Chapter Text
•
At Sushi Shop No. 6 in Tsukiji Market, the place was small but renowned, and even at night, a line of people stretched outside.
The entrance was packed with customers, bustling with activity. Grimmjow pushed his way through the crowd, lifted the curtain, and walked straight in, only to be politely stopped by a kimono-clad server.
“Sir, we don’t take reservations. Please wait in line.”
Grimmjow frowned, cracking his knuckles. Ichigo quickly stepped in, cutting him off.
“Sorry, but we’re here to meet someone. Our friend’s already inside.”
“Which table is your friend at?” the server asked.
Ichigo hesitated. “Uh…”
“Two women, foreign-looking,” Grimmjow said from behind. “We’re international bloggers here to review your restaurant. It’ll be trending on Instagram.”
The server looked him up and down. “So you’re a blogger?”
“Don’t I look like one? I’m also a model for Loewe.”
The server bought the excuse and let them in. Ichigo followed, incredulous.
“So you do know how to negotiate when it suits you?”
•
Following the server’s directions, they went upstairs. In the far corner, two tall women were seated: dressed in black, wearing baseball caps, with an assortment of sushi and cans of Asahi beer on the table.
Grimmjow marched up the wooden stairs without hesitation, heading straight for them. Ichigo scanned the room, his nerves tense, quickly calculating the distance to the nearest exit and windows.
It was like sitting next to a ticking time bomb in a crowded room—one wrong move could lead to chaos. The narrow passageways would make escaping difficult. If something did happen, how could he contain it…?
But nothing happened. The time bomb just walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down, cracking open a beer.
“It’s been a while. Sorry for not giving you a proper welcome,” Grimmjow’s tone shifted slightly, “—but you came all this way and didn’t bring anything?”
The two women didn’t seem surprised. The one with green hair looked up and smiled.
“We brought you something. Iberian-style bullets. It’s been a while since you’ve had a taste of home, hasn’t it?”
Grimmjow’s brow furrowed, and his hand moved instinctively toward his waist, but the blonde woman calmly set down her sushi and stopped him.
“We did bring something,” she said in a steady voice. “One piece of bad news, and one piece of good news.”
•
Two years ago, Grimmjow Jaegerjaques boarded Finnair flight AY061 from Madrid-Barajas Airport, with a layover in Helsinki, before finally landing at Tokyo’s Haneda Airport. Before that, he had never set foot outside Spain.
He was born in a small mountain town in the south, a place preserved as a cultural heritage site, but one plagued by poor infrastructure and a struggling economy. The town’s main income came from overcharging tourists who visited the remnants of Islamic palaces and Roman aqueducts. When he was younger, Grimmjow often joined other local punks to ambush cars on the highway, slashing tires, smashing windows, and stealing water, food, and watches.
As he grew older, he took on more serious jobs and gathered a group of fiercely loyal men, ruling over the town. But this life didn’t last long—he crossed a line he couldn’t uncross, and soon found himself on the run. That very day, he took the train north. Outside the window, the barren landscape of rocky terrain and silver-leaved olive trees rushed past. Grimmjow turned away from the view, pulling out the gun hidden in his jacket—the only possession he had left. It had already taken lives, and he knew it wouldn’t be the last time.
What did it matter? If he was meant to take a bullet, then so be it. If he was unlucky enough to be stabbed, well, that was just bad fortune. Back then, he was too young to understand fear, regret, or even consequences. All he knew was anger and destruction. But wasn’t that just human nature? He rolled down the window, letting the wind whip through his hair. He still believed he had no debts to settle with anyone.
When the train reached its destination, he walked out onto the streets of Barcelona, making his way down the wide, straight avenue of La Rambla. Shop after shop had no vacancies. By the time he reached the casino at the end of the road, his patience had worn thin. After knocking out the bodyguards with two punches, he took their place. No one dared say anything.
A month later, he was invited to meet Baraggan Louisenbairn, the infamous “King.” Every gang from Madrid to Granada paid tribute to him, and even the police and the church feared him.
Grimmjow had no reason to refuse. When he met Baraggan, the man was like an old lion, draped in a long coat with a massive golden compass at his waist. Grimmjow brought his loyal men with him, knowing that their small town had no future for outlaws like them. Baraggan assigned him the Andalucía region.
It was a rough territory, bordering areas controlled by Arab and North African gangs. Grimmjow also had to deal with Nnoitra Gilga, another high-ranking figure in the family. The two clashed repeatedly, and things escalated quickly. In those few months, Grimmjow killed more people than he had in his entire life before that. The bodies piled up, cold and stiff by the time they hit the ground, their faces twisted in that same helpless, meaningless expression that all the dead seem to wear.
One night, Grimmjow was shot in the neck. His men dragged him from the gunfight, and he hovered between life and death for three weeks, burning with fever. His life flashed before his eyes again and again, but somehow, he survived.
When he finally woke up, Shawlong had already made funeral arrangements. A brand-new coffin stood in the living room. Grimmjow walked over and kicked it to pieces. That afternoon, he received new orders: Baraggan wanted him in Japan.
Japan—where organized crime was technically legal, and the political scene was rife with corruption. Grimmjow was sent to establish new trade routes and keep an eye on things in the Far East.
Grimmjow couldn’t believe it. He didn’t even know where Japan was on the map.
“A mountain can’t hold two tigers,” Baraggan said, stroking the red gem on his cane. “Grimmjow, you’re a clever boy. You know what I mean, don’t you?”
Grimmjow knew exactly what he meant, but the idea of surrendering was worse than death.
“Give me three days,” Grimmjow rasped. “I’ll kill him, and this whole fucking area will be mine.”
Baraggan laughed, a deep, gravelly sound like furniture being dragged across the floor.
“It’s not his, and it’s not yours. It’s all mine,” he said, his tone fatherly, as if offering advice. “You’ve got plenty of strong men under your command, while Nnoitra is just one man. Let him live. Besides, Japan’s a beautiful place. I think you’ll like it.”
Grimmjow caught the meaning behind his words, but there was no room for negotiation. He agreed reluctantly. Baraggan introduced him to a new contact—a man with East Asian features and glasses, his smile calm and composed. He didn’t look like a gangster, more like a university professor. Baraggan explained that this man would handle customs and border control for Grimmjow in Japan.
“Hello, Mr. Jaegerjaques,” the man extended his hand, his Spanish flawless. “My name is Aizen Sosuke.”
“What are we shipping to Japan?” Grimmjow ignored the outstretched hand and turned to Baraggan. “Laundry detergent?”
Aizen withdrew his hand, adjusting his glasses, his smile unchanging.
“Whatever makes money,” Baraggan said. “You’ll get the job done, won’t you, Grimmjow?”
There was no other answer. Grimmjow clenched his teeth and nodded.
“…Of course.”
By then, their base in the south had already been taken over by rival forces. There was no going back. They caught the earliest flight to Japan. That night, a storm delayed their departure by three hours. As Grimmjow stared out the plane window at the violent storm tearing the clouds apart, his mind swirled with anger. But as the plane ascended through the storm, breaking into the clear sky, the moonlight spilled across the sea below, shimmering like veins of gold. Suddenly, his mood lifted. Why not? He had survived worse. He had climbed from the slums to the capital, crawled out from piles of corpses. He hadn’t been killed by a bullet yet, so why stop now?
The next day, the plane landed smoothly at Haneda Airport. Two years had passed since then.
•
Harribel and Nelliel had been observing Grimmjow at the port for days. They had to admit—he had improved.
“The old man probably hoped you’d die overseas,” Nelliel said bluntly, biting into a piece of salmon sushi. “You had too many loyal men. Killing you back home would’ve led to retaliation. But I’ll give you credit—your business here is doing pretty well.”
Grimmjow frowned. “What, was I not doing well before?”
“Maybe it’s just insecurity. Who knows? You always looked dangerous.”
“And Nnoitra doesn’t look dangerous?” Grimmjow slammed his fist on the table, glaring at the two women across from him. “And you two don’t look dangerous?”
The women shook their heads in unison. Grimmjow spread his hands, then slammed his fist on the table again, nearly knocking over the wasabi and soy sauce.
“Goddamn it, enough of that. What’s the good news? What’s the bad news?”
Harribel adjusted her posture, leaning forward with her hands clasped in front of her. Before she could speak, Nelliel cut in.
“The old man’s in the hospital,” Nelliel said with a smirk. “Surprised?”
Harribel nodded, her voice calm.
“Last Friday, Baraggan was in town negotiating the Marbella beach development. On the way back, they were ambushed by a truck in broad daylight. The driver died on the spot, and three out of four bodyguards were killed. The last one chased the truck all the way to Plaza de Cataluña, but the assassin had already shot himself in the driver’s seat. The truck was on fire by then.”
“Do I look like I give a shit about the fucking details?” Grimmjow tapped the table impatiently. “Is he dead or not?”
“The official word is he’s still in the ICU, but my sources say his heart stopped before he even made it to the hospital.”
Grimmjow paused for a moment, then nodded. He picked up his chopsticks, grabbed a piece of fish, and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly.
“So… is that the good news or the bad news?”
“Let’s finish both pieces of news before you decide,” Nelliel replied. “The second piece of news is that there’s already a power struggle within the gang. It’s causing a stir, but the organization won’t fall apart. You and I aren’t out of a job.”
“Oh, is that right?” Grimmjow set down his chopsticks. “So, tell me, is that the good news or the bad news?”
Nelliel and Harribel exchanged a glance. Grimmjow’s blue eyes narrowed as they locked onto them.
“That depends on you, Grimmjow,” Harribel finally said. “Which one do you think is good, and which is bad?”
“Who the hell is making the power grab?” Grimmjow asked. “If it’s that bastard Nnoitra, then it's all bad fucking news.”
“It’s worse than that,” Nelliel said, her voice serious. “It’s Aizen. ”
“—Aizen? Aizen Sosuke?! ”
From behind them, a voice suddenly interrupted. All three turned to look.
It's Ichigo.