"Customer, do you want this expensive bottle of 'Spirit Mist,' or the basic 'White Burn'?"
Inside the Maple Pavilion tavern in Junrinan, District 1 of West Rukongai, the owner smiled. He held up two bottles like they were offering two different answers.
One was dark, thick glass with a faint sheen, the kind of finish that made it look expensive even in the tavern's dim light.
The other was thin, reused glass. It looked plain and felt scuffed.
Mirai's gaze locked onto the Spirit Mist.
He could already picture the first breath after uncorking it, the clean burn and the soft aftertaste that didn't punish you for existing.
White Burn, by comparison, was a bad decision in a bottle.
Industrial alcohol with something that felt like liquid fire. It scorched your throat, then left you regretting both the taste and the price.
Mirai swallowed. He reached into his clothes and dropped a small cloth bag onto the counter with more confidence than the contents deserved.
The impact nearly jostled the drink of the man beside him.
He loosened the drawstring, spilled out the kan coins, and counted them with deliberate care.
"1000... 2000... 3000. Just 3000 kan." He kept his voice steady, like that made the number less embarrassing.
The tag on Spirit Mist read: 8000 kan.
The gap hit hard.
Mirai's jaw tightened. Then he leaned closer, smile switching on like a cheap lantern.
"Boss—next month. The moment my Seireitei Communication payment comes in, I'll settle it."
The owner's expression didn't move. The smile that did appear looked practiced.
"5th Seat Mirai, it's not that I don't want to help." He tapped the counter once. "But you already owe this shop fifty thousand kan."
He lowered his voice. "I run a business. I still have to eat."
Then his eyes brightened, and the smile sharpened just a little.
"That said… you're not like the other officers. You're a name in this district."
"If you want, write three extra chapters this week. I'll add 5000 kan to your tab."
Mirai stared, blinked, and took a slow breath through his nose.
"Three chapters?" His voice cracked on the second word. "Boss, be serious. Writing isn't shoveling dirt. It takes focus."
"I drink to get ideas. That's how it works."
He raised one finger. "One extra chapter. This week. Final offer."
"Oh?" The owner's smile disappeared completely.
He folded his arms. "Then it's 8000 kan. Thank you. And make sure that debt moves next month."
He added, almost casually, "By the way—your Captain was looking for you earlier."
Mirai's fingers twitched. He pointed at the owner, searched for an argument, and found none.
It was his own fault.
Two weeks late on his story. Still trying to convince his Captain to approve a book release. And the magazine pay barely covered food, let alone the good stuff.
Worse—he was stuck.
The plot was at a point where one wrong line could become a problem he couldn't talk his way out of. He'd been staring at the next chapter like it was a report he didn't want to file.
"Oh, isn't this 5th Seat Mirai?"
A calm voice came from his side.
Mirai turned.
A young Shinigami stood there with black glasses and short brown hair. Kind face, a smile that looked effortless.
Sōsuke Aizen.
Aizen approached the counter and placed down exactly 8000 kan.
He didn't look at the owner first. He looked at Mirai.
"Let me." His tone stayed polite. Final. "It's easier to think when you're not distracted."
His smile softened by a fraction. "And I've been enjoying your current story, 5th Seat Mirai. If you have time… would you join me for a drink and a conversation?"
Mirai didn't hesitate. He grabbed the Spirit Mist and hugged it like it might evaporate.
"Aizen! You're saving my life." He squinted at the coins. "But… you just graduated, right? Where did you get this kind of money?"
Aizen chuckled softly. "I take extra work when it appears. Think of it as… encouragement."
"I see! Then I won't insult you by refusing." Mirai nodded fast.
He cracked the seal, inhaled once—then snapped it shut and scanned the room.
Too many eyes. Too many people who might remember his tab.
He pointed toward the exit. "Not here. Too crowded. Come on—I know a better spot."
Aizen's eyes brightened, and his smile looked a touch more genuine. "Gladly."
They walked to a small river nearby and sat on stone steps under a tree.
Mirai produced two small glasses, poured carefully, and handed one over.
Aizen accepted it without hurry. Their glasses met with a light tap.
"Cheers."
"Thank you."
Mirai drank it down. Warmth slid through his throat and settled into his chest, loosening his shoulders.
"Ha—now that's a real drink." He exhaled. "White Burn is just cheap trash."
After a few cups, the tension eased.
Aizen watched Mirai for a moment, then asked what he came for.
"To be honest, I've been reading your work since the Shin'ō Academy." His voice stayed mild. "Especially The Loneliness of a Genius. It's… impressive."
He paused. In that book, the main character—Aisuke—moved through problems the same way Aizen did. Not vaguely. Not coincidentally. The logic, the timing, the choice of angles.
If it weren't fiction, it would have felt like someone had been listening inside his head.
At first he suspected a gift—something like foresight, or an unusual sensitivity to souls.
But after seeing Mirai a few times, he was forced to revise the idea.
No special power. Just a man who watched people closely and wrote what he saw.
That, oddly, was satisfying.
Seireitei was crowded with competent, obedient minds. Very few understood how a genius actually thought.
Mirai did.
And lately, the story had stopped right at the point Aizen cared about.
Aizen set his cup down lightly. "Now that Aisuke has hit a wall in his power… how will he break through?"
Mirai laughed and poured more. Inside, he thought:
Of course you like it. I'm basically writing your biography.
The plot was at a dangerous point. He didn't use words like Shinigami or Hollow in the book, but the metaphor wasn't subtle to anyone who lived their lives inside Seireitei's rules.
Aisuke had reached a Shinigami's limit. To go further, he would have to study Hollow power.
Mirai couldn't write that plainly.
If he did, the authorities would drag him in. Fiction or not, they'd see what it was pointing at.
And if Aizen ever acted on it later, Mirai didn't want his name anywhere near the spark.
Now the real Aizen was here, listening.
Mirai drank, then set his glass down and looked up at the night.
"How far do you think the limit of a Shinigami goes?"
Aizen followed his gaze to the dark sky. "Maybe not as far as people tell themselves."
Mirai's eye twitched. There it was again—ambition.
He kept his face relaxed and continued.
"But Seireitei is full of restrictions. If Aisuke wants to break past his ceiling, he can't rush it."
"Break past his limit?" Aizen's eyes flashed for a heartbeat. Then the smile returned, smooth as ever.
"You're right. Too many restrictions." He spoke as if agreeing with a writing choice, not a plan. "He'll need a careful approach."
He would have to break the limit and still survive Soul Society's rules.
Recklessness would fail.
Aizen lifted his glass slightly. "Aisuke is choosing correctly."
"..." Mirai kept smiling.
They sat in silence and kept drinking.