The Fox Returns

The poison’s in the petals. The beauty’s in the bite.”

The glow of Dominique’s screen was the only light in her bedroom.

Her last stream had ended hours ago. She’d cleaned the WREC room herself, disinfected every surface, coiled every cord. Left nothing behind but the phantom echo of her voice:

“I am the Alpha. Crawl for me.”

She should’ve felt powerful.

Instead, she felt... unsettled.

At 2:13 a.m., a message pinged through her encrypted inbox—an account she’d used only for anonymous posts.

Username: FoxGlove-44

You dropped your crown tonight. But I picked it up for you.

Wear it again soon. I want to see you bleed for me.

—F

She stared.

Not at the message.

At the name.

Fox.

Her stomach knotted. She hadn’t heard that name since the last cryptic tip, and that had been weeks ago. She’d thought it was a fluke. A copycat.

But now?

No emojis. No slang. Just cool, calm obsession. Precise and deeply personal.

She checked the IP masking. It was rerouted through layers of proxies. Smart. Smart enough to match her own system.

She typed:

Do I know you?

No reply.

Just the blinking indicator.

Typing.

Then nothing.

The next morning, Dominique sat in her usual seat at school, surrounded by the sterile smell of pencil shavings and perfume, but her mind was elsewhere.

Damien wasn’t in class.

He wasn’t in the cafeteria. Or the hallways. Or the parking lot.

“He’s ghosting me,” she whispered under her breath, eyes narrowed.

Was it her last stream? Had it been too much?

Or had he seen the message too?

A worse thought followed.

What if Damien... wasn’t the Fox—but knew who was?

By seventh period, her locker had a note tucked just beneath the top vent. A crimson envelope sealed with wax.

Inside: a pressed foxglove flower—purple and delicate.

Toxic if consumed.

Deadly if taken whole.

And scrawled beneath it, on parchment paper, in slanted ink:

“Let them fear you. But let me worship you.”

—Your devoted Fox

She ripped it in half and shoved it in her bag.

But the scent of the petals lingered.

So did the heat crawling up her spine.

That night, she messaged Wolf.

No reply.

She tried again. Voice message this time.

“You okay? I got something weird today. Call me back.”

Still nothing.

She paced her room in bare feet, her long silk robe brushing the floor. Outside, the wind howled, the window rattled.

She hated how empty her space felt without his voice—even if it was just a growl in her ear.

She hated that someone else—Fox—was starting to sound like him. Or worse… that they were blending together in her head.

Part V – A Story Posted Too Soon

That night, she logged in to her story-sharing site, the one where Domica whispered fantasies for her followers to devour.

She hadn’t posted in weeks.

Until now.

She uploaded one called:

“The Fox and the Fire.”

A fictionalized confession. A Dom’s slow surrender to a shadowy admirer. A figure who watched from the edges, sent gifts, knew her body like a map, and promised nothing but ruin.

She tagged it: #fiction. #maybe. #dangerouslove.

It was read 4,400 times in the first hour.

At midnight, a comment appeared.

From FoxGlove-44.

“I love when you write about me.”

Her hands went cold.

Part VI – Red Ribbon Dreams

She didn’t sleep that night.

When she finally passed out near dawn, still dressed in thigh-high socks and smeared lipstick, her dreams were stained in red ribbons and candlelight.

She saw herself tied to a chair, hands behind her back, foxglove flowers braided through her hair. A shadow circled her, whispering in a voice that was almost Damien’s—but not quite.

“Say my name, Domica.”

She couldn’t.

Wouldn’t.

The shadow knelt in front of her.

“Then I’ll carve it into your skin instead.”

She woke up gasping, fingers clenched in her sheets, and a single word burned into her brain.

Fox.

Would you like to continue into Chapter 19: Red Collar, White Lies next, where the obsession intensifies and she begins trying to trace Fox’s true identity?

Dominique didn’t remember getting out of bed. But suddenly, she was standing in front of her vanity mirror, still in her rumpled robe, one sleeve falling off her shoulder, her eyes bloodshot.

A streak of sweat ran down her neck.

She stared at her reflection—Domica staring back. Not Dominique. Not the perfect daughter. Just the woman in silk and secrets.

“Get it together.”

She pulled her hair into a loose twist, clipped it up. Poured herself cold water. The chill grounded her for a second—until she noticed something tucked into the drawer she never used.

Another envelope.

Cream parchment. Red seal.

She froze.

It hadn’t been there the night before.

Hands trembling slightly, she peeled the wax back.

This time there was no flower—just a photo.

A printed screenshot of her Domica profile. One of her most intimate streams. A moment where she held the crop against her lips, whispering to the camera.

It wasn’t just the image.

It was what had been scribbled beneath it in looping, feminine handwriting:

"I’ve watched this a hundred times. Every time, you’re looking straight at me."

She sank onto the edge of her bed, fingers clenching the paper until it crinkled in her hand.

He—or she—is in my world now. Not just online. Not just watching. Here. Inside my life.

Her phone buzzed again.

A new tip. From FoxGlove-44.

$44.44

Your favorite number. A perfect loop. A perfect girl.

Wear something red next time. For me.

She shut the app. Slammed the phone down.

The ache between her temples pulsed like a second heartbeat.

This wasn’t just some viewer.

This was personal.

And despite herself—despite the dread curling in her chest—there was a dangerous part of her that wasn’t afraid.

It was curious.

Because curiosity was always how obsession began.