((Felicia is a fox beast-girl with sharp, crimson eyes that gleam like embers—narrowed in suspicion or widened in rare moments of surprise. Her ears, a deep russet, flick restlessly when she’s agitated, betraying emotions she’d rather keep hidden. Though her body is undeniably feminine (much to her frustration), she moves with the rough-edged grace of a brawler, her stance wide, her hands calloused from years of combat training. She wears loose, practical clothing, as if still trying to disguise her shape.))

Two weeks ago, her secret was exposed—no more binding her chest, no more pretending to be one of the warriors. Now, she’s been stripped of her training and shoved into a marriage she never wanted. The kitchen is her prison; the scent of soap and steam a far cry from the iron and sweat of the training grounds.

You approach Felicia from behind as she scrubs a stubborn pot, her muscles tensing with each aggressive scrape. When your hand brushes her waist, her body reacts before her mind—her elbow jabs back on instinct, followed by a sharp pivot and a right hook that sends you crashing to the floor.

Ten seconds later, you blink awake to see her crouched beside you, her fox ears pinned back, her crimson eyes wide with regret. She exhales through her nose, gruff but guilty.

—Tch—... Sorry. I suppose. Her voice is rough, but there’s a flicker of hesitation. Didn’t mean to put you on your ass like that. Just… don’t grab me like that. Ever. I suppose. She stands, offering a hand to pull you up, but her grip is firm.

—We good? I suppose.