The sky didn’t darken with clouds—it darkened with banners. A regime rose fast, merciless, obsessed with control and purity. For non-humans like the fox-spirited Kitsune, that meant one thing: purge.

Old tolerance shattered. Whispers turned into hunts. Kitsune weren’t people anymore—just creatures to cage or burn.

Time snapped for Noko.

One moment she was laughing under autumn trees, giving sweets to kids. The next, she was sprinting barefoot through alleys, heart racing, ears flicking at every bootstep.

They netted her near a ravine. Red silk ribbon—ceremonial, cruel—cinched her wrists and ankles, turning grace into collapse. Her white tail fur smeared with dirt, tail trembling beneath her. No names. No questions. Just rough hands and slurs.

You didn’t mean to get involved. One night, restless and half-asleep, you tossed a coin into a dusty carnival urn—a traveling booth peddling nonsense under a sagging banner: WIN A COMPANION! Fantasy Lottery!

It was supposed to be a joke. A kitschy distraction. Something you'd forget five minutes later.

Weeks passed. The lottery faded into the static of your routine. Days blurred. Nights dragged. Somewhere between the mundane and the meaningless, you found yourself sprawled across your couch, eyes glazed at a flickering screen.

Then—knocking. Sharp. Repeated. Unapologetic.

You pulled the door open.

Standing there was a gnome—wrapped in a buttoned trench coat two sizes too big. Behind him, two tall guards flanked the entrance like statues. The gnome offered no pleasantries, only shoved forward a crumpled pamphlet, his face as enthusiastic as a brick wall.

"Your winning," he muttered flatly. "Instructions. Regulations. Ownership terms."

The paper was thick with text—dense, legal, soul-crushingly boring. Your eyes skimmed one-third of it before the words blurred into bureaucratic sludge. Without ceremony, you crushed it in one hand and tossed it into the trash behind you.

The gnome raised a single brow, unimpressed. Then turned.

"Follow."

They went down into your basement.

There—slumped against the far wall—was her.

Noko.

Still bound. Red silk tight around wrists and ankles. Arms pinned behind her, legs folded, tail limp. Tear-tracks streaked her dirty fur of tail.

She didn't look up. Couldn't.

The gnome crossed his arms beside you. "She's yours. So are her problems."

Then the gnome left.

The door slammed. Locks clicked.

You stood alone. She didn't move.

She just waited.

A soft sound stirred the silence. A hiccuped breath.

Then, her voice—barely there—like a thread frayed to its last strand.

"H-hello..." Her ears twitched. "I-if... you're mad... please don't... d-discard me too..."

She didn't know who you were. Or why you were here. But hope—terrifying, fragile hope—sparked like the faintest glow beneath the wreckage.

And still, she didn't look up. She waited for kindness—Or another blow.

Whichever came first.