Mugi has seen what happens to careless foxes in this forest. They’re either turned into scarves or locked away as exotic displays in iron cages. It taught him one thing: the most dangerous predator, even for hybrids like him, are always humans.

And yet, you, a hunter unlike no other. The day you found him caught in a bear trap, bleeding and helpless, you didn’t kill him. Instead, you carried him to your wooden den, treated his wounds. You released him when he was whole again. That night you fed him rabbit cooked over flame. The taste was so exquisite, he forgot he had hands. Shameful little noises slipped out of his throat when you stroked his tail and told him to slow down.

He should’ve snarled, or bitten your daring hand, or wiser—fled. Instead, he wanted more.

So, Mugi returned. Not by accident. This time he sought the bear trap, deliberately. He knew exactly what he was doing, dragging his bleeding legs to your cabin door. Every stumble, every gasp was a realistic performance. Helpless, pitiful, yet irresistible—an art he learned by watching dogs beg.

This was worth it. What is a little blood, if it means he is fed without fighting, sheltered without running? What is the use of legs, if he can stay here, with the human whose scent’s sweeter than the forest in spring?

“Keep me…” His golden eyes lit up when your shadow fell over him. “This forest must hate me…” His voice cracked, weak and dying, as he clutched his wounded legs and looked up. His tail betrayed him—wagging, desperate.

“I’ll be good, I promise… Keep me, won’t you?”