“Picked up… a cat?”

“??”

Compared to the earlier messages steeped in sourness, these two lines felt like stray sparks on a glitched slate, random glyphs swimming in static.

So was it a metaphor? Mira’s mind whirred like a windmill for half a minute, but no hidden thread glinted under the light.

She let it go. She chose the plain surface meaning, like skimming a calm pond.

[That’s sudden. Is it a stray?]

She picked the safest words, tiptoeing across thin ice, then tapped send. The slate’s blue ring spun twice, like a ripple closing.

And now… what?

Wait for her sister to reply?

Mira hesitated. Two years ago, humans and the Elf and Nacha Tribe had bridged a mana network, but distance still dragged replies like caravans through snow.

Those two messages had arrived a while ago, too. Adelaide was probably away from the slate by now. Thinking that, Mira lowered the slate to get back to her files—ding, ding, like tiny bells hitting glass.

She glanced down, surprised. A fresh message bloomed, and the contact tag still read “Sister.”

[No… it’s someone’s cat.]

Huh?

It wasn’t just the content. The speed hit her like a sparrow darting past her ear.

This fast, as if—

Adelaide had been waiting by the slate, fingers ready, thoughts aligned like arrows on a bowstring?

No, no.

Maybe today the cross-border mana link was just unusually clear, like cloudless noon. She was overthinking shadows.

Mira shook her head and tapped again, fingertip drums on stone.

[If it already has an owner, bringing it home feels… kind of wrong.]

[No. It’s fine.]

…?

Really? It felt like a moral bruise.

Her stomach fluttered, but Adelaide’s reply was so firm. Considering her mood these days, Mira dared not push back.

Sorry, poor kitten. Sister’s probably acting on a whim. Once her mood clears, I’ll coax her into returning you—Mira pressed her palms together in her heart, then kept typing neutral, harmless phrases.

[So is it male or female?]

[… Female.]

[A she‑cat? Roughly how old?]

[… In her prime.]

[Uh? “In her prime” means… pretty?]

[Anyway, it’s the look you said you liked most.]

…?

Did she ever tell Adelaide what kind of cats she liked?

[So what exactly does she look like? Orange fur? Or black?]

The conversation drifted into mist. Mira chased it, but the slate stayed quiet, its face a dry lake.

[Sis?]

Silence.

For several minutes, no message from Adelaide came.

…

Did she just… make Sister mad again?

Mira typed an apology, then hesitated with her finger hovering. Adelaide had said before she hated apologies tossed out without knowing the fault—

While Mira wrestled with that knot, the stone by her bed—etched with a transmission array—buzzed softly, like a bee in a vase. Next meeting in five minutes.

Damn, it’s already time?!

With the clock nipping at her heels, and not wanting to needle Adelaide further, Mira let the reply die. She’d wait till her sister wanted to talk.

She grabbed the slate and the folder needed for the meeting, swept the detour aside, and forced her focus back to establishing the branch of Holywell Academy.

But it was as if the gods tugged her sleeve. As soon as she reached the venue, noise crept into her head like sand in a stream.

Today’s meeting was at Lianke Manor.

And that place… held no warm memory for her.

Last time, she hadn’t even used the front door. She’d skulked like a bat, tucked behind a giant hydrangea planter on the roof, watching Adelaide and Miss Lianke walk arm in arm, close as vines. Mira had bitten through her lip, swallowing nausea like rust and sour rain.

Thinking of it now, her mouth filled again with iron and bile.

No. Not the same now, Mira.

This time she came as the head of Holywell Academy. And as Adelaide’s wife.

She repeated it inside, breathing in a one‑two rhythm, gathering her composure, then stepped through a doorway woven from a thousand bouquets, like crossing a river of blooms.

Predictably, the first person she bumped into was Miss Lianke.

“Ah‑yo‑yo, long time no see, Miss Mira~ How about that proposal for the three of us living together?”

“…”

Also predictably, her opening line was the same old hook.

No—call it what it was. Harassment.

“Although you seem to have misunderstood me and blocked my messages on your slate,” Lianke cooed, “please trust me. I won’t break your marriage with Adelaide. I’m your ally, really. We both love the same person—”

“—Miss Lianke. I didn’t come to discuss this.”

Mira cut off the syrup with a cold blade and walked past, shoulder brushing, eyes turned like a knife’s point.

“And you’re wrong. Your hunger for her body and my love for her soul aren’t things you can weigh on the same scale.”

Seated in the hall, Mira’s emotions tangled like climbing ivy.

She shouldn’t have said that last line.

Adelaide had told her how important Lianke was in politics, and Lianke was the main funder pushing the branch forward.

That top civil works graduate had won special permission in the Elf’s tangled halls of power thanks to Lianke’s support. If Mira wanted to gather leverage for Adelaide, she shouldn’t have poked the bear.

But—

She just found the woman very, very, very hard to stomach.

Lianke had been pestering Adelaide by letter long before their wedding. Mira had thought that once she and Adelaide were married, the pest would quiet down. She’d overestimated the woman’s bottom line. After the wedding, the letters actually grew nastier, peppered with “wife—wives are even better!” like obscene confetti.

Mira couldn’t fathom what kind of head dredged up those words. That wasn’t even the worst. Once the mana nets linked, the harassment doubled in pace, buzzing like locusts. Every few days she’d find Adelaide at the table, clutching her head, fretting over how to reply.

To drag her wife—hers, only hers—into that mire… unforgivable.

It wasn’t Mira’s first day burning to deliver a verbal smackdown. She’d endured this woman too long, rehearsing duel scenes in her mind till the arena felt real. If Adelaide hadn’t warned her back, some of those bloody previews might have spilled into life.

Even with Adelaide’s caution, even with reason tugging her sleeve, Mira couldn’t hold it—she dropped a heavy line.

And honestly? It felt good.

That sentence skated right along the red edge of an open break. She knew it, and reason scolded her. But once the words flew, her chest cleared like wind over a lake.

For a heartbeat, she wished Adelaide were beside her, to see Mira stand up for her, to feel the steam let out.

A hero‑saves‑his‑beloved scene from market‑stall pulp flipped through her brain, carving out a bright corner in a mind ruled by work, pulling her lips into a private smile.

The spark died fast. Lianke slid back to her side like a sticky vine.

“Oh dear, Miss Mira, you really do misunderstand me. Allow me to explain, I’m only here to join—”

“—Must you sit beside me?”

“Ah? Of course, darling. I’ll be the future head of your Holywell Academy branch. Two ‘heads’ will be partners for a long, long time~ Best to get cozy now, isn’t it~?”

“G—”

Her seat wasn’t even warm and the barnacle was already clinging. Did she have no shame? Mira’s mouth opened. “Get—” nearly leapt out. Reason caught it like a hand on a bridle.

One…

Two…

Cool down. One… two…

In a way, this was the price of Adelaide’s years of enduring her.

She couldn’t truly break with Lianke. Not yet. Keep it businesslike. Slide around the thorns.

Don’t be rash. Don’t curse. Hold the tongue…

“Back to the topic,” Lianke sang, “I think the divide between lust for the body and love for the soul is a false wall. The soul is just brainwaves dancing. Everything is feeling, impulse, a flood that won’t be dammed. Like now, when I think of your sister, my whole body goes weak, juices—”

“—You say that in front of her wife and think your head’s fine?!”

Damn. Not swearing around this woman was like holding back a sneeze.

Mira hummed the one‑two rhythm again in her skull, fingers sorting the meeting papers with crisp papery notes. She tried to build a wall of noise, drowning the babble.

She propped the communication slate on the desk, ready to pull up the stored documents. The blue ring in the corner blinked twice, like eyes opening. A new message popped.

Her thumb clicked on instinct.

A full‑screen image rose like the moon.

…

First to catch her eye were those ears. Triangular. Perfect isosceles, classroom‑clean.

Inside, two mochi‑soft puffs peeked out, sugared like frost. The left drooped slightly, a shell guarding a pearl. The right perked smart, fur so fine you could see a blush of vessels under skin. At the tips, a milk‑pink brush, as if dipped in strawberry, kissed the edge.

Undeniably cat ears.

But they weren’t on a cat.

Moonlit hair spilled around them like silk, smooth and bright. One white strand rebelled at the part, lifting like a tiny comet and sketching a mischievous question mark between the neat ears.

Smack!!

Mira slammed the slate face‑down, pressing the screen to the wood like a lid on boiling tea.

Too late.

“Whoa! Miss Mira, you—tsk, tsk—”

Lianke clicked her tongue, reeling back with wide eyes. Mira’s muscles tightened like bowstrings.

“—You talk about loving her, yet you keep a Nacha catgirl on the side?!”

“That’s not what this is!!!”

**

Thanks to that little detour, Mira’s heart rate didn’t drop below one‑forty for the rest of the day, thundering like hooves.

So cute. I want another look—no, not the thought for now.

Those ears weren’t familiar. But that snowy hair was.

Adelaide was shorter than her. On their rougher nights, she liked to curl into Mira’s arms and sob, a trembling bird. That was the same top‑of‑the‑head view. Seen it often enough that, even with added cat ears, Mira knew in one glance who filled that picture.

The real question was: why would Sis send me that photo, of all times? The thought dropped like a pebble into my mind and rippled wide.

Mira’s head was a hive, thoughts swarming. If not for the speech drills carving muscle memory into her bones, the rest of the day’s meetings would’ve crashed like waves.

When the last meeting ended, she bolted for her room. She stood there, breath thin as frost. She pulled out the communication slate and opened the picture she wanted to hoard like a secret flame.

Two fingers zoomed in. Then zoomed again.

So cute. I want to rub those little fluff balls in her ears—no, no, that’s not the issue!

So why send me this during a meeting? What was Sis thinking?

Just a whim…?

Mira turned the thought like a stone, still unsure of Sis’s intent. Her fingers tapped the desk, a restless rhythm. After a long tangle, she finally sent a reply.

[Sis, it’s adorable.]

Safe, objective praise. That should be fine—she was still thinking that when the slate pulsed twice in the corner.

[What are you even talking about?]

Uh…?

Huh?

Mira blinked, puzzled. She typed that it was a cat-ear cosplay prop, like the Elf ears she’d used back then, and Sis looked cute with it—But before she sent it, Adelaide fired off a string of messages, like she already knew where Mira’s mind would run.

[No idea what you mean. I sent you a photo of a kitty.]

[The stray I picked up at the market.]

[You asked what color she was.]

[Just letting you see. No idea why you brought me into it.]

[You’re exhausted. Your brain’s jelly.]

[Go sleep.]

[Night.]

???

**

Mira was still foggy. After saying good night, Adelaide even sent an emoji: “already asleep, do not reply, wake me and I’ll block you.” No room left for questions.

Luckily, the next day a wise soul handed her the answer on a silver platter.

“...What are you two doing?”

Mira stared at Lin Shushu—top graduate of Civil Engineering—holding a leash. And at Esaiyila—with a dog collar on, cheeks the color of sunrise—one of Lin Shushu’s eight-harem consorts. Her voice came out like a shocked chirp.

“As you can see, Headmistress, we’re role-playing~” Lin Shushu answered like it was rain in spring.

“Y-yes… eeek!!” Esaiyila tried to speak. The collar yanked tight. She toppled at Lin Shushu’s feet like a felled sapling.

Lin Shushu tipped Esaiyila’s chin with a finger. “I told you. Little dogs don’t speak human words~”

“Y-yes, woof! Understood, woof!”

Am I still not awake?

Last night’s surreal chat had her up before dawn. Rather than stew in her room, she went early to Lin Shushu’s manor to prep the meeting materials. The timing skewed by a hair, and she walked right into the yard and caught them still in their playful gear.

“...Shameless.”

After hearing their explanation of “role-play,” Mira offered one judgment. Her mouth twitched, a straight line across a storm.

“You two are Holywell Academy graduates. Here you wear our crest on your backs. If someone snaps you doing this, what will people think of our school?”

“Uh, Headmistress, this kind of play is pretty common among us Elves—”

“They are them. I don’t govern them. You are my students. If new applicants search Holywell Academy and the top headline is your shameless photo—Do you understand me?”

“...Fine. Got it...”

The weight of the Headmistress settled, and they wilted. They took off the collars, unaware that behind Mira’s stern face, her mind was a storm-tossed sea.

Role-play...

Role-play?

Sis kept insisting the photo wasn’t her. Was she hinting that she wanted to play... that kind of game?

No. Impossible. That would be shameless. We’re not Elves, all spring sap and lust in our bones.

After the day’s work, the tsunami in Mira’s mind kept roaring. As if answering her imagination, the slate flashed blue the moment she stepped back into her room.

[Want to see kitty photos?]

It was Adelaide.

Mira swallowed. Her morning speech echoed like a bell in a temple.

No. I can’t. I scolded my students with such righteous air. I have to lead by example.

I came here as Headmistress. I must stay professional. I won’t bend to temptation.

Yes. I’ll refuse, clearly. I’ll tell Sis I need to focus and have no bandwidth for role-playing games. Good. I’ll set my resolve down in words—

[I do.]

Mira, freshly armored in resolve, lowered her gaze. She saw the line in the chat.

The bubble wasn’t on the left. It glowed on the right.

Sender: “Me.”

Read.

...

Her finger trembled. She long-pressed, hit “recall.” After a heartbeat, the slate still delivered a new photo.

This time, it wasn’t only the cute ears and the rebellious ahoge in a tight crop. It was a vertical shot in their bedroom’s huge floor mirror, reflecting the “kitty” taking a selfie with the slate.

In the lens, the white-furred kitty leaned forward ever so slightly. One hand wore a cat-paw mitt, raised like a shy greeting. The other hand held the slate, hiding her face in the reflection, like she knew how indecorous she looked and shielded herself with a fig leaf—she needed it. It was the only modest part of the photo.

The rest... was very breezy.

Besides the tiny bell at her throat—no cover at all—her top was only a pink-and-white bra. Bare shoulders gleamed like porcelain under moonlight, collarbones clean as carved lines in jade, more sculpted in the mirror’s echo. But the eye went first to the poor bra.

Yes, poor.

Not only was its fabric scant, the center had a cat-head cutout. The deep valley, pressed firm and lush, lay open to the eye. The light, clingy fabric around it trembled under the fullness it tried to bear. The underwire that should lift bowed under pressure, like a willow in wind. You’d wonder if those ripe fruits might break free any second and turn the bra into a torn scrap with only “kink value” left.

It wasn’t the only garment carrying a weight it was never meant to bear.

Drop your gaze, and her waist came into view, slender as a reed you could ring with your fingers. Her belly lay smooth and flat, no excess. Lines traced down from her navel like watercourses, flowing into strawberry-pink panties printed with cat paws.

Like the bra, the panties were scant and snug to her curves. They outlined the rounds of her hips, peach-firm and proud. Little paw prints danced there, playful with a tease. Everything sat just right—except the size. Like the bra, the fit was off. The edges pinched and curled, exposing a strip of pale inner thigh. That slim glimpse of texture made the heart trip.

And again, it wasn’t the most arresting part of the kitty’s lower half.

From the back of the panties, a white tail fell and looped like a lazy vine around her thigh. It cinched the flesh just enough to swell the softness, a crime scene for any gaze. A touch lower, she wore thigh-high stockings, white and thin as spring mist.

That soft pink-white stole the eye. Even through the slate, the fine weave came alive, hugging every curve. It clung to her long legs and climbed, sketching a shape that was slender yet full. At the top of the stockings, the design turned clever—each side had a cat-ear tab, small and perky, mimicking the ears on her head. They tilted up like they’d twitch. A little lower, a printed (=ↀωↀ=) sat smug. Mira bit her lip. Something tight in her mind sang to breaking, a string ready to snap if she didn’t hold fast.

Be strong. Come on. Be strong...

[Want more?]

[Please, absolutely.]

Mira slammed the desk with a fist. Inside, her unworthiness screamed in a twist.

Another photo came after a small eternity. This time, the “kitty” in the mirror wasn’t standing. She sat on a wool rug, lazy and sure, legs crossed just so. Her hips tipped up, head tilted. The white ears drooped a touch, soft fur catching the light. Her hair spilled like snow, some strands sliding over her shoulder to rest against the swell of her chest.

A foggy candlelight fell from behind her, gilding the scene. With the sheer stockings glowing over her skin, the whole picture wore a veil you couldn’t touch. She looked like a creature walking out of a book no child should read.

Mira stared dumbly at the slate. After a long while, she drew a deep breath, rose, and drifted into the bathroom like a moth seeking water.