webAppInput

SceneIdQuery

myProfile

scene

query SceneIdQuery(
  $id: ID!
  $webAppInput: WebAppInput
) {
  myProfile(webAppInput: $webAppInput) {
    ...MyProfile_myProfile
    id
  }
  scene(id: $id) {
    ...Scene_scene
    ...SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq
    id
    order
    rating
    title
    seoTitle
    seoDescription
    isPublished
    isScheduled
    publishedAt
    content
    embeddedMedia {
      mediaId
      state
    }
    story {
      ...Story_story
      id
      isMine
      commentsAccess
    }
    prevScene {
      id
    }
    nextScene {
      id
    }
  }
}

fragment JobInfo_job on AiGenerationJob {
  id
  type
  status
  currentStage
  attemptCount
  maxAttempts
  lastErrorCode
  scheduledAt
}

fragment MediaStatusFields_media on Media {
  id
  status
  generationError
  activeGenerationJob {
    ...JobInfo_job
    currentStage
    id
  }
}

fragment MyProfile_myProfile on User {
  id
  name
  email
  isAdmin
  hasEverPaid
  isEmailConfirmed
  isEmailNotificationEnabled
  isTelegramNotificationEnabled
  isTempPassword
  avatar
  cover
  about
  contacts
  support
  telegramId
  vkId
  availableLimits
  frozenLimits
  urlSlug
  topUpPackages {
    id
    price
    currency
    toBalanceLimits
    bonusLimits
    totalCreditedLimits
    USD
  }
  availablePaymentProviders
  aiGenerationCosts {
    plan {
      size
      cost
    }
    characterSuggest
    ideaExpand
    sceneWrite {
      length
      cost
    }
    mediaGenerate
    animate {
      withoutAudio
      withAudio
    }
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    limitCost
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      genesis
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(size: 1024)
      sourceMedia {
        id
        mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      }
      userPrompt
      finalPrompt
      rawPrompt
      mediaAttachments {
        id
        story {
          id
        }
        scene {
          id
        }
        character {
          id
        }
      }
      embeddedInScenes {
        id
      }
    }
  }
  embeddedMedia {
    mediaId
    state
  }
  sceneCharacterStates {
    id
    character {
      id
      name
    }
  }
}

fragment Scene_scene on Scene {
  id
  order
  displayOrder
  title
  rating
  isPublished
  isScheduled
  publishedAt
  minWaitersToPublish
  waitersCount
  readCount
  content
  story {
    id
    isMine
  }
}

fragment Story_story on Story {
  id
  title
  createdAt
  publicDescription
  type
  size
  narrativeType
  rating
  hasCharacters
  status
  isPublished
  isMine
  publishedAt
  likesCount
  favoritesCount
  displayDirection
  plotGenres
  settingGenres
  moods
  tropes
  displayContentWarnings
  sceneAtmospheres
  publishedStats {
    scenesCount
    wordsCount
  }
  author {
    id
    name
    urlSlug
    avatar
  }
  characters {
    id
    name
  }
  fandoms {
    id
    urlSlug
    translation {
      canonicalName
      id
    }
  }
  myState {
    isLiked
    isFavorited
    isWaiting
    id
  }
  lastPublishedScene {
    id
  }
}


The street stretched ahead of him, a long ribbon of cracked asphalt and pale orange light spilling from the old-fashioned lampposts. Ichigo Kurosaki shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his school trousers, his shoulders hunched against the chill that crept up from the ground. The air smelled of damp concrete and the faint sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from someone’s garden—a scent he’d never noticed before, not really. Everything felt sharper now, more vivid, as if losing his powers had peeled away a layer of protection and left him raw to the world.

He kicked a loose pebble and watched it skitter across the road, clinking against the curb. The sound was too loud in the quiet. Karakura Town at this hour was a ghost of its daytime self—windows dark, curtains drawn, only the occasional hum of a refrigerator drifting from a half-open kitchen window. He’d walked this route a hundred times before, back when he could sense the souls of the dead drifting by, back when a hollow’s presence would tighten his chest like a warning bell. Now there was nothing. Just the emptiness where his reiatsu used to live, a hollow ache that made him clench his fists until his nails bit into his palms.

*I can’t even see them anymore,* he thought. *Not the souls, not the hollows. I’m useless.*

He stopped at an intersection, the crosswalk signal blinking a steady red. On the other side, a convenience store glowed like a beacon, its fluorescent lights buzzing. A clerk was stacking magazines behind the glass. Normal. Human. Ichigo stared at his own reflection in the store window—a tall figure in a black uniform, orange hair stark against the dim backdrop. He looked the same as always, but he felt hollowed out. A shell.

It came without warning, a sudden weight in the air that made his ears pop and his stomach drop. Ichigo’s breath caught. He staggered, one hand flying to the lamppost beside him, the cold metal biting his palm. The world seemed to tilt, the streetlights flickering once, twice, before steadying. The pressure was immense, crushing, familiar and alien at once—like the presence of a hollow, but deeper, older, tasting of shadow and grave dirt.

His heart hammered. *No. I can’t sense them anymore. This is just my imagination.*

But the pressure didn’t fade. It grew, dense and cloying, pressing down on his shoulders until his knees threatened to buckle. A cold draft curled around his ankles, stirring the fallen leaves. The shadows beneath the lampposts seemed to darken, pooling into shapes that didn’t match the light.

The voice was a whisper, but it came from everywhere—from the shadows, from the air itself, from inside his own skull. Ichigo spun, his fists raised, his body moving on instinct even as his mind screamed that he had nothing to fight with. The street was empty. Nothing but the flickering lights and the trembling leaves.

“Who’s there?” His own voice sounded thin, foreign. He hated it.

A laugh, soft and dry, like rustling paper. “You can’t see me yet. But you feel me, don’t you?”

The shadows under a nearby maple tree rippled. They didn’t just darken—they *moved*, crawling upward like liquid, coalescing into a shape. Ichigo’s breath caught. The form was humanoid but not human—tall, wrapped in a tattered black cloak that seemed to drink the light. Fragments of a white mask clung to its face, covering one cheek and the bridge of a nose, leaving one red eye exposed. That eye fixed on him, burning like a coal in the darkness.

He didn’t know how he knew the name, but it surfaced in his mind like a bubble from deep water. She—the voice, the shape—was female, though the cloak hid any real detail. She stepped out of the shadow as if walking through a door, and the fabric of reality seemed to shiver around her.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said, her voice a whisper that echoed. “Walking these streets. Clutching your loss like a wound. It’s pathetic.”

Ichigo’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?” He kept his stance wide, ready to dodge or strike, even knowing it was useless. “If you’re a hollow, I—”

“I am not a hollow.” She tilted her head, and the motion was wrong—too smooth, like oil on water. “Not in the way you think. I am something older. Something that lives in the cracks between life and death.” Her red eye narrowed. “And so do you.”

She stepped closer, and Ichigo forced himself not to retreat. The air grew colder, pressing against his skin. Up close, he could see the mask fragments more clearly—jagged edges that looked like broken porcelain, embedded in pale flesh. Her lips were a thin line, bloodless.

“You lost your shinigami powers,” she said. “But that loss created a void. And in that void, something new has grown. A power that doesn’t belong to Soul Society or the hollows. A power over the boundary itself.”

Ichigo stared at her. The words made no sense. “I don’t have any power. I’m just a human now.”

“Liar.” The word was soft, almost fond. “You felt the pressure before I appeared. You saw me step from the shadow. A human would have seen nothing. Heard nothing. You are awake, Kurosaki Ichigo, whether you like it or not.”

She raised a hand, and the shadows around her wrist curled like live things, wrapping around her fingers. She gestured, and a patch of darkness on the ground rose, solidifying into a sharp spike that hovered in the air. Ichigo’s eyes widened.

“Your power,” she said, “is not about cutting down hollows. It’s about *control*. You can push the boundary between life and death, warp it, thin it. You can step into the space where souls are made and unmade.” She curled her fingers, and the shadow spike dissolved into nothing. “I can teach you.”

Ichigo’s mind raced. This was crazy. She was crazy. But the pressure was real. The shadow spike had been real. And deep inside, in the hollow where his powers used to be, something stirred—a flicker of warmth, like a spark in dry tinder.

“Why would you teach me?” he demanded. “What do you get out of it?”

Yami’s eye glittered. “Curiosity. And… perhaps a debt. I am a fragment of something that was once whole. You are a fragment of something that could become whole again.” She stepped back, her cloak trailing like smoke. “But there is a price. Every time you use this power, it will cost you. A piece of your humanity. A memory. A connection. You will walk closer to the edge of death with every step.”

Ichigo felt cold. “What happens if I fall off?”

“Then you become like me. Neither alive nor dead. A shadow of a shadow.” She smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. “But you won’t fall. You’re too stubborn.”

He wanted to refuse. He wanted to turn and walk away and pretend this night had never happened. But the image of his friends—Chad, Uryu, Orihime—flashed through his mind. He couldn’t protect them without power. He couldn’t even see the threats. The powerlessness ate at him like acid.

“Teach me,” he said, the words scraping out of his throat.

She raised her hand again, and the shadows around them began to pulse. The streetlights dimmed, then went out, plunging the block into absolute darkness. Ichigo felt a tug in his chest, a pull toward something vast and cold. He gasped, his hands flying to his chest.

“Feel it,” Yami whispered, her voice now directly inside his head. “The boundary. It’s a thread. Grab it.”

He didn’t understand, but his body did. His fingers twitched, and something *moved* inside him—a muscle he’d never used, a sense he’d never known. The darkness around him grew thick, almost solid. He could feel the boundary Yami spoke of: a thin film, like the surface of a soap bubble, separating the world of the living from… something else. Something cold and hungry.

“That’s it,” Yami said, satisfaction coloring her whisper. “You see it. Now you can touch it. But be careful—the boundary touches you back.”

Ichigo’s hand rose of its own accord, reaching for the thread. He felt it brush his fingertips, and a shock of cold ran up his arm, making his teeth chatter. The world blurred. For a moment, he saw two streets overlapping—one dim and quiet, the other gray and filled with drifting shapes. Hollows. Spirits. Things that should not be.

Then the vision snapped away, and he was back in the dark street, gasping. His hand was numb, tingling with frost.

Yami had retreated into the shadows, her shape dissolving at the edges. “You have taken the first step,” she said. “I will find you when you are ready for the next. But remember: every step has a cost.”

And then she was gone. The pressure lifted, and the streetlights flickered back on, buzzing to life. Ichigo stood alone in the middle of the road, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked at his hand—the one that had touched the boundary. The skin was pale, almost translucent, but normal.

He felt different. Lighter and heavier at once. A new weight had settled in his chest—a shard of cold that pulsed like a second heartbeat. He knew, without knowing how, that he could call it forth. That he could reach for the boundary again.

The question echoed in his mind, but he pushed it aside. He had no choice. For his friends, for his family, for the world he could no longer see—he would pay whatever price was demanded.

He straightened his shoulders, his fists clenching at his sides. The resolve settled into his bones like steel. He was not a shinigami anymore. He was something else. Something new.

The street stretched ahead of him, a long ribbon of cracked asphalt and pale orange light spilling from the old-fashioned lampposts. Ichigo Kurosaki shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his school trousers, his shoulders hunched against the chill that crept up from the ground. The air smelled of damp concrete and the faint sweetness of night-blooming jasmine from someone’s garden—a scent he’d never noticed before, not really. Everything felt sharper now, more vivid, as if losing his powers had peeled away a layer of protection and left him raw to the world.

He kicked a loose pebble and watched it skitter across the road, clinking against the curb. The sound was too loud in the quiet. Karakura Town at this hour was a ghost of its daytime self—windows dark, curtains drawn, only the occasional hum of a refrigerator drifting from a half-open kitchen window. He’d walked this route a hundred times before, back when he could sense the souls of the dead drifting by, back when a hollow’s presence would tighten his chest like a warning bell. Now there was nothing. Just the emptiness where his reiatsu used to live, a hollow ache that made him clench his fists until his nails bit into his palms.

*I can’t even see them anymore,* he thought. *Not the souls, not the hollows. I’m useless.*

He stopped at an intersection, the crosswalk signal blinking a steady red. On the other side, a convenience store glowed like a beacon, its fluorescent lights buzzing. A clerk was stacking magazines behind the glass. Normal. Human. Ichigo stared at his own reflection in the store window—a tall figure in a black uniform, orange hair stark against the dim backdrop. He looked the same as always, but he felt hollowed out. A shell.

Then the pressure hit.

It came without warning, a sudden weight in the air that made his ears pop and his stomach drop. Ichigo’s breath caught. He staggered, one hand flying to the lamppost beside him, the cold metal biting his palm. The world seemed to tilt, the streetlights flickering once, twice, before steadying. The pressure was immense, crushing, familiar and alien at once—like the presence of a hollow, but deeper, older, tasting of shadow and grave dirt.

His heart hammered. *No. I can’t sense them anymore. This is just my imagination.*

But the pressure didn’t fade. It grew, dense and cloying, pressing down on his shoulders until his knees threatened to buckle. A cold draft curled around his ankles, stirring the fallen leaves. The shadows beneath the lampposts seemed to darken, pooling into shapes that didn’t match the light.

“Kurosaki Ichigo.”

The voice was a whisper, but it came from everywhere—from the shadows, from the air itself, from inside his own skull. Ichigo spun, his fists raised, his body moving on instinct even as his mind screamed that he had nothing to fight with. The street was empty. Nothing but the flickering lights and the trembling leaves.

“Who’s there?” His own voice sounded thin, foreign. He hated it.

A laugh, soft and dry, like rustling paper. “You can’t see me yet. But you feel me, don’t you?”

The shadows under a nearby maple tree rippled. They didn’t just darken—they *moved*, crawling upward like liquid, coalescing into a shape. Ichigo’s breath caught. The form was humanoid but not human—tall, wrapped in a tattered black cloak that seemed to drink the light. Fragments of a white mask clung to its face, covering one cheek and the bridge of a nose, leaving one red eye exposed. That eye fixed on him, burning like a coal in the darkness.

Yami.

He didn’t know how he knew the name, but it surfaced in his mind like a bubble from deep water. She—the voice, the shape—was female, though the cloak hid any real detail. She stepped out of the shadow as if walking through a door, and the fabric of reality seemed to shiver around her.

“I’ve been watching you,” she said, her voice a whisper that echoed. “Walking these streets. Clutching your loss like a wound. It’s pathetic.”

Ichigo’s jaw tightened. “What do you want?” He kept his stance wide, ready to dodge or strike, even knowing it was useless. “If you’re a hollow, I—”

“I am not a hollow.” She tilted her head, and the motion was wrong—too smooth, like oil on water. “Not in the way you think. I am something older. Something that lives in the cracks between life and death.” Her red eye narrowed. “And so do you.”

“What are you talking about?”

She stepped closer, and Ichigo forced himself not to retreat. The air grew colder, pressing against his skin. Up close, he could see the mask fragments more clearly—jagged edges that looked like broken porcelain, embedded in pale flesh. Her lips were a thin line, bloodless.

“You lost your shinigami powers,” she said. “But that loss created a void. And in that void, something new has grown. A power that doesn’t belong to Soul Society or the hollows. A power over the boundary itself.”

Ichigo stared at her. The words made no sense. “I don’t have any power. I’m just a human now.”

“Liar.” The word was soft, almost fond. “You felt the pressure before I appeared. You saw me step from the shadow. A human would have seen nothing. Heard nothing. You are awake, Kurosaki Ichigo, whether you like it or not.”

She raised a hand, and the shadows around her wrist curled like live things, wrapping around her fingers. She gestured, and a patch of darkness on the ground rose, solidifying into a sharp spike that hovered in the air. Ichigo’s eyes widened.

“Your power,” she said, “is not about cutting down hollows. It’s about *control*. You can push the boundary between life and death, warp it, thin it. You can step into the space where souls are made and unmade.” She curled her fingers, and the shadow spike dissolved into nothing. “I can teach you.”

Ichigo’s mind raced. This was crazy. She was crazy. But the pressure was real. The shadow spike had been real. And deep inside, in the hollow where his powers used to be, something stirred—a flicker of warmth, like a spark in dry tinder.

“Why would you teach me?” he demanded. “What do you get out of it?”

Yami’s eye glittered. “Curiosity. And… perhaps a debt. I am a fragment of something that was once whole. You are a fragment of something that could become whole again.” She stepped back, her cloak trailing like smoke. “But there is a price. Every time you use this power, it will cost you. A piece of your humanity. A memory. A connection. You will walk closer to the edge of death with every step.”

Ichigo felt cold. “What happens if I fall off?”

“Then you become like me. Neither alive nor dead. A shadow of a shadow.” She smiled, and it was not a pleasant expression. “But you won’t fall. You’re too stubborn.”

He wanted to refuse. He wanted to turn and walk away and pretend this night had never happened. But the image of his friends—Chad, Uryu, Orihime—flashed through his mind. He couldn’t protect them without power. He couldn’t even see the threats. The powerlessness ate at him like acid.

“Teach me,” he said, the words scraping out of his throat.

Yami’s smile widened. “Good.”

She raised her hand again, and the shadows around them began to pulse. The streetlights dimmed, then went out, plunging the block into absolute darkness. Ichigo felt a tug in his chest, a pull toward something vast and cold. He gasped, his hands flying to his chest.

“Feel it,” Yami whispered, her voice now directly inside his head. “The boundary. It’s a thread. Grab it.”

He didn’t understand, but his body did. His fingers twitched, and something *moved* inside him—a muscle he’d never used, a sense he’d never known. The darkness around him grew thick, almost solid. He could feel the boundary Yami spoke of: a thin film, like the surface of a soap bubble, separating the world of the living from… something else. Something cold and hungry.

“That’s it,” Yami said, satisfaction coloring her whisper. “You see it. Now you can touch it. But be careful—the boundary touches you back.”

Ichigo’s hand rose of its own accord, reaching for the thread. He felt it brush his fingertips, and a shock of cold ran up his arm, making his teeth chatter. The world blurred. For a moment, he saw two streets overlapping—one dim and quiet, the other gray and filled with drifting shapes. Hollows. Spirits. Things that should not be.

Then the vision snapped away, and he was back in the dark street, gasping. His hand was numb, tingling with frost.

Yami had retreated into the shadows, her shape dissolving at the edges. “You have taken the first step,” she said. “I will find you when you are ready for the next. But remember: every step has a cost.”

And then she was gone. The pressure lifted, and the streetlights flickered back on, buzzing to life. Ichigo stood alone in the middle of the road, his breath misting in the cold air. He looked at his hand—the one that had touched the boundary. The skin was pale, almost translucent, but normal.

He felt different. Lighter and heavier at once. A new weight had settled in his chest—a shard of cold that pulsed like a second heartbeat. He knew, without knowing how, that he could call it forth. That he could reach for the boundary again.

*But at what cost?*

The question echoed in his mind, but he pushed it aside. He had no choice. For his friends, for his family, for the world he could no longer see—he would pay whatever price was demanded.

He straightened his shoulders, his fists clenching at his sides. The resolve settled into his bones like steel. He was not a shinigami anymore. He was something else. Something new.

And he would learn to wield it. «The Keeper of the Threshold», part 1. Fanfiction — Bleach.

The Hollow's Offer. The Keeper of the Threshold — Bleach fanfiction | Fanfica

The Hollow's Offer

Soul Society

Ichigo Kurosaki thought his days as a Soul Reaper were over. But a chance encounter with a mysterious hollow awakens a power unlike any other—the ability to control the very boundary between life and death. As he struggles to master this dangerous gift, Rukia faces an impossible choice: uphold her oath to Soul Society or stand by the friend who may become its greatest threat. Can Ichigo wield this power without unraveling the balance he once swore to protect? And what price will Rukia pay for loyalty?

The Keeper of the Threshold — The Hollow's Offer

Parte 1: The Hollow's Offer