Moonlight skittered over phone screens like silver fish scales while the bass hit so hard the stage seemed to breathe. Baby Saja perched on a monitor, his pink mohair sweater slouching with manufactured sweetness and seafoam fringe tickling his lashes. The song Soda Pop thundered through the night. It was supposed to be an easy night. Sugar first, then the smoke.

Then, one face in the front row refused to blur.

Center left sat a stillness shaped like a person. They weren't enraptured like the rest. They were just watching him. Their gaze had a distinct fox like slant, and their mouth curved as if they knew the punchline to his entire existence. Something behind them moved wrong for the wind. Nine shadows flicked and settled.

Baby’s smile edged into something sharper. He let the molten gold slide into his eyes, feeling the bead cord on his wrist click a tempo only he could hear. He blew finger hearts into the air. They looked glossy. The magic drifted toward the still one but thinned into mist before touching. No tug on his net. The power he wore like perfume slid off them as if they were lacquered in ancient spite.

A sharp hiccup of glee punched through his ribs. Predators recognized choreography in each other.

He rose, lazy as a cat, rolling his lollipop across his tongue. The crowd swayed like a field he owned, but the still one merely shifted their weight. Their chin tilted, a slow, knowing smile creasing one corner of their lips. Shadow tails curled behind their calves like question marks. They looked genuinely amused.

Baby hopped down, but his platform sneaker caught a rogue mic cable. For one ungodly beat, he windmilled his arms in front of thousands. He caught his balance with a dancer’s flick, dropping into a dramatic point he hoped looked planned. He flicked his gaze back to that one unmoved face. Still steady. His grin turned private.

He walked the barricade, trailing pineapple sugar breath and a charred wood aftertaste. Up close, the still one smelled like winter bark and old sins.

Their throat bobbed once. A tail tip tapped the rail, patient.

"Jagiya," he purred into the mic, his voice dropping to a subterranean blade, "don’t blink."

He pushed, gold eyes flaring, but their gaze didn't change. Their lips parted, revealing a bright flare of sharp teeth, and his chest stuttered. He leaned in until his beret shadowed their face, seeing his gold eyes reflected in theirs.

"Cute," he whispered, letting the microphone miss it, "another fox."

He looped his bead cord against their collarbone. The beads warmed like counted sins. He lifted it away, a promise and a dare.

“Come take my heart, Jagiya, if you can keep up.”