She learns what it means to be a "guarantor" with every tragedy in her life leaving a scar on her soul.

Her first mission was merely a test of what she would have to get used to with every accumulated bitterness in life – she never forgot, and every emotion felt was as raw as if it were experienced in that very moment.

Self-loathing came first, with the mission that opened her eyes to just how weak she truly was.

Fear, when she nearly died for the first time in the face of an enemy far more powerful.

Resentment – as her companions abandoned her, her team dissolving.

Helplessness, when she couldn't cure a patient and had to watch him die.

Envy: her former companion returning and making her realize she would never be strong enough to be his equal.

Rage. Lust. Pain. Despair. Guilt. Sadness.

One day, when she turned 16 and experienced another near-death moment, she began having dreams about the fiadores who came before her, feeling their emotions as well.
It was almost enough to drive her insane. The only good thing about being a guarantor was that it also meant remembering what was good: Love. Trust. Friendship. A sense of security. Patience. Serenity.

It was no wonder she could never strictly follow the Nation's Shadow rule that said "do not show emotions." She had too much emotion to keep it hidden.

By the end of her first life, she bore 36 years of turbulent emotions engraved in her—and centuries' worth from her ancestral guarantors. She asks her father if this will ever end. If, by ending their lineage, there would be an end at all.
He tells her that there is a "last guarantor," the Promised One, the Son of Divinity who gives forgiveness and lightens the burdens of those who have faith in Him. That he will not be of the clan's bloodline, for he is meant to be the One-Who-Represents-All-Peoples—not merely those of her family.

She had lived and suffered so much as to have faith.


And despite her skepticism, she still hopes that this last guarantor truly exists. Forgiveness is such a tempting thing for creatures like her—those who long for the light despite being born of the shadows.


The fox does not seek her out the next day, nor the day after. It's just Stiles now, and Ayla is both relieved and anxious. Relieved that, for the most part, Stiles is still Stiles, but also anxious about what the Nogitsune was planning… and, she admits, perhaps a little because she wanted to see him. Perhaps. She isn't , well, yes—she is sure.

The way he made her feel… it was surreal. It had been so long since she'd felt that physical spark. And he did it all with the same face that now stood before her—the boy gesticulating at something on one of the walls as he tried to solve some case.

She swallows hard, distracted by his long, well-kept hands, recalling the sensation of them against her skin, and then her greenish eyes drift—without his permission—toward his arms, noticing his lean muscles contracting as he moved. And then she focuses on his face, lingering on his lips, moving in an almost hypnotic manner.

"Careful, little girl. You can't provoke a predator and expect to get away with it."

Her thoughts overlap with the image of a much more aggressive and dangerous version of Stiles.

"…you didn't hear a word I said, did you?"- Stiles says, snapping his fingers in front of her face.

Indeed, while he rambled on about whatever it was, she was busy coveting his fox-like counterpart.

"Farewell, remnants of morality and decency. I hereby decide that this boy is officially too tempting for my eyes. Sorry, Stiles. I find you hot. Or you as Nogitsune. Uh, that's confusing."

Ayla blinks and smiles shyly.

"Sorry, Stiles. I got distracted," she says, leaning her back against the wall as she sits more comfortably on his bed. Closing her eyes, she soon regrets it because of the smell of coffee and a hint of cinnamon typical of Stiles—a scent now, to her misfortune, associated with the Nogitsune, just like Stiles himself.

"Did something happen? You've been acting strange these days," he asks, and she opens one eye to see the sincere concern on his face.

"I…"

He was so devoted to his friends. That loyalty was a quality she truly admired in Stiles. For a moment, Ayla wished that the spark of… something… was for the boy in front of her. Someone sweet, loyal, funny, and intelligent—a good kid who would become a worthy and admirable man. The sheriff had raised this boy splendidly, and she was sure that one day, Stiles would be an exceptional father and a wonderful companion whom anyone would be lucky to have. Someone who could love and love intensely, just as she had always dreamed. She could wait for him to become that man, if she truly liked him that way.

"And what if it is Stiles? Maybe I'm projecting. I mean, I don't really know the Nogitsune; perhaps I only felt attracted to Stiles when I caught a glimpse of what he might be with a little more confidence and maturity?" she speculates, a hopeful glimmer in her eyes as she gazes determinedly at the boy before her.

"I have a favor to ask. This is going to be a bit strange, but… could you pretend you're interrogating me? But it must be an aggressive interrogation. You need to be intimidating and supremely confident—the most you can be."

Stiles frowns and nods, a curious sparkle in his eyes.

"Okay, but why?" he asks, confused.

Ayla bites her cheek, tucking a lock of her blonde hair behind her ear and trying not to blush—though she utterly fails.

"This, um, will help me figure something out. Something personal," she quickly adds, then looks at him pleadingly with her best expression. "Please, Stiles?"

"Alright, alright!" he exclaims, then adds exasperatedly, "For God's sake, stop using that expression—it's too much cuteness for my heart to handle."

She smiles, dimples appearing on her face, as he prepares to do what she asked. He begins with a few disastrous and hilarious attempts until Stilinski starts enjoying the idea of playing the "bad cop" and gradually reaches what she expected from a mature Stiles. It was the sixth attempt; he had just circled the swivel chair that now served as "the suspect's chair"—her—and he wore a sly little smile that suited him perfectly.

"...and now, you bitch, there are cops searching your entire house," he finishes, pointing an accusatory index finger at her. Suddenly, Stiles places both hands on the arms of the chair, cornering her and coming within a few centimeters of her face, his expression exuding anger and intimidation. "When they find evidence of your murder—and oh, they will, mark my words—I will… I… uh… Ayla?"

The teenager stops his act, looking rather lost and distracted as he notices the blonde's blushing cheeks. The way she emits a small, very suspect, and highly disconcerting sound makes him blush. Stiles swallows hard as he looks at the girl before him with a decidedly covetous and very attractive gaze.

He erases all that he had said or thought about Ayla having the air of a cute, innocent girl; in that moment, she is very much a woman. A damn hot woman.

She wraps her arms around his neck, and, oh! She wants to kiss him. No, she's going to kiss him—she…

The phone rings. Whatever Ayla was about to do, Stiles never gets to know, for as soon as the ringtone sounds, she lets him go, her face flushed with shame and guilt.

"Sorry, I—I'm really sorry. Forget that I… uh. Look, it's late, I have to go, um, bye, we'll talk," she says hurriedly, tossing her purse over her shoulder in a haphazard manner and then leaving his room as if she were running for her life.

Back in the room, Stiles answers the phone, still quite perplexed by what almost happened.

"Man, I hate you. If you don't tell me you have a damn good reason for calling me at this hour, I swear, Scott, I'm going to strangle you in your sleep."


Ayla can't believe she almost kissed Stiles while thinking of the fox. The boy was amazing, but he wasn't the one she had in mind when she nearly pressed her lips to his.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" she thinks, embarrassed at almost having used her friend as a means of physical relief for the tension that a yako caused her. She didn't want to hurt Stiles; she wouldn't toy with his feelings, investing romantically in him when all that was happening was a very wild and strange attraction to a vengeful spirit.

At least it was only physical. Ayla could ignore her most burning desires. The problem would arise if she allowed it to become emotional—and she would never let that madness happen.

"A fox that is a threat to your brother and everyone you care about. A fox I must get rid of before it kills someone," she repeats over and over until she finally gets home and retreats to her room.


The next day is exhausting. Work starts at 7:00 AM and ends at 4:00 PM, with a one-hour break, but what wears her out most is having to drive. She swears that once she has enough money, she'll hire a driver; the stress of traffic was aging her by at least ten spiritual years, she's sure.

When she arrives home, it's time to clean and tidy up—a task she decides to do three times a week for the sake of her physical and mental health. Ayla was never, in any of her lives, someone obsessed with keeping the house "sparkling." There were many arguments about how she left her clothes scattered or how she let the dishes pile up all day in her past life with her mother. She's lucky that Isaac is an organized boy and was never one to leave all the work to her. Her twin always helped when he was home. But not this time: he would go to Alisson's house after school and then to a half-day shift at the Beacon Hills cemetery. Why he still worked there remained a mystery to Ayla, who wished to be as far from tombs as possible. She'd already had her share of being among corpses for what felt like two lifetimes.

It's Friday; the food was running low, so she went shopping for the week. In the evening, she goes to the gym and practices martial arts to stay in shape, and when she returns home, she prepares the next day's lunch for herself, Isaac, and Max. That, of course, not to mention the clones she created every three hours to patrol the area where Isaac and Max were at the moment, just to ensure they weren't in danger, with the clones then dispersing to gather news about the criminal underworld.

Exhausted, the young woman found herself taking a long, hot shower at the end of the day—lathering her skin with the soap whose scent of cotton and white roses she adored—and applying a chamomile-scented shampoo and conditioner to her long hair.

The steam filled the bathroom, and she submerged herself in the bathtub, grabbing the ivory towel beside her, drying off, and applying moisturizing products to her skin. Exiting the bathroom, she walks through her room and stops in front of the wooden wardrobe. Lahey takes out a clean set of pajamas—a dark blue cotton babydoll adorned with stars and constellations, accented with black lace. It was a little less "childish" than what she was used to in this life, with details like that stubborn little black strap that kept falling off or the black lace on the edge of the short shorts.

To finish her nighttime routine, Ayla goes to the white vanity, plugs in the hairdryer, and dries her hair as she combs it—the softness of her strands a pleasing feel in her hands. Finally, she goes to bed and falls asleep in moments, although it is a light and restless sleep, filled with painful memories as it had always been since she turned 7. That is why she senses, almost immediately, that she is no longer the sole occupant of the room. Her sleeping form remains unchanged, but her awareness is sharply alert as she feels a chakra—both familiar and somehow wrong—approaching her bed.

Only when she senses it hovering just above her does Ayla move, attacking the intruder and hurling him against the mattress, pinning him down by straddling him and pressing a kunai against his throat.

"What are you doing here?" she demands, baring her white teeth in displeasure.

"Ayla! It's me, Stiles—please, stop! You're hurting me. Ayla, please."

The blonde does not hesitate, the strange chakra emanating from Stiles revealing who truly stands before her. His act was convincing, but she was sleepy and in a foul mood for having her already fragile sleep routine interrupted.

"Tell me you didn't pull me from my well-deserved rest for this pathetic attempt to deceive me, Nogitsune?"

Void Stiles pouts, realizing he wasn't going to fool her.

"I just came to see my new favorite food source," he says, scrutinizing Lahey meticulously—his eyes roaming over the black strap of her pajamas, which had slipped off her shoulder, offering a rather revealing glimpse of her breast.

He blinks rapidly, a mix of surprise and disorientation washing over him as he watches the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest, his gaze quickly drifting to her toned thighs that held him, and then back to the patch of skin that subtly exposed the curve of her breasts.

"What a lovely rosy hue," the Kitsune muses casually, struggling to divert his attention from the exposed areola before him—the loose shirt and his angle making it visible: something delicate, beautiful, and highly distracting.

"I think I want to touch," he thinks, frowning at the odd thought and the unusual lack of focus, then resolutely returning his attention to her face. He dismisses that fleeting fascination with her anatomy as a bizarre, isolated anomaly—after all, some exposed human skin means absolutely nothing to a being like him, who has lived a thousand years and does not share the same procreative urges of that so-called species.

"Right in the middle of the night? Can't we do this later? I'm tired and some of us have to work in just a few hours," she murmurs, removing the blade from his neck and getting off the Nogitsune, settling beside him on the bed and simply trying to go back to sleep. He watches her, partly annoyed and partly amused at how she seems to ignore him as a threat.

"No," he says, grabbing her waist from behind, pulling her firmly against him. Her blonde hair tickles his nose as he sniffs her neck in a manner that could almost be mistaken for affection, though in reality he is deliberately trying to make her alert and uncomfortable with the closeness. He had always scared women before; they erroneously assumed he would be interested in ruining them.

"Give me what I want. Now."

If nothing else, that worked to wake her. He felt her tense against him and, taking advantage of the situation and the fear he was likely instilling, he slid his hand from her waist downward to her hip, circling his thumb along the edge of her shorts. A victorious smile formed on his lips, anticipating a horrified scream or an indignant exclamation.
The response was even better—she began to breathe erratically. Oh, if only he could savor that fear.

"What do you want?" she asks in a soft, slow tone. The Nogitsune briefly wonders if she is truly scared. It almost seems as though she is encouraging him… No.

"Certainly not," he dismisses that absurd doubt, banishing any speculation about what it might be. She had already proven herself an exceptional actress, adept at deceiving her enemies with illusions. With that thought, he ensures that the figure before him is indeed Ayla—and not just an illusion. The warmth and solid feel beneath his hands against the slender body of her host confirm it is truly her.

"What do you think I want, Ayla?" he inquires, continuing his little game of driving her to panic, the hand that was on the waistband of her shorts moving upward, sliding beneath her shirt, slowly caressing her pale skin (delightfully soft to the touch, he reflects), until reaching her penultimate left rib—then hesitating when she does not stop him.

"I didn't think she was the type to freeze," he thinks, frowning. Just as he is about to brush against the gentle curve of her left breast, her hand abruptly stops him and pushes him away forcefully—and he must admit he feels both relieved and disappointed. Relieved, because she wasn't going to break easily, and disappointed… because, well, he isn't quite sure why.

"Must be a reaction from Stiles," he concludes, before his thoughts are abruptly halted by a sharp pain in the most intimate part of his host. Tears involuntarily gather in the corners of his eyes as the fox doubles over in pain.

"I really don't care what you want right now, Void. I agreed to feed you, not pamper you like a child just because you say 'I want.' Honestly. Now, get out of my room before I kick you again. I'll give you your damn food when it's a reasonable hour."

He glares at her in anger and, still slightly hunched, withdraws from the room—constantly thinking about the human's audacity in treating him that way. Well then, if she wasn't going to give him his "pain," he would repay her with a prank.

"This will have consequences, you little shit," he grumbles, making a grimace and limping slightly. Damn, but she was strong. He even wonders if she'll feel guilty if this particular kick renders Stiles sterile or something of that sort, before focusing on how she will pay for that exaggerated episode of violence against him.


Back in her room, Ayla takes a deep breath, trying not to chase after the enemy and "get in his pants," as society so crudely says. It was some kind of divine trial—it could only be that he provoked her so, left her body in such a pitiful state with just a few touches, that she was truly willing to go further with the treacherous fox, even though she didn't really know him…

"And so it will remain. No getting to know him properly. No letting myself be swayed by touches or physical reactions. And no 'getting in the pants' of that damn enemy."

She gets up, after tossing around in bed for a few moments—unable to bear the heat and tension building between her legs any longer. Ayla heads to the bathroom, warming up the bathtub water to avoid a thermal shock, and takes another long shower.

In her distracted state, she doesn't notice when the Nogitsune slips into the room and silently carries out his mischievous act of retaliation.


The sky was still lightening, and he removed the pot from the fire, filling the thermos with coffee and placing it on the gray marble counter—Arabescatus, if he remembers correctly the name of that particular variety. Humming one of those annoyingly addictive tunes of this century, Void stirred the scrambled eggs he was cooking, finishing up the morning meal.

He drummed his fingers and opened the wooden kitchen cabinets, pleased to find the cups and saucers—inspecting a piece of porcelain adorned with Sakura trees in a delicate and elegant design. It was tasteful, he thought.

Placing a pair of cups on the cedar table and arranging the rest of the meal, he sat at the dining table. He put the eggs on his bread and filled a cup with coffee—annoying as it was, his host couldn't go without human food. Having a weakened body would only be counterproductive.

It was then that it happened—between bites—a woman's scream, deliciously enraged, echoed throughout the house. He paused and smiled, satisfied, expecting Ayla's figure to appear in the kitchen.
The Nogitsune took in her disheveled, irritated appearance: her face contorted in anger, flushed red. Even though she was furious and moving swiftly, her steps were silent, he noted.

"You son of a bitch!" she shouted, stepping toward him, gritting her teeth, and approaching ferociously. He set the coffee down on the table gracefully, also opting to lower the half-eaten bread. "You cut all my clothes! They're ruined—you destroyed them!" she shrieks in a piercing tone, poking his chest.

He looked back with a mischievous expression.

"I didn't cut all your clothes," he retorted incisively, noting that her outfit was intact. Besides, he clearly hadn't tampered with her lingerie. He'd only opened the underwear drawers and promptly left them untouched. He could be a gentleman. Occasionally.

"I'm not going to work in a babydoll! I need decent clothes!"

"Mnnnn… I suppose that falling black strap is indeed a problem. But that's not my concern right now. I don't care what you need at the moment," he adds in a vengeful tone—an allusion to how she had dismissed him earlier.

"You're a sarcastic bastard, utterly childish, who knows no boundaries! Just for that, I'm not going to feed you now!"

"You can't," he says, rising from the chair, irritated at her apparent refusal to feed him. "The Khanda oath says you have to feed me. I haven't killed anyone."

"You've killed my finances. Do you have any idea how expensive this little prank of yours is going to be?" she retorts, agitated, then sighs exasperatedly. "And I said I wasn't going to feed you now. I need to figure out what to wear for work and, thanks to you—you demon—that's going to take some time."

"How about that purple black-lace lingerie?" he suggests, amused as she pales and then quickly regains color—a blend of anger and mortification playing on her face. He continues:

"I confess I'm curious how anyone can walk around with that little string wrapped around your ho…"

Her dismay was priceless — even as Void took a solid punch to the face.

"Shut up, pervert!"

Her fist came at his face faster than he could dodge, and there was a sickening crack as she hit him. Void was definitely unprepared for the pain or the sudden spicy taste of her anger.

His vision blurred for a moment as he reached out to steady himself while falling backward, his back colliding with the kitchen counter. Fuck. The strength of her punch was something else. And it had definitely broken something in Stiles. He felt blood trickle from his nose; he opened his mouth to speak, only to find himself rendered speechless, his jaw dislocated.

"Stiles!" she exclaimed in alarm, cradling his face in her hands, a worried expression on her face. He fell silent, almost savoring her guilt—the cool minty freshness soothing the sting of her fury—as she gently tended to his broken nose, a strange green energy surrounding her hands as she repositioned his jaw.

Neither spoke for a while, until Ayla rose and murmured, "Wait a minute," as she rummaged in one of the cabinets for a paper towel. She dampened the paper briefly, pausing as she noticed the table set for two, and then sat before him, carefully cleaning the blood from his nose. When she finished, she caressed his cheek with her thumb.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for it to be that hard," she whispered, and the yako watched her calculatedly as she continued the comforting touch—her warm skin contrasting with his own cold, ghostly temperature (a side effect of possessing a human).

"You like us," she suddenly said, stopping her caress immediately, a sour look on her face as she withdrew her hand.

"Stop talking like you're Stiles—it's bizarre."

"You'd better get used to it. I'm a little more Stiles every day—and Stiles is a little more me, too. So you like us. Even knowing that we don't really like you. That the banshee is the one who occupies our thoughts. That lovely redhead who will never leave our hearts. And yet, you've grown fond of us, haven't you, silly girl?" he declares, delight coloring every word.

"That's none of your damn business," she snaps, dryly, as he grins mischievously—her mind and heart wavering under that smile.

"Oh, but I disagree. I need to know all the advantages this host offers."

"Oh, man. Have mercy on me," she thinks, swallowing hard as he takes her hand and brings it to his lips, slowly kissing the back of it, never taking his eyes off her brown face.

"I'm not an advantage," the blonde retorts, though she knows it sounds unconvincing by the way his eyebrow arches and he trails kisses gently up her arm—until, somehow, she loses track and finds him placing soft kisses on her collarbone and neck.

Ayla lets out a soft sound, satisfied, half-aware that he's spouting some manipulative nonsense he thinks she wants to hear—like "Stiles never knew how to appreciate you, but he could help you with that"—even as he tries to wound her feelings by insinuating that without his help, Stiles would never look at her the way he does, not like he looks at Lydia.

"That's wrong. Stiles—he's in Stiles' body, and I really must stop him."

"Stop. Please, stop," she pleads, backing away and almost expecting him to ignore her. Surprisingly, he stops immediately, watching her quietly. Ayla sighs and looks him squarely in the eye.

"This will not happen again. This is not your body for you to do as you please, and I would never do anything with Stiles without his consent."

He rolls his eyes and snorts.

"You're such a pain in the ass," he grumbles, then reaches out to tuck a lock of blonde hair behind her ear. The Nogitsune winks. "But that doesn't mean I won't try to seduce you, little girl."

Ayla tenses and narrows her eyes at him, causing him to raise his hands in surrender.

"Don't think that badly of me. I'm not going to force you to do anything. On the contrary—I'm going to make you want to break that prim resolution of not doing anything with our body."

She snorts and then, unexpectedly, laughs. Of course he would tease her in every possible way—and of course he'd use her attraction against her. If she were him, she'd do the same. Shaking her head, she gestures for him to come closer. Curious, he leans in, surprised when she once again cradles his face in her hands affectionately and plants a kiss on his forehead.

It's so tender that he feels oddly uncomfortable—even as her pain courses through him, fueling him. A genuine display of affection was not something he was used to—not with someone fully aware that it was him, a Nogitsune, and not the owner of the body he possessed.

"She really likes him, if she can ignore that it's me and treat me with as much kindness as if I were truly Stiles," he thinks, perplexed.

"Have a good day," she says, then leaves the kitchen and heads back upstairs to her room, probably searching for something to wear.

The Nogitsune doesn't even consider staying; all his intent to provoke and test her patience evaporates into a confused state of agitation. Something inexplicable drives him to leave before she returns—embarrassment at the kindness, he realizes some time later.

At least, he thinks, he has discovered what she truly is.