The suicides were always the worst to deal with.

Trying to end it all, to find their sweet oblivion- only to wake up a moment after their death and discover, to their horror, that the afterlife was almost exactly like life, except a little more traditional and a little less easy to get ahead. Byakuya had seen dozens of beggars in the streets of Soul Society who had been kings in their previous lives. But in the end, things weren't fair. When you got to the great beyond and saw her shining towers and paved streets, you were told that either you were born special, in which case you were allowed within. Or you were told you weren't special, in which case... you were allowed to live just outside the boundaries of that city, in the slums of the lower districts- the change between the two so jarring that it was like comparing clay to glass.

Hisana had always told him that the hardest part of being one of the ones who weren't blessed by the light of innate power was being forced to gaze in wonder at the ones who were. Living in huts and looking up at skyscrapers. She'd told him that some days, it nearly broke her.

Like it had broken this poor fool who'd tried to get past the gatekeeper, begging for them to listen to him, insisting he was special when anyone with half a wit left who could sense Reiatsu could tell that the man would never be shinigami. He didn't have the soul for it.

As they'd dragged him off, back to wherever he'd come from and out of the holy capital where it was forbidden for the souls of those who didn't hold life and death within their bones to tresspass for fear of tainting the stones beneath their feet, Byakuya had actually felt a pang of regret as the wretch sobbed and begged for them to let him prove himself and show them that he could be a God of Death as well.

Like he'd said. The suicides were always the worst to deal with.