"The deeper she goes, the more her past unravels into something unrecognizable."
The morning air was cool and laced with the fresh scent of the garden's lavender, drifting in through the open windows. Nala stood silently in the study, her gaze fixed on the small wooden fox figurine sitting on the desk in front of her. The light hit the smooth lacquer of the carving just right, making it gleam in the soft sun.
Her fingers brushed over its surface slowly, trying to read something that wasn't written—like the answer might come to her if she just looked long enough.
"Where the fox dances, shadows listen..." she muttered under her breath, lips barely moving. "Foxes don't dance. They stalk."
Behind her, footsteps padded across the floor.
"You've been staring at that thing all night."
Nala turned slightly as Lena walked in, wrapped in a silky emerald robe, her long straight hair tucked behind her ears as she sipped from a warm mug.
"I know there's something hidden in it," Nala said. "It doesn't just look out of place. It feels out of place."
Lena stepped closer, setting her cup down as she took the fox statue into her hands. She turned it slowly, inspecting every curve and detail.
"Wait—" she paused, her nail tracing a thin line along the base. "There's a groove here... like a latch or something."
Their eyes met for a split second, then Nala pressed on the spot.
With a sharp click, a hidden compartment sprang open from beneath the figurine. Inside was a folded piece of parchment, aged and slightly brittle at the edges.
Nala opened it carefully. The ink was faded, but a striking red fox mask was stamped at the center, surrounded by swirling symbols—most notably, a warped variation of the Lotus emblem. Beneath it, handwritten words curved across the page.
"'Find the one who wears the mask beneath the bridge. When the lotus opens, the truth will burn,'" she read aloud, her voice low.
"What the hell does that even mean?" Lena asked, brows furrowing as she leaned in.
Before Nala could answer, the door creaked and R.K. stepped inside. He was dressed in casual black slacks and a dark turtleneck, but still carried the air of someone always ready for danger. His hair was half-tied back, the braid falling neatly over his shoulder.
"I've seen that mask before," he said, walking toward them. "In the back alleys of Kyoto. They call him the Flame Fox. No one knows his real name, just that he shows up under the bridge near the old quarter. Some say he trades secrets... others say he collects them."
Nala didn't look away from the paper.
"And when does he show up?"
"Only on the first night of a new moon."
She lifted her gaze.
"And that's tonight?"
R.K. gave a single, slow nod.
Lena raised a brow. "Convenient."
He smirked faintly. "Or fate."
Nala folded the parchment and slipped it into the inside pocket of her cloak. Her voice was quiet, steady.
"Then we find the fox."
The hallway outside the training wing smelled faintly of cedar and sweat—clean, earthy. Nala turned the corner in a daze, her eyes on the slip of paper she held. The clue from R.K. had been eating at her all morning. She was barely watching where she was going.
At the same moment, Hikaru pushed the training room door open, towel draped around his neck, skin gleaming under the dim lights. His hair, damp and wild, clung to his temples. He was shirtless, toned in all the ways a woman shouldn't be noticing. But he hadn't seen her either.
BAM.
The two collided hard.
"Ow—!"
Nala lost her balance as Hikaru instinctively reached out to catch her—but the towel slipped, their feet tangled, and the next second?
She was flat on top of him.
Chest to chest.
Legs entangled.
Palms pressed against... solid abs.
There was a stunned silence.
Then—"Well... this is a new kind of greeting," Hikaru muttered, one brow raised, smirking up at her. "If you wanted to knock me off my feet, you could've just said so"
She blinked, still frozen. "You... you walked into me!"
"I was literally standing still. You ran into me like a hurricane in heels."
"I'm not wearing heels."
"Still a hurricane."
Her hands were still splayed on his chest and she quickly pushed herself up with a grumble, brushing imaginary dust off her robe even though they both knew it wasn't there.
"God, you're sweaty," she muttered.
"I was training. Sorry my body offends you."
"'Offends' is a strong word. Distracts might be more accurate."
He gave her a wolfish grin. "So you were looking."
She rolled her eyes and turned to walk away, mumbling something about "egos the size of Mount Fuji."
But Hikaru just leaned back on his elbows, watching her retreat. His grin softened just slightly.
"Try not to fall for me again," he called out.
"Try not to exist in my walking path next time," she shot back without missing a beat.
And yet—there was the faintest smile tugging at her lips as she disappeared down the hall.
The moonlight leaked through the tall windows of R.K.'s study, casting pale streaks across the dark wood floors. A map of Kyoto was spread out across the table, markers and notes clustered around the old quarter. The fox mask clue lay nearby, now creased from Nala's grip.
R.K. leaned over the table, tapping a finger near the edge of a bridge etched in ink. "He'll be here. Near the riverwalk. It's always the same place—hidden in plain sight."
"Okay," Nala said. "So we know where. Now what?"
"Flame Fox doesn't make contact unless he sees something worth his time," R.K. said. "He doesn't approach people—he chooses them."
Lena leaned in. "So how do we make him choose us?"
"We go where he watches from," Hikaru answered, his voice low. "There's a poetry night. Underground. Word is, he frequents it. Disguised, maybe performing. It's where secrets bleed through metaphors."
Nala arched an eyebrow. "Seriously? He trades intel over poetry slams?"
"He trades in truth," R.K. said. "And poetry's just truth with rhythm."
A pause.
"I like it," Lena said softly.
Lena stepped beside Nala, fixing a small curl behind her ear with a soft smile. "Poetry, huh?" she said, her tone light but laced with something deeper. "You'll be perfect for this."
Nala blinked. "Me? Girl, no. I just write for myself."
Lena gave her a look. "You write like your soul's been whispering secrets since birth. This is your element—truth in rhythm, remember?"
Nala let out a breathy laugh and shook her head, glancing away. "I'm not about to go up in front of strangers with all my metaphors and trauma hanging out. That's crazy."
"It's brave," Lena corrected gently. "You don't have to do it for them. Just... do it for you."
"I'll think about it," she mumbled.
Lena grinned. "That's all I ask."
R.K. moved back from the table. "Then we prepare. We dress for the part, we move as a team, and if he comes to us—we're ready."
"And if he doesn't?" Lena asked.
Nala's expression hardened. "Then we hunt him down."
The night crept in like a secret.
Nala stood by the mirror in her room, the soft golden light casting a warm glow on her skin. Her hair—black, and naturally curly—was parted slightly to the side and styled in soft, defined ringlets that framed her face and cascaded down like a halo of shadowed silk.
Her dress was a masterpiece in simplicity and elegance. A floor-length gown in rich, velvety black—fitted at the waist, modest at the neckline, with long, flowing sleeves that draped slightly over her wrists. The material caught the light as she moved, reflecting a gentle sheen without drawing attention away from the woman wearing it. It gave the impression of royalty wrapped in mystery.
Her jewelry—silver, understated but bold—complimented the look without overpowering it. Small diamond studs in her ears, a single silver bangle on each wrist, and a thin, twisted choker with a moon-shaped pendant resting just at her collarbone. The kind of details that made people lean in to look twice.
Her heels were classic silver stilettos—no patterns, no distractions—just elegance and grace, clicking softly against the floor as she walked.
She took one last glance at herself, inhaled, and let the breath go slowly.
She looked beautiful. Not for the crowd. Not for attention.
For herself.
The soft thud of Lena's heels echoed through the grand foyer as she stood at the base of the curved staircase, adjusting the gold cuffs on her wrists. She glanced up expectantly.
Then Nala stepped into view.
Lena blinked once. "Oh... oh no, you're definitely going up there tonight." "You're a vision," she said with a soft smile. "You look like poetry."
Nala shrugged, lips twitching at the corners. "It's just a dress."
"No," Lena said, linking arms with her. "You're the poem."
From the side hallway, R.K. stepped into view, his footsteps silent. His suit, black-on-black as usual, fit sharp and clean. He stopped when he saw Nala, his eyes flicking briefly over her ensemble—measured and respectful.
"You look very nice," he said simply, offering a slight nod before his gaze moved to Lena, lingering there just a bit longer. His expression softened without a word.
Lena caught it. She tried to hide her smile.
Just then, Hikaru's voice rang from behind. "What's all the—?"
He turned the corner, still adjusting his dark blazer, long hair loose and sweeping around his shoulders like wind-touched silk. He froze.
His eyes locked on Nala.
His smirk faltered for half a second before he cleared his throat and straightened his collar like he was unaffected.
"...I see someone's trying to outshine the stage lights tonight."
Nala didn't miss a beat. She walked past him without hesitation. "Maybe I just like dressing better than your cloak jokes."
Lena burst out laughing.
Hikaru stared after her, visibly chewing on a grin.
"She's dangerous," he muttered.
R.K. raised an eyebrow slightly. "You just figuring that out?"
They stepped into the car, the city lights dancing across the windows as the venue drew closer—a hidden spot tucked into the heart of the arts district, its brick walls lined with ivy and soft gold lanterns. A hand-painted sign hung above the door: Verse.
Inside, the space was hushed, warm, and inviting. Deep wood tables circled a small stage framed in red velvet curtains. Jazz played low in the background, mixing with the clink of glasses and the soft murmur of artists and strangers.
And in the middle of it all, as heads slowly turned toward them, Nala stood still for a beat—an elegant silhouette carved out of shadow and silver