"I'm sorry!"
Rukia hugged her notebook tightly against her chest, bowing deeply as she apologized, her voice tense with nervousness.
Being late for her very first class—it was truly a bad look.
Even if the teacher appeared to be the understanding type.
"Just don't let it happen again."
The calligraphy instructor gave her a small nod and gestured for her to enter.
Rukia quickly took a few steps forward, scanning the room for an open seat.
Only then did she realize… every seat had already been taken.
"Rukia, over here!"
Just as the weight of everyone's eyes began to make her feel uneasy, someone called out her name.
She looked toward the voice and saw a warm smile waving her over—Kyoraku Shimo.
"You?!"
She blurted out the moment she saw him—loud enough that the instructor on the podium glanced in her direction.
Realizing she'd drawn attention again, Rukia hurried over to Shimo's side and took the empty seat next to him.
"Why are you here?"
Now that the stares had faded, she leaned closer and glared at him accusingly.
Shimo casually twirled the brush in his fingers, trying to craft something vaguely artistic on his paper.
"There are only a few calligraphy instructors at Shinō Academy."
"One instructor usually teaches several different classes."
After a few awkward strokes, he sighed and set the brush down, giving up.
Some things really do come down to talent—and in this case, Shimo clearly had none.
The characters on his paper twisted and contorted like tortured souls, as if protesting the Soul Society's rigid class system through sheer illegibility.
At the front of the classroom, the instructor finally began the day's formal lesson.
"My name is Sōsuke Aizen. I'll be your calligraphy instructor for the foreseeable future."
There was no denying it—Aizen's charisma was dangerously effective.
His warm, composed voice…
The calm, measured pace at which he conveyed knowledge…
The graceful elegance of his handwriting…
All of it mirrored his well-crafted disguise: refined, gentle, scholarly.
The first-year students were, unsurprisingly, delighted to have such a teacher.
All except Shimo.
Though his expression remained composed, his mind was constantly on edge.
Aizen never looked directly at him throughout the lesson.
But after gaining new levels of sword intent, Shimo could sense subtle shifts in the air around him—something was off.
"Why…?"
"Why does he have his eyes on me?"
"Is it because of my Zanpakutō?"
Shimo was certain—before entering Shin'ō Academy, he and Aizen had never met, never exchanged a word.
The only time they had crossed paths was right after he exited the Asauchi Chamber.
Which made this even more unsettling.
He leaned on his hand, deep in thought, until his eyes happened to drift toward Rukia's calligraphy...
And then—
Pfft—pffft—hahaha!
Shimo tried to stifle his laughter, thankful that Aizen had moved the class into self-study.
The room wasn't nearly as quiet as before, so he let go and laughed outright.
Rukia's grip tightened on her brush, knuckles pale.
"Idiot!"
"What's so funny?!"
She caught him staring at her work and felt deeply, thoroughly offended.
"I knew I was bad at this…"
Shimo didn't even try to hide it.
"I just didn't think you'd be even worse."
Snap.
Her brush cracked in half from the force of her grip.
Rukia had grown up in the Rukongai, where the only thing that mattered was survival.
She had never touched art, never had time for it. Calligraphy was as foreign to her as luxury was to the outer districts.
Even just holding the brush had tested her patience.
"Ugh, you're the worst!"
"And don't act like your handwriting is any better!"
She pointed at Shimo's work, not holding back one bit.
"Those turtle-crawl characters perfectly capture your disdain for the art!"
As their bickering escalated, neither noticed that the space between them had grown more familiar.
On the podium, Aizen had been watching them the entire time.
He had kept an eye on Shimo since the day they met—if it could even be called a meeting.
Back at the chamber's exit, something strange had lingered around Shimo's soul.
It hadn't felt like Spiritual Pressure. It was... something else. Ancient. Hidden.
When they crossed paths again, that presence seemed to have vanished.
But Aizen didn't believe it had disappeared—only that it had learned to hide.
Now, watching Shimo and Rukia squabble, curiosity sparked anew.
What exactly are they fighting about this time?
As a teacher, Aizen decided he should intervene—an excuse to get closer to the young noble from the Kyoraku family.
He rose from his desk and stepped off the podium, slowly walking toward them.
Noticing Aizen's approach, both students immediately fell silent.
Rukia's heart pounded anxiously.
First day in his class, and she'd already been late, caught arguing, and now—disrupting.
She was certain she'd made a terrible impression.
She shot Shimo a fierce glare, as if blaming him for all of this—though it had all the intimidation of a fluffy cat.
Aizen's eyes fell on the two calligraphy pieces on their desks.
For once, the always composed man showed a flicker of something unfamiliar—
Shock.
Why?
Because both pieces were… terrible.
Unforgivably, comically, hideously bad.