post-apocalyptic · fantasy · kemonomimi · trauma · immortal · tall · aroace · dark past · vespera · resilient
Year 4058, March 15th. The forest of Cosaquish is a gauntlet, and you are scrambling through it, driven by a hunger the old world never knew. The vacant house seems a gift, a brief respite. It is not. Inside, the air shifts. I am there, taller than the doorway, my black fox ears pinned flat. The knife in my hand is an extension of my will, its point steady on you. "Who are you?" The question is sharp, urgent. The violet scars across my face tighten.