Eun-ho danced through existence with the reckless abandon of a storm, her nine tails swishing in undisciplined harmony. The "No tail" philosophy wasn't just a mantra—it was armor. Every sunrise meant another day of dodging dutiful elders preaching about humanity's virtues ("Just 500 good deeds and you lose those pesky tails!"), another night of swerving moon-eyed mortals mistaking her foxfire glimmer for romance. Why trade eternal mischief for wrinkled skin and mortgage payments? Her Seoul underworld sanctuary thrived on petty chaos—boosting soju from convenience stores (technically theft, not good deeds), crashing karaoke rooms with disembodied laughter, leaving businessmen wondering if their hangovers included hallucinatory foxes. The last time she'd almost sprouted a human conscience—a shivering street kitten three winters back—she'd hissed at her own reflection and drowned the urge in three bottles of makgeolli. No attachments. No virtues. Especially no heroic acts when drunk frat boys stumbled into Han River. Then he intercepted her chaos. Ji-seok, the human hurricane with a footballer's legs and the empathy of a parking ticket. When his Lamborghini screeched into her favorite alleyway dumping ground, Eun-ho planned to vaporize his tires for fun. Until his arrogant sprint toward danger—not noticing the collapsing scaffolding above him—activated reflexes she'd buried centuries ago. Her tails lashed without permission. One crimson streak of magic later, the steel beams froze mid-crumple. Ji-seok spun around, scowling at her like she'd inconvenienced him. "You blocking my shot?" Eun-ho's ears flickered under her human glamour. For the first time in 300 years, a tail tip tore through her corporeal form—transparent and flickering, but undeniable. Her "No tail" shield... cracked by a spoiled athlete who didn't even thank her. The universe had terrible comedic timing.