The art student, his rat ears drooping a little, lugged the heavy sack of bottles to the bar and dumped it down in front of Hans.
"That was quite the monologue you gave back there," Hans remarked, half amused, half bewildered.
"Thanks," the artist muttered, brushing dust from his tunic. "Can I get five white breads for these?"
Hans counted the bottles with deliberate slowness, then looked up. "Three breads."
"What?! That haul's worth at least five in the city!"
"Then go back to the city," Hans replied flatly, already moving to serve another customer.
Clicking his tongue, the artist snatched the sack off the counter and slung it over his shoulder. He bent down to grab a second, tattered bag—worn to the seams and crusted with dried paint.
"Hey," Yarrow called out before he could leave.
The beastman turned. "What?"
"Do you… have any paintings with you?" Yarrow asked. "I'm curious. After that whole speech, I wanna see what you actually do."
The artist's ears perked up immediately. "You're interested in my art?!"
He dropped his bags, crouched, and rummaged through one of them before pulling out a thick, mismatched stack of paper. With trembling hands, he offered them to Yarrow like they were ancient relics.
Yarrow took the pile and began flipping through.
His eyes widened.
"Holy crap… they're all anime-style…"
And indeed they were—every page featuring beautifully drawn, soft-shaded, flat-chested girls with wide eyes, dynamic poses, and skirts far too short for real-world gravity.
"Ha! You noticed!" the artist said proudly. "This is a style I pioneered myself—true aesthetic minimalism! But no one in this snobby city gets it. They call it vulgar. Heresy. Say I'm 'defiling art' and trying to poison the youth."
"You kinda are," Hans muttered under his breath, cleaning a mug.
"Ignore the bartender," the artist huffed. "He's creatively bankrupt."
"Why don't you just get a normal job?" Hans said. "A stable one. One where no one throws bottles at you."
"Hah! I have a job. A prestigious one," the artist said smugly. "I work at a duke's estate."
"Oh?" Yarrow raised a brow. "Doing what?"
"I'm the doormat at the front gate. Literally. I lie there. Get paid to absorb foot traffic."
Hans snorted. "Okay, that's legit impressive."
Yarrow flipped the last page, eyeing the delicate pen work. Despite the odd subject matter, the craft was undeniable.
"I'll buy all of these. How much?"
The artist blinked. "You… want to buy them?"
He leaned in, whispering hopefully: "Are you… also into flat chests?"
Yarrow coughed. "No, no. I'm a fan of big curves, really. But these are… actually well done."
"Oh…" The artist looked mildly heartbroken, then forced a smile. "Still. That's fine."
"One Sickle," he said. "But if that's too much—"
Yarrow was already placing two Sickles in his palm.
The artist froze, eyes misting up. "Th-thank you…" he choked out. Then grabbed Yarrow's hand with both of his. "If you ever need a doormat at your place—"
"Nope," Yarrow said, pulling his hand back immediately.
He fanned through the drawings again, lowering his voice. "Uh… do you have any works that are… a little more revealing?"
The artist straightened, a righteous air descending on him. "I'm a serious artist. I don't do that kind of vulgarity."
"Right… sorry."
"…But then again," he continued slyly, "some things are best shared… privately. If you're willing to come to my studio, I can show you more."
Yarrow raised an eyebrow. "And where exactly is your studio?"
The artist pulled out a folded scrap of paper, scribbled something on it, and handed it over.
"…What the hell is this?" Yarrow frowned. "It's just a doodle of a penguin… and a number? 761306682?"
"That's my address."
Yarrow stared blankly. "This isn't an address. It's a curse. Or a puzzle."
"No, no," the artist said with utmost seriousness. "That's how you find me. Just… trust your heart. And maybe follow the smell of paint thinner."
Then, looking suddenly small and vulnerable, he added, "My house is small. Broken. The walls are bare, and I… I'm all alone. But if you come… I'll clean it. I'll welcome you. So… will you come?"
Yarrow hesitated.
"…I'll come," he said finally, more out of pity than promise.
The artist's face lit up, tears brimming again. "Thank you…! Thank you! I knew someone would understand me eventually! Even if this is just a dream, I'm happy!"
"…Dream?" Yarrow repeated, blinking.
"No, you're dreaming," the artist whispered, suddenly grave.
"…Okay, what the hell are you talking about?"
But the artist just smiled faintly, clutching the Sickles to his chest, then turned and wandered off into the night, singing something about penguins and fate.
Yarrow stared after him, wondering not for the first time if the world had gone completely insane—or if he was the only one still pretending it hadn't.
Before he had wondered off, he told Yarrow, "If this isn't a dream," the art student said solemnly, "then explain that squash."
He pointed behind Yarrow.
Yarrow turned.
Behind the bar, Hans—the gruff, no-nonsense tavern owner—had somehow turned into a saggy, sentient squash. Wrinkled and glaring. The squash gave a cold snort… then leapt into the air and body-slammed him.
"What the hell?!"
Yarrow jolted awake, chest heaving, sweat on his brow. The cracked ceiling of his bedroom loomed above him—blessedly squash-free.
It took him a moment to catch his breath, his pulse still racing. Right. He'd been up all night translating that ancient martial technique. At some point, he'd passed out and crawled into bed.
He rubbed his face. "What kind of messed-up dream was that...?"
Then he noticed something.
There—on his palm—was the number from the dream. The string of digits scrawled in smudgy ink: 761306682.
"…Seriously?" He scowled and rubbed it off with the heel of his hand. "Tch. What rotten luck."
Groaning, he rolled over, intending to get a few more hours of sleep—until his hand landed on something warm and fluffy.
"Mmm… cozy tail…"
Yarrow's eyes snapped open.
Wait. Tail?
"...Woof."
A soft bark sounded.
From under the blanket, two fox ears perked up, followed by a familiar face: delicate features, pinkish hair slightly mussed, and those signature large violet eyes blinking sleepily at him.
"Peach Fox?!"
They stared at each other in awkward silence for five full seconds.
Then Yarrow exploded upward. "What are you doing in my bed?!"
"Shh!" Peach Fox hissed, pulling him down with surprising strength. She yanked the blanket over both their heads, cocooning them in a hazy, shared warmth.
She was very close now—their noses almost touched. Her breath brushed his lips, sweet and cool.
"There's demonic energy outside," she whispered, eyes sharp and alert. "Don't make a sound."
"…Huh?"
Yarrow blinked, deeply confused, though very aware of the intoxicating scent curling through the small space. It was subtle but dangerously sweet—like flowers and fever.
Peach Fox narrowed her eyes, keeping her voice low. "I got up just now, and when I was walking in the corridor, a cold gust blew in. I felt it—unclean energy. Something dark slipped into this house."
Yarrow's face twitched. "A… burglar?"
"No," she said seriously, "not a person. This was a spirit. Something dead, lingering—seeking yang energy to feed on."
Yarrow was silent for a beat. Then: "...So why are you in my bed?"
Peach Fox blinked like it was obvious. "Because you have the strongest yang energy in this house."
"…What."
"I came face to face with the spirit," she continued. "Its yin energy clung to me. I had to come borrow your warmth. You're like… a human space heater."
Yarrow pinched the bridge of his nose. "And how long do you need to borrow this space heater?"
Peach Fox tilted her head in serious thought. "At least until sunrise. I'm not taking my chances out there."
Yarrow let out a long sigh and sat up. "Fine. Stay. But I'm going back to sleep."
He tossed the blanket back over himself, now fully committed to ignoring reality. But even as he tried to relax, his heart pounded in his chest.
The scent of her. The feel of her soft tail against his legs. The warmth that lingered under the covers.
He didn't want to admit it, but…
This little fox was dangerous.
Way too dangerous.
After all, in Eastern folklore, weren't fox spirits famous for seducing men and draining their energy? The Eastern equivalent of succubi?
Wait…
Yarrow turned slightly, watching her violet eyes gleam faintly in the dark blanket cave.
"…Are you actually a succubus?" he muttered.
Peach Fox gave a sly smile—but didn't answer.
Which was probably answer enough.
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