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
    videoGenerate
  }
  activeGenerationJobs {
    id
    type
    status
    story {
      id
      authorTitle
    }
  }
}

fragment SceneMedias_scene_16LRdq on Scene {
  id
  story {
    id
  }
  mediaAttachments(viewMode: READ) {
    id
    media {
      ...MediaStatusFields_media
      id
      type
      origin
      previewSrc
      mediaSrc512: mediaSrc(size: 512)
      mediaSrc1024: mediaSrc(size: 1024)
      videoPosterSrc(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
  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 air in the underground chamber was thick with the smell of ozone and damp earth. My lungs—or what I assumed were lungs in this state—felt heavy, as if filled with lead filings rather than oxygen. The humming of the machinery Urahara had scattered around the room sounded like a swarm of angry hornets nesting in my skull. I tried to lift my hand to rub my temples, but my coordination was off. My movements were jagged, staccato, like a bad stop-motion animation. I stood on the dusty floor, my bare feet feeling the abrasive texture of the concrete beneath me, though there was a strange, dull numbness in my skin that made every sensation feel distant.

Kisuke Urahara stood a few paces away, his fingers dancing across a complex array of switches and copper wires. He looked unbothered, his iconic green and white striped bucket hat shielding his eyes, though the faint smirk playing on his lips told me he knew exactly how dangerous this was. Beside him, I saw my own body. That fact alone was enough to make my stomach churn, though the sensation of nausea was muffled by this new, hollow skin. Seeing myself — the mop of messy orange hair, the school uniform with that stiff tie I’d spent all morning adjusting, the familiar line of my own jaw — standing there with an expression of predatory amusement was a nightmare made manifest.

I tried to call out to him, to tell him to stop this madness, but when I opened my mouth, a guttural, rattling rasp emerged. It sounded like air escaping through a jagged hole in rusted iron. The sound vibrated in my chest, hollow and terrifyingly loud. I felt the ripple of muscles that weren't mine, the strange weight of limbs built for killing rather than walking, and the agonizing ache that accompanied the simple act of keeping my torso upright.

Urahara didn’t look up. He adjusted a lever, his voice calm, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather rather than performing a soul-tearing experiment. Are you sure you are ready for this, Ichigo? The transition is not merely a change of perspective, it is a rewriting of the self. He paused, his yellow eyes glimmering beneath the shade, before he flipped the final switch. I didn't want to answer, but I opened my mouth, and what came out was not my voice. It was a distorted, snarling screech that ripped through the relative quiet of the lab. My hands, clawed and stained with dark, irregular markings, flew to my throat, but the motion was clumsy, unpracticed. The walls seemed to tilt inward.

Then came the light. It wasn't the warm, white light of a morning sun, but a blinding, neon-streaked violet wave that engulfed the entire underground cavern. The energy rushed into me, an invasive, freezing pressure that felt like shards of glass being driven into every nerve ending I possessed. I fell to my knees. The impact with the floor didn't register as a bruise, but as a violent shudder through my center, where the hollow hole gaped like an unclosed wound. I felt the familiar weight of myself—my soul—being anchored into this monstrous cage. The sheer, overwhelming darkness of this form pressed against me, demanding to be let out, demanding to hunt, to consume, to exist.

I gasped, but the sound was strangled. Darkness flickered at the edges of my vision, not just from the light, but from the shift itself. I could see the room, yet the depth perception was entirely wrong, distorted by the predatory instincts bleeding into my consciousness. I tried to focus on Urahara, but he was suddenly bathed in intense, flickering shadows. My legs, those long, unfamiliar appendages, buckled underneath me. I tipped forward, my clawed fingers scraping against the concrete, leaving deep gouges in the stone floor. The pain was acute, yet somehow detached, a sharp reminder that this body was designed to endure far worse.

I looked up, or tried to, and caught a glimpse of myself—well, the thing that used to be me. The person in my school uniform was standing now, shifting his shoulders with an ease that made bile rise in my throat. He stretched, the fabric of the white shirt pulling tight across the chest, and his grin was not my grin. It was a sneer of pure, unfiltered malice. He looked down at his own hands, my hands, with such fascination it was as if he were inspecting a new toy. He walked forward, his stride smooth and deliberate, while I struggled simply to pull my legs beneath me again.

He laughed then, a low, melodic sound that sounded disturbingly like the version of me I spent hours hiding from my family. It was a taunting, cruel sound. So this is what you call a life? he chuckled, his eyes darting toward me. You, little King, are far more fragile than I ever imagined. The way I felt the air vibrate around him as he mocked me only fueled the burning urge to roar, to leap, to reclaim the flesh he was currently occupying with such arrogant disregard. My hands trembled, the claws clicking against the ground despite my best efforts to keep them steady. I tried to stand, forcing my weight onto my heels, but my balance was wrecked, sabotaged by the foreign physiology. I wobbled, my arms flailing slightly to find purchase in the stale, underground air.

Urahara tilted his head, watching the performance as if we were specimens in a jar. A fascinating result, would you not agree? he whispered, though the hum of the cooling fans made his words sound like a secret whispered in a storm. He stepped back into the shadows of his workstation, leaving the spotlight to the creature wearing my skin. I glared at them, my breath coming in short, harsh intervals. Everything in this form felt sharp, hungry, and dangerously eager to tear everything apart. I felt the urge to lash out, to bite, to let the hollow instinct take the wheel, but I fought it. I had to fight it. If I lost control now, if I let this darkness bleed into my own thoughts, I wasn't just losing a battle—I was losing myself, piece by agonizing piece.

He just kept grinning that sharp, jagged grin. Why so quiet, Ichigo? he asked, tilting his head with a mocking tilt that perfectly mimicked one of my old school habits. It’s a bit stifling in here, don't you think? He turned his back to me, the movement smooth and fluid, a sharp contrast to my own heavy, clumsy attempts to stand. I watched him walk toward the tunnel entrance, his black pants swaying slightly. Every part of him was a mockery of what I was. I pushed myself up again, my knuckles white, my joints popping with a sound like dry branches breaking. I managed to get onto one knee, but a surge of dizziness hit me, forcing me to lean my weight against a stack of discarded, sparking machinery. The metal groaned in protest under the pressure I didn't mean to apply.

Look at you, he continued, not looking back, his voice drifting over his shoulder like vapor. A hollow creature with the soul of a boy. It really is a comical sight. I felt a surge of hot, acidic rage, but it was dampened by the sheer physical tax of staying conscious. I couldn't understand how he moved in my body with such grace while I was stuck in this hellscape of a form. I tried to find my grip, my fingers sinking into the rough, uneven surface of the floor. Each time I thought I had found my balance, the floor seemed to slide out from under me, not physically, but through a failure of my new, distorted sense of gravity.

He stopped for a moment, just before the threshold of the deep, dark exit tunnel, and leaned against the doorframe. He looked back at me one last time, his eyes—my eyes—glinting with a dark, untamed light. I'll enjoy this little shell for a bit, he said, his tone light and playful. Try not to break your new toy before I return. He let out a sharp, dismissive laugh before turning back and disappearing into the darkness of the hall. I stared after him, my chest heaving, the hollow hole burning with a cold, hollow ache. I tried to call out to Urahara, but my vocal cords failed me, only producing a low, vibrating growl that rattled the broken gears scattered around the room. I was trapped, broken, and alone in the center of the dark, humming void, and the fear that I might never leave this cage was beginning to sink in as deeply as the hunger in my gut.

The air in the underground chamber was thick with the smell of ozone and damp earth. My lungs—or what I assumed were lungs in this state—felt heavy, as if filled with lead filings rather than oxygen. The humming of the machinery Urahara had scattered around the room sounded like a swarm of angry hornets nesting in my skull. I tried to lift my hand to rub my temples, but my coordination was off. My movements were jagged, staccato, like a bad stop-motion animation. I stood on the dusty floor, my bare feet feeling the abrasive texture of the concrete beneath me, though there was a strange, dull numbness in my skin that made every sensation feel distant.

Kisuke Urahara stood a few paces away, his fingers dancing across a complex array of switches and copper wires. He looked unbothered, his iconic green and white striped bucket hat shielding his eyes, though the faint smirk playing on his lips told me he knew exactly how dangerous this was. Beside him, I saw my own body. That fact alone was enough to make my stomach churn, though the sensation of nausea was muffled by this new, hollow skin. Seeing myself — the mop of messy orange hair, the school uniform with that stiff tie I’d spent all morning adjusting, the familiar line of my own jaw — standing there with an expression of predatory amusement was a nightmare made manifest.

I tried to call out to him, to tell him to stop this madness, but when I opened my mouth, a guttural, rattling rasp emerged. It sounded like air escaping through a jagged hole in rusted iron. The sound vibrated in my chest, hollow and terrifyingly loud. I felt the ripple of muscles that weren't mine, the strange weight of limbs built for killing rather than walking, and the agonizing ache that accompanied the simple act of keeping my torso upright.

Urahara didn’t look up. He adjusted a lever, his voice calm, almost conversational, as if he were discussing the weather rather than performing a soul-tearing experiment. Are you sure you are ready for this, Ichigo? The transition is not merely a change of perspective, it is a rewriting of the self. He paused, his yellow eyes glimmering beneath the shade, before he flipped the final switch. I didn't want to answer, but I opened my mouth, and what came out was not my voice. It was a distorted, snarling screech that ripped through the relative quiet of the lab. My hands, clawed and stained with dark, irregular markings, flew to my throat, but the motion was clumsy, unpracticed. The walls seemed to tilt inward.

Then came the light. It wasn't the warm, white light of a morning sun, but a blinding, neon-streaked violet wave that engulfed the entire underground cavern. The energy rushed into me, an invasive, freezing pressure that felt like shards of glass being driven into every nerve ending I possessed. I fell to my knees. The impact with the floor didn't register as a bruise, but as a violent shudder through my center, where the hollow hole gaped like an unclosed wound. I felt the familiar weight of myself—my soul—being anchored into this monstrous cage. The sheer, overwhelming darkness of this form pressed against me, demanding to be let out, demanding to hunt, to consume, to exist.

I gasped, but the sound was strangled. Darkness flickered at the edges of my vision, not just from the light, but from the shift itself. I could see the room, yet the depth perception was entirely wrong, distorted by the predatory instincts bleeding into my consciousness. I tried to focus on Urahara, but he was suddenly bathed in intense, flickering shadows. My legs, those long, unfamiliar appendages, buckled underneath me. I tipped forward, my clawed fingers scraping against the concrete, leaving deep gouges in the stone floor. The pain was acute, yet somehow detached, a sharp reminder that this body was designed to endure far worse.

I looked up, or tried to, and caught a glimpse of myself—well, the thing that used to be me. The person in my school uniform was standing now, shifting his shoulders with an ease that made bile rise in my throat. He stretched, the fabric of the white shirt pulling tight across the chest, and his grin was not my grin. It was a sneer of pure, unfiltered malice. He looked down at his own hands, my hands, with such fascination it was as if he were inspecting a new toy. He walked forward, his stride smooth and deliberate, while I struggled simply to pull my legs beneath me again.

He laughed then, a low, melodic sound that sounded disturbingly like the version of me I spent hours hiding from my family. It was a taunting, cruel sound. So this is what you call a life? he chuckled, his eyes darting toward me. You, little King, are far more fragile than I ever imagined. The way I felt the air vibrate around him as he mocked me only fueled the burning urge to roar, to leap, to reclaim the flesh he was currently occupying with such arrogant disregard. My hands trembled, the claws clicking against the ground despite my best efforts to keep them steady. I tried to stand, forcing my weight onto my heels, but my balance was wrecked, sabotaged by the foreign physiology. I wobbled, my arms flailing slightly to find purchase in the stale, underground air.

Urahara tilted his head, watching the performance as if we were specimens in a jar. A fascinating result, would you not agree? he whispered, though the hum of the cooling fans made his words sound like a secret whispered in a storm. He stepped back into the shadows of his workstation, leaving the spotlight to the creature wearing my skin. I glared at them, my breath coming in short, harsh intervals. Everything in this form felt sharp, hungry, and dangerously eager to tear everything apart. I felt the urge to lash out, to bite, to let the hollow instinct take the wheel, but I fought it. I had to fight it. If I lost control now, if I let this darkness bleed into my own thoughts, I wasn't just losing a battle—I was losing myself, piece by agonizing piece.

He just kept grinning that sharp, jagged grin. Why so quiet, Ichigo? he asked, tilting his head with a mocking tilt that perfectly mimicked one of my old school habits. It’s a bit stifling in here, don't you think? He turned his back to me, the movement smooth and fluid, a sharp contrast to my own heavy, clumsy attempts to stand. I watched him walk toward the tunnel entrance, his black pants swaying slightly. Every part of him was a mockery of what I was. I pushed myself up again, my knuckles white, my joints popping with a sound like dry branches breaking. I managed to get onto one knee, but a surge of dizziness hit me, forcing me to lean my weight against a stack of discarded, sparking machinery. The metal groaned in protest under the pressure I didn't mean to apply.

Look at you, he continued, not looking back, his voice drifting over his shoulder like vapor. A hollow creature with the soul of a boy. It really is a comical sight. I felt a surge of hot, acidic rage, but it was dampened by the sheer physical tax of staying conscious. I couldn't understand how he moved in my body with such grace while I was stuck in this hellscape of a form. I tried to find my grip, my fingers sinking into the rough, uneven surface of the floor. Each time I thought I had found my balance, the floor seemed to slide out from under me, not physically, but through a failure of my new, distorted sense of gravity.

He stopped for a moment, just before the threshold of the deep, dark exit tunnel, and leaned against the doorframe. He looked back at me one last time, his eyes—my eyes—glinting with a dark, untamed light. I'll enjoy this little shell for a bit, he said, his tone light and playful. Try not to break your new toy before I return. He let out a sharp, dismissive laugh before turning back and disappearing into the darkness of the hall. I stared after him, my chest heaving, the hollow hole burning with a cold, hollow ache. I tried to call out to Urahara, but my vocal cords failed me, only producing a low, vibrating growl that rattled the broken gears scattered around the room. I was trapped, broken, and alone in the center of the dark, humming void, and the fear that I might never leave this cage was beginning to sink in as deeply as the hunger in my gut. «A Hollow Day in Karakura», part 1. Fanfiction — Bleach.

The Failed Experiment. A Hollow Day in Karakura — Bleach fanfiction | Fanfica

The Failed Experiment

Soul Society

When Urahara's experiment misfires, Ichigo Kurosaki wakes up in his own inner world—while his Hollow takes the wheel in the real one. Forced to live a quiet day without powers, Ichigo watches helplessly as his darker half gleefully accepts a Hollow extermination mission. Can he reclaim his body before the chaos turns deadly, or will he lose himself to the monster within?

A Hollow Day in Karakura — The Failed Experiment

Part 1: The Failed Experiment