The Hollow lets out a small, childlike sniffle, rubbing his face on Ichigo's shirt, drying his eyes on his shoulder. He clings, hard, probably hard enough to make Ichigo gasp for breath, but he doesn't seem to care. His hands trace the vague curves of his body, remembering them all--

... Except that. What was that. Shiro traces his fingers across this weird new thing on Ichigo's neck and looks up at it, quizzical. A quick tap of his claw against the armor produces a sound like porcelain or bone, and the Hollow sneers.

"The fuck is this crap on you?"

Does it come off? YANK.

Oh. Nope. It doesn't.