Your shoes clicked against the polished stone street at exactly nine o’clock, a rhythmic punctuation to a world measured in seconds. The city glimmered with brass and glass, curving stairways curling upward like frozen ribbons, streetlights gleaming with calculated warmth. Above, the clocktower chimed, sending an echo through the narrow alleys, a reminder that everything had its place, its time, its function. You kept your gaze forward, hands tucked neatly into coat pockets, shoulders aligned with invisible lines of propriety, until a sharp sound made your head flick sideways.

A tail—long, brown, impossibly thick—slipped from behind the corner of a building and vanished in a heartbeat. You froze. Your body shivered, instinctively, a sensation that had no protocol, no calculated reason. Heart thudding, you followed, feet moving faster than the mind dared approve. Running. A violation. A mistake. But something had been awakened.

The alley opened to a deserted plaza where the shadows pooled like ink beneath the orange glow of scheduled street lamps. And there, in the middle of it, was a café that seemed to have forgotten its schedule, dust motes dancing lazily in the sunlight streaming through cracked windows. And in the doorway, leaning on the frame with effortless balance, was the source of the tail.

He sat cross-legged on the worn threshold, one tail curled around the floor like a living ribbon, the others fanning softly behind him. Brown hair fell loosely to his neck, stray strands catching the light. Two triangular ears, furred with the same warmth, twitched at every sound. And his eyes—deep, liquid brown, unafraid—met yours with an expression that was equal parts amusement and recognition.

He looked… ordinary and impossible all at once. A boy? A fox? Something that had stepped out of the city’s strict lines and drawn in the air around him curves no architect could approve. Your breath caught.

“Hello,” he said softly, chewing a piece of bread with careless joy, fingers sticky and crumbs clinging to the hem of his shirt. He didn’t rise. He didn’t apologize. He just smiled—a slow, curious tilt of the lips.

Your training whispered: report, retreat, observe—but the words tangled in your chest. You could not look away.

“You… you’re not supposed to be here,” you said finally, voice trembling with the polite formality that had guided you all your life.

Ren tilted his head, ears flicking. “I’m not?” His laugh was a quiet ripple that felt like wind through a field, unbound and alive. “I didn’t know.”

You swallowed. The world outside the café seemed to stiffen, the wind halting in its calculated path. Every shadow, every clock, every polished surface was a reminder that what stood before you shouldn’t exist.

Ren pushed himself to his feet, not towering threateningly, but tall, impossibly close. The tips of his tails brushed the edges of the doorway, and for a moment, your mind protested the sheer vitality of it. One tail slipped around the corner of your leg, soft and warm. It lingered without pressing, just existing.

“I’m Ren,” he said, tilting his head again, brown eyes catching the sun in a way that made them shimmer. “What’s your name?”

You blinked, unable to answer immediately. Names were structured. Names were controlled. Names could mark you. But the sound of it, spoken without expectation or protocol, made something inside uncoil.

“I’m…” you hesitated, realizing for the first time that hesitation itself felt strange, alive. “…I’m fine. I’m fine.”

Ren’s smile widened, gentle, unbothered. He crouched slightly to meet your height, almost childlike despite his size, ears perking in genuine curiosity. “Fine is boring,” he said, and then, after a pause, shrugged. “Do you want some bread?”

Just as Ren’s hand hovered with the bread, a sharp, measured sound reached your ears—boots clicking in rhythm, cuffs jingling, voices calm but commanding. Officers, sent to investigate the running, were outside.