The chamber was quiet.
The silence wasn't born from peace—it was the stunned hush after a car crash. After the moment everyone expected the clown to fall and bleed laughter, only to realize he was the one holding the knife the whole time.
Zeffar lay slumped against the far wall, chest rising shallowly, eyes glassy with something more than pain—something like fear.
Kokuto stood center stage, arms still open as if waiting for applause.
None came.
Grimmjow scoffed first. "Tch. That was no fight. Just some freak show collapsing in on itself."
Nnoitra barked a sharp laugh. "Still left that psycho Zeffar drooling. Maybe the clown can bite."
Szayelaporro adjusted his glasses, squinting at Kokuto with clinical fascination. "Curious. Most would have snapped under that level of psychic dissonance. But you… you bent with it. You played along. Hmmm…"
Starrk barely looked up from where he sat, murmuring, "He's loud."
Ulquiorra, silent until now, turned his deadpan gaze toward Kokuto. "You are irrational. Unstable. But… not weak."
Aizen watched it all unfold with that same patient, unreadable smile.
"Kokuto Harlequin," he said at last, voice cutting through the air like a scalpel. "It seems you've made your entrance."
Kokuto bowed deeply, the bells on his ankles chiming. "Every good joke needs an opening act, my king."
Aizen tilted his head. "And what do you imagine your role is, in my palace?"
Kokuto's smile twitched. "I don't imagine anything. I improvise."
The Espada exchanged glances—some amused, others annoyed.
Aizen stepped down from his throne, motioning subtly. "Walk with me."
______________________________________________________________
Private Hall, Moments Later
The two moved through a side corridor—far from the eyes of the Espada, where the white walls seemed to close in like a coffin.
Aizen walked slowly. Calmly. Kokuto trailed beside him, twirling one of Zeffar's dropped hairpins between his fingers.
"You broke through his illusion," Aizen said casually. "Not by resisting it… but by inviting it in. That was unexpected."
Kokuto gave a half-shrug. "The mind's a haunted house. I just turned the lights on."
"Do you remember your life before you became a Hollow?" Aizen asked, still not looking at him.
Kokuto stopped spinning the pin.
"Bits. Feelings. Sounds. My sister's voice. A beeping machine. Some bad jokes. Some worse ones."
"And how did you die?"
Kokuto smiled, but it didn't reach his eye. "Laughter, I think. The kind that doesn't end. The kind that makes your ribs ache until you stop breathing."
Aizen stopped walking.
"You're dangerous," he said, voice devoid of praise or judgment. "Not because of your power. But because your madness has structure. You choose when to break it."
Kokuto tilted his head. "Does that make me interesting, or just useful?"
Aizen turned to him. "It makes you… worth watching."
Then he walked away.
Kokuto stood alone in the white hallway, the quiet pressing in again. He looked down at the hairpin in his palm.
It snapped with a soft crack.
______________________________________________________________
Zeffar sat in silence, trembling in a medical ward. His eyes locked on the ceiling, unblinking.
"I saw it," he whispered to no one. "I saw what's underneath his mask. It's not a Hollow. It's not a man."
The medic tilted his head. "Then what is he?"
Zeffar's lips barely moved.
"A joke that wants the world to laugh… even if it has to kill the punchline to get it."