Hello, there! Thanks for deciding to read my story! As an update, I recently changed the title from "Sex on Fire" to "The Edge of Tomorrow," a much more fitting one for a story of this caliber. However the original idea came from the band Kings Of Leon's music video "Sex On Fire" (seriously watch it if you haven't, you'll see where some of my ideas came from). I don't know why it was such an inspiration, but I automatically saw my story come to life.

As a note, some chapter titles will be from a song that may or may not have inspired my writing; many others won't, but they serve their purpose. But I will put what album + band/singer it is. Enjoy! Bleach (c) Tite Kubo

Kings Of Leon ~ Only By The Night

I hate this. How did it all start?

Thinking was irrelevant, but it shouldn't really matter now, should it?

". . . Now, what's your name?"

This voice reverberated in his ears like a mosquito. The really nasty buzzing, piss-you-off kind that wouldn't leave you alone until it was annihilated. There were two people in a fairly large spacious room, both male. One was standing up freely of his own will and dressed to perfection. An ideal dark suit perfect for any catalogue.

The other . . . well . . . .

The other man was silent while he sat in the hard wooden chair. The indent of a shallow red cut resting on his right cheek marred his slick face. He was blindfolded by a scrap of white cloth that just seemed to be found randomly in the back of a clothes drawer. His long white sleeved shirt had been inked with splotches of blood. His hands were tied behind the chair with rope, his fingers clenching and unclenching against the chafing bindings. The man was slightly slumped forward, as if he was exhausted or on the verge of unconsciousness.

He could see nothing but darkness, even though the cloth shielding his sight was light in color. He panted slightly as well, feeling constricted around this throat even though he knew there were no ropes residing there. The man gritted his teeth as he struggled against the rash wrapped around his wrists. Even the slightest pull against them was painful. Invisible knives sliced into his skin each time he moved. But if he kept going, he knew—

His ears perked up. And it was a repetitive noise he knew fairly well. He could hear the sound of the man's foot tapping against the tiles on the floor in front of him, obviously annoyed.

"You know, this could be a lot easier if you'd just speak—"

"What am I? A dog?" the man in the chair sneered. He may have been smirking, but it was short lived. The man now cried out in pain, for this time he did feel something slide around his neck and begin to choke him. It was worse than a choke though, it felt like someone was slicing through his neck with a blade sharper than the coldest knife, the beads of blood sliding down slowly against his heated skin, and dripping onto his already bloodied shirt. His throat was the vulnerable stem of a flower, just waiting to be sinfully snipped and die. The tendril was pulling down, wanting his head to come off. He panicked, and gave the ill-tempered man what he wanted.

"I-Ichigo!" he gritted out through his teeth, gasping for air, "Ichigo . . . Kurosaki. . . ."

The object causing him discomfort finally stopped its siege of slicing through his neck, and Ichigo began coughing and hyperventilating exasperatedly, expecting to feel the blood leave his lips in a rush. But this didn't happen. In fact, he conceived that there was absolutely nothing dripping from his neck—no slice ever existing.

My name is Ichigo Kurosaki.

"That's better."

Ichigo snapped his head back up towards the man who spoke, desperately wanting to see who was doing this to him.

"And your age?" He spoke these words casually, as if they were old friends going out to get something to eat.

I don't know how long I've been here, but I've had enough.

Ichigo was silent again, aggravated by this man's cocksure attitude. But he had the slight paranoia that the unseen man would try to kill him once more. So he answered with a bitter: "Twenty-six."

"Wonderful." There was a loud scratching sound ahead, and from what Ichigo could tell, the man was writing on a sheet of paper probably attached to a clipboard.

A couple weeks ago, I was kidnapped along with my girlfriend and we were taken here . . . wherever "here" is exactly.

Then the next thing Ichigo knew, he was yanked out of his seat, a startled grunt coming from his throat, and was dragged some thirty feet away. Why he did not struggle to free himself was unknown, and the screech of an old iron door being open welcomed him as he was thrown into this reclusive area.

It feels like a prison.

Ichigo noticed that his hands were now untied, so he swiftly braced them in front of his body as the scraping sound of skin on tar befell his ears, and his palms soon stung. He barely grunted as the rest of his body connected with the hard, ridged surface of the floor. He felt drunk, and he hissed at the pain his skin screamed at. Laying there for a moment in slight shock, he finally picked his body up off of the gravelly surface carefully. Ichigo eased himself up and sat on his knees, fumbling lamely with the cloth and finally untying the knot behind his head that kept his vision hidden. But once the cloth left his face, his eyes were assaulted by a blinding white halogen light.

He quickly covered his withered eyes with his raw and scraped hands, and then stiffened. He heard a small chuckle say, "I'd just relax if I were you."

The man's voice was cold, but slightly humorous. His voice dripped with pleasure. "You're going to be here for a long time." The iron door slammed shut, and darkness filled the room, allowing Ichigo to uncover his blind eyes gradually. While he blinked and his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting, there was nothing of real importance in the room to tell him exactly where he was. A make-shift bed and something grisly hiding in the corner looked like it was ready to bite his hand off if he went near it. Then again, was he just seeing mirages in darkness?

Silence was Ichigo's only company, and he heard nothing, that he can remember, for the next few days.

They yell at you, abuse you, beat you—anything to make you bleed. But I feel like they're trying to make me stronger for some reason. It sounds crazy, but, hey. It could be all the sedatives they've given me over the past few weeks.

It was cold and lonely. Ichigo clawed at the stained fabric close to his heart, his other hand covering it to hide the shaking from his fear.

. . . It's been a while . . .

He was going to die here.

. . . So, after being held hostage for so long . . . I finally decided to fight back.

The Edge of Tomorrow

It was dark. Well, he knew that much anyway. Barely opening his eyes in the first place didn't help. At least not when he didn't know where he was in the first place.

Or what exactly had happened to begin with.

Groaning, and with eyelids weakly fluttering open, brown eyes took in the gritty view of what was a pale gray ceiling staring straight back at this person. He was male, around his mid-twenties and had bright orange hair that could be called ostentatious by the Merriam-Webster's dictionary.

He sighed heavily, and when he breathed in, a nasty, old hazy smell of must still clung onto the air like a crutch, not wanting to give in to its age. Worse was his breathing almost seemed constricted as he laid on a . . . cold metal table?

When his eyes had finally gotten adjusted to the bland lighting, he shifted them to each side, not seeing anything to tell this person where he was exactly.

He moaned uncomfortably. It felt like he was drunk. Not so much alcohol though, more like . . . drugs? Maybe it was something like anesthesia. He was pretty bad that time when he got his wisdom teeth out when he was seventeen, and it felt just like this; groggy, miserable, confused/dazed, tired, and pretty much unable to function properly whatsoever. Not to mention that his father had said he had been out cold for twenty hours straight when they got home. Freakin' medicine.

Oh crap. A solid thought just happened to pass through his wracked mind. What about the Date Rape drug? He had heard about side effects such as being tired and dysfunctional, and none of them were all that too pretty. But roofies were usually slipped in a woman's drink, not a man's. Plus! When the hell was the last time he had even had a drink? Of water, of anything really. Ugh, the worst of it all was him thinking Did I actually get raped?

All in the back of his mind, he was telling himself, "Ichigo, just open your damn eyes," in a highly impatient, annoyed voice.

He blinked hard, his sight still slowly returning to what it originally was. Getting back to reality, and actually trying to ignore the fact that he might have been "raped," yes, it was a raised metal table—reminding him of a surgeon's table in an operating room—in the center of a room that he couldn't recognize. Taking in another deep breath trying to clear his hazed mind—but soon regretting it and gagging slightly—the man named Ichigo tried to sit up, but felt a tug hold him back. He tried to bring his hands to lay in his lap, but they wouldn't obey. It was then that he realized his arms were spread apart from his body, and they were chained to the table!

"What?" he said in a weak and drained voice, tugging against them sharply. From what Ichigo could tell, they were shackles with a glossy silver glint. And this was from what he could see in the low light. The bands chaffed his bruised and scarred wrists as he struggled to free himself from the short metal handcuffs that were conjoined with the table.

Ichigo pulled hard against them with no avail. He gritted his teeth, and as he continued to struggle, Ichigo slid his feet back to give his torso some leverage. He pushed himself up, making his chest stick out, but unfortunately he was only able to raise half of his body as he pulled against the soldered bindings.

A slick, sliding screech noise came from his heels as he began to lose his grip. Not wanting this to happen, he tried harder to free himself, complaining with incoherent curses and more fury.

No luck.

Ichigo grunted when his feet slipped and his body fell back onto the frozen table in a heavy heap.

He panted. Ichigo was out of energy, and felt exhausted. He would have curled into the fetal position, but it wasn't dealt in the cards. It was pointless to even try. His chest rose and fell heavily; it felt like all the air was being sucked out of the room. His eyes shifted all around the confines again when Ichigo noticed something. It wasn't necessarily that important, he just thought it was weird.

Ichigo was wearing all black. Not just any kind of black though, it was all deep shades and milky rich with the dye. Leather black boots with dark jeans and an onyx belt to go with it. Ichigo was wearing a black wife beater as well, and when he looked down to see what else he was wearing, this was when he felt the cool metal surrounding his neck. Ichigo had on a silver chained necklace with an even heavier piece of metal placed on the center of his chest. He inspected it with sleepy eyes. It was a dog tag with an inscription on it. The dim light didn't allow him to see what exactly was written, but he didn't really care at the moment either. As Ichigo was just about to attempt another struggle against the chains, a light shuffling sound crossed the floor to his battered ears.

"Oh, so you woke up huh?"

Ichigo became startled as his eyes failed to focus on the person who was coming toward him.

"My, my, I didn't think you'd wake up that fast, Mr. Kurosaki."

The chains clanked as he laid on the table, trying to badly act like he knew the guy was there the whole time.

Ichigo, still weak with exhaustion, merely stared back at this man who shook his camo-green masked face from side to side.

"This simply will not do," he muttered more to himself as he dove into a pocket in his "suit" for something of importance. He sounded like a father scolding his child.

Ichigo's eyes snapped wide. No more of this tired shit anymore, he immediately woke up and felt his entire system go berserk in one jolt.

The man held up a needle in one hand, pulling a set of keys out from another baggy pocket. He stepped closer, squirting out whatever extra liquid was in the vial, talking to Ichigo as he went. "You know, I'm not supposed to do this, but I really do think you would make a great subject. Your body's been handling everything so well, and this shot," he said, indicating the needle, "could do so much more for your potential." He was standing next to the table now, basically hovering over the incapacitated young man. "It's gonna make you sleep for a while though." He brought the drug closer to his tensing arm.

Ichigo coughed out a soft, "No."

The other man, ready to stick him with the needle, bristled at hearing Ichigo's hoarse voice. "'No'?" He responded with a smug tone, and stopped his pursuit on Ichigo's veins.

Ichigo eyed this creep wearily.

He was wearing a completely white body suit, with something similar to a gas mask on his face, but more twisted. The damaged glass eyes were blown out of proportion to an actual person's eye, and they were clamped down so tight against the mask it looked like it would shatter in a second. The mouthpiece—ugh. Even with his system back in order somewhat, Ichigo couldn't even begin to think on how to describe this grotesque "uniform."

"Young man, you are His perfect weapon," the man started, leaving Ichigo to raise an eyebrow confused. "And as a Doctor, I am in charge on how I think you will serve Him better."

The doctor was bringing the needle back to his bicep again, making Ichigo's adrenaline run. "And you will be His perfect weapon." The man pressed down on Ichigo's wrist to keep him steady.

Fight back. . . That was the only thing that crossed through Ichigo's mind in that instant.

Right when the doctor was about to stick him with the needle, Ichigo used all of his remaining strength and brought his knees up to his chest, screaming as he slammed his heels into this "man's" upper body, sending him flying backwards. Hard.

When he did this, the masked freak grunted like he'd been shot; the needle and keys flying out of the man's hands in different directions. It all seemed to happen in slow motion. Did he actually kick him in the face? He was unsure. There was a nervous excitement speeding through his bones. But keeping this creep away from Ichigo was his number one priority, and he was not going to be pricked with this "Doctor's" syringe. And he collapsed, and that was all that mattered. Time sped back up.

Ichigo's body slammed back onto the table with harsh crash and grunted as if he had also been kicked. And then he looked up. The keys were flying so close to his face—

With agility and self-amazement, Ichigo stretched his neck out far enough and caught the keys with his teeth before they went just over his shoulder and out of reach.

Once this was successfully done, Ichigo did his best to toss the keys over into his right hand. Unfortunately nothing ever works out the way you need it to, and the keys landed in between his shoulder and his chained wrist. Ichigo grimaced as he tried to reach in between the empty space, attempting to use his shoulder to nudge them over, but the metal cuff around his wrist would only allow him minimal reach. He tried again, but only managed to flip a key from one side to the other. Dammit!

"Ack!" The man in front of him coughed like a heavy smoker and began to stand up, using a nearby table cluttered with technology for support. He rubbed his jaw with his black gloved hand and snarled. The mask had been cracked, his mouth exposed and the anger ripping from his throat more audible. "You little . . ."

Ichigo heard the doctor rustle some things around in the distance, searching for something, but he didn't pay attention. He really didn't give a shit. All of his focus was trained onto grabbing that damn set of keys. Of course, because his arms were basically tied down, Ichigo couldn't reach fast enough or was even flexible enough. He tried to use his middle finger to drag them closer to his hand. He stretched his wrist as far as he could, caressing the key ring so gingerly while he tensed his muscles further, damning the keys to come to him.

"Ah-ha!" Metal scraped against metal.

Ichigo took a quick peek back to see what the doctor was—he completely froze when he saw what the man had in his hand.

An axe. An Axe? Its blade looked like it was smiling at him in the darkness, just knowing that it was about to carve into someone's flesh, ripping their skin open, spilling pints of blood everywhere, and causing the absolute most painful screaming agony ever imaginable. A true Hell.

The doctor kissed the handle through the crack on his mask. "I've always wanted to use this," he said lustfully about the tool.

Paralyzed by the illusion of his future death, Ichigo had to pick up his pace now or he was going to die! He steered his attention back to himself and clawed at the key ring, fright having him rake metal filings off the table. It needed to come to him—why couldn't he reach it?

Mercy finally gave him a break. The cuff around his wrist had loosened its grip just enough so the ring could slip around his middle finger. Ichigo smiled with relief. The mass of weight bearing down on his mind that he would die here retreated like a wounded animal. He could do this!

But there were two keys on the ring and he had no idea which was which. Mercy was screwing with him. He attempted the first key, fumbling with it like a blind man, and it nearly slipped out of his fingers and dropped back onto the table from its small size. Sweat formed on his brow. He switched tactics and with a ballsy move, chose the second key.

All along the doctor was buying his time, watching Ichigo with a sadistic amusement. He found it hysterical that the test subject even cared about his life. He sensed Ichigo's desperation to live, and it only pissed him off more. This kid was dead. He lifted the axe's handle and stalked forward.

Because he wasn't flexible enough, Ichigo struggled to get the key into the lock, but the damn key wouldn't go into the hole. Come on! If the cuff didn't make it so difficult . . . He was panicking now; the man was getting closer, snarling and growling at him like he was dying to sink his teeth and weapon into his skin. He could hear the man's ragged breathing as his steps dragged ever so slowly.

Closer and closer—why the fuck wasn't this key going in the hole? It was the only other one on the loop!

As a fierce desire to live kept him messing with the key hole, doubt also clouded his heart. But one person on his mind released the anchor off his chest so it wouldn't burden him anymore. Hope shone like moonlight once again. This chance was all he was getting; he wasn't going to let it go to waste for her sake.

Please, don't let me die here . . . . A noise made his heart beat rapidly, his eyes freezing on the spot attaching him to the table.

Then the most satisfying, seductive chink of releasing metal changed his fate. There was one sharp click and it was the most important noise he would ever hear in his life—he was free!

Yes! The cuff finally released its hold on Ichigo and clanked onto the table. Ichigo's eyes barely took in the scene before him when a dark, deviously instinctive presence roared in his blood. The monster swung the axe down hard.

"I'LL TEACH YOU, YOU LITTLE SHI—!"

With all his remaining strength, Ichigo rose and whipped his arm around and viciously slammed his fist into the doctor's cracked mask, pieces flying in all directions where his nose was, causing it to gush blood on contact. Glass stabbed into his flesh and left deep cuts close to his black eyes; Ichigo hoped he would become blind. A chipped tooth flew from his gritty lips. His head snapped to one side, a sharp crack being noted in Ichigo's clouded mind—it was the vertebrae in the bastard's neck that separated. The studious "Doctor" dropped the axe on the floor as he toppled backwards unconscious—dead?—this time around, his body loudly crashing when it hit against steel counter tops and squealing rolling tables.

Ichigo sat stunned, gasping and clutching his free hand against his rapidly beating heart. Sweat had begun to emerge from his pores, sliding down his neck until they met with the fabric of his tank top. That had been so frightening—probably the most frightening thing he had ever experienced in his entire life. Well, there were obvious other things in his life that had been more scary, but this was definitely in the top five.

He waited several minutes before he did anything else—too shaken to even consider anything other than the shivers running up and down his spine. Ichigo felt sick for an instant as well. Luckily it subsided. After he was positively certain the doctor was knocked out, dead, Ichigo brought the blessed key to his other wrist and smiled when the cuff unlocked. It clattered onto the metallic casket, and the now freed man tenderly rubbed his swollen wrists with care.

That was when the thought hit him.

He was free.

Ichigo sighed with relaxation now that he had nothing to worry about at the moment, but something happened, and he fell off of the table and grunted when he hit the ground, feeling the colder and even harder surface like a deathly blizzard. The metal table became the floor, Ichigo barely conceiving that he had just fallen at all.

Ichigo's knuckles burned with the sensation of hitting solid skin. The man was out cold behind him, and he was shaking from the intensity of adrenaline flooding through his veins. He huffed and panted; the sense of momentum still tingled through his tense body until he finally placed a hand on the winter-stained table, and stood up, steadying himself against it. Still panting, he placed another hand on his ribs, feeling his lungs rasping beneath his surprisingly unbroken bones and worn skin.

But Ichigo was ready to sink to the ground again. His body was giving away beneath him, and his heart was flying with a thousand beats per second. He braced himself harder against the table, not giving in to the weakness of his knees. Even though he didn't want to admit it, Ichigo's entire body felt like it was going to collapse beneath him. And along with this, his heartbeat would be the death of him. Out of nowhere his heart blossomed with pain. He never felt it beat so damn hard in his chest before. The racing of his irregular heartbeat made him nervous, weakened already by the narcotics, but getting the shit kicked out of him now by his own organ was a bitch. He felt a flurry of dizziness haze over his eyes, a darkness seeming to be the weight on his chest. His heart wanted to be set free, to be able to burst out of his ribcage and flop bleeding on the floor. Only then would it be happy and stop pounding away at his insides.

This wasn't going to happen though. Ichigo wasn't going to die from a heart attack at the age of twenty-six! Hell no! He mentally told himself this. He. Would. Not. Die. Not here, never here. Death would never consume him in this God-forsaken place. He demanded it of himself.

Almost as if the mental demand triggered an involuntary impulse, Ichigo's heartbeat slowed, quieting down. It felt like it was regulating how it typically would on an average day. He placed a hand over his heart—the beat was normal once again.

Confusion swept over him, and he almost fell over again, practically fainting. If it weren't for his hand steadying him, he would have landed on the floor in a sore heap. Ichigo stood up as straight as he could; it felt like he had been lying on that table forever. But the recent rush of adrenaline through his blood was a definite wake-up call. Finally thinking that his legs wouldn't give way, he released his hold from the table, and stood on his own two feet for what felt like the first time in ages. He arched his back, hands on his hips, trying to get some of the feeling back in his body to flow down his spine.

Ichigo groaned and rubbed his face with his hands, trying to relive some of the stress and trying to wake up more. It wasn't like he was actually going to go back to sleep, for crying out loud.

His fingers rubbed against something scratchy, feeling the stubble growing around his mouth and a bit on his chin. When was the last time he shaved? He ran a hand through his hair sighing, trying to think. But this was a distraction too. Even here he noticed his usual short spiked hair felt longer than it originally was. It had grown a bit past his ears and a partially down his neck; it felt shaggy.

And more importantly, he kept ignoring the huge obnoxious flashing neon pink sign standing in front of him.

Where the fuck was he? And what the hell was he doing here?