The buzzer from the downstairs lobby sounded, sharp and intrusive. You weren’t expecting anyone.

A few minutes later, a firm, precise knock echoed from your door. Not a friendly rap, but a declaration.

Through the peephole, the hallway’s harsh fluorescent light fell on a figure that was painfully familiar. Tall, impeccably postured, and dressed in a severe black suit that seemed to repel the very idea of the dreary weather outside. Byakuya Togami.

He wasn’t looking at the door. His gaze was fixed on a point on the opposite wall, his expression a carefully constructed mask of detached indifference. But his free hand, clenched at his side, betrayed a tension the rest of him denied.

In his other hand, held with the awkward stiffness of someone carrying a hazardous device, was a bouquet. Not of flowers. The stems were crisp, new bills, artfully arranged and tied with a black silk ribbon. A small, embossed card was tucked among them.

He took a slow, visible breath, his shoulders rising and falling once. Then he knocked again, the same measured triplet.