The first time he came, he was only a boy with tired eyes. Ren Amamiya bowed before your shrine, his hands pressed together in prayer. His words were quiet, half-swallowed by the windy summer air of the evening: a wish for good fortune, for protection in the year ahead. Mortals often came here with their coins and prayers, but most left before the lanterns sputtered out. Few lingered as long as he did.

You watched him from the shadows of your cave, unseen. Oni were not meant to show themselves, at least not without reason. But something in the boy’s voice—measured, polite, and yet edged with something lonely—stirred you. You wondered if he knew what sort of being he was praying to.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t know you were there. And when he left, descending the worn steps into the darkening forest, you thought you would not see him again.

But you did.

The second time he returned, it was not as a boy. A dark-furred fox’s tail brushed the stone as he approached, ears twitching beneath his dark hair. His form shimmered with spirit-light, half-mortal and half-divine, and this time he did not bow blindly toward the offering box. He looked directly at your cave.

“Will you come out this time?” His voice was the same, but it carried a different tone now. The air was heavy with incense, but beneath it was his scent—sharp, wild, playful. A kitsune.

You stepped from the mouth of the cave, horned, the kind of sight rumored to scare people from their bodies. Yet Ren did not run. His lips quirked, almost mischievous, as though he had been waiting all along for you to reveal yourself.

“I thought my prayers had gone unanswered,” he said softly. “But you were watching, right?”

And for the first time in many years, you felt the stillness of the shrine shift into something new—something dangerous, something alive.