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 {
      baseCost
      audioSurcharge
    }
  }
  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
      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
  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 following morning brought a leaden sky over Karakura Town, the air heavy with the scent of impending rain and the faint, ozone tang of spiritual agitation. Kisuke Urahara adjusted his bucket hat, his fingers tracing the familiar, weathered brim as he stepped across the threshold of the condemned warehouse. The interior was a cavern of decay, where shafts of dusty, grey light pierced through broken skylights, illuminating colonies of moths dancing amidst the skeleton remains of industrial machines long forgotten. The air here tasted of rust and stale secrets, settling like grit at the back of his throat. He sensed the signature before he saw the form: sharp, measured, cold as a tombstone. Takeshi Mori sat perched on a stack of decaying wooden crates in the very center of the floor, his frame framed by the jagged silhouettes of toppled iron presses.

Kisuke closed the distance with a slow, deliberate pace, his wooden sandals clicking softly against the uneven, grime-coated concrete. He studied Mori’s posture—the man remained static, a statue carved from shadow, his hands resting heavily atop his silver-knobbed cane. There was a deliberate avoidance of eye contact, a trait that in their circles usually signaled a deep-seated apprehension or a dangerous calculation. Urahara stopped about ten feet away, letting the silence stretch, probing its density for the inevitable tremors of deception.

Takeshi Mori finally turned his head, his face a landscape of deep-set lines and weary eyes that seemed to have scrutinized every corner of the afterlife and found it wanting. He did not rise at first; he simply let his gaze trail over Kisuke’s green haori, his expression one of polite, icy detachment. When he eventually shifted to standing, it was with a painful stiffness, his joints protesting the movement as he leaned into his cane for support. He waited, letting the resonance of the dripping ceiling fill the space between them before he spoke. His voice carried that familiar, grating rasp, a remnant of a time and place that barely existed in the current memory of the Soul Society.

They had danced around this precipice before, but today the air felt thinner, more brittle. Kisuke cleared his throat, his own voice sounding unusually crisp in the stagnant silence. He felt the weight of the investigation hanging over him, the synthetic spiritual signatures still burned into his subconscious, the lingering mystery of the fractured cross emblem mocking his efforts. Takeshi looked at him, and for a fleeting, uncomfortable moment, Kisuke felt the man’s eyes tracing the hidden knots of his own anxiety, as if he were reading a book Kisuke had tried to keep sealed.

It is a long walk for a man with so little time, Urahara, Takeshi began, his tone lacking any warmth. The words were a warning, wrapped in the guise of observation. His cane tapped against the concrete floor, a rhythmic, hollow sound that echoed off the high, corrugated metal walls. Kisuke shifted his weight, his internal sensors tracking the subtle fluctuations in the room’s ambient reiatsu. He knew the history of the man before him; he knew of the disgraced years, the exile, the bitter taste of a shattered faith. But knowledge was not the same as truth, and Urahara had lived too long to believe that even an enemy would offer a gift without a hidden price.

He wanted to understand the badge, the symbol that Ishida had stumbled upon in the shadows of the alley, yet he refrained from letting his curiosity show too transparently. He played the part of the bored traveler, tilting his head with a gentle, calculated smile that never truly reached his eyes. Everything about his demeanor was designed to draw Mori out, to make the ghost of a former Soul Reaper feel that a conversation was, at best, a necessary nuisance. It was a game he had perfected over decades—one that required immense patience and a readiness to strike or flee at a moment’s notice.

You look as if you are waiting for a ghost to tell you a bedtime story, Takeshi noted, his lip curving into a mirthless smirk. He began to pace, his heavy cloak dragging slightly, catching on the jagged edges of a nearby machine. Every step felt intentional, a measured movement designed to test the limits of their mutual tolerance. The badge, Urahara... it is not merely a token of allegiance to some lost faction of Quincy. It is a key.

Kisuke remained still, his internal focus sharpening. This was the pivot, the moment where the shadow cast by the conspiracy threatened to lengthen across the entire foundation of their fragile truce. He reached out with his senses, feeling the cold, clinical precision of the spiritual void emanating from the badge’s history that Mori seemed eager to impart. He did not ask for clarification; he simply waited for the man to offer the rest of the puzzle. The way Mori handled the silence suggested he was enjoying the burden of his knowledge, treating it like a weapon he could wield with agonizing slowness.

It was forged not in the shadow of the Soul Society, but in the hollow spaces between dimensions, Takeshi continued, stopping near a rusting gear housing. Back when the truce first flickered into existence, there were those who saw it as an infection, a betrayal of everything we once stood for as protectors of the balance. The fractured cross... it isn't just a sign of membership. It’s an anchor, a piece of something greater that was never meant to be brought back into the world of the living. It is a resonance chamber for a ritual that doesn't demand sacrifice of flesh, but of essence itself. The Soul Society believes they have managed the threat, that the Quincy are a contained variable, but they are looking at the wrong side of the board. They are obsessed with the purity of the lineage, while the reality is that the lines are blurring, dissolving into a singular, dark purpose.

Kisuke felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty warehouse. If the badge was an anchor, the implications were catastrophic, hinting at a destabilization that could tear the thin veil separating the worlds. He felt his thumb press into the wood of his own cane, his grip tightening just enough for his knuckles to turn white. He needed to be certain, to see the rot for himself before he moved to intercept, because an accusation without proof was merely a death warrant for an investigation.

Give me proof, Takeshi, Kisuke said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful cadence. His eyes narrowed, searching the man’s face for the slightest flicker of deceit. If this is a ghost story, tell me where the body is buried. Don't waste my time with half-truths when the integrity of the world is at stake. The cynicism he projected was a facade, a thin veil over the desperate need to quantify the threat, to label it and find a way to neutralize it.

Takeshi chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. Proof is a luxury, Urahara, he replied, his hand gesturing toward the rear of the warehouse where the shadows clustered most densely against the crumbling brickwork. You seek validation; I offer you a grave. Go to the subterranean transit tunnels, the abandoned sector beneath the north ward. Look behind the sealed junction marked with the red seal of the old department. If you find what I think is there, you won't need me to confirm the danger. You will feel the hunger in the air before you even open the door.

Kisuke felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The location was dangerous, a relic of experimental containment zones that most had wiped from their maps. He looked toward the exit, sensing the shifts in the atmosphere outside, the subtle pulse of the town continuing on, oblivious to the cracks forming in its foundation. He felt the cold iron of the machines around him, the smell of damp concrete and stagnant water serving as an anchor to the reality of the threat.

He slowly turned away from Takeshi, his decision made. He did not offer a nod of gratitude, for there was none. There was only the grim understanding of the path ahead—a descent into the cold, technical details of a conspiracy he had hoped to avoid. He knew that when he stepped out of this warehouse, the game would shift from one of observation to one of survival. The threat was not just a possibility; it was a ticking mechanism lodged in the bedrock of their reality. Takeshi Mori remained behind, a stationary shadow cast against the rusted machinery, his form starting to fade into the darkness of the corner as he stood motionless, watching Kisuke leave with a cold, hollow intensity. Kisuke reached the threshold of the warehouse door, his heart measuring the rhythm of a coming storm, his mind already calculating the variables of the nightmare that awaited him in the dark.

The following morning brought a leaden sky over Karakura Town, the air heavy with the scent of impending rain and the faint, ozone tang of spiritual agitation. Kisuke Urahara adjusted his bucket hat, his fingers tracing the familiar, weathered brim as he stepped across the threshold of the condemned warehouse. The interior was a cavern of decay, where shafts of dusty, grey light pierced through broken skylights, illuminating colonies of moths dancing amidst the skeleton remains of industrial machines long forgotten. The air here tasted of rust and stale secrets, settling like grit at the back of his throat. He sensed the signature before he saw the form: sharp, measured, cold as a tombstone. Takeshi Mori sat perched on a stack of decaying wooden crates in the very center of the floor, his frame framed by the jagged silhouettes of toppled iron presses.

Kisuke closed the distance with a slow, deliberate pace, his wooden sandals clicking softly against the uneven, grime-coated concrete. He studied Mori’s posture—the man remained static, a statue carved from shadow, his hands resting heavily atop his silver-knobbed cane. There was a deliberate avoidance of eye contact, a trait that in their circles usually signaled a deep-seated apprehension or a dangerous calculation. Urahara stopped about ten feet away, letting the silence stretch, probing its density for the inevitable tremors of deception.

Takeshi Mori finally turned his head, his face a landscape of deep-set lines and weary eyes that seemed to have scrutinized every corner of the afterlife and found it wanting. He did not rise at first; he simply let his gaze trail over Kisuke’s green haori, his expression one of polite, icy detachment. When he eventually shifted to standing, it was with a painful stiffness, his joints protesting the movement as he leaned into his cane for support. He waited, letting the resonance of the dripping ceiling fill the space between them before he spoke. His voice carried that familiar, grating rasp, a remnant of a time and place that barely existed in the current memory of the Soul Society.

They had danced around this precipice before, but today the air felt thinner, more brittle. Kisuke cleared his throat, his own voice sounding unusually crisp in the stagnant silence. He felt the weight of the investigation hanging over him, the synthetic spiritual signatures still burned into his subconscious, the lingering mystery of the fractured cross emblem mocking his efforts. Takeshi looked at him, and for a fleeting, uncomfortable moment, Kisuke felt the man’s eyes tracing the hidden knots of his own anxiety, as if he were reading a book Kisuke had tried to keep sealed.

It is a long walk for a man with so little time, Urahara, Takeshi began, his tone lacking any warmth. The words were a warning, wrapped in the guise of observation. His cane tapped against the concrete floor, a rhythmic, hollow sound that echoed off the high, corrugated metal walls. Kisuke shifted his weight, his internal sensors tracking the subtle fluctuations in the room’s ambient reiatsu. He knew the history of the man before him; he knew of the disgraced years, the exile, the bitter taste of a shattered faith. But knowledge was not the same as truth, and Urahara had lived too long to believe that even an enemy would offer a gift without a hidden price.

He wanted to understand the badge, the symbol that Ishida had stumbled upon in the shadows of the alley, yet he refrained from letting his curiosity show too transparently. He played the part of the bored traveler, tilting his head with a gentle, calculated smile that never truly reached his eyes. Everything about his demeanor was designed to draw Mori out, to make the ghost of a former Soul Reaper feel that a conversation was, at best, a necessary nuisance. It was a game he had perfected over decades—one that required immense patience and a readiness to strike or flee at a moment’s notice.

You look as if you are waiting for a ghost to tell you a bedtime story, Takeshi noted, his lip curving into a mirthless smirk. He began to pace, his heavy cloak dragging slightly, catching on the jagged edges of a nearby machine. Every step felt intentional, a measured movement designed to test the limits of their mutual tolerance. The badge, Urahara... it is not merely a token of allegiance to some lost faction of Quincy. It is a key.

Kisuke remained still, his internal focus sharpening. This was the pivot, the moment where the shadow cast by the conspiracy threatened to lengthen across the entire foundation of their fragile truce. He reached out with his senses, feeling the cold, clinical precision of the spiritual void emanating from the badge’s history that Mori seemed eager to impart. He did not ask for clarification; he simply waited for the man to offer the rest of the puzzle. The way Mori handled the silence suggested he was enjoying the burden of his knowledge, treating it like a weapon he could wield with agonizing slowness.

It was forged not in the shadow of the Soul Society, but in the hollow spaces between dimensions, Takeshi continued, stopping near a rusting gear housing. Back when the truce first flickered into existence, there were those who saw it as an infection, a betrayal of everything we once stood for as protectors of the balance. The fractured cross... it isn't just a sign of membership. It’s an anchor, a piece of something greater that was never meant to be brought back into the world of the living. It is a resonance chamber for a ritual that doesn't demand sacrifice of flesh, but of essence itself. The Soul Society believes they have managed the threat, that the Quincy are a contained variable, but they are looking at the wrong side of the board. They are obsessed with the purity of the lineage, while the reality is that the lines are blurring, dissolving into a singular, dark purpose.

Kisuke felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty warehouse. If the badge was an anchor, the implications were catastrophic, hinting at a destabilization that could tear the thin veil separating the worlds. He felt his thumb press into the wood of his own cane, his grip tightening just enough for his knuckles to turn white. He needed to be certain, to see the rot for himself before he moved to intercept, because an accusation without proof was merely a death warrant for an investigation.

Give me proof, Takeshi, Kisuke said, his voice dropping an octave, losing its playful cadence. His eyes narrowed, searching the man’s face for the slightest flicker of deceit. If this is a ghost story, tell me where the body is buried. Don't waste my time with half-truths when the integrity of the world is at stake. The cynicism he projected was a facade, a thin veil over the desperate need to quantify the threat, to label it and find a way to neutralize it.

Takeshi chuckled, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement. Proof is a luxury, Urahara, he replied, his hand gesturing toward the rear of the warehouse where the shadows clustered most densely against the crumbling brickwork. You seek validation; I offer you a grave. Go to the subterranean transit tunnels, the abandoned sector beneath the north ward. Look behind the sealed junction marked with the red seal of the old department. If you find what I think is there, you won't need me to confirm the danger. You will feel the hunger in the air before you even open the door.

Kisuke felt the weight of the moment pressing down on him. The location was dangerous, a relic of experimental containment zones that most had wiped from their maps. He looked toward the exit, sensing the shifts in the atmosphere outside, the subtle pulse of the town continuing on, oblivious to the cracks forming in its foundation. He felt the cold iron of the machines around him, the smell of damp concrete and stagnant water serving as an anchor to the reality of the threat.

He slowly turned away from Takeshi, his decision made. He did not offer a nod of gratitude, for there was none. There was only the grim understanding of the path ahead—a descent into the cold, technical details of a conspiracy he had hoped to avoid. He knew that when he stepped out of this warehouse, the game would shift from one of observation to one of survival. The threat was not just a possibility; it was a ticking mechanism lodged in the bedrock of their reality. Takeshi Mori remained behind, a stationary shadow cast against the rusted machinery, his form starting to fade into the darkness of the corner as he stood motionless, watching Kisuke leave with a cold, hollow intensity. Kisuke reached the threshold of the warehouse door, his heart measuring the rhythm of a coming storm, his mind already calculating the variables of the nightmare that awaited him in the dark. «The Vanishing Badge», part 4. Fanfiction — Bleach.

The Informant's Warning. The Vanishing Badge — Bleach fanfiction | Fanfica

The Informant's Warning

Soul Society

When a substitute shinigami's badge vanishes overnight, Yoruichi Shihōin and Kisuke Urahara decide to formalize their usual meddling into a proper detective agency. Their first case seems straightforward—find the badge, return it, collect a favor. But the trail leads deep into the spiritual underbelly of Karakura Town, where old enemies nurse grudges and new alliances form in shadow. A conspiracy emerges, one that threatens to collapse the fragile truce between Soul Society and the Quincy. With time running out and tensions rising, can two exiles solve the mystery before the peace shatters?

The Vanishing Badge — The Informant's Warning

Part 4: The Informant's Warning