where they were meant to go. She settled on the space between her shoulder blades, palm flat, pressure light. Comfort did not come naturally to her. It felt foreign, imprecise. But she stayed.
Lilynette clutched tighter, voice muffled. “Starrk’s an idiot.”
That made Akeelah open her eyes and raise one thin brow.
“…That is,” she said dryly, “remarkably unspecific.”
Lilynette sniffed, shoulders hitching. “He let Szayelaporro try some stupid drug on him. Didn’t even check if it was fine, just roll up his sleeve and ‘okay here you go put that needle in me’. And now he’s being a jerk and acting like everything’s fine when it’s clearly not.”
The words tumbled out in a rush, uneven and tangled, but the shape of the problem was clear enough.
Akeelah’s stomach sank.
Her fingers shifted slightly, brushing the fabric of Lilynette’s vest in a stiff, uncertain motion meant to soothe. “I see.”
“He wouldn’t let me touch him,” Lilynette continued, voice tight. “He kept moving away. And then—” Her grip tightened briefly. “He yelled at me. Like… really yelled. He never does that.”
Akeelah’s jaw set.
That, more than anything else, filled in the missing pieces.
Starrk didn’t raise his voice unless something was very wrong.
“He’s not listening,” Lilynette muttered bitterly. “He’s being dumb. And stubborn. And—” She hesitated, then added quietly, “I don’t trust anyone else with this. Just you.”
Akeelah inhaled slowly, steadying herself as much as Lilynette. “Isolation,” she murmured softly, cutting her off before the spiral could deepen. “Yes. That tracks.”
Lilynette pulled back just enough to look up at her, single eye red-rimmed and blazing. “You’re not mad?”
“Of course not.” Akeelah shook her head once. “Concerned, maybe frustrated with him. But not mad, not at you, not even with Starrk”
She’d seen Starrk’s quiet spirals before—the way he withdrew, the way solitude turned from refuge into weapon when something tipped him too far inward. If a drug was involved… one meant to enhance power, to force something forward that was never meant to be rushed—
“It likely amplified what was already there,” Akeelah said evenly. “Including his tendency to disappear when he feels out of control.”
Lilynette scowled before grumbling. “He’s an idiot…”
“Yes,” Akeelah agreed. “He can be when he wants to.” She mused, running her fingers over Lilynette’s helmet of her mask fragment. “But he’s your idiot.”
That earned a weak, incredulous huff from Lilynette. “And yours.”
Akeelah’s hand pressed a little more firmly between her shoulder blades—still awkward, still restrained, but present, letting the silence of the hall stretch between them, giving comfort to the small girl.
“You did the right thing,” she said. “I’ll handle it.”
Because Starrk walking alone—
Because Starrk asking to be left alone—
That wasn’t something either of them could afford to ignore.
Akeelah shifted her weight, then lowered herself slowly until she knelt in front of Lilynette, bringing them eye to eye. The movement was deliberate, controlled—meant to soften rather than startle. She lifted her hand and brushed her fingers gently along Lilynette’s cheek, thumb catching just beneath her eye as if to wipe away the threat of tears before they could fall.
“Tell me where he went,” Akeelah said quietly. “I’ll find him. I’ll bring him back.”
“He headed toward the north wing exit,” Lilynette said, crossing her arms. “Said he was going for a walk.”
Akeelah nodded slowly.
North. Of course.
It fit too neatly to be coincidence—the path Starrk took when he needed air, when the walls of Las Noches pressed too close. When proximity became dangerous. If he had been pushing Lilynette away, it wasn’t rejection. It was restraint. The way their Resurrección intertwined… closeness could provoke it. Provoke him. Especially now.
“I understand,” Akeelah said softly.
She rose to her feet and straightened her coat, posture settling back into that composed, unyielding calm she wore like armor. Before turning, she placed her hands lightly on Lilynette’s shoulders.
“Go back to your room,” she instructed. “Stay there. I’ll bring his miserable self-back once it has worn off.”
Lilynette hesitated. “You promise?”
Akeelah met her gaze, steady and sure. “I promise.”
That was enough.
Lilynette nodded, sighing one last time before turning and stomping off down the corridor, muttering under her breath about idiots and stupid Espada and drugs that shouldn’t exist.
Akeelah watched her go for a moment longer than necessary.
Then she turned toward the north wing.
If Starrk was walking alone right now—
If the drug was stirring the quiet inside him—
Then solitude wasn’t what he needed.
And she would not let it swallow him whole.
--
The hall swayed.
Not enough to be obvious—just enough that Starrk noticed, and that was the problem.
His blood felt like it was on fire.
Not the sharp, clean burn of injury or the dull ache of fatigue, but something invasive, wrong, spreading through him in pulses that made his skin prickle and his muscles tense. Each heartbeat pushed the heat farther, carried it deeper, until it pooled in his chest and throbbed there, heavy and nauseating.
He staggered slightly and caught himself against the wall with his shoulder.
Damn it.
The stone was cool beneath his coat, grounding in a way he desperately needed. He kept his head down, blue-grey eyes half-lidded as he focused on breathing—slow, measured, controlled. In through his nose. Out through his mouth. He could do this. He always could.
He was barely halfway down the corridor to the north exit.
The distance felt longer than it ever had.
His arm shook openly now, tremors rippling through it no matter how tightly he clenched his fist. Sweat slicked his palms, clammy and cold despite the heat burning through his veins. His stomach churned, nausea rolling unpleasantly with every step, and he swallowed hard against it.
Couple hours, Szayelaporro had said.
Harmless.
A bitter huff escaped Starrk’s throat. “Liar,” he muttered under his breath.
The irritation came first—sharp, biting, unfamiliar in its intensity. It gnawed at him, fed the spiral, made every thought louder and harder to ignore. He was irritated at Szayelaporro. At himself. At the way he hadn’t cared enough to question it. At the way Lilynette’s hurt expression kept flashing unbidden behind his eyes.
You’re making it worse.
The words echoed back at him, sour and wrong.
He hadn’t meant them like that.
The panic followed close on irritation’s heels, slipping in through the cracks. It tightened around his chest, made his breaths feel shallow, insufficient. His spiritual pressure trembled beneath his skin, restless, agitated, pressing outward like it wanted to tear free of him entirely.
That scared him more than the pain.
He wasn’t used to this.
Starrk had always been… steady. Detached. Calm to the point of apathy. Fear and panic were things that happened to other people—loud people, desperate people. He endured. He waited things out. He let time and distance dull the edges until everything was manageable again.
This was different.
This was his own power turning on him, stirred and sharpened by something artificial, something invasive. The drug dug its claws into the quiet at his core, prodding it, twisting it, amplifying the solitude until it felt less like emptiness and more like pressure—vast and crushing.
Too much, a part of him whispered.
You’re too much.
His steps slowed despite his efforts. He leaned harder into the wall, fingers scraping lightly against the stone as dizziness washed over him in a sudden wave. The world tilted, vision blurring at the edges, and he squeezed his eyes shut until it passed.
Get outside, he told himself.
Just get outside.
Fresh air—if Hueco Mundo could even be called that. Space. Distance from Las Noches. Distance from people. From Lilynette. From Akeelah. From anyone his power might reach out to without his consent.
He couldn’t let that happen.
Not Lilynette.
Not her.
His jaw clenched as another surge of heat ripped through his chest, sharp enough that he hissed softly through his teeth. His Resurrección stirred in response, something old and dangerous shifting beneath the surface, testing its restraints.
“No,” he whispered hoarsely, pressing his forehead briefly to the cool wall. “Not now.”
His spiritual pressure compressed violently inward, held in place by sheer will alone. It hurt. Everything hurt. But he forced it down anyway, because the alternative was unthinkable.
He pushed off the wall and kept walking.
Each step was an act of stubborn defiance—against the drug, against his spiraling thoughts, against the quiet that threatened to swallow him whole. He would walk it off. He would endure it. He always did.
He was the Primera Espada.
This was nothing.
Even as his hands shook, his stomach churned, and panic coiled tight in his chest, Starrk kept moving toward the north exit—toward open space, toward solitude—clinging desperately to the belief that if he could just get far enough away, he could still hold himself together.
Starrk had just pushed himself into a steadier rhythm—short strides, eyes forward, jaw clenched—when a familiar, grating presence scraped across his senses.
Of course.
“Nnnh?” Nnoitra’s laugh echoed down the hall before the man himself rounded the corner, looming and broad shouldered, scythe slung lazily over one arm. “Well I’ll be damned. Look what crawled outta his hole. “
Starrk didn’t stop walking.
That alone was enough to irritate the Fifth Espada.
Nnoitra turned, long legs matching Starrk’s pace with ease, head craning down just enough to leer.
“What, Primera? Too good to acknowledge me now?”
The heat in Starrk’s blood flared sharply at the sound of his voice. His vision swam for a second, irritation snapping tight and immediate, far more intense than it had any right to be. His grip flexed at his side, fingers curling until his knuckles ached.
Ignore him.
He failed almost instantly.
“Move,” Starrk muttered, voice low and flat. “I’m not in the mood.”
Nnoitra barked out a laugh. “Oh? That’s rich. You always look like you’re not in the mood.” His eye narrowed, sharp and predatory. “Or is something wrong? You look like shit.”
Starrk stopped.
The corridor seemed to tighten around them. His reiatsu shifted—just a fraction, just enough that the air prickled uncomfortably against the skin. He felt it slip, felt the careful compression strain as his irritation surged hot and fast.
Nnoitra noticed.
His grin widened. “There it is,” he said softly, almost pleased. “That little twitch. You gonna snap, Primera? Or you finally growin’ a spine?”
Starrk turned his head slowly, blue-grey eyes lifting to meet Nnoitra’s. They were sharper than usual, darker, edged with something volatile that hadn’t been there before.
“Keep talking,” Starrk said, voice tight, controlled by a thread. “And you’ll find out how bad of an idea that is.”
The words came too easily. Too honest.
His reiatsu pulsed again—subtle, restrained, but wrong. It rolled outward before he could fully lock it down, a vast, suffocating presence pressing against the corridor walls. Starrk’s teeth clenched as he fought it, forced it back with sheer stubborn will.
Nnoitra’s eye gleamed. “Heh. Look at you,” he drawled. “All worked up. Didn’t think you had it in—”
Starrk felt her before he heard her.
The world cooled.
It wasn’t just a drop in temperature so much as a sudden, profound stillness, like the air itself had been told to quiet down and obeyed without question. His spiraling thoughts stuttered, irritation faltering as a familiar, cold presence slid into place beside him.
Akeelah.
Her reiatsu was controlled to the point of austerity—flat, quiet, and heavy in a way that demanded attention without ever asking for it. It brushed past Starrk, not touching him directly, but close enough that he felt the difference immediately.
“Quinta.”
Her voice followed a heartbeat later—bland, disinterested, carrying the weight of absolute confidence.
Starrk didn’t look. He didn’t have to.
Akeelah stepped forward, white cloak folded neatly over one arm, the other crossing over her chest as she turned her attention fully on Nnoitra. Sharp purple eyes locked onto him without a flicker of emotion. The antlers crowning her head cast long, crooked shadows across the stone floor—shadows that stretched right up to Nnoitra’s feet. The light within the hall catching the white streak in her bangs.
He stiffened, scowl twisting his features. “Tch. What do you want?”
Akeelah didn’t even glance at Starrk as she spoke again. “You’re obstructing a corridor,” she said coolly.
“And antagonizing the Primera Espada.”
Her gaze sharpened just a fraction. “Both are poor decisions.”
The pressure shifted—subtle, deliberate. Not a threat. A statement.
Starrk felt his own reiatsu settle slightly in response, instinctively aligning, the edge of panic and irritation dulling under the sudden absence of Nnoitra’s focus on him. His breathing steadied by degrees he hadn’t realized he’d needed.
Nnoitra clicked his tongue, annoyance flaring as the attention was pulled cleanly away from Starrk and pinned squarely on her. “You always gotta stick your nose where it doesn’t belong, Privaron?”
Akeelah tilted her head the barest amount, expression unchanged. “If you’re finished,” she said, tone cool and dismissive, “leave.”
Her eyes never wavered.
Starrk stayed silent behind her, fighting to keep his reiatsu contained—but for the first time since the drug had taken hold, the spiral slowed.
Nnoitra’s lip curled as he looked Akeelah up and down, one eye narrowing with sharp, ugly interest.
“Well ain’t this cozy,” he sneered. “Didn’t know broken discarded swords got reassigned as pets these days. Guess the Primera’s lonely enough to keep scraps now.”
The word pet landed like a blade.
Starrk shifted behind her before he could stop himself. The movement was small—barely a roll of his shoulders, a tightening of his stance—but irritation flared hot and immediate, cutting clean through the haze of pain crawling under his skin. His jaw clenched hard enough to ache.
Relief at her presence warred viciously with annoyance that she’d come at all… and with something far sharper at the way Nnoitra looked at her.
Nnoitra’s gaze lingered, predatory, dropping lower as if dissecting her. His eye flicked—not to her antlers, not to her expression—but to her posture.
The subtle favoring of her left side.
The way her weight didn’t quite settle evenly.
A grin spread across his face. “Hah,” he chuckled. “Still limpin’, huh? Segunda didn’t do you any favors. Thought you’d have learned your place after that fall.”
Starrk felt his reiatsu spike dangerously close to the surface.
Enough.
The drug in his veins made the reaction too sharp, too fast. His blood burned, nausea rolling up hard as his irritation surged, a vast presence straining against the walls he’d built to contain it. His fingers twitched, energy crackling just beneath his skin as instinct screamed to end this.
Akeelah didn’t move.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t even look down.
She shifted her gaze back to Nnoitra’s face, unimpressed, bored—and devastatingly calm.
“How observant,” she said dryly. “I’d applaud, but I doubt you’d understand the gesture.”
Nnoitra bristled. “Watch your mouth—”
“Or what?” she cut in smoothly, chin tilting up a fraction in quiet defiance. “You’ll strike me in a corridor? Interfere with the Primera’s duties?” Her eyes flicked, finally, sideways—just enough to acknowledge Starrk’s presence without truly looking at him.
The implication hung heavy.
Starrk’s irritation twisted into something colder, more controlled—but no less dangerous. His stance widened slightly, pressure coiling tight and contained, ready. The way Nnoitra had noticed her weakness—catalogued it—made something vicious curl in his chest. He shifted his weight till he took a step towards Akeelah.
Akeelah went on, unbothered. “If you’re seeking entertainment, Quinta, you’ll have to look elsewhere. I’m afraid provoking injured subordinates is a poor substitute for substance.”
“Injured?” Nnoitra scoffed. “That’s rich—”
She stepped half a pace forward.
Not aggressive. Not threatening.
Just enough that her antlers cast deeper shadows across the stone at his feet.
“I believe,” Akeelah said evenly, “that Lord Aizen requested the Primera Espada complete a patrol along the north wall.”
Starrk’s head snapped subtly toward her, irritation flickering—what—
She continued without missing a beat, tone unchanged. “We’re already behind schedule.”
Nnoitra’s eye narrowed. “Patrol? Since when—”
“Since now,” she replied flatly. “Unless, of course, you’d like to explain to Lord Aizen why the Primera was delayed.”
The corridor went quiet.
It was a clean bluff. Starrk recognized it instantly—and so did Nnoitra. But it was the kind of lie wrapped so neatly in plausibility that challenging it would require effort… and risk.
Nnoitra clicked his tongue, annoyance etched deep into his features. His gaze flicked between them once more before he scoffed. “Tch. Whatever. Do what you want.”
He turned sharply, stalking away down the hall, irritation radiating off him in waves.
Akeelah waited until his presence receded before she spoke again.
“If you’ll excuse us,” she said coolly to the empty corridor, already turning slightly. “We have duties to attend to.”
She stepped aside just enough to indicate Starrk should move.
Only then did Starrk realize how tightly he’d been holding himself together. His blood still burned. His head swam. But the spiral had slowed—interrupted, forcibly, by her arrival and her calm certainty.
Irritated.
Relieved.
And very much not fine.
He fell into step beside her without a word, the north wing stretching ahead of them as the doors loomed closer.
Starrk kept walking, long strides eating up the corridor as the north exit drew closer. The burn under his skin hadn’t eased—if anything it pulsed hotter now, his heartbeat loud in his ears—but irritation finally found an outlet that wasn’t dangerously close to turning violent.
“You didn’t need to be here,” he muttered, eyes forward. “Lilynette shouldn’t have gone running her mouth. I was fine.”
The word came out flat. Defensive. A lie he’d told himself often enough it usually stuck.
Beside him, Akeelah let out a quiet snort.
It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t mocking.
It was very unimpressed.
“If you were fine,” she replied dryly, matching his pace without effort, “you wouldn’t have been one breath away from biting Gilga’s head off.”
Starrk’s jaw tightened. “He was pushing.”
“He always pushes,” she shot back. “You usually don’t bite.”
That earned her a sideways glance, sharp and irritated. “I had it under control.”
“Mmm,” she hummed, folding her arms, white cloak shifting softly. “That explains why your reiatsu slipped.”
His shoulders stiffened.
“That was nothing.”
“Starrk.”
She said his name calmly, like a statement rather than a reprimand. It made his irritation flare hotter than Nnoitra ever managed.
“Lilynette had no right,” he continued, voice roughening despite himself. “She didn’t listen. She never listens. And now you’re here like I can’t handle a walk on my own.”
Akeelah’s lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “She listens just fine, for the most part,” she said. “She panics when you start acting like you’re already halfway gone.”
He scoffed. “Dramatic.”
“She hugged me,” Akeelah added blandly.
That made him pause half a step before forcing himself to keep moving.
“…She what?”
“Very tightly,” she continued, tone dry as bone. “Which, for Lilynette, means she was worried enough to ignore self-preservation.”
His irritation faltered, twisting uncomfortably into something else. Guilt, maybe. He pushed it down hard.
“She didn’t need to get involved,” he said, quieter now but no less stubborn. “And neither did you.”
Akeelah glanced up at him then, sharp purple eyes cutting sideways. “And yet here I am.”
He exhaled through his nose. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”
“And you’re supposed to be smarter than letting Granz put anything in your system,” she countered instantly.
That one hit clean.
Starrk grimaced. “It was supposed to be harmless.”
“Everything he says is supposed to be harmless.”
“—And I said I’m fine.”
Akeelah stopped walking.
Not abruptly. Just… stopped.
Starrk took two more steps before he realized, irritation flaring again as he turned back. “What?”
She looked up at him, expression flat, unimpressed, and entirely too perceptive.
“You’re pale,” she said. “Your breathing’s off. Your spirit pressure feels like it’s trying to claw out of your skin. And you nearly tore into the Quinta because he looked at me wrong.”
Her head tilted slightly. “So no. You’re not fine.”
The corridor felt smaller suddenly. His chest tightened, the drug reacting viciously to the spike of emotion, pain curling inward and squeezing hard enough to make his vision blur for a second.
He looked away first.
“…You shouldn’t have come,” he muttered.
Akeelah stepped forward again, closing the distance this time, voice low and even. “You don’t get to decide that for everyone.”
Then, softer—but no less firm:
“And you don’t get to spiral alone and call it strength.”
The banter settled back into place between them, heated and sharp-edged, familiar as breathing. But beneath it, something more serious simmered—unspoken, waiting.
And Starrk hated how much steadier he felt with her there anyway.
They resumed walking, the rhythm of their steps falling into an uneasy sync. The north exit loomed closer, the pale light from beyond Las Noches bleeding faintly into the corridor like a promise of space—distance—air.
Starrk kept his gaze forward, jaw tight. “You didn’t have to drag Aizen into it,” he muttered. “That bluff back there—”
“Worked,” Akeelah cut in calmly.
“It was reckless.”
She glanced at him sidelong. “From the man who let the Octava inject him with mystery poison because he said Aizen’s name.”
He clicked his tongue. “That’s not the same.”
She arched a brow. “You’re right. Mine was calculated.”
He huffed despite himself, a short breath that almost passed for a laugh before it caught halfway out. The burn surged again, sharper this time, like liquid fire crawling through his veins. His stomach rolled unpleasantly.
Akeelah noticed immediately. Of course she did.
“Don’t,” she said evenly, without looking at him. “Don’t do that thing where you pretend nothing’s happening.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You didn’t have to.”
The floor tilted—just a fraction, but enough to throw his balance off. Starrk slowed without meaning to, boots scuffing as a wave of dizziness slammed into him hard enough to make his vision fuzz at the edges. His chest constricted, breath catching as nausea curled low in his gut.
Damn it.
He forced his reiatsu down instinctively, crushing it tight against himself like holding a lid on something alive. It pushed back, eager and restless, reacting violently to the pain.
His arm trembled.
“Starrk,” Akeelah said quietly now, no sarcasm left in it.
“I’m fine,” he ground out, the words automatic even as sweat broke cold along his spine. He swallowed hard, throat tight. “Just… give it a second.”
The pain didn’t fade. It settled. A constant, gnawing burn beneath his skin, radiating outward from his chest like something trying to wake up. His heart pounded too fast, each beat echoing with that deep, suffocating quiet he hated—the solitude creeping in at the edges of his mind, whispering that this was his fault, that he should have known better, that he always did this to himself.
Akeelah slowed to match him, close enough now that he could feel her reiatsu brushing his own—cool, steady, an anchor that made his instincts strain toward her even as he fought them back.
“You’re forcing it down too hard,” she said softly. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Better than hurting you,” he snapped, harsher than intended.
She stopped again.
This time, when she spoke, her voice was low and sharp—not angry, but cutting clean through his spiral.
“Don’t use me as an excuse,” she said. “You don’t get to martyr yourself and call it consideration.”
He turned his head away, teeth gritted as another wave of nausea hit, his stomach lurching violently. He staggered half a step before catching himself against the wall, breath coming shallow and uneven.
“…Tch. Damn it.”
The exit was only a short distance away now, but it might as well have been miles. The drug burned relentlessly, his reiatsu pressing harder, agitated and unstable, responding to pain with the urge to change—to force something ancient and destructive to the surface.
Akeelah moved closer, close enough that her shoulder brushed his. “Starrk,” she said again, quieter now. “You’re not walking this off.”
He laughed weakly, the sound rough. “You’d be surprised what I’ve walked off.”
Her gaze sharpened. “You’d be surprised what finally stops you.”
He squeezed his eyes shut for a brief second, breathing through the pain, forcing his spirit pressure back into a tight, suffocating coil. Every instinct screamed to let go—to release, to end the pressure—but he held on with sheer, stubborn will.
He opened his eyes again, blue-grey dulled with strain.
“…Just get me outside,” he muttered. “Then you can lecture me all you want.”
Akeelah studied him for a long moment, then nodded once. “Fine.”
But she stayed right there at his side as they moved again—unyielding, watchful, and very much not leaving him alone.
They reached the exit at last—the tall archway opening out to the pale sands beyond Las Noches’ northern wall. Hueco Mundo stretched on the other side, endless and quiet, the wind carrying fine grains of white across the threshold in soft, whispering drifts.
Starrk slowed to a stop just short of the wall, shoulders rising and falling a little too noticeably now. The open space should have helped. Usually it did.
It didn’t.
The burn was steady, relentless, coiled tight in his chest and veins like something patient and cruel. He pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth, grounding himself, staring out into the empty expanse as if distance alone might calm the riot under his skin.
Beside him, Akeelah shifted.
Before he could comment, a familiar weight was thrust into his hands.
A cloak.
He blinked down at it, then up at her, irritation flaring on reflex. “I don’t need—”
“Put it on,” she said flatly.
He scowled. “I’m not cold.”
“That’s not why,” she replied, “And before you say it—yes, I know you’re insufferably resilient. Congratulations.”
He snorted despite himself, fingers tightening around the fabric. “You’re the insufferable one.”
Her lips twitched, just barely. “And yet here you are, holding the cloak.”
He hesitated.
The wind brushed over them, carrying sand and that vast, hollow quiet Hueco Mundo was so good at pressing into one’s bones. The drug reacted to it, to the openness, to her proximity—his reiatsu stirred again, restless, tugging subtly toward Akeelah like it always did when he wasn’t paying attention.
Annoying.
Dangerous.
Comforting.
He shifted closer without quite meaning to, a half-step that brought him within her space. His foul mood bristled at the instinct even as his body leaned into it, seeking something steady, something solid.
She didn’t comment. Didn’t tease. She simply stepped closer herself, closing the remaining distance with quiet intention, close enough that her presence blocked some of the wind, some of the space.
An invitation, wordless and deliberate.
Starrk exhaled slowly, irritation draining into something tired and raw. “…You don’t have to hover.”
“I know,” she said calmly. “I’m choosing to.”
He glanced at her sidelong, then finally pulled the cloak around his shoulders, the weight settling there like an anchor. The fabric dulled the edge of the burn just enough to make breathing easier.
“You’re impossible.”
Akeelah’s tone stayed dry, but there was something quieter beneath it now. “You say that like it’s new information.”
She remained close, not touching him—but not giving him the option to pull away either. And despite the fire in his veins and the storm pressing against his control, Starrk found himself leaning just a fraction more into her presence.
For the moment, it was enough.
Then world tipped without warning.
It wasn’t dramatic—no sharp snap, no sudden blackout—just a sickening tilt that made the horizon slide sideways and his stomach lurch violently in response. Starrk’s breath hitched as his knees threatened to give out beneath him.
“…Damn—”
Instinct took over before pride could interfere.
His hand shot out, fingers clamping hard around Akeelah’s bicep. The grip was tight, almost bruising, driven by pure reflex and the sudden, visceral need for something solid.
For a heartbeat, he felt it—the immediate tension in her muscle, the coil of old instinct that never quite left her when touched without warning.
But she didn’t pull away.
Akeelah moved in the same instant, her free hand sliding up his side, firm and sure as she took his weight without hesitation. Her stance shifted, grounded, practiced—like this wasn’t the first time she’d caught him when he’d refused to admit he was falling apart.
The contact sent a jolt through him. Not pain—something worse. The drug reacted eagerly, heat flaring through his chest, his reiatsu stirring dangerously close to the surface. He gritted his teeth, breath coming shallow as nausea churned harder, his stomach twisting like it wanted to empty itself onto the sands.
She steadied him easily, voice low near his shoulder. “How far do you want to go?”
He swallowed, throat tight. “Just… away,” he muttered. “Far enough.”
Another wave of dizziness hit, softer this time but lingering, like a warning. He shook his head slightly.
“Didn’t really think that far ahead.”
Akeelah snorted under her breath. “Clearly.”
He frowned, glaring down at her despite himself. “You don’t have to say it like that.”
Her lips quirked faintly. “Someone has to.”
Despite the irritation flickering weakly through him, he didn’t pull back. Instead, he leaned down further, pressing his forehead against hers, grounding himself in the contact he’d been fighting so hard to avoid. The need for comfort overrode his usual restraint, raw and undeniable.
He lifted his free hand in a vague gesture toward the open sands. “Just… get me out of here. Till it passes. I don’t care where.”
Her muscles tensed beneath his grip—not in resistance, but preparation. He felt her reiatsu shift, rising in a controlled surge, cold and precise as it wrapped around them both like a promise of motion.
“Alright,” she said simply.
She pulled him closer, one arm secure around him, the world drawing tight—
—and then her sonido cracked the air.
The exit vanished in a blur of pressure and sound as Hueco Mundo stretched and snapped around them, sand and silence folding away beneath the force of her movement, carrying them away from Las Noches in a single, thunderous step.
The world snapped back into place at the edge of the Menos forest, the towering silhouettes of the Gillians looming like silent sentinels in the distance. The air here was heavier, tinged with that old, hollow resonance that soaked into the bones. The sudden stop made Starrk’s stomach pitch violently.
He staggered a step, breath hitching as bile surged hard up his throat.
Akeelah glanced at him sidelong, already adjusting her hold as she guided him toward the cover of the twisted white trunks. “You going to be sick?”
“No,” he grumbled automatically, the word dragged out and unconvincing as he fought the rising nausea. He swallowed hard, jaw clenched, forcing one foot in front of the other.
The forest floor tilted again. His hand moving to cover his mouth as he tried to ease the churning in his stomach.
“…Ughk—”
He wrenched himself free just enough to turn away from her, stumbling toward the nearest tree. His gloved hand slapped against the rough bark as he doubled over, the burn in his veins flaring hot and vicious.
His stomach finally won.
He retched violently, the sound sharp in the quiet of the forest, body heaving as he emptied what little he had into the pale sand below. Each wrench sent a spike of pain through his chest, his reiatsu fluttering dangerously before he crushed it back down with sheer stubborn will.
Footsteps fell softly behind him in the sand.
Akeelah moved without hurry, one hand reaching up to gather his hair back, fingers firm but careful as she kept it out of the way. Her other hand settled between his shoulder blades, running slow, steady lines down his back—grounding, deliberate.
Between harsh retches, he managed to glare back at her over his shoulder, eyes watering and furious with his own weakness. “Don’t—” he coughed, swallowing hard. “Don’t say anything.”
She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed.
“I didn’t,” she replied calmly.
That only made him scowl deeper as another wave hit, his body shuddering before it finally eased. He spat into the sand, coughing roughly, breath ragged as he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“…This is stupid,” he muttered hoarsely.
“Yes,” Akeelah agreed without hesitation.
He huffed, a weak, breathless sound that might have been a laugh if he weren’t so miserable. He leaned heavier into the tree, eyes closing for a moment as the forest spun slowly back into place, her steady hand still there—unmoved, unbothered, and very much not leaving.
Akeelah shifted her stance as Starrk leaned more heavily into her touch, adjusting without comment so he didn’t slide or overbalance. Her hand remained steady at his back, the other still loosely holding his hair until his breathing evened out enough that she could let it fall.
He straightened just a fraction, still hunched, still pale, and shot her a sideways glare that lacked any real bite.
“You don’t have to agree with me,” he muttered hoarsely. “You could at least pretend this isn’t humiliating.”
Her mouth curved faintly—dry, restrained. “Why would I lie?”
He scoffed. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Absolutely not,” she replied. “But I am filing it away for future leverage.”
“That’s cruel.”
“Accurate.”
He snorted weakly, then winced as another dull wave of discomfort rolled through him. The burn hadn’t lessened, but it had changed—deeper now, settled low in his gut and chest like a coal that refused to cool.
Akeelah slid her arm more securely around his side and guided him gently away from the tree once he was steady enough to move. “Come on,” she said. “Standing still isn’t helping.”
He allowed himself to be moved, steps slow and uneven as they walked further into the edge of the forest, the pale trunks offering cover and quiet. “You know,” he grumbled, “most people would be a little nicer about this.”
She glanced up at him. “Most people don’t inject experimental drugs and then insist they’re fine.”
“It was supposed to be simple.”
“And yet here you are,” she said calmly, “being carried halfway into the Menos forest.”
“I am not being carried.”
Her brow arched. “You’re leaning.”
“Strategically.”
She huffed softly. “Of course.”
Despite the banter, her grip remained firm, careful to keep him upright without jostling him too much. Starrk let himself settle into the support, irritation dulled now by exhaustion and the steady burn under his skin.
“…You’re still insufferable,” he muttered.
“And you’re not face first in the sand,” she replied. “I’d call that a success so far.”
He closed his eyes briefly, breathing through the discomfort as they moved together, her presence a quiet constant at his side.
Akeelah slowed, then angled them off the faint path and deeper between the pale trunks. Not far—just enough. She stopped beside a thick, gnarled tree whose roots curled inward, forming a narrow hollow hidden from casual sight. It wasn’t much. Barely space enough for one.
She guided Starrk there anyway.
Careful. Deliberate. No sudden movements.
She settled first, back against the cold, twisted roots, then eased him down in front of her, positioning his taller frame so he could sit without folding in on himself. When his weight finally sank, she adjusted again, placing herself fully between the chill of the tree and his shivering body.
“Easy,” she murmured.
He let out a slow breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The moment she allowed it—allowed him—Starrk leaned in completely. His shoulders sagged, tension draining as his face slid down to rest against her collarbone. It was a small movement. Unassuming.
But it felt like surrender.
Akeelah’s hand rose without hesitation, fingers threading gently through his hair, slow and steady. The touch made something in him loosen all at once, the rigid control he’d been clinging to finally cracking.
“…Damn it,” he muttered faintly, but there was no heat left in it.
His own hand moved—clumsier than usual, deliberate in its care—as he cupped her cheek. He guided her gently, silently, until her cheek rested against the top of his head. Close. Grounded.
He breathed her in.
“You didn’t need to stay,” he grumbled softly. “Could’ve just… left me here.”
Her answer came without pause.
“Someone once told me it was okay to not be strong sometimes.”
The words hit him harder than the drug ever could.
Starrk stilled, registering them slowly.
“…That was me,” he muttered.
Her lips curved faintly. “Was it?”
A soft snort escaped him, despite everything. “You’re really annoying, you know that?”
“So I have been told,” she mused.
His reiatsu finally slipped free then—not violently, not dangerously—just a quiet, steady leak, easing out around them like a sigh. The pressure in his chest loosened, the burn dulling to something bearable as his body accepted the closeness instead of fighting it.
“…Lilynette’s never going to let this go,” he said tiredly.
“No,” Akeelah agreed calmly. “She absolutely won’t.”
He groaned, pressing his face further into her chest, seeking the comfort openly now. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“I am,” she said, fingers still moving through his hair. “I can be on your side and honest.”
“Traitor.”
Her quiet huff of amusement vibrated faintly through her chest beneath his cheek.
The silence filled naturally after that, words thinning as the moment settled into something softer, quieter. The forest hummed around them, distant and indifferent.
“…Don’t leave,” he murmured at last, so quietly it barely carried.
Her hand stilled just a fraction, then resumed, gentler than before.
“I won’t,” she said. No teasing now. “Unless you ask me to.”
He snorted weakly. “Like you’d listen.”
She hummed in quiet amusement, offering no denial.
Her fingers kept moving through his hair—slow, soothing, present. And for once, Starrk let himself stay, let himself not be alone.
The forest held them in silence as the moment faded, steady and unbroken.