July 29th, 2026
At Foxxy's house - 8 PM
The grandfather clock in the corner chimed exactly at 8:00 p.m.
Ian sat on the plush couch of the modern, pristine living room inside Foxxy's luxurious home.
His fingers were fidgeting, his breath shallow, and his mind was racing. The news segment from earlier still echoed in his thoughts. Mr. Kosuke was dead. Stabbed ten times. A witness described the killer—someone tall, unkempt, foreign-looking. That was him. Or at least, someone who could easily be mistaken for him.
Just then, the main door opened, and a soft click of heels echoed through the marble floor. Ian straightened up immediately.
Foxxy entered the room, her presence like a whisper of divinity. Draped in an elegant white trench coat and still donning her mysterious silver fox mask, she radiated both glamour and enigma. Without a word, she placed a takeout bag from a luxury American restaurant on the glass dining table. The smell was mouthwatering, yet Ian felt a pit deepen in his stomach.
"I brought dinner," she said calmly, her voice as silky and precise as a violin string.
Ian swallowed hard. "Thank you..."
She gestured toward the table. Ian took his seat slowly. Foxxy took the opposite chair, legs crossed, and leaned back ever so slightly, observing him with that unreadable stare from behind the silver mask.
The food was plated immaculately—steak, truffle mashed potatoes, asparagus spears, and imported wine. A meal meant for celebration. But Ian didn't touch it. He sat there, his hands trembling lightly under the table.
Foxxy's voice cut the silence. "You're not eating."
Ian tried to play it off, but his paranoia gripped him like a noose tightening by the second. "I guess... I'm not that hungry."
"Something's wrong," she stated. Not asked. Stated.
Ian blinked, his mind sputtering to maintain composure. "No, uhm...no, there's nothing..."
Ian stopped muttering. Silence shrouded both of them.
Then, a minuted passed...
She leaned forward slightly, her voice dipping lower. "I already watched the news."
Ian froze. He could feel his heartbeat in his ears. He didn't respond, couldn't respond.
"Care to explain that?" she asked calmly, as if asking about the weather.
He stared down at his untouched meal. Sweat glistened on his brow. His lips parted, but the words refused to form. "I... I don't know what happened. I just saw it on TV too, I..."
Foxxy said nothing. Her silence stretched, pressing against Ian's chest.
"It wasn't me," he finally whispered.
"I swear to God, it wasn't me." Ian stated.
Still, Foxxy didn't answer immediately. When she finally did, her tone was unchanged. "Don't worry. I'll fix it."
Ian looked up sharply. "What?"
Foxxy rose from her seat and walked slowly toward the door.
"What do you mean 'fix it'? How? Why?" Ian asked, his voice rising with disbelief and desperation.
She paused near the exit and turned to face him again. "As I said last night... those questions? You'll be able to answer them with yourself."
Ian stared. It didn't make sense. None of this made sense.
"Eat those," she nodded toward the food. "You're going to need your strength."
Her hand touched the doorknob, but she turned one last time, her voice dropping into something darker, more serious.
"Don't leave this house."
"Why?"
"You're wanted."
She left without another word. The lock clicked behind her.
Ian remained seated, paralyzed in his chair. The room felt colder. He looked at the food again, his stomach turning.
A part of him wanted to scream, to cry, to run out of this house and disappear into the Tokyo skyline. Another part knew Foxxy wasn't bluffing.
He stood up, moved to the large window, and parted the curtains.
Outside, two bodyguards stood at opposite ends of the gate. One of them caught Ian's eye and gave a small nod, as if to say, Yes, we're watching.
Ian backed away slowly. He had no freedom. Not anymore. And worst of all—he had no idea what Foxxy was planning.
He sat back on the couch, rubbing his face with his hands. The silence in the house was oppressive, heavy with expectation.
Who was she?
Why him?
Why now?
The truffle mashed potatoes were growing cold on the table, just like the comfort Ian once knew.
Somewhere far away, a storm was brewing. But for Ian, it had already begun.
And there was no turning back.
Not anymore.