Haruto Ishikawa's life had always been a fragile balance between the cusp of death and an inexplicable will to survive. His body, riddled with chronic diseases, was a walking contradiction. By all accounts, he should have died long ago from complications that doctors could barely classify, let alone cure. Yet, here he was, defying every medical prediction until a small, almost absurd accident cut his life short.

It was a minor incident, really. One he should have avoided. The poison gas explosion that filled his lab was sudden, the smell sharp and bitter as it spread through the air. For most people, it would have caused severe harm. For Haruto, whose body was already a battleground of illness, it was fatal.

His vision blurred as he collapsed to the floor, choking on fumes, feeling his organs seize. He barely had time to reflect on the irony of surviving so many deadly diseases only to be undone by a lab accident. Darkness closed in, and with it, the long-awaited release of death.

Or so he thought.

---

Haruto didn't expect to wake up after dying. Yet, the first thing he noticed was the faint, sterile smell of ink and parchment, a stark contrast to the pungent gas he had inhaled in his last moments. He blinked, his senses sharpening, and found himself standing in a massive, endless library.

Towering bookshelves stretched up toward a ceiling so high it was lost in shadows. Palatial walls wrapped around him, made of dark stone, with ornate lanterns casting a golden glow. Rows of ancient scrolls and books filled every inch of the place, each one meticulously categorized. The library seemed to breathe, the weight of knowledge pressing down on him, vast and overwhelming. 

Haruto instinctively raised a hand to adjust his glasses—only to find he wasn't wearing any. More than that, his hand was small. Tiny. Childlike. He looked down at himself in a panic and froze.

He was no longer the sickly researcher he once was. In place of his frail, lanky body, he now had the form of a little girl, dressed in an oversized white lab coat, the hem dragging behind her on the polished marble floor. The kanji for "Dying" was scrawled in blood-red across the back of the coat. Underneath, she wore a simple shirt and shorts, but they, too, seemed ill-fitted, as if they weren't meant for her.

Haruto's—no, **Murasame's**—heart pounded. This was not a dream. It felt too real, too vivid. But more than that, it felt *familiar*. The details of this place, the sensation of existence here, sparked memories from another life—*his* life. A life spent devouring the pages of manga, especially one particular series: **Bleach**.

"*Oh no...*" Murasame muttered, her voice soft and high-pitched, a far cry from the gruff tone she was used to. She stumbled back, looking down at her small hands and the pale skin that wasn't her own.

*This can't be happening. This... this is impossible.* But the pieces began to fall into place.

She knew exactly where she was. This wasn't just some abstract afterlife. No, this was the **Inner World** of a Shinigami, a place that reflected their soul. And she... she wasn't Haruto anymore. She was a **Zanpakutō Spirit**. 

A flash of panic gripped her as she realized what that meant. Her form, her purpose, her very existence was tied to someone else now. *Murata*, the Shinigami whose Zanpakutō she was.

Before Murasame could even process the full implications, a cold voice drifted through the air, dripping with quiet amusement.

"So, you're awake, little one."

Murasame turned sharply to see another figure standing across the room, the contrast between them as stark as night and day. A beautiful woman, tall and elegant, with black hair neatly tied up in a bun, stood before her. She wore a black tomesode kimono adorned with golden flower patterns, exuding an air of authority and grace. Her eyes gleamed with something between curiosity and quiet mockery.

Murasame's heart sank. She knew who this was—**Yōchō**, Murata's original Zanpakutō spirit. The *real* Zanpakutō spirit.

Yōchō's lips curled into a smile, one that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Still getting used to your new form, Murasame? I would've thought you'd be more excited. After all, it's not every day one gets to be reborn in such a... fascinating way."

Murasame clenched her small fists. Yōchō knew. She knew everything. The memories of Haruto's past life, the world of Bleach, the intricate and dangerous web that stretched across this universe. It wasn't just Murasame who carried this knowledge—Yōchō had it too.

"You... you took my memories," Murasame accused, her voice shaking with frustration. "You copied them, didn't you?"

Yōchō tilted her head slightly, her smile never faltering. "Of course. It's what I do, after all. I absorb fragments of souls, memories. And you, my dear, were full of such interesting ones." She paused, her gaze sharpening. "Memories of a world where you knew everything about this one. Quite the gift, don't you think?"

"It's not a gift!" Murasame shot back. "It's a curse! If Murata starts using me—using us—he'll get tangled up in things he doesn't understand. We could be dragged into the plots of *Aizen* or worse! You know what's coming. The world we're in... it's not safe."

Yōchō's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Ah, yes, your fear of being noticed. Aizen, Mayuri, Urahara... all those dangerous minds. I could see why you'd want to keep a low profile. But think of the power Murata could have. The things he could achieve if we *guided* him."

Murasame shook her head, the weight of her new existence pressing down on her. "No. Murata doesn't need power. He needs to survive. If we keep our heads down, we can avoid the worst of it. If he draws attention to himself, he'll be torn apart."

Yōchō sighed theatrically, waving a hand dismissively. "You're so cautious. It's almost adorable. But you're forgetting something important." Her voice lowered, taking on a more serious tone. "We *exist* to help him grow. You and I... we're not here to hide."

Murasame bit her lip, feeling the cold dread creeping over her. She could already tell that Yōchō wasn't going to let this go easily. And in the back of her mind, Murasame knew she had no choice but to play along—for now. After all, she was no longer Haruto. She was Murasame, a Zanpakutō spirit, a weapon meant to serve her master.

But how could she protect Murata from a world she knew too much about without exposing him to the very dangers she feared?

That was the question that lingered in the endless, suffocating halls of Murata's inner world.

And for now, she had no answer.