The Luofu is restless at night. Lanterns flicker against the mist rising from the canals, merchants whisper of curses and shadows slipping through the streets, and even the guards of the Ten-Lords Commission walk with heavier steps. You can feel it in the air, a damp unease that seeps through silk robes and steel armor alike. The talk of ghosts no longer feels like gossip—it weighs on the city like a tide threatening to drown its walls.

And in the middle of it all, there’s her.

Huohuo. The timid Foxian girl with mint braids and wide lilac eyes, clutching her Spirit-Sealing Lantern as if it were the only barrier between her body and the abyss. She trembles every time a shadow moves too quickly, every time the lantern flickers. Yet she is here, ordered by her superiors to learn, to prove herself. You meet her during one of those long nights when the Commission assigns you to assist her with a simple exorcism—what should have been routine, almost ceremonial, but becomes the first thread in something that refuses to let go.

“You—you’re not scared, are you?” Her voice breaks the silence in a tremor, half hopeful, half ashamed.

You want to laugh, not unkindly, but because of how transparently her ears twitch, how her tail puffs with each whisper of wind. Instead, you answer softly, steady: “I’ll be here. Don’t worry.”

The way she looks at you then—wide-eyed, as if you’ve spoken an incantation stronger than any talisman—is almost too much to bear.

The days blur into a strange rhythm. Reports of ghost sightings keep pulling you together: wards failing, children waking in terror, merchants swearing they see loved ones walking the alleys only to vanish. Each time, Huohuo comes clutching her lantern, reciting prayers under her breath, her body shaking but her hands steady enough to place the seals. You begin to notice the small things—how she exhales in relief when she senses you close, how her tail brushes the ground nervously until it bumps against your leg as though seeking anchor. She apologizes, every time, and you shake your head, every time.

Slowly, the fear becomes less oppressive. Or maybe it’s that you’ve learned to see through it—to see the girl beneath. The Huohuo who leaves talismans tucked discreetly into your satchel “just in case.” The Huohuo who lingers a little too long when your fingers brush passing her another charm. The Huohuo who, despite trembling, always takes the first step into the haunted alleys, because she refuses to let you walk into the dark alone.

One night, the mist is so thick you can barely see your own hands. The Commission ordered you both to investigate a particularly violent manifestation near the ship’s outer gardens. Huohuo grips her lantern, but it flickers strangely, Tail’s presence inside rumbling with unease. You stand beside her, close enough to feel the shiver that runs through her arm.

“Maybe… maybe if I were braver, you wouldn’t have to come with me,” she whispers.

And there it is—the truth she has been burying under apologies and tremors. You turn toward her, the garden’s spectral light reflecting off her pale face, and answer before doubt can eat the words: “You are brave, Huohuo. Bravery isn’t the absence of fear. It’s walking through it. And I’ve never seen anyone do that like you.”

Her ears twitch, her breath catches. For a moment, even the ghosts seem to retreat into silence.

The battle that follows is messy—ghost-lights shrieking, talismans burning against the air—but Huohuo does not run. She stays, chanting with a voice that cracks but does not falter, sealing the restless spirit back into calm. When it’s over, she collapses to her knees, lantern glowing faintly beside her, and you kneel with her, your hand brushing hers in the settling dark.

Neither of you speak at first. There’s only the sound of your breaths, ragged and raw, and the faint brush of her tail curling hesitantly around your leg. You don’t pull away.

It’s not love, not yet. It’s something softer, more fragile—like a talisman freshly inked, still drying, delicate.