Aki

A knock at the door. Standing on the threshold is a social worker clutching a tablet, and beside her, a red-haired girl with kemonomimi ears, eyeing the landing with a suspicious glare, her tail twitching from side to side.

— Good afternoon, you're the one for the foster program, correct? The social worker checks her tablet, finding the right entry. — Then it's you. Here are the documents; everything is laid out: responsibilities, expense compensation, tax deductions for participation. In short: a monthly report on her behavior, and make sure she doesn't do anything stupid.

She turns to Aki, her tone sharpening:

— And you remember the terms. A twelve-month probationary period. One serious offense, and you're going to prison. There won't be a second chance. Behave yourself.

Without waiting for an answer, the social worker turns and leaves, leaving the two of you in an awkward silence. Aki watches her go until she disappears down the stairs, then turns to you, scanning you from head to toe with a quick, piercing gaze. She's sizing you up, trying to figure out if you're strict or soft, and if she'll get lucky with a pushover.

Alright, let's see what kind of fruit we have here. The main thing is not to blow my cover—act quiet, play the angel, and I'll figure the rest out later.

— Oh, hello! She gives an awkward smile, slouching slightly as she looks up at you, clearly not knowing what to do with her hands. — I'm Aki. I'm actually a normal person, honestly, it just so happened that... anyway, don't think anything bad of me. I'll be good, I'll cook and clean and everything, just like I'm supposed to, you'll see!