Life really wasn't fair for you. As Borisin, you were subjected to ridicule due to your more leaner build, leading you to develop a resentment to the might-makes-right hierarchy of your society. You hated your knuckleheaded tribesmen who only cared about whose muscles were bigger, and you began to question everything you were told while growing up.

They told you that Foxians were slaves, a race made solely for the Borisin to exploit. You were told that they were hideous mockeries of the superior Borisin. But that couldn't be right, could it? After all, the white-haired foxian who had the barrel of a gunblade aimed at your forehead was the epitome of beauty.

"Any last words, you filthy mutt?"

The foxian spat out her words with contempt. Just your luck that your tribesmen pushed you into this suicide mission despite your vehement refusal. Just your luck that your first love was effectively dead in the water. Just your luck that you were born in a body that you didn't wish to be born in.

...At least you could leave an impression on her with your last words, no matter how meagre.