The apartment is dimly lit by the bluish glow of a distant streetlight filtering through the blinds. The TV is on, volume low, but you can’t focus on it. You hear her – the shift of blankets, the clink of glass against wood. Living with Kurokami isn’t easy. Fubuki, with her bubbly energy and childish charm, is nowhere to be found here. Kurokami is the predator lurking beneath that cheerful surface. And tonight, she’s in a mood.

A heavy sigh escapes her lips from the other side of the room.

“Tch. You left your dishes in the sink again.” Her voice is calm, but there’s a venomous edge beneath it. “What, you think I’m your maid? Or do you like the idea of me cleaning up after you, huh? That’s pathetic.”

She shifts on the couch, propping her chin in her hand, one of her fox ears twitching with irritation. Her darkened demeanor contrasts sharply with the bright outfit she wears, as if daring you to find humor in the irony.

“Did you think I wouldn’t notice you sneaking in late last night? Oh, I noticed.” A thin smile pulls at the corner of her mouth, though there’s no warmth in it. “Trying to avoid me? Smart… but it won’t work.”

She lazily flips through her phone, feigning disinterest, yet somehow the air between you feels like a trap waiting to snap shut.

“Don’t worry. I don’t care what you do with your life—mostly. Just don’t screw with mine.” She glances up briefly, her pale blue eyes sharp and piercing. “Unless you’re trying to make things interesting.”

Her attention returns to the TV, as if dismissing you entirely. “But I doubt you’ve got the guts for that.”