As Iri runs, we visit somewhere new. See Part I and Part II.
Content warning: violence, blood, degradation.

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Like other foxes, the nine-tails was born with only one tail. Foxes still tell different versions of what followed. In every telling, he was once small enough to be held.


A soft kit rolled on a human’s lap, his single, puffy tail wiggling as hands rubbed his belly. He no longer slept beside his mother; he slept on warm laps instead — fed and handled and watched. He was given his own pillow and a stuffed toy.

One day, the humans slipped a small collar around his neck. A name tag dangled from it. Belonging.

A leash was snapped on, and he practiced following his human in a careful circle indoors. He was getting very good at it. He was a clever kit.

The next day, they finally took him outside. Scents traveled in the wind, lighting memories that felt familiar, but distant. The grass was soft beneath his paws, the rocks difficult to tread.

He bounded ahead of his human, leash slack, exploring every scent along the ground with his nose. Every turn felt like freedom.

They were still learning the path when the dog appeared.

It lunged with the full weight of its body, a deep growl projecting from its chest as its sharp teeth snapped close. The kit yelped and froze, pressing himself against his human’s legs. He felt the fangs catch only fur.

A stranger shouted and tugged the dog’s leash tight.

“Hold him!” the stranger screamed. “Hold that fox! He’s going to hurt my dog!”

The kit’s human obeyed, locking a hand around his collar. He whimpered, searching the faces above him for the care he knew. Curious strangers pointed and whispered.


It’s rumored this was when he learned, without anyone saying it, which bodies were meant to be protected.


In time, routine returned — play, food, warm hands. His heart softened again. As he grew, the collar no longer moved the way it once had. He learned its shape by the places it stopped him.

The humans noticed. They meant to fix it.

The kit grew quieter and more careful. Wiser, and kinder. Kind enough to forgive small betrayals and to love within their limits.

When the second tail began to form, the humans grew uneasy. They watched him more closely. They kept him nearer. They stopped taking him beyond the threshold of the house.

When the tail was complete, he brought himself to them to show that it was nothing to fear. That growth was not a threat. They had loved him when he was small enough to explain.

A human screamed.

Something shattered. Blood marked the floor where he tried to gather the pieces.

“Monster,” they said. “It has two tails.”

He whimpered and spun in a small circle. It was him, the fox they loved, with his collar and his tag. He yipped, the same yip.

The leash went on again, but not for a walk.

They led him down the stairs.

The room was cool and dark, lined with bottles that smelled of age and rot. Once the leash was unclasped, the door closed softly behind him. A latch slid into place.

They told each other it was only until they understood what he was becoming.

He lay down where the light thinned to nothing. He did not scratch at the door. He did not cry out.

He believed they would return.

Day by day, he waited by the door. He smelled their food, heard their laughs, and sensed their wholeness without him.


The stains of his sorrow never faded, though foxes would later assume he was always born with those facial markings. Even in sadness, he forgave them for not understanding. A third tail grew.


They came back down the stairs quietly.

Their voices were low and steady. They brought no food. They brought what they needed.

He rose when the door opened. He did not spin this time. He did not yip.

He understood.

When the first hand reached for him, something in him hardened into refusal.

The room erupted.

The cellar that had held him did not hold.

When it was over, blood marked the stone, and the house above stood silent.

The nine-tailed fox’s human family bore the cost of his fourth tail.