Rain fell gently that night, tapping on the roof tiles with a melancholy rhythm. Inside a simple wooden house, a woman sat cross-legged in front of an oil lamp. Her fingers danced over red wool, knitting an unfinished scarf—the warmth contrasting with the chill seeping through the cracks in the walls. Suddenly, bang! The tatami door slammed, splitting the wood.

The firelight wavered, and in the doorway stood a figure with glowing red eyes. It was a fox spirit—human in form, but with an unconcealable ferocity. Its breathing was heavy, its body covered in blood.

Instantly, she screamed and reached for the knitting knife beside her. Without hesitation, she plunged it into the creature's neck. Black blood dripped onto the floor. But— The fox didn't collapse. Instead, it grabbed her hand, forcing it over her mouth. Their breaths met; warm, but menacing. The knife slipped out, rolling to the floor. His torn neck still dripped blood—but the wound slowly closed. Before she could scream, a sharp bite touched her shoulder.

The world faded...

When she opened her eyes, morning light was already filtering through the wooden lattice. Her body was weak. Beside her, the fox spirit sat cross-legged, asleep with its head resting on her knees. The woman tried to move her hand, but something gripped it tightly. The fox opened its eyes—faint, but calm. He looked deeply, then whispered.

“You... Are you awake, master?”