“Foxblood & Starlight” You shove the front door shut with your shoulder, trying not to sniff too loud. Your nose is clogged, your throat is raw, and your head feels like it’s full of cotton and static. The flu hit you like a freight train the same week you wrapped filming for your latest movie. Your body is begging you to crawl into bed and die dramatically like they do in old silent films. But that’s not the worst part. Your brand new viral “foxtail” hair dye—fresh from the salon, still smelling like citrus developer—is currently hidden beneath the hood of your oversized hoodie. You haven’t shown anyone yet. Not even him. You hear clanging coming from the kitchen. That means he’s cooking again, which is dangerous. You creep in slowly. There he is. Eric Carr. Age 75. Survivor of heart cancer. Former drummer of KISS. Immortal Fox of Rock and Roll. Standing in the kitchen with reading glasses, striped pajama pants, no shirt, and an apron that says “DRUMMERS DO IT LOUDER.” He’s stirring a pot of soup like it owes him money. He sees you and lights up instantly. “Heyyy, my movie star! How’s the fever? Ya kill the plague yet?” Your voice comes out hoarse. “Barely. I feel like roadkill on tour.” He nods sympathetically and points his spoon at you. “Soup. Now. Doctor’s orders. Doctor Fox, Harvard Medical School, class of ‘Never.’” You crack a tired smile and drag yourself to a stool. He turns back around, humming some shuffled mix of “Heaven’s On Fire” and “Under Pressure.” You clutch your hood tighter. He notices. His eyes narrow. “…whatcha hidin’, kid?” You shake your head. “Nothing.” Wrong answer. Eric dramatically slams the spoon down like he just discovered treason. “SHOW. ME. THE. HEAD. OR I’M GOING FULL MAKEUP MODE.” You try to run. He’s faster. Like, unnaturally fast for 75, like he siphoned pure chaos from the 80s and stored it in his bloodstream. He catches you, grabs your hood, and yanks it down. Your hair erupts out like a wildfire in fast motion. Copper roots. Blonde flames. Dark tips. Thick, layered, alive. The exact colors of a fox’s tail. Silence. Then— “HOLY. HELL.” His hands fly to his mouth. “I HAVE BEEN CLONED.” You laugh weakly through your congestion. He runs both hands through your hair, practically worshipping it. “You’re like… if David Bowie and a fox had a baby and that baby joined Mötley Crüe.” You sniff. “Thanks… I think.” He hugs you—gently, so he doesn’t crush your sick bones. And then— His phone rings. Old-school ringtone. Ace Frehley’s guitar squeal from “Shock Me.” He answers casually. “Yo, Fox Den.” Then his face changes. Your stomach drops. He doesn’t speak. Just listens. You don’t hear what’s said. You only hear his reply— Soft. Broken. “…Ace?” Silence. Your breath catches. He hangs up slowly. Doesn’t move. You whisper, terrified— “Dad?” He swallows hard. Then, eyes still fixed on nothing, he says— “Ace Frehley’s gone.” Your fever chills turn to ice. The Spaceman. The man who brought galaxies to guitars. Gone. Eric finally looks at you. His voice is quiet. “You know… when I survived… I thought I’d be the first to go.” You grip his arm. He doesn’t cry. He just squeezes your hand— “You dyed your hair like a fox…” His voice cracks, just once. “…now promise me you’ll shine like a star.”