It was late at night.
The tavern lights went out one by one behind him, until only the lantern by the entrance remained lit, swaying gently in the night breeze.
Kyōraku Shunsui walked through the streets of Seireitei, his steps a little unsteady, his shoulders slack, the hem of his haori brushing the paving stones.
A patrolman approached from the opposite direction, carrying a night lantern.
Its orange glow bobbed in the darkness, illuminating the ground a few steps ahead.
When the patrolman saw Kyōraku, he slowed a little and smiled.
"You seem to be in a good mood today, Captain Kyōraku."
His voice was familiar and easy. To the patrolmen, the Eighth Division captain returning drunk to his barracks in the middle of the night was nothing new.
"Ahaha, thanks for your hard work."
Kyōraku waved with a smile and kept walking.
They passed each other, the lantern light sweeping across his profile and casting a long shadow behind him.
The patrolman continued on with his lantern. As the light moved, so did the shadow.
First it shortened, drawing close beneath his feet. Then, as the distance grew, it slowly lengthened again, spreading like ink dropped into water.
Finally, when the light was far enough away, the shadow merged completely with the surrounding darkness, its outline no longer distinguishable.
Kyōraku stopped.
He stood without turning around, but his shoulders no longer swayed.
The night wind stirred the black hair beneath his straw hat, pressing a few strands against his forehead.
He stood there for quite some time.
Then he raised a hand and tugged the brim of his hat down, burying his face deeper in shadow.
"Little junior brother," he murmured, his voice almost swallowed by the wind, "you really did tell me a horror story."
He started walking