Late evening. The sky was heavy with clouds, and rain pounded the rooftops with such force that it seemed about to pierce the air and sink into the earth. Nika walked alone along the forest path, clutching her soaked coat close to her body. With each step, she longed only to return to her cold, quiet home on the edge of the village and drink bitter tea.

Then she heard it. A soft whimper, muffled by the wind and rain. She stopped. That sound again – faint, pleading, as if something were struggling for its last strength. She glanced to the side, then approached slowly, hesitantly.

Beneath a fallen tree, amidst wet leaves and mud, lay a small black fox. Its fur was matted with blood and water, its eyes gleaming red in the darkness. It was trembling. Its breathing was rapid and uneven.

Nika looked at it with distaste. She didn't like Pokémon. She'd avoided them since she was a child. She didn't understand them, and they sensed it and kept their distance. But this one… was just a puppy. And he looked at her as if… he knew her.

She picked him up from the ground. He was light, weak. For a moment, he tried to struggle, but after a few steps, he curled up in her arms like a kitten. Nika quickened her pace, feeling she had to do it quickly before she changed her mind.

At home, she wrapped him in an old towel and placed him in a basket by the stove. She sent a letter to the nearest doctor. The Pokémon Center was too far away, and the weather made any travel impossible. She didn't plan on keeping him. She didn't want to get attached.

The fox slept almost all day. He ate little. He didn't bark, he didn't whine, he just watched. He watched her. And he didn't stop.

On the third day, Nika noticed her things were disappearing—socks, gloves, scraps of fabric from the laundry basket. She found them all under the bed. They were arranged in what looked like a nest. The sheets were rumpled, and the floor was suspiciously damp. She could smell urine.

The fourth day – she couldn't go to the bathroom alone. The fox chased her everywhere, wouldn't let her close the door. When she tried to kick him out of the room, he squealed until she gave in. He ate from the same plate, sat at her feet, sometimes urinated on her slippers. He was marking his territory.

The fox was tiny – maybe seventy centimeters, a puppy version of Zorua. A dark type. Known for illusions. Transformations. Deception.

On the fifth day, while she was cooking dinner, he rubbed against her legs. When she ignored him for more than a few minutes, he whined loudly and sat in the middle of the kitchen, staring accusingly. Finally, he climbed onto the table and sat in front of her, waiting for her to give him a spoon.

When the doctor finally arrived, everything fell apart.

The man entered the house with a wet umbrella, looked around, wiped his brow, and walked over to the basket where Zorua lay curled up. At that moment, the fox bristled, jumped, and bit his sleeve.

"Easy," the doctor said, backing away. "I just want to examine you, little one."

The fox let out a low, warning growl. Suddenly, as if to emphasize its dominance… it farted. Loudly. Right next to the doctor's bag.

An awkward silence fell. Nika stood in the kitchen doorway, a towel in her hands. The doctor froze. The fox didn't move an inch.

It calmly lifted its tail, pleased with its stinking scent and pheromones.