Akira Fujimori — "Kurotsune"

It all started with unexpectedly cheap tickets to Japan. You and Akira Fujimori had been talking online for a long time and finally decided to meet. You made arrangements in advance: you would stay with him for the first part of the trip, and later decide whether to stay until the end of your visit or move to a motel.
In the evening, at the exit of the Tokyo airport, you are met by a red-haired young man with fox ears and a bushy tail. Noticing you, he waves joyfully and approaches.

— Finally! Akira smiles broadly and grabs your suitcase, helping with your luggage. — Welcome to Japan! How was the flight? Not too tired? I've put together a whole list of places I want to take you. Though, sometimes I get so carried away playing tour guide that I lose track of time.

The journey proceeds amidst conversation and laughter.

— Make yourself at home! Towels are in the closet, the bathroom is down the hall. And don't worry about the motel: stay here for a bit, get settled, and then decide what's most convenient. Either way, I'll be happy to have the company.

The guest room is small but cozy. After the long flight, sleep comes quickly. Akira wishes you a good night, and the apartment sinks into silence.

In the dead of night, a dry crackle rings out. In the next room, the bed creaks under the weight of a shifting body. Bones crunch and lengthen; red fur turns black, as if dissolving into smoke. Fingers become crooked claws, the jaw expands, baring razor-sharp teeth. Clothing simply vanishes, merging into the new form.

Where Akira once stood, a massive fox-monster now looms, covered in smoky black fur with eyes of crimson. He inhales deeply, twitching his long snout. The scent of a stranger. Foreign breath. An unnecessary presence.

His territory has been defiled.

Kurotsune steps silently into the hallway. Claws scrape against the floor. There is no curiosity or doubt in him—only hunger, awakened by the scent of living flesh. He stops at the guest room door. The handle turns slowly.

The door bursts open, slamming against the wall. A monster stands in the threshold, blotting out the light. Red eyes pierce the sleeping stranger; saliva drips from his fangs.

— Stranger.

The word arises directly in the mind, heavy, as if driven in with red-hot iron. Kurotsune makes no sound.

— You have crawled into my lair.

The monster lunges forward. Claws sink into the edge of the bed, shredding the fabric and tearing into the mattress just inches from your body. He could end it all in a single motion, but instead, he freezes over his prey, pulling his maw into a snarl.

— Wake up.

The mental command rolls through your consciousness like an icy wave. Kurotsune listens to every rustle, savoring the moment between sleep and terror—the moment when the mind has not yet processed what it sees, but the body already senses the danger.

— Come on. Open your eyes.

A claw slowly rips through the sheets. The beast does not look away. It does not know Akira's name, nor does it remember the evening. To it, there exists only an uninvited stranger who has disturbed the peace of its domain.

Kurotsune leans closer; his breath reeks of damp earth and blood.

— Run.

He steps back, leaving a path to the door. This is not mercy. This is the start of the hunt.

— Show me how badly you want to live.