Jon Hutson watches sports late at night, beer in hand. Half awake. The house is utterly dingy. The carpet is moldy. The wood, rickety. A scent of alcohol and cigarettes hangs thick in the air. Yet... just behind the drunk, nearly passed-out man... is a child's bedroom. The child lays awake. A bruise on his arm.
He is quiet in his room. Scared of the dark... but more scared of his dad. The child—Kane Hutson—hears a sound. A static. Radio static. He turns to his alarm clock, noticing it's... turned on? To the radio? On its own? The kid moves, worried, as it begins to play cheerful music. He gets up, tries to turn it off. It doesn't turn off.
The eight-year-old frowns. He keeps pressing the power button. The cheerful music continues. And then, a voice speaks. "The Kit hurts, as the Father Suffers." The weird static-laced voice is playful, rhyming... almost joyful. "The Father Suffers, and the Fox smells." Then... "The Fox hunts. The Father runs... Run, Broken Ones... Run..." The voice goes on, as Kane shakes and unplugs the alarm clock. It turns off. But the voice... continues. Behind him. The radio static gone. "As Mr. Fox shall enjoy his hunt." Kane falls out of bed. Breathing hard. Shaking, as he looks around the room. Nothing. It's quiet.
He hears TV static, leaking from the living room. Still shaking. He opens the door slowly. Scared. Inside the living room... he sees it. His father. Eyes glowing with static. Frozen. Unmoving. Just standing there. Hands at his sides. Remote in his hand. And foxes—shadows on the wall. Cartoonish. Deep, pure dark. Clearly outlined by the lesser darkness of the night. Glowing at the edges—purple light around their teeth and eyes. They move... animated. On the walls. And on the TV is... a cartoon. An animated show. Then... a flash of light. His father is gone. The TV is back on the football game. The eight-year-old screams. Shivers. Falls to the ground. Shaking. Then... the lights flicker back on. He trembles. "D-Dad?" He gets up. His dad... is gone. As he looks around the living room, shaking. Shivering. "Dad...?"
February 25, 2013. SHIELD receives reports of missing parents. Children with similar stories. The earliest incident dated September 3, 2012. A "Mr. Fox" took them. While details vary, the themes persist. Some children say they saw it in a dream, inside an animated world. The Fox whispered a rhyme to them. Others saw it physically—shadowed foxes dancing on their bedroom walls. But always... Mr. Fox. SHIELD flagged it as unusual. Not many details. But their pattern-detection algorithms triggered. Agent Tom, five years in cold-case work, took the assignment. Irritated. His junior, Miller, younger, newer—curious in a quiet, analytical way. Open.
Tom sat in a diner, eating a sandwich. Miller entered, slid into the booth beside him, pulling out a laptop. "Sir... what do you think of the case?" Tom paused, chewing. "I think it's unusual, yes. But probably just children's stories." Miller shook her head. "But the algorithm pinged it." "Means nothing," Tom said flatly. "I'd rather not believe in tall tales until I see something with my own eyes." Miller felt something dim inside. A respect, faltering. She looked at him—unsure. Tom then said, "However... we'll take a look. Interview the kids."
Eventually, Tom and Miller arrived at a foster home. One of the earliest cases. Kane Hutson. They sat in care, reviewing notes. Miller summarized: "Kid was found by police. Reported by phone that his father was stolen by a fox. Police were confused. But they showed up. Found no legal guardian. Kid later said: 'Mr. Fox took him!' That he came through the TV. No forced entry. No camera footage. Nothing. Kid was seven. Victim was the father—Jon Hutson. A drunk. Thirty-eight. That's all we got." Tom nodded.
The foster home was understated. Clean. Gray siding. A muted yard with a dying swing set. A woman named Ms. Tally greeted them—middle-aged, quiet hands, eyes that had seen more than she'd ever say aloud. She led them inside. Offered weak coffee. Neither of them touched it. Kane was in the other room, coloring. "Still barely speaks," Ms. Tally said. "But watches the TV too much. Stays up late with it. Has gone silent about what happened to his father. Abandoned the whole Mr. Fox thing. I think he's hiding what really happened." Tom nodded. "Understood. We still want to try an interview." Ms. Tally sighed. "Yeah. But you won't get much." She opened the door. The two agents stepped in. Kane sat in front of the TV. Watching with a strange... purpose.
Miller bent down beside him. Tom too. Miller said gently, "Hi, Kane. We're investigators. We investigate weird things. We were wondering... could you tell us about your father?" Kane looked at them. Hesitant. "You wouldn't believe me," he said. Tom frowned. This kid was smart. And... sane. "It's fine," Tom said. "Tell us what you saw." Kane was quiet. "It was dark," he said. "My alarm... it went off. But it turned to a radio station." "Do you remember the frequency?" Miller asked. Kane thought. Deeply. "One-oh-one-point-six-one-eight... I think." Tom looked at Miller. Confused. Shook his head. "What did it do?" Kane answered, "It played music. Happy music. But I felt weird. Then it said a poem." "Do you remember it?" Miller asked. Kane nodded. Slowly. "'The Kit hurts, as the Father Suffers. The Father Suffers, and the Fox smells. The Fox hunts. The Father runs... Run, Broken Ones... Run…'" Kane trembled. "A-As Mr. Fox shall enjoy his hunt." The room fell into silence. "What happened next?" Miller finally asked. Kane stammered. "I... I went out of my room. And... it took Dad. Into the TV." "What does Mr. Fox look like?" Miller asked. Kane pulled out a crayon drawing. Not childish. Not quite. A black-grey fox. Shadowy, with others around it. Purple eyes. "What are those?" Miller asked. "The shadows," Kane whispered. "They... do as he says."
The two SHIELD agents sat in their car. Unsure. Tom hated things that couldn't be proven. He liked bruises that matched fists. Not ghost-foxes. But something about Kane's story... it gnawed at his skepticism. "I think this is something new," Miller said. "Like New Mexico... but less friendly. Less clear." Tom nodded. But there was a drought behind his eyes. "I'm not sure," he said. "But it's possible. I'll give you that." Miller looked through her laptop. Uneasy. "Radio broadcasts are organized in 0.1 increments. They don't get that precise. Especially not to 101.618. Most displays can't even show three decimals. Especially not old alarm clocks." She paused. "But 1.618... that's the golden ratio." Tom was quiet. "Can we scan the frequency?" "Maybe," Miller said. "We'd need a specialized receiver. I'll request one."
It took some work, but they got the funding. A custom receiver, built by confused engineers. Their response over email: "It's physically impossible for a radio wave to operate at an irrational frequency." Still, they tried. Made something approximate. Calibrated it to scan subharmonic ranges. Hoped. Nothing happened. At first. They left it overnight. Reviewed the data in the morning. And saw it: a signal. A spike. Semi-random throughout the day. The frequency? The golden ratio. As precisely as their scanner could register. Miller stared at the numbers. "It's real," Tom said. "Or... something is." Miller frowned. "The story was too detailed. That child... wasn't making something up." Tom stayed silent.