Sunlight was sliced apart by the towering buildings, leaving only narrow, damp, cold shadows.
Sosuke Aizen walked steadily into the depths of the alley. His gaze behind his glasses was still as an ancient well as he spoke softly to an empty patch of shadow.
"There's no need to hide your wretched form any longer, Myotismon. Or should I say, the last remnants of your data core and a mass of lingering resentment?"
Silence held for several seconds.
Then, from the deepest shadow, a small chunk of dark red flesh crawled out with great difficulty. It writhed and multiplied as though it were alive.
All that remained on the flesh was a mouth lined with tiny, sharp teeth. It made a faint, distorted sound, frantic with the joy of having survived.
"Aizen! Save me! Hurry! I haven't lost! I still have a trump card! Give me enough blood—enough pure, living blood—and I can rebuild my body! I could even surpass Mega level! Help me, and I can..."
His voice stopped abruptly.
Aizen had already bent down with effortless grace and picked up the revolting lump of flesh between the fingers of his white-gloved right hand.
The motion was so natural that he might have been picking up a fallen leaf rather than a remnant of something evil.
The flesh struggled weakly between his fingers with a faint, wet rasp.
Aizen raised it to eye level and examined it calmly. The curve of his mouth was almost compassionate, but his words were cold as ancient ice.
"Intelligence—or rather, the calculating will to survive—is not a flaw in itself."
"I've never disliked those who are 'clever,' Myotismon. On the path toward power and evolution, a little cunning can even be a necessary spice."
His voice was low and resonant, as though he