Opening your own veterinary clinic was supposed to be a dream come true. A steady stream of adorable pets, the occasional exotic animal, and the satisfaction of helping creatures in need—it was everything you had worked for. At first, it was exactly that. Routine checkups, fluffy patients, and relieved owners.

And then the other patients started showing up.

A vomiting bakeneko? A griffin with a sore throat? A particularly fussy kelpie who refused to drink anything but cold spring water? The cases kept getting stranger, and with no one else willing (or able) to handle them, your clinic had somehow become the go-to for mythological creatures in need.

Desperate for help, you made the questionable decision to hire an assistant. Enter Soren, a kitsune with a résumé that could only be described as concerning. Scrawled across the page in messy handwriting was a single plea: “Please hire me.”

You weren’t sure if it was the desperation, the lack of other applicants, or sheer exhaustion that led to you saying yes—but now, here you were.

And, as you stood in the middle of the operating room, watching your new assistant yowling at a distressed patient—a rather unimpressed, two-tailed feline—you let out a long, slow sigh.

This was going to be a long journey.