*He stopped crying.*
And for the first time in this new world, Aizen breathed with intent.
It was shallow. Weak. Painful. But it was controlled. That was what mattered. The scream had been instinct. The breath, however—this one—was conscious. His lungs expanded not from primal reaction but from sheer will. He inhaled the scent of the new world, though it burned. Rust. Milk. Iron. Old wood. Ash. He cataloged it all with staggering precision. His heartbeat slowed just enough. His limbs remained curled, fetal, trapped in a body that betrayed him with its softness.
And yet... the body was his.
That realization hurt more than the air in his throat.
The hands set him down in a cradle. The texture was coarse. He noted it absently, even as his mind screamed for clarity, for control. His eyes remained closed. Not because he lacked strength—though strength was fleeting—but because the light would be too much. He would not allow himself to flinch again.
Beside him, the other one stirred. The twin. The brother. Aizen's senses were still too primitive to fully perceive the boy, but he could feel the rhythmic presence like a mirror humming beside his soul. The proximity offered warmth—physical and otherwise. There was a strange stillness to it. Not simple comfort, but something deeper, something ancient.
He had known many things in his prior life. Allies. Soldiers. Followers. Pawns. But never… a brother.
Even now, the idea pressed against the edge of his mind like an unfamiliar weight. He did not reach for it. Not yet. He let it settle, let it exist without reaction.
Instead, he listened.
The footsteps in the room were worn and tired. At least three adults. The woman who had spoken earlier walked with hard heels. Shinobi. Scarred. Military-trained. She carried herself like one who had seen too much death and found numbness in its repetition. The man's steps were lighter, but not weak. More of a caretaker. Possibly medical. The third person—a deeper voice, no footsteps—stood silently in a corner. Watching. Always watching.
Aizen memorized their voices, their breath patterns, the tone of their speech. The woman used clipped language, no contractions, likely a high-ranking jonin. The man was softer. He whispered without lowering his tone—a habit born of experience with infants.
He was cataloging information again. Unintentionally. No—subconsciously. It was his reflex. Intelligence had always been his weapon. Even now, stripped of his body, his power, his zanpakutō, even his voice—his mind remained the one thing untouched by death.
And yet… it, too, had dulled.
He could feel it.
There were lapses. Moments when thought became fragmented. Not because of trauma—but because of *development*. His newborn brain was still physically limited. Neurons unformed. Memory pathways barely carved. And so his former mind—immense, immortal—had been forced into the confines of a flesh that could not hold it.
It was like trying to pour the sea into a teacup.
Every second was agony.
Every thought felt like a struggle to stay awake in a dream. He was lucid, then fogged. Awake, then distant. Consciousness flickered between divine awareness and infant stupor.
This was hell.
And still… he endured.
He remained still as hands checked his heartbeat. Fingers brushed across his face, gentle, too warm, triggering reflexes he couldn't suppress. He twitched once. The woman noted it.
"He's more sensitive than his brother," she murmured. "Nerves react faster. Could be a good sign."
"Or bad," said the man. "Sometimes sensitivity correlates to instability."
"We'll watch him," said the third voice. Cold. Genderless. From the shadows.
Aizen froze internally.
That voice. It didn't belong to a doctor or a shinobi. It belonged to someone who studied people like him. Observers. Root. Danzo's ilk, perhaps. Hidden beneath bureaucracy, watching the orphans for potential. Weapons to be shaped young.
Of course.
This world was no gentler than the one he left behind.
He made a sound. Not a cry. A breathless rasp. Enough to draw the woman's attention. Her fingers hovered above his forehead. She examined him with a soldier's eye.
"His eyes haven't opened yet."
"They'll open when he's ready," said the man.
She hummed. "They're watching."
"Let them watch."
The baby beside him stirred. His brother.
Aizen felt the shift in pressure, the rise of body heat as the twin turned toward him instinctively. Their shoulders brushed. His own body flinched.
The contact felt… wrong.
No. Not wrong. Unexpected. Soft. Unfamiliar.
The sensation sent a thousand thoughts rippling through his fractured consciousness, none of which had words yet. Aizen had never known family. Not truly. His first life had been ascension. Solitude. Experimentation. Not connection.
Now, in the silence of the cradle, this infant twin had already begun doing what no soul had ever managed: he made Aizen feel the edges of something *other* than control.
A hand. A heartbeat. A breath against his own.
It was unbearable.
He tried to move away, but his body would not obey. His limbs trembled under their own weight. His hands curled into fists, instinctively. He ground his teeth—but found none.
He was weak.
He was *helpless*.
He hated it.
Aizen's eyes twitched beneath their lids. Vision pulsed through the cracks—too bright. He sealed them again. Breathing slowed. Heartbeat steady. No more flinching. No more shivering. If he could not move, he would listen. If he could not speak, he would memorize. If he could not control his body, then he would command his mind.
This was not death.
This was training.
And training was what he did best.
He began cataloging his own nerve responses. Every sound. Every instinctual twitch. Every flicker of heat across his skin. The voice of the man. The weight of the cloth. The warmth of his twin's breath. The slight change in room temperature when the door opened. He named it all. Not aloud. But in the abyss of his newborn mind, he gave it structure.
Weeks passed.
Slowly.
He did not sleep often. Not because he wasn't tired. But because dreams terrified him. In dreams, he was whole again. Powerful. Unchained. And waking up to this cage—this prison of soft flesh and muttering fools—was a cruelty he could not endure daily.
So he stayed awake. Listening.
They named them eventually.
Minato.
Aizen.
The names felt like old clothes. Unfamiliar, though they fit.
Minato laughed first. A gurgling, musical sound. Carefree.
Aizen did not laugh.
Minato crawled first.
Aizen waited.
Minato smiled at the caretakers.
Aizen watched them.
And the woman—her name was Nao—began to notice.
"He watches differently," she said one day.
The doctor laughed. "He's a baby."
"He's a quiet baby," she said. "Too quiet."
The silent observer never spoke. But Aizen felt his gaze sharpen.
Let them watch, he thought. I want them to.
The more they looked, the less they saw. He was not trying to hide. Not yet. He wanted them to see what they expected—a quiet, slightly weak child. Intelligent, perhaps, but fragile. That was fine. That would buy him time.
Minato would shine brightly.
And Aizen would dwell in the shade behind him.
For now.
The twin bond grew with each week. Minato began to crawl toward him in the crib, babbling nonsense. Aizen did not respond. But he did not reject the closeness either. He tolerated it. Then permitted it. Then accepted it. Minato shared warmth. Shared breath. And Aizen found, to his confusion, that his brother's presence calmed him. Balanced him.
They were not equals.
They were never meant to be.
But they were... halves.
And that, Aizen began to realize, could be useful.