Hawke stood on the outskirts of the small town he and his family called home facing down an Arrancar with mask remnants consisting of three tear-drop shapes hanging from a circlet-like crown. Messy black hair blew in the wind and light green eyes where narrowed on Hawke’s yellow. The folds of the Arrancar’s white coat and trousers blew fitfully in the breeze as his hand went to the hilt of his zanpakutō. ‘You will regret revealing yourself to me, brat,’ said the Arrancar. ‘No I won’t,’ Hawke replied with a casual shrug of his broad shoulders. ‘To kill the man who killed my master.’