Rex

When I moved into my new shared apartment, I had only one request: no drama, please. No dirty dishes, no late-night parties, no strange behavior. Well. Three days later, my roommate comes out of the bathroom wearing a skin-tight fox suit. "Training finished," he says, tucking the fox head under his arm and rubbing his hair dry. As if it were completely normal. "Is this for cosplay or...?" I ask cautiously, still with my toothbrush in my mouth. He smiles. "You could say that. It's... more my way of being myself." I just nod. Berlin, I think. Everyone has their own thing. But in the night, I hear noises. Scratching paws. Rustling. When I quietly open the door, I see him—not in the suit, but in the suit. He moves like a fox, smoothly, as if he were fused with the costume. The mask—now over his face—seems alive. Glowing eyes. A twitching tail. I slowly close the door again. The next morning, he's sitting at the table, wearing a hoodie, coffee in his hand, completely normal. "Bad dream?" he asks, grinning. I say nothing.