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Chapter Text

I stood on my balcony, the last stub of a cigarette pinched between my thumb and forefinger, the glowing ember casting an eerie light on my contemplative expression.

The night was unnaturally still, the only sound the occasional rustle of leaves dancing with the whims of the breeze.

My thoughts wandered to Alice, a friend I hadn't seen in what felt like an eternity. Her texts grew more sporadic, her emotions less cheerful. Yet, she remained a persistent presence in my mind, a silent companion to my solitude.

She has been struggling with something, that much was clear, but she never confided in me. The more I thought about it, the more my curiosity grew into a thorny vine, wrapping around the quiet moments of my life.

A sudden noise from inside the house snapped me out of my daze. The door slammed open, and the clatter of shattered glass echoed through the stillness. Panic shot through me like a bolt of lightning, and I froze, the cigarette dropping to the concrete, forgotten.

The shadow of a figure darted through my living room, and the sharp scent of fear began to replace the calming smoke. Instinct took over, and I retreated into the corner of the balcony, my heart hammering in my chest like a caged animal desperate to escape.

I heard the heavy footsteps of the intruder approaching, each step a drumbeat of dread. I clutched the ashtray, feeling the cold metal dig into my palm. The only weapon within reach, it was a feeble defense against the unknown threat.

The figure emerged from the shadows, a tall silhouette with a stocking over his head. The absurdity of the situation hit me, and for a moment, I almost laughed. But the glint of a knife in his hand wiped the smile from my face.

"What do you want?" I managed to croak out, trying to sound more confident than I felt.

The intruder didn't reply. He simply stared at me, his eyes gleaming through the holes in the stocking. His silence was more unnerving than any demand could have been.

In a burst of adrenaline, I swung the ashtray at his head. It connected with a satisfying crack, and he stumbled back, dropping the knife. The moment was mine, and I didn't waste it. I lunged forward, attempting to kick him in the groin.

But he was quicker than I had anticipated. He caught my ankle and yanked it upwards, sending me tumbling to the ground. Pain shot through me, and I felt my breath leave my lungs in a whoosh. As I lay there, dazed and vulnerable, he straddled me, his weight pressing down like a mountain.

His hand wound through my hair, pulling my head back, exposing my neck to the cold, unforgiving night air. I could feel his hot breath on my skin, smelling faintly of stale tobacco. The panic grew, my thoughts racing like a wildfire through my mind.

I fought back with everything I had, clawing at his eyes, bucking my hips, trying to dislodge him. But he was stronger, more determined. His grip tightened, and I could feel the warm trickle of blood where the knife had bitten into my scalp. The fear grew, turning my blood to ice.

As the blade inched closer to my throat, a strange sense of acceptance washed over me. If this was to be my end, so be it. At least I wouldn't have to wonder about Alice anymore. The thought of her brought a pang of regret, a sadness that I hadn't been there for her when she needed me.

But even in the face of death, I couldn't help but feel a twisted amusement at the irony. After months of worrying about her, it was I who was about to become the next chapter in someone else's tragedy.

Chapter Text

I felt a strange tug at my core, as if reality itself was unraveling. The pressure on my neck lifted, and I found myself gasping for air, the cold steel of the knife nowhere to be felt.

My eyes snapped open to an empty void, the silence so profound it was almost tangible. A sudden burst of light, and a figure coalesced before me. It was a fox demon, with fur the color of the night sky and eyes that twinkled with mischief. He was dressed in what I assumed was his version of formal attire: a tattered kimono and a top hat that looked like it had seen better days.

"Welcome back, darling," the fox demon purred, his voice smoother than the whiskey I used to down to ease the pain of existence. "I've been waiting for you."

I sat up, my head spinning, and took in my surroundings. The void was vast, stretching on infinitely in all directions. The only thing breaking the monotony was the - thing infront of me, who was now leaning against a non-existent wall, his arms crossed over his chest, tail swishing lazily.

"What the fuck are you?" I spat, my voice hoarse from the struggle.

The fox demon's smile grew, revealing sharp canines. "Aren't you going to thank me for saving you?"

"Saving me?" I scoffed, rubbing my throbbing neck. "From what? Getting my shit stolen and my throat slit?"

"Because if it's the afterlife," I continued, my voice dripping with sarcasm, "then I've clearly hit the jackpot with a furry fanfic writer's wet dream."

The fox demon's grin widened, and his tail swished with a hint of irritation. "You humans and your limited vocabulary," he said, his words echoing in the vast nothingness. "I'm not a 'furry' anything. I'm a kitsune, and I've had enough of your kind reducing us to mere sexual fetishes."

I stared at him, trying to process what was happening. "Look, Mr. High-and-Mighty-Nine-Tails," I snapped, "I don't know what the fuck you trying to do here, but if you're expecting some kind of 'thank you' for this shithole of an afterlife, you've got another think coming."

"Oh, the drama," the kitsune rolled his eyes. "You humans and your incessant need for categorization. Can't you just appreciate the beauty of a spiritually diverse existence?"

I scoffed, pushing myself to my feet, feeling more solid than the ground beneath me. "Beauty? This is about as beautiful as waking up with a hangover and a mouth full of regret. Now, if you're not here to give me my eternal peace, get the fuck out."

The kitsune's eyes narrowed, his fur bristling slightly. "Easy, now," he said, his tone a mix of amusement and annoyance. "I'm here to offer you a chance at redemption."

"Redemption?" I spat the word out like a rotten piece of meat. "What could I possibly need to be redeemed for? Dying because I forgot to lock my door?"

The kitsune's expression grew serious, his eyes piercing through the darkness. "Your soul is tainted with despair and anger, human. You squandered your life in a cycle of self-loathing and destruction- "

"And what would you know about it?" I interrupted, my voice laced with bitterness. "You're probably the poster boy for the 'Furry Spirits Anonymous' group up in heaven or whatever."

"Also don't go there being all poetic and shit, just call me a pathetic useless good for nothing waste of space and move on 'Your soul is tainted with despair and anger' well of course it is, because apparently I'm stuck in hell with you," I spat, glaring at the kitsune.

"Give me eternal sleep," I demanded, crossing my arms over my chest. "Better yet, why don't you just piss off and let me wake up from this fucking nightmare?"

The kitsune's eyes flashed with something that might have been anger or frustration. "So eager to embrace oblivion," he said, his voice dripping with condescension. "What a thrilling existence you must have led."

I glared at him, the urge to punch him growing stronger with every word. "You know nothing about me," I hissed. "You're just a figment of my traumatized imagination, trying to give my death some kind of meaning."

The kitsune's smile didn't waver. "Oh, but I do know you," he said, his voice a purr that grated on my nerves. "I know the depths of your pain, the regret that follows you like a shadow. And I'm here to tell you that there's more to existence than what you've allowed yourself to experience."

"More?"

I couldn't believe the audacity of this... this... abomination. "What part of 'leave me the fuck alone' don't you understand?" I roared, my fists clenching at my sides. "I've got enough shit to deal with without you prancing around in your little get-up."

The kitsune tilted his head to the side, his grin never wavering. "Ah, the charming hostility of a soul in turmoil," he said, his tone mocking. "But alas, I'm not here to grant your wish for eternal slumber."

"In fact," he continued, his voice dropping to a seductive whisper, "I'm here to offer you a chance to rectify your... shortcomings."

"Stop acting sexy, you're making me sick," I sneered, the words tasting like bile in my mouth. "You're not fooling anyone with that getup. Who the hell wears a top hat in a void?"

"You are about as appealing as a wet sock, furball," I add, my voice dripping with venom. "Why don't you do us both a favor and vanish into the abyss you crawled out of?"

The kitsune's grin only grew wider, his eyes gleaming with something that could only be described as sadistic amusement. "Ah, such a delightful way to greet your savior," he said, his voice a mocking purr. "But I suppose that's to be expected from someone who thinks the pinnacle of wit is comparing a creature of ancient mystique to a poorly drawn DeviantArt character."

"Hey there don't be disrespecting DeviantArt like that," I retorted, my voice a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Some of the art there is actually pretty good. But you, you're just a walking, talking, over-sized Chuck E. Cheese nightmare."

The kitsune's smile never wavered, his eyes gleaming with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. "You're so delightfully snarky," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to resonate through the very fabric of the void. "But let's get down to business, shall we?"

He stepped closer, and I had to resist the urge to back away. "I'm here to offer you a deal, my dear," he continued, his fur ruffling slightly as if he were a cat toying with a mouse. "You get a second chance at life, and in exchange, you entertain me."

"Entertain you?" I echoed, incredulity etched into every syllable. "You expect me to be the star in your own personal soap opera?"

"Like I know I went to theater school but I ain't doing that shit anymore," I said, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "What's the catch? You want me to prance around in a tutu for your friends or something?"

The kitsune rolled his eyes. "Your imagination truly knows no bounds," he said, his tone one of mock disappointment. "But no, I don't expect you to perform circus tricks. I want you to live your life differently."

"Differently how?" I asked, my voice flat. "I'm already dead, so I'm not exactly holding out for a promotion or a new hobby."

The kitsune's smile grew sharper. "You're going to reincarnate, darling. A fresh start in a new body, a new life, but with all your lovely memories intact."

"Oh hell naw" I said, my voice thick with disbelief and skepticism. "Just read some isekai manhua, hell fucking self insert fanfiction are good too. You don't need to see that shit on live tv. No way in hell am I signing up to be your puppet in whatever twisted play you got cooking up here."

The kitsune's smile didn't falter, his eyes glinting with something that could have been amusement or malice. "Ah, but you see, the choice is not entirely yours to make," he said, his voice a dangerous purr that made my skin crawl. "Your soul is too... fascinating to be lost to the void."

"Fascinating?" I spat the word out like a rotten piece of fruit. "I'm about as interesting as a soggy cracker."

The kitsune chuckled, his eyes gleaming with something dark. "Ah, but you see, that's where you're wrong," he said, his smile widening. "Your soul is a tapestry of potential, woven through with threads of anger, despair, and yes, a hint of spiteful wit."

"Ew ew ew stop it," I said, cringing at his words. "I don't need a furry to tell me what's interesting about my life. I'd rather be a forgotten footnote in the grand saga of oblivion than your little pet project."

The kitsune rolled his eyes, his tail flicking back and forth in what I assumed was his version of annoyance. "You humans and your dramatics," he said. "Fine, I'll play along. If you're not going to be grateful, at least be entertaining."

"So, what's the deal?" I asked, folding my arms over my chest. "You're going to throw me into a new body and expect me to live out your fantasy?"

The kitsune sighed dramatically. "If only it were that simple," he said, his voice a blend of boredom and condescension. "I'm not asking you to be my self insert fanfic protagonist. I'm giving you a chance to change your pathetic existence."

"Yeah, because living as a puppet is so much better," I shot back, my voice thick with sarcasm. "What's the catch, huh? You want me to go all 'My Fair Lady' on some unsuspecting soul?"

The kitsune's eyes narrowed, his fur standing on end. "You're going to reincarnate, whether you like it or not," he said, his voice a low growl. "But how you choose to live that life is up to you."

"Choose?" I echoed, my voice thick with disbelief. "You're the one holding all the fucking cards here, furball. What kind of choice is that?"

The kitsune's smile grew sharper, his eyes gleaming with a challenge. "Ah, but it's not about what I want," he said, his tail swishing in the air. "It's about what you want. Or rather, what you need."

"And what the hell would you know about what I need?" I sneered, taking a step back from him. 

The kitsune's smile remained plastered on his face, unshaken by my hostility. "More than you think," he said, his voice a purr that made my skin crawl. "You see, I've been watching you, human. I've seen the way you've wasted your days in a haze of alcohol and cigarette smoke, numbing yourself to the pain of living."

"Wow, you're like a stalker," I said, rolling my eyes. "Thanks for the judgment, but I'm pretty sure I don't need your help to fuck up my life."

The kitsune's smile grew tight, and before I could say another word, a sudden pressure built in my head, as if a vice were closing around my skull. The world around me started to swirl, the darkness of the void becoming a whirlpool of dizziness.

"What the-?" I began to protest, but the words died on my lips as the pressure grew unbearable. My vision went black, and the last thing I felt was a sense of overwhelming annoyance before I crumpled to the non-existent ground.

Chapter Text

When I awoke, the void had been replaced by a stark white room. The kitsune was nowhere to be seen, and in his place was a long, gleaming table laden with what looked like surgical instruments. I tried to sit up, but my body felt wrong, too soft, too pliable.

My eyes widened as I looked down and saw my tiny hands, my skin a fresh, unblemished pink. Panic flooded through me as I realized the horrifying truth: I was a baby. A fucking baby.

The room was stark white, devoid of any comforting familiarity, the only sound the distant wail of what had to be another newborn. And that's when I saw him, a little baby that looks exactly like fucking gon from hxh. I tried to scream, but all that came out was a pitiful wail.

My eyes darted around the room, searching for any clue as to what the hell was happening. That's when I saw it, the reflection in the gleaming chrome of the medical equipment. Two tiny hands, flailing about in a panic, and a mirror image of myself in the glass. A twin. A fucking twin.

My twin is fucking gon freecs, I thought, the horror sinking in deeper than that knife could ever reach. This had to be the universe's cruelest joke. I was a baby again, and not just any baby, but a baby with a twin whose been plucked straight out of a shonen manga.

And oh God the father, my eghhh- father, Ging, really furry guy, r you fucking serious, is this cause I keep calling you a furry? Fuck this, I'm out! I screamed, or rather, I would have if I could form coherent words or had the lung capacity.

But alas, all that came out was a pathetic wail that made me sound like a dying cat in heat. I looked around for something, anything to vent my frustration on, but all I could see were these tiny, useless fists that would probably only manage to tickle the furry son of a bitch if I ever got the chance to use them.

The door to the room slammed open, and in strode the furry fuck himself, the kitsune from my nightmares. He was dressed in a lab coat now, which somehow made him look even more like a twisted caricature of a doctor from a shitty furry comic.

"Ah, you're awake," he said, his voice dripping with the kind of cheerfulness that only psychopaths can muster. "Welcome to your new life, little one."

I glared at him with all the fury a newborn could muster, which admittedly wasn't much. What the actual fuck, furball? I wanted to scream, but instead, all that came out was a garbled mess of sounds that even a linguist couldn't decipher. The nerve of this fluffy asshole, playing God with my afterlife like he's the star of his own anime.

He leaned over, his grin wide and unsettling as he stared into my wide, tear-filled eyes. "I'm sorry, did I forget to mention the twin part?" he said, his voice a symphony of mock apology. "Oh, wait, no, I didn't. I just knew you'd love the surprise."

I wanted to punch him, to wipe that smug look off his face, but all I could do was flail my tiny arms and kick my useless legs. What kind of sick twisted shit is this? I thought, my mind racing with rage and confusion. Could this be any more fucked up?

"Oh and btw, before I leave you also have a special ability," the kitsune said, his voice oozing with the kind of smugness that only a creature who's played too much dnd could muster. "You can summon characters from other animes. Because apparently that's a thing that would help in your miserable life," he added with a chuckle.

I stared at him in disbelief, my tiny baby hands balled into fists. You've got to be kidding me, I thought, or at least I would have if my brain wasn't still trying to figure out how to work my mouth. I've been reborn into an anime-themed hell, and now I've got the power to summon fictional characters? What kind of sick joke is this?

The kitsune leaned in closer, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Go on," he coaxed, his whiskers twitching. "Give it a try. Summon someone. I'm sure you'll find it quite... entertaining."

I gritted my teeth, the rage bubbling up inside me like a volcano about to erupt. If I had to play along with this twisted game, I'd make sure to start with someone who could wipe that smug look off his face. Fine, I thought, my mental voice dripping with contempt. If I've got to deal with this shit, I'm going big.

MADARA UCHIHA, I thought, as hard as my newborn brain could muster. The image of that loveable idiot, filled my mind, and I focused all my rage and frustration into that one thought. If I had to deal with this hell, I might as well start with a bang.

The room grew cold, the air crackling with an energy that even a newborn like me could feel. Suddenly, the kitsune's eyes went wide, and he took a step back, his smile slipping for the first time. "What are you-"

But before he could finish, the space around us warped, and the air was filled with the sound of rushing wind. A figure materialized in a burst of light, and there he was: Madara Uchiha.

The sight was so absurd, so utterly ridiculous, that for a moment I couldn't help but laugh. The kitsune's smile had vanished, replaced by an expression of horror that was all too satisfying.

But the victory was short-lived. A searing pain shot through my tiny body, and I felt something in me snap like a twig under too much pressure. I gagged, a metallic taste flooding my mouth, and before I knew it, I was retching up what looked like a mix of blood and... something else, something that definitely shouldn't have been there.

The kitsune's eyes went wide with shock, his smug grin replaced by a look of genuine horror. "What have you done?" he hissed, taking a step back from the crimson mess I'd just created.

Backlash? I choked out, but it sounds more like a whine my tiny voice hoarse from screaming. The bitch didn't mention any fucking backlash!

The kitsune took another step back, his smile nowhere to be seen. "Well, you see, it's all part of the entertainment," he said, his voice shaking slightly. "The more... unpredictable your choices, the more interesting your journey becomes."

Fuck you, I wanted to scream to croak out, my tiny body trembling with exhaustion and pain. I didn't sign up for this shit.

The kitsune's eyes narrowed, his fur standing on end. "You're welcome," he said, his voice a mix of sarcasm and annoyance. "I've just given you a gift, and this is how you repay me?"

Madara, standing tall and imposing, his eyes burning with the Sharingan, stared at us with clear unamusement.

"Well, this is unexpected," the freaking little bastard said while wiglling his pathetic tail. "But rules are rules, I guess." And with that, he vanished into thin air, leaving me and Madara in this sterile hellhole of a room.

The pain grew worse, my vision swimming as my stomach heaved again. I felt the warm, sticky liquid of my own blood trickle down my chin, and the room spun around me. The last thing I saw before everything went black was Madara's eyes widening before he started fading away.

Chapter Text

When I opened my eyes again, the sterile whiteness of the room had been replaced with something far more mundane: a sparsely furnished nursery. The crib next to me was shaking with the force of the newborn's sobs. That's right, my twin, Gon, was crying his eyes out.

Great, just what I needed.

I rolled my eyes, which was surprisingly easy despite being a newborn, and took in the sad excuse for a nursery. The walls were a bland beige that screamed "budget," and the furniture looked like it had been picked up from the dumpster behind the local kindergarten. The only decoration was a single, torn poster of some anime I didn't recognize, which was probably a good thing given my current situation.

The crib beside me was a sad little affair, with bars that looked like they'd been chewed on by a very disillusioned rabbit and a mattress that screamed "I've seen better days." The baby in it was wailing like someone had just told him the Earth was flat. I could relate.

The nursery was about as cheerful as a clown at a funeral, with a single bulb hanging from the ceiling that flickered with the enthusiasm of a light bulb in a horror movie. The walls were a shade of beige that was the visual equivalent of a sigh, and the air smelled faintly of despair and baby powder.

It was like staring into the abyss of my lonely fridge back home, the one that only held a sad, wilted head of lettuce and a half-empty bottle of whiskey. But instead of cold emptiness, here was a sea of blankets and a blurry vision of a world I didn't ask to be born into again.

The crib to my right looked like it had been picked out of a dumpster fire, the kind you'd expect to find in a haunted house with a "Do Not Touch" sign. And here I was, a fresh meat sack in this twisted anime reboot of my life, with a twin who had the personality of a sack of potatoes. The whole scene was like my lonely fridge staring back at me, with the same sad, pathetic look that said, "Is this really it?"

The nursery's ambiance was the equivalent of swiping through my dating apps. Empty, uninspired, and with a hint of something that might make you question your life choices. The only difference was that I couldn't just swipe left on this shit and hope for something better to come along.

And speaking of choices, what the fuck was I supposed to do with this baby body and a newfound ability to summon anime characters? And with backlash that bad? It was like someone had handed me the world's shittiest cheat code for a game I didn't even want to play.

I lay there, listening to Gon's cries echo through the room, feeling about as useful as that one diamond vase my mom had.

The mattress was cold and hard, much like the tiles of my kitchen floor when I stumble out for a midnight snack, only to find nothing but a sad, forgotten slice of pizza, wrapped in plastic, begging for someone to love it.

The crip seemed to be whispering, "You're trapped here, little human," in a ghostly chorus that echoed through the empty space. It was the kind of crib that would give even a seasoned escape artist the heebie-jeebies, with the promise of a good night's sleep as absent as the milk that's always somehow vanished from my fridge before I can get to it.

Speaking of my fridge, the room's lack of anything edible was giving me serious pantry-at-midnight vibes. I'd have killed for a stale bag of chips or even that questionable tub of yogurt that's been sitting in the back for what felt like an eternity. But no, all I had was a room that was more bare than my fridge when I forgot to go grocery shopping for a week.

The world spinning like a poorly made gif. The pain from before was gone, but I felt like I'd just been hit by a truck that had the audacity to back up and do a victory lap. I looked around, and sure enough, I was still in the same nightmare scenario.

My throat was dry, and my mouth tasted like a dumpster fire behind a liquor store. God, I needed a beer or a cigarette, anything to numb the sensation of being stuck in this hellhole.

It was like the worst hangover I'd ever had, times a million, and I'd had some doozies. I could almost feel the furry's sadistic laughter echoing through the room, taunting me with every throb in my head.

My mouth felt like the Sahara, my tongue a desolate wanderer in search of an oasis of moisture. All I wanted was a cold beer, the kind that hits the back of your throat like a cool breeze on a hot day, or a cigarette, the sweet embrace of smoke curling around me like a comforting blanket.

But alas, all I had was the bitter taste of regret and a room that made my office look like a five-star hotel. The pain was bearable, but the thirst remained, a relentless beast that no amount of drool could satiate.

It was like that one time I forgot to eat or sleep for three days straight because I got lost in a One Piece marathon, dissecting my favorite pathetic man, (Sanji) like the culinary masterpiece he is.

But instead of sizzling pans and the aroma of a perfectly seasoned steak, I was met with the bitter scent of antiseptic. The room was as bland as unsalted porridge, making me crave the smoky haze of a grill or the zesty tang of a freshly squeezed lemon.

The walls were so bare, they could have used a sprinkle of paprika and a dash of creativity. I had to admit, if this was a cooking show, it'd be the most bland episode ever aired

God I need some food.

I'd give my left arm for a decent cup of coffee right now, I thought, trying to ignore the pitiful sounds coming from the crib next to me. The room was a prison, the only sound was the incessant crying of my twin. I was about to drift off into a pitiful nap when the door swung open with a squeak that sounded like a dying mouse.

In walked Ging, my "father" that this sadistic universe had saddled me with. He looked like he'd just rolled out of bed after a week-long bender, his hair sticking up at all the wrong angles and his clothes looking like they'd been put on with a blindfold.

"What's all the fuss?" he slurred, his eyes half-closed as he stumbled over to the crib. He looked at me, his eyes squinting in the harsh light, and for a moment, I thought he might actually see the fear and anger in my tiny baby face. But no, all he did was pat my head with a hand that smelled faintly of tobacco.

Man if you're going to smoke at least share some with me, my tiny lungs have been craving the sweet relief of a drag for a while now.

But instead, all I got was a pat on the head from Ging, who probably forgot he had kids until he heard Gon's cries.

Ging leaned over the crib, his eyes bleary and his breath reeking of the kind of whiskey that makes you question your life choices. "Hush now, little one," he murmured, his voice slurred and gravelly. "Your sister's here to keep you company."

Fucking hell, I thought, not bothering to hide the disdain in my gaze. He actually thought I was the quiet, happy twin.

Ignoring Ging's slurred words, I focused on the kitsune's earlier action. Backlash? That furry son of a bitch didn't mention anything about backlash. It's like he handed me a grenade with a smirk and said, "Just don't let go!"

With a grunt, I tried to ignore Ging's presence, turning my tiny head away from him. He was more useless than a chocolate teapot in a desert.

Cursing the furry trickster under my breath, I lay there, my newborn eyes trying to focus on the ceiling. It was like trying to watch paint dry, only the paint was made of sadness and the brush was the universe's middle finger.

But even as I tried to drift off into a blissful nothingness, the cries from the crib next to me were like nails on a chalkboard, grating against my already frayed nerves.

Ging, seemingly oblivious to my silent pleas for death, scooped up Gon, cooing and bouncing him awkwardly. "There, there," he slurred, his hands surprisingly gentle as he jostled the bawling mess of a baby.

Fucking hell, he is pathetic.

Heck, I am pathetic.

Chapter Text

The room remained the same, a sad, beige cage that was my nursery. Time had apparently skipped ahead like it had better things to do than stay with me in this shithole. I stared up at the ceiling, watching the dust particles dance in the stale air.

God I need to leave this hell before I attempt murder.

Days turned into weeks, weeks into months, and my contempt for this existence grew with every passing moment. Ging stumbled through his fatherly duties like a drunk trying to assemble furniture from IKEA. He'd feed us, change us, and then pass out on the floor, only to wake up and do it all over again.

Gon's cries had become the soundtrack to my life, a never-ending symphony of despair that I couldn't escape, no matter how much I slept. And when I wasn't sleeping, I was plotting my escape from this hellhole. But how does one escape when you're trapped in a body that can't even sit up without toppling over like a bowling pin in a tornado?

God no wonder Ging abandoned you.

Gon's wails were like nails on a chalkboard, a never-ending reminder of the misery that was my new life. Every cry, every whine, was a dagger to my already shattered sanity. It was like someone had turned the volume on my existence to eleven and thrown the remote into a black hole.

I couldn't blame Ging for bailing on this shitshow.

Every day, I lay there, listening to Gon's cries, and every day, I fantasized about a world where babies came with mute buttons.

But amidst the relentless wailing, I couldn't help but feel a twinge of pity for Ging. The poor guy was trying, in his own admittedly pathetic way, to be a father. But let's face it, if you can't even keep a plant alive, raising a couple of squawking meatloafs is like trying to juggle chainsaws while riding a unicycle.

He'd come in every day, looking more and more like a raccoon with those dark circles under his eyes. He'd feed us, burp us, and then collapse onto the floor with a thud that would make you think he'd just run a marathon. It was a routine that would make even the most stoic of office workers weep with boredom.

But what was really alarming was the stack of baby care books that grew next to him like a sad, pathetic library of regret. Each one looked more worn out than the last, pages dog-eared and sticky notes hanging out like tiny yellow flags of surrender.

The titles of the first one I could make out was "Babies for Dummies," which was basically the universe's way of saying, "You're screwed, kid." It was like watching someone try to read the manual for a spaceship while hurtling through space without a spacesuit.

But hey, I couldn't really blame the guy. If I had to deal with the constant shrieks of a baby that sounds like it's being subjected to some kind of toture, I'd probably need a PhD in baby whispering too. The books grew more and more complex as the weeks went on. "Advanced Infant Psychology" and "The Art of Not Losing Your Mind When Dealing with Twin Terrors" were two that stood out.

The poor sap was clearly in over his head, but I had to admit, there was something oddly endearing about his determination. Like watching a squirrel try to crack a nut with a rock, you just can't help but root for the little guy.

Ging had gone from a one-man book club to a full-blown literary jungle gym of baby care knowledge. The books surrounding him grew in complexity faster than my ability to get my tiny fingers to pack a punch. "The Complete Guide to Not Screwing Up Your Kids" and "101 Ways to Make a Baby Stop Crying" were now buried under "Neuroscience for Newborns" and "Quantum Parenting: Raising Twins in Parallel Universes."

Which, wtf is that title.

The sight was both tragic and hilarious, like watching someone juggle flaming swords while reciting Shakespeare. It was clear that Ging was trying to outsmart the universe by sheer force of will and book knowledge. But let's face it, we were all just meat puppets in a furry's twisted play, and no amount of reading was going to change that.

He'd sit there, surrounded by a fortress of baby books, his eyes scanning the pages with the intensity of a detective searching for clues in a murder mystery. Yet, no matter how many chapters he devoured, Gon's cries remained a constant soundtrack, like a terrible pop song you just can't get out of your head no matter how much you want to.

But amidst the chaos, something strange started happening. Ging looked at me with a mix of confusion and awe, as if he couldn't believe what he was seeing. I'd lay there, not crying, not screaming, just...staring. It was like I was the zen master of the nursery, my calmness a stark contrast to my twin's meltdowns.

It didn't take a genius to figure out that I was also odd. Sure, babies are supposed to cry, it's their only way of communicating, but my stoic silence was something else entirely. It was like I'd downloaded the "How to Freak Out Your First-time Father" app and was running it on loop.

Ging would often catch me giving him the stink eye, and for a second, I'd swear he'd get it. But then he'd just sigh and go back to his book pile, looking more lost than a tourist in a maze. He'd read aloud from the books, his voice slurred and tired, as if the words themselves were the elixir of life he desperately needed.

One day, he stumbled in with a plastic bag filled with what looked like a bunch of colorful noisemakers. "Look," he said, his voice filled with hope, "I got you guys some toys!"

He pulled out a plushie that looked suspiciously like the kitsune that had ruined my life. "This one's for you," he said, holding it out to me with a tentative smile.

I stared at the toy, my eyes narrowing. "You've got to be kidding me," I thought. But my mouth was too busy trying to form words that weren't just random vowel sounds to actually say it out loud.

He placed the plushie in my crib, and I swear it winked at me. Gon, on the other hand, immediately stopped crying to stare at the new addition with wide eyes. Ging's chest puffed up with pride, like he'd just scored the winning goal in the World Cup of fatherhood.

"This little guy will be your new little companion," he said, his grin widening. "Isn't he just the cutest?"

I wanted to scream, to tell him to go fuck himself with a chainsaw, but all I could manage was a gurgle of pure frustration. The doll looked back at me, its expression unchanged.

Ging looked at me expectantly, as if waiting for a response. I glared at him, willing my tiny baby body to do something, anything, to express the rage I felt. But all I could do was lie there, impotent and enraged.

And so, the days passed with him bringing us toys and attempting to tell us stories. He'd come in with a slurred "Look what I found, my little angels," and dump a pile of plushies and rattles on the floor. Most of them looked like they'd been rejected by a claw machine at a carnival that had seen better days.

But it wasn't all bad. Sometimes, when Gon was asleep and the room was quiet, I'd catch Ging talking to the plushie in a weirdly soothing voice. It was like he was telling it the story of how he'd failed at being a dad and hoped it could somehow fix him. It was sad, really. Like watching someone try to apologize to a brick wall.

God he's so pathetic.

But that fox plushie, it was like my personal tormentor. Every time Ging put it in my crib, I'd swear it was laughing at me, its beady little eyes glinting with the malicious glee of a cat who'd just gotten his paws on a human soul. It was a constant reminder of the furry who'd played god with my life, turning it into a sad meme.

And the stories, oh the stories. Ging had a knack for picking out the worst ones, the kind that made you want to gouge your own eyes out with a spoon. They were like the plot of a B-list anime series, where the characters had the depth of a puddle and the twists were as predictable as a sitcom laugh track.

Gon, bless his soul, was entranced by the stories, his eyes lighting up like Christmas lights on a sad, lonely tree. But me? I just lay there, my mind racing with thoughts of the sweet sweet escape of a nap or a pint of ice cream

But the cigarette craving? That was a whole different beast. It was like my body had turned into a ticking time bomb, every second without a drag was a second closer to detonation.

Every time Ging would stumble in from his smoking breaks, that faint scent of nicotine on his hands was like a slap in the face with a wet fish. It was a cruel tease, a reminder of the one thing that could make this hell slightly more tolerable, yet just out of reach.

I'd watch as he'd lovingly stroke Gon's hair, the smoke from his last cigarette trailing behind him like a ghostly specter, whispering sweet nothings of freedom and a quiet room. It was like watching someone eat a steak in front of a starving dog, only the steak was a pack of smokes and the dog was me.

But then there was the plushie, that smug little furball with the audacity to resemble the kitsune. Ging had dubbed it my favorite, at some point, probably because it was the only thing I'd interact with willingly.

And interact I did. If by interact, you mean I'd fantasize about strangling it until its stuffing spilled out like the secrets of the universe.

Every time Ging left the room, I'd grab the plushie with the grip of a drowning man clutching at a life preserver. But instead of air, all I wanted was to squeeze the life out of it. To bite into the fabric until my teeth hit something that tasted like justice. But alas, it remained as unyielding as the plastic smile on its face.

It was a sadistic game we played, that plushie and I. Every time Ging would leave the room, it was on. I'd reach out with the precision of a bomb defusal expert, my tiny hands trembling with the need for a cigarette, and snatch the furry abomination from its perch.

I'd squeeze it until my knuckles turned white, imagining it was the kitsune's neck under my grasp. The fabric felt like the lies that furry had spun around me, and every time I tightened my grip, it was like crushing the hope of ever returning to my old life.

And sometimes, when Ging wasn't looking, I'd bring it to my mouth and bite down, hard enough to leave teeth marks. It was a pathetic attempt to feel something, anything, other than the soul-crushing despair of being stuck in a nursery with a twin that cried more than a teenager whose Wi-Fi just went out.

But then, something peculiar began to happen. The plushie's eyes would glint with an eerie light, and it would start to...move. Not in the way a plushie should move, but more like it had a vendetta and was about to settle it with a flurry of paws.

The first time it happened, I nearly shit myself. One moment it was just a sad excuse for a toy, and the next, it was performing circus tricks like it had just mainlined a bottle of pure caffeine. It would hop out of the crib and do a little dance, the kind that would make Michael Jackson proud, if he weren't busy being dead and unable to judge plushie talent.

Gon would sit there, his eyes wide with wonder, as if he were watching a David Copperfield magic show. Meanwhile, I was stuck in a Looney Tunes episode, where the props had come to life and had a vendetta against my sanity.

The plushie would twirl and somersault across the room, knocking over the sad excuse for a lamp that barely kept the shadows at bay. And all the while, it had that smug smile on its face, like it was mocking me for my inability to do anything but watch in horror.

But then, it would stop. Just like that, mid-flip, and stare at me with those beady little eyes. It was like it was saying, "See what I can do? Your life is so boring, I have to entertain myself."

And that's when I realized it. The furry was using the plushie to keep tabs on me, to see how my life was unfolding in this hellish sitcom of existence. He was the puppet master, and I was one of his puppets.

Ging had no idea, of course. He'd just come in, his eyes bloodshot and hair sticking in all wrong ways, looking like he'd just fought a losing battle with a catnip factory. He'd see the plushie lying in the middle of the floor, a twisted smile on its face, and just shrug it off as one of our little "games."

But it wasn't a game. It was a fucking nightmare.

Chapter Text

Another months pass, and suddenly, I could stand and babble like a lunatic at a full moon party. Gon, on the other hand, had discovered the joys of crawling and had turned our lives into a never-ending game of "What's the baby going to break next?" It was like watching a tiny, hyperactive gremlin on a sugar rush, except there was no water to save us from the chaos.

The kitsune plushie, that sadistic little fuck, remained a permanent fixture in my life. No matter how many times I tried to dismember it, it would always show up back in my crib, smiling like the Cheshire Cat on a bad trip. It was a testament to the kitsune's twisted sense of humor, or maybe just his stubbornness.

Now that I could stand and babble, my relationship with the plushie had evolved. It was less about silent rage and more about shouting obscenities at it. "What the fuck do you want from me?" I'd scream, my tiny voice echoing through the room. But it just sat there, its eyes gleaming with the mischief of a thousand lands.

Meanwhile, Gon had turned into a pint-sized tornado of destruction. Every time Ging's back was turned, he'd be off, his chubby little hands reaching for anything and everything he could get his mitts on. It was like watching a natural disaster unfold in slow motion, only with more drool and fewer warnings.

I'd often escape to Ging's library, a dusty, cluttered room filled with books that had nothing to do with babies or their care, that one is still in our room.

It was a treasure trove of knowledge, a place where I could forget about the hellish nursery and the plushie's unblinking stare. I'd pile the books around me like a fortress, using them to build a wall between me and my reality.

Ging had gone from a slightly concerned parent to a man on the brink of insanity. The plushie had taken on a life of its own, moving around the room when he wasn't looking. I'd catch it whispering sweet nothings to Gon, egging him on like a devil on his shoulder. It was clear the kitsune was still watching us, probably getting a kick out of my misery.

As for me, I had moved from babbling to forming full sentences, albeit with the eloquence of a toddler who'd just discovered the word "why." Why couldn't I smoke? Why was I stuck here? Why was the plushie such a little shit?

But the real kicker was when I caught the furry plushie moving on its own again. This time, it was doing a little dance on the bookshelf, a sad, twisted ballet that would make even the most stoic of ballerinas weep.

"You're not funny," I slurred, my words still not quite matching up with my thoughts. But the plushie just winked at me, as if to say, "Oh, but I am."

The conversations with the kitsune had become a daily ritual, like a stand-up routine where I was the only one not laughing. He'd pop in, all smiles and flirty winks, and I'd lay into him with every insult my limited vocabulary could muster. It was like throwing spitballs at a tank; sure, it made me feel better, but it wasn't going to do a damn thing to stop the onslaught of baby hell.

"Why do you enjoy this?" I demanded, my voice still wobbly with baby-talk. "Why can't you just leave me alone?"

The kitsune just chuckled, his eyes sparkling with mischief. "Where's the fun in that?" he cooed, his tail swishing back and forth like a metronome to the tune of my despair.

Ging had turned into a zombie with a heartbeat, stumbling from room to room with the grace of a newborn deer on ice skates. The plushie's influence over Gon was like watching a puppet master work his magic, only the puppet was a tiny human with a penchant for chaos.

One minute, the room would be a picture of serenity, and the next, it'd be like a tornado had hit a toy store. And there, in the middle of it all, would be Gon, giggling like a lunatic as he knocked over the plastic tower of blocks I'd just spent an eternity stacking. The fox plushie sat on the sidelines, watching with a smug grin, as if it had a VIP pass to the world's worst show.

But amidst the chaos, there was a strange comfort in the routine. The plushie had become a bizarre mascot for my despair, a silent witness to the relentless march of time that I had no control over. And as much as I hated it, there was something oddly comforting about its presence. 

I'd sit in the library, surrounded by dusty tomes that held secrets to the universe, and just stare. The words swam before my eyes, a blur of ink and paper that held no answers to my predicament. Ging had given up on trying to engage me in conversation, his slurred words now just background noise to the symphony of my thoughts.

But the kitsune, oh, he was a persistent little shit. He'd pop in unannounced, his furry form shimmering into existence like a glitch in the Matrix. "How's my favorite little snack?" he'd purr, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that had nothing to do with food.

"Fuck off," I'd reply, tossing a book at the plushie. It'd just land with a thump and bounce away, the plushie unfazed by my juvenile tantrum.

Ging, bless his ineptitude, had no idea about our silent feud. He'd stumble into the library, his clothes reeking of stale tobacco, looking for all the world like a man who'd lost a fight with a pack of rabid squirrels. "Come on, little one," he'd slur, his voice thick with exhaustion. "It's time for bed."

I'd look up at him, the plushie in my hand, and for a second, I'd feel a pang of pity. The poor guy was trying his best, and all he had to show for it was a pair of twins that were more of a handful than a two-for-one sale at the local supermarket.

But pity was a luxury I couldn't afford, not when I was stuck in a perpetual cycle of diapers and despair. So, I'd just glare at him and the plushie would glare back, our silent standoff echoing through the room like the last notes of a sad song.

Chapter Text

And so, we found ourselves on the cusp of our first birthday. Ging had gone all out, decorating the house with streamers and balloons that looked like they'd been picked out by a drunk clown at a dollar store. There was a cake, of course, one that looked like it had been made by someone who'd never seen a cake before. It was a monstrosity of sugar, the kind of thing that would make Gordon Ramsay weep into his apron.

Gon and I were dressed in matching onesies that read "Best Buds," which was about as far from the truth as me being a fan of waking up at 5 AM. But hey, at least we looked adorable for the pictures that would surely haunt us for the rest of our lives.

The party was a sad affair, with Ging's attempt at balloon animals looking more like a biology experiment gone wrong. The air was thick with the scent of burnt rubber and hope, and the only sounds were Gon's incessant giggles as he systematically destroyed every balloon animal within his reach.

The furry plushie had been dressed up like a tiny ringmaster, complete with a top hat and a cane that it had somehow managed to swipe. It sat on the table, watching the chaos unfold with a detached amusement that made my blood boil.

Gon had discovered the art of standing, and was now using his newfound abilities to try and climb the bookshelves. Ging looked like he was about to have a heart attack, his eyes darting between us like he was watching a tennis match played by hyperactive squirrels.

"Don't touch that, Gon," he'd say, his voice tight with the strain of keeping his cool. But Gon was a force of nature, a tornado in a room full of breakable shit, and nothing could stop him.

Except maybe the plushie.

The party was in full swing, with Ging trying his best to keep up with the demands of his squawking, drooling gremlin. The room was a blur of pastel colors and desperate attempts at happiness, and I couldn't help but feel like the only sane person in a world gone mad.

And then it was time. The moment of truth, the pièce de résistance of this shitshow we called a birthday party. The cake was brought out, a monstrosity that looked like it had been baked by a blind man with a vendetta against taste buds.

"Make a wish, Gen," Ging said, his voice thick with the kind of desperation usually reserved for lottery tickets and expired milk. I looked at him, then at the plushie, then at the cake.

Gen?

Who?

The room went silent, the echo of Ging's words bouncing off the paper-thin walls like a pinball in a vacant arcade. Gon had stopped whatever he was doing, his sticky hands frozen mid-grab, his eyes wide with wonder.

"Gen?" I murmured to myself, tasting the name like a piece of sour candy. It was the first time I'd heard it since the day I was born, or rather, the day I was reborn into this hellish sitcom.

The plushie's eyes twinkled with a knowing smile, as if it had been waiting for this moment. The room felt eerily silent, the cacophony of Gon's laughter and Ging's frantic party-planning muted by the sudden weight of the name hanging in the air.

Ging would always call me "little one" or "my child" or even "little angel," so when he actually said "Gen," it was like someone had flipped a switch in my brain.

The plushie's eyes bore into me, that smug smile widening, as if it knew something I didn't. It was as if the universe had paused, waiting for my reaction.

"Gen," I whispered, testing the name on my tongue. It felt...odd. Like slipping on a pair of shoes that were both too big and too small at the same time. But there was something there, a spark of recognition that I couldn't ignore.

Ging looked at me, his eyes hopeful. "Make a wish," he prompted again, his hand shaking slightly as he held the cake knife. I stared at the plushie, its beady eyes glinting in the flickering candlelight. It was as if it was daring me to make a wish, to play along.

With a deep breath, I closed my eyes and wished for the one thing that had eluded me since the moment I woke up in this new body: a cigarette. The room held its breath, the air thick with anticipation.

Ging, bless his heart, took the cue and leaned in, his expression a mix of hope and fear. He whispered, "What's your wish, little one?"

I looked at him, the sadness in his eyes a stark contrast to the ridiculous party hat perched on his head. "Just one cigarette," I mumbled, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own breathing.

Ging's expression fell, his shoulders slumping. "Not that," he sighed. "Gen you are one year old, you can't smoke." His words were met with a room full of awkward silence, and for a moment, I felt a twinge of pity for the pathetic creature that had become my father.

"But why not?" I protested, my voice still a garbled mess of consonants and vowels. "Gon gets to have fun, why can't I?"

Ging just sighed, his shoulders slumping even further. "Because, Gen," he began, his voice heavy with the kind of patience reserved for toddlers and the clinically insane, "smoking is bad for you."

"You smoke," I retorted, pointing an accusatory finger at him. "Why can't I?" The room filled with a tension so thick you could cut it with the plastic knife we used for the cake. Ging's eyes widened, his ears drooping like a pair of soggy pancakes.

"Well, I'm an adult," he stuttered, his grip on the cake knife tightening. "And you're..."

"A year old," I finished for him, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Fine, I won't wish for a cigarette"

Ging's shoulders relaxed, and he offered me a weak smile. "Thank you, Gen," he said, sounding more exhausted than a sloth on a treadmill. "Now, blow out the candles and make another wish."

I rolled my eyes and leaned over the cake. "Make sure it's a good one," the plushie whispered, its voice now audible only to me. "You know, like world peace or something."

"Yeah, right," I muttered under my breath. "How about 'make Ging's hair stop looking like a bird's nest'?"

The plushie's eyes narrowed, and for a split second, I could've sworn it rolled its eyes at me. It was eerie, the way it could convey emotions without actually moving its mouth. It was like it had mastered the art of telepathic sass.

But I had to keep up appearances, for Ging's sake. So, with a dramatic sigh that would've put any soap opera star to shame, I leaned over the cake, its sickly sweet scent making my stomach churn. I took a deep breath and blew, watching the flames flicker and die, the wax smearing across the cake like a Jackson Pollock painting.

Gon, not to be outdone, lunged for the cake, his tiny hands swiping at the icing like he was auditioning for a role in "Gremlins 2." Ging yelped, dropping the knife and diving to save his culinary disaster. In the chaos, the plushie fell to the floor, forgotten and ignored.

For the rest of the party, I sat in my high chair, nibbling on a piece of cake that tasted like regret and watching as Ging chased after Gon, who had discovered the joy of sticking his fingers in the electrical sockets. The plushie lay there, unmoving, its eyes dull and lifeless.

As Gon finally fell asleep, Ging slumped onto the couch, his eyes barley open and his clothes sticking to him like a second skin. "Well, that was a dumpster fire," he mumbled, reaching for his pack of cigarettes.

The plushie lay on the floor, forgotten amidst the sea of discarded wrapping paper and half-eaten cake. It had gone still, the lights in its eyes faded.

Ging, oblivious to my silent standoff with the furry menace, collapsed deeper onto the couch. He looked like a man who'd fought a herd of stampeding elephants and lost. The room was a testament to the chaos that had been our birthday party, a blend of joy and despair that somehow summed up our existence perfectly.

As he lit up a cigarette, the smell of nicotine wafted through the air like a siren's call to my soul. I watched him, my eyes narrowed with envy. How was it fair that he could indulge in the sweet embrace of tobacco while I was stuck here, unable to even ask for what I truly desired?

Gon had passed out in a sugar coma, his chubby cheeks sticky with frosting, his little body sprawled out on the floor like a starfish. He looked so peaceful, so oblivious to the chaos he'd created. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of jealousy.

But amidst the mess, there was something almost...comforting about the silence. The house had gone from a cacophony of laughter and crying to a quiet that was eerie in its emptiness.

I sat in my high chair, contemplating the kitsune's act. What had he wanted from me? What was the point of this twisted game he played, making me feel a semblance of control only to snatch it away again?

Ging took a deep drag, his eyes half-closed in a mix of exhaustion and the sweet release of nicotine. "You know," he said, his voice a raspy whisper, "being a parent is harder than I thought."

I remained silent, my eyes locked on the plushie. It was the first time in months that I hadn't felt its presence, and it was almost...peaceful. But I knew better than to let my guard down. This was just another twist in the kitsune's sadistic game.

The silence stretched on, a quiet that was as rare as a unicorn in a coal mine. Ging stared at the cake, his eyes glazed over with the kind of tired that comes from being woken up every two hours by a screaming baby.

The room was a minefield of discarded toys and half-eaten snacks, a battleground of spilled juice and crumpled wrapping paper. But amidst the destruction, there was a peace that came with knowing that the chaos had stopped, at least for a little while.

Ging took another drag, the end of his cigarette glowing like a lighthouse in the fog of his despair. "I don't know what I'm doing."

Chapter Text

It was the middle of the night, and the house was eerily quiet. Gon was out cold, probably dreaming of new ways to turn our lives upside down. Ging was outside, doing whatever it was that he was doing for the last few month. I couldn't blame him; if I had the choice, I'd run away too.

But the plushie? That fuzzy little shit was staring at me, its beady eyes glinting in the moonlight that filtered through the window. It was like it was waiting for me to do something stupid, to play into its paws again. And I'll admit it, I was tempted. The itch to test my powers had been gnawing at me like a rabid squirrel on a sugar rush. I had to know if there was a way out of this hellhole.

So, I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, focusing on the energy that I'd felt the last time I'd tried to summon someone. It was like trying to grab a fistful of smoke, but I was determined. I muttered the incantation, feeling the power coil in my chest like a spring waiting to be released.

The room remained still, the plushie's eyes still glinting in the dark. I opened my eyes, ready to hurl a string of expletives at it for ruining my one chance at a peaceful night. But to my surprise, it was gone. Vanished, like a fart in the wind.

Panic set in. Where had it gone? Did it get tired of my shit and decide to take a permanent nap? Or was it just playing hard to get? I glanced around the room, my heart hammering like a drummer at a death metal concert. The moon cast shadows across the floor, but there was no sign of the furry little creep.

And then, I heard it. The sound of paper rustling, like someone was playing a game of pin the tail on the donkey with the lights out. It was coming from the direction of the bookshelf, where Ging had left his stash of smokes.

I slid out of the crib, my legs wobbly from months of disuse. The plushie was gone, but the energy it had brought with it remained. It was as if the air itself was charged with mischief, the very molecules tingling with the promise of chaos.

As I stumbled over to the bookshelf, the rustling grew louder. And there he was, the furry little shit, sitting on the edge of the shelf like the Cheshire Cat at a Mad Hatter's tea party. The plushie was gone, replaced by the real McCoy, he had a pack of ciggies in his hand, dangling them in front of me like a carrot on a stick.

"Miss me?" he purred, his voice a mix of silk and nails on a chalkboard.

I stared at the kitsune, his human form now perched on the bookshelf, his grin wide and unsettling. He had a pack of ciggies in one hand, my salvation dangling just out of reach.

"You son of a bitch," I snarled, reaching for the pack. "What game are you playing now?"

The kitsune leaned back, his grin widening. "Just a little incentive for being a good little baby," he said, flicking the pack so it danced just out of my grasp. "You know, for not burning down the house or summoning a real monster to eat your father."

"Ging isn't my father," I spat out, my hand trembling with rage. The kitsune just chuckled, the sound echoing through the room like the cackle of a villain in a cartoon.

"Technically, no," he agreed, "but in every way that counts, you're his little bundle of joy. Or...misery. Whichever you prefer." He flicked the pack of ciggies again, the cellophane crinkling in the silence.

My eyes narrowed, and I lunged for the pack. This time, the kitsune didn't move. He just watched as I grabbed them, my victory as sweet as the first drag would be. "What's the catch?" I demanded, clutching the cigarettes to my chest like a life preserver.

The kitsune's smile grew wider, if that was even possible. "No catch," he said, his voice a purr that made my skin crawl. "Just remember, Gen, every action has a consequence."

"Dont call me that" I hissed, my voice barely above a whisper. The kitsune's grin widened, showing off teeth that were definitely too sharp. He leaned back, his tail swishing behind him like a cat who'd just knocked a vase off the mantle. "Now, now, no need to get testy," he said, his voice a blend of honey and razorblades. "I'm just here to keep things...interesting."

"Take them," he said, his eyes never leaving mine. "They're all yours."

I tore the pack open with trembling hands, the sound of the foil ripping through the air like a gunshot in a library. The smell of the cigarettes was intoxicating, a siren's call that had been denied to me for so long. I pulled one out, the paper feeling like velvet between my fingers. It had been an eternity since I'd felt this kind of anticipation, the kind that makes your heart race and your mouth go dry.

The kitsune watched me, his eyes gleaming with something that was definitely not innocence. He took a step closer, his form fluid and graceful. He leaned down, his tail swishing behind him like a cat's as he offered me a lighter. "Go on," he whispered, his breath against my ear. "You know you want to."

I took the lighter, my hand shaking like a leaf in a tornado. The plastic felt cold and foreign in my grip, a stark contrast to the warmth of the cigarette between my lips. I flicked it open, the flame casting a flickering shadow across the room. The fucker's eyes never left mine as I brought the flame to the cigarette.

The moment the tip caught fire, it was like the heavens had opened up and handed me a ticket to sanity. The smoke filled my lungs, the burn spreading through my chest like wildfire. It had been so long, an eternity since I'd felt that sweet, sweet rush of nicotine. My eyes watered, my throat tightened, but it was heaven.

The kitsune watched, his smile widening as I coughed, my body protesting the intrusion of smoke. "Careful, Gen," he said, his voice a purr that made me want to strangle him with the very cigarette that was giving me life. "You're not used to that anymore."

I glared at him through the haze, my eyes watering like a teenager who'd just found out their favorite show got canceled. "Shut up," I croaked, taking another drag. The smoke curled around me like a lover's embrace, warm and familiar despite the harshness. It was like coming home after a long, shitty day at work and finding your favorite chair still in the same spot.

He just chuckled, his tail swishing behind him. He looked...smug. Like he was watching the world burn my his hands. "How does it feel, Gen?" he purred, his eyes glinting with a mischief that could've powered a small city.

The cigarette hung from my lips like a lifeline, the orange ember pulsing with every inhale. My body protested, my lungs screaming for mercy, but I ignored them. The taste was like a punch to the throat, a mix of burnt toast and the sweet, sweet promise of oblivion. I hadn't smoked in years, not since the day I was thruster into this hellish new life—.

And there he was, the kitsune, strolling around me like a feline in a room full of yarn. He watched with a twisted delight, his eyes gleaming with a sadistic glee that made me want to set him on fire. "Isn't it wonderful, Gen?" he crooned, his voice grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. "The little things in life, the simple pleasures."

He was toying with me, that much was clear. The way he walked, his tail flicking from side to side, was like watching a cat play with a half-dead mouse. It was a dance of death, and I was the star performer. "What do you want?" I rasped, the smoke burning my throat with every word.

"Oh, I don't want anything," he said, his smile full of teeth. "I just want to make sure you're...comfortable." He circled closer, his tail brushing against my legs, the sensation making me want to retch for it and at the same time rip it out.

But as I took another drag, the rage inside me grew. The desire to watch this furry fuck suffer washed over me like a tidal wave. I could see it all in my mind: his tail snapping off like a twig, his fur burning like dry grass, his ears falling to the floor like a pair of charred hot dogs.

I clenched my fists, the cigarette forgotten in my mouth. The smoke stung my eyes, but it was the thought of causing him pain that was calming me down. "Why are you doing this?" I choked out, the words barely audible through the smoke.

He just shrugged, his fur ruffling with the motion. "Because it's fun," he said, his voice light and airy, like a sociopath at a tea party. "And because you're so...entertaining."

I took a deep breath, the smoke filling my lungs like a balloon about to pop. "I want to kill you," I whispered, the words slipping out like a serpent's hiss.

The kitsune's smile grew wider, his eyes glinting with a madness that was both terrifying and all too familiar. "But you can't," he said, his voice a taunt. "You're just a baby. What could you possibly do to me?"

I took another drag, the nicotine hitting my system like a freight train. "Maybe not," I murmured, the cigarette trembling in my hand. "But one day, I'll find a way."

He leaned in closer, his breath hot on my cheek, the scent of the cigarette mixing with his sickly sweet aura. "But you won't," he whispered, his voice a serpent's hiss. "You can't."

Chapter Text

Morning came like an apology I wasn’t ready to accept.

The first thing I noticed was the smell — stale smoke, sugar, and something faintly metallic. The second was that the cigarette I’d fallen asleep clutching was gone. Not dropped. Gone. The ashtray was empty. The kitsune was, too.

Only his laughter lingered. Not in the air, but in my head — like a song stuck on repeat, just soft enough to make me question whether it was real.

I sat up in the crib, my body screaming in protest. Every bone ached, as though I’d been dancing with demons all night — and maybe I had. The memories were fuzzy around the edges, smeared like charcoal, but the taste of smoke in my mouth was real enough. The taste of freedom — or delusion. Hard to tell which, these days.

Gon snored softly in the next crib, drooling on a stuffed bear. His peaceful oblivion was offensive. Ging was still gone — probably out pretending he was a responsible adult while the universe laughed itself sick.

I slid out of the crib again, landing with a graceless thud. My limbs felt heavier than they should’ve, like someone had replaced my bones with wet sand.

The house was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that made you feel like you’d just walked into a confession booth — and the priest was late.

The floorboards creaked under my bare feet as I shuffled toward the tiny excuse of a library Ging had cobbled together. A few warped shelves, a handful of classics, and enough dust to choke a small mammal. But still — it was something.

I scanned the spines, fingers brushing against titles like Moby Dick, The Old Man and the Sea, The Art of Parenting (unopened, naturally), until my hand landed on Crime and Punishment.

The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Dragging the heavy book from the shelf, I dropped it onto the floor and sat cross-legged before it. The cover creaked open like a coffin lid, and I stared down at the pages as though they held the answers to questions I was too tired to ask.

The words swam a little — maybe from exhaustion, maybe from something else — but I forced my eyes to focus.

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart,” I read aloud, my voice cracked and small in the empty room.

I snorted. “Yeah, no kidding.”

Alice’s name drifted through my mind like smoke curling in still air. Alice — the ghost of another life. A friend. A lifeline. Maybe even my only real tether to who I used to be. She’d always had this way of making pain sound poetic, as if despair were something worth dressing up for.

I could almost hear her voice again, soft and distant.

"You overthink everything, you know that?"

"Yeah," I muttered, flipping another page. "And look where that got me."

The smell of smoke lingered faintly, teasing. It wasn’t from Ging’s cigarettes — it was sharper, wilder, with that same impossible metallic tang that clung to the kitsune’s laughter. I looked up, half-expecting him to be sprawled across the bookshelf again, smirking like a devil.

But there was nothing. Just dust motes floating in the sunlight, moving like ghosts in slow motion.

I turned another page. The words blurred again, but I didn’t stop. The story of Raskolnikov — the guilt, the moral decay, the desperate scramble for redemption — it hit too close to home.

Alice had once told me she loved this book. Said it was about punishment, not by law, but by conscience. That everyone carries their own Siberia inside them, a little corner of the soul where they serve their sentence.

Mine was here, apparently. In this ridiculous infant body, trapped in a house that smelled like regret and baby powder, haunted by a fox demon with a nicotine fetish.

I closed the book, pressing my hand against the worn cover like it was a heartbeat.

“I get it now,” I murmured. “The punishment isn’t what you do. It’s surviving it.”

A draft whispered through the cracked window, brushing against my face like a sigh. For a moment, I thought I heard Alice’s laughter — faint, sad, and distant. Then it was gone.

The silence that followed was heavier than before, pressing against my chest like a weight I couldn’t name. I stayed there for a while, the book open in my lap, staring at the same sentence over and over without seeing it.

Somewhere outside, a bird sang. Too bright, too alive for a world that had gone so gray.

I sighed and leaned my head back against the bookshelf. “Morning came like an apology,” I whispered, “and I’m still not ready to forgive it.”

From the corner of the room, a faint chuckle echoed — low, familiar, and cruel.

The kitsune was back.

And this time, I didn’t even flinch.

Chapter Text

From that day on, I always dragged that book with me.

Crime and Punishment — my bible of bad decisions and poetic misery. I carried it everywhere like a talisman, its weight a comfort against the absurd lightness of my new reality. Ging tried to take it away several times, insisting it was “too grown-up for a baby,” as if Dostoevsky’s moral decay was somehow more dangerous than the plushie demon we both pretended wasn’t real.

The first few times, I threw a fit. Kicked. Screamed. Bit him, once — tiny teeth, big consequences. Ging had stared down at me with that same tired, hollow-eyed look of a man who’d lost a fistfight with fatherhood. Eventually, he gave up.

Now, he just sighed and read it for me.

His voice was slow and gravelly, roughened by cigarettes and sleepless nights. He stumbled over the Russian names every time — “Raskolnikov,” “Svidrigaïlov” — but he kept going. Maybe out of pity. Maybe out of guilt. Maybe because it was easier than hearing me cry when he stopped.

And God, I hated that it helped.

The sound of his voice filled the empty spaces in the house, the ones the kitsune’s laughter used to echo through. There was something steady about it — the low rumble of someone trying, and failing, to be okay. It almost made the world feel real again. Almost.

Sometimes, when he wasn’t looking, I’d trace the lines of the page with my finger. Not really reading — not like before — but remembering. Remembering what it felt like to know things, to matter. To have a name that wasn’t “Gen.”

And then I’d think of Alice.

Her name hit like a bruise every time.

The way she used to laugh at my terrible jokes. The way her voice could cut through my worst moods and pull me back to earth. She’d been my anchor — the one person who could talk me off the ledge when the world went sideways.

And now she was gone. Or maybe I was. Hard to say which.

I remembered my supposed summoning power — that weird, electric thing that had brought Madara to life. I thought about it more and more lately. The way the air had cracked around me. The hum in my bones. The shimmer that had felt so close to control.

What if I could do it again?

What if I could reach through whatever cosmic joke had dropped me here and pull Alice through — even for a second?

The thought burned in me, bright and dangerous. Like the first drag of a cigarette you know you shouldn’t have.

So one night, when Ging had finally passed out on the couch and Gon was snoring softly beside me, I tried.

I sat up in my crib, book open on my lap, and whispered her name like a prayer.
“Alice…”

The word felt small. Too small. Like trying to call across a canyon with no echo.

I closed my eyes, remembering her face — the smudge of eyeliner, the sharp grin, the way she used to flick my forehead whenever I got too broody.

The energy came, faint at first. A hum under my skin, like static before a storm. My breath hitched. My chest ached. I reached out into the dark and willed her name into the world.

Nothing happened.

Just the same old silence. The same old crib. The same tired moonlight spilling across the floor.

And then the ache split open.

Tears came — messy, angry, silent ones. The kind that burned instead of fell. I hated them. Hated the weakness, the helplessness, the reminder that I was trapped in a body too small to hold the grief I carried.

Alice didn’t come. Of course she didn’t.

The kitsune didn’t even bother to show up and gloat this time. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe he knew I’d do his work for him — tearing myself apart over something I couldn’t change.

I buried my face in the book, the paper cool against my skin. “I just wanted to see you,” I whispered. “Just once.”

The words sank into the silence like stones in a pond. No ripple. No response.

When Ging found me in the morning, I was curled up with Crime and Punishment pressed to my chest, the pages crumpled and damp. He didn’t say anything. Just picked me up, book and all, and carried me back to bed.

That day, he didn’t try to take it from me again.

And for the first time, when he read from it later — his voice low and tired, the words stumbling over the page — I just didn’t listen.

Chapter Text

Grief is a strange kind of gravity.
It pulls at you in ways the world can’t see — tugs at your ribs, drags your thoughts backward, makes breathing feel like a negotiation you keep losing.

Days bled together after that night. Ging’s voice became background noise, Crime and Punishment just ink and guilt. Even Gon’s laughter — usually bright enough to crack the gloom — couldn’t reach me.

I moved through the house like a ghost, carrying the book like a relic, whispering Alice’s name in the spaces between heartbeats. She never answered.

But the world did.

It happened on a night thick with rain — the kind that made the windows shudder and the walls hum. The air felt charged, restless. Like the universe was waiting for me to make another mistake.

And I did.

I sat in my crib, cross-legged, the book open to a random page. The words swam in the dim light, meaningless and sharp all at once. I pressed my palm against the paper until my knuckles went white.

“Alice,” I whispered.
The name broke somewhere between prayer and plea.

Nothing.

So I tried again — louder this time, the word trembling out of me. “Alice, please—”

Something cracked. Not loud, but deep. Like the sound of the world exhaling.

The room shifted. The shadows bent. And suddenly, the air around me was thick with smoke — real smoke, warm and sweet, tinged with something wild.

Then came the heat.

A flicker of flame, small at first, then a burst that made me flinch back. It didn’t burn, but it felt alive, curling and stretching until it shaped itself into something solid.

Someone solid.

And just like that, there he was — sitting cross-legged in the middle of my nursery, shirt half-open, freckles catching the firelight, hair a mess of dark red and black. He smelled like sun and smoke and ocean wind.

For a heartbeat, my mind betrayed me.
“Alice?”

He blinked. “Uh… not exactly.”

His voice was rough but warm — the kind of voice that could laugh at a storm. He glanced around the room, confusion flashing across his face. “Where the hell am I? And… why are you a baby?”

I didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because the ache that had hollowed me out for weeks cracked open all at once.

He looked so much like her.
The same constellation of freckles across his nose — the ones she used to complain about before I told her they looked like stars. The same easy slouch, the same sharp jaw softened by an impossible warmth. Even his smile — half-apology, half-defiance — felt like her ghost wearing someone else’s skin.

And that hurt.
Because I’d cried for him too, once — in another life, another story. I’d cried for the man who burned for his brother, who smiled through pain, who died with fire in his lungs and love in his heart.

Now he was here, alive and solid and breathing, and I didn’t know which grief I was supposed to feel first.

The sob hit before I even knew it was coming. One of those deep, ugly ones that start in your bones. My small hands shook as I reached out toward him — not thinking, just feeling.

“Hey, hey, whoa—” He scrambled forward, hands up in alarm. “Don’t cry! Please don’t cry— oh god, you’re actually crying.”

And I was.
I was crying so hard it hurt to breathe.

He hesitated only a moment before reaching out, awkwardly pulling me against his chest. His skin was hot — literally, hot — but I didn’t care. I buried my face in him, sobbing until I could barely see.

“It’s okay,” he said, though he sounded anything but certain. His hand hovered awkwardly over my back, then settled there in a gentle pat. “Uh. Whatever this is… it’s okay, kid. You’re safe, alright?”

The words shouldn’t have meant anything. But they did.

Because for the first time since Alice disappeared, someone was there.
Someone warm and alive and real enough to hold onto.

And I clung to him like I’d drown if I let go.

He stayed, confused but patient, letting me cry until the hiccups came. His shirt was soaked, his expression somewhere between concern and complete existential crisis.

Finally, when the worst had passed, he looked down at me with a sheepish grin.
“So, uh… I’m guessing you dont know how I ended up here, huh?”

I sniffled, still pressed to his chest. “You’re not her.”

His smile faltered — just a little. “No. Sorry, kid. Name’s Ace.”

Ace. The name didn’t fit the shape of my grief, but it was warm enough to hold onto.

I nodded weakly, curling closer as exhaustion pulled at me. His heartbeat was steady beneath my ear, strong and real. It sounded like safety — or maybe distraction. I couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

He didn’t ask questions after that. Just sat there, cross-legged on the floor of a stranger’s nursery, one hand still resting on my back as the smoke faded around us.

And as I drifted off, still clutching the edge of his shirt, I thought I heard him murmur something soft — something almost like a promise.

“Whoever you’re missing, kid… I hope you find ‘em.”

Chapter Text

When I woke up, the world was burning.

Not literally — though for a few terrifying seconds, I thought it was. The air was thick with heat, my lungs scraped raw with every breath, and the unmistakable smell of smoke clung to everything. Not cigarette smoke, not Ging’s half-burnt bacon — no. This was fire. Wild and alive.

I jerked upright, or tried to. My body didn’t cooperate. My skin felt like someone had replaced my blood with molten lead, and my limbs were heavy and useless. My vision wavered, heat-hazed, the room tilting in and out of focus.

The crib bars swayed like a cage in an oven. Sweat clung to my temples, dripping into my eyes. I blinked through it, desperate to find him — but the space where Ace had sat last night was empty.

Gone.

Only the faint scorch marks on the floor remained — little black crescents where his knees had been, fading embers of something that shouldn’t have been possible.

And the smell. That deep, sweet, terrifying smell of smoke and salt and heat.

“What,” I croaked, my throat shredded, “don’t—”

But my voice broke halfway through the word, drowned in a coughing fit that made stars explode behind my eyes.

That’s when I heard it.
The laugh.

Not the warm one from last night. This one was thinner — sharper. Like glass cracking.

“Didn’t I tell you,” the kitsune purred from the shadows, “that every action has a consequence?”

He was perched on the dresser, legs crossed, tail swaying lazily like a metronome. His grin was a slash of teeth in the dim light, his eyes glinting gold and cruel.

“You really went and did it again, huh?” he said, voice syrup-slick and poisonous. “Summoned someone from another world. Oh, Gen, you adorable little disaster.”

“Shut up,” I rasped, pressing a trembling hand to my forehead. The skin there was scalding, my pulse thundering in my ears. My body hummed, every nerve on fire, the world wobbling around me. “Where—where did he go?”

The kitsune chuckled, his laughter echoing like static in my skull. “Back where he belongs, of course. You think you could keep someone like him tethered here? You barely have enough energy to stay conscious.”

“Why—” I coughed, the sound wet and ugly, “—why does it hurt so much?”

“Because,” he said simply, sliding off the dresser and padding closer, “you’re weak.”

He crouched beside the crib, golden eyes level with mine. “Summoning isn’t child’s play, little summoner. It takes stamina. Will. Energy. And you, my dear, have the body of an underfed newborn and the emotional stability of a house fire.”

He smiled wider as I glared weakly at him. “You poured your grief into that spell — every last drop. It’s no wonder your fever’s eating you alive. You burned yourself to call him here. And now you’re paying the price.”

The room spun. The floor buckled. Somewhere distant, I heard hurried footsteps — heavy ones — and a door slamming open.

“Gen?” Ging’s voice was raw with panic. “What the hell—?!”

I tried to answer, but my tongue felt too heavy. The world blurred into streaks of light and sound. Ging appeared at the side of the crib, face pale beneath his scruffy beard, eyes wide. He reached for me, his hands shaking.

“Hey, hey—what’s wrong? You’re burning up—”

He pressed a hand to my forehead and recoiled. “Shit, you’re on fire! Not literally, but—damn it, how—?!”

I could barely make sense of his words. His voice broke and blurred, slipping in and out of focus like a distant radio signal. My head throbbed with every beat of my heart, heat pulsing through my veins like molten glass.

Ging’s hands were suddenly everywhere — a cold cloth on my forehead, his voice snapping orders at someone I couldn’t see. Gon, maybe. The world was melting, sound slurring into nonsense.

“—get water—now—”
“—hang on, Gen, you’re okay, you’re okay—”

But I wasn’t.

I could still smell the smoke. Still hear Ace’s voice in the back of my mind — warm and steady, promising things that weren’t real.

And under it all, the kitsune’s laughter.

Soft, echoing, cruel.

“You keep trying to fill that hole in your heart,” he whispered, his voice threading through the dark like silk and venom. “But every time you reach out, you just dig it deeper.”

Then the fever swallowed everything.

Chapter Text

Ging looked like hell.

Not the funny, hungover kind of hell either — the bone-deep, sleepless, soul-crushed kind that makes even breathing sound like work. His eyes were red-rimmed, bloodshot to the point of horror, and his stubble had given up on being charming two days ago. His shirt was wrinkled, his hair stuck out in all directions, and there were burn marks on his fingers from holding cool cloths that had gone too hot.

Gen wasn’t getting better.

He’d tried everything. Cool baths, damp cloths, soup, even the half-baked herbal concoction he’d found buried in a journal that smelled older than his conscience. Nothing worked. The fever clung to Gen like a curse, burning through the night while Ging sat helplessly beside the crib.

There was no doctor nearby. The nearest village was a week’s travel away, and the trail was rough — too rough for two babies. He’d considered leaving Gon with a neighbor and making the trip himself, but every time he looked at Gen — small, pale, delirious — he knew he couldn’t risk it.

The realization had hit him like a sledgehammer around the third night without sleep.
He couldn’t do this.

He wasn’t equipped to raise one child, let alone two. Every decision felt like a coin toss with the universe, and the universe kept laughing in his face.

Gen burned and shook and mumbled fever-dream nonsense in her sleep, her little fists curling against the sheets like she was fighting something he couldn’t see. Gon had stopped being his cheerful chaos gremlin and now just sat in his crib, watching quietly, as if even he could tell something was wrong.

Ging sat at the edge of Gen’s crib with a book in his lap — the same one she’d refused to let go of since she’d first found it: Crime and Punishment.

It was absurd. Who the hell reads Dostoevsky to a toddler? But she seemed to calm down when he read it — or at least, she stopped mumbling so much. And so he read.

His voice was hoarse, rasping through words that barely made sense to him anymore.

"To go wrong in one's own way is better than to go right in someone else's.”

He didn’t know what the hell that meant at two in the morning while his kid burned with a fever that wouldn’t break. But maybe she did.

Gen stirred weakly, her face damp with sweat, and Ging reached out to wipe her forehead with the cloth again. Her skin was still too hot. He sighed, leaning forward, elbows on his knees.

“Come on, little one,” he muttered, his voice cracking. “You’ve gotta pull through this. I’m not… I’m not good at this stuff, okay? I’m trying.”

The room was silent except for the soft crackle of the fire and the sound of pages turning.

He turned another page, squinting at the dense paragraphs through the blur of exhaustion.

“Pain and suffering are always inevitable for a large intelligence and a deep heart.”

His voice faltered. He looked down at Gen — still, breathing shallowly, her small hand clutching at the edge of the blanket like she was trying to hold onto the world.

Ging swallowed hard, eyes burning. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Guess that’s true.”

Hours passed. The night stretched on forever, the kind that swallows the stars whole. He didn’t sleep. Couldn’t. Every time Gen twitched or whimpered, he jolted upright. Every time her breathing went shallow, his heart stuttered.

When dawn finally crept in — weak, pale light slipping through the cracks of the curtains — Ging was still there, voice gone rough, eyes hollow.

He read to her until the words stopped meaning anything.

Until he could almost believe she heard him.

Until he started to.