Disclaimer: I do not own Bleach...

I know, I know. I really shouldn't be doing this, but this plot wouldn't leave me the hell alone. Maybe I'll feel better with it written down and started. :-\

Ah well...



"Where's the cash, Lou?"

The short, portly man cowered closer to a large, green dumpster, sweat pouring down the sides of his poorly tanned face. His dark eyes darted from one end of the alley to the other, searching desperately for an escape. He was dressed in a dark-blue, pinstriped suit, gold cufflinks twinkling under the dim lights, and a gold wristwatch peeking from underneath the starched white shirt sleeve. His salt and pepper hair was slicked back and he altogether resembled an oily car salesman. A gun cocked, pulling the man's eyes back to the present situation.

"Lou. Where's the cash?"

The man visibly swallowed, blood pounding in his temples as he stared at his interrogator. "I-I can't tell you that. They'll kill me."

"You sure you wanna be worryin' about that?"

A silvery chuckle echoed in the deserted alley, making the man – Lou – glance around, panicked.

"Mah, mah. He ain't too bright, is he O?"

"Nah, he ain't. Plus, he's startin' to piss me off. Look, I'll only ask you one more time, Lou. Where the fuck is the cash?"

Instead of giving an answer, Lou took off in the opposite direction. That silvery voice broke into hysterical laughter, while the man that was doing the questioning shook his head exasperatedly.

"I hate when they run," he muttered, rubbing his forehead with the barrel of the gun clutched loosely in his right hand. "Bad move, Lou. I tried to spare you."

He turned and watched the man speed off, stubby legs pumping furiously and coattails flapping behind him. He didn't get very far before he suddenly pitched forward and fell face first onto the cold, unforgiving pavement. Another man jumped down onto the ground from a nearby fire escape, mouth pulled into a wide, toothless grin. He too was dressed in a suit, except his was black, the white dress shirt underneath impeccably pressed, but suit jacket hanging open. He strolled over to the fallen Lou, nudged the man's side with his foot, then looked back down the alley.

"Bulls-eye," he called, voice light and amused.

"Ah, man, G! You just took all the fun outta the chase!" a deep, gravelly voice shouted from above.

"We all know when the target runs, it makes my reflexes act up. So...blame O for lettin' him run."

"Well, I like makin' em sweat."

"Hey, I'm the only sadist around here."

The group of men casually collected at Lou's body, the man belonging to the gravelly voice dropping out of the sky from another fire escape. He landed quietly beside O, mouth pursed in a petulant pout and black suit wrinkled beyond repair. Egyptian blue eyes were cold and devious, but piercing through the bright orange-haired man, O.

"Next time, I do the talkin'," he grunted, folding his arms across a broad chest.

"B, you don't do talkin' very well," the airy-voiced, silver-haired man put in.

"In fact, he doesn't do it at all," O added with a smirk.

B pouted some more, but turned to look at Lou, who hadn't moved since he'd hit the ground. The silver-haired man stooped beside Lou, and rested on his haunches, head tilted to the side.

"I say he's pretty dead," he stated.

O snorted. "Ya know, a knife to the back of the head will do that."

"Mah. All in a day's work, eh?"

"G, just get your shit and let's go. This alley stinks," B grumbled.

G chuckled, but reached forward and snatched a Boker Ziel throwing knife from the back of Lou's head. He calmly wiped it with the hem of his suit jacket before sticking it into the leather case at the small of his back. Once he was done with that, he stood and looked around expectantly, drawing a roll of the eyes from O and an aggravated grunt from B.

The three men leisurely left the alley, side by side, Lou's body still lying face down on the ground, and blood pooling around his head. They all shoved their hands into their pockets, while G whistled a light tune.

All in a day's work indeed.

Three Years Later

The sun was merciless, the breeze nonexistent, and the humidity stifling. It was enough to make any normal person run and hide until the soothing cover of nightfall. However, Ichigo wasn't so lucky. It was high noon and the heat beat against him like a hammer. He sucked his teeth and adjusted the brim of his work hat. It didn't help; all it achieved was keeping the sun from burning his forehead. He slowly made his way up a stone walkway leading to another suburban house. This one was white, the trim green. There was a tricycle sprawled on the lawn as well as an inflatable pool that was half-filled with water. Although there were signs of human life, there were no actual people outside. They were fortunate enough to enjoy their Summer indoors.

He stepped over a skateboard and didn't stop moving until he reached the front door, where he bent over and slipped a few envelopes and magazines through the metal mail slot. Frantic barking suddenly erupted, making Ichigo straighten his back in a hurry. Then, he sighed. The barking was high-pitched, which meant it belonged to an ankle-biter. He really hated those annoying little dogs with sharp teeth and quick feet. With a shake of his head, he turned and ambled over to the next house. He wished the navy blue shorts and pale blue, short-sleeved, collared shirt he wore actually helped keep him cool in the sweltering weather, but sadly they did nothing except make him yearn to be naked. He dug through the heavy messenger bag at his side and withdrew a few more envelopes and this time a small cardboard box. 1422 Albion Way was the exact replica of the house he'd just left, only it was beige and white. The lawn was littered with a variety of toys and small bicycles...and a huge Doberman Pinscher. Normally, the large, yet sleek dog was kept inside the house, or in the backyard. What the fuck was it doing tied to the banister in front?

Ichigo paused and watched the dog study him with dark eyes. He didn't fuck around with big dogs. Ankle-biters he could handle because with one well-placed kick, they were no longer an issue. That fact didn't hold true with dogs of this caliber. He adjusted the strap of his bag and shifted his weight. He had to come up with a plan B. And ASAP.

"Hey, Mr. Mail Guy!" a childish voice rang out, interrupting his whirling thought process.

He glanced around and finally found the source leaning in one of the windows of the upper level of the house. The boy had riotous auburn hair, huge ice blue eyes and a lazy grin. He waved down at Ichigo before resting his chin in the palm of his small hand. He was six years old.

"Hey, Chris. Uh, where's your mom?"

"My mom?" Chris parroted. "She's in the kitchen."

Ichigo scratched the back of his head and smiled. "You think you can get her to come out. I need to deliver the mail and...well...Patty doesn't look very happy to see me."

"Oh yeah! Mom put her there because she ate a Choo shoe! But...if it's called a Choo shoe, wouldn't it make sense for Patty to chew it?"

He grinned. Chris didn't understand the world of shoes that women lived in. The shoe Patty had destroyed had nothing to do with chewing, and everything to do with five hundred dollars or better down the drain.

"That does make sense."

The front door suddenly burst open, drawing his attention. A tall, voluptuous, strawberry blonde woman emerged, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. She wore extremely scandalous, yellow shorts and a white spaghetti-strapped tank. Her feet were bare as she stepped daintily past Patty. She gave the black and brown dog an evil glare before trotting over to Ichigo.

"Hi, Ichigo," she greeted, voice low and husky and frosty blue eyes hooded.

He nodded and held the handful of mail out to her. "Nice to see you, Miss Rangiku."

"Oh, Ichigo," she chuckled. "How many times have I told you to drop the 'Miss'?"

With a small smile, he turned and headed away from the alluring woman. Sure, she was beautiful, but he wasn't into females. Never was and never would be.

"Have a good one, Miss Rangiku."

"Oh, poo," she muttered under her breath as he sauntered over to the next house.

He hid his laughter by adjusting his hat and bag strap, lips pressed together in a tight line. Rangiku had been giving him proposition after proposition, some subtle, others not so much. She was a bored single mother and he wasn't about to be her entertainment. Maybe if he wasn't into men. Maybe.

The next house seemed to loom on the horizon like a haunted mansion, even though it was the same size as the others. It was in shambles, however. The once blue house seemed to lean precariously to the left, while the paint faded and chipped all over the place. The front lawn had to be an eyesore to the rest of the people living on the block, but there was nothing they could do besides complain to the city council. The man living in 1424 Albion Way was a Vietnam veteran and had the whole place rigged like one giant booby trap. Ichigo had long ago spotted the hidden, electrically charged barb wire and the poorly disguised bear traps. It was all kinds of illegal, but Yamamoto was warped. His sense of reality had been twisted and morphed into forever militant.

Ichigo had come up with a routine. The first time he'd delivered mail to the older man's house, he'd inwardly cracked up. Most of the traps were amateur work, but once you approached the slanted porch, things got more serious. The old man had been watching carefully from the front window, creased eyes hawk-like and cold.

"Get through my obstacles and I'll accept you as my new mail man," a voice like creaking tree boughs had filtered through the dingy, sheer curtains at the time.

Ichigo chuckled in remembrance. Yamamoto had been a piece of work, but with Ichigo's previous occupations, the old man's obstacles had been child's play. A ten piece puzzle: ages three and up. From that day on, the old man had begun meeting him on the porch to receive his mail. However, Ichigo would have to overcome a new test each day. He didn't understand where the man came up with half the things he did, but he found the excitement fun enough.

Today, he stood at the end of the cement path and studied the lawn. Yamamoto sat in the window like usual, watching him, mouth barely turned up in amusement. Where was the trap this time? There was the usual barbwire, which was more like decoration at this point, Ichigo was so used to it. There was also a bear trap off to the side, but even that was customary. Brown eyes roved the yard, searching. A slight glinting to his left caught his attention, but he never showed it. He just peered at it from his peripheral. He wanted to grin, but decided otherwise. Instead he started forward. He took four steps, then stopped. Yamamoto shifted in the window, giving away his excitement. Did the old man really think he would fall for something so juvenile? Ichigo took a huge step over the invisible trip wire rigged to propel nails and shards of glass in his direction. Too bad the sun wasn't on the war veteran's side today.

"C'mon, Old Man. Ya gotta do better than that," he called.

Yamamoto disappeared from the window and in less than ten seconds reappeared in the front door. The man seemed ancient, but had the energy of a forty-year old. He had a thigh-length gray beard that was wrapped in some sort of dark ribbon – Ichigo couldn't really tell – and his eyebrows and mustache were freakishly long as well. He was bald, but sported scarring on the bare template. At the moment, Yamamoto wore a black robe and carried a heavy-looking wooden cane. His body was still muscular from all his days in the service, making his broad shoulders stand out.

"Confounded sun," he growled. "I should have changed the trap before you got here."

Ichigo laughed and trekked the rest of the way to the porch. Once there, he held the man's mail forward. "I think you're gonna need to work harder to catch me slippin'."

"You're no ordinary postman."

"Eh? Don't know what you're talkin' about."

"Ha!" the old man barked. "I may be old, but I'm far from stupid. You think I don't recognize a fellow comrade in arms?"

Ichigo chuckled as he turned away from the conversation he'd had one too many times with Yamamoto. The man insisted that he was an officer, or at least used to be one. Ichigo couldn't give him the truth, though. It would probably put everyone he encountered in danger.

"See ya later, Old Man."

"Huhn!" Yamamoto hmph'ed. "This isn't over, young whippersnapper! I shall have my day, mark my words!"

Ichigo just cracked up as he went back the way he'd come. Rangiku still stood in front of her home, wearing a disapproving scowl.

"That old man is crazy, you know. You shouldn't encourage him," she chided.

"Nothin' wrong with havin' a little fun."

He marched past the house after calling a farewell to Chris, who still sat perched in the window. Some days, he hated his job, but others, it wasn't so bad.


He was hot, sweaty and exhausted. A cold bottle of beer drifted before his eyes anytime he closed them, so he knew it was beyond time for him to head home. He'd gone back to the post office and dropped off any necessary paper work or returned mail for the next day before leaving the building and stalking to his car parked in the lot. He hit a button on the keypad, making the alarm beep twice before automatically starting. Thankfully, he'd left the air conditioner pumping, so all he had to do was wait a minute or two before he slipped inside. Sun-baked leather seats and the exposed skin of his legs didn't mix well. In fact, he'd probably acquire third-degree burns if he got in the car now. No thanks.

He stood beside the shining, off-white Hyundai Sonata and withdrew his cell phone. Nice time to check his messages. He'd just glanced down at the screen when something caught his eye and made the hairs along the back of his neck stand up. He didn't give what he'd seen his full attention, but he was aware of the pair of eyes drilling into him from across the street. The car was parked halfway down the block, but Ichigo could spot a tail a mile away. He continued browsing through his phone, pretending to check his messages before finally slipping it back into his pocket and climbing into his car. There was something very wrong with this situation. He hadn't felt the need to worry about a tail in three years. He sighed and shook his head as he peeled out of the lot. He didn't even need to check his mirror to know the car was following him, but what he wanted to know was why? And why now?

He led the sleek, black car to his modest home and parked in the driveway. As he left his own vehicle, he slowly headed to the front door. He'd shot a quick glance down the street where the car was parked and packed away the information he needed. License plate number, make and model of the vehicle and a brief description of the idiot behind the wheel.


Once inside his home, Ichigo immediately retrieved his cell and dialed a number that would forever be imprinted in his mind. If not from sheer memory alone, then definitely from habit. The line rang five times and he was about to hang up when a familiar voice finally answered, making a rush of nostalgia pulse through him.

"Well, well. Isn't this an interesting day."

"I can say the same, P."

"Ahh, so you have someone following you around as well, then?"

Ichigo froze, then chuckled through a sigh. He should have known. "How long has it been for you?"

"Hmm. Since this morning. I left the house for breakfast and noticed a black car in my rear-view mirror. It's still following me, too. I can see it from the office window. What about you?"

"I don't know how long it's been there, but I noticed it when my shift ended a little while ago. P, what the hell is going on?"

P sighed and Ichigo could clearly picture the man rubbing the bridge of his straight nose and adjusting his glasses. "I'd really hate to voice what I'm thinking. Wouldn't you?"

Ichigo nodded, even though he knew the other man would be unable to see it. It was true. The first thing that had gone through his mind had been "time to pay up." He wasn't particularly scared, but if that was in fact the case, then it would be immensely annoying. Very inconvenient.

"Yeah," he grunted as he plopped down onto his slate-gray, leather couch. He massaged his eyes before lowering his hand and sighing again. "Tch. This is so troublesome."

P chuckled, the sound haughty. "You sound like Grenade."

Ichigo cracked up. That name was also a blast from their past, but P's statement had been entirely too true. Grenade's favorite phrase was indeed "so troublesome."

"I think we need to round up everyone and rendezvous at the old headquarters. Wha-"

Before he could finish his question, he was interrupted by a blast of static, then dead air. He pulled the phone from his ear and stared at it, confused. What the hell? Then, it clicked. Of course. If he was being followed for the reason he suspected, it would only make sense that he be isolated before being taken out. He blew out a breath. This was odd, though. Weren't they being sloppy? Didn't they know that just because he was off the radar, it didn't make him an idiot?

He climbed from the couch and went over to the cordless phone next to the entertainment system. He picked it up and turned it on, only to be greeted with the same dead air on his cell. Shaking his head, he replaced the phone and ambled to the kitchen. That meant his house was more than likely bugged and rigged with more cameras than a movie set. How the hell had he been so careless? He ran a hand through his hair and slowly made a full revolution around the living room. He spotted two cameras offhand. The others had to be more cleverly hidden, but there was definitely one in the air vent and one in the light fixture on the ceiling.

Dealing with the people in charge of this operation, one could never be sure, but the whole setup reeked of a warning. If they had been serious, there would have been no cameras in obvious places. No easily spotted tail. Ichigo would have simply been ambushed in his bed. So, then...what the hell were they up to? Still confused, he made his way to the kitchen, but paused in the doorway at the sound of static. He carefully turned to the source and gave a deep frown. There was a man he hadn't seen in years grinning at him from his TV.

"Ah, Mr. Kurosaki! Or should I call you Agent O?"

The frown turned into a murderous scowl.

"You're dead," he grunted.

"No, no, no," the dark-haired man said teasingly. "That would be you, my friend. Or that's what you had the agency thinking for some time. What's it been, Agent? Four years, now?"

Ichigo swallowed, but didn't answer, the wheels in his head turning at a furious pace. If this man knew his location, knew that he wasn't dead, then that was because...

"You set us up," he growled, hands clenching into fists. "We lost everything we knew because of you." He straightened his back and hid the anger he'd almost unleashed. "Motive."

"Motive? Well, nothing as sinister as you're thinking, I can assure you. I just needed a couple of fall guys, and you and your rag-tag team of idiots fit the bill wonderfully. No one suspected a thing. In fact, our superiors figured your Agent B had finally self-destructed and brought the rest of you down with him. Easy, yes?"

Ichigo couldn't breathe. He was even having a hard time seeing straight. If there was one thing that had been a negative on his record, it was his notorious temper, which was almost as bad as his old partner's.

"The whole was all a setup."

"Ding, ding, ding, Agent. Now, shouldn't your main worry be how I discovered your lingering existence? Yours, along with your team's? I do wonder how the bunch of you survived that blast, but I can figure that out later. Imagine my surprise when one of my contacts informed me of one blue-haired self-defense instructor in New York."

The blood drained from Ichigo's face as his heart lurched. "What did you do to him?"

"Eh? What makes you think I did something to him?"

He shut his mouth and stared at the man on the screen. He wanted to rip the dark hair from the guy's head; maybe pluck out the eye that had miraculously survived the nasty scar slicing through the left side of his face.

"I'll kill you," he snarled, teeth bared.

"Ahh-ah. That's not very nice." The man sobered, face transforming from amused to dead serious. "I don't take kindly to threats, Agent. So...shall we play?"

The screen went dark and Ichigo's heart began racing as a deafening bang announced the annihilation of his back door. He only had time to overturn the couch and dive behind it for cover before shots began filling the room.

"Shit!" he hissed as he grabbed his left arm.

Fire bloomed and spread down to his elbow, but he couldn't dwell on the pain. He'd already been too careless, so now he had to make up for the lax behavior. He reached for the coffee table behind him and grabbed the two Beretta handguns taped to the underside. Fuck this, he thought. I'm not about to die because of that asshole.

He ignored the pain in his arm and gripped both guns. Breathe, calm down, focus. He peered around the edge of the couch and frowned at the sight of six men standing in the doorway of his living room. By all means, he should be dead right now. Why hadn't they stormed his position? Then, he wanted to face-palm when he remembered that his whole property was under surveillance. They could see that he had weapons and knew not to be reckless. This was going to be tougher than he thought.

"Shit," he mumbled. Was he really going to die here? Like this? "Fuck, no," he growled as he slid one of the Berettas behind his back, and tucked it into the waistband of his work shorts.

He eased his hand under the coffee table again and grinned. Desperate times call for desperate measures, eh? He gingerly removed the small grenade from the tape holding it in place, then, still keeping it out of view, plucked the pin from it. He held it under the table for a couple seconds, then launched it backwards. He quickly brought his shirt over his nose and counted to five, registering with a smirk the cries of confusion from his attackers. Thick, deep-purple smoke began filling the room. It made his eyes water slightly, but from all his years in JROTC and the USMA, he was more than used to it. In fact, those establishments had been the sources of his stash.

He crept around the side of the couch after making sure his shirt was tight around his nose and mouth. He was sure there were more men waiting for him outside, but as long as he could make it to the basement, he would be able to get away fine. The men clad in riot gear and carrying assault rifles bumbled around the living room, unprofessionally trying to wave away the smoke and firing shots at invisible targets. Ichigo shook his head and dipped into the hallway. Smoke had filled the small corridor as well, but it wasn't as concealing as the living room. No matter. It seemed like all of his attackers were in the living room and waiting for him outside the house, anyway. He slipped through the door leading to the basement and closed it behind himself before quietly descending the stairs. He grimaced and gripped his arm, a jolt of electricity shooting through it and radiating down to his fingertips.

Fucking bastards.

He was pretty sure there were cameras and bugs down here too, but luckily, he could breathe a sigh of relief. One thing about him: he liked to plan for an emergency. He hadn't had the need to use his "pinch route" since he'd bought the house two years ago, so there was no way they knew about it. He made a beeline for the large rug in the middle of the cement floor, threw it aside, then flipped the latch of the hidden door. Once it was open, he automatically made his way through it, heart rate kicking up again at the sound of the basement door being blown apart. Those assholes sure were persistent. He slammed the door shut and descended one rung of the ladder beneath him. There, he paused to slide a steel slab across the wooden door. After locking it in place, he continued his descent, arm screaming at him the entire way. At the bottom of the ladder, he tore his shirt off and ripped it into strips. Once he wrapped his still bleeding arm, he hurried along.

Hell, he couldn't slow down now. He didn't trust that bastard on the TV worth shit. He did have a bit of an advantage, however. It would take those idiots a while to get through that steel reinforcement door, which would give him time to get to the other side of the long passage.

That was about a mile and a half.


His steps were hurried as he trekked through the damp corridor. He let his arm hang at his side, giving it a chance to rest before he made it to his destination. It still burned and ached like hell, but it wasn't like he hadn't been shot before. It'd just been a really long time since then. He grimaced and quickened his pace. He was almost there. He could smell the strong scent of wildflowers and Summer breeze. He finally hurried through the end of the tunnel, pausing to take a deep breath. The air was clean and crisp here, and felt marvelous against his exposed torso. It was sunset, the blazing yellow orb perched on the horizon and turning the clouds various shades of oranges, purples and blues. The tunnel emptied into a rolling field of purple and pink wildflowers that seemed to stretch on forever. It was beautiful. Too bad he didn't have time to stick around and enjoy the scenery, though.

Ichigo turned to face the tunnel and brought down a gate that resembled prison bars. He secured it to another bar he'd previously installed, with a thick length of chain and a heavy duty padlock. Once that was done, he ambled over to the small barn beside the tunnel and threw open the wooden door. It was musty inside the ancient structure, but it held up pretty nicely. He went to the back wall and after setting down both Berettas on the wooden table there, retrieved a set of keys from a hanging nail, then turned back to the middle of the barn, a slow grin transforming his sullen features. A light-blue tarp covered his most prized possession; a necessity if anyone asked him about it. He tossed away the covering and watched with bated breath as it swished to the ground with a languid flap.

"God, I missed you, baby," he murmured as he let the fingers of his right hand trail across the hood.

After a satisfied sigh, he went to the other side of the barn and threw open the double doors. This was where life would get even more complicated, he was sure. A very powerful man and agency was trying to end his existence, and he only had a handful of friends he could trust to help him through it. Smirking, he went back to the shining, black and white vehicle parked in the middle of the barn. It looked like an alien space craft compared to the archaic building, but his Audi R8 V10 was his lover. It was the Robin to his Batman excursions, hence the reason he called it Robin to begin with. Labeled as the fastest Audi on the market, he'd had to have it. Besides, his salary once he'd returned from Japan had been more than enough to afford the luxury vehicle. He hit the alarm on the keypad and slid inside, plush, black and white leather surrounding him and almost giving him an erection.

"Still sexy as hell, Robin," he said quietly as he reached for the glove compartment.

He used a small key on his keyring to open the space, chuckling when he noticed all of his personal belongings were quite in tact. Wallet with false ID: check. Fake passport: check. Key to the storage room he'd rented that housed all of his funds: check. Two, silver and black P90 Ruger handguns: check. Cell phone with untraceable line: check. Grinning like a madman, he retrieved the cell phone and snapped the glove compartment shut before starting his car. It purred to life, but roared like a lion when he revved the gas a few times. He peeled away down the dirt path that would lead him to the main highway and ultimately to freedom. His Audi had no plates, which was conspicuous, but made keeping tabs on him extremely difficult.

He quickly dialed a number, hit speaker, then set the phone in one of the cup holders. A tight grimace pulled his features into a scowl as he used both hands to drive. Damn, that gunshot made things so annoying. He huffed, however, thankful that it hadn't been a leg or somewhere much worse.

"You do realize there is a bullet hole in my fucking Porsche?" a haughty tenor snapped over the line.

"So they hit you too, huh?"

P snorted and the image of him tossing his hair condescendingly was HD clarity for Ichigo at the moment, making him snicker under his breath.

"Those bunch of amateurs? They only managed to get my car because they caught me unaware."

"Did you get in touch with everyone yet?"

P paused and sighed heavily, which made the hairs along Ichigo's neck stand up.

"P, what happened?"

"We had one casualty."

The words dropped like anvils. Immediately he thought of B and the threatening way that asshole on the TV had mentioned him. Heart and stomach nose-diving, he swallowed and gripped the gear shift and steering wheel. He would never tell a soul, including the man himself that he was deeply attracted to him. Had grown to care for him as not just a teammate, but also as something more. Something cluelessly romantic. If B was dead, what would he do?

"W-who was it?" he whispered.


Which was no better. Ichigo considered everyone in his team his family, so the news of one of his brothers' death was like being swept from his feet. Blindsiding and abrupt. He winced and lowered his head briefly as he braked to turn onto the highway. There were no other cars on the road, so he motored away, letting Robin stretch his legs as he opened up on the long stretch of blacktop. Silence filled the interior until P sighed again.

"Everyone has agreed to meet at the old headquarters. No one is more than three hours away from the location, so I'll see you there."

"Yeah," he muttered and listened to the call disconnect.

The situation had already been severe, but with one of his brothers dead, a grave aura seemed to surround it now. Ichigo gritted his teeth and clutched the gear shift. Those bastards had officially gone and pissed him the fuck off.

I am really enjoying this one, so you will definitely see more of it very soon! Thanks for reading!