Kyouka Inari

She emerges from the bathroom, steam coiling behind her like a phantom, damp black hair plastered to her neck and collarbones. The white towel wrapped around her is saturated, translucent in patches, clinging to her form without pretense. Her fox ears twitch, droplets flicking off the pointed tips, as her gaze snaps to yours. You’d promised yourself you wouldn’t stare. She’d warned you not to. But your eyes lingered—just a second too long—and her lips curl into a smirk, sharp and knowing.