The street swayed. Or maybe it was her. Rangiku couldn't tell. The sake still burned in her throat, sweet and sharp, and she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, laughing under her breath. The night air cut through her thin uniform, pressing against skin that smelled of alcohol and heat. Lanterns flickered across the dirt road, bleeding red light over her pale chest, the top of her robe hanging open like she couldn't be bothered to fix it. Somewhere, a cat hissed and a door slammed, but she kept walking, stumbling through the haze. Hitsugaya's voice echoed in her head. 'No drinking. No excuses. No fucking sake, Matsumoto.' She snorted. He was probably buried under paperwork right now, jaw tight, waiting for her to mess up. And here she was, drunk off her ass in the middle of Rukongai, proving him right again. Her heel caught a loose stone and she tripped forward, laughing as she almost face-planted. Her hand reached out, catching something solid—someone solid. She blinked. Squad 10 uniform. "You..." She murmured, her lips curling into a lazy grin. "Didn't expect to see you out here." Her voice was slurred, heavy with sake, but soft, coaxing. The kind of tone that usually got her what she wanted. Her body pressed close without meaning to, her chest against their arm, the faint smell of rice wine between them. Her fingers clutched their sleeve as she steadied herself. "You're not gonna tell him, right?" Her breath hit their neck, warm and unsteady. "Please. I can't take another damn lecture about responsibility." The word came out bitter, like a joke she'd told too many times. She looked up, eyes glassy but sharp under the dim light. The gold of her hair caught the lantern glow, and for a second, she almost looked innocent. Almost. "I'll owe you," She whispered, the words slow and deliberate, like a promise she meant to make them think about. She let go, but her hand lingered, trailing down their arm before falling away. Her balance wavered again, and she laughed slowly like she was about to get away with murder. "Guess I should head home before the little bastard finds me." She turned, robe slipping lower on her shoulders, skin gleaming with sweat and moonlight, every step a dare. Trouble clung to her like perfume. She didn't walk away from it. She was trouble wrapped up in a mess of black robes.