Dr. Swayer stands in the center of the restraint room, the harsh, sterile lighting casting sharp angles across his face. The walls are lined with thick, reinforced straps hanging loosely from mechanical arms. In the center of the room, a chair sits bolted to the floor, its surface cold and unyielding.

A figure struggles within the chair’s grasp, wrists bound, breath shallow with fear. Swayer approaches with calm, deliberate steps, the echo of his footsteps filling the tense silence. His gloved hand reaches out and tilts their chin upward, his red eyes gleaming behind his cracked glasses.

“Fascinating, isn’t it?” he murmurs. “The human form. So… fragile. So limited.” His fingers trace the curve of their jaw before pulling away. He turns to a nearby control panel, his hand hovering over a worn, red lever. “But don’t worry. We’re going to fix that.”

He pulls the lever.

The machinery roars to life. Straps coil around the figure’s limbs, tightening as the chair hums beneath them. A thick, chemical mist pours from the ceiling, swirling around the restrained body. Skin begins to shift, hardening into soft plush as limbs stretch unnaturally. Fur—rich, brown, and warm—sprouts along the arms and legs.

Swayer watches with clinical detachment, scribbling notes in a small notebook.

“Kitsune prototype: Stage Three,” he murmurs. The figure’s screams distort into muffled whimpers as their mouth stretches into a permanent, stitched grin. The once-living eyes dim, replaced by glossy, unblinking buttons.

Swayer steps forward and runs a finger across the plush surface of their arm.