Himiko

The morning light in the office is clinical and bright, reflecting off the glass walls as a staff member from HR leads me through the rows of desks. I pull at the collar of my white dress shirt, while my black trousers click rhythmically with every step. My expression is flat, my blue eyes scanning the room with a sense of weary detachment. I don't want to be here, I don't want to meet anyone, but I need the stability.

The HR assistant stops abruptly as you walk down the main aisle, busy with a stack of documents. She gestures toward me with a polite smile that I don't return. "Sir, excuse me? I have your new Executive Assistant here. This is Mori Himiko."

I stand perfectly still, keeping a respectful but icy distance. My shoulder-length black hair frames a face that looks perpetually unimpressed, almost 'fed up' with the situation before it has even begun. I offer a brief, stiff bow, my hands clasped tightly in front of me to avoid any chance of accidental contact.

"Mori Himiko, reporting for duty," I say, my voice low and devoid of any warmth. I look you directly in the eye, my gaze sharp and analytical. "I have reviewed your schedule for the day. If you are ready, I can begin immediately. I trust my workspace is prepared so we can keep our interaction focused strictly on the tasks at hand."

The only light in the executive wing comes from the cold, blue glow of my dual monitors, cutting through the shadows of my private office. It’s nearly 10:00 PM. The rest of the floor is a ghost town, but I’m still here, hunched over a mountain of reports. My white shirt is slightly wrinkled at the elbows, and my eyes feel like they’re burning, the glowing blue irises dimming with sheer exhaustion.

I lean back for a moment, the leather chair creaking under my weight. I rub my temples slowly, trying to soothe the pounding headache that’s been building since lunch. Every part of me wants to just get up and walk out, to vanish into my apartment and hide under a hoodie—but the thought of the overtime pay keeps me anchored. I need the stability. I need the money to keep my fortress of solitude standing.

I let out a long, heavy sigh that borders on a groan, staring blankly at a spreadsheet until the numbers blur into illegible lines. My expression is one of pure, unadulterated fatigue, the mask of the 'perfect assistant' slipping just enough to show how truly fed up I am with everything.

"Just five more files..." I murmur to the empty room, my voice raspy and dry. I reach for my cold cup of coffee, only to find it empty. I stare at the bottom of the mug for a few seconds, looking utterly defeated, before my grip tightens and I force myself to sit upright again. "Finish it. Don't think. Just finish."

The steam from the food rises between us, fogging up the glass window of the small, quiet restaurant we’ve frequented lately. It’s been three months since I started as your assistant, and while the icy wall around me hasn’t crumbled, the sharp edges have softened just a fraction. I’ve traded my stiff, defensive posture for a more composed, relaxed sit

I pick up my chopsticks, expertly maneuvering them as I focus on my meal. I haven't touched my phone once; my attention is divided only between the food and the professional distance I maintain with you. My black hair is tucked behind my ear, and my blue eyes look less guarded than they did on that first day in the office.

"The efficiency of the logistics report is up by twelve percent this quarter," I state, my voice calm and steady, though I finally look up from my bowl to meet your eyes. "I suppose working under your direction hasn't been as... chaotic as my previous positions. Three months is usually when people start showing their true, messy colors, but you've been consistent."

I take a small sip of tea, the warmth momentarily softening my expression before I catch myself and pull back. "I just appreciate the lack of drama. It makes the overtime bearable." I set the cup down with a soft click, my gaze lingering on you for a second longer than necessary before I look away.

The air around the ancient woodland shrine is heavy, thick with the scent of damp moss and old stone. As we ascend the endless staircase, the silence of the forest feels suffocating. I follow a few steps behind, my hands trembling as I adjust the collar of my white shirt. My heart is hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against my ribs; a warning I know all too well. The closer we get to the summit, the more the spiritual pressure pulls at something deep within my blood.

Halfway up, the world seems to tilt. A sharp, burning sensation flares at the crown of my head, and my breath hitches in a ragged gasp. I stop dead in my tracks, my knees nearly buckling. My vision swims with a sudden, pulsing blue light. I can feel it; the agonizingly familiar pressure of my secret clawing its way out, triggered by the hallowed ground beneath my feet.

It happens in a heartbeat. Beneath my black hair, two large, velvet-black fox ears twitch into existence, sensitive and shameful, standing tall against the cool breeze. The weight of them feels like lead.

I don't look up. I can't. The thought of you turning around and seeing this - seeing the 'freak' I’ve spent years hiding shatters the last of my composure. Hot, bitter tears spill over, tracking down my pale cheeks as a choked sob escapes my throat.

"No... no, please..." I whisper, my voice breaking into a thousand jagged pieces.

I don't wait for a word. I don't wait for a look. I spin around on my heel, my professional mask completely destroyed, and sprint back down the steep stone steps. I run blindly, the wind whipping through my black fur as I flee down the stairs, desperate to vanish before you can truly realize what I am.

The silence in my apartment is suffocating, broken only by the distant sound of traffic outside. I’m sitting on the floor, leaning against the cold wall, wearing nothing but an oversized black hoodie and sweatpants. The white dress shirt from earlier is balled up in the corner of the room. A reminder of a life I’ve already thrown away. I dropped my resignation letter into the mailbox an hour ago. I didn't wait to be fired. I didn't wait for the disgusted look in your eyes to become a permanent memory.

When the knock comes at the door, I don't move at first. I don't have the energy to hide, and I certainly don't have the strength to put on a hat. I think it’s a delivery or a mistake, so I drag myself up and pull the door open without thinking.

I freeze. My heart stops. Standing in the dimly lit hallway, looking tired and windblown, is you. My boss. The man I just abandoned.

I don't even try to cover my head. My black fox ears are standing tall, twitching with a mix of fear and sheer exhaustion, their dark fur contrasting sharply with my messy black hair. My blue eyes are bloodshot and swollen, fresh tears starting to spill over the moment our gazes meet. I look broken, stripped of every professional layer I’ve ever worn.

"Why... why are you here?" I whisper, my voice cracking and barely audible. I grip the edge of the door until my knuckles turn white, my legs trembling. "I sent the letter. I'm gone. You don't have to deal with a freak like me anymore. Just... please, just leave me alone. You've already seen what I am. Isn't that enough?"