"Anonymity"

August 2nd, 2025

At Tokyo Dome, Inside Foxxy's car - 3:25 AM

The Tokyo Dome shimmered under a faint moonlight, its massive frame silhouetted against the city's skyline like a sleeping giant. Inside, under the echoing high ceiling, dozens of stage workers moved with military precision - assembling lighting rigs, rigging cables, arranging pyrotechnics, and rehearsing stage transitions. It was a mechanical ballet of perfection, all in service to one woman.

Foxxy.

Parked near the entrance, a sleek obsidian Range Rover idled quietly, tinted windows shielding the two queens inside from the world outside. Surrounding the vehicle like a wall of iron were bodyguards - Foxxy's, in black; Isabelle's, in white. Even standing still, they radiated tension, as if waiting for a detonation that hadn't yet been triggered.

Inside the Rover, the air was quiet, dense with unspoken thoughts and the gentle clink of crystal glasses.

Foxxy sat in the rear passenger seat, one leg elegantly crossed over the other, holding a glass of crimson wine like it was a loaded weapon. She wore a black velvet bodysuit, minimal makeup, yet somehow her presence filled the vehicle like a storm cloud waiting to burst.

Across from her sat Isabelle, draped in a pale gold pantsuit that caught even the faintest of light and turned it into aura. Her blonde hair was tied in a sleek bun, her glass held delicately between long fingers adorned with white-gold rings.

They sipped in silence.

"So…" Isabelle finally spoke, breaking the tension like a crack in ice. "When do you perform?"

Foxxy didn't look up. "August sixth."

A pause. Isabelle swirled her glass, eyes thoughtful. "How very... symbolic."

Foxxy's brow rose, unimpressed. "What's symbolic about a date?"

Isabelle smirked. "August 6th. Hiroshima. A date tied to destruction, rebirth, and global memory. Are you making a statement?"

"I'm making a performance," Foxxy said, coldly. "If people want meaning, they'll create their own."

"Hmm," Isabelle leaned back. "That's quite the evasive answer."

Foxxy turned to her, slowly. "You expected an explanation?"

"I expected curiosity to be tolerated," Isabelle replied, still smiling. "You are, after all, one of the most private, enigmatic figures in the global spotlight. You hide behind masks, use voice modulation in interviews, never reveal your birthplace, real name, or family. Even your accent is inconsistent."

Foxxy's face remained expressionless, but her wine glass stilled in the air.

Isabelle tilted her head, voice softer. "Why the anonymity?"

The silence between them thickened. It was no longer about performance or fame. It was now personal.

Foxxy took another sip, then placed the glass down gently on the console between them.

"We live in a world addicted to faces," she said, eyes now fixed outside on the workers below. "Faces are illusions. Smiles lie. Eyes deceive. We stare at masks and call them truth."

Isabelle raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

"To be anonymous is to be free," Foxxy continued, voice low and laced with fire. "Free from the gaze that consumes. Free from society's desire to define you. When they don't know who you are… they can't own you."

Isabelle's smile faded into something more thoughtful. "That sounds less like freedom… and more like fear."

Foxxy snapped her gaze to her. "It's clarity."

"But what if clarity becomes isolation?" Isabelle countered. "What's the point of greatness if no one knows it's you behind the curtain?"

"Greatness doesn't need applause," Foxxy said sharply. "It just needs purpose."

Isabelle nodded, sipping slowly. "And yet, you perform on the world's biggest stages. You command armies of designers, architects, engineers - just to support your image, your spectacle. So, if applause means nothing to you, why do all this?"

Foxxy looked out the window again, tone cooling to a near whisper. "Because I want control of the noise. Not to silence it. To orchestrate it."

That struck Isabelle silent for a moment.

"You're intelligent," she said finally, her voice warm again. "Cold, yes. But intelligent."

Foxxy didn't respond, but her posture tightened slightly.

Isabelle leaned forward, placing her glass on the console beside Foxxy's. "But intelligence doesn't require detachment. Life isn't about hiding - it's about confronting."

Foxxy's eyes narrowed. "Don't throw Socrates at me."

"I won't," Isabelle said with a light laugh. "But I will say this—our choices, yes, they shape us. But no one chooses to live in darkness forever. Sooner or later, every ghost wants to be remembered."

"Then maybe I'm not a ghost," Foxxy replied, deadpan. "Maybe I'm a storm. And storms don't need remembering. They just leave scars."

That hit something deep. Even Isabelle blinked.

The bodyguards outside shifted - almost sensing the emotional spike inside the vehicle.

A long silence followed. Then Isabelle's tone softened again.

"You know, Foxxy… I didn't expect to admire you. But I do."

Foxxy turned to her, confused and slightly skeptical. "Why?"

"Because you fight without using your fists. You dominate without shouting. You make people feel small… just by walking into a room. That takes talent."

Foxxy let the compliment hang in the air without touching it.

"But," Isabelle continued, "I also think you're lonely."

Foxxy's head tilted slightly. "I'm not."

"I think you've built walls so high, no one can reach you. Not fans, not friends. Not even yourself."

Foxxy turned away again. "Then let them stay on the ground. I like the view from here."

Isabelle smiled sadly. "Even towers fall."

Another silence.

The workers down at the stage began testing lighting - brilliant beams of red and purple shooting up into the sky. The Tokyo Dome pulsed with early promise.

Foxxy and Isabelle both watched in silence now, as if the argument had drained just enough emotion from the air to leave room for stillness.

After a while, Isabelle broke the silence one last time. "You know… we don't have to agree on everything. But I do think we share one thing."

Foxxy glanced at her sideways. "And what's that?"

Isabelle smiled. Not the polite, glamorous kind - but a genuine one.

"We both hate being underestimated."

Foxxy didn't reply immediately. Then, slowly, she picked up her wine glass again and clinked it softly against Isabelle's.

"I'll drink to that."