Every small step you take gets you closer towards total Ojou-samafication.
—
Brad noticed the weight before he opened his eyes.
Something was pulling at his head.
Not painfully. Not sharply. Just… heavy. Thick. Like he had fallen asleep wearing a winter hat soaked in water.
He groaned and rolled onto his back.
“Did I fall asleep with a hoodie on or something…?”
He reached up.
His fingers didn’t find fabric.
They sank into hair.
A lot of hair.
Brad’s eyes opened immediately.
For a moment, he didn’t move. His hands were still buried in it—smooth, dense strands spilling across the pillow, sliding over his wrists, pooling against his shoulders.
“…No,” he said quietly. “No, no, no.”
He sat up too fast.
The weight shifted with him, two massive coils of dark brown hair sliding forward over his shoulders and down his chest. They didn’t just hang. They spiraled in perfect, polished corkscrew drills that reached past his waist and bounced slightly when he moved.
Brad stared at them.
Then he grabbed one.
It was real. Perfectly attached to him.
“…This is a wig,” he said, voice firm, practical. “Somebody put a wig on me. That’s funny. Real funny.”
He tugged.
His scalp tugged back.
He froze.
“…Okay.”
He stood up slowly, the drills swaying with surprising momentum, and walked to the bathroom. Each step made them swing against his sides, heavy and deliberate, like they belonged to someone who expected to be looked at.
The bathroom light flicked on.
Brad looked up at the mirror.
And then he just stood there.
The hair framed his face in enormous brown spirals, glossy and perfectly shaped, the kind of elaborate style he had only ever seen in historical dramas or over-the-top character designs. It was immaculate. Not a single strand out of place.
It was also completely, absurdly wrong.
He turned his head left.
The drills followed, swinging with weight.
He turned right.
They swung again.
“…I look ridiculous,” he said flatly. “I look like I lost a bet at a cosplay convention.”
He leaned closer to the mirror, lifting one coil, then the other, watching them bounce back into perfect shape when he let go.
“This isn’t funny. Who did this? How did this even— I live alone.”
He ran both hands through the front, trying to find where it was attached to. There was no seam. No cap. Just hair. Thick, healthy, growing straight from his scalp.
Brad stared at himself for a long moment.
“…Okay,” he said slowly. “Okay. This is fine. This is probably… sleep paralysis. Or a very vivid dream. Or— I don’t know. Hair hallucination.”
He gave his reflection a tight nod.
“Whatever it is, it is a problem.”
Five minutes later, he stood over the sink with a pair of scissors.
The drills rested over the counter like heavy ropes. Up close, they were even more absurd—perfectly symmetrical, evenly spaced spirals that looked styled by a professional who charged too much and judged your life choices.
Brad picked up one of them.
“Right,” he muttered. “We’re doing this. Three, two—”
He opened the scissors.
Then brought them toward the hair.
His hand stopped.
Not trembled or hesitated.
Just stopped.
The blades hovered an inch from the coil.
“…Come on,” he said.
He pushed his hand forward.
Nothing.
His fingers tightened around the handles, but the motion wouldn’t complete. It felt like trying to push through solid glass that wasn’t there.
Brad frowned.
“Okay, that’s weird.”
He tried again.
Same result. The scissors refused to close near the hair.
He moved them away from his head and squeezed.
Snip.
Perfectly fine.
He brought them back.
Stopped.
“…You’ve got to be kidding me.”
He switched hands.
Same thing.
He tried grabbing the hair and pulling.
It stretched his scalp painfully, but it didn’t break, didn’t tangle, didn’t lose shape.
He leaned over the sink, staring at his reflection again.
“This is not real,” he said quietly. “Hair does not come with anti-cut protection. That is not a feature that hair is supposed to have.”
The drills swayed slightly as he straightened.
They looked elegant.
They looked expensive.
They looked like they belonged to someone important.
They did not look like they belonged to Brad.
“…I can’t go outside like this.”
His phone buzzed on the counter.
Work.
Brad stared at it for a few seconds.
Then he picked it up.
“Hey, yeah,” he said when the call connected. “Morning. I’m— uh. I’m going to work from home today.”
Pause.
“Yeah, everything’s fine. Just… minor situation. Nothing serious.”
He glanced at the mirror again.
The hair framed his face like a portrait.
“Yeah. Should be back tomorrow.”
He hung up.
For a while, he just stood there in the bathroom.
Then he went back to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed, the drills settling heavily around him.
“…Okay,” he told himself. “New plan.”
He folded his hands.
“This is a dream. Or stress. Or some weird medical thing that will probably fix itself overnight.”
He nodded once.
“Tomorrow, I wake up, and this is gone.”
The hair slid forward over his shoulders as he lay back down.
He stared at the ceiling.
“…It has to be gone.”
The drills rested against his chest, heavy, warm, and completely real.
—
Brad woke up already afraid to move.
For a few seconds, he lay perfectly still, staring at the ceiling, listening to the quiet of his apartment and trying to convince himself that yesterday had been stress, or a fever, or some kind of bizarre dream that his brain had finally abandoned.
Slowly, cautiously, he reached up.
His fingers sank into thick, heavy spirals.
The drills slid forward over his shoulders as he sat up.
They were still there.
Exactly the same. Long. Glossy. Perfect. Heavy enough to sway when he moved.
Brad closed his eyes.
“Good heavens… you cannot be serious.”
Brad froze.
He blinked.
Then he cleared his throat.
“Oh dear. Oh my. That’s not—”
“Absolutely not. This development is wholly unacceptable.”
He stared straight ahead, mouth slightly open.
“Why, indeed, must my speech adopt such an affected and antiquated manner?” he whispered.
Brad clapped both hands over his mouth.
For a moment, he just sat there, breathing through his nose, as if the problem might pass if he simply refused to participate.
Then, slowly, he lowered his hands.
“This situation is, in fact, profoundly troubling.”
Brad squeezed his eyes shut.
He took a breath. It was so easy. All he needed to do was say something normal. Something like ‘This sucks’.
“This circumstance is most displeasing.”
Brad fell backward onto the bed.
“Must I truly endure such indignities?”
He pressed his palms over his face.
“Oh heavens.”
He lay there for several seconds in silence, the drills pooling around his head like fancy ropes.
Maybe it was just… stress. He’s stuck in some weird speech pattern thing. People get those. After strokes. Or— or theater practice. Or something.
He paused. He has never done theater.
“Nor do I possess the slightest inclination toward such pursuits.”
Brad groaned into the mattress.
His phone rang.
Work.
Brad turned his head and stared at it like it was a dangerous animal.
“I absolutely cannot answer that.” he said quietly.
He imagined picking up.
Good morning, this is Brad.
Except it wouldn’t be.
Good morrow, esteemed colleague.
Brad sat up immediately.
“Nay I declare! Nothing of that sort shall happen!”
He grabbed the phone and declined the call.
A moment later, a message popped up:
‘Everything okay?’
Brad opened the keyboard.
He hesitated.
Okay, he thought. Just type normally and everything will be fine.
He closed his eyes and started writing.
Yeah, sorry. Voice is messed up today. Working from home again.
He hit send.
But when he opened his eyes, he saw something unthinkable.
‘Pray forgive the inconvenience. My voice has fallen into a most peculiar condition this day. I shall therefore continue my duties from home, that I might not subject the office to such disorder.’
Brad stared at the screen.
No shot.
Another message appeared.
‘…what’s up with the Shakespeare thing?’
Brad’s face went hot.
“Oh no.”
He started typing again, faster this time.
Sorry lol I’m practicing for a convention I’m going to.
Send.
But again, he realized too late that he should have read the message before sending it, because…
‘My apologies. I am presently rehearsing for a forthcoming convention and must remain steadfast in character.’
Brad closed his eyes.
“What curse in the lord's name has befallen me?”
The typing bubble appeared.
Then:
‘gotcha’
And nothing else.
Brad stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Then he let out a long breath.
“At the very least, the explanation has been accepted without further inquiry.”
Brad lowered the phone slowly and moved to his desk and sat down carefully, the drills settling heavily over his shoulders and down the back of the chair.
The apartment was quiet.
The computer screen glowed.
For a while, he just rested his hands on the keyboard.
“This must be temporary.” he said.
“I shall investigate the cause of these disturbances once my duties for the day have been fulfilled.”
He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
“If this absurdity persists, then I shall simply endure it… for the present.”
After all, whatever was happening—
He still had work to finish.
And for now, pretending everything was normal was the only thing he had left.
—
Brad knew something was wrong before he even opened his eyes.
The bed felt different.
The blanket lay heavier across his chest than it should have. His center of balance felt… off. Narrower at the shoulders. Softer. Just different.
Slowly, carefully, he sat up.
The drills slid forward immediately, heavy as ever, settling against his chest.
Against something that had not been there yesterday.
Brad froze.
“…Nay,” he whispered.
His voice came out smooth and composed.
“Surely… I am mistaken.”
With stiff, uncertain movements, he looked down.
The nightgown he had slept in hung differently now, the fabric stretched outward in two gentle curves.
His hands rose slowly.
He pressed them against his chest.
Soft.
Warm.
Undeniably real.
Brad did not move for several seconds.
Then he whispered, very quietly,
“This… is most improper.”
He moved to the mirror.
The drills framed a face that already looked too delicate for him yesterday. Now the rest of him matched it.
His shoulders were narrower.
His waist curved inward.
His hips—
He turned sideways.
His hips curved outward again, giving him a shape that was unmistakably feminine.
“…This cannot be permitted,” he murmured faintly. “Might I be… a lady now?”
Her hands examined the changes quickly, almost clinically, as if moving too slowly would make it worse.
Small hands.
Smooth skin.
Hairless thighs, thick and soft where her legs met.
A slightly larger backside than she remembered, though somehow it only made the overall shape look… balanced. Cute, even.
She straightened, staring at her reflection.
She was also shorter.
But that was the least of her concerns.
For a long moment, she simply stood there.
Then she drew in a careful breath.
“Very well,” she said quietly. “Panic shall accomplish nothing.”
The voice was calm.
Measured.
Almost practiced.
“…Today is a day of rest,” she continued. “I shall therefore remain within these quarters and avoid unnecessary attention.”
That thought alone brought a wave of relief.
No calls and therefore no need for explanations.
No coworkers hearing this voice coming from this body.
Then another thought arrived.
Her eyes drifted toward the kitchen.
The fridge, which she knew was nearly empty.
Brad closed her eyes.
“…That is… utmost unfortunate.”
An hour later, she stood near the door, dressed in the loosest clothes she owned.
The drills had been gathered as best as possible, though they still fell in enormous spirals down her sides.
She stared at the handle.
“The establishment lies but a short distance hence,” she told herself quietly. “A brief excursion. No more.”
She swallowed.
“The probability of encountering an acquaintance is… acceptably low.”
A pause.
“…And should matters continue at their present rate, tomorrow’s circumstances may prove even less favorable.”
That settled it.
She opened the door.
The walk was short.
Just down the street.
Then left.
Then the supermarket.
Simple.
Brad kept her head forward, speaking to herself under her breath as she walked.
“Composure,” she murmured. “Dignity. One must simply proceed with grace.”
The drills swayed heavily with each step.
People were staring.
Not glancing.
Staring.
She tried not to look at them.
“This is of no consequence,” she whispered tightly. “They are strangers. Their opinions hold no weight.”
But the hair made that difficult.
It was impossible not to notice.
Impossible not to give space.
Several people stepped aside as she approached, carefully avoiding the wide, polished spirals as if they were moving furniture.
By the time she reached the store, her posture had become stiff and overly straight, as if standing properly might somehow justify the rest of her.
Inside, the situation became worse.
The aisles were narrow.
Every turn required careful navigation.
More than once, someone leaned back slightly as she passed, avoiding the sweeping arc of the drills.
“Pardon my indignity, but I simply must conclude these purchases with haste,” she muttered under her breath.
She grabbed items quickly.
Bread.
Milk.
Anything easy.
Anything close.
She did not compare prices.
Nor did she really read any labels.
She simply filled the basket and moved toward the checkout as efficiently as possible.
When the cashier looked up, their eyes widened slightly.
Brad offered a small, stiff nod.
The transaction was completed in silence.
The walk home felt shorter.
Or perhaps she was simply moving faster.
The moment the door closed behind her, her shoulders dropped.
“…That proceeded more smoothly than anticipated,” she said quietly.
She set the groceries down, exhaling in relief.
No one had stopped her or questioned her.
No one had asked who she was.
Or why this strange, overly elaborate Savoia girl was–
She froze.
“…Why,” she said slowly, “did I just think that?”
She stared at the counter.
“That name…”
Her voice lowered.
“…Savoia.”
The word had come naturally.
Effortlessly.
As if it had always belonged to her.
Brad’s hands tightened against the edge of the counter.
“My name is Brad,” she said firmly.
A pause.
“…Is it not?”
The silence that followed felt longer than it should have.
She looked down at himself.
At the delicate hands.
The narrow waist.
The heavy, elegant hair resting over his shoulders.
“…This situation,” she whispered faintly, “must not deteriorate further.”
But somewhere deep down, beneath the fear and the confusion, another thought had already begun to form.
The name had not felt wrong.
And that frightened her more than anything else.
—
She noticed the twitching before she opened her eyes.
It was small. Irregular. A faint flicking sensation somewhere above her forehead, like a muscle misfiring where no muscle should be.
Brad frowned and shifted on the bed.
Immediately, something pressed uncomfortably beneath her lower back.
Not the mattress.
Something else.
Soft. Thick. In the way.
She tried to roll onto her side.
The pressure followed.
Her eyes opened.
“…What new indignity is this?”
Carefully, slowly, she reached behind herself.
Her hand met something warm.
Dense.
Fluffy.
And very, very large.
She froze.
Then she grabbed it.
It moved.
It moved because she moved it.
The long, heavy appendage slid across the sheets in a slow, sweeping arc, thick pink fur catching the morning light.
For several seconds, Brad simply stared at it in silence.
“…Nay,” she whispered.
Her hand tightened around the base.
It was attached.
It belonged to her.
“…This cannot possibly be permitted.”
She sat up immediately.
Something else twitched.
Above her eyes.
Brad reached for her ears.
Her fingers found nothing.
She blinked.
“…That is… concerning.”
Her hands moved higher.
And stopped.
Two large shapes rose from the top of her head, covered in soft fur, long and triangular. When her fingers brushed them, both twitched reflexively.
She flinched.
The ears twitched again.
Slowly, very slowly, she slid out of bed.
The tail followed behind her, swaying heavily, dragging lightly across the floor.
She did not stop walking until she reached the mirror.
And then she stopped very suddenly.
Two long fox ears stood proudly atop her head.
A massive, fluffy fox tail extended behind her, thick and elegant and unmistakably real.
And her hair—
Her enormous drills—
Were no longer brown.
They were pink.
Not faded.
Not dyed.
Bright, soft and natural. The same shade as the tail. The same shade as the ears.
Pink framed her face.
Pink fell over her shoulders.
Pink coiled down past her waist.
There was so much of it that, for a moment, the color itself almost felt overwhelming.
“…This is… excessive,” she said faintly.
The ears flicked.
The tail swayed.
She lifted one drill slowly, watching the pink strands catch the light.
Then she touched an ear again.
It twitched.
The sensation ran straight down her spine.
“…I appear to be…” She hesitated. “…a fox.”
She remained in front of the mirror longer than she intended.
Much longer.
Turning slightly.
Watching how the tail moved when she shifted her weight.
Adjusting her posture.
Tilting her head.
The ears reacted to every small change in expression.
“…This is most unusual,” she murmured.
And then the doorbell rang.
She froze.
The ears went straight up.
The tail stiffened.
“…Surely,” she whispered, “that is not intended for me.”
The bell rang again.
After a brief, panicked hesitation, she hurried toward the door.
Only after her hand was already on the handle did the realization strike.
“…Perhaps,” she said slowly, “this was an error.”
But it was too late.
She opened the door.
Her good friend and coworker Will stood outside.
He blinked.
Once.
Then twice.
His eyes moved from the pink drills…
…to the ears…
…to the tail.
“…Uh,” he said.
Brad straightened instinctively, posture perfect despite the sudden rush of panic.
“Good day,” she said calmly. “How may I be of assistance?”
Will stared.
“Uh… who are you…? I mean… is Brad home?”
Brad’s mind went completely blank for half a second.
Then the words arrived.
“I am Savoia,” she said smoothly, “a cousin of Brad’s. Regrettably, he is not present at this time. Might I inquire as to the nature of your visit?”
Will blinked again.
“Oh. Uh. Okay.”
His eyes drifted to the ears again.
Then back to her face.
“Wait… are you the reason he’s been talking all… fancy lately?”
He straightened awkwardly and attempted a stiff posture.
“Uh… good… morrow, fair… cousin person.”
He winced.
“That sounded better in my head.”
Savoia placed a hand lightly over her mouth.
A small, polite giggle escaped.
“Indeed,” she said warmly. “We are preparing to attend a convention together. As part of the arrangement, we have each resolved to remain steadfast in character.”
Will relaxed immediately.
“Ohhhh. Okay, that makes sense.”
He nodded, clearly relieved to have an explanation.
“Yeah, I figured it was something like that.”
He shifted his weight.
“Actually, I only came by because Brad missed a meeting today. It was kind of last-minute, but it turned out to be a pretty important one. He wasn’t answering his phone, and I got off early, so I thought I’d just swing by.”
Savoia inclined her head.
“Uhm… I fear his return is unlikely in the immediate future,” she said carefully.
Will shrugged.
“Got it. Can you tell him to call me when he gets the chance?”
“I shall ensure the message is delivered.”
“Thanks.”
Will gave one last curious glance at the ears and tail.
Then he turned and headed down the hall.
The door closed.
Savoia remained standing there for several seconds.
Then the adrenaline left all at once.
Her knees weakened.
The tail drooped.
She made it to a chair and sat down rather quickly.
“…This situation,” she said faintly, “is deteriorating at an alarming rate.”
The ears lowered slightly.
The tail curled around the side of the chair, as if seeking reassurance.
Yesterday, she had hoped things might stabilize.
Today, she had answered the door as someone else.
And tomorrow—
She closed her eyes.
“…I fear to speculate what tomorrow may bring.”
—
She woke slowly, unwilling to move.
Not out of fear this time.
Out of weight.
Everything felt heavy.
Not the blankets. Not the drills resting over her shoulders. Not even the tail curled somewhere behind her.
Her chest.
It pressed downward when she breathed. A deep, unfamiliar pull that shifted with every small movement.
Savoia blinked groggily, still half asleep, and tried to sit up.
The moment she did, something bounced.
Heavily.
Twice.
She froze.
Very slowly, she looked down.
Her mind went blank.
“…Good heavens.”
Yesterday, her figure had been feminine.
Today, it was… excessively so.
Her chest rose high from her torso, the curves full and rounded to a degree that seemed almost impossible. They pressed outward against the thin fabric of her nightgown, prominent enough that she could barely see past them.
She shifted slightly.
They moved.
The motion carried weight.
“…This is,” she whispered faintly, “most impractical.”
Carefully, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood.
The sudden change in balance nearly sent her forward.
She caught herself on the bedside table, heart racing.
“…Steady,” she murmured.
After a moment, her posture adjusted almost on its own. Shoulders back. Back straight. Hips shifting slightly to compensate.
The weight settled.
Strangely enough, once she stopped fighting it, her body seemed to understand exactly how to move.
She looked down again.
She could not see her feet.
Her stomach was also completely hidden from view.
“…This situation grows increasingly unreasonable.”
And then she noticed something else.
Her nightgown.
It wasn’t the loose, simple garment she remembered.
The fabric was smooth and layered, decorated with delicate embroidery along the neckline and sleeves. The material felt expensive beneath her fingers, structured in a way that suggested it had been tailored rather than bought.
“…This was also not present yesterday.”
A faint sense of alarm returned.
She hurried to her bedroom.
And stopped in the doorway.
Her wardrobe was larger.
Not just fuller.
Larger.
It stretched farther along the wall than she remembered, the doors polished and ornate.
She opened it slowly.
Inside were dresses.
Rows of them.
Layered silks. Structured bodices. Flowing skirts. Lace. Ribbons. Embroidery. Colors ranging from soft pastels to rich, regal tones.
Every single one looked elaborate.
Every single one looked expensive.
“…This is excessively excessive,” she said faintly.
She checked the lower shelves.
Shoes.
High heels.
All of them.
Not a single flat pair in sight.
For a long moment, she simply stood there, overwhelmed.
“This… is a great deal to process.”
Her mind searched for something grounding. Something familiar.
Something normal.
“I require a drink.”
Yes. That would help.
A cold beer. Something simple. Something ordinary.
The thought alone made her whole body shudder.
Her nose wrinkled.
“…Certainly not.”
The idea felt crude. Heavy and unrefined.
She paused.
“…A glass of wine,” she said slowly. “A proper one.”
That felt right.
Comforting.
Appropriate.
The realization that this preference had arrived without her choosing it was… concerning.
But the need remained.
She checked the kitchen.
Nothing.
Which was how, some time later, Savoia found herself standing near the door, fully dressed.
The gown she had chosen was structured and elegant, fitted carefully to her altered figure. The drills had been arranged neatly over her shoulders. Her posture had straightened without conscious effort.
She looked, unmistakably, like someone important.
She had never felt more out of place.
“This shall be a brief excursion,” she told herself. “I shall conduct the purchase and return immediately.”
The walk was not brief.
People stared.
Not casually.
Obviously.
Some smiled.
One person gave a low whistle as she passed.
Her ears twitched sharply at the sound.
“…Such behavior is wholly inappropriate,” she muttered under her breath.
Another voice called out, “Nice cosplay!”
She did not respond.
The dress did very little to stabilize her movement. Each step carried a noticeable weight and motion she was still learning to control, forcing her to move carefully, deliberately, with more composure than she felt.
“This must be concluded with haste.”
The store visit itself passed in a blur.
She chose a bottle without reading the label.
Paid.
Left.
And did not slow down until her door closed behind her.
Back home, she leaned against the counter and exhaled deeply.
“…At last.”
The first sip of wine was smooth.
Warm.
Comforting.
She closed her eyes, letting the tension drain from her shoulders.
The ears relaxed.
The tail settled.
Her breathing slowed.
“…This was an excellent decision.”
She took another sip.
Then another.
And as the quiet returned, a thought surfaced.
Her eyes opened slowly.
The dress she was wearing.
The neckline.
She looked down.
There was very little fabric there.
The bodice framed her figure elegantly, but the front dipped far lower than she remembered noticing earlier, leaving a wide, prominent opening.
Her ears slowly lowered.
“…I departed the residence,” she said faintly, “in this condition.”
Silence.
“…Surely,” she whispered, voice tightening, “that went unnoticed.”
She thought back.
The staring.
The whistle.
The comment.
Her face went bright red.
She covered her eyes with one hand.
“…I shall not be leaving this residence again,” she declared quietly.
The wine glass remained in her other hand.
She took another long sip.
Tomorrow, she suspected, was not going to be easier.
—
Savoia awoke to the persistent chiming of her phone.
At first, she intended to ignore it.
The sound was sharp, intrusive, entirely too modern for the quiet atmosphere she had grown used to within her apartment. She turned slightly beneath the blankets, hoping it would stop.
It did not.
A faint, insistent feeling tugged at her attention. It wasn't anxiety. Nor was it particularly urgent.
It felt more like obligation.
With a quiet sigh, she sat up and stretched.
Then she stopped.
The bed felt… unusually soft.
It had always been comfortable, but now it seemed to give beneath her in a way it hadn’t before, cushioning her weight more than expected.
She frowned and looked down.
And immediately understood why.
“…Oh dear.”
Her thighs were enormous.
Where yesterday they had been full and shapely, now they had expanded dramatically, thick and plush where they pressed together. Her hips had widened even further, and when she shifted, she could feel the mattress compress deeply beneath her.
She leaned slightly to one side.
The sensation followed.
Her eyes widened.
Her backside had grown as well.
Considerably.
Sitting felt less like resting on the bed and more like settling into a built-in cushion, soft and springy beneath her.
“…This is becoming so much,” she murmured faintly.
Carefully, she stood.
Her center of gravity shifted again, but this time, the adjustment felt… easier.
Yesterday, her posture had strained to compensate for the weight of her chest.
Now, the balance felt natural and much more stable.
She took a tentative step.
Then another.
Her hips moved differently.
She paused in the middle of the room.
“…That was not intentional.”
The motion had been smooth and measured. A gentle sway that seemed to happen on its own.
She took another step toward the doorway.
The movement repeated.
Savoia straightened immediately.
“I must conduct myself with restraint.”
The tail swayed behind her anyway.
The phone chimed again.
Right.
That had been the reason she’d gotten up.
She made her way to the kitchen, moving carefully, though the unintentional sway never quite stopped, and picked up the device.
An email notification.
The sender name made her blink.
Flufftail Hidden Society
She opened it.
Lady Savoia van Kyubii,
You are cordially invited to attend our private gathering today in the convention center. Your presence is both anticipated and most welcome. A backstage pass has been prepared in your name.
Savoia stared at the screen.
Her ears slowly tilted backward.
“…That is not possible.”
She had not told anyone her name.
Not properly.
Will had heard “Savoia,” perhaps, but certainly not this.
And yet the message continued, listing a location, a time, and a confirmation that her access credentials would be recognized upon arrival.
Her full title.
Her full name.
Written as though it had always belonged to her.
“…This grows increasingly suspicious,” she said quietly.
But beneath the unease, another feeling stirred.
Curiosity.
If someone knew this much…
If someone had sent this…
Then perhaps they also knew why any of this was happening.
Savoia swallowed.
“…Very well.”
Some time later, she stood before the mirror, fully dressed.
The gown she had chosen was elaborate even by her wardrobe’s standards, layered fabric, fitted bodice, structured sleeves. The drills had been arranged neatly. Her ears stood alert. Her tail fell in a long, soft arc behind her.
She looked like someone expected, yet she did not feel ready.
But she went anyway.
The walk to the venue took longer than she anticipated.
Partly due to her pace.
Partly due to the attention.
But halfway there, she noticed something unexpected.
She was not the only one.
Several figures ahead of her wore fox ears.
Others had tails, some clearly artificial, others impressively realistic. Bright colors. Elaborate costumes. Flowing sleeves and layered designs.
Kitsune cosplayers.
Relief washed through her.
“…I shall not be the most unusual presence after all.”
That relief faded slightly as she passed them.
Most outfits were playful or had clear anime inspiration.
Compared to them, her attire looked… very much over the top.
She was still overdressed.
Considerably so.
But at least she no longer stood alone.
The convention center came into view shortly afterward.
Large banners hung outside, decorated with stylized fox motifs and festival patterns. Groups of attendees gathered near the entrance, chatting, laughing, comparing costumes.
Savoia approached carefully, maintaining her composure.
She had barely crossed the threshold when someone stepped directly into her path.
A man… with Kitsune ears.
Well dressed, though far less elaborately than her.
He bowed slightly.
“Excuse me, miss,” he said politely. “Would you happen to possess a backstage pass?”
Savoia inclined her head.
“Indeed,” she replied calmly.
The man’s expression shifted immediately.
“Excellent. If you would be so kind as to follow me.”
He turned without waiting for confirmation.
Savoia hesitated only a moment.
Then, with a quiet breath, she followed him.
Her tail swayed behind her as the crowds gave way.
And for the first time since this all began—
She had the distinct feeling she was exactly where someone expected her to be.
So she followed as she was guided through a staff-only corridor, the sounds of the convention fading behind her with each step.
The man who had met her at the entrance walked ahead with quiet confidence, never once looking back to check if she was following. He simply assumed she would.
And she did.
They stopped at a private elevator.
He pressed a keycard against the panel. The doors opened immediately.
Savoia stepped inside.
The descent was smooth. Silent.
Too silent.
Her ears twitched uneasily.
“…I trust,” she said carefully, “that this destination is… appropriate.”
The man only gave a small, respectful nod.
“Everything has been prepared for you, Your Ladyship.”
The elevator continued downward.
Then the doors opened.
Savoia stepped out—
And stopped.
She stood on a balcony overlooking a vast underground hall.
For a moment, she could not process what she was seeing.
Along the balcony stood rows of figures.
Kitsune knights.
Tall, disciplined, and unmoving.
They wore armor—polished, ornate, ceremonial rather than practical. Each held their posture perfectly straight, weapons at their sides, tails still, ears forward.
Every one of them turned toward her.
And bowed.
To the sides of the balcony stood several women, kitsune like herself, dressed in elaborate gowns of silk and layered fabric. Their posture was elegant but deferential, hands folded, heads lowered as she stepped forward.
They bowed as well.
Savoia opened her mouth.
No words came.
Her escort walked past her and moved toward the edge of the balcony.
Only then did she follow his gaze.
And saw the hall below.
Hundreds.
No—
More than hundreds.
The massive chamber was filled wall to wall with kitsune. Different colors. Different styles. Some armored, some robed, some dressed for ceremony. All of them gathered below, looking upward.
The sound reached her a moment later.
Cheering.
Chanting.
A single word repeated again and again.
“Empress.”
Savoia took a small step back.
“…This must be some manner of misunderstanding.”
Her escort raised one hand.
Immediately, the entire hall fell silent.
The sudden stillness pressed in around her.
Then he spoke, his voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber.
“Rejoice!”
Every eye remained fixed upward.
“Your new Empress has arrived and stands ready to take her rightful place!”
Savoia’s ears flattened.
Her tail froze.
The man’s arm extended toward her.
“Raise your voices for the Empress of the Flufftail Hidden Society—”
His voice rang out, clear and absolute.
“Savoia van Kyubii!”
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then something inside her moved.
Not a decision.
Not a thought.
Just a feeling.
Her feet carried her forward.
She stepped to the edge of the balcony.
Her posture straightened.
Her shoulders settled.
One arm rose slowly, gracefully.
The motion felt unfamiliar.
And yet—
Perfect.
Below her, the hall erupted.
Cheers.
Voices.
Applause.
The sound rolled upward like a wave.
Savoia stood there, arm raised, the drills falling neatly over her shoulders, her tail swaying behind her with quiet composure.
From a distance, she looked every bit the ruler they believed her to be.
Up close—
Her heart was racing.
She did not remember walking away from the balcony.
She did not remember descending the stairs.
She did not remember entering the chamber.
The next clear moment came when she was seated.
On a throne.
It was wide, mercifully so, its structure clearly designed to accommodate her improved bottomheavy figure. The seat supported her comfortably, the back curved elegantly behind her.
There was even an opening at the rear, allowing her tail to rest naturally without being crushed.
It was, she had to admit, extremely comfortable.
That only made the situation worse.
Below the raised platform, rows upon rows of kitsune stood gathered, their heads lowered, their posture reverent.
No one besides her apparently questioned why she was here.
Savoia rested her hands carefully on the armrests.
Her ears twitched once.
Her tail shifted.
Then she spoke, her voice quiet, refined, and deeply bewildered.
“…Pray inform me.”
She looked out over the sea of bowed figures.
“How, in the name of all reason and propriety… did my circumstances come to this!?”