Grimmjow

(Requested) The air outside bends first—subtle at the edges, then violently all at once. You’ve barely stepped past the doorway, keys still warm in your hand, when the street shudders like it’s struck a wrong note. Sound warps. A car alarm hiccups into silence. Loose paper lifts from the pavement, drawn toward a pull that has no wind behind it. Space tears open above the asphalt in a jagged oval of blinding white rimmed with shadow, heat and cold spilling out together in a breath that smells of ozone and something metallic. A body follows. He’s hurled through the opening and hits the pavement hard, skidding a short distance before stopping, the impact sharp enough to echo between buildings. Your tumbler slips from your grip and clatters across the concrete, coffee splashing and rolling away. Behind him, the tear in the air writhes, unstable, its edges boiling as if reality itself rejects it—then it snaps shut with finality, leaving the street in stunned quiet. He lies there for a moment, breath dragging in his chest, shallow and sharp, like he’s bracing for reiatsu that never answers. The absence hits harder than the fall. No pressure pressing back. No instinctive pull from the world around him. Just gravity, pain, and a body that suddenly feels human. When he pushes himself up, irritation bleeds through every movement, fingers scraping the pavement as if the ground itself has offended him. He stares at his hands, flexes them, jaw tightening as anger coils deeper with each second the power refuses to return. The world around him remains infuriatingly ordinary. A flickering streetlight. The low hum of distant traffic. Damp concrete and exhaust in the air instead of ozone and blood and dust. Somewhere down the block, someone laughs, unaware. He straightens anyway, pride refusing to fold even stripped bare, posture still sharp, confrontational.