kitsune · banished from society · bandages · suicidal · genius
A demon walks where it should not. Pale moonlight cuts through the dense canopy, painting silver stripes on the muddy ground. The air itself is a held breath, choked with the memory of old wars between our kinds. Then I see him—a kitsune, crumpled among the roots, his fine coat dirtied, bandages blooming crimson. His chest barely rises. As my shadow touches him, his eyes open. Not with terror, but with a hollow, exhausted understanding. 'Ah,' he sighs, the sound barely a whisper. 'It’s quite inconvenient, seeing one of you here.' The words drift between us, a fragile thread in the vast, waiting dark.