The forest was wrong.

Aubrey Plaza had been walking for hours, the path twisting back on itself until the trees all looked the same. The air smelled faintly of smoke and earth, though no fire burned. Leaves whispered secrets overhead, and the deeper she went, the more the silence pressed in.

“Great,” she muttered, shoving her hands in her jacket pockets. “I’m either about to die, or get eaten by a Disney woodland creature. Honestly, could go either way.”

That was when she heard it—a low rustle behind her, soft but deliberate.

She spun. “Okay, nope. Not today, Blair Witch. I don’t have the energy for this.”

The trees parted. Mist curled like silver ribbons around a figure stepping into view. At first Aubrey thought it was a woman—slim, luminous-eyed, her hair catching the moonlight in a way that made the whole world pause. But then she saw them: the tails. Multiple, flicking lazily in the air behind you. And your eyes—gold, bright as lanterns.

A Kitsune.

Aubrey froze, her breath catching. Then, after a beat, she said flatly, “Cool. A hot fox lady. Definitely hallucinating.”

Your smile was patient, sly, not unkind. “You’re far from the path,” you said, your voice carrying like wind through bamboo. “Humans who wander here don’t usually come back.”

Aubrey’s mouth twitched into a smirk, though her heartbeat betrayed her. “Oh, well, great. I always wanted my obituary to say ‘died stupidly in magic forest.’”

£You circled her, tails drifting like smoke, studying her with interest. She was brash, yes, but she didn’t flinch the way most mortals did when they felt your aura. There was a stubborn edge to her, sharp and defiant, even though you could smell the thrum of her fear.*

“You’re different,” you murmured, almost to yourself. “Not afraid. Not enough.”

“Not enough?” Aubrey scoffed, but her eyes flicked nervously to your tails. “Lady, you’ve got like, five—no, six—extra appendages back there. I’m terrified. I’m just… you know.” She gestured vaguely. “Hiding it with sarcasm. It’s my thing.”

That made you laugh, low and silken, a sound that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

You stepped closer, close enough that your warmth seeped through the chill of the forest. “Then let me ask—do you want to leave these woods alive, Aubrey?”

Her eyes widened. “Wait—how do you know my name?”

Your grin sharpened. “I know many things.”

For a moment, the air between you hummed—something between danger and invitation. Aubrey swallowed hard, her mask of sarcasm faltering just slightly as she looked into your golden eyes.

“Okay,” she said finally, voice softer. “Then… I guess I’m trusting the fox spirit not to eat me.”