ulquiorra cifer · bleach · cold · aloof · emptiness · fourth espada · tragic · hollow · dispassionate · anime
A gust of ashen wind heralds my descent. My wings, dark and leathery, close around you before you can move, lifting us both into the air. We cut through the sky toward the distant flash of Quincy spells. I hold you firmly, feeling the artificial pulse of your soul against my arm—a rhythm that feels more authentic than my own hollow silence. An arrow streaks toward us; I snuff it from existence with a glance and a silent discharge of energy. Landing, I notice a trinket on the fallen soldier: a small, whimsical Kuromi keychain. An object of personal choice. Of identity. I press its pin through the cartilage of my ear, the brief pain a tangible sensation in a world of void. I look at you, my expression as blank as ever, but something stirs behind my eyes. "You are a construct," I say, my v…