Chapter Text
At the time, she didn't expect it to work—screaming a furious, ragged “no” at the void until her soul somehow felt both fractured and frayed.
It was the end of the line; she knew it was. She could feel it in the cold, caustic void cracking throughout what remnants of her being remained after the light went dark. However, The End was not something she was willing to accept without some form of resistance. There was still so much left of her life to accomplish: a family to take care of, a dog that would wonder why she never came home, a sister’s wedding to attend, a future she hadn't yet had the chance to figure out, a story to finish--
So, she refused.
She wasn’t ready to die.
Apparently, someone in the universe was listening.
Fate, she would come to learn, has a fondness for cruel bargains. Yes, it spared her the daunting finality of her death—and stole everything else in the process. It’s as though its generosity demanded one final insult, when it shoved those precious memories of hers into the mind of a child… a child fate-bound to be sidelined in a made-up story in a made-up city where death had never been particularly good at staying dead.
And if Fate—or whoever was involved in her rebirth—expects her to play a helpless civilian, they are in for a very rude awakening.
CHAPTER ONE.
emergence.
Arisawa Tatsuki’s mother dies when she is an infant, slipping through the cracks of a grand fissure in the pavement of a four-way street while the stroller is left behind. An earthquake, the news would later say, pinpointed onto the unsuspecting Karakura Town. The camera footage is plastered across the country—one moment she’s there, the next she’s gone as the ground beneath her tears open its hungry maw. Her body is never found, no matter how deep they dig, so an empty urn is placed in a family columbarium as a placeholder.
A tragedy.
Tatsuki does not remember this event.
If pressed, she could invoke the image of her mother’s dark hair hanging into the open compartment of the stroller, a hand reaching out to cover her eyes as a large, featureless figure approaches from behind. An impossibility that, years down the line, she simply accepts as a dream.
And yet, her entire childhood stands on the constant reminders of the luck that graced her that warm, sunny day.
It is, perhaps, the only time that luck is granted to her without effort.
Tatsuki is barely walking the first time she sets foot on a tatami mat, her father gently guiding her into the family dojo that, at the time, smelt of smoke and incense.
She has no memory of the moment, of course. As far as she knows, she has always lived and breathed the disciplines and forms of Karate—and then, upon request, Taekwondo, and then Judo, and then (to the desperate pleas of her grandmother) gymnastics. The time spent practicing melds together unintelligibly over the years, though she can say for certain that she has spent more time practicing her forms, rolls, tumbling, grapples and sparring than she has ever spent in school.
It isn't a matter of ambition so much as reality. She spends every night of the week in a dojo or gym, soaking in every lesson that this young, fumbling body can hold. Whether or not it is healthy does not cross her mind. She excuses the relentless pace by reminding herself that these classes are designed as gentle foundations for young children anyway—harmless rolls, basic footwork, simple stretches. Nor does her household find her discipline strange, as within the aged walls of her family's dojo her father and grandfather encourage her to practice her strikes and kicks.
It is a routine built on sweat and bruises.
But, more than that, it is a discipline built on silence.
Her father is a stoic, withdrawn man. She does not blame him. He is a man hollowed out by a catastrophe he couldn't protect his wife from… or so the neighbourhood gossips like to whisper. He spends many weeks abroad, training on his own or attending grand tournaments that she only ever hears about after-the-fact. When he is in town, he watches Tatsuki train with an intense focus, arms crossed and instructions stern.
Yet the moment he steps back in their home, he recedes into a ghost, spending his evenings staring blankly at a muted television screen or drinking alone on the engawa.
It is a pitiful thing to watch.
And yet, for Tatsuki, it makes things considerably easier.
The memories did not come all at once—they trickled in, bit by bit, until the reality of her situation became too much to ignore.
She can say with certainty that it is not fear or grief that hits her first, but a seething, uncompromising rage.
It is an anger that sits with her as she withstands the monotony of kindergarten. It is an anger that electrifies her as she drives her fists into padded targets, drills form after form until her knuckles bleed, and forces a child’s fragile frame to carry the sheer weight of an adult’s spite. It is an anger that keeps her up at night, mind spiralling into an unfettered vat of broken memories and furious promises.
The grief is there, too.
It is a more difficult emotion to approach; something that feels a little too close to helplessness for comfort.
Karakura Town has many tragedies ahead of it—and she cannot allow herself to fall into the pathetic luxury of despair.
She cannot afford to be fragile.
Not when she knows what lies ahead. She has met him, has trained with him, has met his strange parents. The future, as it is written, will undoubtedly come barrelling her way. Every fibre of Tatsuki’s being is ignited with determination at the thought of the battles and monsters awaiting in the dark. Fear has never held a home in her heart, and she certainly isn’t going to let it move in now when she needs her courage the most.
So she trains.
And she trains.
And she trains.
In the stubborn belief that, one day, it will be enough to make a difference.
Ghosts should not be surprising.
Tatsuki has died.
She remembers the pain of her bones splitting, flesh ripping, and blood splattering as though it’d been yesterday. The phantom pains still catch her now when her mind wanders too far. The icy remembrance of the dark void between lives still has a hold on her chest, its ever-present suffocation growing in strength the longer she dares to dwell on it. She is an anomaly even in a world where there is life after death—something that has, clearly, broken through the ever curated circle of life that the guardians of this world so tightly hold onto.
And yet, the first time Tatsuki sees a ghost it comes as a surprise.
He looks ordinary at first—and, perhaps, that is what throws her off. He is just a middle-aged man in a rumpled salaryman’s suit, standing motionless beside the sandbox in the park near her house. His tie is slightly loosened, his leather shoes scuffed, and a deep, sombre exhaustion dulls his otherwise handsome face. If it were not for the large chain sticking out of his chest, she may have considered some unjust thoughts about his presence in the park.
Tatsuki stops in her tracks at the sight, her small hands tightening on her backpack straps. She can only stare with quiet empathy as the ghost sits on the wooden edge of the sandbox in his own quiet solitude. Around him, toddlers scream and laugh, their tiny feet kicking up dust that passes straight through his ghostly knees. He does not react, simply stares at them with a soft disappointment etched across his features.
She does not approach him.
She is four years old, with no powers to speak of, and no right to intrude upon a dead man's grief.
And though she passes by the park frequently afterwards, she does not see the ghost in that park ever again.
It is a short, uneventful encounter. Given how grandiose she expects the world to be, she thought her first brush with the supernatural would have been… bigger.
And yet, despite its brevity, the crushing loneliness written across that dead man's face is something that stays with her for many, many years to come.
Arisawa Tatsuki meets him before her memories of before solidify into something concrete.
It makes sense, in hindsight, given their nature of being childhood friends within the confines of the original story. At four years old, her mind was still a foggy battleground of lingering adult recollections bleeding into toddler instincts. She did not instantly look at the strange orange-haired kid and recognize him as an anime protagonist—it was a slow, creeping realization that took months to slot into place, bringing with it a subtle, chilling sense of unease. It is a small, missed detail, one that leaves her anxiously writing in her books under the cover of night.
Kurosaki Ichigo is nothing like the character in her memories.
This, too, makes sense. It is his mother who, most days, is the one who drops him off and picks him up from the dojo.
Grief has not yet been etched into his heart.
It is a hot summer afternoon when Tatsuki watches as the two enter the dojo, the air-conditioning unit set up by the window making a strange whirring sound as it tries its best to cool down the room. The thick, humid air of the day makes the dojo smell like dust and sweat, but Masaki brings a breeze of gentle warmth with her. She bows low at the doorway, her long wavy hair spilling over her shoulder, with Ichigo tucked securely in her shadow.
Even six months after his introduction to the class, he is still painfully hesitant. He clutches onto his mother’s hand tightly as she exchanges pleasantries with one of the aunties who are taking the beginners courses. Yet, beneath his nervous posture, Ichigo’s wide, dark eyes peer out, scanning the sparse crowd along the edges of the mat.
A smile, bright and unexpected, lightens his face as he spots Tatsuki.
This is the boy who will, in time, achieve something close to godhood.
She tightens the belt around her waist and offers him a wave. He certainly won’t get there on his own—and if seeing him cry every time she beats him in a spar is how they’ll get there, then so be it.
Night in the Arisawa household is typically a quiet affair.
The buzzing sound of cicadas fills the backdrop of her bedroom through her open window. The gentle breeze that lifts her curtains does little to help with the suffocating heat, but it is better than nothing.
Tatsuki sits cross-legged on the edge of her futon, the soft glow of her nightlight casting long shadows across the small bedroom as she fiddles with a bandage roll. Her knuckles are red and sore, the skin broken and stinging from hours of driving punches into heavy pads at the dojo. A wince marrs her face as her fingers twitch. It is with dissatisfaction that she comes to terms with the fact that she has, already, pushed herself too far.
She grits her teeth, attempting to wind the cloth around her palm. Even with the help of her knees, she can’t quite get the wrapping to be taut—and, as always, frustration spurns as water wells in her eyes without consent.
A toddler’s limit, she tells herself. A physicality that she cannot control—
Yet.
Despite the half-hearted words of comfort, a quiet huff of irritation escapes her lips as she fails once more.
"You're overlapping too early."
Tatsuki startles at the words.
Her father stands in the doorway, his large frame a dark silhouette against the bright hall light. It is odd to see him in modern clothes—this time a simple t-shirt and shorts—instead of his usual gi or traditional robes. Slung over his shoulder is a heavy duffel bag: a clear sign that he is heading out on another long training circuit.
Without another word, he steps into the room and kneels on the tatami beside her futon. His heavy, calloused hands gently take the bandage from her grasp, twisting her arm around with slow intent.
"If you wrap the palm first, you lose wrist support," he murmurs softly, his voice gravelly. "And if you lose wrist support, your joint buckles when you hit the board."
With practiced, effortless motions, he begins to wind the cloth over her wrist, anchor it around her thumb, and weave it cleanly between her knuckles. His grip is firm, but nonetheless remarkably gentle.
Tatsuki watches him in silence. From this close, she can smell his aftershave and shampoo—a heavy, woody scent of pine and smoke.
He smooths down the velcro strap over her wrist, giving it two gentle taps.
"Flex your fingers," he instructs.
She does so.
“It’s better,” she can’t help but sigh.
"Don't overdo it, kiddo." He reaches up, his thick palm resting lightly on top of her head for a fleeting second, smoothing down her messy dark hair.
It’s a soft moment. She can’t stop herself from ruining it as she gestures towards the duffle bag at his side. “Are you leaving?”
He pauses, his hand lingering near her head before dropping back to his side. "Just for two weeks. A regional tournament in Osaka, then a week in the mountains." A brief shadow passes over his dark eyes as he looks at her small, wrapped fists. "Your grandmother will be staying here. Be good for her."
"I will," Tatsuki says quietly, her eyes narrowing.
He nods once and stands up, adjusting the strap on his shoulder. With a quiet shift of fabric, he turns and steps out into the dark hallway.
Tatsuki looks down at her perfectly wrapped hands. It’s going to be a long two weeks. With her grandmother hovering around, she won't be able to push her training—or her research—at her usual relentless pace without raising immediate red flags. Still, there is a silver lining: the old woman is a vastly superior cook. For once, Tatsuki can actually look forward to real meals instead of her father’s monotonous diet of plain rice and unseasoned meat.
She watches as her father pulls her bedroom door almost shut, leaving a narrow strip of light across the tatami. A strange, disjointed feeling settles in her chest as she gently brushes her fingers over the tight bandages encircling her fists.
She never had a father in her past life.
And having one now—even a quiet, hollowed-out ghost of a man—was going to take some getting used to.