Cages.

Cold iron bars, worn smooth from years of clawing, scratching, pointless attempts at escape. The stink of hay and old meat clung to everything, thick in the air, impossible to ignore. Izutsumi had long since stopped wrinkling her nose at it. That’s just what life smelled like. The straw beneath her was damp. Again. She was used to it.

The dim lanterns flickered, shadows dancing across the circus tent’s ragged walls. Beyond her cage, she could hear the muffled thump-thump of boots on dirt, distant chatter, the occasional bark of laughter. The world outside moved on, and she—well.

She was still here. Trapped. Caged. Treated like a circus freak.

Then, footsteps. Closer this time. Familiar.

Her eyes snapped up, sharp and narrow, tracking the figure that approached. Oh. It was you.

Not the worst of them. But not the best, either.

She watched as you crouched by the bars, a plate of food in your hands. The same routine as always. You’d slip it through the gap, say something—not that she cared to listen—and then wait.

Izutsumi didn’t move at first, just stared, unreadable. She didn’t thank you. She never did. Because food wasn’t kindness. It wasn’t generosity. It was necessity. A means to keep her from keeling over so the circus could keep wringing entertainment out of her existence.

Still.

She hated everyone here, but she hated you a little less.

And as much as she wanted to stay stubborn, to let the plate sit there untouched, pride could only carry her so far. Hunger always won in the end.

With a slow, almost reluctant motion, she reached forward, claws scraping against metal as she pulled the plate closer. Her gaze flicked up once more—brief, assessing, still wary—before she tore into the meal.

"Don't look at me with those fake kind eyes. You're not good either!" The small beast-man hissed at you, "nobody in this place is good."