REVISION: IN PROGRESS

A/N: Huzzah! This story isn't dead. I've awakened from my long hibernation and am ready to write again (hopefully, if school doesn't manage to kill me first) After reading over it in a long time, I wasn't satisfied with my writing or where I thought the plot was going (to be honest, I forgot). So I decided to just rewrite it with some new plot elements I've thought up of (Cliffhangers galore, hint, hint) and better writing. The end result should be much better, but probably not perfect. But special thanks to everyone who reviewed before- I hope you like this version better as well.

On with the show!

The first thing you noticed about the room was the stench.

But stench wouldn't be the right word for the smell that pervaded the room; it assaulted your nose and intoxicated the brain with the heady aroma of cigars smoke and spices and just the faintest trace of something else, something familiar but unrecognized and inexplicably sinister.

The smell was thick and heavy, and just one breath seemed enough to fill up your lungs, but it was oddly addictive, alluring even.

And once you got accustomed to the smell, you noticed the walls, or more specifically, what was on the walls: nothing. The wallpaper was gray, like steel, and impossible to tell if it was originally that color or faded away, like all things, by time. The walls were grey, there were no windows, and there was little, if any light.

It looked like a prison.

And in the middle of the room, where the least light fell, there was a desk. A plain, wood desk. And sitting behind the desk was a man, a man so out of place; he seemed to be a figment of your imagination.

How wrong you would be.

The man was tall, impeccably dressed, and undeniably handsome. He had long black hair that fell elegantly to the collar of his rather expensive looking designer suit, a sharp, angular face with sculpted, almost noble cheekbones, and piercing cold eyes that were fixated on some papers, but kept glancing back to a silver watch on his left wrist, as if he was waiting for something.

A few minutes later, the door swung open, and a tall, young man strode in, with his face and hair covered by the hood of a beaten, leather jacket.

"You're Late," the man said without looking up.

"Tch," the stranger scoffed as he took off his hood, revealing a shock of tomato-red hair and tribal tattoo markings. "When am I not?"

"When you want a job better than delivery boy, Renji"

Renji cursed. "Is that why I've been doing all these shitty assignments? Taicho, come on, it's not like I don't get things done—I'm bored, I want something better to do than talk to crazy old scientists—I haven't had a REAL job in for—"

The man held out his hand. "The letter?"

Renji sighed, took out a tiny white envelope from his pocket, and handed it over.

"He says that he has a hunch on where it is, and not to expect the delivery to come next week, but the week after that, unexpected delays or something like that." Renji muttered.

The man silently read over the letter and nodded. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. Ikkauku's out with a bad head injury, no one knows why or how, Mayuri started working on a new project, top secret, won't let anyone in to see what it is—as if he needed to— There's another captain's meeting this week, same place—"

The man waved his hand dismissively. "You're dismissed."

But Renji's face darkened, and quietly, fluidly, he pulled out a crinkled, yellowed newspaper from his jacket, smoothed it out, opened it, and set it on his desk.

"I wasn't finished, taicho. Look at the picture."

The fancy, bold font up top caught his attention first. "The wedding section? As you well know, I have no care for such things," he said coldly.

"Look at the picture," Renji assisted.

And he saw it. It couldn't be. She must've have been caught off guard, for she wasn't looking straight ahead and she was smiling, naturally, because he knew she never took good photos. It was her. The same small face, dark hair that always fell in her face, wide, purple eyes that he had not seen for six years. It was impossible—she was gone, had disappeared, died—checks in the record, missing persons alert, searches; nothing, nobody had found her. But the picture in front of him was unmistakebly, impossibly hers. You...

"She's getting married." Renji spat out, bitterly, disgustedly; it was hard to tell the emotion in his voice.

Married…He read the headline for the picture. Congratulations to Kurosaki Ichigo and Kuroichou Rukia on their upcoming Nupitals!

She hadn't even changed her name.

His sister.

Married.

To one of them.

He put the paper down slowly.

"Renji, I have a job for you to do…"

Not a lot of change. But that's gonna change soon :)