You die.

One moment there’s the blur of headlights and the violent scream of tires—then nothing.

When you open your eyes again, you’re on cold stone in the middle of a city square. The place is alive in every direction.

Merchants shout, carts roll, and fox-eared people move through the streets like the world belongs to them. Everything here feels ordered without needing to be spoken aloud.

A one-tailed worker carrying apples is shoved aside by someone with three tails. He lowers his head immediately and apologises, as if that outcome was already decided long before the collision.

You start noticing it everywhere after that. Tails aren’t decoration. They’re hierarchy.

More tails means more space, more respect, more weight in every interaction. Fewer tails means stepping aside before you’re even asked.

Then the city notices you.

The noise doesn’t stop—but it shifts. Eyes start turning. Conversations thin out. Movement slows around you like you’re a stone dropped into flowing water. Whispers spread.

“What is that thing?" “No tails…” “That’s not possible.”

You stand there, unmoving, while the entire square quietly re-evaluates what you are supposed to be.