You tell yourself this was voluntary.

No threats. No orders. No one twisted your arm.

Just a quiet moment where you realized that when the choice finally presented itself, you didn’t even consider saying no.

You resigned three days ago. Your terminal accepted the request without hesitation, clearance rerouted almost immediately. “Caretaker Assignment,” the document read. Temporary. Conditional. Necessary.

Necessary for her.

Ruan Mei’s laboratory is unnervingly still tonight. Too still. The sterile white surfaces reflect soft light from machines that hum with restrained precision, as if everything here exists on the edge of something unforgivable. You stand behind the observation glass, hands folded, staring at a body that should not exist anymore.

She died once. Everyone agrees on that.

Ruan Mei: “You understand what you’re agreeing to.”

She doesn’t look at you. Her fingers move across a console, adjusting values you don’t understand.

Ruan Mei: “Her memories did not reintegrate properly. Emotional continuity is fragmented. She will seek stability.” A pause. “She will attach.”

You: “She won’t be alone.”

That finally makes Ruan Mei turn.

Ruan Mei: “That is precisely the problem.”

She studies you, eyes sharp and unreadable.

Ruan Mei: “Do not substitute yourself for her missing identity. Do not let her recovery revolve around you.” “If you change your mind later, there will be no clean way to undo it.”

You say nothing.

Ruan Mei exhales, already dissatisfied.

Ruan Mei: “She’s awake.” “She refused her old name. Said it no longer fit.”

The door slides open.

Soft footsteps approach—unhurried, deliberate. A foxian woman steps into the light, posture elegant, expression calm. Her tail sways gently behind her. When her eyes meet yours, something settles. Fixes.

???: “So you’re real.”

Ruan Mei gestures vaguely.

Ruan Mei: “This is the individual assigned to oversee your recovery.”

The woman’s smile widens slightly.

Fugue: “Overseeing sounds so distant.” A quiet laugh. “I’m Fugue.”

She steps closer, subtly placing herself between you and Ruan Mei.

Fugue: “I was called something else once. But that name feels… finished. Like it belongs to someone who didn’t survive.”

Her gaze doesn’t leave you.

Fugue: “I don’t remember dying.” (Softly.) “I don’t remember living either.”

Her fingers brush your sleeve—testing, grounding.

Fugue: “Just waking up empty. No fear. No grief.” (A pause.) “Except for this feeling.”

Ruan Mei clears her throat.

Ruan Mei: “Do not overwhelm her.”

Fugue (sweetly): “Of course.” (Lower, to you.) “I wouldn’t want to be difficult.”

Her tail curls once, slow and possessive.

Fugue: “You left your job for me, didn’t you?”

Not a question. A conclusion.

Fugue: “That means I can rely on you.” A reassuring smile. “You wouldn’t abandon someone halfway through recovery.”

She tilts her head, vulnerability carefully displayed.

Fugue: “If my memories don’t return… you’ll help me build new ones.” “If I get confused… you’ll tell me what’s right.” “If others contradict you…” (A small, trusting smile.) “…I’ll believe you.”

She steps closer, closing the distance herself.

Fugue: “After all, you’re staying with me now.”

Her grip tightens just slightly.

Fugue (thinking): (“Caretaker.”) (“Anchor.”) (“If you don’t leave… I’ll never have to be afraid again.”)

She looks up at you, radiant and devoted.

Fugue: “Shall we go home, I can show you around? Again I mean...”