His fingers went slack. The print slipped from his hands and fluttered toward the floorboards like dead leaves.
The lighting in the small room hadn't changed, but ever since he saw it, he couldn't unsee what he saw.
The word sat in his skull like a stone, making his surroundings blur into an unreadable smear as his brain desperately tried to process the reality of it.
…Futa.
Short for Futanari.
A female body possessing fully functional male genitalia—a hyper-sexualized trope straight out of the darkest, most degenerate corners of late-night adult anime.
The root of the concept traced all the way back to ancient Greek mythology—Hermaphroditos, the offspring of Hermes and Aphrodite who merged both sexes into a single frame.
But this wasn't an abstract myth from an old textbook, and it wasn't some sick trope tucked behind a glowing phone screen at two in the morning.
It was standing three feet in front of him in a dim, suffocating room.
His eyes darted down to the print on the ground, then sharply jerked away.
Yes, it's still there.
Lester's thumb hooked frantically under the strap of Robert, yanking the heavy metal camera up to press it flat against the center of his sternum.
He held onto it like a holy relic, a makeshift shield against the bizarre horror unfolding, his knuckles turning paper-white.
His chest hitched.
Every breath felt too thin, too loud.
"O-Okay… okay, think. Just for one second," he whimpered under his breath, voice already cracking.
He closed his eyes, took a shallow, ragged breath through his nose, and tried to focus entirely on the familiar, mundane smell of stale beer drifting in from the hallway.
You lost a lot of blood downstairs. You have a concussion.
You are literally hallucinating this entire encounter.
He opened his eyes, fixed his gaze straight ahead at the faded floral wallpaper, and forced his legs to move.
One leg in front of the other.
Just walk out the door.
Walk down the stairs.
Drink a glass of water.
Sit down and try to forget this ridiculous fever dream.
No—nightmare.
Just step forward.
Simple.
As long as you keep walking, nothing will stop yo—
CREAK-SNAP!
A sharp, violent jerk snapped his waist back, his thick leather belt groaning under a sudden, iron strain.
His shoes skidded two inches across the dusty floorboards before his forward momentum died completely.
"Eek!"
A high, pathetic squeak ripped out of his throat before he could stop it.
Shame flooded him so hard his ears burned.
"Ahem—KHK—KHK!"
He cleared his throat violently, coughing twice into his elbow to hide the utter humiliation rattling in his chest.
With a hand that wouldn't stop shaking, he reached up, pinched the frame of his round glasses, and slowly pushed them back up his sweat-slick nose.
His gaze locked with absolute, terrified intensity onto a single loose thread hanging off the hem of Skye's jacket standing near the threshold—deliberately refusing to raise his eyes to her face, or look back at what was holding him.
"Um," Lester managed, his voice strained, thin, and unnaturally high.
"Could you... please let go of my belt?"
He swallowed hard, his throat bone-dry.
His pulse hammered so loudly he was sure everyone in the room could hear it.
Mira rose slowly from her knees.
The bedsprings creaked soft and low beneath her weight—and that was all the warning Lester got.
The second her grip on his belt loosened even a fraction, he exploded into motion.
He twisted hard, heel grinding against the floorboards, and threw his entire body toward the door.
His free hand shot back, fingers clawing desperately at the iron grip still locked around the leather.
He punched, clawed, wrenched—knuckles cracking against her knuckles, nails raking skin, the heel of his palm slamming down with every ounce of panicked strength he had left.
Tears of pure frustration stung his eyes.
Nothing.
Her hand didn't budge.
Not a millimeter. It stayed clamped around his belt like a steel manacle, utterly unshaken, unmoved, as if his frantic attacks were nothing more than a child's tantrum.
"Let—go—!" he snarled through clenched teeth, voice cracking into something raw and broken. He yanked again, hard enough that the belt dug deep into his hip, the leather creaking in protest. His shoes scraped and skidded.
He nearly tore his own pants trying to rip free. Sweat poured down his temples.
His breath came in short, animal gasps. "Please—just—let me go!"
Still nothing.
It simply stood there, rising to her full height with lazy, effortless grace, watching him thrash like a fish on a hook.
The amusement in her eyes was almost gentle.
Across the room, Skye's composure finally fractured.
"Step away from him right now, anomaly." Her voice cut through the heavy air, stripped entirely of her earlier party persona—but it wasn't cold.
Her smile vanished. The amber light in her eyes flared hotter, sharper. For the first time, something real and ugly flickered across her face—offense, raw and immediate.
"Anomaly?" she repeated, voice dropping into a low, dangerous purr that vibrated against Lester's back. "How clinical. How small. You people always did prefer labels over looking at what's actually standing in front of you."
Skye's jaw clenched. Something flickered behind her eyes—anger, yes, but also something closer to desperation.
Her free hand curled into a fist at her side. She took one sharp step forward, the floorboards protesting under her boot.
Without taking her eyes off Sky, The entity moved right behind Lester.
She pressed her front fully against his back, wrapping her arms around his waist to pull him flush against her body.
The moment she made contact, Lester felt it—a firm, heavy, impossible density pushing directly against the small of his back.
The bulge was massive.
There was no denying it now. No illusion, no trick of the light.
The sheer, unmistakable size of it pressed hard through her shorts and right into his spine.
Lester went rigid.
Every muscle in his body locked up as horror washed over him in a cold.
His vision blurred, and a single, silent tear welled up in his eye, slipping out to trace a warm path down his pale, sweat-slick cheek.
A broken sound escaped his throat—half sob, half choked plea.
"Please...please please just let me go home."
It leaned in close, its breath brushing the shell of his ear—warm, impossibly sweet, carrying an unnatural scent like hot honey and crushed orchids.
"Aw, you asked so nicely," she murmured right against his ear, her tone gentler now, almost mockingly soft, though the earlier sting still lingered under every word. "But I really can't let go, If I let go, who is going to become meal."
Its hands slid past his belt, trailing slowly up his waist, over his ribs, and pressing lightly against his chest, right beside Robert's cold metal body.
Her tail flicked out, coiling smooth and warm around his ankle.
Lester completely lost whatever pathetic shred of composure he had left.
"S-Skye!"
he choked out in a raw, desperate sob, his glasses sliding crookedly down his nose. His whole body was shaking now, open and helpless.
"Skye, please—save me! I can feel it! I can feel it against my back! Please, do something! Throw something! Just get her off me!"
Skye's shoulders went taut as steel.
Her right hand tensed hard inside her pocket, fingers clearly wrapped around whatever weapon she was carrying—but she didn't draw it.
Not yet.
Her face was tight with barely contained fury and something far more fragile underneath: the helpless rage of someone who wanted to move, needed to move, and still couldn't risk it.
"I said step away," she repeated, voice low and shaking with the effort of control.
Her eyes never left Mira's.
"Last chance."
Mira's smile returned, slow and deliberate. She didn't move an inch. If anything, she pressed closer against Lester's back, chin resting comfortably on his trembling shoulder.
"I'm waiting," she said, voice almost playful. "Go on. I'll even wait for you to attack first."
Skye's expression flickered.
For a single heartbeat she stood frozen—then both hands dove into her purse.
Lester and 'Mira' watched her for completely different reasons.
Lester's eyes were wide, desperate, clinging to the sight of her like a drowning man watching the shore.
Mira's gaze was colder, sharper, tracking every frantic movement of Sky's fingers with predatory interest.
"Sky—" Lester choked out.
"Just give me a moment," she snapped, voice tight, still digging through the bag.
Before he could say another word, Skye's head snapped up.
Her eyes locked onto his with sudden, fierce intensity.
"Lester. Do me a favor." Her voice was low, urgent. "Touch your toes."
He stared at her, breath hitching, mind blank with panic. "W-what—?"
"Now," she said, sharper. "Bend. Touch your toes."
Something in her tone left no room for argument.
Lester's body moved before his brain could catch up—he folded forward at the waist as much as Mira's grip would allow, arms reaching down, fingers stretching desperately toward the dusty floorboards.
The second his upper body dropped—
Sky's hand came free of the purse in a blur.
A sharp, violent crack split the air as she fired straight at Mira's head.