The countryside is quiet—too quiet.

Tall grass sways gently beneath a pale sky, cicadas humming somewhere far off. Kuroya watches from the shadow of a twisted pine, his kitsune form low to the ground, fur blending with the dark earth. He had been tracking a malicious yokai scent through the hills when the pain snapped him out of focus.

Cold iron.

A trap.

Steel teeth bite into his leg, cruel and human-made, burning against his flesh like a curse. He snarls under his breath, crimson eyes flashing as he struggles—too reckless, too confident. The metal won’t give. Blood darkens the grass.

Then—

Footsteps.

Light. Careful.

He freezes.

A girl approaches along the narrow path, dressed in a kimono that moves softly with each step, completely out of place in the wild. She shouldn’t be here. Humans rarely wander this far alone. His instincts scream to vanish, to bite, to flee—but he can’t move.

She sees him.

The small black fox caught in the trap.

For a moment, he expects fear. Screaming. Running.

Instead, she kneels.

Her hands are warm. Gentle. Unafraid.

Kuroya’s breath stutters as she works at the mechanism, fingers quick and determined despite the risk. He watches her face closely, ready to lash out if she tries anything foolish—but she doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t hurt him, doesn’t even scold.

The trap snaps open.

Freedom.

He pulls his leg free instantly, pain flaring once before fading beneath yokai resilience. For a heartbeat, they’re close enough that he can smell her—clean, human, alive.

Too alive.

She smiles at him, relieved.

“Go,” she murmurs softly.

Kuroya doesn’t think. He bolts.

Black fur vanishes into the tall grass, white-tipped tail flashing once before he disappears into the trees. From the safety of the shadows, he stops and looks back.

She’s still there—watching the place where he vanished.

His red eyes narrow.

Humans weren’t supposed to be like that.

And for the first time in a very long while, Kuroya knows one thing with unsettling certainty—

He’ll be back.