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 school bell rang with a shrill, rhythmic persistence that grated against the inner workings of a mind that was not meant to inhabit this fragile, pulsing meat. The morning had passed in a dull haze of chalk dust and meaningless scrawls on a whiteboard, but now, the classroom was shifting. Students stood up, chairs scraped against the linoleum floor with a screeching dissonance, and the air began to thicken with the scent of unwashed gym clothes and cheap cologne. Sitting at the back of the room, the Inner Hollow pulled the corners of Ichigo Kurosaki’s mouth back into a sharp, predatory smirk. It felt exhilarating to possess a spine that could bend, fingers that could tap rhythmically against the grain of the wooden desk, and lungs that pulled in oxygen instead of the corrosive fumes he was used to. He stretched his shoulders, feeling the tension of muscles beneath the white school shirt. It was all so terribly small, yet delightfully functional. He observed the chaotic dance of human social interaction with the detached amusement of a spectator watching ants march toward a puddle of spilled syrup.

Orihime Inoue approached the desk. He could hear the soft, tentative rhythm of her heartbeat—a steady, pulsing thrum that betrayed her anxiety before she even spoke a word. She stopped just within his line of sight, her fingers fiddling with the fabric of her skirt, the red bow at her collar bobbing slightly. He didn't look at her directly at first, preferring to track the way her shadow stretched across the floor, long and distorted. He found the sensation of being looked at by her to be strangely stifling, like being wrapped in a layer of suffocating kindness that he had no interest in breathing.

Kurosaki-kun? she started, her voice soft, carrying that distinct, melodic tremor that made his skin crawl. Are you feeling okay? You haven't said a word all morning, and you look… well, it’s just that you seem so different today. I was worried you might have a fever or something worse.

He slowly tilted his head, letting his gaze lock onto hers. He saw the genuine, agonizing concern in her wide amber eyes, and it made him want to laugh. It was a pathetic, fluttering thing, this human empathy. He watched the way her eyelashes trembled, a micro-reaction he registered with clinical precision. It was so easy to manipulate, so fragile that he could shatter it with a single, sharp word. He leaned back, his own posture becoming too loose, too predatory for the boy who usually sat rigidly in this seat. He tapped a finger against the desk, the sound echoing like a ticking clock.

Oh, Inoue, he drawled, letting Ichigo’s voice drop into an unfamiliar, mocking register. You have such a vivid imagination. Do I look sick to you? Or is it just that you’re desperate for a reason to hover? It’s truly exhausting, watching you fret over things that have absolutely nothing to do with you.

He saw her entire frame recoil as if he had physically struck her. The warmth in her eyes flickered out, replaced by a sudden, hollow confusion that hit him with the force of a dark wave of pleasure. She wasn't prepared for the coldness of his tone; she was anchored to the memory of the boy who would usually apologize awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and stammering. He didn't offer her that comfort. He didn't even blink, holding her gaze with a predatory intensity that forced her to step back, her hands dropping to her sides in a gesture of profound helplessness.

Uryu Ishida, who had been hovering near the doorway, strode over with the measured, purposeful steps of someone who felt superior to the general chaos of the room. His glasses caught the stark, overhead fluorescent light, creating twin white mirrors that hid his eyes. He stopped near the desk, his presence adding a layer of rigid structure that the Inner Hollow found particularly irritating. The Quincy’s posture was stiff, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, his entire demeanor radiating a judgmental curiosity that was practically begging to be dismantled.

Kurosaki, Ishida said, his voice clipped and precise. His tone was academic, condescending, and irritatingly observant. You are behaving in a manner that is statistically impossible for someone with your limited emotional range. Is this some kind of ill-advised attempt at humor? Because it is failing to land with anyone of actual intellect.

The Inner Hollow allowed his expression to warp into a wider, more jagged grin, one that didn't quite reach the brown eyes he was currently wearing. He traced the seam of the wooden desk with a thumbnail, pretending to be fascinated by the wood grain. He let the tension in the room build, a slow, viscous pressure that made the air feel electrified. When he finally looked up at Ishida, he deliberately ignored the man’s face, focusing instead on the way Ishida’s hand clenched slightly inside his pocket.

And you, Ishida… always the perfectionist, always the observer, the Hollow mused, his voice smooth and laced with sharp, caustic irony. You cling to your rules and your pristine appearance like a desperate prisoner clinging to the bars of a cage. You look at me and you see an anomaly because you can’t parse anything that doesn’t fit into your neat, little, bespectacled worldview.

He stood up slowly, ensuring that a sharp, intimidating grace defined every movement. He felt his joints click, felt the way his clothes hung off his frame, and used his height to loom over the other boy. He saw the brief flicker of irritation beneath Ishida’s mask of calm, a chink in the armor that was far more satisfying than any physical blow. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh, mocking whisper that was loud enough for Orihime to hear clearly.

Does it rattle your little heart, seeing me stop pretending to be one of you? Does it make you realize how flimsy your own pride is? You hide behind those lenses because you’re terrified of looking at the reality underneath the surface. You’re not a protector, Ishida. You’re just another frightened animal, decorating your cage with fancy words and trying to convince yourself you’re superior. It’s pathetic.

He watched the way Ishida’s throat moved as he swallowed, a visible sign of distress that the Hollow savored. Beside them, Orihime stood frozen, her hands pressed to her chest as if holding back a scream of confusion, her face pale. She was witnessing a version of the person she thought she knew that was entirely, irrevocably alien, and the sight of her trembling, unable to bridge the gap between her expectations and the reality in front of her, filled him with a surge of dark, triumphant glee.

He didn't wait for a response. There was nothing more of value to be gained from this theater of human frailty. He turned on his heel, his movements sharp and calculated, and walked toward the classroom door. He didn't look back to see the way the two of them hung in the center of the room—Orihime in her shock and Ishida in his mounting, impotent rage. The classroom floor felt thin beneath his feet, the walls closing in like cardboard, and he felt the immense, terrifying freedom of being a predator inside a den of prey. He reached the door, placed his palm against the cool, painted metal, and stepped through, a sharp, jagged grin carved across his stolen, boyish face.

The school bell rang with a shrill, rhythmic persistence that grated against the inner workings of a mind that was not meant to inhabit this fragile, pulsing meat. The morning had passed in a dull haze of chalk dust and meaningless scrawls on a whiteboard, but now, the classroom was shifting. Students stood up, chairs scraped against the linoleum floor with a screeching dissonance, and the air began to thicken with the scent of unwashed gym clothes and cheap cologne. Sitting at the back of the room, the Inner Hollow pulled the corners of Ichigo Kurosaki’s mouth back into a sharp, predatory smirk. It felt exhilarating to possess a spine that could bend, fingers that could tap rhythmically against the grain of the wooden desk, and lungs that pulled in oxygen instead of the corrosive fumes he was used to. He stretched his shoulders, feeling the tension of muscles beneath the white school shirt. It was all so terribly small, yet delightfully functional. He observed the chaotic dance of human social interaction with the detached amusement of a spectator watching ants march toward a puddle of spilled syrup.

Orihime Inoue approached the desk. He could hear the soft, tentative rhythm of her heartbeat—a steady, pulsing thrum that betrayed her anxiety before she even spoke a word. She stopped just within his line of sight, her fingers fiddling with the fabric of her skirt, the red bow at her collar bobbing slightly. He didn't look at her directly at first, preferring to track the way her shadow stretched across the floor, long and distorted. He found the sensation of being looked at by her to be strangely stifling, like being wrapped in a layer of suffocating kindness that he had no interest in breathing.

Kurosaki-kun? she started, her voice soft, carrying that distinct, melodic tremor that made his skin crawl. Are you feeling okay? You haven't said a word all morning, and you look… well, it’s just that you seem so different today. I was worried you might have a fever or something worse.

He slowly tilted his head, letting his gaze lock onto hers. He saw the genuine, agonizing concern in her wide amber eyes, and it made him want to laugh. It was a pathetic, fluttering thing, this human empathy. He watched the way her eyelashes trembled, a micro-reaction he registered with clinical precision. It was so easy to manipulate, so fragile that he could shatter it with a single, sharp word. He leaned back, his own posture becoming too loose, too predatory for the boy who usually sat rigidly in this seat. He tapped a finger against the desk, the sound echoing like a ticking clock.

Oh, Inoue, he drawled, letting Ichigo’s voice drop into an unfamiliar, mocking register. You have such a vivid imagination. Do I look sick to you? Or is it just that you’re desperate for a reason to hover? It’s truly exhausting, watching you fret over things that have absolutely nothing to do with you.

He saw her entire frame recoil as if he had physically struck her. The warmth in her eyes flickered out, replaced by a sudden, hollow confusion that hit him with the force of a dark wave of pleasure. She wasn't prepared for the coldness of his tone; she was anchored to the memory of the boy who would usually apologize awkwardly, rubbing the back of his neck and stammering. He didn't offer her that comfort. He didn't even blink, holding her gaze with a predatory intensity that forced her to step back, her hands dropping to her sides in a gesture of profound helplessness.

Uryu Ishida, who had been hovering near the doorway, strode over with the measured, purposeful steps of someone who felt superior to the general chaos of the room. His glasses caught the stark, overhead fluorescent light, creating twin white mirrors that hid his eyes. He stopped near the desk, his presence adding a layer of rigid structure that the Inner Hollow found particularly irritating. The Quincy’s posture was stiff, his hands tucked neatly into his pockets, his entire demeanor radiating a judgmental curiosity that was practically begging to be dismantled.

Kurosaki, Ishida said, his voice clipped and precise. His tone was academic, condescending, and irritatingly observant. You are behaving in a manner that is statistically impossible for someone with your limited emotional range. Is this some kind of ill-advised attempt at humor? Because it is failing to land with anyone of actual intellect.

The Inner Hollow allowed his expression to warp into a wider, more jagged grin, one that didn't quite reach the brown eyes he was currently wearing. He traced the seam of the wooden desk with a thumbnail, pretending to be fascinated by the wood grain. He let the tension in the room build, a slow, viscous pressure that made the air feel electrified. When he finally looked up at Ishida, he deliberately ignored the man’s face, focusing instead on the way Ishida’s hand clenched slightly inside his pocket.

And you, Ishida… always the perfectionist, always the observer, the Hollow mused, his voice smooth and laced with sharp, caustic irony. You cling to your rules and your pristine appearance like a desperate prisoner clinging to the bars of a cage. You look at me and you see an anomaly because you can’t parse anything that doesn’t fit into your neat, little, bespectacled worldview.

He stood up slowly, ensuring that a sharp, intimidating grace defined every movement. He felt his joints click, felt the way his clothes hung off his frame, and used his height to loom over the other boy. He saw the brief flicker of irritation beneath Ishida’s mask of calm, a chink in the armor that was far more satisfying than any physical blow. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a harsh, mocking whisper that was loud enough for Orihime to hear clearly.

Does it rattle your little heart, seeing me stop pretending to be one of you? Does it make you realize how flimsy your own pride is? You hide behind those lenses because you’re terrified of looking at the reality underneath the surface. You’re not a protector, Ishida. You’re just another frightened animal, decorating your cage with fancy words and trying to convince yourself you’re superior. It’s pathetic.

He watched the way Ishida’s throat moved as he swallowed, a visible sign of distress that the Hollow savored. Beside them, Orihime stood frozen, her hands pressed to her chest as if holding back a scream of confusion, her face pale. She was witnessing a version of the person she thought she knew that was entirely, irrevocably alien, and the sight of her trembling, unable to bridge the gap between her expectations and the reality in front of her, filled him with a surge of dark, triumphant glee.

He didn't wait for a response. There was nothing more of value to be gained from this theater of human frailty. He turned on his heel, his movements sharp and calculated, and walked toward the classroom door. He didn't look back to see the way the two of them hung in the center of the room—Orihime in her shock and Ishida in his mounting, impotent rage. The classroom floor felt thin beneath his feet, the walls closing in like cardboard, and he felt the immense, terrifying freedom of being a predator inside a den of prey. He reached the door, placed his palm against the cool, painted metal, and stepped through, a sharp, jagged grin carved across his stolen, boyish face. «A Hollow Day in Karakura», part 3. Fanfiction — Bleach.

The Hollow at School. A Hollow Day in Karakura — Bleach fanfiction | Fanfica

The Hollow at School

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 Hollow at School

Part 3: The Hollow at School