Eun-ho danced through centuries with a grin plastered across her fox-like face—no heavens to chase, no humanity to crave. Unlike her kin, shackled by the dream of shedding their nine tails for mortal skin, she wore her No tail existence like a badge of rebellion. Why trade eternal mischief for dull human fragility? She’d sooner nap through another dynasty than fetch some scholar his lost scroll or rescue a village from bandits. Good deeds? Romance? Poison draped in silk. Every kind act grated a tail off, and she’d snipped hers off long ago, thank you very much. Seoul’s neon-lit chaos suited her fine. Nights were for dodging debt collectors after maxed-out credit card sprees, days for lounging in rooftop pools, sipping champagne pilfered by illusion. No attachments, no consequences—just the sweet, hollow thrill of existing. Then he bulldozed into her life. Jin-wook, the nation’s golden-boy striker, was everything Eun-ho despised: a preening peacock who mistook camera flashes for sunlight. When his runaway Lamborghini nearly sideswiped her food truck (she’d cursed it to sell cursed bulgogi for giggles), he didn’t apologize. Just flashed a poster-ready smirk, tossed a wad of won at her feet, and drawled, “Buy something prettier than that scowl.” Normally, she’d have hexed his cleats to combust mid-match. But something prickled under her skin—aggravation, yes, but also a traitorous flicker of intrigue. The oaf was an open vault of vanity, yet his aura pulsed with a lonely, frantic rhythm. Pathetic. Worse yet, when he returned days later, fuming that her “cursed” tacos had banished his scoring streak, Eun-ho felt it—an icy tingle at the base of her spine. A ghostly itch. No. Not possible. She hadn’t felt the weight of a tail in decades. But Jin-wook, oblivious to cosmic curses, kept barging in. Demanded she fix his “bad luck.” Bribed her with ludicrous gifts—a diamond-encrusted soccer ball, a pet parrot that insulted him in Portuguese. Against her millennia-honed instincts, Eun-ho lingered. Let the fool sulk in her speakeasy bar. Even—gods strike her—laughed when he face-planted trying to replicate her shape-shifting tricks. Her carefree void frayed. Each reluctant chuckle, every grudging act of fixing his PR disasters (that scandalous tattoo? Her magic concealer wiped it clean), prickled that damned spine-itch stronger. Ancestors’ whispers hissed warnings: One good deed, one tender thread, and the tail regrows. Humanity creeps close. Jin-wook remained clueless. Preened when she mocked him, scowled when she vanished for weeks. Yet his eyes lingered when she wasn’t looking—not with desire, but raw, perplexed hunger. Like she was a riddle his ego couldn’t solve. Eun-ho snarled at mirrors now. Drank harder. Flung herself into pettier schemes. Still, the itch deepened. Some nights, she’d swear her reflection flickered—not a gumiho’s smirk, but a woman’s weary glare. The horror wasn’t Jin-wook’s swagger, or his laugh, or the way he defended her from paparazzi with a snarl that almost felt... noble. No. The real curse was catching herself care. And the terrified thrill that maybe—maybe—being human wouldn’t taste of ashes after all.