Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Soft moonlight spills through a second-floor window, brushing against K-pop posters taped lovingly to the walls. Photocards are arranged carefully on a corkboard. A string of fairy lights buzzes faintly. The air smells like melon face mist and old concert wristbands.

Sori, hair in a loose bun, sits cross-legged on her bed, sketchpad balanced on her knees. Her pencil drifts lazily over the paper, a half-finished sketch of Rumi, in the middle of a dramatic scene from the new "Golden" MV.

A gentle summer breeze rolls through the open window, rustling the corner of a poster — the one where HUNTR/X is backlit by lightning, expressions fierce and defiant.

Sori glances up at it. Smiles. Then looks down at her drawing again.

Sori, mumbling under her voice, “You’d laugh if you saw how many times I redrew your eyes.”

She adds a curl to Rumi’s hair in the sketch, shading in the shadows just below her collarbone. The street outside is quiet except for the occasional hum of a car, a distant bark, the metallic wheeze of a bike chain.

And then-

A voice.

A single, crystalline melody floating in the air.

Not a performance. Not amplified. Not mixed.

Just sung.

Sori freezes. Her pencil stops mid-stroke. She tilts her head toward the window, heart suddenly thudding against her ribs.

The voice rises again- soft, unguarded, achingly familiar.

“But here with you, I can finally breathe”

It’s raw but unmistakable.

Sori whispers quietly to herself, “…Rumi?”

She leaps to her feet, nearly stepping on her sketchpad. Fumbling for her phone, she grabs it from the charger, messes up her passcode once, then finally opens the camera. She hits record.

The voice continues-

“...You say you're no good, but you're good for me.”

Sori’s eyes widen. She scans the street below.

Nothing.

She presses her phone to the window ledge, careful not to knock anything over. The camera is angled wide, just in case.

Breathing heavily, Sora looks around,  “That’s her. That’s really her. But where…”

She leans out slightly, gripping the window frame. The voice echoes again… a little louder now, and closer.

Then another voice joins in.

A male voice.

Sori’s breath catches.

Rumi’s singing a duet. With a guy?!

And then she sees them– silhouetted on a neighboring rooftop. Two figures, side by side, harmonizing effortlessly. Staring into each other’s eyes.

The guy…

It’s JINU.

Sori almost drops her phone in shock but catches it just in time, her hands trembling.

“Why does it feel right every time I let you in? Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?”

It’s a love song.

Rujinu is real.

Sori screams it in her heart, but her lips stay shut. She doesn’t want to break the moment.

The beautiful duet continues, and Sori silently vows to cherish every second like its her last.

“So take my hand, it's open!”

Rumi and Jinu are holding hands now! My poor heart is going to burst!

Then... heartbreak. They start walking down the other side of the rooftop, disappearing from view.

“No, no, no-”

Sori stretches her arm out the window as far as she can, phone dangling dangerously, trying to catch a final glimpse. The voices are fading, slipping into the night.

In a burst of desperation, she bolts downstairs, still wearing her cat slippers, throws open the front door, and sprints onto the street, phone held out in front of her like a divining rod.

She turns the corner-

Gone.

She looks around. Nothing. The voices are gone. The rooftop is empty. Only the hush of the neighborhood remains, heavy and reverent- like something holy has just passed through.

She looks down at her screen, rewinding the treasure she just captured.

The footage is a little grainy- but unmistakable.

Rumi and Jinu. Singing together. Holding hands. Smiling like the world didn’t exist.

She watches it again, this time not as a fan, but as a witness. The harmonies, the way their voices met midair like hands reaching out. The way Jinu looked at Rumi when she hit that final note.

The way Rumi smiled- just for him.

Her heart pounds louder than the audio. Her hand hovers over the screen.

She thinks of the fans. The theories. The questions.

She thinks of how many people would kill to see something real.

And before the fear can catch up to her-

She taps “post.”

It’s done in a breath. The video begins to upload. No filters. No captions.

Just:

From my window.
No idea what I just saw.
#Rumi #Jinu #Rujinu #Duet #Free

Chapter Text

The first gold rays of dawn spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the HUNTR/X penthouse, casting a warm glow over the living room and the three idols gathered within. Their postures were still guarded, but their expressions had softened- hopeful now, tentative but genuine. After everything, all the discord, they’d finally talked. And somehow, they’d found their rhythm again.

Zoey sat perched on the edge of the couch, one leg crossed over the other, a slow smile creeping across her face like sunlight reaching a shaded corner.

“So,” she began, brows scrunching thoughtfully, “what song are we singing?”

“Golden!” Mira declared at the same time Zoey blurted, “Takedown!”

Zoey blinked, then quickly backpedaled, grinning sheepishly. “I mean Golden. Definitely Golden.”

Rumi smiled from her position on the couch, her voice firm and resolute. “It’s a song about the best of us.”

Mira nodded, more serious now. “Rumi, your voice good to go?”

Rumi looked up, meeting her gaze without hesitation. “Never been stronger.”

Zoey glanced between them. “Happy fans?”

They reached across the carpet to clasp hands, rising together as one. It wasn’t some grand moment- just the kind that said we’re still here. The kind that said we choose each other.

In unison, they stood up and cheered, “Happy Honmoon!” and fist-pumped the air like the absolute dorks they were.

The door burst open.

“YOU’RE TRENDING!” Bobby shouted, stumbling into the room with two phones, a tablet, and a messenger bag swinging off his elbow like it had given up on keeping pace.

Mira groaned. “We just woke up. How are we trending?”

Zoey nearly tripped over the couch. “Bobby, what-?”

Bobby marched straight to the coffee table and slammed the tablet down. “It’s a video. A leak. Someone filmed you singing on a rooftop.”

Rumi’s spine stiffened.

Bobby paused just long enough to savor the moment- then dropped the bomb.

“With Jinu.”

Zoey shot to her feet, practically teleporting to Bobby. She snatched one of the phones from his hand. “You’re kidding.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t kid about this. It’s already gone viral! Six million views on the original. There are slow-mo edits. Fan art. Reaction threads. People are calling it the ‘rooftop confession’ duet.”

Mira spun toward Rumi, storming across the room. She gripped Rumi’s shoulders tight, too tight.

“Rumi. Tell me this is fake. You haven’t been meeting Jinu- JINU! - of all people, behind our backs.”

“I... uhh... it’s not like that,” Rumi stammered. “He’s not like that.”

“He’s a demon, Rumi! He’s everything we’ve been fighting against. They’re evil. ”

Bobby cleared his throat. “That’s... a little harsh. I mean, sure, he’s the competition, but the public is eating this up. The agency’s all in.”

He adjusted his messenger bag, freeing a hand to swipe across the tablet, then turned it toward Rumi.

On the screen, a digital memo blazed in bold red font:

“RUJINU DUET - IIA OPENING ACT APPROVED”

“The execs want you and Jinu to perform your duet as the opener for the International Idol Awards. Tonight. No choreo- just the two of you, walking from opposite ends of the stage and meeting in the middle. Simple. Dramatic. Romantic. Sells itself. Jinu’s already agreed.”

Rumi blinked. “He… already agreed?”

Before she could absorb the thought, Mira shoved the tablet aside, replacing it with her glare- face inches from Rumi’s own.

“You can’t. Not with him. This is a trick. You can’t trust him.”

Rumi’s voice was calm, quiet. “We’ve been losing ground to the Saja Boys since they debuted. We need his help... and he needs ours. We’re so close to finishing this.”

From the doorway, Bobby clapped once. “Great! I’ll take that as a yes!” He expertly gathered his things, plucked his phone from Zoey’s lap, and started backing toward the exit. “The Saja Boys are already at the venue. You girls should head over, too- especially Rumi. Couple rehearsals! Let’s make it magic!”

He disappeared with a final shout: “See you there!”

Mira, seething, opened her mouth for another tirade-

-but Zoey cut in with something softer. She began to sing, her voice steady but edged with emotion:

“All the secrets that keep me in chains and
All the damage that might make me dangerous
You got a dark side, guess you're not the only one
What if we both tried fighting what we're running from?”

The room fell silent.

Zoey turned to Rumi, eyes wide, glassy with something unsaid.

“What do those lyrics mean, Rumi?”

Chapter Text

Rumi took a shaky breath. Her fingers curled at her sides, but her eyes gleamed with unshakable determination.

Her voice came out soft, but steady. “Do you trust me?”

Mira didn’t hesitate. Her voice rang sharp with conviction.

“I trust the Rumi I spent years with! The one who bled, trained, and fought beside me to protect this world. I know that Rumi. She wanted nothing more than to stop the demons and help build the Golden Honmoon.”

Her expression hardened. “That Rumi wouldn’t be sneaking behind our backs to go on dates with the enemy.”

Rumi stood her ground. “But what if they’re not all enemies? What if not all demons want to follow Gwi-Ma? What if they’re not all… evil?”

Mira stared at her. “Are you hearing yourself right now? Jinu’s a demon. He’s lying to you.”

Zoey’s voice came from the side, quieter but still edged with worry. “Rumi… you’ve got a good heart. But this goes against everything we know.”

“Know? ” Rumi echoed, her voice rising. “We don’t know anything. It goes against what we’ve been told.”

Mira stepped forward, furious. “And what? One pretty face and you’re ready to throw away everything? To question generations of hunters? Even Celine - she raised you, Rumi!”

Rumi’s voice trembled, but didn’t break. “Maybe she’s wrong. Maybe it’s not so black and white.”

“Or maybe she’s right, and Jinu’s just tricking you! That’s what demons do! It’s not like he’s offered you any proof that demons can be good, has he?”

“Proof…”

Rumi’s voice faltered. Her gaze dropped to her sleeves, fingers trembling slightly as they touched the fabric.

“Do you know what patterns are?”

Zoey blinked. “They’re the markings of demons. Duh.”

Rumi shook her head slowly. “No. They’re markings of shame. It’s how Gwi-Ma controls them- how he punishes them. The more shame a demon carries, the more patterns appear. The more they suffer.”

Mira scoffed. “So? If they’ve got something to be ashamed of, maybe they should suffer.”

“Have you never done anything you were ashamed of?” Rumi asked quietly. “A mistake? A moment of weakness? Something you regretted but tried to grow from?”

She looked up, her voice low but clear.

“Under Gwi-Ma, demons are never allowed to heal. Only suffer. Forever.”

Mira’s jaw tightened. “That’s not proof, Rumi. That’s just a story.”

“No,” Rumi said, almost a whisper. “But this is.”

Before her resolve could falter, she pulled back her sleeves.

And revealed the patterns-

Jagged. Pulsing. Threads etched into her skin like scars made of light.

Zoey stared, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat.

“What? How? Why do you have patterns, Rumi?” 

Then her expression shifted- panic blooming fast and sharp.

“Wait- are you even Rumi? Not some demon imposter?” She gasped, posture turning guarded. “Tell me something only the real Rumi would know!”

Rumi didn’t flinch. “You once spent an entire month hunting down and kissing every frog you could find to see if one would turn into a prince.”

Zoey shrieked. “RUMI! I told you that in confidence!”

Another gasp. “Wait, if you're really you, then… why do you have…” She leaned in, whispering like the word itself might burn her mouth, “demon patterns?”

Rumi exhaled slowly. Her arms exposed, the faint glow of the markings visible in the morning light.

“Because I was born with them,” she said softly. “My dad… he was a demon.”

She hesitated. Looked away. Then met their eyes.

“I’m… half demon.”

Zoey’s face crumpled. Her voice dropped to a whisper.

“Then why didn’t you tell us?”

She didn’t sound angry, just hurt.

“We’re your friends, Rumi. And you’ve been lying to us… this whole time.”

Rumi looked between Zoey’s stricken expression and Mira’s clenched jaw. The weight of their silence crushed her.

She folded in on herself, arms crossing tight over her chest as if she could brace against the guilt, but the patterns shimmered faintly on her skin, soft and unmistakable. Like shame made visible. Like truth she couldn’t bury anymore.

“I wanted to tell you,” she said, voice barely holding steady. “So many times. But… Celine said you wouldn’t understand. That if you knew, everything would fall apart.”

She looked down, blinking fast.

“But now…”

Her breath trembled.

“I think it’s time I followed what I believe.”

Her shoulders shook.

“I’m sorry. I lied because I was scared. I thought if I kept it hidden long enough, I could pretend it wasn’t part of me. That one day it would just… go away.”

She laughed then, a small, brittle sound.

“Celine said once the Honmoon was sealed, the patterns would disappear. I’d be… fixed. I wouldn’t have to hide anymore, and we could finally do something dumb and normal like… go to a bathhouse together.”

The corners of her mouth tugged into the brittle, tired smile, but it didn’t last.

Zoey blinked. “Wait… That’s why you never came with us?”

Rumi nodded, eyes glassy. “I didn’t want you to see. Not like this.”

Zoey’s shoulders sagged. “Okay, yeah… That actually makes a lot of sense.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. It settled over them like fog.

Mira finally spoke- quiet, but sharp.

“You want us to trust you. But you didn’t trust us.”

Rumi winced, the words feeling like knives stabbing into her heart.

“I know,” she whispered. “I should have. But I didn’t. And that’s on me.”

She looked up at them, then back down at the glowing lines on her skin.

“If you’re done with me… I get it.”

She turned slowly toward the door.

Paused.

Then, almost too softly to hear, she added:

“Then I’ll go.”

The silence that followed was thunderous.

Her foot lifted. One step forward.

“Rumi, wait.”

Zoey’s voice cracked the air like a whip.

Rumi froze mid-step.

A second later, Zoey crossed the room and grabbed her wrist, not to pull her back, but to anchor her in place.

“You idiot,” she whispered. “You thought some glowing marks were enough to make us stop loving you?”

Zoey shook her head, eyes shining.

“You’re still you. Dumb, dramatic, loyal Rumi. Even if you’re half demon, you’re ours.”

Rumi stared at her, and then Mira sighed and stepped forward, arms still crossed.

“Ugh,” Mira muttered. “Like it was ever a question.”

She opened her arms with all the grace of someone allergic to emotional vulnerability.

Rumi hesitated, then melted into the hug.

Zoey joined a heartbeat later, wrapping around them both. “You’re stuck with us,” she said, voice trembling. “No matter what.”

And for the first time in too long, Rumi let herself believe it.

They held each other in silence- tight, warm, real.

Then Zoey suddenly gasped, jerking back.

“Wait! Jinu’s not your dad, right?!”

Rumi recoiled, horrified.

“EW! NO! Oh my god, no. He told me about his past and I promise, no hooking up with my mom happened anywhere in it.”

She made a gagging noise. “I need to bleach that thought out of my brain now, thanks.”

Zoey shrugged, still trying to piece everything together. “Just making sure. I’m trying to keep up with the whole half-demon thing and, like… where does Jinu even fit into all this?”

Mira folded her arms tighter. “Yeah. Maybe being a demon doesn’t automatically make someone evil, but why him? Why are you putting so much faith in Jinu?” She said his name like it tasted bitter.

Rumi’s expression turned solemn. “Because something happened when we sang together. It wasn’t just a duet. It healed us- both of us. It pushed back Gwi-Ma’s control on him. And it…” her voice dipped, “healed my voice.”

Mira blinked. “Your voice?”

Rumi nodded. “The patterns… all that shame from hiding who I was? It had started creeping into my voice. But when I talked to Jinu, when he accepted me, when we sang together… the patterns faded. They got smaller.”

She glanced at her hands, then back up. “And I could feel it when we sang. He meant it. Every word. His heart was in that song.”

Mira’s frown deepened, though it looked more like confusion now than anger. “So what’s the plan?”

Rumi stood taller. Her voice was steady now. “We finish the Golden Honmoon. But with Jinu’s help. If we can beat the Saja Boys in the Idol Awards and keep them on our side of the barrier when it seals, they’ll be free. Gwi-Ma won’t be able to touch them again.”

Mira stared at her, incredulous. “Uggh! Jinu? You’re really going to trust him?”

“Yes,” Rumi said without hesitation. “I trust him.”

The words settled heavily in the room, deep and unwavering.

She held their gaze. “I’m not the only one who doesn’t fit into the black-and-white rules we were raised on. Jinu doesn’t either. We’re proof those rules were wrong.”

Zoey slowly nodded, eyes shimmering. “That… makes sense,” she whispered.

Mira let out a long exhale through her nose, arms still crossed. “Alright,” she muttered.

“But if he so much as looks at you funny on stage-”

“-you’ll eviscerate him. I know.” Rumi cracked a grin.

Mira smirked, cracking her knuckles with slow satisfaction.

“Good,” she said. “As long as we’re clear.”

Chapter Text

The screen glittered with swirling pastels and pixelated sparkle before settling on a bold, playful logo: StarDrop: Your K-Culture Compass. Cue a gliding camera shot across the sleek broadcast set, LED lights glowing softly in blush pinks and aquamarines, before landing on Jia, the show’s radiant host, seated with perfect poise at her signature news desk.

She was dressed in a lilac blazer, lips glossed to match, and held a mug emblazoned with the words stan tea in one hand and a tablet in the other. Her expression hovered somewhere between amused and conspiratorial.

"Tonight," she began with a sly smile, "we're climbing to new emotional altitudes, literally. Because if you’ve been anywhere near a screen these past twenty-four hours, you already know what we’re talking about."

The background screen behind her flickered to life, revealing a now-viral still: Rumi of HUNTR/X and Jinu of the Saja Boys, silhouetted against a glowing city skyline, mid-note, hands clasped, eyes locked together tenderly.

Jia leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice like she was about to spill state secrets.

“Yes, that rooftop duet. Caught by a fan whose ears and reflexes deserve a national award."

As she spoke, a barrage of hashtags slid across the screen like confetti:

  #RooftopConfession
  #RujinuIsReal
  #ForbiddenLoveSong
  #MarriedViaMelody
  #OSTOfMyHeart
  #NotPRJustPain
  #HealingViaHarmony
  #ThisIsWhyIDontSleep

She tapped at her tablet, scrolling. “Let’s look at the fan reactions, shall we?”

The broadcast cut to a quick reel of screencaps and slowed-down TikTok edits. One video had the title “Rooftop Proposal (Soft Ver.)” with pastel filters and soft piano overlay. Another was edited like a movie trailer, complete with orchestral strings and thunderclaps, dramatic captions fading in: ‘Enemies to... Soulmates?’

Returning to the desk, Jia read aloud from her tablet.
“One fan wrote: “Imagine being so talented your forbidden rooftop collab turns into a global meltdown. I need to lie down.”’ Another chimed in with: ‘I thought this was a cute duet but now I’m deep into a 3-hour fan theory spiral about their tragic backstory. HELP ”

She chuckled, clearly delighted.

“And while some are wondering if this was a surprise pre-release collab or a sneaky PR stunt for the International Idol Awards, industry sources are saying otherwise.” She arched an eyebrow dramatically. “No scheduled performance. No official setup. Just two idols. One rooftop. And the emotional tension of a K-drama season finale.”

The feed switched again, this time to a breaking news-style graphic:
“RUJINU CONFIRMED FOR IIA OPENING STAGE”

Jia sipped her tea like she was sipping on chaos.
“Confirmed just this morning: Rumi and Jinu will perform their duet live as the opening act of the International Idol Awards tonight.”

She leaned toward the camera, eyes gleaming.

“That’s right! Two voices, one moment, and something even the best PR team couldn’t script.”

“Both HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys arrived onsite earlier this morning, and rehearsals are already underway, though sadly, the cameras are not. ” She pouted. “Guess we’ll just have to suffer with fan theories and PR team posts until showtime.”

“See you next time on StarDrop, your K-culture compass through the chaos.”

The stage was wide and bare, LED panels dimmed to leave a yawning black void, framed by skeletal lighting rigs and the quiet chaos of prep. No roaring crowd. No camera sweeps. No pyrotechnics. Just the low thrum of a frantic tech crew moving along the edges—sound engineers hunched over consoles, lighting techs crouched by spot fixtures, rigging assistants muttering into headsets as they double-checked load lines.

This was the charged stillness before the spectacle, where every movement was a thread pulled taut in anticipation of the magic to come.

At center stage, under the cool haze of a bluish overhead beam, Rumi and Jinu stood face-to-face. No costumes. No glamor. Just rehearsal sweats and wireless mics clutched in familiar hands. Mid-chorus, their voices wove together in seamless harmony.

“Why does it feel right every time I let you in?
Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?
We can't fix it if we never face it
What if we find a way to escape it?”

The blend was flawless. Jinu’s pitch held steady, his timing exact. His harmonies wrapped around hers with pristine precision, each note executed like clockwork.

But Rumi felt the absence.

It wasn’t in what he sang. It was in what he didn’t. An emptiness just under the surface, hollow and undeniable. Like singing beside a mirror that echoed every word but none of the emotion. She knew what Jinu sounded like when he meant it. She’d heard it on the rooftop. That voice had cracked open the sky and pulled something raw and real into the world.

This voice? This voice was careful. Controlled. Cautious.

Her brows knit as she kept singing. Jinu never looked directly at her, his gaze fixed somewhere to the left of her shoulder. Just off. Just distant.

This wasn’t nervousness. It wasn’t exhaustion.

It was retreat.

Her arm dropped slowly to her side.

“Cut the track,” she said.

The music stopped mid-beat.

Jinu lowered his mic, calm as ever, that cool composure draped over him like a tailored jacket. “Something wrong with the harmony?”

“You,” she said evenly. “You’re the problem.”

He tilted his head, the corner of his mouth curling into something faintly amused. “That so?”

Rumi took a step forward. “You’re not here. Not really.”

“I’m standing right in front of you.”

“Not where it counts,” she said quietly. “Back on the rooftop, you were there. Your heart was in every word. I felt it. I heard it. But now…” Her eyes narrowed slightly. “Now you sound hollow.”

“I’m just focused,” Jinu said, brushing it off with a shrug.

“No,” she said, eyes narrowing. “You’re shutting down.”

Her voice softened, cautious. “Did something happen? After we sang together?”

He paused. Just a flicker of hesitation.

“Of course not. Just stage jitters.”

She didn’t buy it. He could see that in the way her gaze sharpened. So he leaned in, using the closeness to draw a faint blush from her cheeks. The corners of his mouth curved like he knew it had worked.

Then, lowering his voice as if confiding something intimate, he said, “The rest of the Saja Boys don’t know what to make of this duet. But I’ve got it handled. If anything, this’ll make sabotaging the performance later even easier.”

It took Rumi a second to parse his words, forcing herself to focus on the meaning and not the delivery.

She mirrored his tone, soft but clear.

“Except… once the Honmoon is sealed, won’t they be free of Gwi-Ma too? Maybe they don’t need sabotaging. Maybe we could try getting them on board.”

Jinu’s jaw tightened, though his voice stayed smooth. “Not everyone handles centuries of shame the same way. The rest of the Saja Boys… they’ve gone numb. They don’t care anymore. Don’t feel anything. I don’t think Gwi-Ma even whispers to them now. They just follow orders because remembering hurts more than obedience.”

He looked away for a beat, then back, gaze lidded and unreadable.

“They don’t have any rebellion left in them. That would require…”

He leaned close again, letting the last word fall warm and deliberate near her ear,

“Desire.”

Rumi’s eyes widened, and she stumbled back a step, flustered and nearly tripping.

Jinu smirked.

Irritated at being manipulated, she found her footing- and her resolve.

Her whisper was sharper this time.

“If it’s not the Saja Boys… then what happened to you?”

“Nothing happened,” Jinu said flatly. “I just don’t waste all my energy in rehearsal. I’m saving it for the real thing.”

Her gaze narrowed, then softened.

“Do you still hear Gwi-Ma’s voice?”

He gave a dry laugh. “What, you thought one song would break his grip?”

“If he’s still telling you you’re broken… unworthy… that it’s too late-”

“Isn’t it?” Jinu snapped. The calm was gone now, his voice edged like glass.

“No. Jinu,” she said firmly. “You made one mistake. That doesn’t make you a bad person.”

His smile cracked, twisted, halfway between a grimace and something more painful.

She didn’t notice. Not yet.

“You’ve carried it long enough,” she said gently. “But you’re better than what he says you are. I know you are. You-”

“Stop.” His voice cut like a blade.

He took a step back. No more flirtation. No more charm. His eyes were cold.

“Jinu…”

“You don’t understand.”

“Then help me,” she added, voice trembling. “Let me in.”

“I can’t.”

The words weren’t loud. But they broke something.

Not in pitch, but deep, like a buried fracture suddenly giving way.

He turned and walked off the stage without looking back.

And Rumi didn’t chase him.

She stood there in the quiet, mic limp in her hand, heart pounding.

Whatever Gwi-Ma had done… whatever shame Jinu was hiding… it was more than she’d known.

But this wasn’t the end.

She wouldn’t let it be.

Most people would be surprised by how little of the actual show Sena got to see, despite working backstage. But honestly? She preferred it that way because the pre-show drama? That was where the real action happened. 

So when Rumi’s voice rang out sharp and clear over comms, “Cut the track”- Sena froze. Something was up.

Without thinking, she dropped into a crouch behind a stack of sound equipment, making herself as invisible as possible. She didn’t normally record idols. She was a professional. She had standards.

But if she witnessed a live Rujinu moment and didn’t capture it for posterity?

She would die. Just absolutely perish from regret.

She thumbed her phone’s record button, heart racing.

Beneath the soft spill of rehearsal lights, the two idols stood face to face. Their voices were too low for Sena to hear, but the vibe didn’t feel tense… yet. Maybe they were just talking through the song?

Then Jinu stepped closer.

Closer.

Practically inches from Rumi’s face.

Sena’s breath caught. Her own heartbeat thundered in her ears from the sheer intimacy of it.

And then… he leaned in.

Sena’s eyes widened.

“That was a K-drama lean,” she whispered to herself, ducking a little lower behind a rolling tool case. “That was a FULL K-drama lean.”

Rumi stepped back, visibly flustered.

Blushing. Rumi’s definitely blushing.

They spoke, still too quietly to hear, but the body language said it all. Tension. Sadness. Distance. Rumi pressed a hand to her chest like something physically hurt. Then, Jinu turned and walked offstage… straight in Sena’s direction.

Sena ducked. Hard. Phone still held up and recording over the edge of the case.

Rumi didn’t go after Jinu. She was still standing there on stage. Alone.

Sena let out a silent gasp, the kind that tried to escape as static through her throat.

RUJINU. IS. IN. SHAMBLES.

She stopped the recording but didn’t move. Just stayed there, crouched and stunned, staring at her screen like it had just broken her heart. Then she rewound the clip. Watched it again. Zoomed in on Jinu’s face as he walked away.

He started cold, but the further he got from Rumi, the more his expression cracked.

“That’s not a normal goodbye,” she whispered. “That’s a ‘walk into the rain without an umbrella’ goodbye. That’s a ‘this is for your own good’ goodbye. He’s protecting her. He thinks he’s toxic. THIS IS THE ‘I’M NO GOOD FOR YOU’ TROPE!”

Sena clapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the squeal.

She had to send this to everyone.

But first… one more rewatch. You know. For research.

Chapter Text

Jinu didn’t remember leaving the stage.

One moment, he was beneath the sterile glare of the rehearsal lights, Rumi’s voice lingering in the air like an afterimage. The next, he was crouched near a utility corridor behind the loading dock, tucked into a shadowed alcove where the world had quieted to a distant hum. Just the faint rumble of a service elevator and the distant whir of stage prep. Concrete floor, industrial light overhead, and him, sitting with his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands trying to shut everything out.

He should’ve stayed distant. Controlled. Why did he try to find her weakness?
Instead, he let his own show.

Gwi-Ma’s voice seeped into his mind like oil, Now you’re trying to burden others with your failure? Your shame?

Jinu flinched, grinding the heel of his palm into his forehead like pressure alone might drive the voice out.

You’re useless. Weak.

You think she’d still accept you if she knew the truth? You left your family behind to rot.

The memory surged uninvited- his mother’s voice calling out from behind the gate, his sister’s hand reaching for him as he turned away. Their cries rose in his ears, louder, sharper, until they drowned out the present.

Don’t think you can escape what you are.

He didn’t hear footsteps approaching. Not until a gentle tap on his shoulder pulled him back.

He looked up, blinking into the dim light.

A girl stood there, teenage, maybe college-age. She wore a lanyard with a VIP fan pass and a bomber jacket embroidered with both the HUNTR/X and Saja Boys logos, one on each sleeve. Her face was a mix of concern and disbelief.

“You’re… Jinu,” she said softly, like she wasn’t entirely convinced he was real.

Jinu straightened slightly. “This area’s restricted.”

“I know,” she whispered, clutching her phone like it might deflect consequences. “I… I was looking for vending machines. The concessions aren’t open yet. And then I saw you and… I just thought… are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said, too sharply.

“You don’t look fine,” she replied without flinching. Then, in a burst of nervous energy, she added, “I saw the video. From rehearsal.”

His spine went rigid. “What video?”

“Oh, uh- hang on, I’ll show you.”

She fumbled through her phone and held it out to him, the screen paused on a video thumbnail.

Jinu stared at it like it might bite. Slowly, warily, he reached for it… and immediately pressed the lock button. The screen went black.

“Um- here.” She tapped it back on for him.

He narrowed his eyes and tried to swipe. Instead, his thumb dragged down the Control Center. “Why is it showing flashlight options?”

“That’s the Control Center,” she explained, gently, like she was teaching a baby deer how to use Instagram. “You want to tap the video. Not the top.”

He tried again and accidentally closed the app entirely.

“…Where did it go?”

“It’s okay! Just.. tap here. No, not that. That’s your camera… Yep, now you’re recording...”

Jinu scowled at the sudden appearance of his own bewildered face. “Why is it pointing at me?”

“Because you’re in selfie mode,” she said, deadpan. “Somehow.”

“I didn’t touch anything.”

“You did.”

He glared at the phone like it had betrayed him. “Can you just play the video?”

“Sure,” she said, calm and patient. She pulled it back up and handed it to him. “Don’t swipe. Just watch. It’ll loop.”

Jinu stared. Barely blinked.

The video had been edited, zoomed in on his face, slowed down to catch the exact moment his mask cracked.

Pathetic, he thought. I look like I’m about to cry.

No wonder Gwi-Ma thinks I’m weak.

The video cut to a close-up of Rumi. Her face- first tenderness, then something steeled. Unshaken.

He touched the screen, pausing it on her expression.

She hasn’t given up yet, realized Jinu. Foolish. And yet... a small grin tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“She doesn’t look like she’s given up on you, does she?”

He didn’t look up. “She would… if she really knew me.”

He handed the phone back.

“Hmm.” The girl glanced at the still image of Rumi’s gaze. “Are you so sure about that?”

She’ll turn on you. Just like you turned your back on everyone you claimed to love, Gwi-Ma sneered.

“You know…” The girl hesitated. “The things that matter don’t come easy. They take courage.”

Too bad you’re a coward.

“So…” she said, almost a whisper, “don’t give up on yourself.

She hasn’t.”

Then, with the quiet instinct of someone who knew they’d just stepped through a fragile door, she gave a small bow, whispered “Good luck,” and slipped away. Her footsteps faded down the corridor.

Jinu stayed there.

Still.

Staring into the empty space where she’d been.

Rumi still believed in him.

Even now.

If only he deserved it.

The HUNTR/X dressing room had gone still. The brightly lit makeup stations stood empty, abandoned in favor of the couch, where all three girls huddled close—faces bathed in the softer glow of Zoey’s phone. The viral video was playing again: Rumi and Jinu, just after rehearsal.

They watched, again and again, the moment Jinu’s carefully held mask slipped- the stiffness in his shoulders, the flicker of pain in his eyes, the stuttered rise of his chest as he walked away from Rumi.

“He really does look sad,” Zoey murmured, her thumb hovering over the screen. “Like... he’s really struggling to keep it together. I think he actually cares about you, Rumi.”

Mira crossed her arms. “I still don’t like him.”

Rumi sat on the armrest of the couch, eyes fixed on the looping video. “I don’t understand. We were really connected last night, and then, today, it’s like he’s a different person. Something changed."

Clenching her fists, she continued, "Gwi-Ma must’ve said something. Twisted him up. And Jinu won’t let me back in.”

She exhaled slowly, frustration bleeding through her voice. “I don’t know what I can do to get through to him now.”

“We don’t need him,” Mira said, without missing a beat. “Let’s go out there and sing Golden . Blow the Saja Boys off the stage. Boom. Done.”

Zoey flopped dramatically onto the cushions. “But if we lose, the Honmoon could actually shatter and then it’s the end of the wooooorrrrld …”

Rumi grimaced. Her gaze drifted to the shimmering threads of the Honmoon, faintly visible even here, woven by generations of intent and sacrifice.

“You know,” she said quietly, “what if we didn’t just reinforce the Honmoon…”

Mira and Zoey turned to her.

“What?” they said in unison.

Rumi stood, pacing now, reciting the familiar mantra that’s defined her own life.

“We are hunters, voices strong,
Slaying demons with our song.
Fix the world and make it right,
When darkness finally meets the light… ”

She paused, breath catching with a mix of clarity and resolve.

“We’ve always channeled our will to slay demons into the Honmoon. Our sense of duty, past down to us. But that intent… it’s all about fighting. Banishing. We're just trapping demons to suffer under Gwi-Ma’s rule away from us.”

She looked up, her eyes bright.

Her eyes snapped to the others. “But what if it didn’t have to be that way? What if the Honmoon could heal? What if… we focused on using our voice to push back Gwi-Ma’s voice.”

There was a silence. Zoey opened her mouth, closed it. Mira stared like she was watching someone walk a tightrope mid-earthquake.

Rumi’s voice was gaining momentum. “Celine said the first hunters built the Honmoon using the ignited souls of people their music touched. That connection, that hope- that’s what made the barrier.”

She turned back to them, voice trembling slightly.

“Demons have souls too. If we can reach them… maybe they can be part of the Honmoon. Maybe they can be protected, too.”

Mira’s voice was cautious, laced with a hint of bitterness. “But not all demons want peace, Rumi. Some want to devour human souls themselves, not just serve Gwi-Ma. They’re dangerous.”

“Then we keep those out,” Rumi said firmly. “But I can’t say all demons are the same anymore. I won’t. I don’t believe they’re all irredeemable.”

She ran a hand through her hair, pacing again. “And if we can reshape the Honmoon, even just a little... maybe I can reach Jinu again. Maybe I can pull him out of whatever hold Gwi-Ma has on him.”

There was a beat of silence.

Zoey leaned toward Mira and whispered, “Uhh, do you think Rumi likes likes Jinu? She’s kinda hyperfocused.”

Mira covered her mouth and muttered, “I think it’s a savior complex.”

“I heard that,” Rumi said, turning sharply, but there was no bite in her voice. Just determination. “And I don’t care. I have an idea. We don’t have much time, and I need both of you to make this work.”

Zoey straightened. “Of course, Rumi. We’re with you.”

Mira sighed, then nodded. “What do we need to do?”

Rumi’s eyes were already gleaming with the spark of a plan. “Okay, here’s what we’re going to do- ”

Chapter Text

Jinu sat alone atop the rusted scaffolding of the broadcast tower behind the arena, high above the buzz of the city. From this height, the stage lights below looked like scattered stars trying to rise. The real ones, those not yet drowned by neon, dimmed beneath a bleeding sunset, the sky streaked in bruised gold and fading red.

The Idol Awards would begin soon.

And with it, the duet.

The moment he’d have to choose.

Believe in Rumi and risk everything to help her restore the Honmoon, to fight back against Gwi-Ma, maybe even break free of him…

Or don’t.

Obey. Sabotage the performance. Expose Rumi’s patterns and shatter the Honmoon. And in return, Gwi-Ma would keep his promise: erase the memories, the shame, the pain of his past mistakes.

He closed his eyes.

Either way, something would be lost.

A flicker of blue light pulsed beside him. Two furry ears poked through a glowing portal in the metal grating, followed by a pair of large golden eyes peering up with quiet concern.

Derpy emerged effortlessly from the floor, his striped bulk moving with the silent grace of something unworldly. He pressed his massive head against Jinu’s side, gentle and grounding.

A moment later, right on cue, a small, six-eyed bird, three on each side of her head, with a stolen gat swooped down from above and landed primly on the railing in front of them.

Jinu gave a dry smile, scratching behind the tiger’s ears. “Here to remind me to get ready? There’s still a bit of time. I just need to change clothes.”

The bird chirped in disapproval, rolling all six of her eyes before flapping over to its usual perch, right atop Derpy’s head.

The tiger gave Jinu another nudge, more firmly this time, as if to say get up.

“I still need a minute,” Jinu muttered, waving them off.

Derpy exhaled, something between a sigh and a huff, and then, without warning, the world blinked in blue light.

The scaffolding vanished. The rusted metal beneath his boots turned to smooth concrete. The hush of wind was replaced by the distant roar of a crowd gathering below.

He didn’t need to ask where he was.

The top of the concert stadium.

And Rumi was standing there, waiting.

She turned at the sound of his arrival, her silhouette framed by the last light of the sun and the first hints of stadium lighting from below.

Jinu blinked, then glanced at Derpy, who sat beside him with regal smugness, tail flicking like a metronome.

“Seriously?” he muttered. “Traitor. You like her better than me now.”

Rumi smirked. “Can you blame him? I’m clearly prettier.”

Jinu let out a low chuckle, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “The fans beg to differ.”

A breeze swept between them, catching her jacket and tugging at his hair. The sky behind her had deepened to burning violet- gorgeous, and vanishing fast.

“Are you ready to talk yet?” she asked.

She’d never accept the real you, Gwi-Ma whispered, curling through Jinu’s mind like smoke. The monster.

Jinu’s mouth twitched into a bitter smile. “There’s nothing to talk about,” he said. “I’m fine. I’m ready for the duet.”

“Jinu,” Rumi said, her voice softer now, “you’re not fine. You’ve been carrying this alone for so long, you don’t even remember what it feels like really to let someone in.”

“I don’t need saving.”

“I’m not trying to save you.”

Her voice stayed calm, but a tremor beneath the surface betrayed her.

“I’m trying to reach you. Because I care… about you.”

He flinched, just a little. Like her words grazed something raw.

Don’t listen to her. Gwi-Ma’s voice slithered colder now, laced with contempt.

She doesn’t see you. She sees what she wants to see. The moment you disappoint her, she’ll turn on you.

“She won’t,” Jinu muttered through clenched teeth.

“What?” Rumi asked.

He looked away. “Nothing.”

She stepped closer, her voice steady but urgent. “I don’t care what you’ve done. Or what deal you made. I see you, Jinu. And I don’t believe you’re beyond redemption. But you have to meet me halfway.”

She’s lying. Gwi-Ma hissed. Clinging to her fantasy. She doesn’t care about you, just her ego. Her narrative. Her win.

Jinu squeezed his eyes shut. His breathing was quick, shallow.

“You don’t know what I did,” he rasped. “You think I’m some tragic hero trying to break free? I’m not. I deserve this. I wanted what he offered. I was selfish. Arrogant. And now-”

He staggered back a step, as if the truth weighed more than his body could bear.

She doesn’t understand what you are, Gwi-Ma said again, almost gentle now. You carry rot in your soul. And she-

The voice sneered. She can’t fix you. She can’t even fix herself.

Jinu’s breath hitched. He pressed his fingers to his temples.

“Stop.”

Stop what? Gwi-Ma's voice was a storm now, gathering force.

Reminding you what you did? Who you left behind?

With Gwi-Ma’s words, the dam burst.

Images tore through Jinu’s mind in a brutal cascade- his mother’s caring smile, his sister’s bright laughter– them arguing, clinging to his sleeve, begging him not to leave. Next, the same voices raised in fear, then rage. His mother at the palace gates, bruised fists pounding. His sister screaming his name as he turned away, pretending not to hear. The images twisted, corrupted- his family withering on cold streets, skin drawn tight from hunger, scavenging spoiled food, eyes hollow and betrayed. Their voices -begging, blaming, screaming, dying. 

Jinu’s knees hit the rooftop. He clutched his head, jaw clenched, groaning as the voices got louder, more visceral, too much.

“Stop....I said… STOP!”

His voice exploded across the rooftop, ragged and raw. A pulse of dissonant energy surged out from him- crimson rippling through the Honmoon with shocking intensity. Rumi recoiled instinctively as she felt the demon energy cascade out like a shockwave.

Only I can help you.

Gwi-Ma’s voice softened again, almost soothing.

I can take it all away. The pain. The shame. You don’t have to feel it anymore.

The screaming in Jinu’s mind stopped… and in its place, Rumi. Kneeling in front of him. Cradling his face gently, eyes glassy with unshed tears.

The pain in her eyes resembled theirs.

His mother. His sister.

Too much.

Jinu shoved her back. Hard. She fell, landing on the rooftop with a grunt.

He staggered to his feet, looming over her, an eerie mirror of the first time they met.

“Enough!"  he shouted.

“Leave me alone, Rumi!”

She stood, brushing herself off, still looking at him with maddening care.

“It’s useless!” His voice cracked, hoarse. “With the souls he’s claimed recently, do you really think Golden will be enough to complete the Honmoon?”

“You’re an idiot if you think you can win. If you think you could be free.”

His chest was heaving.

“I was an idiot too... for ever considering it.”

He turned away, shoulders trembling.

But Rumi grabbed his hand. Held it.

“We can be free,” she said. “You just have to trust me.”

Jinu scoffed. “Like you trust your friends?”

He yanked her hand up- and pulled down the sleeve, revealing the demon patterns coiled along her arm.

“I'm not the only one with secrets,” he said, voice scathing. Then he released her hand with clinical detachment, like a verdict delivered.

He expected her to recoil. To hide.

Instead she stood tall, her expression unwavering.

“They know,” she said quietly. “I told them this morning. And they accepted me. All of me.”

Jinu blinked. “What?”

She’s lying! Gwi-Ma snarled, a whipcrack in his mind.

But Rumi didn’t falter. She slipped off her jacket and held her arms out, baring the jagged, branching demon patterns that snaked along her skin.

“I’m not hiding anymore,” she said. “And you don’t have to either.”

She stepped forward, slow and steady, and placed her hands gently on Jinu’s shoulders. He hadn’t moved, still frozen, still trying to reconcile what he was seeing.

“Whatever poison Gwi-Ma’s pouring into you, listen to me instead. My voice.”

At that, she glanced to the side. Derpy, still waiting patiently, dipped his head once in understanding. Then he vanished into the ground in a swirl of blue light.

Moments later, he reappeared, this time flanked by Mira and Zoey.

“We’re set!” Zoey called, breathless. “Just waiting on your signal!”

Mira brushed past Jinu without slowing, shooting him a glare. “You better appreciate this. Rumi’s moved mountains for you,” she muttered, handing Rumi a headset.

Jinu’s eyes darted between them. “I... I don’t understand.”

Rumi took the mic and met his gaze. “We’re going to try to change the Honmoon. Not just to block demons… but to heal. To push back Gwi-Ma’s voice. To protect everyone - humans and demons…” she placed her hand gently against his chest over his heart, “... who still have souls left to save.”

Jinu stared at her, stunned, like the world had tilted beneath his feet.

Rumi turned and beckoned him toward the edge of the roof, where Mira and Zoey now stood silhouetted against the sky. Below, the crowd outside the stadium was growing, restless with anticipation. The muffled roar of voices rose like a tide.

“For this to work,” she said, “we need them. Their hearts. Their souls. That’s what breathes life into the Honmoon. That’s what will shape the new one.”

STOP THEM! Gwi-Ma screamed through Jinu’s mind, claws raking across the inside of his skull.

But Jinu's heart had already shifted.

Zoey raised a peace sign high above her head, signaling to someone below. A second later, massive spotlights flared to life, clamped to extension cords hastily run from the venue, now shining upward like beacons into the twilight sky.

Grinning, Zoey flipped on her mic. “IS EVERYONE EXCITED FOR THE SHOW TONIGHT!?” she shouted.

Her voice echoed from speakers lining the entrance and queue lines. The crowd exploded- screaming, cheering, voices rising like a wave of raw energy. Phones flashed like stars.

Mira stepped up beside her, grin fierce. “What if we told you we’re performing a brand new song- right here, right now, live from this roof?”

The roar that followed was deafening.

Rumi turned to Jinu, eyes blazing with purpose.

“This song was born from hate,” she said, steady and clear. “But now... it’s a song of understanding.”

Jinu stared at her, stricken.

“What?”

She stepped closer, and the words came without hesitation. “Let’s take down Gwi-Ma. Together.”

Don’t listen- Gwi-Ma’s voice rose in his skull, venomous and uncoiled.

She’s using you. This is a trap. A spectacle. A humiliation.

But Rumi was already turning away, facing the crowd. Mic now on, her voice rang out, clear and powerful, “This one’s for someone who’s fighting a war no one can see. Someone who’s been told their soul is broken beyond repair.”

She looked over her shoulder, straight at Jinu.

“And it’s for anyone else who’s ever believed that lie.”

The music hit.

A percussive drop. A synthetic crack. The echoing lines of the backing track.

"Takedown, takedown
Takedown, down, down, down…"

Mira and Zoey moved in sync beside her, silhouettes outlined by the spotlights. Jinu knew this song. He had watched HUNTR/X practice it. This song was supposed to be their undoing.

Then Rumi’s voice cut through the air with unwavering clarity, changing the lyrics he was familiar with.

"So soft, that voice inside your head, with silken lies you were fed
Whole life drowning in dread, but don’t believe what it said"

Jinu flinched.

Every word peeled something open. That voice- the one Gwi-Ma had curled into his thoughts when he was human and desperate- was silken. Seductive. It hadn’t sounded cruel, not at first. It had sounded like freedom. Like survival. And then it became a cage.

"I’m ’bout to switch up these vibes, stand tall and open your eyes
I’m right here now, let’s reclaim your light"

His hands curled into fists.

No. They don’t understand. They don’t know what you’ve done.

Maybe not all the details… not yet… but Rumi would. She would accept him.

She was standing at the center of it all, singing with fire in her voice and hurt in her eyes- not pity. Conviction.

"Cause I see the real you underneath all the pain
You’ve been drowning in the dark underneath all the blame
When your patterns start to show…
I see a pain that lies below deep in your veins"

SHUT THEM OUT. Gwi-Ma roared.

They are unmaking you. Do not let them sing you into weakness.

But it was too late.

His was absolutely enraptured by Rumi.

"You’re strong enough to face the takedown
Every scar and shame you were taught to fear, bring it all right here"

Then his patterns pulsed with an unbearable pain.

"Yeah, it’s a takedown!
The past can’t keep you caged if you rise through it, let it burn away"

Jinu sank to his knees. The demon markings on his back burned like they were resisting the sound itself.

And then he felt it- the Honmoon, shifting in frequency, tuning itself to something… gentler. Fiercer. Alive. The pain alleviated.

"I'm here with you let’s take it down (Oh)
Da-da-da, down…"

Rumi turned to him mid-performance, arm outstretched.

She was inviting him.

"I'ma take it down (Oh)
It’s a takedown…"

His voice was caught in his throat. But his lips moved, mouthing the words along with Rumi.

Inside Jinu’s mind, something cracked.

Not just his fear.

Not just his shame.

But Gwi-Ma.

"It's a takedown, we're not backing out, we break chains like- crack!
It's a takedown, all the fear and doubt, we’re never lookin’ back"

STOP IT.

Gwi-Ma’s voice ripped through his skull like static, long past being smooth or coaxing.

She’s manipulating you! They all are! You think this song will absolve you? You think they’ll still stand by you when they see what’s really inside?!

Jinu clutched his head, staggering sideways across the rooftop. Red energy shimmered faintly around him, erratic and unstable.

"숨겨진 상처를 끄집어내[Drag out the hidden scars], burn them out tonight…"

As if by magic, matching the lyrics, rainbow flames burst out from the Honmoon threads battling the crimson demonic energy spilling from his patterns.

You are mine! Gwi-Ma howled now, feral.

You gave yourself to me! Everything you have, everything you are, you owe to me!

"We’ll be standin’ and fightin’, right here beside you, never lettin’ go"

That line.

It wasn’t Rumi alone anymore. Mira and Zoey’s voices joined hers. The sound wasn’t perfect, it wasn’t polished. It was human, raw and unrelenting.

"When your patterns start to show
I see a pain that lies below, deep in your veins"

Jinu gritted his teeth, bracing against the tide in his own head.

The demon’s voice was shrieking now, nearly incoherent.

You don’t get to walk away! You’re broken! You chose me! You chose this! I made you! Without me you’re NOTHING-

“Then why are you afraid of a song?” Jinu whispered.

You ungrateful worm! You think you-

The rooftop seemed to sway, distracting Jinu from Gwi-Ma's tirade. Gently, not with fear, but with feeling.

As the second chorus faded and the final verse fell away, a low hum began to resonate beneath their feet. The Honmoon shimmered brightly. Threads of power, old, sacred, fragile, began to glow not with the standard pale blue light or the ominous crimson of demonic breaches… but with soft, rippling rainbow light.

Centered around Rumi, the rainbow threads bloomed outward, interspersed but there, noticeable.

And with the light, he felt warmth. The warmth of being seen.

The comfort of being known, and not rejected.

Jinu stumbled, gasping, not from pain, but from the sudden rush of emotion he hadn’t braced for. The Honmoon wasn’t judging him. It didn’t recoil from him. It welcomed him.

Acceptance. Without condition.

Rumi’s hand was on the mic again, and when she sang, her voice didn’t just ride the current. It amplified it.

"Oh, you believed you had to suffer
머릿속 그 소리 듣지 마 [Don’t listen to that voice in your head]
You let your pain take over, hope smothered
But you’re not on your own right now"

Gwi-Ma stirred, his voice rising for one last attempt. It was distant, like he was far away.

You… will… regret… this…

Rumi’s voice continued, softer now, but no less powerful, piercing through the electric haze of sound and sky. Jinu’s breath caught in his throat.

"So please, just let me understand
I know it’s hard, but I won’t walk away
가면 벗고 울어도 돼 [You can cry without the mask], I will never leave
You’re still you, so let’s be free!"

The note hung in the air like a held breath.

And then-

Silence.

Not from the crowd below, which was screaming in fervor, or from the music still pulsing through the rooftop speakers.

No.

It was inside Jinu.

Gwi-Ma’s voice was gone.

Not defeated. Not banished. Not slain.

Just... silent.

The pressure that had coiled around his spine, the shadow slithering behind his every waking moment, the hiss at the edge of every breath. It was gone.

The silence in Jinu’s mind rang louder than any scream. But the song hadn’t ended.

The beat surged back, stronger now. Not because of Gwi-Ma’s absence, but because of something new filling the space.

"It's a takedown, we're not backing out, we break chains like- crack!
It's a takedown, all the fear and doubt, we’re never lookin’ back"

Rumi stepped forward again, mic in hand, fire back in her stride. This time, when she sang, it wasn’t aimed just at Jinu.

It was for everyone.

"숨겨진 상처를 끄집어내 [Drag out the hidden scars], burn them out tonight
We’ll be standin’ and fightin’, right here beside you, never lettin’ go"

Mira and Zoey rejoined her, flanking both sides. The rooftop stage felt full now, not just with bodies, but with belief. Intent. The Honmoon rippled overhead, still glowing in soft rainbow pulses like it was singing along.

Jinu watched, unmoving, breath catching in his throat.

He wasn’t needed for this part.

But he was welcome, and sang along.

"I'm here with you let’s take it down (Oh)
Da-da-da, down
It's a takedown (Oh)
Da-da-da, down
I'ma take it down (Oh)
Da-da-da, down
It's a takedown (Oh)
Da-da-da, down (Take it down)"

The crowd below had gone from cheering to singing. Their voices rose in imperfect harmony, raw and passionate, feeding the Honmoon with every shout, every lyric screamed into the night.

Rumi turned back to Jinu as the final chords faded. She sang the outro with her chest rising in steady, deliberate breaths, arms lifted, demon patterns bared in full to the world below. There was no performance left. No illusion. Just Rumi, stubborn, infuriating, luminous, and still standing beside him.

The corners of his mouth twitched. Then, finally, finally, he exhaled.

And stepped into her arms.

The rooftop exploded in cheers from below.

The crowd, watching on screens and from the street, erupted in a wave of sound so loud it shook the air. Fans screamed. Lightsticks waved in wild arcs. Even Derpy let out a deep, contented chuff and sat his weight down like finally.

Rumi hugged him tightly, arms firm, steady, real. No performance. No flourish.

Just her.

Jinu didn’t hold back.

Not anymore.

He pressed his face into her shoulder and let himself feel it- the warmth, the forgiveness, the fragile hope stitching itself together between them.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

A pause.

“Ugh. Get a room,” Mira deadpanned, arms crossed.

Zoey grabbed her sleeve, eyes wide. “We’ll just… give you two some space. You know. To, uh… talk. Yeah. Definitely talking.”

She began dragging Mira toward the roof access door.

“Don’t be gross!” Mira shouted as she was pulled along. “And if you hurt Rumi, I will kick your butt! I don’t care how much trauma you’re hauling around-”

Clang. The door slammed shut behind them.

Rumi and Jinu blinked, their bubble abruptly popped.

Below, the crowd was still roaring, chanting, cheering, thousands of lightsticks swaying like stars.

Rumi offered a sheepish smile and a quick wave toward the crowd below. “We should probably head in. You know… get ready for our duet.”

Jinu gave a small nod, a blush creeping up his neck. “Yeah. After you.”

They turned side by side, fingers laced tightly together.

Above them, the Honmoon shimmered softly in the air.

No longer a wall.

But a bridge.

Chapter Text

The stairwell to the roof was dim and quiet, the concrete walls muffling the distant roar of the crowd. It felt like the world was holding its breath—suspended between the chaos behind them and whatever came next.

Jinu paused at the landing, still holding Rumi’s hand. He leaned back against the cold wall, head bowed, eyes fixed on the floor. Without a word, he motioned for her to sit.

Rumi settled onto one of the steps just below him, knees drawn up, her voice low but steady.

“What is it?” she asked. “You don’t hear Gwi-Ma again, do you?”

Jinu shook his head. “No. Not a whisper. I think… I think I might finally be free of him. At least for now.”

Rumi smiled faintly. “That’s good. So why do you still look like the sky’s falling?”

He hesitated. The silence stretched. Then, like pulling a thorn from his throat, he said, “It’s time I told you everything. The whole truth… about what I did.”

Rumi didn’t flinch. “Okay. I’m here.” She placed both hands over his.

Jinu stared at their joined hands. His shoulders rose with a breath he didn’t quite release. Then, quietly, he gave his confession.

“I left them. My family. I left them behind.”

Rumi didn’t speak.

“I only made a deal with Gwi-Ma to get myself out of that miserable life,” he said. “I left my sister, my mother, alone-” His voice caught. “-while I slept on silk sheets in the palace with my belly full every night!”

He swallowed hard.

“I left them,” he whispered. “I left them.” A single tear tracked down his cheek.

Rumi was quiet for a long moment. Then, gently, she said, “You regret it.”

Jinu looked up, surprised.

“You made a mistake,” she said, meeting his eyes. “One you’ve been running from for so long it nearly hollowed you out. But you’re not running anymore, are you?”

He didn’t answer.

“That mistake… neither of us can undo it. But it’s not all you are. If you could go back… would you choose differently?”

He didn’t hesitate. “Of course I would.”

“Then you’re not the same person who made that choice.”

She let the words settle before continuing. “We all have flaws. We all mess up. But those mistakes… they don’t have to define us. We learn, we grow. We heal.”

“I don’t deserve to heal.”

“You’ve suffered for four hundred years, Jinu. Maybe that’s long enough.”

She leaned back slightly, voice steady but warm. “I think Gwi-Ma planned it that way. He knew you were desperate. He also saw that you cared deeply and he twisted that. He gave you a way out, but only for yourself. And he knew the guilt of leaving your family would destroy you from the inside.”

She looked down, brushing her fingers gently across a shimmering rainbow strand of the Honmoon. It pulsed with a quiet warmth in reply, like it was listening.

“You still made the choice. You’re not fully without responsibility. But he set the trap. And I think he’s doing it to others too, feeding on desperation, twisting it into something that serves him. If we can stop him from doing it to anyone else… it won’t fix your past. But it’s a start, right?”

“It won’t be easy,” she said, lifting her eyes. “But you’re not alone anymore, Jinu.”

She rose to her feet, then softly sang the chorus of their duet:

We can't fix it if we never face it
Let the past be the past 'til it's weightless…

The Honmoon hummed in response, vibrating with the melody like it, too, was singing.

Rumi held out her hand.

Jinu stared at it, eyes a little glassy. A soft, uncertain smile curved his lips as he reached up and let her pull him to his feet.

They stood there a moment, facing each other, wordless.

Then Rumi tilted her head. “You told me the Saja Boys don’t feel anymore. That they’re numb.”

He nodded slowly.

“But look at you. You just needed someone to care. To reach out.”

She stepped a little closer. “If Gwi-Ma’s grip is slipping… what if it’s not too late for them either?”

Jinu hesitated.

“I’m not saying they’ll join us,” she added. “But what if they did? Even just one of them. Even just for a second. What if all they need is someone to see them… to pull them back?”

He exhaled, long and slow.

“Not everyone can be saved, Rumi.”

“I’m still going to try,” she said. “Because if you can still stand here and face your past… maybe they can too.”

Jinu closed his eyes.

Then nodded. “All right. Let’s talk to them.”

The Saja Boys dressing room was still and clinical. Mirrors lined one wall, the lights above humming faintly like a sigh. No laughter. No idle chatter. Just the Saja Boys.

Baby perched on the back of a chair, lazily twirling his lollipop. Romance lounged on the couch, flipping through a lyric booklet he clearly wasn’t reading. Mystery lay half-asleep on the floor, hoodie pulled low over his face. Abby stood rigidly against the far wall, eyes fixed on the door, arms folded like a statue.

Jinu opened the door without knocking, but stopped short on the threshold. Rumi stepped in first.

"Hey," she said.

Four pairs of eyes turned to her. Then, slowly, to Jinu.

Silence.

Jinu cleared his throat. "Can we talk?"

Romance gave a lazy shrug. "We’re listening."

Jinu stepped inside, the weight of the moment slowing his steps. "I know it seems like we’re close to finishing the plan—to taking down the Honmoon. But something’s changed."

Still nothing. Their expressions remained unreadable. He forced himself to go on.

"Gwi-Ma’s grip on the human side of the Honmoon is slipping. If we act now, we can cut him off completely."

No one moved.

He exhaled and then turned slightly to face Rumi, though keeping his guard up. “They don’t care, remember?” he muttered to Rumi. “I told you. Numb.”

"I do care," Baby said suddenly.

All eyes snapped to him. His voice was still casual. Too casual.

"Not about Gwi-Ma. Never did. He’s just static in the background."

Romance straightened on the couch. "We only ever stepped on stage because you asked us to."

Mystery pushed back his hood, voice low but steady. "You looked at us like we mattered. Like we could be more than furniture."

Abby took a few strides forward until he was just a few feet from Jinu, his eyes sharp. “We were suffering before you. And not the dramatic kind. The empty kind. But you-” he paused, brows furrowed, like he was trying to find the right words, “-you gave us purpose.”

Jinu blinked. “I… I thought you were loyal to Gwi-Ma. That you followed orders because you’d given up.”

“No,” Romance said with a smirk. “We followed you. Because you gave us names. New ones that we made good memories with. Made us feel like we mattered. You don’t realize how much you’ve done for us.”

Baby’s voice was softer now. “My life as a human, it… it wasn’t good. And Gwi-Ma… he promised to make things better, but that was a lie. So when I became a demon, I didn’t care. Human or demon, I was still treated like trash on the roadside. I had nothing… was nothing… until you came by and you saw me. Needed me. Taught me music. Taught me how to dance.”

Baby rolled his lollipop between his fingers. “We’re doing all this idol stuff for you. To help you.”

Jinu stood frozen, eyes wide.

Mystery glanced at Rumi. “Are you sure you want to go against Gwi-Ma? He was going to erase your memories. Your suffering was finally going to end.”

Jinu gripped Rumi’s hand. "This way is better. Even if my memories were erased, I’d just feel hollow. At least now… there’s a chance I’ll be happy."

Abby snorted, “You’re always so dramatic.”

Romance tilted his head. "The Honmoon does feel different. Softer. Almost soothing."

Mystery asked, "What happened?"

Rumi stepped forward. "We’re changing it. The Honmoon won’t just block demons anymore. It’ll help anyone- everyone- who wants healing from Gwi-Ma’s poison. I’ve learned that demons aren’t soulless monsters. You’re people. Just… people in pain. Like me. I rejected my demon half for so long. But what I really needed was acceptance."

She unclenched a trembling fist.

"The first step was silencing Gwi-Ma on this side of the Honmoon. Now we’re reinforcing it, creating a haven with acceptance at its core. A bridge, not a wall. For anyone who needs it."

“Are you guys interested? In building a Honmoon for humans and demons?” Rumi holds out her hand, palm up to the Saja Boys.

A pause.

Romance looked at Jinu. "You really don’t hear him anymore?"

Jinu nodded. "Gone. They sang a song to change the Honmoon... and his voice vanished."

Romance nodded back and walked up to face Rumi. "Okay, then I’ll believe in you, Hunter, for Jinu."

He placed his hand on Rumi’s.

Baby followed, slapping his hand on top. "I’m in. Always hated that overgrown fireplace."

Abby sighed, adding his hand with a dramatic eye-roll. "You two are exhausting. You could’ve just said, ‘Gwi-Ma sucks. Who’s down to shut him up?’"

Mystery hesitated. "Gwi-Ma’s powerful and vindictive. I’m worried he won’t stop until he gets back at you. But… if this is the path you chose, I’m with you." He placed his hand on the pile.

Rumi looked at Jinu. "Your turn. For solidarity.”

Jinu’s throat tightened. "I don’t deserve any of you."

Romance grinned. "Nope. But we’re yours anyway."

Jinu added his hand to theirs.

Rumi smiled. "Then let’s end this. Together."

Jinu’s smile sharpened, just a touch wicked. “Let’s burn up that stage.”

The air around the Shinmok, the sacred tree that acts as the anchor for the Honmoon, was different…there was a sense of change.

Celine stood beneath its towering branches, every muscle taut despite the stillness. The sacred rope looped around the trunk fluttered faintly. High above, colorful streamers trembled like whispered warnings. To an outsider, the tree might seem peaceful. But Celine knew better.

She could feel it.

The Honmoon had shifted.

Its familiar cadence- cool, blue, unyielding, was gone. In its place, something warmer pulsed through the weave. Violet. Gold. Sea-glass green. A shimmer of rainbow light laced the barrier, soft and breathing. Alive.

She stared upward, disbelief hardening into dread.

“No,” she breathed. “No. This can’t be happening.”

The Shinmok was humming. Quietly. Gently. Celine stepped forward and pressed her palm to the bark. It was warm. Not the distant warmth of spiritual discipline, but something else. Something seeking. Reaching. Almost… inviting.

She jerked her hand away like it had burned her.

“Why?” she whispered. “We were so close. A Golden Honmoon. Just a little longer and we would have done it. It would’ve all finally been over.”

Her voice cracked. She bit it back, teeth clenched against the tremor.

“No more hunters. No more children raised under this burden. No more voices in my head!” Her fists shook. “I just wanted it to end.”

She waited, listening for the mocking voice she dreaded and expected.

But the air remained still.

“Nothing?” she hissed. “Am I not even worth your attention anymore, Gwi-Ma?” Her voice rose. “What is this? What have you done?”

Silence.

Only the rainbow threads answered, their glow soft and persistent around the Shinmok. She stared at them with suspicion. This was no blessing. It had to be a trick. A manipulation. A trap.

She lifted the hem of her shirt and looked down her sides, to the marks she kept hidden. The demon patterns had not changed nor grown, not today, not since that day... still shaped like wings down her back, a cruel mimicry of the name she once bore with pride. Heavenly. That’s what her name meant. What a joke.

She took a breath through her teeth, then let it go slowly. She had held the line this long. She would not falter now.

Eyes squeezed shut, she steadied herself. She could not show weakness. Not with everything so close.

She was a hunter. She could fix this.

She would fix this.

Not just for herself.

For Rumi.

Behind her, the Shinmok rustled. The streamers stirred like they were laughing. Around her, rainbow threads of the Honmoon shimmered on- soft, radiant, and utterly defiant.

Chapter Text

“Annyeong, starseekers!” Jia beamed into the camera, her lilac blazer catching the shimmer of the stage lights. “This is Jia with StarDrop: Your K-Culture Compass, coming to you live from the International Idol Awards, where history, mystery, and maybe even a little forbidden love are stealing the spotlight!”

The screen briefly lit up with the show’s signature pastel-hued logo before the camera swept across the arena. Rows of excited fans filled every seat, their synchronized lightsticks pulsing like a sea of starlight. Handmade signs waved high above the crowd, including #RUJINU IS REAL and JINU, I CAN BE YOUR SIDE PIECE and one notably aggressive MIRA STEP ON ME painted in glittery red.

Back on screen, Jia grinned wide, eyes sparkling with mischief.

“Let’s get into it.”

As she turned back to the camera, a clip began playing over her shoulder- the now-viral rooftop duet between Rumi and Jinu. Silhouetted against the city skyline, the two stood hand in hand, their voices weaving together in raw, aching harmony. No stylists. No filters. Just two souls singing like the world had fallen away.

“Just last night,” Jia narrated, fanning herself theatrically, “Rumi and Jinu dropped an impromptu rooftop duet that short-circuited fans across every continent. The vocals? Angelic. The romantic tension? Thick enough to chew.”

She leaned closer to the camera, eyes gleaming.

“Then today, boom. Rehearsal drama. Another leaked video drops, this time showing Jinu flirting with Rumi one moment, then suddenly shutting her down. Rumi’s left looking heartbroken, Jinu playing the cold-hearted heartbreaker… right up until he turns away, and his face just crumples. Totally wrecked.”

Shaky fan-captured footage replaced the duet, complete with zoom-ins, slow motion, and dramatic TikTok captions. Jia winced with flair.

“And just when our collective hearts couldn’t take another twist,” she continued breathlessly, “HUNTR/X storms a rooftop just hours before the show. They perform Takedown, an unreleased, high-voltage anthem that had fans sobbing, screaming, and, in at least one confirmed case, fainting.”

The clip flared with snippets of flashing lights, fierce vocals, and guttural lyrics. Then-

Jia clapped her hands once, sharply.
“And then, Jinu shows up. Teary-eyed. Soft. One incredibly lucky fan, bless you and your ten-times zoom DSLR, captures the exact moment he walks straight up to Rumi and hugs her. Like she personally rearranged the stars just for him.”

A still image swelled onto the screen: Jinu clinging to Rumi, his face tucked into her neck, eyes glassy, shoulders curled around her like armor.

Jia mouthed a slow aww and dabbed an imaginary tear.
“I mean, we’ve seen angst. We’ve seen yearning. But this?” She spun back to the camera, hands flared. “This is peak K-drama like content, and the Idol Awards haven’t even started yet.”

The sound of the crowd swelled behind her- chants, cheers, lightsticks spinning wildly.

Jia gave the lens a conspiratorial smile. “It’s been a roller coaster, starseekers. But don’t take my word for it, let’s go see how the fans are handling the emotional whiplash.”

Jia walks down the aisle until she zeros in on a trio clustered behind the barricade, holding neon fan signs. One read I AM AVAILABLE, JINU, another simply YOU’RE GOLDEN!

“Hi! Jia from StarDrop! Tell us, how are you emotionally surviving the Rujinu saga?”

The first fan, a teenager with galaxy stickers under her eyes and a Drink Me Up shirt, immediately burst into tears. “I’m not surviving! I haven’t slept since the rooftop video dropped. I thought I was ready for soft Jinu, but then he left her? And he looked so sad? And then they made up again on another rooftop?! Like, what is the rooftop symbolism?!”

Her friend nodded solemnly. “They clearly have a rooftop motif. I bet they get married on one. That was textbook ‘I’m sorry I pushed you away because I’m emotionally constipated but now I want to live in your sunlight.’ Classic K-drama redemption arc.”

The first fan wailed, “This isn’t a drama! That’s my man Jinu!”

While the first fan sniffled, her friend interjected, “Can we talk about Rumi’s markings during Takedown? Those tattoos or whatever they are? Gorgeous. I think it’s part of the styling for Golden or Free. Like, symbolic of inner light or breaking free from something. You know, conceptually.”

Jia gasped. “Oh, I love that take. They were practically glowing while she was singing. Give that makeup artist a raise!”

She turned to a boy decked head to toe in HUNTR/X merch, clutching a Zoey fanart banner like it was sacred.

“And what are your thoughts on Takedown?” she asked.

He gripped his lightstick like a weapon. “I need that song tattooed on my soul. It wasn’t written for me, but it saw me. It healed me.”

From behind him, another fan popped into view, waving a glittery phone case. “I’ve watched the ‘Takedown’ clip seventeen times. My phone is overheating. I’m overheating. I think Rumi just cured my fear of commitment.”

Down the line, a woman in her twenties wore a bedazzled shirt that read #RUJINU and waved a plushie shaped like the Saja Boys’ lion mascot.

“I just want to know who hurt Jinu and how I can launch them into the sun,” she declared with terrifying sincerity.

Jia laughed, clearly thriving. “Okay, real talk, do we think they’re dating?”

A chorus rang out from all sides.

“Yes!”

“Not yet, but spiritually, yes!”

“I think they’re emotionally bonded via harmonics and trauma.”

“My friend says it’s marketing but I’ve seen their eyes. That’s not PR, that’s real pain!”

“I don’t care what it is. Just let them keep singing. My crops are thriving.”

Jia turned back to the camera, beaming, breathless. “There you have it: passion, poetry, mysterious tattoos, and possibly parasocial delusion. And the main show hasn’t even started.”

She lifted her mic with dramatic flair.

“And now, starseekers, we’re heading backstage with our trusty press pass in hand. That’s right, we scored special access for tonight’s show, and we’re about to see how the magic really happens.”

The camera followed Jia as she hustled through a staff entrance, flashing her credentials with a grin, then ducked through security and into the humming arteries of the venue. Cables snaked across the floor, stagehands jogged past clutching earpieces and light schematics, and somewhere in the distance, a harried voice yelled about a missing fog machine.

“Back here,” Jia narrated between steps, breath a little fast but smile still camera-ready, “it’s pure organized chaos, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She turned a corner… and came to an abrupt stop.

Her eyes narrowed slightly as she gestured for the camera to follow her gaze.

“Oh-ho,” she murmured into the mic, lowering her voice but not her excitement. “Looks like we’ve stumbled onto something spicy.”

Just down the hallway, clustered outside the dressing rooms, stood the members of HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys. Rumi and Jinu were nowhere in sight, likely off preparing for their duet, but the remaining idols looked ready to throw hands or at least hurl some well-aimed insults. Arms were crossed. Jaws were tight. The tension was thick enough to choke on.

Mira stood with her arms crossed, glaring at Abby across the narrow hallway like he was a stain on the carpet she was trying not to acknowledge.

“I’m just saying,” she snapped, “if Jinu screws this up, I will end him. I don’t care if it’s during the live broadcast.”

Abby didn’t flinch. Leaning casually against the wall, arms loose at his sides, he looked maddeningly unfazed. “You say that like he hasn’t survived worse.”

“Don’t tempt me.”

“Didn’t know you needed tempting.”

Zoey, standing awkwardly between them, groaned and turned toward Mystery. “Please say something before they actually throw punches.”

Mystery opened his mouth… then wisely shut it again.

“Rumi’s risking everything,” Mira continued, voice rising. “Just to save Mister Prince of Darkness. So if he screws this up-”

“He won’t,” Abby cut in, calm as ever.

Mira scoffed. “Oh, that’s reassuring. Coming from the guy who thinks brooding in corners counts as a personality.”

Abby’s mouth curled. “Better than repressing everything under glitter and rage.”

Mystery, straightening up with quiet diplomacy, tried again. “Hey, maybe we could just take a breath? I mean, we all want the same-”

“Shut up, Mystery,” Mira and Abby said in perfect unison.

Mystery raised both hands and retreated into the sanctuary of his hoodie.

Then Zoey’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god,” she loudly whispered. “We’re on camera.”

All heads whipped toward the lens.

Jia stood a few feet away, smiling like the cat who’d just caught an entire flock of canaries. “Oh yes you are. And please, don’t let me interrupt. Let’s just say that was golden.”

Abby didn’t even blink. “Good. Let them see what honesty looks like.”

Mira smiled tightly, eyes returning to glaring at Abby. “Honesty? I thought that was a foreign language to you.”

Abby raised an eyebrow. “Oh? Then what exactly have I lied about?” He tilted his head, daring her to answer, smugness practically radiating.

The heat between them was enough to warp metal.

Baby, sprawled nearby with a lollipop tucked into his cheek, swirled the stick thoughtfully and deadpanned, “This is foreplay, right?”

Everyone turned to him.

“Just checking,” he said, shrugging. “'Cause if they start making out, I’m out.”

Mira looked scandalized. Abby looked smug. Zoey choked on a laugh. Romance just grinned. Mystery covered his mouth with a hoodie sleeve and whispered, “He’s not wrong.”

Jia, absolutely delighted, turned to the camera. “Well, there you have it, viewers. HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys- former rivals, current allies, and real life embodiments of the enemies-to-lovers trope.”

Mira flushed. “Please delete this footage.”

Abby raised an eyebrow. “You wish.”

Jia grinned and winked at the camera. “Stay tuned, starseekers. The Idol Awards haven’t even started, and the drama’s already peak.”

The screen faded to black just as Mira hissed, “I hate you,” and Abby replied, far too smoothly, “Sure you do.”

The lights dimmed.

A hush fell over the stadium like the breath before a confession.

Backstage, Rumi stood still in the wings, palms pressed together, eyes closed as the countdown ticked in her earpiece. The crowd was massive, tens of thousands inside the venue, millions more watching from around the world, but the weight on her chest wasn’t just performance nerves.

This year, everything was different.

The Idol Awards had always been their most important performance of the year, a way to strengthen the Honmoon enough to build upon it in the year to come. But this time... this time, they were going to change it. Not just hold the boundary. Reshape it. Make it theirs.

And for the first time in her life, she wasn’t hiding. Zoey knew. Mira knew. They didn’t reject her for her heritage or her deceit. They stood with her.

The comms crackled.

“Cue in five. Rumi, Jinu, on your marks.”

Her fingers curled, exhaling slowly.

And Jinu… it was all because of Jinu.

He’d seen her. Truly seen her. Not as an enemy. Not as a mistake. Just Rumi . It was because of him that she’d found the courage to tell the others the truth. Because he had shown her that darkness could be faced. That she wasn’t broken. She just needed someone to accept her, as she was. 

She didn’t know what this was between them… not yet. But he made her feel… complete in a way she never felt before.

Soft piano notes played from the speakers, the music composed early this morning, just for this one performance.

Rumi opened her eyes.

She stepped onto the stage.

A single spotlight bloomed, casting her in gentle radiance. Her white dress caught the light like mist.

She took a breath, then sang.

“I tried to hide but something broke
 I tried to sing, couldn’t hit the notes”

Her voice rang out, clear, trembling, honest. Like a wound finally daring to heal. White lights laced across the floor like morning fog, and the massive LED screen behind her shifted: a city skyline bathed in the blush of dawn, gold and pink blooming into endless blue. Her demon patterns, that were initially unnoticeable to the audience, began to shimmer into existence with softly glowing rainbow light, complementing the colorful backdrop.

“The words kept catching in my throat
  I tried to smile, I was suffocating though”

Another spotlight bloomed on the opposite side of the stage.

Jinu stepped into view.

His outfit was starkly simple- white shirt, white jeans, but that wasn’t what stole the breath from her lungs. His demon patterns were exposed, glowing with the same soft rainbow hue as hers, curling up his arms, wrapping his throat, glinting faintly along his jaw and the bridge of his nose.

He made no move to hide them.

And his eyes never left hers.

He smiled softly as Rumi continued to sing.

The graves stood in concentric rings around the Shinmok, each marked by weather-worn stones etched with names that had faded into myth. Generations of hunters lay here- guardians, martyrs, sisters in spirit. Their bones fed the roots of the sacred tree at the heart of the Honmoon.

Celine walked slowly among them, her steps deliberate, like she was drawing strength from the legacy they left behind. Every name was a burden she carried, but one made her pause.

Ryu Mi-yeong.

Her fingers brushed the name carved into stone, delicate and reverent. The letters were clean, unmarred by time. Celine had made sure of it.

The breeze stirred faintly. Somewhere behind her, the Shinmok groaned softly, its branches restless. But Celine’s gaze stayed fixed on the grave.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not for the first time. “You didn’t deserve to die. I will try to make your sacrifice mean something.”

She continued on, spine stiff, hands trembling only slightly. Around her, the clearing buzzed faintly with shifting energy- the Honmoon itself, pulsing like something half-awake, half-reborn.

Rainbow threads. She could sense them now even with her eyes closed. Woven into the structure of the barrier like rogue stitches in sacred cloth. It was changing.

Corrupted.

And gaining strength.

She had to hurry. Celine turned toward the Shinmok. The sacred rope fluttered weakly against the trunk. 

No more wavering. The line between realms had to hold.

“You underestimate me Gwi-Ma,” she said aloud, her voice rising into the still air. “Generations of hunters rest here. This is our place of power.”

She didn’t have the strength to bolster the Honmoon, not anymore. Not without the fans. Not without her music touching hearts and souls, adding energy to the seal. But this wasn’t about building. It was about cleansing. Unraveling the alien threads that didn’t belong. Removing didn’t require the same power as strengthening.

And here, at the heart of the Honmoon, surrounded by the imprints of those who had once held the line, each lending her a bit of their strength, she had enough.

Perhaps only just enough.

She stepped forward until her bare feet pressed against the Shinmok’s roots.

“I will not let you stop the Golden Honmoon.”

She placed her palm firmly on the bark, and the world seemed to tighten around her in response. Energy coiled at her fingertips, cold and cutting, sharp with intention.

Then she began to sing.

Her voice was steady, iron-willed.

“We are hunters, voices strong
Slaying demons with our song
Fix the world and make it right
When darkness finally meets the light”

With each line, her power rippled outward, intent colliding with intent. The Honmoon pulsed, struggling against her, the new threads resisting her control.

“Steel our hearts, our mercy thin
Let no darkness reach within
Seal the cracks with sacred flame
Burn the weakness. Kill the shame.”

The rainbow filaments quivered. Some of them began to fade. Others tangled violently, as if clawing back toward life.

Rumi and Jinu moved toward each other, slowly, deliberately, as their harmonies rose and braided through the air like threads pulled tight across a loom.

Two voices. Two souls. Twinned not by perfection, but by the honesty of their scars.

“Why does it feel right every time I let you in?
 Why does it feel like I can tell you anything?”

And beneath their feet, the Honmoon answered.

Invisible to the audience, the barrier stirred- its energy quickening, heat blooming faintly at its core. It shimmered with intent, drawn not from duty, but from connection. From belief. From love.

It pulsed now with color. With emotion. With choice.

Every fan in the crowd, those breathless, those weeping, those mouthing each lyric like a prayer, fed into the weave. And the weave responded. Threads of gold and violet shimmered to life. The Honmoon began to stitch itself anew.

Alive.

But not at peace.

At its center, a discordant tremor flickered, a jarring undertone that didn’t belong. A pulse from the source. Something sharp and resisting. It snagged against the rainbow threads like a bone caught in silk.

Rumi and Jinu didn’t notice. Not yet.

But the rest of HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys did. From their vantage points just offstage, they saw the shimmer catch and stutter, saw flickers of something jagged writhing along the edges.

Unease prickled down their spines.

Still, Rumi and Jinu sang on, unshaken.

“We can’t fix it if we never face it
 What if we find a way to escape it?”

And the Honmoon trembled- caught between tradition and transformation.

Celine’s voice rose, raw with the weight of generations, straining under the burden she had sworn to carry.

“Our faults and fears must never be seen
 We are the shield, unbroken, clean
 Light the path, hold fast within
 Duty binds. We must not give in.”

The Shinmok's trunk was warm beneath her palm.

Wrong.

It should have been cold. Steady. A conduit of stoic power, not… this. Not alive. Not soft. Not pulsing like a heartbeat.

She grit her teeth and pressed harder, shoving her intent into the roots, into the soil, into the barrier itself, willing it to remember its purpose. To become once more what it had always been: a wall. A weapon. A vow sealed in sacrifice.

The Shinmok shuddered violently. A pulse surged from it like a scream, lashing outward through the Honmoon in jagged waves.

And then… calm.

Unnatural, intrusive calm blanketed her like a weighted hand on her chest. It wasn’t comfort. It was suppression. A trick.

She pushed back, summoning her voice again, louder now, each word forged in defiance.

“No demon hand shall reach our skies,
 No whispers to spread fear or lies.
 A final shield that will not fall
 The Golden Honmoon to guard us all”

The wind tore through the clearing. The sacred streamers snapped and spiraled like burning paper. Energy bled from the tree in iridescent veins, crawling along the ground and flickering in the air.

And then came the sound.

A sickening crack, deep and splintering, echoed from the heart of the Shinmok.

Celine’s breath caught.

A jagged fracture split the trunk, crawling upward like a scar refusing to close.

Then laughter.

Low, grating, triumphant. It filled her head like smoke.

You poor fool.

You call me the enemy, but look at the ruin that follows your choices, Gwi-Ma purred with delight.

The echo of him faded, leaving behind only silence, and the graves of the hunters who had come before her. Guardians. Martyrs.

And now, witnesses to her failure.

Jinu and Rumi stood face to face, breath mingling, their hands reaching toward the audience as their voices soared together:

“We could be…”

Jinu's voice cracked on the word “free”. The sound fractured midair, and he staggered, doubling over with a violent cough. His hand flew to his throat.

Rumi stopped singing immediately, her expression shifting from joy to alarm. The music continued playing on without them before soon also being cut off. A staff member rushed out from backstage, medical bag in hand.

Jinu straightened slowly, struggling to swallow, his breath uneven. He tried again. Tried to sing, but his voice came out hoarse, off-key, barely recognizable.

Whispers rippled through the crowd, a wave of confusion and worry. Some fans lowered their lightsticks. Others raised their phones.

You thought you were free of me?

Gwi-Ma’s voice slithered through Jinu’s mind, cruel and triumphant.

You would use the gift I gave you to build the Honmoon? Fool. What is given… can be taken away.

Jinu collapsed to his knees, gasping. The stadium blurred. His chest heaved, lungs refusing to obey. Rumi crouched beside him, calling his name, but her voice was muffled, like it came from underwater.

Above them, the Honmoon, the glorious, living thing they’d nurtured with song, shimmered uncertainly.

And then it began to bleed.

Rainbow light unraveled into streaks of crimson. Vibrancy dulled to rot. The manifestation of harmony they’d created collapsed as threads of corruption crept outward from the stage, threading through the barrier with Gwi-Ma’s cruel influence and the uncertainty in the hearts of the fans watching.

Jinu looked down. The glowing rainbow patterns along his arms- born from belief and connection… were darkening. From his fingertips bleeding down, the light curdled into that sickly purple hue he knew too well.

Gwi-Ma’s voice came again, low and final.

You are nothing but what I allow you to be.

Jinu’s fingers twitched, pain lacing its way up his arms. He could not feel Rumi’s hands on his shoulders anymore through the burning sensation in his patterns. But he could see her face- pale, terrified, desperate.

He reached up to brush his fingers across her cheek.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.

And then he felt the pull, as if something deep beneath the earth had hooked into his spirit and started reeling him down.

Down. Away from the stage. Away from her.

Flames erupted from the floor below Jinu.

And swallowed him whole.

Rumi screamed as Jinu vanished beneath her, swallowed by a bloom of violet flames that scorched the stage where he’d been kneeling just seconds before. Without hesitation, she lunged forward, reaching for him, only for Mira and Zoey to grab her from behind, yanking her back.

“Rumi, no!” Mira shouted.

The flames surged higher, seething and twisting until they took on a shape- elongated, inhuman. A grotesque face, barely formed, sneered down at them from the fire.

Even the audience had gone quiet. The fans worry turning to confusion.

“Wait... is that part of the show?”

“That’s wild! Those effects are insane.”

“Did he just disappear?!”

Then the voice hit.

A low, guttural snarl echoed from everywhere all at once and seemed to vibrate the bones in your chest.

“Hunter who bears my mark…”

The flames pulsed with every syllable as Gwi-Ma’s voice slithered through the stadium.

“I have taken the traitorous wretch you turned against me. What will you do?”

Gasps echoed through the venue. Onstage, Rumi trembled, her fists clenched.

“Abandon him, and prove you are just another coward, grasping at virtue to mask your selfish heart…”

“Or…”

The fire split down the middle, revealing a swirling maw of shadow.

“Will you enter my domain?”

A beat of silence.

Then, laughter. Cold and gleeful.

The face twisted, eyes flickering toward HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys clustered at the edge of the stage, pale and unmoving.

“Come for him…”

The flames winked out, leaving only the swirling vortex to the demon world.

“…if you dare.”

Jinu hit the ground hard.

Stone slammed into his ribs, the air knocked from his lungs in a wheezing gasp. He rolled onto his side, coughing, every joint protesting the impact. The scent of damp rot and sulfur clawed its way into his throat.

A groan escaped him as he pushed himself upright, only to find iron bars cutting across his vision. He was in a cell- narrow, cold, and dimly lit by some distant, flickering green fire. The silence wasn’t empty. It pressed in, thick and humid, like the air itself didn’t want him there.

Two demons loomed just beyond the bars.

The first was massive, all muscle and menace, with crimson skin and horns curved like twin scimitars. He stood motionless, arms folded, radiating the bored hostility of a longtime warden with nothing left to punish.

The second was leaner, sinewy and cobalt blue, with eyes that glowed faint violet and a whipcord tail that flicked like a lazy metronome behind him. He looked curious, almost amused.

“Well, well,” rumbled the red demon, arms crossed over his chest like a disappointed bouncer. “Been a while since we had another prisoner.”

The blue one leaned in, peering at Jinu like he was a rare fish tossed into their tank. “Wonder what he did to get on Gwi-Ma’s bad side.”

“Does it matter?” the red one muttered. “We guard. We don’t ask.”

“But it’s so boring down here,” the blue demon whined, tail lashing lazily behind him. “The other one never talks anymore.”

“Maybe he’s sick of your voice.”

The blue demon scowled, then turned his attention to Jinu. “Hey! You. Pretty boy. What’d you do to end up in here?”

Jinu said nothing. He was still trying to get his bearings. His hands stung, his throat burned, and his skin itched where Gwi-Ma’s power had dragged him under. His demon markings, once vibrant, felt sullen and cold now, as though sulking with him.

The blue demon tapped a claw against the bars. “Oh come on. Not another quiet one. Why does no one interesting ever get dumped in this pit?”

The red demon snorted. “Sure, maybe next time we’ll send a formal request: ‘Dear Lord Gwi-Ma, please deposit someone with better conversation skills. Yours eternally, the Bored Guards of the Lower Pit.’”

He smacked the blue demon lightly across the head.

“OW! What was that for?!”

“For talking too much. Again.”

Jinu slumped back against the cold wall. Still quiet. But now listening.

The blue demon squinted at him. “Hmm. You don’t look like a soldier. Maybe a saboteur? Your clothes are weird. You were in the human world, weren’t you? Failed mission? Screwed it up so badly he threw you in here?”

Jinu blinked at the surprisingly accurate guess. And then…laughed. At first a breath. Then a chuckle. Then a full-bodied, exhausted release that cracked like thunder in the cavern. The sound rebounded through the cell until he was breathless, shoulders sagging, eyes stinging from something dangerously close to tears.

The red demon narrowed his eyes. “Maybe he’s just crazy.”

Jinu, wiping his eyes, exhaled and leaned his head back. “You’re not far off. I went up to stop the hunters. But I didn’t. I… let them in. Kind of. It’s a long story.”

The blue one perked up. “We’ve got time. Infinite time, in fact.”

A new voice cut through the corridor. Deep. Steady. Weathered like stone carved by waves.

“You were in the human world?”

The guards stilled. The voice came from the far cell across the hallway, half-swallowed by shadow.

“Please,” the voice said again, gentler this time. “Tell me… did you see a hunter named Ryu Mi-yeong?”

Jinu’s breath caught. Rumi’s mother.

“You mean… one of the previous generation?” he asked, slowly. “...From two decades ago?”

A pause. Then a soft, stunned intake of breath. “That long…”

Jinu’s fingers curled around an iron bar. “Why do you ask?”

Silence stretched.

“Because,” the voice said quietly, “she is my wife.”

Chapter Text

The crowd was hushed. Not stunned into silence, exactly, more like the air had thickened, tension strung across the stadium like a wire. The glowing vortex at center stage still churned with dark energy, flickering like a heartbeat turned inside out.

HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys stood clustered near the edge of the ruined stage, eyes fixed on the portal. Lightsticks wavered in the audience like distant stars, some fans still holding on to the hope that this was all part of an elaborate stage act. Others just stared, confused and a bit concerned.

“I’m going,” Rumi said, voice steady. “I don’t care if it’s a trap.”

Zoey shook her head. “I get that you want to help Jinu. I do. But look at the Honmoon.”

Overhead, the Honmoon barrier pulsed erratically. A jagged fracture had formed, hairline cracks splintering outward from the portal’s rim like shattered glass. Each beat of Gwi-Ma’s lingering magic sent the hairline cracks just a little bit further.

“We can’t rescue Jinu and repair the Honmoon,” Zoey added, her voice tight.

Baby crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. “You do what you want,” he muttered. “But we’re rescuing Jinu.”

Abby cracked his knuckles with a grin. “Yeah. Gwi-Ma won’t even see us coming.”

A soft voice cut through the posturing.

“Maybe we can do both,” Mystery said.

Everyone turned toward him. Mystery lingered at the edge of the group, gaze downturned in quiet thought, his presence barely noticeable until he spoke.

“We have fans in the demon world,” he continued, barely louder than a whisper. “With your help, maybe we can channel that power into the Honmoon. If the Honmoon isn’t meant to suppress demons… but to help them...”

Rumi’s eyes widened. She picked up where he left off. “Then they can power the new Honmoon.”

She turned to Mira and Zoey, voice quieter now, almost fragile.

“You guys don’t have to come. I know how incredibly stupid it is to march into the demon world, especially when Gwi-Ma invited us, but this is something I have to do. I have to.”

Mira stepped forward without hesitation. “Of course we’re coming,” she said. “We’re family.”

Zoey threw her arms around Rumi. “You’re not walking into this alone. Not now, not ever…Ooh, wait, that line kind of slaps. Remind me to write it down.”

Romance cleared his throat, drawing their attention. He gestured broadly toward the audience- thousands of fans watching, phones raised, all of it broadcast live to the world.

“Not to kill the vibe,” he said smoothly, “but if you haven’t noticed, this entire heartwarming Jinu rescue planning session has been happening… on live TV.”

He pointed subtly behind them.

“And that very committed boom operator is making sure every whispered word about demons and eldritch kidnappings is crystal clear.”

The group collectively turned to the boom operator, who froze under their gaze and offered a sheepish little wave.

Romance’s smile faded. His voice grew more serious.

“The more fear spreads, the stronger Gwi-Ma grows… and the weaker the Honmoon becomes. If we all vanish without explanation, people will panic. And that-” he nodded toward the creeping cracks in the Honmoon, “-will only get worse.”

He turned back to them with the calm certainty of someone who knew exactly what his role was.

“You go. Spread hope in the demon world, sing your hearts out, rescue Jinu. I’ll stay here and manage the fallout. Control the narrative.”

A pause. Then, a half-smile.

“I was never great at fighting anyway.”

“This’ll be how I contribute. Just... make sure you bring him back.”

Abby stepped forward and gave him a stiff pat on the shoulder. It was awkward, but sincere.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “We’ll save him.”

Rumi looked at Romance, her eyes shimmering with gratitude. “Thanks,” she whispered.

Then Baby stepped toward the portal, ready to leap, only to be stopped by Mystery’s outstretched arm.

“Wait.”

Everyone froze.

Mystery’s eyes were locked on the swirling vortex.

“We can’t go through that,” he said. “It’s Gwi-Ma’s portal. He built it. We can’t trust where it leads.”

Baby threw up his hands. “Then how are we supposed to get there? None of us can just shift into the demon realm on command.”

Mystery didn’t answer at first. Instead, he smiled faintly and tilted his head toward the wing of the stage.

“Not us,” he murmured. “But I know someone who can.”

A pause.

And then, Derpy scampered into the light, tongue lolling, paws scrabbling awkwardly on the polished stage as he made his dramatic entrance. He skidded to a stop just in front of the group, legs splayed, fur puffed, and vibrating with anticipation.

Mystery crouched beside him, gently resting a hand on his head.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

The others nodded, tension turning to resolve. One by one, they reached out, placing hands on Derpy’s back, shoulder, or fur.

Zoey gave a quick wave to Romance, her voice bright despite everything. “Good luck!”

Then the portal opened.

A massive disk of glowing blue light flared to life beneath them, humming like an echo caught in a dream. Without fanfare, the group sank into it, disappearing through the floor of the stage.

Romance remained alone onstage, the only figure left standing beside the ominous swirl of Gwi-Ma’s portal.

He stepped forward, unhurried, and descended the shallow steps dividing the upper and lower stage. With deliberate ease, he settled onto them, lounging as if they were a throne carved just for him. He sat with the poise of someone entirely unbothered, as if the portal behind him was just a minor inconvenience in his otherwise excellent day.

He glanced toward the audience, raised an eyebrow, and asked-

“Any questions?”

Far beneath the surface, in a dungeon choked with the stench of sulfur and damp decay, Jinu sat frozen, disbelief etched into every line of his face.

Across from him, behind rusted bars, stood the last person he ever expected to meet- Rumi’s father. Her demon father. The realization hit like a hammer. And then came another, heavier blow:

He doesn’t know.
He doesn’t know Ryu Mi-yeong is dead.
Does he even know he has a daughter?

Jinu opened his mouth, searching for the right words… something delicate, something humane, but he was cut off by the voice of the blue-skinned demon lounging nearby.

“Wait... wasn’t that the hunter who died a while back?”

The figure in the opposite cell seemed to tense.

“What?” he asked, voice low and strained.

“Yeah,” the blue demon went on casually, “after she died, the Honmoon nearly collapsed. Word was it became an all-you-can-eat buffet up there. I was so jealous. Demons were partying left and right in the human world.”

The red demon snorted. “You would’ve tripped on your own tail and impaled yourself on a hunter’s blade.”

“Rude,” the blue one muttered, brushing off the insult. “Anyway, they bounced back. The new hunters are even stronger now. Scarier, too.”

Across the cell, the pale demon finally spoke.

“How... how did she die?”

The blue demon tilted his head. “Dunno. Heard a rumor it was one of Gwi-Ma’s generals... what was his name... that quiet, swordy guy... Oh, right! Woljin! That guy was terrifying. Gwi-Ma’s favorite. Used to clash with the hunters all the time. But I haven’t heard anything about him in forever. Maybe he finished his mission and retired? Retirement sounds nice... Do you think we’ll ever get to retire?”

The red demon rolled his eyes. “What would you even do? You already act like you’re retired. You just stand around and gossip.”

“Still,” the blue demon sighed, “I’d like to visit the human world someday. Harin from the Upper Pits said humans now keep magical glowing boxes as pets. They pet and talk to them constantly.”

“How would Harin even know that?”

“She heard it from someone else, I guess.”

Before the conversation could devolve further, the voice from the far cell cut through.

“I didn’t kill her.”

Both guards turned, startled.

“What?” the blue demon asked.

The prisoner’s voice was steady now. “I didn’t kill Mi-yeong. I would never... not once I truly got to know her.”

The blue demon blinked. “I said Woljin killed her. You’re not… wait. No. You can’t be Woljin. Woljin’s supposed to be... I don’t know, terrifying. You look… kind of delicate. I bet you couldn’t even take Pretty Boy over there.”

He stepped aside, no longer blocking Jinu’s view.

Jinu finally got a clear look at the demon in the opposite cell.

He was lean in build, tall but wiry, with long silver hair falling past his shoulders in tangled sheets. His skin was a washed-out shade of lavender, almost grey, paler than Jinu’s own. His features were fine, almost androgynous. At first glance, he could be mistaken for a statue, half-forgotten in some ancient shrine.

But his eyes… sharp, slanted, and unmistakably familiar, stopped Jinu cold.

Rumi’s eyes.

Jinu swallowed.

“I’m actually... pretty strong, you know.”

The words escaped him half-heartedly. His voice lacked its usual edge. He couldn’t stop staring. The man across from him might be Rumi’s father. He might also be Woljin, a name whispered like a curse in old battlefield stories.

Even Jinu had heard the legends.

Woljin, the Crimson Moon. The demon general who once led armies against the hunters before the Honmoon sealed the realms apart.

And now he was here.

In chains.

The blue demon scratched his head, still eyeing the prisoner like someone trying to recognize a celebrity without makeup.

“Wait, are you serious?” he asked. “You’re really Woljin? That guy who cut down a whole hunter squad with, like, a single sword flourish and a poem or something?”

The silver-haired demon, Woljin, let out a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.

“I’m not that man anymore,” he said, voice low. “That was… lifetimes ago.”

The red demon raised an eyebrow. “So, what? Love changed you?”

Woljin didn’t answer immediately. His eyes dropped to the floor between the bars, distant, hollowed.

“It did,” he said. “She did.”

Jinu shifted on his bench, uncertain whether to speak. His mind was still spinning. This was Woljin, the Woljin. But also, this was Rumi’s father .

He cleared his throat. “I… I get that.”

The blue demon perked up. “What… did you fall for a hunter too?” he asked, tone sceptical.

“I, um… I haven’t exactly put a label on it.” Jinu’s mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. “But yeah. I did.”

His voice softened, sincerity threading through each word.

“She’s stubborn. Brave. Fierce. Loyal.”

He paused, a private image flickering behind his eyes- her scowl at him teasing her for her teddy bear and choo choo train pajama pants.

“She gets embarrassed easily, but it’s cute.”

Then his gaze dropped to his hands, and his smile faded.

“She wants to help everyone… even if it costs her.”

He hesitated… then committed.

“She’s half demon.”

Across the corridor, Woljin lifted his head. Their eyes locked. They were the same sharp eyes Rumi had, but older, weighted, hollowed by centuries of war and silence.

“She’s Ryu Mi-yeong’s daughter,” Jinu said quietly.

A stillness fell. Woljin stared, unmoving.

Jinu swallowed. Then, softer, “She’s your daughter, too.”

Woljin didn’t move. The words seemed to anchor him in place.

The blue demon blinked. “Wait… what? The Crimson Moon and a hunter had a kid? Oh, this is juicy.”

Jinu glanced at Woljin. “She never told you?”

Woljin’s hands curled around the bars. He leaned forward.

“No,” he whispered. “She never got the chance.”

For once, the blue demon stayed quiet. Even he understood the weight of that.

Jinu’s heart thudded in his chest. He didn’t know what he expected- rage, grief, denial, but Woljin didn’t break. He simply sank down against the stone wall, slow and silent, as if letting the truth settle into his bones.

“I have a daughter,” he said again, barely audible. “She’s alive.”

“She is,” Jinu said. “She’s alive. She’s strong. She’s… everything.”

Woljin looked up. “What’s her name?”

Jinu exhaled, a small smile flickering. “Rumi.”

Woljin closed his eyes, a tremor rippling through him. When he spoke again, his voice was thin, stretched across grief and wonder.

“…Rumi.”

He said it like a prayer. Like a memory returned to him from a life he thought was lost.

For a long beat, neither of them spoke. Something fragile passed between the bars.

Then the blue demon sniffed, loudly. “Okay, well, this suddenly got very emotional. Anyone want to go back to talking about magical box pets, or-?”

The red demon whacked him on the shoulder. “Shut up, Bogi.”

Chapter Text

Romance stood at the edge of the stage, gazing out over the sea of flashing lights and chaos. Fans surged forward, voices overlapping in a storm of shouted questions and disbelief. Security strained to hold the line as broadcast cameras panned wildly, catching glimpses of wide-eyed fans and trembling signs amid the rising swell of chaos. Somewhere in the crowd, someone screamed Rumi’s name. Another shouted for Jinu.

And just as Romance opened his mouth to speak, to cut through the frenzy with a thread of order, a voice rang out, sharp and raw, caught clean by the boom mic.

“Where are the girls?”

Bobby stormed onto the stage, face pale with worry, his clothes slightly askew as if he’d run straight from backstage. His voice cracked with something that was more than fear. “Where’s Rumi? Zoey? Mira?”

Romance didn’t flinch. He turned to face him calmly, his expression a mask of impossible poise. “They’re in the demon realm,” he said. “On a rescue mission. Jinu’s been taken, imprisoned by Gwi-Ma.”

The crowd hushed in waves. Bobby’s eyes widened. “What?” His voice pitched up. “Why would they go? Why not… I don’t know, the military? Exorcists? Anyone but them? They’re K-pop idols, not soldiers!”

“They’re hunters,” Romance replied, voice steady, mic catching every syllable. “Trained to fight demons. But more than that, their music strengthens the seal that protects the human world. It’s called the Honmoon.”

Bobby looked like he’d been slapped. "You’re telling me their stage performances are what’s keeping the human world safe from a full-scale demon invasion?"

Romance gestured toward the trembling rafters, the cameras, the millions watching. “Hope. Courage. Love. Even excitement. These emotions ripple through hearts when the girls sing. Hunters don’t just fight demons, they reinforce the barrier between realms with every heart they move. That’s what the Honmoon is woven from.”

“And if they fail?” Bobby’s voice was small.

“Then the barrier collapses.” Romance turned back to the audience, raising his voice. “But it’s not just on them. It’s on you, too.”

He pointed to the crowd, to the livestreaming phones, to the glowing stage screens. “You. The fans, the believers. You’re the threadwork. If your hearts waver, the barrier weakens. But if you hold strong, if you believe, we can keep Gwi-Ma out together.”

There was a tremble in the silence that followed. A ripple of breath held across tens of thousands.

“And you?” Bobby asked after a beat, his voice uncertain. “You’re with the Saja Boys. Aren’t you… demons?”

The word hung heavy. Bobby's mind flashed back to every tense moment, the way the girls had spit the word demon like a curse when talking about the Saja Boys. The history. The hostility.

Gasps scattered through the audience. A lightstick clattered to the floor.

Romance didn’t flinch. “Yes. We’re demons. And we were sent here to sabotage the Honmoon.”

The crowd recoiled. Someone shouted “What?!”

“But then,” he continued, voice steady, eyes scanning the stunned faces, “Jinu chose something different. Someone different.”

He let the moment hang.

“He fell in love with a hunter. Rumi.”

The audience erupted. Screams. Gasps. A few shrieks of “I knew it!” and one triumphant “That’s so romantic!” from somewhere near the front barricade.

Romance allowed himself a soft smile, just for a moment.

“Most demons don’t want to serve Gwi-Ma,” he said, his voice steady. “We want peace. But Gwi-Ma doesn’t command loyalty, he exploits pain. He twists your worst memories, your deepest regrets, and buries them so deep inside you, you start to believe that’s all you are.”

His jaw clenched. “He feeds you your shame until you wear it like a leash.”

Even now, he could feel it- the familiar tug at his core. A hook behind his ribs, threading through a memory Gwi-Ma had twisted into a weapon. A whisper of failure. Of guilt. And beneath it all, a growing pressure, Gwi-Ma’s power reaching for him, trying to tear him from the stage and drag him back through the fold between realms. But Romance stood his ground, muscles tight, spirit anchored. The less he let the past define him, the less power Gwi-Ma had.

“But I let go of my past,” Romance said quietly. “He can’t use it to drag me down anymore.”

His voice dipped, trembling at the edges.

“Jinu hasn’t. He still believes he has to earn his right to peace. To love. But even with that weight, he chose to fight. He and the rest of us risked everything to defy Gwi-Ma. To join hands with HUNTR/X and build something better.”

He looked out over the crowd, the lights reflecting in his eyes.

“A Honmoon strong enough to protect everyone. Even demons.”

A pause.

“We just want to be… free.”

The last word lingered in the space between heartbeats, suspended like a note waiting for harmony.

The host of the Idol Awards, seizing the pause with the urgency of a man desperate to regain control, stepped forward with mic in hand. “Hahaha,” he laughed nervously, voice cracking under pressure. “Well! That was quite the show! Really! Kudos to the special effects team. You all really outdid yourselves.”

Romance gave him a flat, unimpressed stare, then casually gestured toward the swirling portal still churning behind him, its shadows deep and writhing, a void that seemed to absorb light itself.

“You’re welcome to test the ‘special effects’ yourself,” he said coolly.

The host froze, staring at the vortex like it might blink back. “Uhh…”

Then, with the desperate inspiration of a man trying to salvage a broadcast, he pointed wildly backstage. “Let’s get a camera! You! Yes, you. Bring that portable rig over here!”

A cameraman in a shoulder-mounted harness hesitated, pressing a hand to his earpiece. After a moment of back-and-forth murmurs, he reluctantly stepped onto the stage, his camera trained warily on the portal.

The massive LED screens overhead switched to his feed, the footage swaying with the rhythm of his unsteady footsteps. As he drew closer to the swirling vortex, the image stabilized, but the cameraman didn’t. His pace slowed. His face lost all color. He stopped a solid two meters from the edge.

“Alright,” the host said, ignoring the man’s visible discomfort, “stick the camera in! Let’s see what’s on the other side.”

The cameraman didn’t move. “I’m not getting any closer to that.”

He started unbuckling the harness. “You do it if you’re so curious.”

The host blanched. “I- I don’t know how to use the camera.”

“Just point it and don’t press any buttons,” the cameraman replied, dry.

“That thing looks expensive. I might drop it.”

“I’m not paid enough to risk my life,” the cameraman shot back.

“For god’s sake, I’ll do it!” Bobby shouted, marching forward.

He turned to Romance. “The girls are on the other side of this, right?”

“Yes,” Romance said. “But somewhere else in there. The demon world is as vast as the human world, though not an exact mirror.”

Bobby slipped into the camera rig, then frowned at the length of the setup. “Uh… can we, like, put this at the end of a stick or something?”

A few backstage techs emerged, immediately discussing how to jury-rig an extension using a boom pole and some tape. As they got to work, a sound technician wordlessly handed Romance a handheld mic.

Romance blinked, then took it with a graceful nod. “Oh. Thank you.”

He turned back to the crowd, lifting the mic to his mouth.

“Let’s take some questions. Raise your hand and I’ll bring the mic to you.”

He stepped off the center of the stage and walked toward an eager fan in the front row, wearing a Saja Boys sweatshirt and waving both hands like she was signaling a plane.

Romance crouched down on the stage to her level, offering the mic with a small, patient smile. The girl looked like she might explode.

“Oh my god,” she breathed, clutching the mic with both hands like it was sacred. “Okay, okay. Um. Hi. Huge fan. This is insane. You’re like an actual demon boy band!”

Romance chuckled under his breath and gave a small nod. “That’s right. But I think you had a question?”

“Right, right,” she said, looking a little sheepish. “Um, is that what you normally look like? Or did you, like, transform yourself to be a kpop idol?”

The question caught him slightly off guard, he blinked, but he smiled with genuine amusement, an idea forming on how to capitalize on the question. “A little of both,” he admitted. “We hid our demon traits to enter the human world, but this”—he gestured to himself—“isn’t all that far off.”

And with that, he stood and let the illusion fall.

The change rippled through the air like heat distortion, subtle at first, then blooming into brilliance. His sleek idol outfit dissolved into something older, more regal: a flowing black hanbok with silver-threaded embroidery curling along the sleeves and hem like smoke. A wide-brimmed black gat materialized atop his head, its translucent veil catching the stage lights and casting his face in an ethereal glow. Silver chains draped across his waist added a modern edge, while black combat boots grounded the look in something unmistakably current— stage-ready, but also otherworldly.

But his body had changed, too. His skin now shimmered with a pale violet hue, etched with glowing demon patterns that coiled up his arms, traced the curve of his neck, and bloomed across his face like living calligraphy. His eyes, once soft and dark, now burned a radiant gold, fierce in color, yet still impossibly gentle.

He struck a pose, one arm lifted high, the mic angled above his head as his sleeve slipped down his arm. His other hand extended to the side, fingers elegantly curved in a deliberate effort to soften the sharpness of his claws. It was a dramatic gesture, intentional and striking, the kind made for posters, magazine covers, or the final beat of a music video.

The crowd exploded.

Screams erupted from all sides. Fans surged forward. Lightsticks flickered wildly. Someone near the front actually fainted into the arms of their friend.

“HE’S EVEN HOTTER AS A DEMON,” someone howled.

“He has the markings too!” another fan yelled, pointing with a lightstick toward the patterns on his exposed arms.

A stunned voice near the front blurted, “Wait. Saja as in jeoseung saja?”

“You can reap my soul, Romance!” someone shouted, earning a wave of laughter.

Romance let the moment stretch for just a beat longer before acting… calculatedly bashful. With a slight, charming shrug, he shimmered back into his human form, then turned and extended the mic to another fan, a boy in a hand-painted T-shirt featuring a dreamy fanart rendition of Rumi.

“How about you?” Romance asked, voice smooth but casual. “Do you have any questions?”

The boy blinked, clearly caught off guard, but quickly seized the chance. “Um, yeah! Is Rumi a demon too? Since she has markings like yours and Jinu?”

Romance nodded, unsurprised. He’d anticipated this one. Baited it, really, by spotlighting his own markings and handing the mic to a fan in Rumi gear.

“She’s not,” he said, voice calm and deliberate. “She’s the daughter of one of the previous generation of hunters, the Sunlight Sisters.”

Gasps and hushed whispers rippled through the audience at that revelation.

“But Ryu Mi-yeong fell in love with a demon,” Romance continued, his tone soft but unmistakably clear. “And Rumi was born.”

More gasps scattered through the stadium like sparks. Romance pressed forward, carefully weaving what little information he knew with the narrative he wanted them to carry.

“And after her mother’s death,” Romance went on, “Rumi was raised by Celine, Mi-yeong’s fellow hunter. Her closest friend.”

He paused, just long enough.

“But instead of being raised with love, or understanding… Rumi was taught to fear herself. To hide. To believe that half of her was wrong. Shameful. ”

The fans shifted, some stunned, others shaking their heads in disbelief.

“She wasn’t even allowed to tell her teammates the truth,” Romance continued, his voice tightening. “Not Mira. Not Zoey. Not her closest friends who stood beside her onstage… or in battle.”

He didn’t know the full story. Jinu had only hinted that Rumi had kept her heritage hidden from the rest of HUNTR/X, but this version suited the moment, and the crowd was already with him.

The weight of it settled. Murmurs rippled through the audience like wind through tall grass.

“She kept it secret because Celine made her believe she had to. That if anyone found out… they’d turn on her. That she’d lose everything.”

Romance let the silence speak for a breath.

“Can you imagine that?” he asked, stepping toward the edge of the stage. “Growing up believing that if people saw who you really were… they’d stop loving you?”

The lights shimmered in his gaze, reflecting something unmistakably human.

“It was only after meeting Jinu that she felt true acceptance. For all of herself.”

A gentle wave of awwws spread through the stadium, heartfelt and immediate.

Someone near the front whispered, “They saved each other.”

Romance nodded subtly, then lifted the mic once more.

“And now… she, HUNTR/X, and the Saja Boys are risking their lives, not just to save Jinu, but to protect all of us. To stop Gwi-Ma. To protect the Honmoon.”

He turned in a slow arc, letting his words reach every corner of the audience.

“They can’t hear us right now. But they can feel us. Your faith. Your love. Your belief. Push it toward them. That shared connection—that’s the strongest support we can give.”

Cheers erupted around him. Shouts of encouragement, declarations of love, voices raised not in panic but in purpose. Romance let it wash over him, soaking in the swell of energy like a rising tide.

He glanced toward the portal… and felt a flicker of relief.

The jagged cracks spiderwebbing from the base of the vortex through the Honmoon’s weave were receding. Slowly, subtly, but undeniably pulling back. The pulsing shadows had dimmed slightly, the tension in the air easing.

It wasn’t enough to seal the breach or restore the barrier completely.

But it was a beginning.

Thinking Romance was checking the rig’s progress, one of the technicians called out, “We’re ready over here.”

Bobby stood nearby, outfitted in a contraption that looked more improvised art project than safety-approved rig. A boom stick, reinforced with layers of duct tape and camera linkage mounts, extended precariously from his harness. On the back end, another boom stick jutted out like a tail, weighed down by a repurposed five-gallon water jug strapped on as a counterbalance. A thick rope circled Bobby’s waist, secured to a stage anchor, presumably to yank him back if things went south.

At the front, the camera itself was practically mummified in tape.

Bobby wobbled slightly under the strain but wore a face of determined bravado. The LED screens flickered, switching over to the shaky feed from his portable rig, each tiny movement amplified tenfold by the extended pole.

“Okay… let’s do this!” Bobby said aloud, more for his own courage than anyone else’s.

He began his slow, deliberate march toward the vortex, every step stiffer than the last. Just before the swirling edge, he dropped to one knee. Supporting the boom stick with both hands, he carefully angled it forward, inch by inch, until the camera crossed the threshold.

The entire stadium seemed to inhale at once.

On the screen, everything went black. Then, bright, violent flashes of purple and red streaked across the lens like lightning, raw and sudden.

A few gasps escaped the crowd.

Then: brightness accompanied by a sudden rumbling sound.

The camera adjusted. Slowly, the image came into focus.

Molten lava, bubbling and alive, poured from fractured rock across the entire field of view. The speakers filled the stadium with a low, rumbling growl of the deep, rhythmic churn of magma shifting beneath stone. Bursts of steam hissed violently from cracks in the rock, and somewhere beneath it all, a distant, throaty rumble echoed like a sleeping beast stirring.

At the center of the screen, a vast, smoking pool of lava heaved and churned, glowing with searing intensity. The edges of the crater hissed and sizzled as molten rock lapped against them.

Bobby, still visibly rattled, managed a shaky laugh. “It’s not all fire and brimstone in the demon world, right?”

Romance shook his head, ticking biomes off on his fingers. “No, not at all. The demon world’s terrain is more extreme, sure, but we’ve got deserts, jungles, forests, grasslands, tundra, and more.”

He gave the portal a pointed look. “Gwi-Ma just chose to place his portal above an active volcano ... which is, frankly, petty.”

A few uneasy murmurs rippled through the crowd. No one missed Gwi-Ma’s intention there.

Romance leaned toward the screen. “Try angling the camera down a bit, shallower, across the horizon. I might be able to recognize the region.”

Bobby, still steadying himself with effort, rose from his kneeling position. He adjusted the boom stick, shifting the camera’s view until the lip of the volcano came into frame. The image panned slowly outward beyond the molten crater to the horizon.

The terrain there was harsh and barren, scorched rock stretching for miles. In the distance, something shimmered… structures, perhaps. A village or a city?

Bobby began cautiously walking the perimeter of the portal, circling it to capture a full 360-degree view. The camera feed swept across vast landscapes—harsh cliffs to one side, a dense forest of deep purple trees in another, and then—

“There,” Romance said, pointing.

The camera paused on a shimmering lake nestled near the base of the volcano. Along its edge sat a small village, faint outlines of houses just visible against the rocky terrain.

Romance’s expression shifted, recognition dawning.

“I know where we are,” he said. “That volcano is called Juhwado. The village by the lake… that’s Hyeonseok-ri. We’re not far from Gwi-Ma’s dias, the great platform where he presides over his subjects.”

A sharp hiss followed by a loud pop cut through the speakers. The screen glitched and then went dark.

Bobby jerked the boom stick back, startled, only to find the front half of the camera… gone. The metal was warped and half-melted, plastic still dripping in sluggish strands. Steam rose as molten residue slid down the rig.

The LED screens switched to the main stage feed just in time to catch Bobby stumbling backward, thrown off balance by the sudden weight shift. He fell hard, the charred remains of the camera striking the floor with a wet splorch.

A glob of lava flung free, landing just centimeters from his outstretched hand. Smoke hissed from the stage floor as the crowd collectively gasped.

Then came the panic.

The audience, just beginning to process that the portal wasn’t just a visual, it wasn’t safe, began to retreat in waves. A ripple of movement surged toward the exits, turning quickly into chaos as people shoved past one another, screaming.

Backstage, the production manager grabbed a headset and barked to one of the assistants, “Initiate evacuation protocol. Now.”

The assistant nodded and sprinted off, already relaying instructions into his mic.

The manager turned to the remaining assistant, still watching the crowd scatter. “Where the hell are the police? Honestly, I’m amazed we were able to keep filming this long… It was good TV though.”

The assistant blinked, dazed. “I mean… what do you even say to explain this?"

About an hour later, Choi Kang-min, Minister of National Defense for South Korea, was brushing his teeth and contemplating bed when his phone rang. The caller ID flashed: Seo Jin-taek. It took half a beat for his brain to catch up. Director of the National Intelligence Service, his thoughts supplied and not someone who calls lightly.

He straightened instinctively and answered. “Yes?”

A firm voice responded. “Sir, we have a first contact situation.”

Kang-min paused, toothbrush still in hand. “Come again?”

“We’ve confirmed contact with another dimension. Early intelligence indicates it’s fully populated and at least part of its leadership is hostile.”

“…Another dimension.”

“Yes, sir. It appears to be inhabited by what are best described as demons. Special Forces Command has secured a perimeter around a portal that opened in central Seoul. They’ve also taken custody of a friendly entity requesting asylum.”

Kang-min stared into his bathroom mirror, foam forgotten. “Demons.”

“Yes, sir. There’s more. The K-pop group HUNTR/X appears to be the latest generation of a private organization dedicated to monitoring and countering incursions from this dimension.”

There was a long pause.

“A K-pop group.”

“Yes, sir. Their rival group, the Saja Boys, are actual demons originally sent to sabotage the barrier between worlds. But they defected… after their lead singer fell in love with the lead singer of HUNTR/X. The individual we have in custody is one of the Saja Boys.”

Kang-min slowly sat on the edge of his bed. “So… a demon boy band… changed sides… for love.”

The voice did not falter. “Yes, sir. In addition, approximately eighty-four minutes ago, Jinu, the lead vocalist of the Saja Boys, was kidnapped by the demon king, Gwi-Ma, during a live broadcast of the International Idol Awards. He opened a portal on stage and forcibly pulled Jinu through it.”

“So he’s kidnapped now.”

“Yes, sir. The remaining Saja Boys, minus one who stayed behind, and all members of HUNTR/X entered the demon realm in pursuit. They used a teleporting tiger instead of the portal.”

“…A teleporting tiger.”

“Yes, sir. Meanwhile, the member who stayed behind, he goes by Romance, took questions from the audience. Some technicians and HUNTR/X’s manager decided to insert a portable camera rig through the portal. On live TV.”

Kang-min deadpanned, “Naturally.”

“The portal is apparently located above an active volcano. When lava splashed through, the show’s staff finally initiated evacuation and waited for the police to arrive.”

Silence.

Kang-min checked his watch, sighed, and said flatly, “I don’t know what kind of prank this is, but I’m not amused. Expect a formal complaint in the morning.” And he hung up.

Two minutes later, his phone rang again.

This time, the caller ID indicated that it was the personal line of the President of South Korea.

He stared at it, throat tightening. Then answered.

The President’s voice was calm but urgent. “Kang-min, it’s real. There’s a portal to a hell dimension in the middle of Seoul. A convoy is on its way. Get to the command center.”

Click.

Kang-min sat in silence, toothbrush still in hand, mint foam slowly dripping onto his pajama shirt.

“…Right,” he said. “Demons. K-pop. Volcano. Tiger. Portal.”

He had about ten minutes before the convoy arrived. Just enough time to change… and, it was absurd that he was even considering this, but… also to make a call.

He paused, tossing his toothbrush into the sink to be dealt with later.

Was it ridiculous? Absolutely.

But somehow, it was also the most logical option available.

He wasn’t about to compromise national security. He wasn’t calling to discuss troop movements or threat assessments.
He just needed context. Cultural context.

And like it or not, there was only one person he knew who could both give him that cultural context and deliver it with the kind of clarity and efficiency he preferred.

With a resigned sigh, he put his phone on speaker and set it on the dresser, rummaging through a drawer for socks as it rang.

The call connected.

“Grandpa?”

His daughter had complained for years that his granddaughter was “idol-obsessed”, her walls covered in posters, her shelves stacked with albums and lightsticks, every spare won poured into concerts and merch.

Tonight, that made her a subject matter expert.

“Hey, Sori,” he said, maintaining his usual formal tone even as mint foam seeped steadily into his shirt. “Did you happen to watch or attend the International Idol Awards?”

Chapter Text

The world blinked, twisted—and they rose, disoriented, from a glowing blue portal into thick, expectant silence.

For a long moment, no one moved.

A dim forest stretched endlessly in every direction. The trees stood tall and narrow, their bark pale and weathered like bleached bone. Gray-green leaves hung motionless, as if the whole forest were holding its breath. Mist pooled low around their ankles, soft and heavy, muffling the ground beneath their feet. Overhead, the sky was a hazy blank, clouds drifting slow and dull.

High above the canopy, barely visible through a narrow gap in the branches, the Honmoon pulsed weakly—dim and threadbare, straining to hold itself together.

Zoey exhaled. “This is… quieter than I expected.”

A sudden squawk shattered the stillness. Wings beat the air, and a flash of black-and-white shot down through the branches. A magpie in a tiny hat flapped once and landed neatly on Derpy’s head.

Everyone flinched.

Abby let out a breath. “It’s just Sussie.”

Sussie gave a smug, warbling chirp in reply. All six of her eyes, three on each side of her head, blinked in perfect sync.

Zoey crouched, her eyes lighting up. “First we get a cool demon tiger, and now a cool demon bird—and it’s wearing a hat!” She vibrated with excitement. “Do you guys have magical demon turtles too? I bet they wear glasses. I want to meet a turtle who wears glasses and gives cryptic advice!”

Rumi stepped forward, head tilted. “Sussie,” she asked gently, “how did you find us? Can you find Jinu?”

The bird gave a soft, mournful chip. Her wings drooped.

Baby clicked his tongue. “So much for getting answers from the bird.” He turned toward a tree. “We’re in the middle of some random forest. I’ll climb up, try to get our bearings—”

Mystery laid a quiet hand on his arm. “Wait. Being lost might be the best thing we’ve got right now.” He glanced around, voice low and cautious. “If we don’t know where we are, that means Gwi-Ma doesn’t either.”

Rumi turned to him. “What do you mean?”

Mystery tapped the glowing patterns on his forearm. “He can see through our eyes. Any of our senses, really, so long as his power flows through us. It costs him Hon-gi, so he’s not watching constantly… but often enough that we have to assume we’re being monitored. The more we reveal– landmarks, terrain, anything he can use, the easier it’ll be for him to track us and send his loyal demons.”

Mira groaned. “Seriously? So we’re basically stuck in enemy territory and you guys are walking surveillance equipment?”

Rumi didn’t flinch. “You said it costs him Hon-gi. What is that?”

Mystery blinked, caught off guard. “You don’t know what Hon-gi is? But… you use it too.”

The girls glanced at each other. Shrugged. Waited.

Mystery hesitated, then gave a small nod. “Right. Okay. Do you… know how demon powers work?”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “You transform, teleport, sometimes fly. What else is there? Stabbing still kills you.”

Zoey added with mock-dramatic flair, fingers curled like claws, “We were told demons are made from hate and malice! Is it like—‘Hulk mad, Hulk powerful’?”

She leaned in close to Mystery’s face, eyes bright.

Mystery flushed a little and took a polite step back. “Umm. No.”

He glanced toward Baby and Abby, then back to the girls.

“Every living thing has a soul. And every soul generates spiritual energy. We call it Hon-gi . It’s made from experience. Emotions. Moments that matter produce more Hon-gi. But humans can’t hold much of it, so most of it leaks out… like heat from a candle.”

He gestured upward toward the hazy glow of the Honmoon through the trees.

“You hunters are actually manipulating Hon-gi, putting it into the Honmoon. You take that excess Hon-gi, the pieces people don’t even realize they’re giving off, and you bind them together with intent.”

He turned to Rumi, voice steady.
“When people feel the same thing—joy, grief, hope—especially through music, their Hon-gi starts to resonate. You hunters use that resonance, gather it, and shape it into something larger. The Honmoon is built from moments like that. It may not be much from one person, but when thousands feel it at once—and hunters gather it, mold it into a purpose, it’s powerful.”

“And demons?” Mira asked.

“We don’t use Hon-gi the same way. We don’t have a limit on how much Hon-gi we can store, so…,” Abby said simply, stepping in. “We store everything. Even what is not ours.”

Mystery nodded. “Demons can hoard Hon-gi. We can also take it from others—devour souls, absorb all their stored Hon-gi in one act. The more we hold, the more we can do. We burn Hon-gi to fuel all sorts of abilities.”

“Like shapeshifting,” Zoey said.

“Teleportation,” Rumi added.

“Or turn a human into a demon,” Mystery said. “That kind of transformation? That’s expensive. Takes a massive amount of Hon-gi.”

He glanced at Rumi. “Gwi-Ma’s power? All of it comes from a soul reservoir he’s been building for centuries. But here’s the catch: every time he uses that power, whether it’s spying through us, gifting a boon, twisting someone with shame, it burns Hon-gi. And the only real way to replenish it is to devour more souls.”

Rumi frowned. “Can’t he generate it on his own?”

“Barely,” Mystery said. “Every soul produces Hon-gi at its own natural rate. Absorb a hundred souls, and you still only generate it at your original pace. Because Hon-gi doesn’t come from mass. It comes from experience. Memory. Feeling. And devoured souls don’t feel anything anymore, only Gwi-Ma does. It’s like having an infinite pool you can fill and you only get a drop a day to fill it, but devouring a soul is like dumping in a whole bucket all at once.”

“There are old stories,” Abby added, “of demons who saved up Hon-gi for centuries, just to perform a single miracle. But most demons aren’t that patient.”

Mystery went on, his voice calm. “Long ago, even before the Honmoon, humans were hard to harvest. Shamans, talismans, protective rituals… Demons risked their lives trying. But there used to be another option.”

Rumi tilted her head. “You stole from each other.”

“Exactly,” Mystery said. “Demons used to fight constantly. If you killed one, you got their entire Hon-gi reserve. Faster and generally safer than breaching the human world.”

Zoey wrinkled her nose. “Sounds awful.”

“It was,” Baby muttered. “Pure chaos. Constant fighting, no alliances, no trust. You had to sleep with one eye open. Though this was long before I became a demon, so I’ve only heard stories of how it used to be.”

“Survival of the strongest,” Mystery said. “But strength also painted a target on your back. The more power you had, the more everyone coveted it.”

“So what changed?” Rumi asked, though she already had a suspicion.

“Gwi-Ma,” Mystery said. “He rose faster than anyone. No one knows how he built his reservoir so quickly, but once he did, he crushed the chaos. Outlawed demon-on-demon devouring, except for himself, of course. Anyone caught killing other demons for power was made an example of.”

“Let me guess,” Mira said. “He then made himself the soul tax collector.”

Mystery gave a small, humorless smile. “He organized everything—targeted raids, coordinated harvests. If a hundred souls were taken, he’d claim ten.”

Zoey’s brow furrowed. “Then why aren’t all demons ridiculously strong by now?”

“Because,” Abby said, his voice hardening, “eventually he stopped letting anyone keep anything.”

Mystery nodded. “Now even his most loyal followers have to hand over every drop they collect. They’re not allowed to consume souls themselves. Just gather and deliver. If they’re lucky, Gwi-Ma grants them a boon in return using a fraction of the Hon-gi they brought in.”

“Why?” Rumi asked. “Why not let them grow stronger?”

“Because he’s afraid,” Abby answered simply. “Of being betrayed or usurped. Rumor has it that any demon that starts getting too strong just…  disappears.”

Mira exhaled slowly. “So it’s not about loyalty. It’s about control. He keeps everyone weak so no one can challenge him.”

The Saja Boys didn’t respond. They didn’t need to.

A silence settled over the group, thick, thoughtful, and a little heavier than before.

Zoey’s gaze drifted to the edge of the clearing, where Derpy and Sussie sat silently watching the conversation like they were already several steps ahead.

She squinted. “Okay, but… what about those two?”

Six eyes blinked in perfect sync as Sussie gave a smug, trilling chirp. Derpy flicked his tail once and did absolutely nothing else, which somehow made him seem even more unfazed.

“They don’t feel like demons,” Zoey went on. “And they definitely don’t act like them.”

Mystery followed her gaze and nodded. “We’ve wondered the same. Neither of them has ever devoured a soul—not that we’ve seen. And Derpy’s teleportation? It’s… different. More stable. More precise. He can pass through the Honmoon like it’s nothing.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait, really?”

“Even at its thickest,” Mystery said. “It should take a massive amount of Hon-gi to push through, even just to peek. Normally, only Gwi-Ma can do that. But Derpy? He walks through like it’s a curtain.”

Rumi’s voice was quiet. “Could they be guardian spirits?” She hesitated. “The kind from old hunter texts—protectors that show up in times of spiritual upheaval?”

Zoey tilted her head, considering. “Then why are they tagging along with demons?”

She winced. “No offense. I just mean—guardian spirits are supposed to help humans, right?”

Abby grinned. “Obviously because we’re cooler.”

Sussie preened at that, fluffing up her feathers like she agreed.

Baby crossed his arms, tone clipped. “Cool or not, it doesn’t matter if we can’t help Jinu. Less talking, more doing. We need to get him back.”

“So what’s the plan?” Abby asked. “We can’t just teleport around blindly and hope we stumble across wherever Gwi-Ma's stashing him.”

Baby’s eyes were locked in the distance. “We should head for his nearest stronghold and tear it apart piece by piece. If he’s not there, we move to the next.”

Mystery frowned. “We can’t just go charging into every fortress. Gwi-Ma has more than a dozen, spread across the continent. Most aren’t even marked on maps. And the moment we show up somewhere obvious, he’ll know exactly where to concentrate his forces.”

Baby’s hands curled into fists. “So what, we just wait? Sit around until he sends Jinu’s head in a box?”

“Hey,” Zoey said, her voice gentle but firm. “No one’s giving up. But if we rush in without a plan, we lose everything . Not just Jinu.”

“I agree,” Rumi said, calm and steady. “We need information first. A neutral zone. Somewhere demons gather and talk. A trading post, maybe. We listen. Pick up rumors. And while we’re there, maybe we can also strengthen the Honmoon.”

Mystery nodded slowly. “If we’re fast, we can teleport out before Gwi-Ma gets a solid read on us. He’s been stingy with his Hon-gi lately, so he won’t burn it teleporting large forces. Most of his troops will have to come by foot.”

“And if we stay together,” Rumi added, placing a hand on Derpy’s thick fur, “Derpy can keep moving us. Quick strikes. Quick escapes. Hit and vanish, again and again. Make him spread himself thin.”

She looked to the tiger. “Can you handle that? It’ll be a lot.”

Derpy blinked slowly, then leaned into her side, solid and reassuring.

Rumi smiled. “Okay. So how do we even find a trading post without broadcasting where we’re going?”

Zoey turned to Derpy. “Can you just… take us to one?”

Derpy blinked at her. Slowly. Blankly.

Sussie, perched on his head, gave a very put-upon chirp, then flapped her wings and took to the air. She circled above the trees once, twice, then squawked sharply and darted off in a direction, slicing through the mist like an arrow.

Abby grinned. “Guess that’s our lead.” He broke into a sprint, his dark button-down and lilac pants shifting mid-stride into something sharper—sleek black hanbok-style outerwear layered over a cropped mesh shirt that did absolutely nothing to hide the sharp lines of his abs. Glossy leather pants caught the dim light, and knee-high combat boots thudded confidently against the forest floor. As he moved, his skin flushed to a soft violet, demon markings blooming along his neck and jaw—each step a smooth collision of poise and power.

Baby let out a long-suffering sigh. “Finally.” His oversized sweater and beret melted away in a ripple of shadow, replaced by a structured dark robe draped in silver chains. His arms shimmered faintly with demon markings, and his large golden eyes gleamed as he darted forward, focused and precise.

Mystery gave a small, sheepish nod—then his knitwear rippled and fell away, reforming into flowing black robes embroidered with delicate silver swirls. A slim silver chain circled his collar, and his pants—cut daringly to expose a sweep of soft lavender skin—shifted with quiet confidence. The glow of his markings stayed mostly hidden beneath wide sleeves, but something in the way he moved changed: more fluid, more grounded, like slipping back into his real skin. Then, without a word, he bounded after the others, his robes flared with each motion, and his gaze swept the mist like he was reading it, a quiet predator trailing the pack.

The girls from HUNTR/X stood blinking in the wake of it all, momentarily stunned.

Zoey let out a low, admiring whistle. “Okay, but… they look really cool like that.”

Mira didn’t even glance at her. “Focus, Zoey. Not the time.”

Zoey smirked. “Like you weren’t checking them out too.”

“Ughhh. I was not!” Mira snapped, storming ahead and practically punching a branch out of her way.

Rumi exchanged a look with Zoey, half grin, half exasperation, before they both broke into a run, the mist curling in their wake as they disappeared into the trees.

The pale mist thinned as the forest gave way to jagged black stone. Behind them, the bone-colored trees loomed like watchful sentinels, their narrow trunks fading into the haze. Brittle branches reached outward toward them, as if unwilling to let them go.

Sussie swooped low from the canopy, wings slicing through the fog. With a single beat, she landed squarely on Derpy’s broad, furry head. All six of her eyes blinked in sync, feathers fluffed in smug satisfaction.

Ahead, the ridge sloped downward—revealing a town sprawled below, unfolding like a dream half-remembered.

At first glance, it resembled an old mountain village: curved rooftops of weathered gray tile, squat wooden buildings clustered tightly around a worn plaza. The structures were ancient in style—beams scorched black with age, rice paper windows glowing dimly from within, stone lanterns standing like forgotten guardians at every door.

But stitched into the seams of this place were unmistakable echoes of another era—modern conveniences reimagined by hands that had only glimpsed them.

Wooden stalls mimicked convenience stores, their signs etched by hand and smeared with bioluminescent paste. Demons browsed shelves stocked with soul-tonics and ghostroot chips beneath some sort of tied together glowing wood baubles carved to resemble a string of christmas lights.

At one corner, a slightly off-kilter replica of a KFC stood in faded red and white. Two demons inside wore hand-sewn uniforms—faithful in color, if not fit—with name tags scrawled in jagged Hangul. Behind the counter, buckets of steaming, deep-fried… something… sat proudly on display, though nothing inside quite resembled chicken.

Farther off, a towering crane built of lacquered bone and thick rope creaked as it hoisted crates from a river barge. The entire contraption was powered by a groaning waterwheel, churning slow and steady in black water, gears clicking like distant hooves.

And at multiple large intersections, suspended from crooked wooden posts, hung glowing orbs with flames shifting from sea-green to amber to a pulsing blood red… directing traffic, though the bustling rickshaws and carriages pulled by snorting beasts with too many eyes or not enough legs only seemed to loosely follow the signals.

The group halted just shy of the treeline, lingering in the shelter of half-shadow. The air carried a haze of smoke and something sweeter—sickly and floral, like overripe fruit left too long in the sun. No one spoke, but unease curled tight in their throats.

From their vantage point, Abby scanned the trading post below. Demons drifted between stalls and alleyways, their pastel skin shades ranging from peach to mauve, teal to bone-white. Glowing eyes. Horns. Jagged smiles. Shimmering markings that pulsed faintly beneath the mist.

He turned, gaze landing on Mira and hesitated. His prolonged stare caught her attention and she stared pointedly back at him, and silently mouthed “What?”

“You stand out,” he muttered.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “You think?”

Abby didn’t respond right away. Instead, he reached up, removed the gat perched atop his pink hair, and hesitated. His fingers lingered on the brim. Then he stepped forward and, somewhat stiffly, placed it on her head. The wide brim shaded her features, casting her sharp jawline and too-human eyes in shadow.

“You just…” he began, then cleared his throat. “You don’t have any patterns or horns or anything like that. And your face is…” Another pause. He coughed into his fist. “Too symmetrical.”

Mira blinked. “Too symmetrical?”

“I mean—alarmingly so. Distractingly so. It’s... a problem.” His ears tinted violet. “For blending.”

Zoey made a strangled sound that was definitely not a laugh.

Mira narrowed her eyes—but the corners of her lips betrayed her.

Abby realized what he’d said a moment too late. He turned away fast, mumbling, “Whatever. Just wear the hat.”

Then, still not looking at her, he tugged off his sochangui robe and held it out. Beneath, his cropped mesh shirt left little to the imagination—abs and deep purple demon patterns on full display.

He kept his tone light. “Here. You’ll blend in better.”

Mira took it slowly, blinking away the metaphorical popcorn from her eyes. “And you won’t?”

Abby shrugged, trying—and failing—not to smirk. “Honestly, your outfit’s flashier here. In the demon world, I’m practically subtle. Let them stare at me.”

Mira rolled her eyes and pulled on the robe, very deliberately not reacting to the sight of his abs. Or the smirk.

Next to them, Mystery stepped forward with a soft smile and held out his own gat. Zoey blinked, startled.

“For me?” she asked, accepting it like it was sacred.

He nodded, then draped his sochangui robe across her arms. Underneath, he wore a modernized sleeveless jeogori—simple, dark, but with fine silver chains draped down the front.

Mystery smiled gently. “It suits you better anyway.”

Zoey beamed, clutching the robe close to her chest.

Baby groaned. “You two are embarrassing.”

Mystery turned expectantly to him. “Aren’t you going to give Rumi yours?”

Baby crossed his arms. “She already has demon markings. She doesn’t need a disguise.”

Rumi tilted her head. “So I don’t get a hat because I’m already demonic enough?”

“Exactly,” Baby said. “You’re welcome.”

“It’s still better if she doesn’t draw extra attention,” Mystery murmured.

With an exasperated sigh, Baby pulled off his gat and tossed it toward Rumi. She caught it one-handed.

He yanked off his sochangui next, revealing a black sleeveless turtleneck top with a folded, jeogori-like cut. He handed it over without ceremony.

Rumi raised an eyebrow, draping the robe around her shoulders. “Charming.”

“Don’t make it weird,” he said flatly.

Rumi smirked.

Now slightly more disguised, or at least slightly less conspicuous, the group began making their way down the slope into the valley, careful to avoid the loose stones and roots that clawed at their boots.

As they crossed into the outskirts of the strange town, Zoey turned in every direction like a possessed bobblehead. “Okay, I had a dream like this once. I time-traveled to the Joseon Dynasty, but there were also skateboarding hipsters trying to sell me a timeshare condo.”

“This is what happens when demons piece together what they’ve seen of the human world and try to re-create it,” Baby muttered, eyes straying to a particularly poorly carved Hello Kitty statue. “Badly.”

“Everything here’s handmade,” Mystery added. “Carved, woven, hammered into shape. No factories. No mass production. Just whatever they can mimic… and whatever they invent to fill the gaps.”

Mira folded her arms. “Why even bother copying human stuff? Aren’t demons supposed to hate us?”

“Demons, unless they are some of the few recently turned, don’t understand humans,” Abby said. “But they… we… we’re curious.”

“And,” Mystery continued, “so long as it doesn’t threaten Gwi-Ma’s power, like modern tech or ways to quickly spread information, he lets them observe. Watching humans is one of the few things he permits.”

“Books, printing presses, radio… anything that helps knowledge travel fast, it’s all banned,” Mystery said with quiet bitterness. “So demons get bored.”

“So what do demons do for fun?” Zoey asked.

“Gamble,” Abby said. “Gossip. Fight. Tell long, overly dramatic stories. And some of them? They watch humans.”

Without warning, he raised his hands, thumbs and index fingers splayed to mimic a picture frame.

A shimmer sparked to life between his fingers.

Wisps of Hon-gi curled upward like smoke. In seconds, a faint ripple of light formed—thin and wavering, like a film of water suspended in midair. It crackled once and held steady.

Beyond it— a glimpse of the human world. Rain-slick pavement. A narrow alley between apartments. A woman dragged a suitcase past a puddle, glancing at her phone, utterly unaware she was being observed from the other side of the Honmoon.

Zoey leaned in, wide-eyed. “Whoa.”

“Viewing portal,” Abby said. “This one’s unanchored. Random. Weak, but good enough for a peek.”

“Can you control where it looks?” Mira asked.

Abby nodded. “If you’ve seen the place before, or know who you’re trying to look upon. It takes more Hon-gi to steer it, though. Otherwise it resets every time.”

He flicked his fingers. The portal unraveled into sparks and vanished into the breeze.

“Most demons set up anchor points for viewing portals,” Mystery explained. “Mirrors, polished stone—anything flat. Reflective surfaces help. Anchor points make the portals easier to stabilize and reopen. Less Hon-gi wasted depending on how well the anchor point is set-up. These are called viewing mirrors and are a common trade good.”

Zoey scrunched her nose. “So spying on humans is, what, a popular demon hobby?”

“Not everyone does it,” Abby said. “Costs too much Hon-gi for most. But if you’ve got a good viewing mirror? That’s a flex. Even if you never use it, it’s considered… cultured.”

“And now that the Honmoon’s weakened,” Mystery added, “it takes a lot less energy to pierce the veil. Especially at the weak spots.”

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “Let me guess. The Saja Boys got popular in the demon world because those weak points happened to be where you were gaining popularity in the human world?”

Abby gave a crooked smile. “We didn’t mean to collect fans on this side. But yeah—wherever our music stole the hearts of your fans, the veil weakened. Demons using viewing mirrors started catching glimpses. Sometimes sound. Sometimes a full performance.”

Zoey grinned. “A surprise world tour.”

“More like an accidental broadcast,” Baby muttered.

Mira folded her arms. “Still doesn’t explain how you managed to form a fully functioning K-pop group. Choreography, styling, branding—even the song. It’s all so… on point.”

Zoey chimed in, “Right? ‘Soda Pop’? That song is really good.”

“That was all Jinu,” Baby said, his fists clenched at his sides.

Rumi’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

“He didn’t just watch,” Mystery added. “He studied. Jinu hoarded Hon-gi for centuries, took on some of Gwi-Ma’s worst jobs to earn more. Spying, sabotage, seeding paranoia. The kind of work no one else wanted, or had the finesse for.”

“And every bit of Hon-gi he earned?” Abby said, voice quiet. “He spent it watching your world. The human entertainment scene, mostly. Idol showcases. Training camps. Music videos. He’d open mirror after mirror and just… absorb.”

“And then,” Mystery continued, “he taught us. The steps, the style, the meaning behind every smile and tilt of the head. Every nuance with a purpose.”

Rumi’s voice was quiet. “And Gwi-Ma just… let him?”

Baby gave a humorless smile. “Jinu was obedient. Effective. He burned through all his Hon-gi on something Gwi-Ma thought was harmless. No hoarding, no scheming. Just one strange little demon with a K-pop fixation and a tight leash.”

The words lingered in the air, heavy with implication.

Then the group rounded a corner… and everything changed.

As they stepped into the edge of a crowded open plaza, the shift was immediate.

Conversations faltered. Heads turned. Whispers caught like sparks in dry grass, blooming into wildfire.

A demon with mint green hair and blue skin nudged his companion, eyes wide. “Wait. Isn’t that the Saja Boys?”

“No way,” the friend whispered back, staring. “What would they be doing here?”

“They’re supposed to be in the human world, right?”

“No, I heard Gwi-Ma’s punishing them.”

“Then how are they here?”

A voice piped up from behind a stall piled high with dried bloodfruit—loud, careless, impossible to ignore. “That can’t be them. Just some wannabes wasting Hon-gi to cosplay. They even got the details wrong. Baby’s not that short.”

Baby spun on the spot. “Excuse me?”

Abby caught his shoulder with one hand while Mystery leaned in to whisper, “We’re trying not to draw attention.”

“They called me short!” Baby hissed, offended to his core.

The crowd wasn’t done.

“There’s six of them anyway. The real Saja Boys only have five members.”

“And that one’s supposed to be Mystery?” another demon snorted. “He looks like he’d fall over if he so much as sneezed.”

Mystery’s head snapped toward the voice. He crouched low, a guttural growl building in his throat— until Abby yanked him back by the collar, still keeping Baby pinned with the other arm.

“And the Abby knockoff? Please.” A scoff followed. “Do you call those muscles? My grandmother has bigger pecs.”

Abby froze.

He released Baby and Mystery at the same time.

Both stumbled slightly, caught off guard.

Abby rolled his shoulders once. His eyes lit with a golden glow. “Alright. Violence it is.”

Before he could take a step, the girls from HUNTR/X lunged forward.

“Okay! Time to walk this way!” Zoey chirped, throwing her arms wide and physically herding the three furious demons toward a nearby alley. Mira and Rumi joined her, flanking the boys and pushing them along.

“Haha,” Zoey added with a nervous laugh. “Do you really care what those random demons think? Their opinions don’t mean anything.”

“Still,” Mystery growled, his voice low and hoarse, “we need intel. And they are starting to sound like excellent candidates for… a little interrogation.”

“Or,” Rumi cut in, diplomatically, “we buy some cloaks. You know—blend in more, listen from the sidelines. The rumors here are… surprisingly audible.”

As if on cue, a pack of young demons wandered past the alley entrance, arms full of something deep-fried and steaming. One leaned in, eyes wide. “Hoto said he saw in a viewing mirror that Gwi-Ma turned the Saja Boys into that human drink they kept singing about and gave them to the humans to drink.”

Abby choked. “What?!”

Zoey wheezed. “I mean… you are refreshing.”

“Just no,” Baby said flatly.

Another demon, this one with spiraled horns, whispered dramatically, “No, no—it wasn’t Gwi-Ma. It was the hunters! Said if they liked ‘Soda Pop’ so much, they should become Soda Pop.”

Gasps all around.

“Humans are terrifying,” one muttered.

“Really committed to the bit,” another agreed.

Abby dragged a hand down his face. “I can’t believe this is what they think happened to us.”

Mystery tilted his head, curious. “Wait. If we were turned into soda… what flavor would I be?”

Abby blinked. “What is wrong with you?”

“Lavender,” Zoey said immediately. “Or ghostberry.”

“Ooh, ghostberry,” Mystery said, pleased.

One of the demon teens chirped happily, “I heard Soda Pop is a human drink that makes you explode!”

“Explode?” another echoed. “Like… POP?” He threw one clawed hand in the air with a little whoosh, fingers splayed to mimic a tiny detonation.

“Yeah! Just like the name!”

“Ohhh,” someone else added, nodding sagely. “I saw that in a viewing mirror once! The humans were lighting explosions in the sky and clapping and cheering in enjoyment!”

“Do they mean fireworks?” Zoey whispered.

“Do they explode their criminals for entertainment?” the first demon asked, clearly horrified.

Baby just sighed and buried his face in one hand.

From somewhere deeper in the crowd: “So the Saja Boys are dead?”

“Aww,” someone else sighed. “But the song was so good.”

“Maybe it was cursed,” another demon suggested, not entirely unhappily. “That melody hasn’t left my head since I heard it. I hum it in my sleep.”

“I think they wove Hon-gi into it,” one said, softer, almost reverent. “Didn’t even know I could dance… but then my body just started moving.” His shoulders bounced slightly to an unheard beat as he talked.

There was a pause, then a wistful sigh.

“I miss them.”

In the alley, no one moved.

Mystery blinked, visibly caught off guard. His lips parted, but no words came. He hadn’t expected to hear that—genuine affection from strangers who’d only seen partial glimpses of them, maybe just over the shoulders of humans watching phone screens.

Zoey turned slowly, her expression softening with something like wonder. “Aww…” she breathed, eyes wide. “That’s… actually kind of sweet.”

Baby cut in, arms crossed. “Sweet doesn’t help us. No one here’s talking about Jinu. And even if they were, they think we were executed by being turned into exploding soda. We’re not getting anything useful standing around.”

Mystery scanned the bustling plaza, then glanced over his shoulder toward the far end of the alley, where crooked buildings bent into deeper shadows. “He’s right. We don’t have much time before Gwi-Ma figures out where we are if he hasn’t already. We need a better source of intel. Fast.”

“Maybe a tavern? Demons have taverns right?” Zoey offered hopefully.

Baby sighed. “Knowing demon taverns, the gossip is the menu.”

“That should work,” Mystery said, nodding.

Rumi straightened. Her voice was calm but firm. “Then let’s go. If people are already talking about us, maybe someone’s talking about Jinu too.”

Mira, ever to the point, asked, “So how do we find a tavern?”

“Uh… I might be able to sniff one out,” Mystery said, raising a hand awkwardly. “There’s this alcohol—Gujak Soju. Made from a fruit that reeks, but tastes amazing once fermented. Pretty distinctive smell. I, um… have a good nose.”

Zoey lit up. “Wait, seriously? You have a super sniffer? That’s so cool! Do all demons have enhanced senses like that? But you need to burn Hon-gi to use them, right?”

Mystery scratched the back of his neck, cheeks faintly flushed. “Well… yeah. Hon-gi can enhance your senses. But in my case, it’s inherited. I was born a demon, not turned. Some traits pass down through bloodlines. Still need Hon-gi to really push it, though.”

“Really?” Zoey leaned closer, eyes sparkling. “So were your parents—”

“Enough!” Baby snapped, grabbing Mystery and marching ahead. “We’re wasting time. Start sniffing. Track us some Gujak Soju!”

Before Mystery could respond, Baby gave him a firm shove down the alley.

Mystery recovered quickly, nose twitching as he began sniffing the air—head tilting this way and that, eyes half-lidded in concentration. His movements were sharp, almost animalistic, as he filtered through the scents coiling in the damp alley air.

As the others moved ahead, Rumi’s eyes caught on something half-hidden beneath a fraying noodle shop flyer. A poster, hand-painted with striking detail.

She stepped closer.

It showed a female demon—glowing, furious eyes under thin slanted brows; a snarl that revealed sharp fangs; hair pulled into two high puff pigtails, their tips literally ablaze in red flame; jagged dark demon patterns crisscrossing her face like an ornate domino mask. Three sharp horns arched from her brow like a crown.

It was a portrait of power, rage, menace.

But the shape of the jaw, the curve of the cheekbones, the set of the eyes—familiar.

Recognition hit like a punch to the gut.

Yun Jaein.

The last of the Sunlight Sisters. But not as Rumi remembered her.

This was a wanted poster.

THE EXECUTIONER, it read in heavy, scarlet ink.

Wanted for the slaughter of thousands of demons. Reward: one wish, granted by Gwi-Ma himself.

Rumi froze, horror creeping up her spine.

Zoey, realizing Rumi wasn’t following, backtracked. “Hey, what’s—?” She followed Rumi’s gaze. “Oh.”

Then she gasped. Loudly.

“Is that… Yun Jaein? Why does she look like a demon?!”

The others doubled back at her outburst. Moments later they all surrounded the wanted poster.

“I’ve heard rumors,” Mystery said, eyes narrowing. “The Executioner. I wasn’t sure she was real or a myth. But if she’s showing up on wanted posters here, maybe she’s close.”

“She’s so a demon now!” Zoey squeaked, pointing. “Look at her! That’s totally Yun Jaein!”

“Who?” Abby asked.

“She was in the last generation of hunters,” Mira explained, still staring at the poster, dumbstruck. “She fought alongside Rumi’s mom. Celine said she retired a few years after Mi-yeong died. Moved to the countryside. Grief or something.”

Abby raised an eyebrow at Rumi. "Huh. Being both a hunter and a demon. Guess you're not so unique."

“But the poster says she’s killed thousands of demons,” Mira said, her tone equal parts impressed and uneasy. “If she’s trapped here and still resisting Gwi-Ma, that’s… kind of badass.”

Rumi’s voice dropped, heavy with complicated emotion. “So Gwi-Ma got to her.”

“I… always thought she just didn’t want anything to do with me because…” She slowly lifted her arms, the borrowed robe slipping down to reveal her demon patterns.

Her eyes locked onto the painted snarl of Yun Jaein’s face, familiar and monstrous.

“But she’s been here. This whole time.”

Rumi’s hands clenched into fists, voice sharpening into resolve.

“I want to talk to her.”

Zoey hesitated, concern tugging at her brow. “We don’t even know where she is.”

“And I’ve heard she kills indiscriminately,” Mystery added. “She’s like a demon world bogeyman. Parents tell stories about her to scare their children into behaving.”

“I’ve heard she’s strong,” Baby said. “If Gwi-Ma’s offering a wish for her capture, he considers her a threat. We could use that.”

“Because marching up to someone called The Executioner is such a great idea,” Abby muttered.

“She’ll listen to us,” Rumi said firmly.

Abby folded his arms. “Don’t be so sure. Gwi-Ma’s probably in her head every day. That kind of pressure wears you down.”

“She’s clearly not giving in,” Mira said. “The body count says otherwise.”

“Just… manage your expectations,” Abby said quietly. “Everyone deals with shame differently. If she’s killing nonstop… that doesn’t speak well for her mental state.”

Rumi placed a hand gently on his shoulder. “I… understand, but I still have to try.”

Mystery stepped forward. “Ready?”

Rumi nodded.

The group moved on, their footsteps echoing faintly down the narrow alley. But Derpy hesitated, lingering near the edge of the shadows. He turned, ears twitching, head tilted, listening.

Perched atop his head, Sussie dozed on, undisturbed by the shift in posture or the faint ripple of unease in the air.

“Derpy,” Rumi called gently, “come on.”

After a beat, he turned and padded after them, silent and steady.

High above, nestled in the jagged angles of the rooftop, a shadow remained.

Watching. Listening.

And then, like a breath exhaled into mist, it quietly slipped away.

Chapter Text

The tavern didn’t look like much from the outside, just a squat structure half-embedded in stone at the base of a crooked cliff wall. A heavy wooden door sat flush with dark masonry, its surface reinforced with rust-veined metal inlays. The only sign of life was the hanging plaque above it, painted in flaking gold, a simple outline of something angular. From one angle, it looked like a stylized martini glass. From another… maybe an axe.

“Is this a place to get drinks or decapitated?” Zoey whispered.

“Could be both,” Mystery replied mildly, reaching forward to push the door open.

The hinges groaned like they hadn’t been oiled in decades, but the wood moved smoothly—solid, heavy. Inside, the tavern was low-ceilinged and dim, lit by glowing fungi and warm red stones embedded in the walls. The air smelled of charcoal and fermented fruit, and the floor was sunk slightly lower than the street outside, as if the building had long ago settled under its own weight.

Despite the small size, it felt sturdy. Like it could survive a demon riot and come out the other side with nothing worse than a cracked barstool.

Conversations hushed the moment they stepped inside.

Dozens of demon eyes turned their way—red, silver, yellow, all watching. Then, just as quickly, the room turned back to itself. A few demons resumed their meals, others chuckled at the stage where a stout demon was beatboxing to the melody of Soda Pop using a carved bamboo flute, accompanied by rhythmic clapping from the small crowd gathered near him.

They made their way to the bar.

The bartender looked up as they approached. Her orange hair was pulled into a high, sleek ponytail, and her crisp white shirt was spotless beneath a black vest and tie. Her demon markings, branching like lightning, climbed up one side of her neck and vanished into her collar.

“Well now,” she said, appraising them. “Nice cosplay. You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

“That obvious?” Mira said warily.

The bartender gave a small smile and set a tray of glasses on the counter. “You’ve got that tourist look. Not enough apprehension, and you're looking around at everything like it’s new. Dead giveaway.” She slid a bubbling drink toward each of them. The liquid shimmered deep blue, threaded with smoky white tendrils that curled and twisted like clouds drifting through twilight.

“First round’s on the house,” she said. “House specialty.”

Zoey didn’t wait. She lifted her glass, knocked it back, and smacked her lips. “That’s so good. Like spicy plum and… lightning! Can I have another—”

“So,” the bartender cut in smoothly, “what brings you here?”

Zoey turned toward her, eyes wide and sparkling. “We’re on a rescue mission to save Jinu—he’s one of the Saja Boys, you’ve probably heard of them—and we think Gwi-Ma’s holding him but we don’t know where, and also we’re trying to find the Executioner who’s definitely Jaein but with fire as hair, which is really cool—I wish I could have flaming hair like her— but anyway, we’re looking for her because Rumi needs closure and I really want to help her because she’s one my best friends and…”

She blinked. “Wait. Why did I just say all that?”

The rest of the group stared at her. Even Zoey seemed surprised by herself.

Mystery gently took the glass from her hand and sniffed it, brows furrowing. “There’s Hon-gi in here,” he murmured, then lifted his head to stare at the bartender. “I’m assuming it compels truth.”

The bartender gave a pleased hum. “Consider what you’ve shared a down payment. Welcome to The Golden Axe, where truth is the most valuable commodity.”

Zoey’s eyes lit up in realization. “Oh! It’s like the story of the woodcutter! The one who is offered the golden axe and tells the truth so he gets rewarded instead of punished. But I wouldn’t have lied anyway,” she added, slightly miffed. “You didn’t have to force it.”

The bartender just shrugged. “It’s easier this way.”

She tapped a manicured, clawed finger against Zoey’s empty glass. “If you want information—and plan to pay with what you know—then you drink. Otherwise…” She pressed her thumb and index finger into a circle, the universal gesture for money. “You pay in crystals.”

“Crystals?” Mira asked.

The bartender flicked her fingers, and with a shimmer of Hon-gi, a small, rough sphere appeared in her palm—light purple, about the size of a 1 won coin, textured like uncut amethyst but perfectly round.

“Hon-gi crystals,” she said. “You really are from far away. It's solidified Hon-gi. Hard to fake, easy to trade.” She held it up between two fingers. “One of these is a single crystal’s worth. Just shape your Hon-gi into this size and density.”

Rumi stepped forward, cautious. “How many crystals?”

The bartender leaned in, folding her arms on the counter. “Information on Gwi-Ma?” She exhaled through her teeth. “That’s bad for business. The kind of bad that ends with me closing shop if he’s watching.” She tapped the patterns along her neck. “And trust me—he’s always watching. One way or another.”

She straightened, voice softening. “But the Executioner? Gwi-Ma wants her erased. Bad for his image. So telling you where she was last seen… that’s safe enough.” Her smile sharpened. “For five hundred crystals.”

“Five hundred?” Baby sputtered. “That's way too much!”

The bartender tilted her head. “Then maybe you shouldn’t be chasing her. Anyone hoping to face the Executioner needs power, enough Hon-gi to make five hundred crystals look like pocket change.” She gestured coolly toward the tray of drinks. “But hey. It’s your necks on the line.” Her smile widened, sharp teeth catching the light. “If you don’t have the crystals, you can pay with what you know.”

She smiled again, eyes glinting with something halfway between mischief and calculation.

“Drink up.”

One by one, the rest of the group lifted their glasses. Hesitantly. Warily. But they drank.

Rumi winced at the strange heat of the liquid. Mira muttered something about “why does it have to taste good.” Even Mystery frowned slightly, as if filing the taste away for future categorization. Baby grimaced. Abby made no expression at all.

The bartender leaned her elbows on the counter, expectant. “Alright then. You’ve drunk. Now pay up. What’s something worth selling?”

Zoey leans eagerly over the counter, eyes bright with enthusiasm.
“Ooh! I know! When I was thirteen, I used to record myself singing in the stairwell of our apartment complex because the acoustics made me sound like a professional. I told everyone I was just taking the stairs for exercise, but really, I was doing full concerts to an imaginary sold-out crowd. Fans would love to see those videos.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “You do realize everyone in those apartments could probably hear you, right? Stairwell doors don’t completely block sound.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait, seriously? But… no one ever said anything.”

The bartender gave her a long, flat look. “…So you sang to imaginary people in a stairwell.”

Zoey nods enthusiastically. “Every day!”

The bartender squinted. “Are you under the impression someone would actually pay for that information?”

Zoey didn’t miss a beat. “Yes.”

The bartender stared for a long moment, then shook her head slowly—like she’d just given up hope. She turned to Mira.
“What about you? Got anything actually valuable?”

Mira drew in a breath, then let it out slowly.
“I have a drawer full of unsent letters to my family.”

The words dropped with more weight than volume. The others turned toward her, surprised by her calm delivery.

“My parents. My brother. I write to them every time something big happens—our debut stage, our first win, that time we charted higher than we thought we would…”

Her hands tightened in her lap. “I tell them what I wish I could say. That I’m doing well. That I still remember the way my brother used to sneak me extra tteok on holidays. That I’m sorry for disappointing them, but I’m not sorry I chose this life.”

A pause.

“But I never send them. Not one. I always chicken out. What if they’ve moved on? What if they don’t want to hear from me?”

She looked down at the empty glass.

“I miss them. I just… don’t know if they miss me.”

The bartender hummed before asking, “Oh, are they powerful demons?”

“No,” Mira said simply, arms crossing over her chest.

The bartender gave a dismissive snort. “Hmph. Then your info’s worthless too. Anyone else?”

“I used to stutter,” Abby said quietly, his voice rough. “Bad. Couldn’t get two words out without someone laughing.”

The others looked over—Zoey wide-eyed, Mira going still.

“Demons don’t like weakness,” Abby went on. “So I’d get beaten up a lot.” His fists curled on the bar. “That’s why I got strong.”

He glanced sideways, voice quieter now. “Didn’t have any friends. Not till Jinu. He never made fun of it. Helped me work through it, bit by bit. Said I didn’t have to talk fast to be worth listening to.”

A pause. “Still believe that. Mostly.”

The bartender stared at him for a long second.

“...Okay, what is going on with you people?”

She pinched the bridge of her nose. “This isn’t supposed to be a group therapy session. Where’s the actual valuable information.”

A beat of silence.

Then, deadpan, Baby said, “I sleep with a stuffed bear.”

Everyone turned to stare at him.

He cleared his throat and added quickly, “It’s… not weird.”

Zoey blinked. “What is its name?”

He hesitated. “…It’s named… Moony.”

Zoey gasped. “That’s so cute!”

Baby scowled, the tips of his ears flushing faintly pink. “He is not cute. He has battle scars, and he's deep crimson because he likes to bathe in the blood of his enemies.”

There was a beat of silence.

“He helps with nightmares,” he muttered. “That’s all.”

Zoey opened her mouth to say something else.

Without looking at her, Baby said evenly, “If any of you say a word about this to anyone…”

He turned, slow and deliberate, eyes gleaming with a promise of violence.

“…I will personally drag you into the deepest cave in the demon realm and leave you there.”

Even Mystery blinked.

The bartender, arms folded behind the bar, gave a low whistle. “How adorable.”

Baby turned his glare to her.

She raised an eyebrow, utterly unbothered. “Big fan of the Crimson Moon, huh?”

“Yes—gah!” Baby winced, visibly annoyed with himself. “Stupid truth drink,” he muttered.

Then, scowling, he crossed his arms and looked away. “That’s none of your business anyway,” he grumbled, cheeks fully flushed.

The bartender let out a long, suffering sigh. “Why do you people think anyone would pay for this?”

“Because we’re idols!” Zoey said brightly.

The bartender blinked. “Like… objects of worship?”

“Uh, kind of?” Zoey shrugged.

Before the bartender could respond, Mystery suddenly blurted, “I think Zoey smells nice!”

Silence.

His eyes widened, and he immediately slapped a hand over his mouth.

Zoey turned to him, curious. “What do I smell like?”

“…Like jasmine and sunshine,” he mumbled behind his hand.

Her eyes softened. A smile tugged at her lips.

They stared at each other, a quiet beat passing between them—until the bartender slammed her hand down on the counter.

“Oh for the love of—who would worship these clueless nobodies?”

Baby spoke up, deadpan. “We’re not nobodies. We’re the real Saja Boys.”

The bartender blinked. “What?”

Zoey threw her hands up and exclaimed, “And we’re HUNTR/X! You know—famous K-pop stars but also secretly demon hunters!”

Every demon in the tavern turned to stare at them.

The beatboxing stopped mid-note.

Somewhere in the back, a mug shattered.

Zoey froze. “…Oh. Whoops.”

The bartender took an instinctive step back, eyes wide. “Hunters?”

Then all chaos broke loose.

Shouts erupted. Chairs toppled. Demons scrambled for the exit, tripping over each other in their rush to flee as if the very word hunter could burn them alive.

“Why are there hunters here?”
“Who cares? Run! Humans are terrifying!”

Within seconds, the tavern emptied in a stampede of panic, leaving overturned stools and half-spilled drinks in their wake.

The bartender made a slow, silent retreat from the bar, inching toward the side door—until Abby’s hand clamped around her wrist.

“The information,” he said, voice low and cold. “Now.”

She froze, eyes wide, breath coming fast. “T-The Executioner… she was last spotted near Hwaon Village,” she stammered. “Word is, she’s camped somewhere in the mountains above it.”

“And Jinu?” Rumi stepped forward, her voice calm but sharp with urgency.

The bartender swallowed hard. “I don’t know—swear on my soul. I don’t mess with Gwi-Ma’s dealings. But… the Executioner might. She raids his bases constantly. If anyone’s seen him, it’s her.”

Sweat dripped from her brow.

Abby studied her for a beat, then released her with a grunt. “You can go.”

She didn’t need to be told twice. The bartender gave a frantic nod and bolted out the door, disappearing into the gloom outside.

Silence fell over the room once more.

Rumi surveyed the wreckage—overturned tables, shattered mugs, puddles of drink reflecting the flickering torchlight on the walls. Just moments ago, the room had been alive with laughter and music. Now it was quiet as a grave.

Something moved in the corner.

She turned and spotted a faint rustling behind a stack of crates. Stepping closer, she saw a demon crouched low, trembling, trying—and failing—to make himself invisible. It was the beatboxing one, still clutching his bamboo flute like it was a lifeline.

Rumi approached slowly, hands open, her voice gentle. “Hey. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The demon yelped at the sound, scrambling backward until he hit the wall behind the crates. He stared up at her, wide-eyed.

To reassure him, Rumi pulled off her outer robe and let it fall away, revealing the branching demon patterns beneath.

“See?” she said softly. “I’m half demon.”

The demon’s gaze dropped from her face to the patterns on her arms. His grip on the flute didn’t loosen.

“That doesn’t mean much,” he murmured, voice shaky. “Demons still hurt each other.”

“But I won’t hurt you…” Rumi said softly, but the demon still flinched when she took a step closer.

She paused, then shifted tactics. “You like the Saja Boys, right?”

The demon peeked up over his flute, just slightly.

She nodded encouragingly and gestured behind her. “These are the real Saja Boys. Abby. Mystery. Baby. And they need your help.”

That got his full attention.

“We’re looking for a stage,” she continued, her voice gaining strength. “Somewhere public. Someplace where a lot of demons will see. A live performance. Saja Boys and HUNTR/X, together. Wouldn’t you want to see that?”

The demon’s grip on the flute loosened just a little. He blinked, eyes darting between her and the others. Then, slowly, he nodded.

“Can you show us?” she asked.

He hesitated, then gulped. “Okay. But… can I perform with you guys? Just one song? That’d be worth it. Even if you kill me after. Or… or turn me into soda.”

Baby visibly recoiled. “Why is that stupid rumor here too?”

Rumi smiled, gentle and warm. “Of course you can join us.”

The demon beamed, eyes glistening with hope.

Behind her, Baby muttered under his breath, “If I hear that stupid rumor one more time, maybe I will turn someone into soda.”

The room was built like a bunker, deep underground, with thick concrete walls, reinforced seams, and no windows in sight. Fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile glow over a long, imposing conference table that could’ve seated a dozen high-ranking officials. But tonight, only one end was in use. Romance sat cuffed to his chair, slouched with casual arrogance, legs crossed, one foot tapping idly to a rhythm only he seemed to hear.

Two NIS officers faced him from across the table. Their suits were impeccable, their expressions not so much cold as unreadable. Another intelligence officer sat a bit off to the side, silently taking notes.

The older intelligence officer leaned forward, elbows planted on the table. “Let’s start again. What is Gwi-Ma’s endgame?”

Romance clicked his tongue. “Nope.”

The younger officer gave a tight, practiced smile. “You said you wanted to cooperate.”

“I do,” Romance said smoothly, shifting in his chair. The metal cuffs clinked faintly as he moved. “But cooperation requires trust. I want full immunity. For me. For the Saja Boys. Anything we did under Gwi-Ma’s leash—wiped clean. And I expect the rights and freedoms you'd give any of your own citizens.”

The older officer’s eyes narrowed. “You’re demanding blanket immunity without even disclosing what crimes you're guilty of.”

Romance’s smile turned razor-thin. “I’m not demanding. I’m offering terms. I’m your only credible source on demons, the portal, Gwi-Ma’s methods, the forces at his disposal, his surveillance, the entire culture on the other side. There’s a lot you don’t know. I want to help. We’re all on the same side here. But what about after, when you have all the information I can give? What about when my friends return? I really don’t think I’m asking for much here.”

The younger officer leaned forward, cockier now. “We have other ways of making you talk.”

“Oh?” Romance tilted his head. “Go ahead and try. My entire demonic existence has been torture. Literal, spiritual, existential. Think you can scare me into talking?” He let out a short, mirthless laugh.

Then he sat back, voice cooler, more measured. “All I want is this: when my friends come back, I don’t want us to have to constantly be on the run like fugitives. I want a shot at peace. At freedom. At something resembling a normal life.”

The younger officer’s expression hardened. “On the run? You sound awfully confident that you could escape military custody if we wanted to lock you up.”

Romance snorted. “Please. Demons don’t play by human rules. You can’t cuff what slips through shadows.” He raised both hands. Completely unrestrained.

With a clink, the handcuffs hit the table. Still locked. Just… no longer attached to him.

Silence. Cold and weighty.

The younger officer tapped his pen against his notepad, a steady tick in the stillness. Then, a burst of static crackled in both intelligence officers’ earpieces. The older one lifted a hand to his ear, listening intently.

“…Are you sure, sir?” His brow furrowed. “Understood. Apologies, sir.”

He smoothed his expression into something neutral and turned back to Romance.

“You’re not our only source of information.”

Romance’s eyes lifted, a flicker of interest cutting through his mask of boredom. “Is that right?”

Neither officer answered. Instead, they both looked to the door.

One of the two special forces officers guarding the door stepped forward and grasped the reinforced handle and pulled. The thick metal door creaked open.

Celine entered, flanked by another NIS officer. Her presence hit the room like a cold front.

She didn’t hesitate. Her eyes swept the space with a practiced hunter’s precision before landing on Romance and freezing. Her expression tightened, curdling from surprise into open disdain.

Romance let out a long, theatrical groan. “Oh, wonderful. This is your alternative? The legendary Celine. Hunter extraordinaire. Champion of prejudice. I’m sure her testimony will be perfectly fair and unbiased. Not to mention I doubt she even knows anything about the demon world or demons besides that you can stab them to death.”

The officer beside her stepped aside. Celine didn’t take a seat. She simply folded her arms and leveled him with a glare sharp enough to draw blood.

“You shouldn’t believe anything demons say,” she said, voice flat. “It’s all manipulation. All lies.”

Romance raised an eyebrow. “Spoken like someone who’s never actually tried listening. We have feelings. Hopes. Families. A past. Many of us were human, including me. You don’t stop being a person just because someone like Gwi-Ma decides you’re his next victim.”

Celine turned toward the intelligence officers. “You want truth? You won’t find it in him. His kind feeds on shame and fear. Anything he tells you will be twisted to serve his own interests.”

Romance leaned back, grinning lazily. “You know, it’s funny. Rumi’s the most compassionate person I’ve ever met, and yet somehow you raised her. Though… I’m starting to think she became kind despite you, not because of you. What was it you told her? That her demon side is evil? That half of her is some permanent stain deserving of disdain?"

“Don’t bring Rumi into this,” Celine snapped, voice cold enough to frost the walls.

“Why not? She’s the catalyst for actual peace and understanding between our people. I choose to believe in her and the path that she's trying so desperately to pave. And that’s at great personal risk for myself and my friends. How about you? She’s basically your daughter right? Do you have faith in her? Will you support the path she chose?”

“You. You’re twisting things. You’re making it sound like you didn’t manipulate Rumi into thinking you demons were more than soulless abominations,” Celine said, voice tightening. “I felt the Honmoon being tampered with. We were so close to the Golden Honmoon, a shield strong enough to keep your kind locked out for good, and then something corrupted it. It was you, wasn’t it?”

Romance’s smile faded. “Excuse me?”

“You and your demon friends tried to hijack it,” she said, practically spitting the word demon with venom. “I could feel the intent shifting. The filth seeping in.”

Romance stared, stunned. “Are you referring to when Rumi and Jinu worked together to change the Honmoon? To protect humans and demons alike from Gwi-Ma?”

Celine didn’t answer right away, the implications taking a moment to sink in. Her jaw twitched. 

Then, with renewed force, she spat, “Demons don’t deserve protection.”

Romance was on his feet before he realized it, the chair scraping behind him. “And Rumi?” he snapped. “She’s half demon. What about her?”

Celine took a step forward, eyes steely. “She would’ve been fine. Fixed. Her patterns would’ve disappeared.”

Romance let out a sharp, disbelieving scoff. “Fixed? What if you were wrong? What if the Honmoon rejected her? Would it have banished her to the demon world? Would it have killed her? That wall you worship so blindly… it’s not protecting so much as it’s excluding. His voice dropped, bitter. “I felt the intent woven into it. Cold. Merciless. Just like you.”

“More lies and tricks,” she bit back. “It doesn’t matter. The girls will come back. We’ll restore the Honmoon. I wasn’t able to fully undo the corruption on my own, not without the fans, but once the girls are back, they can do it. We can still achieve a true Golden Honmoon.”

Romance stared at her.

And then… he laughed.

It started as a low chuckle, but quickly broke into something sharp and ragged—hysterical, pained. His shoulders shook. Laughter turned to gasps. Then to quiet, heaving sobs.

“You,” he said hoarsely, trembling. “I can’t believe… You did this.”

Silence fell, thick and charged. Slowly, Romance straightened, wiping at his face with the back of his hand. When he met Celine’s gaze again, his eyes were glacial.

“How could you? Jinu is gone because you couldn’t accept that maybe— just maybe —you were wrong. My friends are trapped in hell because of your pride. Because of your damn fear.”

Celine’s expression stiffened. “What are you talking about?”

“You weren’t restoring the Honmoon,” Romance hissed. “You were fracturing it. Undermining everything Rumi was building. You didn’t even try to understand the changes—you just fought them. And in doing so, you weakened the whole thing.”

“That’s a lie,” she snapped, but her voice faltered.

Romance stepped closer, his words like knives. “It was working. The Honmoon was changing, becoming something new. Something stronger. But you panicked. You fought it. You broke it.”

Celine’s composure cracked just slightly.

One of the NIS officers finally spoke. “What are you saying?”

Romance turned toward them, his voice calm but deadly precise.

“I’m saying your so-called trusted source —” he nodded toward Celine, “—is the reason Gwi-Ma found his opening. She disrupted the Honmoon right in the middle of Rumi and Jinu’s duet, undermining everything they were trying to build. And Gwi-Ma took advantage of that weakness in the Honmoon. He dragged Jinu into the demon realm and cracked the barrier wide open, leaving a huge fracture and a semi-permanent portal.”

The room stilled.

Celine’s fingers twitched at her side.

Romance let out a slow, bitter laugh. “But sure. Let’s keep pretending I’m the evil one.”

Celine’s lips parted, but no sound came out. Her hand trembled, barely perceptible.

And then, like a whisper curling beneath her thoughts, a voice slid into her mind.

“Oh, Celine.”

Smooth. Mocking. Familiar in a way that made her stomach clench.

“So righteous. So certain. Still trying to silence anything that doesn’t fit your narrow view of purity.”

She stiffened.

“You sing of duty. Of sacrifice. Of the Golden Honmoon. But when it began to bloom into something beautiful—something you couldn’t control—you called it corruption.”

A cold sweat prickled at the base of her neck. She glanced sharply around the room, but no one else seemed to hear. Romance was still glaring at her, but his lips weren’t moving.

“And now look where your stubbornness has brought you.”

Gwi-Ma’s voice turned velvet-smooth, thick with false sympathy.

“You fractured the very shield you sought to protect. You fed my hand the thread I needed to unravel it.”

A jagged spike of memory surfaced—her hand on the Shinmok, the bark pulsing warm beneath her palm. The sickening crack that followed.

No.

“You didn’t break it out of malice.”

A low chuckle slithered through her skull.

“You broke it out of love. Out of fear. Out of weakness.”

She gritted her teeth. Get out of my head.

“You can deny me, scream your little hymns, wave your holy swords. But we both know…”

The voice dropped to a whisper so close it could have been brushing her ear.

“…your precious girls are soon to be in my hands and it’s all your fault.”

Celine's fists clenched. Her heart thundered in her chest, but beneath it, a seed of doubt took root. A flicker of guilt. And Gwi-Ma felt it.

He purred.

“There it is.”

And then, just as suddenly, the voice vanished, leaving only the ringing silence of her own thoughts and a gnawing dread that coiled low in her stomach. It thrummed in time with the faint pulse of her patterns. She didn’t need a mirror to know that if she stripped off her jacket and looked, they’d be worse. The patterns would have spread just a little bit further.

Still reeling from the echo of failure, Celine barely registered the shift in the room.

It started subtly—NIS officers stiffening, eyes flicking toward the door, hands pressed to earpieces. The two NIS interrogators stood abruptly, the older one murmuring urgently into his mic, his expression turning tight with alarm. Celine, slow to return to the present, only began to tune in as the tension rose.

She turned just in time to see the reinforced door slam open with enough force to rattle its hinges. It rebounded off the concrete wall with a metallic clang that echoed sharply in the sterile air.

Three figures stepped into the room like a gust of cold wind, an impeccably dressed middle-aged couple and their equally polished son. The Han family. Familiar silhouettes Celine knew all too well.

The NIS officer who had escorted her earlier quickly stepped forward, intercepting them with a practiced bow. “Chairman Han, Madam Han, Mr. Han,” he said carefully, “this area is currently restricted. If you’ll kindly follow me, I’ll escort you to the designated waiting room for your scheduled meeting with Minister Choi.”

The Han family walked past the NIS officer without so much as a glance, their footsteps sharp and unhurried. They stopped directly in front of Celine, close enough that the air between them felt charged.

Celine took a slow, measured breath, steadying the churn in her gut.

Our faults and fears must never be seen.

The mantra slipped into place like old armor, brittle but familiar. It did little to stop the dread pressing hard against her ribs. She already knew it was too late. Still, she straightened her spine, smoothed her brow, and summoned a practiced smile—cool, pleasant, detached.

As the Han family came to a halt, immaculate and seething beneath polished exteriors, Celine offered a composed nod to the men.

“Chairman Han. Ji-hoon-ssi.”

Her gaze shifted to the woman beside them.

Something in her expression softened. A flicker of real warmth surfaced, too fleeting to settle but too honest to fully mask. She opened her arms slightly—a reserved gesture, one she gave only to the rare few she counted as friends.

“Seon-kyung… it’s been a long time.”

Han Seon-kyung stepped forward, face like carved porcelain. Her mouth was set in a hard line. Her eyes, once bright with effortless charm, were cold.

Then—

SLAP.

The sound cracked through the air, sharp and final.

Celine reeled back a half-step, the sting of Seon-kyung’s palm burning across her cheek. For a moment, she was too stunned to speak.

Seon-kyung didn’t give her the chance.

“How dare you,” she hissed, voice trembling—not with uncertainty, but with rage held barely in check.

Celine blinked. “What…?”

“How dare you secretly recruit my daughter into some underground paramilitary group!” Seon-kyung’s voice rose with every word, brittle with disbelief. “After all the money we poured into HUNTR/X—after years of you reassuring us that she was safe and well cared for—how dare you act like we’re still friends!”

Chairman Han said nothing, stone-faced behind his wife, but his jaw ticked once.

“Mira is out there,” Seon-kyung continued, voice breaking now. “In a hell dimension. Fighting for her life while you sit here, smiling. Smiling. Like nothing’s wrong. Like you didn’t lie to our faces every time we asked how she was doing, while you were secretly turning her into some kind of mystical demon killer!”

“She’s fighting to protect the world,” Celine said quietly, her voice tight. “Can’t you see that?”

“I don’t care about the world as much as I care about my daughter!” Seon-kyung’s voice cracked. Her hands clenched at her sides, and her eyes brimmed with unshed tears.

“You can’t tell me her life isn’t in danger.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “Where’s Ryu Mi-yeong? Yun Jaein? Dead, aren’t they? Died fighting to protect the world, as you put it?”

Celine didn’t answer.

The silence hung thick in the air, electric with grief and accusation.

Across the room, Romance let out a low whistle that sliced through the tension like a blade.

“Well,” he drawled, slow and dry, “that was cathartic.” He gave a few lazy claps with his cuffless hands, the sound echoing a little too loudly in the stark room.

Seon-kyung turned to him with the sharp, deliberate precision of a predator locking onto prey. Her expression was icy steel honed to a deadly edge.

“You,” she said, venom dripping from the single syllable.

Romance blinked. “Me?”

“You,” she repeated, stepping closer with barely restrained fury. “You will do everything in your power to bring my daughter home.”

Romance straightened, his smirk faltering. “I mean… I would love to help. Truly. But I can’t exactly portal into hell and yank her out by the hair. I can provide information—valuable information, I might add—but not unless I get assurances. Immunity for me and my friends. No persecution for being demons or for the things we did under Gwi-Ma’s control. We defected. We’re trying to help. But if the price for that is we’d just be persecuted on this side…well, then there’s not much point, is there?”

Seon-kyung’s glare didn’t waver. It only intensified, pinning him like an insect to glass. Romance, despite himself, leaned back slightly in his chair.

“Consider it done,” she said coldly.

One of the NIS officers stepped in, voice clipped. “Madam Han, you don’t have the authority to—”

Seon-kyung raised a hand, silencing him without looking away from Romance. “We will speak to Minister Choi. And if he doesn’t have the sense to agree,” her voice darkened, “then I don’t care if we have to buy a private island where extradition laws don’t apply. My daughter comes first.”

She leaned in then, so close Romance could see the fury dancing in her eyes, hear the raw emotion woven through her tightly controlled voice. “But if you do anything to endanger her… if I even suspect you’ve led her into more danger—” she paused, her voice dropping to a chilling whisper, “—I don’t care if I have to become a demon myself. I will find you. I will hunt you down. And you will beg for a swift death.”

Romance’s mouth opened, then closed. He swallowed hard. “Ye—yes, understood.”

She pulled back with the smooth precision of someone who’d made a point and knew it had landed.

“Good.”

Then the senior NIS officer cleared his throat and addressed the room. “Minister Choi has agreed to Romance’s terms. Unfortunately, he is unable to join us in person due to…” —his eyes flicked to Romance, briefly hesitating— “security concerns. However, he is listening in.”

Romance gave a wounded scoff. “Ouch.”

Before anyone could respond, Han Tae-hwan, Chairman of the HanSung Group, stepped forward with the quiet authority of a man used to commanding boardrooms and governments alike. He fixed the NIS officer with an unblinking stare and extended his hand.

“Your earpiece.”

The officer blinked. “Chairman Han, I can’t simply hand over—”

“I’m not in the habit of wasting time,” Tae-hwan interrupted coolly, his hand remaining outstretched, voice low and firm like a blade sheathed in silk.

There was a moment of silence—then a faint buzz in the officer’s earpiece. He pressed a finger to it, listened, then nodded tightly.

“Understood, Sir.”

He removed the device and placed it gently in the waiting hand.

Tae-hwan turned slightly, lifting the earpiece to his own ear as he began to speak with calm precision.

“Minister Choi. Let’s be clear. You have the full backing of HanSung Group—financial, technological, and political—so long as your efforts prioritize one thing above all else: the safe return of my daughter.”

His voice sharpened, brooking no argument.

“You will involve my son, Han Ji-hoon, in any and all rescue or communication initiatives. He is the head of our R&D division and already possesses the necessary security clearances.”

He paused just long enough to glance at Ji-hoon. The younger man gave a crisp nod, silent but resolute.

Han Tae-hwan turned to Celine last, his eyes unreadable. “You said you’d protect them. So protect them.”

Celine flinched, just barely, but enough to be noticeable.

He didn’t wait for a reply. With a nod to his wife and son, he turned on his heel and strode out.

Behind him, the intelligence officers stirred, some moving quickly, others exchanging glances, newly aware of the shift in power.

Silence settled like dust.

Romance leaned back in his chair, his cuffs long tossed to the side, his grin slow to spread but unmistakable.
He tapped a single finger against the table before speaking, soft, but unmistakably sharp.

“Funny,” he said, almost to himself. “Some people are ready to move heaven and earth to get their daughter back.”

Then his eyes slid to Celine, unblinking.

“You just keep sending yours into harm’s way… and calling it duty.”

The words hit harder than he could have known. Harder than she’d let anyone see.

Celine didn’t flinch this time. She didn’t move at all. Her body remained still, composed, unreadable to the room around her.

But inside, something cracked.

Our faults and fears must never be seen, she reminded herself. She clung to it like a lifeline, even as her hands trembled at her sides.

The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Footsteps echoed down the hall. Somewhere, distant voices issued new orders.

And still she stood there, spine rigid, eyes fixed ahead, willing herself not to shatter.

Because if she did…if she let herself feel it all…she wasn't sure she could stop.

Not this time.

The skies above the demon realm churned in their usual gloom, endless clouds boiling in slow, ominous swells. In the shadow of a jagged ravine, where stone spires clawed upward like ancient fangs, a fire flickered low beside the remnants of a broken shrine. Its warmth barely pushed back the cold that threaded through the air.

Yun Jaein sat cross-legged on a slab of polished obsidian, perfectly still but for the flicker of red flame at the tips of her twin puff pigtails. Her eyes, narrow, glowing with restrained fury, scanned the rows of needles she’d laid with precision across a folded silk cloth. Each one shimmered faintly, glistening with poison: some paralytic, some lethal, all silent promises.

Around her, a dozen demons lingered. They kept their distance, crouched on rocks, leaning on weapons, stealing glances when they thought she wouldn’t notice. None spoke. Jaein didn’t tolerate sycophants, and she had long since made clear that devotion bored her. But fear? That was fine. Useful, even.

She moved with lethal grace, as if her entire being were a coil of muscle held just short of snapping. Her fury was never far, never buried. She lived with it like breath, like blood. An existence fueled by vengeance, her anger smoldered just beneath the surface, always ready to erupt.

The shadows near the shrine rippled. Stretched. Coalesced.

A figure stepped out. Tall, veiled in black from head to toe, not even his hands visible beneath the sweeping fabric. Only his golden eyes glimmered through the veil.

Jaein didn’t look up. She dipped another needle and laid it gently beside the others.

“Six strange demons,” the shadowed one began, his voice low, careful, “are looking for you.”

She snorted, the sound sharp and disdainful. “Sounds like easy Hon-gi.”

The shadowed figure remained still. “They weren’t like the usual kind. I caught sight of them at Munjangjin Trading Post. They didn’t seem interested in your bounty, instead they wanted to find you to… talk.”

Jaein scoffed. “Sounds like more useless tagalongs then.” Her gaze drifted sideways. One of her followers, a squat demon with a single oversized green eye, had been stealing glances at her between nervous fidgets.

Without warning, she flicked a needle from her fingers. It whistled through the air and embedded itself into the rock inches from his face. The demon yelped and dropped flat, trembling.

“Keep staring at me, and I take the eye,” she barked.

The veiled demon didn’t flinch. “One of them referred to another in their group as both hunter and demon.”

That stilled her hand.

She hovered over the next needle, fingers twitching. Her head turned slowly, golden eyes narrowing like blades drawn partway from their sheath. “What did they look like?”

“Three of them had taken on forms that resembled the Saja Boys,” he said carefully. “The other three, including the one they called both hunter and demon, were cloaked in black. Hanbok. Gat. I couldn’t see any skin from my vantage point. Just voices… and hair.”

Jaein’s voice was flat, but razor-edged. “The hunter-demon. What kind of hair?”

“A single long braid,” he replied. “Purple. Down her back.”

A sharp breath hissed between Jaein’s fangs.

The needle in her hand slipped, falling to the stone with a faint clink.

The smoldering fury that clung to Jaein like a second skin quieted—just for a moment.

“Rumi,” she murmured.

The name felt unfamiliar on her tongue, brittle with time. She hadn’t spoken it in years.

Her brow furrowed, not in anger for once, but something else. Uncertainty. Memory. Could it really be her? But...

Jaein tilted her head upward, eyes cutting through the gloom toward the Honmoon above. It shimmered faintly, distant and fractured, yet… altered. Wrong—but not in the way she was used to. Not corrupted. Just… changed.

She exhaled slowly and opened her senses, reaching out in a way she hadn’t dared in ages. A tendril of her Hon-gi rose, thin and cautious, brushing against the edge of the barrier.

Warmth.

She stiffened.

It wasn’t the usual resistance or rejection. No wall, no searing backlash. Just warmth—steady and strange.

She pushed deeper, dampening the ever-present blaze of her rage, forcing it down so she could listen more clearly to the intent woven into the Honmoon.

It responded.

A sensation bloomed in her chest—tentative, unfamiliar, almost childlike in its purity. The Honmoon wasn’t just allowing her presence. It was welcoming her.

Startled, she recoiled, snapping the tendril back.

What the hell…?

She hesitated, then tried again. This time, the response flooded in—eager, almost jubilant. The Honmoon surged with something that felt dangerously close to joy. As though it had been waiting for her. Reaching for her.

She staggered back a half-step, breath caught in her throat. After years fueled by vengeance and loathing, the emotion was foreign. Unsettling.

Is it… alive?

The thought clung to her as she withdrew, her energy retreating like a hand from an open flame.

Stillness returned, but something within her had shifted.

Her gaze lingered on the sky above, on the rainbow threads now woven through the Honmoon, where once there had only been unwavering blue.

Someone had altered it.

Someone had dared to reshape the very thing that once defined her… and later condemned her.

Whether the hunter-demon was Rumi or not, they had answers... and Jaein intended to get them.

She rose in one fluid motion, fire whip uncoiling from her hip with a hiss and a crackle.

“Alright, you useless leeches,” she called to the nearby demons, her voice sharp enough to cut stone. “We’re heading to Munjangjin.”

Gasps and scrambling followed, but she didn’t wait to see who followed.

With a flick of her wrist and a whirl of smoke, Yun Jaein vanished into the dark.

Chapter Text

They trailed behind their demon guide through a tangle of winding backstreets, where crooked awnings dripped with moss and the walls were blackened with age. The air began to shift, cooler now, touched with the breath of open water. A damp hush rolled in with it, laced with the scents of river mist, boat tar, wet rope, and something metallic and faintly sweet beneath it all, like blood washed clean.

The noise came first.
A low, constant roar—water slapping wood, wood groaning back. Layered over it: barked prices for ferry fares, the clatter of crates, the hiss of ropes being tightened or loosed, and the sharp, singular cries of hawkers desperate to be heard over the churn. The din swelled with every step.

Then, at the end of a narrow lane slick with runoff, they turned a final bend and the harbor unveiled itself like a living tableau.

Where the river met the mountains and threaded its way free of the valley, the docks sprawled outward in elegant chaos, blooming like the petals of a stone lily cracked open to the sunless sky. They clung to the water’s edge in layers, some jutting into the river like crooked fingers, others built atop wide barges lashed to larger ships. Rope nets hung between poles in lazy arcs, heavy with old salt and recent use. Gangplanks trembled beneath rushing feet. Passengers shouted to each other across ships, hands waving, voices lost in the tumult. Ferries idled or shoved off in constant rhythm—flat-decked cargo drifters, iron-hulled transports belching steam, even a few gilded leisure boats straining for elegance amid the grit.

Demons moved like water through it all: tall and short, a rainbow of skin and hairtones, trailing satchels or tugging children behind them. The air thrummed with tension and movement.

Their guide, still clutching his battered bamboo flute, strode ahead with the ease of someone who had done this a thousand times. He didn’t glance back, trusting they would follow, and weaved through the crowd like a needle through fabric.

But behind him, the presence of the idols disrupted the current.

The Saja Boys drew stares like dropped coins in still water. Hushed murmurs spread like ripples. Some demons gawked openly, eyes wide with recognition or confusion or something sharper. Others curled lips in disdain or turned away with exaggerated shrugs, though not before sneaking another glance. Even here, in the chaotic churn of the harbor, their fame followed like a scent.

On instinct, the group began to cluster tighter. Mira’s gaze flicked from face to face. Zoey scrunched her neck, attempting to recede into her borrowed robe like a turtle. Abby, Mystery, and Baby kept their expressions neutral, but their steps grew more tense, eyes scanning the crowd for danger.

The guide hopped up onto a raised stone walkway slick with water and some sort of faintly glowing algae and then turned, pausing to let them catch up. 

“This way,” he called over the noise, voice carrying like a bell. “Careful. Wet stones can twist ankles.”

Rumi moved to follow, but faltered mid-step, freezing in place.

Her gaze snagged on something vast looming in the distance.

Carved into the cliff face where the river narrowed and spilled between jagged mountains rose a towering figure. Tall, alien, and solemn. The stonework defied gravity: the figure hovered just above the ground, one foot lifted in a frozen stride, as if caught in the moment of leaving this world behind. His posture was poised between movement and stillness, between action and ascension.

Flowing robes swept back from his frame, merging with the cliffside like fossilized wind. Over them, he wore armor that jutted in precise, angular planes, ornate yet austere, ceremonial in silhouette but unmistakably built for war. The contrast between fabric and metal, grace and menace, gave the statue a sense of otherworldly command.

One arm reached outward, beyond the valley, palm open, fingers splayed, not in desperation, but decree. As though he were parting the sky, or ushering something unseen into being. The other rested at his side, hand half-closed, as if holding memory. Or power. Or sacrifice.

His face was not human, but neither was it monstrous. The lines of his brow, the sunken cheeks, the downward tilt of his head, all spoke of nobility shaped by sorrow. His eyes, long since lost to time or never carved at all, were hollow recesses that stared out across the horizon like twin voids that had once known light.

Something in his stillness echoed the heaviness Rumi carried in her own heart, unspoken but constant.

Rumi exhaled, quiet and sharp. “Okay. If Gwi-Ma didn’t know where we were before…”
She pointed upward. “That? That’ll do it.”

Zoey squinted up at the statue, then tilted her head. “That guy looks… weirdly familiar.”

Mira didn’t answer right away. Her gaze lingered on the carved figure, thoughtful, almost reverent. Then a small smile tugged at the edge of her mouth. “Tassadar.”

Zoey turned to her. “Tassadar?”

“StarCraft,” Mira said, like it should be obvious. “Protoss High Templar. Disobeyed orders, merged with dark templar energy, crashed his ship straight into the Overmind to save everyone. Big sacrifice energy. Kind of a space paladin.”

Zoey raised an eyebrow. “Wait. You actually read the lore? I thought you just casually obliterated strangers online, making them question their life choices.”

Mira’s smirk sharpened. “I can do both.”

Ahead of them, their demon guide had paused on the stone walkway, waiting for them to catch up. At the exchange, he raised one long-fingered hand and swept it toward the statue like a ringmaster unveiling a sacred relic.

“Tassadar the Guardian,” he intoned, his voice dipping low with ceremony. “A hero from the distant past… or the far future. Depends who you ask.”

He leaned in slightly, lowering his voice to a hush that still somehow carried. “Some demons pray to him before traveling. Ask him to guide their steps. To shield them from danger. And some…” His three eyes flicked back to the statue, their glow dimming. “…ask him for protection from Gwi-Ma. In here.”

He tapped a claw gently against his chest.

The group fell silent.

Below the statue, a long set of ceremonial steps climbed toward a massive stone platform. The dais spanned wide enough to hold a dozen wagons with room to spare, ringed by brass lanterns that burned with steady blue fire—no smoke, no flicker, just quiet, magical flame. The stone base was intricately carved with spiraling reliefs: stylized warriors with curved helmets and glowing blades clashing against insectoid monstrosities. Protoss and Zerg, rendered in sharp, elegant lines and alien drama. Time had worn the edges smooth in places, but the story still radiated power.

The demon guide straightened and stepped forward, placing one reverent hand on the carvings. “This platform is usually reserved for major auctions—ship lots, high-stakes cargo, that sort of thing. But it’s also one hell of a place for a performance.” He glanced back with a wink. “And with Tassadar watching over? That’s a blessing that can only help.”

Mira scanned the platform, then the crowd already gathering below, demons slowing their pace, casting glances, whispering to one another. The attention was building.

“It’s noisy,” she said. “We’ll need to amplify our voices somehow. Got anything for that?”

The guide blinked. “I thought you’d be using Hon-gi.”

Without further explanation, he lifted his flute to his lips and launched into a rapid beatbox rhythm, sharp percussive bursts bouncing impossibly loud from the instrument, drawing a few startled glances from nearby demons. He wrapped up the impromptu performance with a playful flourish and a bow, as if expecting applause.

The girls from HUNTR/X exchanged a quick look.

Mira raised an eyebrow. “We’re human. We don’t know how to use Hon-gi like that.”

Zoey asked, “You don’t have any magical speakers lying around anywhere?”

The guide frowned, rubbing his chin thoughtfully.

Mystery cleared his throat. “Messenger stones could theoretically work. They’re old tech designed to transmit sound between two connected stones. If you tune the receiving stones right, you can get amplified output, or split the sound across several points. Makeshift loudspeakers, basically.”

Mira perked up. “Sounds promising.”

“But,” Mystery added, “they’re illegal now. Gwi-Ma banned them because they can be used for unsanctioned long distance communication. So they’re hard to find. Even harder to make.”

He turned to the guide, half-hopeful. “You don’t happen to know a guy with an illegal stash of them, do you?”

The demon guide shook his head, slow and deliberate. “No,” he said quietly. “People are too afraid. Gwi-Ma can spy on anyone at any time… and few are foolish enough to defy him like that.” His clawed hand lifted, gesturing vaguely to the watching shadows around them. “Contraband sellers don’t last long. I don’t know anyone brave or reckless enough to risk it.”

The group stood in uneasy silence, the blue lantern light flickering across their faces. Somewhere below, a ferry horn bellowed, long and low, cutting through the harbor din like a warning.

They were stuck.

Mira folded her arms, frowning in thought. Abby glanced at the carvings along the platform’s edge, his mouth tight. Mystery shifted his weight, quietly calculating. And Rumi stared up at the statue of Tassadar again, the burden of command pressing heavier than stone.

Then—

Zoey straightened. Her eyes lit up as the idea clicked into place.

“Wait!” she blurted, snapping her fingers and gesturing excitedly toward Derpy, who blinked lazily at the sudden attention, Sussie still perched on his head like a smug sentinel. “Why are we looking for a demon solution when we can just use a human one?”

The others turned toward her.

“There’s tons of portable sound gear from the Idol Awards,” Zoey continued, speaking faster now. “Rehearsal stuff, backup rigs, even one of those compact power stations. A lot of it’s designed to be mobile. We could just… you know… borrow it.”

Mira raised an eyebrow. “Borrow?”

Zoey shrugged. “We’ll return it… eventually.”

Rumi gave her a skeptical look. “Do you even know how to operate all that?”

Zoey stepped in, tossing her a confident grin. “I do.”

“You do?” Rumi asked.

Zoey nodded. “I hang out with the sound techs all the time. Learned a bunch just by watching. Plus, I used to DJ in high school. Small gigs, nothing fancy, but I know my way around a board. If we stick to the essentials, I can handle it.”

Rumi hesitated, then looked around the harbor, at the growing attention, the massive stage, the flickering flames and the statue that loomed like a silent witness.

“…Why not?” she said finally.

Then she looked down at Derpy, who was currently sniffing a nearby stone step like he had just now decided it might be edible.

“Think you can pop us back into the human world for a quick gear run?” she asked.

Derpy looked up, blinked once, and gave a solemn nod.

Sussie, without missing a beat, fluffed her feathers and let out a proud, high-pitched squawk, as if to say, obviously.

Staff Sergeant Min Jae-hyun moved with silent precision down the back corridor of the stadium—Sector D, Level 1, west wing utility access. His boots barely made a sound against the polished concrete. Fluorescent lights buzzed above, but the hallway remained dim, lit only by every third fixture, casting long shadows across stacked equipment crates and rolling garment racks left behind in the aftermath of the International Idol Awards.

He’d done this sweep a dozen times already today. The stage area was under tight lockdown. The portal still pulsing faintly at its center, like a landmine no one knew how to disarm. Quiet. Stable. But always there, daring someone to make the wrong move. All civilians except a single exception were cleared out. And that civilian was not given free access to roam, especially not without an armed escort. Which is why the sudden murmur of voices made the hair rise on the back of his neck.

He froze.

The sound was faint. A female voice, sharp, insistent. Then a lower one, mumbling a reply.

His eyes snapped to a nearby maintenance closet. It sat tucked into a narrow alcove between dressing rooms, labeled EQUIPMENT STORAGE in faded Hangul. The door was shut, but a soft flicker of blue light shimmered beneath the narrow gap at the bottom.

Jae-hyun reached slowly for the push-to-talk button clipped to his vest strap.

“Echo-4, I have potential unauthorized presence in Sector D utility corridor,” he murmured into his headset. “Audible voices. Requesting confirmation to investigate.”

A beat of static, then the reply came:
“Confirmed, Echo-4. Proceed with caution.”

He drew his sidearm, keeping the barrel low but ready.

Deep breath.

Step by step, Jae-hyun approached the door, each movement measured, deliberate. His breath slowed. Muscles tight, finger hovering near the trigger guard. He could hear the voices more clearly now. The first one was feminine, brisk, and bossy.

“Careful with the speakers, Mystery! Just one at a time is enough!”

A loud crash echoed from within. Jae-hyun flinched, instinctively lowering his stance.

Then came the second voice, low, even-tempered, with the cadence of someone vaguely regretful.

“Ah… it slipped.”

A beat of silence.

“…It’s okay,” the first voice said, more tired now than angry. “Just put that one back. Six speakers is probably enough.”

Jae-hyun’s hand tightened around the door handle. The blue light was flickering brighter now, dancing beneath the threshold like lightning caught in a jar. He counted down in his head.

Three...
Two...

“OOOH!” the girl squealed, giddy now. “A fog machine! We have to grab that.”

Jae-hyun yanked the door open.

“Hands where I can see—!”

He froze.

The command faltered on his lips as he took in the scene in front of him.

Inside the cramped equipment closet, amid coils of bundled cables and teetering racks of mic stands, stood a girl, mid-twenties, maybe a bit younger, dressed in a traditional clothing draped over modern glittery idol attire. Mystery’s sochangui robe hung loose around her, and a traditional gat sat crooked on her head like a misplaced crown. She stood triumphantly atop an overturned flight case, both hands raised in victory, holding a fog machine above her head like she’d just pulled it from the stone.

To her right, Mystery stood in his demon form with polite posture, lavender-tinted skin marked by crisscrossing demon patterns, calmly balancing six massive battery-powered speakers in his arms with effortless ease. Just inches from his feet, a glowing blue portal shimmered on the floor, a circular tear in reality, pulsing gently like a magical trapdoor.

Both turned.

Both froze.

“Uh… hi,” said the girl.

Jae-hyun blinked.

It didn’t take long for him to identify them. Their pictures were in the briefing.

There was a pause.
Jae-hyun stared at them.
They stared back.

The radio on his shoulder crackled.

“Echo-4, report status.”

Without taking his eyes off the scene in front of him, Jae-hyun slowly pressed his PTT button again.

“…I have eyes on the disturbance,” he said, each word measured. “It’s Zoey from HUNTR/X and Mystery from the Saja Boys. They appear to be… taking stage equipment.”

There was a beat of static before Zoey piped up cheerfully, still holding the fog machine like a prize.

“We’ll totally pay for all this once we’re done with it! I promise! You can talk to Bobby—he can charge it to our account or whatever!”

The reply came back almost immediately, urgent and clipped. “Echo-4, do not engage with force. I repeat, do not engage with force. This is Commander Jang. Escort them to the command post. Immediately.”

Jae-hyun opened his mouth to respond, but Zoey beat him to it.

“Yeah, so, uh… we’re kinda on a schedule,” she said brightly, flashing a nervous thumbs-up. “Appreciate the professionalism! Mystery—go, go, go!”

She flung herself backward into the portal like a stage dive.

Mystery hesitated for half a second, eyes lingering on the spot where she vanished. Then he turned back to Jae-hyun.

“Uh… sorry for the disturbance.”

He dipped his head in a deeply awkward bow, still somehow keeping all six speakers perfectly balanced in his arms, and stepped calmly into the portal after her.

The portal shimmered once, then collapsed in on itself with a soft whoomp, leaving behind nothing but quiet.

And darkness.

Jae-hyun stared at the empty space for a long moment. Then reported in again.

“…They’re gone,” he said flatly. “Disappeared into a blue portal. Took six portable speakers and a fog machine.”

Commander Jang stood in the stage control booth, a space once meant for lighting and sound controls for the stage, now commandeered into a tactical command center. Arms folded behind his back, boots planted in perfect formation, his gaze was locked through the wide viewing window that overlooked the concert stage below.

At its center, the portal pulsed like a wound suspended in air—iridescent, unstable, and humming with quiet menace. It cast odd shadows across the stadium, occasionally illuminating rigging, catwalks, and the faint outline of the stage where this all began.

Around him, twelve soldiers moved with efficient rhythm. Radios murmured. Monitors blinked. One soldier sipped cautiously from a mug, rewatching body camera footage of Chae Zoey and the demon Mystery disappearing into yet another portal.

Everything was locked down.

Except them.

The radio crackled with a female voice.

“Echo-2. Visual confirmed. Idol Zoey has reemerged. She is removing—stand by—yes, sir, she is removing a portable power station and three extension cables from under-stage storage.”

Jang’s expression didn’t flicker. His eyes remained fixed on the portal as if sheer will might will it shut.

Commander Jang pressed the push-to-talk switch clipped just below his left shoulder. “Echo-2, copy. Attempt contact and negotiation,” he said evenly.

A pause. Then the soldier’s voice returned, drier now.

“She declined to engage with command, sir. Instead, she complimented my… skin clarity. Then smiled and vanished into the portal again.”

There was a beat of silence in the booth.

“…Understood,” Jang replied. “Maintain your post.”

Another voice broke in, this one from Echo-11. “Sir, visual confirmation on Saja Boy Mystery. He is now transporting what appears to be… a disco ball.”

Jang’s brow twitched, barely.

“Correction, sir,” Echo-11 continued. “Mystery has returned with the disco ball. Idol Zoey is now present. She appears to be… berating him. Firmly. She’s pointing to a case marked ‘LED PAR.’ Likely portable lighting.”

Jang inhaled silently through his nose. “Copy. Offer assistance with gathering equipment, but only on the condition they agree to report to the command post. Focus on engaging Ms. Chae.”

There was a brief silence on the line. Then, with the tone of someone both bewildered and trying very hard to remain professional, Echo-11 replied:

“Sir, I believe I was… barked at. Ms. Chae was mid-scolding. I approached to initiate conversation. Mystery intercepted. He… barked. Loudly. Ms. Chae reprimanded him again. They disappeared back through the portal.”

Another pause.

“Sir… should we secure the disco ball for testing or quarantine? It was briefly transported to the other dimension.”

Jang exhaled slowly through his nose and pinched the bridge of it between gloved fingers, trying to suppress the headache already gathering behind his eyes. “Copy. Send the... disco ball to the lab. No bare skin contact. Classify as potentially contaminated foreign artifact. Do not engage Ms. Chae or the Saja Boys again without clearance.”

“Yes, sir. Marking disco ball as Evidence Item D-74.”

A few minutes later, another voice joined the line.

“Echo-7. Visual on Zoey and Mystery in backstage corridor Bravo. They’ve extracted a case marked ‘Audio-Mixing Console’ and have placed it—sir, they’ve placed it on the concession cart. They’re now wheeling the entire cart into the portal.”

Jang didn’t blink. “Copy.”

Another channel came online, this one tenser, clipped like someone holding back frustration.

“Echo-2. Sir. The Saja Boy known as Baby has entered the field supply depot. We have full visual and a squad in position. Requesting permission to engage. Non-lethal takedown only.”

Jang’s eyes remained fixed on the pulsing vortex onstage.

“Request denied,” he said, voice clipped and final. “Strategic Command has issued explicit directives: no force is to be used against members of HUNTR/X or the Saja Boys unless they initiate hostilities.”

There was a pause, and then the voice continued with a slight undertone of disappointment slipping through.

“Understood, Sir. For the record… he’s taking our coffee supply.”

Jang’s right eyelid twitched, nearly imperceptible.

“You have your orders,” he said, voice clipped as a blade.

He clicked his tongue softly, a private tic of irritation he rarely allowed himself. He didn’t agree with the standing orders—not entirely. But his hands were tied, and the chain extended all the way up to Strategic Command. Still, sitting helpless while a troop of glitter-draped idols raided his secured post gnawed at him.

He kept his eyes forward, watching the portal flicker below.

Coffee.

Of all the things to take, that stung the most. It wasn’t leftover from the awards show. It was a particular high end brand that had been requisitioned. Specifically. For their unit. Jang had signed the request form himself.

He exhaled deeply through his nostrils. He shouldn’t let his composure crack. Not in front of the men.

“Sir,” said Sergeant Park, stepping up beside him. “The civilian consultant at Strategic Command is asking about microphones. Specifically, a black and pink case with… a turtle sticker.”

Jang didn’t turn. “Why, Sergeant, should I care whether they take a microphone case in particular?”

Park kept one hand to his earpiece, brow furrowed. “She’s… very adamant, sir. Claims the case is of particular importance. One moment—she’s elaborating.”

Jang sighed. He did not have time to be playing telephone with some civilian relaying trivial information through his Sergeant. “Connect me directly. I’ll speak with her myself.”

“Yes, sir.” Park saluted, then tapped the control panel. A small chime indicated the comm transfer.

A beat later, a voice came through, bright, breathy, and unmistakably youthful.

“Uhh, hello? Are you still there?”

Jang’s brows drew together. She sounded like a child, not a consultant. He narrowed his eyes and dropped his voice into its full weight of command. “This is Commander Jang of the Special Warfare Command. Identify yourself.”

If she was, against all odds, the consultant in question, she needed to understand immediately: he was not someone to be taken lightly.

“Yes! Sorry, sir. I’m Pan Sori, civilian cultural consultant. I was brought in to advise on HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys, specifically their group dynamics, career history, and cultural relevance. I also had the right, uh, background to be granted expedited security clearance.”

Jang’s voice turned to steel. “How old are you, Ms. Pan?”

A pause.

“Not important. And we’re wasting time. You need to secure the black and pink case with the turtle sticker. It holds HUNTR/X’s personal mics.”

He let out another sigh, the fifth in a span of minutes that felt much longer. “What is the strategic relevance of a sticker-covered microphone case, Ms. Pan?”

The reply came rapid-fire, breathless and undeniable.

“I’ve been following every item Zoey and Mystery have pulled. Power station, fog machine, speakers, mixing console, food. But they haven’t touched microphones. Only Rumi and Jinu had mics on when the Idol Awards were interrupted, but assuming they’re planning a group performance, they’ll need more. And I guarantee Zoey will specifically target their personal mic set.”

A breath, then more.

“They started using custom sets after an incident where Mira’s battery pack flew off during a crazy spin and clocked a backup dancer in the head—he ended up in the hospital. There’d already been issues with the house sets before that—mics coming loose, shorting out mid-performance. Point is, they’ll make a beeline for their custom gear. Their costumes are literally designed to secure it. If you want to delay them or open a line of communication? Hold the turtle case. They’ll come to you.”

Jang blinked. Her words had merit.

He straightened sharply and pivoted toward the room. “Round up every microphone in the building. Handheld. Wireless. Boom. Headset. Strip the rehearsal halls, the tech booth, every crate and cable cart. Bring them here. Priority target is a black and pink case with a turtle sticker.”

“Yes, sir!”

The room surged into motion. Footfalls echoed. Crates cracked open. Two junior officers broke into a speed-walk toward the backstage hallway. Somewhere, a headset was snatched mid-charge cycle.

“Oh,” came Sori’s voice again, “and the sticker cartoon turtle has a little headset on. In case that helps.”

Jang closed his eyes for one blessed second. “Thank you, Ms. Pan. Unless HUNTR/X is known to possess multiple cases with turtle stickers, I believe that level of detail is unnecessary."

“Actually… it’s not impossible. Zoey really really likes turtles.”

Jang could feel his headache returning with surgical precision.

“Sergeant Park,” he said through gritted professionalism, “Have their manager escorted here. Get his assistance securing the correct case, and I want him standing in front of me in five minutes.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jang remained still. Like a sculpture made of stone and resignation.

Sori’s voice, a bit hesitant, crackled over the comms again. “Anything else I can help with, sir?”

Jang’s reply came, dry and pointed. “Anything else we can use to stop them from vanishing through another portal?”

“…No, sir. But, um, good luck.”

“Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Pan.” He gave a sharp nod no one could see and gestured to Park. “Switch me back to patrol comms.”

As the line clicked over, Jang refolded his arms behind his back.

Unusual circumstances called for unusual tactics.

If denying microphones to teleporting idols was the only way to force a diplomatic meeting, then so be it.

Let no one say Commander Jang couldn’t adapt.

Bobby sat on the edge of the black couch in the HUNTR/X dressing room, elbows on his knees, fingers loosely laced. The air still carried the faded traces of girls—Rumi’s rose water, Mira’s vanilla gloss, Zoey’s lemon-scented facewash. It was a room meant for energy, for laughter, for nerves and last-minute touch-ups before a live show.

Now it felt hollow. Like the girls had just stepped out of the room and left something behind. Like they might still come back, any moment.

That was the hope, anyway. The reason he was here.

When it became clear that he didn’t know anything useful—no insider magical knowledge, no secret connection to whatever mystical demon fighting organization they were a part of—he’d begged to stay. Just in case they came back. Just in case they called out for someone familiar.

He’d argued, calmly but firmly, that he might be the one person they’d trust on sight. That there might be a situation where he was useful. Maybe if they could establish communication, he could convince them to come back.

And someone, somewhere in the chain of command, must have found the logic sound enough. They’d agreed to let him remain onsite.

What they hadn’t mentioned was that “onsite” meant being confined under guard to the HUNTR/X dressing room. No access to the portal. No communication with the outside. And most frustratingly, no updates on the girls.

Just him.

And two silent, stone-faced soldiers standing at the door like statues, preventing him from leaving the room.

He looked up again, trying once more to meet the gaze of the nearest guard.

“Please,” Bobby said, his voice quiet, rough around the edges. “I’m not asking for much. I just want to know if there’s been any word.”

No reply.

He shifted forward slightly on the bench, elbows resting heavier on his knees. “I know I’m not mission-critical. I’m not a soldier or a scientist. But I know them. I’ve worked with them for years. I was there when Mira had her first panic attack backstage. When Zoey threw up before their debut. I’ve been the one steady thing in their lives through every scandal, schedule, and meltdown. Just please… if you can tell me anything.”

Still nothing.

“I know I can’t stop them from doing whatever it is they’re doing,” he continued, more to the room than the men, “but if they come back… if something goes wrong, I can help. I should help.”

Silence.

He rubbed his hands together slowly, trying to warm his fingertips. “But instead I’m just stuck here. In their dressing room. No intel. No updates. No word.”

He gave a shaky exhale. “I just want to know if they’re okay.”

He let the words sit in the air.

And then—
A muted chirp broke the silence.

The nearest soldier tilted his head, one gloved finger pressed to the comm in his ear. After a moment, he stepped forward.

“You’ve been requested,” he said. “By Commander Jang.”

Bobby stood slowly, knees stiff from sitting too long. “Are they back?” he asked. “Did something happen?”

“You’ll be briefed by Commander Jang.”

The soldier turned toward the door, but before he moved, the other one—still standing guard—spoke for the first time.

“Before we go,” he said, “are you aware of a specific microphone case belong to HUNTR/X? Black and pink. Possibly... a turtle sticker?”

Bobby blinked. “Yeah. That’s their carrying case for personal headsets. They bring it to every show. Nine custom mics in total. Three for the performance, the rest stay in the case as backups.”

He pointed to the corner shelf where the sleek, hard-sided case sat, slightly faded pink tape crookedly applied, the turtle sticker cheerfully grinning despite everything.

The soldier moved with military precision, lifting it like it contained explosives.

“That’s the one,” Bobby confirmed. “Zoey and Mira should still have a set each charging on an AV cart backstage. But there should be six more in there. Why—?”

Before he could finish, one soldier tapped his comm to relay the update. The other, ignoring the question entirely, turned back toward the hallway.

“Let’s go.”

The door hissed open, and Bobby followed without hesitation. The corridor outside buzzed with quiet urgency—boots on concrete, radios crackling with clipped Korean, the occasional clatter of secured gear. The deeper they moved into the stadium’s underbelly, the more the air seemed to press in around him, heavy with urgency and tension.

Eventually, they ascended a set of metal stairs and entered the Front of House control booth, now completely repurposed as a forward command post. Equipment cases had been shoved aside to make room for folding tables, power strips, and live security feeds. A scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air.

Commander Jang stood at the center of the booth, still and sharp as a blade drawn but not yet swung. His eyes flicked to Bobby the moment he stepped in, then to the case in the soldier’s hand.

“Set it down,” Jang said. “Thank you. Dismissed.”

The soldiers stepped out without a word.

Jang gestured Bobby forward.

“I understand you requested to stay on-site in case your idols returned.”

Bobby nodded once. “Yes, sir. I thought… if they came back, they’d talk to me. Trust me. They know me. Umm… did something happen, sir? Are they okay?”

Jang turned, folding his arms behind his back as he looked down at the ominous portal through the booth’s front window. “For the last half hour or so, Zoey and Mystery, as well as a single appearance of Baby, have been teleporting across the stadium in short bursts acquiring performance equipment.”

Bobby raised his eyebrows slightly, but didn’t interrupt.

“As far as we’re aware, they haven’t taken any microphones yet,” Jang continued. “Which brings us to you.”

He turned back toward Bobby.

“When they reappear, they’ll have to come here to acquire mics. Your job is to intercept them. Get them to stop, to speak, to listen— even for a minute. We need them to actually start cooperating with us. No more rogue vigilantism. No more keeping us in the dark. This is a matter of national security.”

Bobby swallowed, nodding.

“I’ll do what I can. They’re not trying to cause problems. They’re just… focused. Trying to help in the way they know how.”

“Then convince them,” Jang said. “Convince them to stay. Convince them to work with us.”

He stepped aside and motioned toward the mic case, now placed carefully on a portable folding table alongside a growing pile of different style microphones and battery packs.

Bobby exhaled slowly. The gravity of it all settled on his shoulders, but there was no fear, only determination.

“Yes, sir.”

Jang gave a single nod. “Then get ready.”

The portal cracked open with a rush of cool air and faint blue light, depositing Zoey and Mystery in the center of the HUNTR/X dressing room.

Empty.

Zoey spun in place, eyes scanning the room. Glitter still dusted the countertops. Jackets and empty makeup pouches sat where they’d left them. But the far corner where she expected to find the backup mic case was bare.

Behind her, Mystery lingered near the punching bag, head tilted at the taped-on, crinkled poster of a shirtless Abby.

“Why do you have a picture of just Abby in your dressing room?” he asked, blinking.

Zoey froze mid-step, then turned with a half-laugh, half-groan. “Uhh. That’s Mira’s. She put it up. Don’t worry about it.”

Mystery studied the poster again. “Should I bring it back for her?”

Zoey spluttered. “As hilarious as that would be, we’re kind of on a tight schedule.”

“Derpy!” she called. “Backstage portal, please!”

A burst of blue shimmered into life beside them as Derpy dutifully complied.

Zoey stepped through without hesitation.

Mystery lingered a beat longer, still eyeing the poster. Then, almost reflexively, he loosened the tie holding his shirt closed, tugging the knot further down and pulling fabric aside until the top half of his chest was exposed. He gave a small, satisfied nod, then followed Zoey through the portal.

They emerged behind the wings of the darkened stage, where rolling cases and rig carts sat stacked in haphazard lines. Zoey made a beeline to the charging station, the usual spot for their personal headset mics during a performance.

Gone.

The AV rack where Mira’s and her own sets had been charging was empty. A single dangling cord swayed gently as if someone had just been there.

Zoey let out a groan. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Mystery was already turning his head, scanning the far side of the backstage area.

“Next?” he asked calmly.

Zoey chewed her lower lip, thinking.

“Maybe at the other entrance to the stage. I think there were some handheld mics on the east side.”

She confidently stepped across the stage, followed by Mystery, taking a quick glance at the swirling vortex of darkness that was Gwi-Ma’s portal.

A flicker of movement in her peripheral vision caught her attention. She looked over to the Front of House control booth.

A figure was waving at them frantically, brightly lit in the normally dark control booth. One hand high above his head, the other holding a black hard case wrapped with a strip of pink tape.

“Bobby?” Zoey breathed.

Sure enough, he was standing there, hair rumpled, jacket slightly askew, but unmistakably Bobby. And beside him, arms folded and jaw set like stone, stood a man who radiated authority and disapproval in equal measure.

Behind them, a new blue portal appeared in the floor. Derpy’s striped head poked out, Sussie perched proudly between his ears. She let out a trilling squawk of greeting.

Zoey glanced from Bobby to the unfamiliar military man to the control booth windows now lined with grim, armed soldiers.

She swallowed. “…Derpy?”

Derpy blinked at her.

She pointed toward the booth. “Can you, uh… make a portal to there, next?”

The tiger gave a low rumble and bobbed his head. Zoey and Mystery hopped in and a moment later they were rising from the floor of the control booth.

Around them, the room went still.

Twelve Special Forces soldiers stood at their posts, silent and unmoving, eyes fixed on the two intruders.

Zoey offered a small, awkward wave.

“Uhh… hi,” she said, trying for cheer and landing somewhere in the realm of please-don’t-shoot-me. “I just need that black and pink case, please…”

She pointed weakly at the mic case in Bobby’s hands.

Bobby didn’t move. He looked straight at her, concern written plain across his face.

“Are Rumi and Mira okay?” he asked, voice steady but taut.

Zoey’s expression shifted immediately, awkwardness dropping into something more serious. She nodded quickly, eyes softening.

“They’re fine. Really. A little tired, but okay. We’re okay.”

She glanced toward the stone-faced commander beside Bobby.

“…We just need the mics.” she said. “Then we’re gone.”

Bobby’s hands tightened around the case. “No. Wait.”

She frowned. “Bobby—”

“Listen to me,” he said, voice rough with urgency. “You don’t have to do this.”

She shook her head. “Yes, we do.”

“No, you don’t.” He stepped forward, not hostile, just hurt . “You’re idols. You sing. You dance. You inspire people. That’s already enough. This—” he gestured toward the portal behind her, “this isn’t your burden.”

Zoey’s jaw clenched.

“You don’t understand,” she said. “We’re not just idols. We’re hunters. Generations upon generations have passed down the training and knowledge to—”

Commander Jang’s voice cut in, calm and commanding. “With respect, Ms. Chae, none of that changes the fact that you are endangering yourselves and others by acting independently.”

Zoey turned to him slowly.

“I understand your desire to save your friend,” Jang continued. “But you are not a special operations unit. You are civilians. Your actions are impacting the safety of not just this facility, but the entire Republic of Korea. Possibly the world. Let us handle this. That’s our job. Not yours.”

Zoey’s expression hardened. “But it is our job.”

Jang’s brow furrowed slightly.

She looked between them—at Bobby, eyes pleading, and Jang, posture carved from authority. Then she lifted her chin.

“We have the skills, the experience, and the determination,” she said. “We’ve been fighting demons for years—ones you didn’t even know existed. We’ve trained. We’ve bled. We’ve faced things that would make most soldiers run.”

Her voice wavered, just slightly, then steadied.

“This isn’t new. It’s just bigger. And we’re the ones best equipped to go after Jinu. And we’re going to do so in a way that only we can do.”

Bobby’s voice cracked. “Zoey—”

She looked at him, and the sorrow in her eyes was unmistakable.

“I’m sorry, Bobby.”

The words were soft—barely more than breath—but final.

Before he could respond, Zoey moved.

In one sudden blur of motion, she surged forward. Her foot struck upward with dancer’s precision, kicking the mic case clean from Bobby’s hands. It spun into the air, catching the light as it arced backward.

Zoey leapt after it, twisting midair into a backflip. Her fingers snatched the case mid-rotation, her body already angling toward the still-open portal behind them.

A Special Forces officer moved on instinct, lunging to intercept. He threw his body into her path, arms out, stance wide.

But Mystery was faster.

He grabbed the soldier by the collar and yanked him aside with one fluid motion, firm but controlled, redirecting rather than harming. Then, without missing a beat, he stepped into the space in front of the portal just as Zoey came flying toward him.

He caught her mid-fall, arms wrapping around her effortlessly, the mic case tucked between them, and swept her into a perfect, almost absurdly graceful princess carry.

With one final step, Mystery dove into the portal, the swirling blue light swallowing them whole.

“Zoey!” Bobby shouted, stumbling forward, hand outstretched.

But it was too late.

The portal sealed behind them with a soft, final whoomp. Like breath drawn in but never let out.

Silence fell.

Bobby stood there, arms empty, staring at the place she’d vanished. The ghost of her apology still lingered in the air, sharp and aching.

She was gone.

With a shimmer and a pulse of blue light, the portal flared open at the center of the stone platform that served as their makeshift stage in the demon realm. The flare ebbed, and Zoey and Mystery rose into view, Zoey still nestled in Mystery’s arms, the black-and-pink mic case wedged protectively between them.

For a heartbeat, they lingered like that.

Zoey blinked up at him, cheeks flushed from the rush of adrenaline. Then she broke into a fit of breathless laughter, light and giddy. “Hehehe.”

Biting her lip, she tilted her head. “Thanks… for catching me.”

Mystery’s ears flushed a muted violet. He parted his lips like he meant to respond, reconsidered, then cleared his throat with uncharacteristic stiffness. Wordlessly, he straightened and set her down with utmost care, as if afraid she might shatter on contact with the ground.

“No problem,” he said at last, his voice a little too even.

A few meters ahead, Rumi crouched beside a tangled mess of speaker cords, frowning intently as she attempted to pair the salvaged mixing console to half a dozen battery-powered units. Mira stood nearby like a general surveying a battlefield, adjusting the LED par lights and cycling through color modes with practiced taps, her expression serious, her taste unforgiving.

Just off to the side, Baby sat cross-legged on a flat rock shelf, nursing the last few drops from his sixth paper coffee cup. A miniature graveyard of emptied cups surrounded him like fallen soldiers.

“You know Jinu said too much coffee isn’t good for you,” Abby commented, perched beside him with one leg crossed over the other, calmly observing the gathering crowd of demons below the platform.

Baby didn’t even blink. “Jinu would have to be here for me to listen to him.”

He stared into the empty cup, then added, “Also, the coffee gives me an edge.”

To punctuate the statement, he crushed the cup slowly between his fingers with the ceremonial gravity of a battle-hardened warrior. The crinkling paper hissed faintly before he tossed it onto the pile like a conquered foe.

Zoey approached, setting down the mic case with a victorious flourish. “Delivery successful!” she announced. Her gaze drifted over to the makeshift coffee station and lit up like it had been summoned from the heavens. “Ooh, coffee. Gimme gimme.”

She grabbed a cup, filled it to the brim, and downed it in one long gulp. “Ohhhh, that’s the good stuff.”

One cup turned into two more in quick succession, and by the end of her third, she stood straight as a wire, pupils dilated, practically vibrating with caffeinated enthusiasm.

“What are you all doing?” she asked, eyes darting between the console and the lights. “Never mind, I’ve got it.”

Then she moved. Fast.

In a flurry of motion and muttered instructions, she paired the Bluetooth, connected the wires, plugged in the flash drive holding their backing tracks, adjusted the fog machine settings for maximum drama, and, because she could, flung carb-heavy snacks from the stolen concession cart around like edible blessings.

Rumi caught a pack of seaweed crisps mid-connection. Mira snagged a power bar with a single raised eyebrow. Baby, Abby, Mystery, and their demon guide with the bamboo flute all ducked or caught theirs in varying states of confusion and amusement.

Finally, Zoey zipped back to the mic case, pulled out their personal headsets, and handed them out one by one with the flair of a magician presenting her finest trick.

Sweat beading at her temples, she planted her hands on her hips, grinned wide, and threw up a peace sign.

“Everything’s set up!” she declared, panting slightly.

There was a beat of silence.

Then the fog machine hissed obligingly in the background, and one of the speakers crackled to life.

The show was about to begin.

Chapter Text

The platform sat in the very heart of the trading post’s main thoroughfare, directly beneath the shadow of a giant carved into the mountainside. Tassadar loomed above them, stone robes forever caught in a wind that had never blown. His hollow eyes, carved as twin recesses, gazed over the river and the crowd alike, their emptiness carrying the weight of battles fought and sacrifices made. The platform itself was broad and unyielding, its edges ringed by brass lanterns whose cold-blue flames burned with a steadiness that defied wind or time. Their glow threw restless shadows over the carvings etched into the mountain’s base, Zerg and Protoss figures locked in eternal conflict, so that the light seemed to make them shift and writhe.

The market’s life pressed close around it, scent-layered and alive: the savory smoke of meat charring over coals, a pinch of spice sharp enough to sting the back of the throat, the green-bitter tang of unfamiliar herbs, and beneath it all the briny breath of the river threading through the valley’s stone jaws. Somewhere in the crowd, a vendor sang out about fresh skewers. Somewhere else, Hon-gi crystals clinked against stone in the quick, private rhythm of trade.

A coil of fog spilled across the stage, curling low around ankles before drifting outward toward the lanterns. This was no thin mountain mist. Its weight clung to the ground, moving in strange, swirling, unnatural patterns. The nearest demons drew up short, suspicion flashing in their eyes; smoke without fire was a warning in these parts. A few muttered darkly, stepping back on instinct.

Then the LEDs snapped to life. Strategically positioned around the platform, they bathed the fog in slow-turning tides of color—red deepening to violet, then melting into a rippling spectrum that shimmered in the haze. The light fractured into faint halos, bending and reforming with each subtle shift of the air, as though the stage itself were set beneath the surface of a sunlit pool. The crowd’s uneasy grumble softened into a ripple of curiosity.

Those who had spared only a passing glance at the odd devices earlier now found their attention caught, curiosity pulling them closer. The platform was usually a place of bare stone and solemn purpose, where prayers rose to Tassadar in measured cadence, or bids were shouted with the blunt efficiency of trade. Now, under the wash of shifting light and curling fog, that austerity had been disrupted. The scene held a memorizing artistry, drawing attention from all across the busy docks. 

Then—

 A bamboo flute, somber and clear, cut across the docks. One pure tone held—a clean line that gentled the bustle and turned faces toward the stage. The demon stepped out of the color-washed haze, flute lifted, cheeks barely shifting as he fed the note with slow, exact breath; stone and water gave it back in a soft echo. He held, letting the hush gather around it.

When the backing track for “Soda Pop” cracked through the speakers, he burst into motion, threading that note into the bassline. The old woodwind timbre braided with the beat, lending lift to the bare-bones intro. He pivoted on the ball of his foot, tugging wisps of colored fog like ribbons, light winking along the lacquered bamboo as it flashed past his knuckles. On two and four he hit crisp, surgical pops with his shoulder, heel, and head, keeping time as the platform thrummed beneath him.

When the soda can opening psst-CHHKhit over the speakers, he grinned, took the cue, and slid to the side with a little flourish, the last note arcing outward like a handoff as he cleared the center of the stage.

Then Abby emerged. One step, then a slow spin that swept the fog into a trailing arc around him, the colored light catching in shifting eddies. His gaze slid across the crowd, lazy and self-assured, daring them to look away.

A sharp, high-pitched voice pierced the thickening murmur.

"It’s the Saja Boys!"

The effect was instant—electric. Heads snapped toward the stage as though pulled by a single thread. The knot of early onlookers swelled in an instant, bodies pressing forward, some stumbling over uneven stone in their hurry to see. Brass lanterns guttered faintly in the rising current of movement, blue flames casting restless shadows across eager faces.

Baby strode up beside Abby, his grin edged with challenge, while Mystery slipped into position at their flank, calm, unreadable, the anchor to their forward momentum. The three moved like they had been born to this space, claiming it as easily as breath. A few demons in the front row clapped in sync with the beat before the first words even landed, their palms striking sharp against the hum of anticipation.

The intro kicked in—playful, teasing, three sharp calls to attention:

"Hey, hey—
 Hey, hey—
 Hey."

The rhythm tightened its grip. Fog hissed in low, steady breaths from the machines, curling around their ankles, carrying the faint warmth of the stage lights. Abby stepped forward, voice hitting the first verse with precision that cut through the air:

"Don't want you, need you
 Yeah, I need you to fill me up
 마시고 마셔 봐도
 성에 차지 않아
 Got a feeling that, oh, yeah (Yeah)
 You could be everything that
 That I need (Need), taste so sweet (Sweet)
 Every sip makes me want more, yeah"

The crowd erupted at the last line, their cheers folding into the bassline. Mystery slid seamlessly into his part, his tone smooth enough to ride the beat like it belonged to him. Baby and Mystery volleyed lines back and forth, each pass sharper than the last:

"Lookin' like snacks 'cause you got it like that (Woo)
 Take a big bite, want another bite, yeah
 너의 모든 걸 난 원해, 원해, 원해
 너 말곤 모두 뻔해, 뻔해, 뻔해
 When you're in my arms, I hold you so tight (So tight)
 Can't let go, no, no, not tonight"

Blue firelight and the occasional LED ray caught the fine sheen of sweat along their temples, each movement dragging wisps of colored smoke like an afterimage.

And then—

From the shadowed edge of the platform, three figures emerged.

HUNTR/X.

They shrugged off their sochangui robes in one smooth motion, the fabric whispering to the stone as it fell. Then they threw back their gats in perfect unison, dark brims catching the lanternlight for an instant before disappearing into the fog.

What they revealed beneath was blinding—white and black sequined fabric that caught the LEDs and shattered their glow into a rainbow cascade. Every movement sent fresh bursts of color rippling across them, as though the stage itself had been set alight.

The audience reacted like a startled animal: a collective flinch, a shuffle backward, a ripple of sharp whispers slicing through the hum of the crowd.

Humans?

Panic bloomed. Hands twitched towards hidden weapons. Eyes darted between the Saja Boys and the newcomers, confusion etched as plainly as suspicion. Why would the Saja Boys—Gwi-Ma’s own demons—bring humans onto a sacred platform?

A voice broke loose from the press of bodies, high and ragged.
“This is a trap! We’re going to die!”

But the market square was too packed for a clean retreat. Bodies pressed against one another in tight knots, the lack of space compressing fear into something sharp and restless.

Then—

Rumi’s voice cut through the din, bright and unwavering, perfectly locked to the beat. It slid into the air like a line thrown to a drowning crowd. Mira joined in almost instantly, her harmony warm and grounding, followed by Zoey’s playful, shimmering high notes. Together they stepped in close to the Saja Boys, spinning into the choreography as if this had always been part of the song. The flute playing demon, also doing his part to attempt to calm down the crowd, energetically played his flute, bobbing between HUNTR/X playfully.

It wasn’t an ambush.
It was… a performance.

The crowd’s panic hitched, faltered, teetering on the edge of confusion. No one struck. No weapons were drawn. The Saja Boys didn’t look alarmed—in fact, their grins only widened, verses passing between them and the humans like the easiest thing in the world.

And the song…

The hook was absurdly catchy.

The bassline rolled out in smooth, thrumming waves, bouncing off the water and curling back over the square. The melody was light and buoyant, its effervescence threading itself into the air until even the most stubborn fear began to fray. Without meaning to, a demon near the front tapped a claw against his thigh in time with the beat. Another, further back, swayed—barely at first, then a little more when she thought no one was watching.

The voices wove together, the higher notes threading effortlessly over the deeper tones, each line folding into the next. The blend gave the song a broader, richer harmony than before, the expanded range adding new colors to a melody the crowd already knew and making it hit just that much harder.

By the time they reached the chorus, fear had thinned into wary curiosity. By the second chorus, curiosity was bending toward something far more dangerous to suspicion: enjoyment.

A demon at the front cast a sideways glance at his companion, lifted his chin, and began nodding along. Another crossed her arms, muttering under her breath, but her gaze never left the stage.

No one in the crowd could have explained it—not why humans stood under Tassadar’s shadow beside the Saja Boys, not why the blue lantern flames seemed to dance in time with the beat. But in that moment, it didn’t matter.

The humans weren’t attacking.
And the music was good.

By the time Soda Pop slid into its final chorus and bubbly outro, the square was a swirl of movement and sound. Mira and Abby’s harmonies twined together in bright, clean lines; Baby’s grin flashed like a dare; Zoey and Mystery spun in perfect mirror-image, their steps crisp against the beat.

The crowd roared its approval, a sea of blue firelight and restless energy. Moments ago, they’d been swaying and bobbing to the rhythm. Now they leaned into one another, voices overlapping in excited chatter, half about the song, half about the Saja Boys, all of it tinged with disbelief.

Then came the murmurs. Small at first, then gathering like ripples pushing outward.

“My Hon-gi… it rose so much. So fast.”
“It’s like a gushing tide—I’ve never had so much at once.”
“How is this even possible?”

The words leapt from demon to demon, sparking a new kind of thrill—no longer just about the music, but about the impossible shift they were feeling in themselves.

Rumi’s gaze flicked skyward. Above the valley, the Honmoon shimmered faintly, its surface quivering with light, yet drawing in nothing.

“They’re generating way more Hon-gi than normal,” Mystery murmured, hand cupped over his mic, his voice low enough for only the group to hear. “Maybe because the experience is so new to them? Or…” He hesitated. “Or does music actually do something to Hon-gi generation?”

Mira frowned, her eyes scanning the crowd. “Then why don’t I feel it gathering? Normally I can sense it, like I’m floating in warm water during a performance.”

“Because they’re demons,” Baby said simply, no smile now. “They don’t release their Hon-gi the way humans do. They keep it all.”

A beat of silence stretched between them, thick with the weight of that truth.

Zoey’s gaze darted from one face to another. “So… what do we do?”

Silence.

Then Rumi moved.

She stepped forward, past the others, until she stood alone at the front-center of the platform. The rainbow shimmer from the LEDs caught in the inky swirls of her demon patterns, making them shift between shadow and iridescence. Against her human skin, they seemed almost alive—climbing up her arms, curling across her shoulders like something claimed and worn without shame.

The motion drew eyes. Some stared in unease at the clash of human features and the noticeable demon patterns; others looked with open curiosity, heads tilted as if trying to place her in either world and failing.

Her voice came steady, not loud, but carrying. It didn’t demand attention; it commanded it.
“I’m not human,” she said. “Not entirely.”

The crowd stirred, a ripple moving through the square, low murmurs, some wary, others edged with awe.

From the edge of the stage, the flute demon lifted his bamboo flute, weaving a soft, tentative tune beneath her words, the notes rising like threads of light.

“My mother was a hunter. My father… a demon. That’s the truth.”

She let the words hang, then lifted her gaze to the cloudy sky, to where the Honmoon shimmered faintly like a half-seen reflection on water.

“And I’m changing this. For all of us.”

The crowd’s chatter ebbed into quiet. Dozens of eyes fixed on her. Waiting.

“You don’t have to keep living in fear of Gwi-Ma,” she said. “That fear you feel, the shame, it’s his leash around your neck. But you can stop it. Stop letting him decide who you are. Stop letting him hold power over you, over everyone .”

The flute demon nodded furiously, blasting out a heroic trill that might have belonged at the climax of a war epic.

“You feel it, don’t you? If you reach out to the Honmoon, there’s warmth there. We’re building it into a protection for all of us, humans, demons, it doesn’t matter.”

Above, the Honmoon’s glow trembled faintly, as if acknowledging her.

“If we work together, we can be free. The Honmoon can keep Gwi-Ma out. It can shield us. Help us heal from old wounds. Give us a chance to be something more.”

From near the front, a small, uncertain voice spoke up. “But… why would you protect us?”

Rumi found the speaker, a young demon with wide, uncertain eyes, and met her gaze.

“Because I’m tired, too,” she said softly. “Tired of shame. Of silence. Of dividing the world into ‘us’ and ‘them.’ If you’re sick of being controlled… then help me make something better.”

She lifted her hand, palm open toward the crowd.

The flute demon immediately softened his playing, puffing out a trembling, hopeful little lullaby.

“You don’t have to give everything. Just a little Hon-gi. Just enough to say you believe there could be another way.”

The silence that followed pressed down like weight. Only the flute lingered, softer, thinner, as the demons failed to move.

Demons glanced to one another in quick, sidelong flickers. A few shook their heads; others let their gazes drop. The little demon who had spoken earlier was hushed, a large, scarred hand nudging her behind the broad back of an older figure. The flute demon’s notes faltered into awkward squeaks, and he peeked at Rumi like he wanted her to tell him what to play next.

Rumi didn’t lower her arm, but Mira saw the tightness in her jaw, the breath she held too long.

Mira stepped forward, boots scraping stone.

“Really?” she muttered. “She’s literally offering you freedom, and you’re treating it like it’s a trap.”

The flute demon, misreading the moment, suddenly blasted out a triumphant dun-dun-DUNNN like he was announcing the final boss, before bursting into what sounded like battle music.

Mira snapped her head toward him with a death glare. He froze mid-pose, squeaked one last note, then tiptoed backward as if retreating into the fog.

Zoey patted his back as he deflated. “For what it’s worth,” she whispered, “I think the boss music fits Mira.”

Mira stood square in front of Rumi now, arms crossed, gaze sharp as a blade.

“Let me ask you something,” she called, voice hard and clear. “Do you actually know who Tassadar was? Or did someone carve a massive statue of him just because his chin looks noble and heroic?”

That got their attention. Dozens of heads turned. A low wave of indignant murmurs rolled through the docks like wind before a storm. A horned demon narrowed his eyes. Another raised a hand in quiet protest, only to lower it just as quickly.

“Because if you did know,” Mira continued, her voice sharpening, “you’d see what’s happening right now for what it is.”

Her gaze swept across them, scarred and cloaked, proud and cautious. Some crouched like beasts, others stood proudly like sages. But not one moved.

“Tassadar wasn’t some clean-cut hero following orders,” she said. “He disobeyed everything he was raised to believe. The Conclave exiled him. The Dark Templar didn’t trust him. He stood between two forces locked in a generations-long grudge and— He. Chose. Both . He didn’t let the fear of tradition or shame keep him from doing what was right.”

A few demons hissed low in their throats, but more listened now. Mira saw it in the shift of their postures, the stilled hands, the twitching tails and flickering auras.

“He combined their strengths—what everyone else thought was impossible—and he used that power to destroy the Overmind. He died doing it, not for glory, but so the rest of them could live. All of them.”

A sudden, sharp intake of breath caught Mira’s attention.

She squinted into the crowd… and there, right at the front, hunched low with clawed fingers tangled in their long, dripping hair, was a water demon. His frame was little more than bone draped in translucent blue skin, quivering like sea grass stirred by a passing current. Wide eyes shimmered with barely-contained tears, and glowing droplets streaked down their cheeks like liquid opals.

Zoey leaned in to whisper, “Why does that water demon have the hugest puppy dog eyes I’ve ever seen?”

“They’re all like that,” Baby replied without blinking. “Huge crybabies.”

The water demon gasped theatrically, hands flying to clasp their chest. “You know the true history of Tassadar!”

Mira paled.

“Please!"  the demon wailed, voice cracking like a wave shattering against rock. “Please teach us, oh great Priestess of Tassadar!”

Mira’s face went blank. “What? No. I’m not— I’m not a priestess. I’m just—Look, it doesn’t matter!”

The water demon collapsed dramatically to their knees.

Mira groaned and facepalmed hard enough to rock her whole upper body. “Oh for the love of—”

But it was too late. The crowd had shifted. One horned demon leaned over to whisper urgently to a neighbor. Another dropped to the ground and began murmuring reverent phrases in what appeared to be a prayer. A pale demoness in the front row gazed at her with glassy, glowing eyes, practically vibrating with awe.

“The point,” Mira barked, whirling back toward them and stabbing a finger toward center stage, “is her!”

Rumi stood still, bathed in the soft glow of the LED stage lights and magical demon lanterns, her expression a quiet, complex mess of stunned disbelief, quiet horror, and deep, fragile hope.

“She’s doing what Tassadar did,” Mira continued, her voice rising. “She’s standing between two worlds and trying to build something instead of tearing it down.”

Her voice echoed off the stone walls now. The surrounding crowd had fallen into utter stillness.

“She’s not here to hurt you. She’s not here to steal your power or trick you or shame you. She wants all of us to stop fighting and start healing. The Honmoon isn’t just a wall anymore. It’s becoming something better. Something we can all stand under. Together. ”

For a moment, no one moved.

Then, with a trembling inhale, the water demon slowly raised one hand above their head. They exhaled, long and shivering, and a single wisp of Hon-gi rose from their chest, glowing a soft, luminescent blue. It floated upward like a candle flame set free from gravity, rising until it brushed the threads of the Honmoon high above. Where it touched, the sky pulsed faintly with light.

Another thread followed.

Then another.

All across the docks, small ribbons of Hon-gi began to lift into the air, glowing faintly in every shade imaginable—red and gold, deep violet, sea green. Some demons still hesitated, arms crossed, faces wary. But they were no longer retreating.

They were listening. It was working .

At the center of it all, Rumi stood staring up at the strengthening Honmoon, her hands lowering slowly to her chest. Her throat worked as if she might speak, but instead she blinked hard, and whispered, almost inaudibly:

“Thank you.”

Beside her, Mira let out a long breath—and immediately regretted it as Abby sidled up with a faint smirk.

“Good job… High Priestess.”

“Don’t even joke about that,” Mira muttered through her teeth.

Zoey cackled. “You’re not getting out of this, High Priestess.”

Mira threw her hands skyward, exasperated. “Ugh! It’s just Starcraft! I don’t even main Protoss!”

Her cry echoed through the valley.

The water demon clutched their chest and whispered, “She’s so humble…”

A low hum vibrated in the air. HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys watched as threads of Hon-gi drifted lazily into the sky, their glow soft but persistent, weaving deeper into the Honmoon’s fabric.

Then Rumi stepped forward again, the colors of the flames reflecting faintly in her eyes. The crowd watched her—hesitant, uncertain, changed, but open. Her voice cut through the hush like silk through water.

“We wrote this song for someone,” she said, her voice clear and steady despite the weight in her chest. “For Jinu. For the parts of him trapped in silence. For anyone who’s ever thought shame was all they were allowed to carry.”

She glanced up toward the barrier, toward the threads reaching outward. “But it’s not just for him anymore.”

Her gaze swept the crowd of demons—some broken, some cautious, some still conflicted.

“It’s for anyone who’s tired of being trapped. Tired of being told they’re too damaged to be free. Anyone who’s tired of living in fear under Gwi-Ma.”

A few demons shifted. A murmur rippled.

Rumi turned back toward her group. Zoey gave her a thumbs up, ready and waiting over by the Mixing Console.

She nodded once.

The backing track kicked in—sharp, powerful, defiant.

The sharp beats of the Takedown backing track began followed by the pre-recorded intro.

"Takedown, takedown… Takedown, down, down, down…"

But before they could start singing, the sky tore open .

Three jagged portals yawned into existence above the stage, ripping through the clouds like open wounds. From each, a heavily armored demon dropped, blades drawn, demon patterns glowing with harsh violet energy. They landed hard, stone cracking beneath their boots.

The lead demon, taller than the rest and clad in blackened bronze with a jagged crest, raised his voice.

“On the authority of Lord Gwi-Ma, you are hereby ordered to surrender immediately. ”

Rumi stepped forward, her purple saingeom sword materializing in her hand. “We’re not afraid of you.”

The demon’s expression didn’t change. “Then we’ll take you by force.”

Zoey grinned and snapped back, “Yeah? You and what army?”

There was a beat of silence.

Then the rooftops filled.

Dozens of demons appeared, armed, armored, some even aiming glowing arrows, likely boosted by Hon-gi, towards the platform. At the far edges of the docks, more poured in through the alleyways, boots pounding the ground in unison. At least fifty, maybe a hundred, all with glowing patterns and ready to fight.

Mira groaned with exasperation. “Why would you say that? There’s always an army when someone says that line. If there wasn’t, Gwi-Ma would probably teleport one in just to spite you.”

Zoey winced. “Okay fair, but it seemed appropriate at the time—”

Baby cracked his knuckles. “Doesn’t matter. We’re not backing down.”

Abby’s grin was pure malice. “Yes! I was worried we wouldn’t get to fight at all!”

Mystery said nothing, but he crouched down, ready to pounce, gaze steady as steel.

Rumi took in the mass of demons flooding the docks, her stance unshaken. When she spoke, her voice was a blade drawn in the dark. “Let them come.”

The music from the platform speakers still pounded, the bass rippling through the fog as she broke into the first verse.

"So soft, that voice inside your head, with silken lies you were fed…"

She launched forward mid-lyric, sword gleaming in the torchlight. The first demon met her with a halberd, but Rumi ducked low, blade slicing across the polearm’s haft with a clack , then pivoted and knocked the weapon from his grip with a clean upward slash.

"Whole life drowning in dread, but don’t believe what it said—"

Mira’s weapon materialized in her grip—a gleaming gok-do, curved and heavy with its own spiritual weight. She whirled into motion, blocking a horned demon’s cleaver with a grunt before kicking him backward down the stairs.

On the opposite flank, Zoey’s shin-kal flew from her hands like flickers of light. She danced across the platform's edge, flinging blades into a charging trio of dokkaebi demons. One teleported just as a blade hit, only to reappear and take the second blade to the shoulder. He crumpled, dazed but alive.

"I’m ’bout to switch up these vibes—stand tall and open your eyes…"

Abby vanished with a blur, reappearing behind a burly demon with a club and tapping its shoulder. “Boo.” When it turned, his leg was already sweeping across its midsection, knocking it off balance. The demon yelped and fell off the platform, where he promptly crashed through a vendor cart.

"I’m right here now—let’s reclaim your light!"

Mystery flashed into existence at the heart of the archer formation, spinning once, claws carving swift arcs through those too slow to move. The moment they wheeled to loose their shots, he vanished, reappearing behind them just as their arrows found each other instead. Two slashes followed, precise, fluid as brushstrokes, sending weapons clattering to the stone before he slipped away into the air again.

And then a squeaky whump echoed from stage left.

Everyone, demon, idol, and audience alike, paused just long enough to watch the armored demon Rumi was fighting, the leader of this loyalist force… get swallowed by a shimmering portal beneath his feet.

The demon yelped and vanished.

There was silence for three seconds.

Then, with a whooshing THWUMP, he reappeared in midair, at least six stories high, and fell like a meteor into the river at the far edge of the docks.

Peeking out from behind a speaker, Derpy blinked, looking very pleased with himself.

Perched atop his head, Sussie smirked.

Rumi didn’t even blink. “Thanks.”

Taking the reprieve, she focused on singing, injecting every ounce of sincerity she could into her voice.

"Cause I see the real you underneath all the pain
 You’ve been drowning in the dark underneath all the blame
 When your patterns start to show
 I see a pain that lies below deep in your veins"

She dematerialized her sword and reached her hand out to the remains of the audience, the ones who were still watching, despite taking cover. More wisps of Hon-gi materialized from around the docks, reaching towards the Honmoon.

"You’re strong enough to face the takedown
 Every scar and shame you were taught to fear, bring it all right here
 Yeah, it’s a takedown
 The past can’t keep you caged if you rise through it, let it burn away"

Blades clashed in ringing bursts. Fire arced overhead, scattering sparks like molten rain. The stage shuddered under each impact, but the music never broke.

Zoey and Mira traded lines, their voices threading through the chaos.

"It’s a takedown, we’re not backing out, we break chains like—crack!
 It’s a takedown, all the fear and doubt, we’re never lookin’ back…"

Mid-verse, Mira caught a charging loyalist by the arm, pivoted, and hurled them over her shoulder. They hit the stone steps with a bone-jarring thud, and she sang on without missing a note. Zoey swept past two more, her footwork a blur of precision and rhythm, voice ringing clear as her heel drove a demon flat to the ground.

On the far side of the stage, Baby moved like a whisper through smoke, claws reflecting the twirling LED lights in colorful flashes. He slipped past a strike without even glancing, spun low, and swept the attacker’s legs from under them. The demon crashed down hard, but Baby didn’t press the advantage. He simply stood over them, gaze steady.

“Still want to fight?” he asked, voice low enough to be almost drowned by the music.

The soldier froze, hesitation flickering in their eyes.

Rumi stepped forward, the stage light catching in the glow of her markings as she sang the next line—her voice steady, sure.

"When your patterns start to show…
I see a pain that lies below, deep in your veins…"

Mystery appeared in the middle of a charging line, crouched low, claws grazing the stone like a sprinter at the start. For a heartbeat, he was still—then he exploded upward in a whirl of motion, his strikes weaving tight, elegant arcs one moment and savage, raking swipes the next. A spear splintered under a precise parry; a helmet flew off under a feral backhand. He moved like water until he didn’t—until he was teeth and claws and raw instinct—then vanished again, leaving behind nothing but the sound of metal clattering to the ground.

Abby caught an incoming blade between his claws and held it like it was nothing, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Why fight for Gwi-Ma?” he asked, shoving the weapon aside and stepping in with a sharp hook to the ribs. The demon staggered, but Abby kept talking, his tone almost conversational as he drove a kick into their side. “He doesn’t care about you.” One last shove sent them skidding across the stone. “You could die here, and it wouldn’t matter to him.”

The demon turned toward him—then froze, the fight bleeding from their eyes. They didn’t strike again.

Across the chaos, a loyalist on the far side of the docks hurled fireball after fireball toward the stage, forcing Zoey and Mira to weave between bursts of heat. Baby’s eyes tracked the flames as one skidded wide, exploding against a stack of crates near the edge of the docks. The wood caught instantly, fire licking higher, trapping two small demon children who were crouched behind, trying to hide from the danger.

Without hesitation, Baby sprinted across the stage and vaulted into the gap, landing between the kids and the spreading blaze. He hooked one arm under each child and teleported a small distance to an area safe from the fire. Then he turned on the loyalist who’d been throwing fireballs, voice carrying like a knife through the music.

“This what you signed up for?” he called out, the terrified children huddling behind him. “Scaring kids? Almost roasting them alive? Is this the kind of person you are, the kind of person you want to be?”

The loyalist’s next fireball died in their hand, expression faltering. Baby crouched, murmured something low to the kids, and herded them behind the safety of a nearby fruit stall before slipping back into the fight, shaking his head.

Rumi’s voice rose, drawing every gaze back to her.

“Oh, you believed you had to suffer…
머릿속 그 소리 듣지 마 [Don’t listen to that voice in your head]”

The tone shifted—quieter now, pleading. She wasn’t singing to the crowd anymore. She was singing to the ones who still swung their weapons. To the ones whose eyes burned with pain more than fury.

“You let your pain take over, hope smothered
 But you’re not on your own right now”

A demon charged her… then stopped mid-stride, sword trembling in their grip. Their patterns flared once, then dimmed. Another dropped their blade entirely, drawing ragged, shuddering breaths like someone surfacing from deep water.

Still, she sang.

“So please, just let me understand
 I know it’s hard, but I won’t walk away
 가면 벗고 울어도 돼 [You can cry without the mask], I will never leave 
 You're still you, so let’s be free!”

One demon sank to their knees, burying their face in clawed hands. Another unclasped their armor and let it fall with a metallic crash to the stone.

The battle didn’t end, but it thinned. Confusion rippled through Gwi-Ma’s loyalists as they turned to see their own allies faltering, crying, changing.

Then all of HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys lifted their voices together.

“I'm here with you let’s take it down (Oh)
 Da-da-da, down
 It's a takedown (Oh)
 Da-da-da, down”

Rumi. Mira. Zoey. Abby. Mystery. Baby.

Six distinct voices folding into one, their harmony slicing through the night like a cleansing flame—searing, bright, impossible to ignore. The sound didn’t just fill the air; it seemed to take shape, each note layering over the last until it became something tangible, a living current that resonated through the planks and pilings of the docks.

All around them, beyond the edges of battle, from behind overturned carts, in the mouths of narrow alleys, along the rails of docked boats, and high across the rooftops, threads of Hon-gi drifted upwards to the Honmoon. They rose in wavering strands from the scattered audience, each carrying the same unspoken wish for something better— and the Honmoon answered.

Above, its form swelled, light pulsing in thick, vivid currents, the colors deepening into jewel-bright hues. The glow pressed down like a warm tide, settling heavy in every chest. Even demons still locked in combat paused, their weapons lowering as a sudden wash of peace and acceptance stole into their hearts.

And many… stopped.

The final notes of the song faded into the night, leaving the stage in an uneasy stillness. On one side stood HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys; on the other, Gwi-Ma’s demon force, no longer charging, but watching, confused, wary, and uncertain. Both sides stared across the platform, as if waiting for the other to make the first move.

Rumi drew in a breath to speak—
A muted fwoosh cut her off, the sound of fire meeting water followed by a sharp hiss of steam.

A hulking figure erupted at the center of the platform, water sluicing off him in sheets. Bronze armor, once gleaming, now dripped with river muck; slime trailed down the seams, riverweed clung in limp strands, algae smeared across every dented plate. He looked less like a commander than something the river had coughed up.

Rumi’s stomach tightened. The leader. Gwi-Ma’s chosen overseer for this assault—only now thoroughly humiliated, thanks to Derpy’s earlier stunt.

He ripped off his helmet with a snarl, another cascade of water sluicing down his breastplate. Beneath, a scarred green face glared out, two thick horns curling from his temples, black hair plastered to his skull. He spat a live fish onto the stone. The poor thing flopped helplessly in the puddle pooling at his boots.

He opened his mouth to speak—

—And the platform swallowed him. A blue-edged portal yawned beneath his feet and snapped shut with surgical precision.

A beat later, a furious scream echoed from far down the docks. Derpy’s portal bloomed high above the river again. The leader dropped out, flailing, and—

fwoosh —a burst of orange fire caught him midfall, dumping him back onto the platform in a dripping heap.

“You dare—” he began, water spraying from his mouth.

Another portal snatched him away.

Rumi glanced toward Derpy. The tiger stared back with bright, guileless eyes, tail twitching. Entirely unapologetic.

Scream. Whoosh.

“Stop—!” Scream. Whoosh.

The cycle went on, an increasingly ridiculous game of portal-born ping-pong. Every reappearance left the armored demon wetter, angrier, and more incoherent, his curses dissolving into sputtering gurgles.

From the safety of a docked barge, the flute-playing demon had crept back into view after having fled sometime during the fighting. He began underscoring the spectacle with his own peculiar soundtrack: sharp pops of breath and tongue clicks marking each portal drop, quick descending flute runs for every sudden plunge, and a breathy, stuttered beat that mimicked the “Soda Pop” hook in perfect time with the commander’s stomps and flails. The effect was bizarre and comical, like the demon leader wasn’t raging at all, but dancing to a remix of the song.

The crowd began to laugh—tentative at first, then openly—as the commander flailed helplessly in Derpy’s grip. The spectacle undercut the terror of the attack, making the so-called leader look like a fool.

Zoey leaned toward Mystery, lips twitching.
“I… kind of feel bad for him now.”

Mystery didn’t look away from the stage. “Don’t,” he said flatly.

A beat later, he added, almost as if to explain himself, “He’s burning through a lot of Hon-gi like that. Which is good for us.”

Baby gave Derpy a nudge with his elbow, grinning. “Just send him somewhere farther. Preferably somewhere with lots of fire… or the bottom of the ocean.”

Derpy tilted his head, thoughtful. Then— whoosh . The portal blinked open, swallowed the sputtering commander, and snapped shut again.

This time, there was no scream.

Silence stretched, taut as a wire.

A sharp squawk from Sussie broke it, the bird’s six eyes blinking with almost comic timing.

Rumi stepped forward, hesitating for the briefest heartbeat before the pulse of the Honmoon steadied her. Its rainbow light shimmered faintly across her skin, a warmth that settled in her chest. She drew in a breath, her voice carrying clean across the docks.

“Tonight… some of you gave Hon-gi to the Honmoon. You didn’t have to. You chose to. And I want to thank you for that.”

Her gaze swept the square: loyalists still bristling, onlookers caught halfway between awe and fear, demons who had hid or fought beside them and demons who had tried to cut them down.

“I know some of you came here to fight for Gwi-Ma. But I want you to think about why. What has he really given you? What has he taken from you?”

The question hung, heavy. The only sound was the lap of water against the pilings, the distant creak of a boat’s mooring.

“My name is Rumi. We are HUNTR/X—” she turned slightly, sweeping a hand to where her teammates stood, “—and the Saja Boys. Together, we’re going to change things. Make life better for humans and demons, one performance at a time.”

Her voice steadied, brightened, not with defiance, but with promise.

“We have to go now, but this… what we accomplished here, it matters. I want you to spread the word about what you saw. What you felt. You don’t have to be afraid of Gwi-Ma anymore.”

The Honmoon flared above, threads of light spiraling outward into the night, as if sealing her words into the air.

Rumi turned back to the others. “Let’s go.”

Derpy’s tail flicked once, and blue light spiraled beneath HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys, blooming into a wide, rippling portal. Sussie hopped from Zoey’s shoulder to perch on Derpy’s head, all six eyes blinking in sync as the glow grew brighter.

From the edge of the docks, the flute demon shifted awkwardly, then raised his bamboo flute once more—not to claim the moment, but almost shyly, like a farewell. A single, soft trill slipped into the air, hopeful and uncertain, threading just above the murmurs of the crowd.

Rumi’s gaze found him, her expression softening into a fleeting smile.

Flustered, the demon dropped the flute and blurted, voice cracking with nerves, “Good luck—and don’t die! You’re… you’re pretty cool for humans!” His cheeks flushed violet the instant the words left him.

Rumi’s smile only widened. “Thank you!” she called back, clear and steady.

The portal’s light surged, swallowing them in a single breath and leaving only the echo of her voice and the faint tremor of the flute note still hanging in the night air.

Then—another portal flickered open. Small, quick, surgical. It claimed the nearest speaker with a pop.

A second portal bloomed, devouring another. Then a third, a fourth—blue rings flashing briefly before pulling each piece of stage equipment into nothing. The fog machine went last, vanishing with a low hiss. Cables writhed as if alive, coils straightening as they were pulled into the glow.

In seconds, the platform was bare, nothing left but scorch marks, a few scuffs in the stone, and the widening puddle where the armored commander had stood.

Fwoosh.

The armored demon reappeared at the center of the platform, water streaming from his armor in miserable rivulets. Strands of riverweed clung to his shoulders, and an octopus-like creature, suckers locked tight, clung stubbornly to his behind, giving him a ridiculous, lopsided silhouette.

His scarred green face twisted into a scowl. “Where—where are the hunters and traitors?!”

Before anyone could answer, the far edge of the dock ignited. A pillar of fire tore skyward, searing the air and painting the water in jagged orange light. Heat rolled outward like a living thing. 

From the heart of the blaze, Yun Jaein launched herself upward, her body trailing an arc of fire like a comet’s tail. For an instant she hung suspended against the black sky, hair flaring in twin whips of red-lit smoke, fire whip coiled at her side like a serpent straining at the leash.

Then she came crashing down.

The impact detonated like a hammer striking an anvil. The platform cracked wide beneath her boots, a spiderweb of fissures racing outward. Smoke boiled in dark, writhing tongues, and in its heart, glowing embers scattered, skittering across the stone like fireflies.

Her voice rang out over the chaos, resonant and commanding. “Hunters, I am Yun Jaein—and you and I have some busine—”

The smoke thinned. The space where the hunters had stood moments before was empty, save for the drenched, humiliated commander, sea-creature still glued to his rear.

Jaein’s words trailed off, one brow lifting in the faintest note of surprise. “…Where are the hunters?”

The armored demon, recovering from the shock of her arrival, straightened, his tone fierce with forced authority. “Yun Jaein! The Executioner! By decree of Gwi-Ma, you are under arr—”

A whipcrack of fire cut him short. Her weapon lashed out in a blur of orange light, coiling his torso before he could finish the sentence. She didn’t even turn her head; a twist of her wrist sent him arcing off the platform. He hit the river with a colossal splash, the sound echoing off the dock walls.

From the shadows at her flank, a gaunt silhouette, dressed purely in black, rose from the ground, detaching itself from her shadow and bowed low. “They’re gone, my lady. Portal.”

Jaein’s gaze lingered on the empty stage, her expression carved from stone. “Then we find out where.”

She crouched, fire wreathing her limbs, and with a burst like a jet of flame, launched herself back into the night sky.

Silence fell in her wake. Off to the side, two loyalist demons still lingering near the wrecked platform exchanged a look.

“…So… what do we do now?” one muttered.

The other shrugged helplessly. “I guess… go home?”

The first hesitated, gaze flicking to the river where bubbles still rose from their commander’s plunge, then back to the ruined platform. Cracks spidered through the stone, and in the hollows where the Executioner’s boots had struck, embers still smoldered, glowing faintly against the dark. The sight made his throat tighten.

“…Yeah,” he said at last, voice low. “Home sounds good.”

A deep blue shimmer bloomed in the air, concentric ripples spreading outward as if an unseen drop had struck the fabric of the world. The circle swelled until shapes began to rise through it.

HUNTR/X and the three Saja Boys stepped out first, moving with the practiced ease of travelers long accustomed to the strange weightlessness of Derpy’s teleportation. Derpy padded between them, tail held high, Sussie perched on his head like a queen on her throne.

Beneath their feet, the rippling blue hardened into solid ground. A heartbeat later, smaller portals flickered open across the grass, spitting up stage equipment one piece at a time. Each landing in soft thuds before the portals snapped shut again, until the group stood encircled by a haphazard nest of their own gear.

They were in the heart of a jungle clearing. Towering colorful trees ringed them, their trunks strung with deep blue vines thick as ropes. The air pressed heavy and damp, rich with the scents of moss, rain, and flowering plants. Insects thrummed unseen in the undergrowth, while somewhere beyond the foliage wall came the rush of water tumbling over stone. Through a narrow gap in the leaves, uneven thatched rooftops peeked out, the outline of a demon village shifting faintly in the dappled light.

Baby planted his hands on his hips, eyeing the tangled pile of speakers, cables, and other equipment.
“Derpy,” he said flatly, “be a good tiger and just teleport us and all this straight into the village. I’m not hauling this.”

Derpy’s whiskers twitched, but before he could blink twice, Rumi cut in.

“No. We need to understand the people first. See if they’re scared, hostile, curious. We can’t just teleport in, start performing, and expect everything to go well without some preparation.”

Abby leaned back on his heels, smirk tugging at his mouth. “If they worship Tassadar, we’re set.” His gaze slid toward Mira.

Mira’s eyes narrowed, sharp as drawn steel. “Don’t.”

Zoey, already crouched and poking at a coil of cable, looked up. “Why can’t we just leave it here? It’s out of the way.”

“It’ll get noticed and taken,” Mystery said, voice quiet but certain.

Zoey arched a brow. “Then teleport it somewhere it won’t get taken.”

Mystery straightened, dusting his hands off. “Anywhere in the demon world, and Gwi-Ma might be able to find it… and lay a trap for us.”

Rumi stilled at that, following his logic. “So… the human world is safer?”

Mystery nodded once, gaze lifting toward the pale glow of the Honmoon faintly visible even through the jungle canopy. “Ideally somewhere in the human world where the Honmoon is strong. Also, if we, the Saja Boys, don’t know where it is… then Gwi-Ma won’t either.”

Zoey’s eyes lit with sudden realization. “Actually… I have an idea. I know just the place. Somewhere Gwi-Ma will never find it.”

Abby tilted his head, studying her. “Somewhere you’re not going to tell us?”

“Exactly.” She jabbed a finger at the Saja Boys. “You three stay put. We—” she swept her arm to include herself, Rumi, Mira, and of course Derpy and Sussie “—will handle moving it. If you don’t know where it is, Gwi-Ma can’t see it through you.”

Baby sighed through his nose. “Ttch.” He clicked his tongue, the sound sharp with impatience. “Don’t take too long.” Dropping where he stood, he folded his legs into a cross-legged sprawl and tore open a crinkling bag of Spicy Shrimp Crackers swiped from the concession cart.

Zoey grinned and slung her arms over Rumi and Mira’s shoulders, steering them off to the side in a conspiratorial huddle to whisper her plan.

Sussie trilled sharply from her perch, the sound like a stamp of approval, while Derpy only flicked his tail once and fixed his gaze toward the distant village, ears pricked and watchful.

Bobby’s keys scraped in the lock twice before the door finally gave way. He stepped inside and shut it behind him, the faint click sounding far too final for his liking.

The apartment was quiet in the way empty places always were, no hum of conversation, no laughter, just the muffled drone of traffic several floors below. He flicked on the lights, his movements sluggish, born more from muscle memory than conscious thought. The yellow glow filled the room in flat, tired strokes.

His shoes came off in an uneven kick toward the wall. He drifted into the kitchen like a man still moving through someone else’s dream, the stale smell of last night’s takeout lingering faintly in the air.

Zoey’s face kept flashing in his mind, the set of her jaw, the way her eyes softened just enough to say she cared, before hardening again to tell him she wasn’t staying. That last “I’m sorry, Bobby” replayed over and over, just as much a dismissal as it was an apology. He’d reached for her, but the portal had taken her before he could even blink.

And now here he was. Sent home. Sidelined. Not allowed to stay on-site. Not trusted enough to be kept in the loop. Just… here.

He reached for the fridge handle, prepared to stare blankly at whatever was left inside, when something caught his eye—a single sheet of heavy paper pinned dead center with a cheap souvenir magnet.

He pulled it free and stepped under the overhead light. Bold red letters shouted from the top:

CONFIDENTIAL — DO NOT DISCLOSE

NATIONAL INTELLIGENCE SERVICE
NOTICE OF SEARCH AND SEIZURE

Premises accessed under authority of the National Intelligence Service pursuant to [REDACTED] directive.
This residence was searched in connection with an ongoing national security investigation.
The following item has been seized for forensic examination:

– 1 personal laptop computer.

For inquiries regarding this action, contact the NIS investigative division at +82-XXX-XXXX and reference case number NIS-[REDACTED].

Bobby read the notice again, then let it drop onto the counter. His laptop was gone. His work phone had already been taken back at the site, and they’d poked through his personal phone before handing it back with all the ceremony of returning a borrowed pen.

He almost laughed.
Not because any of this was funny, but because it was ridiculous they’d even bothered. As if there were some grand secret to uncover in his emails or search history. If they’d been paying attention at all today, they’d know he was about as useful in this whole mess as a folding chair in a firefight.

Shaking his head, he grabbed a beer from the fridge, twisted the cap off, and headed for the living room. Maybe there’d be something on the news, some half-baked speculation, a grainy photo, anything that might give him a thread to follow about the girls.

He rounded the corner and stopped cold.

His living room was full. Not with the comfortable clutter he’d left behind, but with gear—speakers, lights, the mic case, cables, etc. —stacked in a neat, deliberate pile. He recognized it instantly. This was the equipment from the Idol Awards. The same gear Zoey had taken before vanishing through the portal.

A flash of color snagged his attention, a pink scrap of paper taped crookedly to the front of one speaker. The edges were jagged, torn without care, the shade unmistakable. One of Zoey’s lyric notebooks, without a doubt.

He stepped forward, the beer in his hand forgotten, and eased the paper free.

The handwriting inside was hurried, slightly slanted, but still carried the precise, blocky strokes he knew as Rumi’s. At the bottom, all three signatures crowded together in a way that made the page feel warmer than it had any right to.

Bobby,

Since your place has already been searched, we doubt they’ll come back soon. Hope you don’t mind us stashing the gear here. It’s safer with you than anywhere else.

We’re sorry for not telling you the truth sooner. You’ve had our backs from day one, even without knowing everything, and we couldn’t have done what we have, on stage or off, without you. You’ve been our anchor through all of it.

We know this probably isn’t easy to watch, but we’ve been fighting demons for years. We’re strong. We will bring Jinu back. And we’ll be okay.

Thank you for being our manager, our anchor, and our friend.

— Rumi, Zoey, Mira

In the margin, squeezed into a narrow strip of white space, Zoey’s bold, looping script sprawled across the edge. “We’ll totally be back before you know it! We love you Bobby!” A scatter of hand-drawn hearts and stars trailed after the words like confetti.

Below that, Mira’s handwriting sat heavier on the page, neater but pressed hard enough to leave faint indents. Entire lines were scratched out until only one sentence remained, written small as if trying to hide: “Thanks… for putting up with all of us… I know it’s not easy sometimes.”

Bobby stood in the center of the room, the note trembling slightly between his fingers. The corners of his eyes burned. The letter wasn’t long, but every word felt weighted, as if the paper itself carried something more than ink. They had trusted him—not just to hold their equipment, but to understand.

And somewhere between Zoey’s glittering hearts and Mira’s scratched-out stumbles, he realized he did.

He swallowed hard, set the beer on the nearest table, and moved with new purpose. If they were coming back for this gear, he wasn’t just going to guard it. He’d make sure they had everything they could possibly need.

From the kitchen cupboards, he pulled out every cup of HUNTR/X-branded ramyeon he had left, the same ones they always tore into before concerts. He stacked them in neat rows on the concessions cart tucked into the corner with the performance gear.

The rest of the cart was half-empty, cluttered with prepackaged snacks, soda, and a few bottles of water. This wouldn’t do. He frowned, rummaging through his cupboards and fridge for anything remotely healthier—granola bars, a half-forgotten bag of dried fruit, two bottles of sports drink that hadn’t expired yet. It wasn’t enough. He’d have to go shopping.

He hesitated for a moment. Was he still being monitored? Probably. But groceries wouldn’t raise eyebrows, especially now that he had more free time than he’d ever wanted. Clothing, though… that would be another matter. It’d be too suspicious to suddenly buy women’s clothes. The girls would have to make do with whatever he could spare from his own dresser.

Now in his bedroom, he pulled shirts and shorts from the back of drawers, a few jackets that were too small for him now, and stuffed them into a suitcase. Into another went spare toothbrushes still in their packaging, toothpaste, pocket tissues, rolls of toilet paper—would the demon world even have toilets? Well, they could still use the paper either way.

Bedding crossed his mind. He didn’t own a sleeping bag, but pillows and blankets would work. He carried both suitcases into the living room, then added a pile of pillows and folded blankets on the coffee table. After a moment’s thought, he pulled one blanket free and draped it over the couch. If he slept at all tonight, it would be here—waiting, so that when they came back for the gear, he could try to convince them to at least use his apartment as somewhere safe to rest.

He let out a slow sigh. Best to hurry before they returned. The 7-Eleven a block away would have at least a few kimbap rolls, sandwiches, and some fruit. Enough to tide them over until he could go to an actual grocery store in the morning.

At the door, he paused, glancing back at the living room. It wasn’t much—some ramyeon, spare clothes, and a scattering of pillows. But it was something. Even if food and pillows were all he could offer his girls right now, he would do whatever he could to support them.

He just hoped they were okay.

Deep underground, where the walls sweated rot and the air reeked of sulfur and something older, heavier, the dungeon lay hushed in a sullen kind of stillness. The flicker of green flame barely touched the cell walls, just enough to stretch long, watchful shadows across the stone.

Then—
SLAM.

The iron door burst open with a metallic shriek that split the quiet like a wound.

Jinu flinched upright as a gust of sulfur-thick air swept through the corridor. The impact rattled the frame hard enough to shake a rusted wall sconce loose. It clanged against the stones, sparks skittering in a brief spray. Most hissed out in the shallow puddle at Woljin’s feet except for one ember that lingered, glowing stubbornly, pulsing red like a heartbeat before it dulled.

Woljin’s gaze shifted, following the fallen sconce before settling on Jinu.

For a heartbeat Jinu held his stare, a bit unsettled by the direct eye contact. Those were Rumi’s eyes, but so distant and cold. Then Woljin cocked an eyebrow, before turning toward the blue-skinned guard now framed in the doorway, panting as though he’d sprinted through the underworld itself.

Bogi grinned, his eyes bright with mischief and breathless urgency.

“Okay okay okay—don’t panic!” he wheezed. “But you’re definitely going to want to hear this.”

Jinu blinked. "What—?"

"There’s gossip," Bogi panted, his hands on his knees. "Good gossip."

From the far side of the room, the red-skinned demon lounging in the corner didn’t even lift his head. Always looking like he’d rather be anywhere else, he muttered, "Unless this rumor ends with me being transferred, promoted, or set on fire, I do not care. Not about Bipa’s latest fungus-based diet. Not about Yeon’s meditation cult. Not even about Gon’s love triangle drama."

"Oh, it's a love square now," Bogi chimed. "But that's not the point. Harin says the hunters are here."

Jinu froze.

His thoughts tripped over each other. Hunters? His blood thrummed in his ears.

"In the demon world," Bogi added, now pacing in a tight circle like he couldn’t contain himself.

Jinu pushed himself to his feet, the motion sharp, too fast. "Wait—what?"

Bogi nodded, eyes alight. "Yup. Harin heard it from Juke, who heard it from Minchu, who heard it from the guy who does the proclamations in the outer markets. He’s a great source for Gwi-Ma-related stuff. Apparently Gwi-Ma is furious they haven’t been captured yet. They’ve been galivanting around the demon world, and it’s throwing everything into chaos."

Jinu’s heart slammed against his ribs.

The hunters? Here?

Rumi?

He stepped closer to the bars, hands gripping the cold metal. "Did they say who? All three? Any names?"

"Didn’t catch specifics," Bogi said, shrugging. "But Harin says one of them is half demon. Although, to be fair, she also said one of them is the secret priestess of a future god from the stars who sacrificed himself or something. So, grain of salt."

Jinu’s breath hitched. His knuckles whitened against the bars.

It had to be her. Rumi. She was—

"Ttch. Probably just Harin making stuff up again," the red demon muttered.

Jinu turned sharply. "What?"

The red demon finally looked up with one eye. "If you think this idiot is a gossip”, taking a point to gesture to Bogi before continuing, “Harin’s much worse. She also likes taking tidbits of information and stringing them together into the most dramatic story she can. Half the time she’s also drunk."

Jinu’s chest sank.

Right.

Of course.

It didn’t make any sense. Why would Rumi come here?

She wouldn’t. Not for him.

His hands loosened from the bars. His body stayed upright, but something inside him folded. He stepped back and slowly lowered himself to the ground again, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes.

"It’s just a rumor."

"Mmm," the red demon agreed, yawning. "Just Harin needing validation again."

Jinu let out a long, uneven breath. The flickering light of the cell suddenly felt colder.

Bogi, either unaware or completely indifferent to the shift in mood, carried on brightly.

"I might get to meet hunters," he whispered, reverently. "Like actual, real hunters. That’s kind of cool. Terrifying. But cool."

The red demon didn’t even bother to open both eyes. "You’d probably die."

Bogi gasped, hand to chest. "Right. Okay, okay—I should come up with a plan. If they turn out to be really strong, I’ll just suddenly back up and make a dramatic declaration, something that makes them want to spare me… ooh, how about— 'Spare me, oh luminous avengers! I am a pacifist with a gentle heart!'"

"This is after you try and fail to kill them, right? Very convincing," the red demon muttered.

"Okay, okay, then how about I yell— ‘WAIT! I have a tragic backstory!’"

"What tragic backstory? The worst thing that’s ever happened to you is that you once tripped into an especially large pit and cried. The only tragic part is that you didn’t stay there."

Bogi pressed on, undeterred. "Fine, I’ve got more. What about—'I’m part human! On my cousin’s side!'"

The red demon sighed. "You’re part idiot on every side."

Bogi snapped his fingers. "Ooooh, I got it!" He dropped his voice into a booming, dramatic baritone. "Hunter. I. Am. Your. Father."

The red demon stared at him. Just stared.

Bogi looked smug. "Right? Chills. It’s not like she knows which demon is her father. There’s no way she’d kill her own father, right?"

The red demon slowly dragged a hand down his face. "Why am I stuck with this idiot?"

From the corner, Woljin finally spoke. His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"I’d prefer if you didn’t lie to my daughter. Especially not by claiming my identity."

Bogi blinked, then looked between himself and Woljin. "Hmm. Yeah, we don’t really look alike, so it wouldn’t be convincing anyway. Maybe put in a good word for me so your probably very scary daughter doesn’t erase my existence?"

Woljin looked him up and down. "We’ll see."

Bogi grimaced, then shrugged. "Well, I can always grovel. If your daughter’s anything like you, she’ll be too noble to kill someone while they’re groveling."

Woljin exhaled slowly. "I doubt they’re even here. Why would hunters enter the demon world?"

There was a pause.

Then Bogi lit up again.

"Well, obviously, to rescue him," he said, pointing directly at Jinu. "I should stop calling you Pretty Boy and start calling you Looooover Boy."

He waggled his brows and waved around little finger hearts.

The red demon gave him a long, disgusted look. "Are you having a stroke?"

Bogi swatted at him lazily. "Reok, keep up with the times! This is what young demons do to flirt."

Woljin's voice came again, mild and puzzled. "Why did you call him Lover Boy?"

The red demon, Reok, raised a brow. "Did you miss the part where he said he’s in love with a hunter—"

Bogi raised a hand, stage-whispering, "—that hunter being your daughter—"

Reok continued, unbothered, "—your daughter—"

"—Rumi," Bogi chimed in brightly.

"Stop interrupting me, Bogi! But yes. That.” Reok jabbed a finger at Jinu. “He said it. Clear as day."

Bogi shrugged with a grin. "You probably got stuck on the whole 'you have a daughter' part and missed the 'he’s in love with her' part."

Woljin had gone utterly still.

Jinu felt the shift in air pressure like a coming storm. Every instinct screamed danger. He stepped back from the bars, chest tight, sweat rising across his brow.

His body reached for Hon-gi—reflexively, instinctively—and found nothing. The cell somehow suppressed access to his Hon-gi, the absence of energy pressing in on him like a vacuum.

Silence fell.

Only the sound of distant dripping and Bogi's suppressed giggles broke it.

And Woljin, unmoving, eyes fixed on Jinu with a glint that was quiet and lethal, like a sword still in its sheath but halfway drawn.

The silence dragged, heavy and brittle.

Jinu didn’t dare look away. Woljin hadn’t moved, but something about the way he stood—perfectly straight, perfectly still—made Jinu feel like he was already under a blade.

Finally, Woljin spoke.

“…What are your intentions with my daughter?”

The question was quiet. Not rhetorical. Not mocking. Just… devastatingly sincere.

Jinu opened his mouth, but nothing came out at first. He wet his lips, heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“I care for her,” he said, hoarse. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t expect it. But I… I fell for her. Hard.”

Woljin blinked slowly, like he was studying a puzzle that might be missing a piece.

“And what have you done,” he said at last, “to prove yourself worthy of her?”

Jinu’s mouth opened, then shut again. His thoughts skittered like leaves in a wind tunnel.

“I—I stood by her,” he said. “I believed in her. I supported her plan when no one else did. I trusted her with everything.”

Woljin stared, unimpressed.

Jinu’s voice faltered. “I—I haven’t hurt her. I would never hurt her.”

“Hmmph,” Woljin hummed while still staring at Jinu with Rumi’s eyes, only colder and narrowed with judgement.

Jinu winced.

Woljin stepped forward, calm as ever. “And what courting gifts have you offered so far?”

“…Gifts?” Jinu echoed, confused.

“Yes,” Woljin said, like he was speaking to someone particularly dim. “Tokens. Offerings. Gestures of sincerity. A hand carved memento or charm? A weapon could also work. Even an object of high monetary value to show the minimum level of sincerity would be better than nothing. ”

Jinu stood frozen, caught between disbelief and growing horror.

“I… haven’t gifted her anything.”

There was a beat of silence.

Woljin stared at him, face unreadable.

“Not even a handwritten poem?” he asked, like this was the baseline standard for dignity.

“I—no,” Jinu said quickly. “No poem.”

Woljin exhaled slowly, as though pained. “Have you approached her foster family with the proper decorum to express a formal declaration of intent?”

Jinu blinked. “You mean Celine? The demon-hating demon hunter?”

Woljin’s face fell. “Ah.” He looked away, jaw tight with guilt.

Bogi, perhaps trying to lift the mood, took the pause as an opportunity to chime in.

“Well, to be fair,” he said, hands raised helpfully, “I heard in modern human customs, it’s now often the woman who does the courting. Right? Maybe she gave him a gift instead?”

Woljin tilted his head slightly. “Did she?”

Jinu hesitated.

“…Kind of,” he muttered.

Woljin’s gaze sharpened.

“Explain.”

Jinu cleared his throat. “She… gave me a bracelet.”

Woljin’s eyes dropped to Jinu’s wrists. They were bare.

“Where is it then?” he asked.

Jinu felt the blood drain from his face.

He looked down, as if the bracelet might magically appear.

“Uhh… I don’t have it on me.”

The silence cracked open like ice.

“You don’t even honor my daughter by wearing her courting gift?” Woljin asked, voice cool enough to blister stone.

Jinu stammered. “I—I didn’t mean—I didn’t throw it away, I just—things happened—I was captured—”

“Excuses,” Woljin said. Quietly. Calmly. Like he was already imagining various ways to torture and kill Jinu.

Bogi leaned in and whispered out of the corner of his mouth, “Oooh you messed up. Not a great first impression with your future father-in-law.”

Woljin turned his attention to the blue demon guard, “You imply he may still marry my daughter, after this disgrace of a courting?!”

Jinu fought the urge to recoil, to bolt backward and flatten himself against the wall like a cornered animal. His pulse rattled in his throat, but he forced himself to stand his ground, scraping together what remained of his courage.

“She probably doesn’t return my feelings,” he admitted, voice tight. “And you’re right. I’m not worthy of her.”

The words stuck like thorns, but he pressed on. “She’s brave, and honest, and good. I don’t know if I’ve ever been any of those things. But I want to be. Because of her.”

Bogi let out a theatrical sigh, clasping his hands under his chin. “He’s so doomed. It’s beautiful.”

Reok jabbed an elbow into Bogi’s ribs. “Shut up. Let him finish.”

Jinu swallowed hard, then straightened, as if the confession itself had pulled him taller. “I know it’s a long shot. But I want to stay by her side… in whatever way she’ll have me. Maybe that’s only as a friend. Maybe as a sword to guard her back. But I want to protect her smile.”

For a moment, Woljin only studied him, dark eyes steady, unreadable. Then his voice came low, measured. “Would you die for her?”

“Absolutely.” The answer leapt out of Jinu before doubt could stop it.

Woljin considered him in silence, then hummed softly. “I suppose that’s a start.”

“Wooh!” Bogi whooped, nearly bouncing in place. “Congrats, Lover Boy! I was getting really anxious for you!”

Reok smacked Bogi on the shoulder, but Woljin didn’t even glance at them. His gaze stayed fixed on Jinu, sharp as a blade point.

“You still need to give her a token of affection,” Woljin said. His tone brooked no argument.

Jinu blinked. “A… a what?”

“You’ll write her a poem.” Woljin’s voice carried the weight of command. “Something with proper meter. Eight lines per stanza. Classical form.”

Jinu’s jaw dropped. “I—I don’t even know if she likes poetry—”

“She’s my daughter,” Woljin cut in flatly. “Of course she likes poetry.” His expression darkened, almost solemn. “If she doesn’t… then she’s simply never heard good poetry.”

Bogi practically vibrated, bouncing on the balls of his feet, hand shooting up like an overeager student.
“Ooh! I can help! I’ve wooed quite a few demons over the years.”

Reok snorted. “You mean you’ve traumatized quite a few demons over the years. That’s not the same thing.”

Bogi folded his arms with an indignant huff. “Hey! They came back! And my poetry had an emotional impact. It was effective.”

Reok rolled his eyes, muttered something low and venomous, and leaned back against the wall, clearly finished with the conversation.

Woljin’s gaze slid back to Jinu. “Well? Aren’t you going to get started?”

Jinu’s throat worked. He swallowed hard and nodded, retreating to the back of his cell like a condemned man taking his post. Lowering himself onto the stone bench, he exhaled shakily, rubbing the heel of his palm against his forehead. The storm of confrontation had passed, technically, but his heart was still sprinting laps in his chest.

He stared down at the floor and muttered, testing lines under his breath.
“Your eyes burn brighter than the Honmoon’s light…” He winced. “No. No, too much.”

A pause. Then another attempt.
“Your voice—no, wait—your fists… strike the chords of my soul?”

He groaned, dragging both hands down his face. His ears burned like coals. “Ughhh, what am I doing?”

Meanwhile, Bogi had already launched into a tangent, theorizing that reciting love poetry while literally on fire would double its effectiveness. Reok, without lifting his head, suggested Bogi test the hypothesis personally.

As they bickered, the flickering green fire cast uneven shadows across the cell. None of them noticed the way Woljin sat back against the wall, calm and unbothered. His hands rested loosely on his knees, eyes half-lidded like he was simply waiting out the noise.

Only when the others were thoroughly distracted did his fingers shift slightly.

From the folds of his cloak, he drew out a small, scorched piece of blackened metal—the dented wall sconce that had clattered to the floor earlier. It was half-wrapped in a ragged scrap of cloth, muffling the faint glow of embers still smoldering at its core.

He held it in his palm, motionless, studying it in silence. His eyes narrowed, not as though he were looking at the thing itself, but as if listening to some whisper only he could hear.

Slowly, deliberately, Woljin closed his hand around it and concentrated. The ember flared, bright enough to cast a pulse of light across the stone. In the next breath he tucked it away, vanishing the glow into the shadows of his cloak.

He flicked a glance toward the guards, toward Jinu, but none of them had noticed the faint flash, still caught up in their own squabbling or muttering.

Woljin said nothing. Yet a thin, knowing smile curved his mouth.

It wasn’t much. Just a sliver of Hon-gi, a meager spark trapped in the broken wall sconce. Absolutely miniscule compared to the torrents of power he had once commanded. But it was something. And Woljin refused to sit idly chained in the dark while his daughter— his daughter —walked through danger, wandering in the demon world.

For the first time in a long while, he had a chance... and he intended to seize it.

Chapter Text

The last notes of the song faded into the thick, humid air, and for a moment the jungle village stood suspended in silence. Paper lanterns swung from bamboo poles, their golden light reflecting on the slick leaves of broad jungle plants that pressed close around the clearing. Orchids and vivid blossoms clung to the trunks of towering trees, their colors muted in shadow but catching hints of lantern glow.

Above the crowd, streams of Hon-gi already filled the square, luminous ribbons in hues of violet, jade, and amber, curling skyward like festival streamers. They twisted and wove together until the night itself seemed remade, a canopy of living light that outshone the jungle’s darkness.

Rumi bowed low, her eyes glistening faintly. “Thank you,” she said, voice trembling with emotion. “Truly… Thank you. You’ve given us more than we could ever deserve.”

The crowd stirred, demons bowing in return, some raising their hands in silent farewell. A few children waved timidly; others traced glowing patterns into the dirt with their fingertips, small gestures of respect, though the streams above had already made their devotion clear.

Zoey looked up at the canopy of color, her lips parting in awe. “What a beautiful sight,” she whispered.

“Yeah,” Mystery said softly, though his gaze was on her, not the sky.

She caught him looking and smiled, cheeks warming before she glanced quickly away.

Baby stretched with a satisfied groan, rolling his shoulders until his neck popped. “Alright, let’s move on. No new intel here, so no point hanging around.”

Abby crossed his arms, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Can’t we wait until Gwi-Ma sends some demons? I could use a bit more exercise.”

Mira groaned, rolling her eyes. “Why are you so obsessed with fighting?”

“It’s not obsession,” Abby said with mock innocence. “It’s strategy. If Gwi-Ma’s side wants to waste their Hon-gi sending lackeys after us, that’s their problem.”

Derpy pawed at the platform, claws clicking against the wood, a low huff vibrating in his throat as if to say he’d had enough of the debate.

Rumi laid a hand on his fur, smiling gently. “No need to endanger the villagers more than we already have. Time to go, Derpy.”

The tiger opened his jaws wide. A swirl of blue light unfurled, spiraling outward into a portal that shimmered with energy. The crowd gasped, some stumbling back, others leaning forward in awe as the glow reflected off the paper lanterns and the broad jungle leaves.

Zoey waved enthusiastically with both arms. “Thank you! Please stay safe!”

The portal expanded to encompass the whole of the platform until not only the idols but the speakers, mics, and cables scattered across the stage were within its border. With a flick of Derpy’s tail, the whole assembly sank smoothly into the glowing depths. In an instant, the light collapsed in on itself, leaving the square empty.

The villagers slowly lifted their heads, the hush breaking into murmurs as they began to talk excitedly among themselves. Overhead, the luminous streams of Hon-gi still curled skyward like ribbons, a brilliant canopy against the starless night.

Suddenly the peace shattered.

A fiery comet ripped through the jungle canopy, scorching leaves to ash as it tore a ragged path overhead. The square erupted in chaos as the impact split the earth, crates splintered and skidded across the clearing, paper lanterns swung violently from their posts, and a shockwave rippled out to rattle the thatched roof huts.

When the smoke cleared, Yun Jaein stood in the crater. Heat shimmered around her frame, the soles of her boots glowing faintly like cooling molten metal. Her hair whipped in fiery puffs tipped with living flame, and the jagged patterns carved across her face burned like a war mask. At her side, her whip coiled and hissed, radiating waves of oppressive heat.

“Hunters!” she roared, her voice reverberating through the trees. Her molten eyes raked across the empty stage, narrowing with fury. “Where are they?”

The villagers collapsed to their knees, pressing their faces to the ground. None dared to answer. The square was silent save for the crackle of smoldering debris.

Then her shadow stirred.

A tall figure detached itself from the darkness at her heels, lean and cloaked head to toe in black. Only the gleam of golden eyes was visible beneath the hood. His movements were deliberate, his voice smooth and tinged with a faint hint of amusement.

“My lady,” he said, inclining his head, “if I may… they have only just left.” He gestured toward the faint shimmer where Derpy’s portal had sealed shut, the air still humming with residual energy. “Your timing, as ever, is impeccable.”

Jaein’s whip cracked against the ground, sparks hissing into the dirt. She clenched her teeth, frustration bleeding through her snarl. “How do we keep missing them?”

The shadow demon folded his arms, posture utterly unconcerned by the firestorm at his side. “Patience. It takes time to weave an information net. This was only their second performance, our scouts are still spreading through the larger villages and cities beyond Gwi-Ma’s grasp. If the hunters insist on staging these little concerts, it’s only a matter of time before we find them. I know patience is not your strongest virtue, my lady, but it is all we can employ for now.”

Jaein snarled, tilting her head back. A torrent of fire roared from her throat into the canopy, setting the treetops ablaze and painting the square in crimson light. Villagers whimpered and pressed flatter to the dirt, too terrified even to flee.

Her lieutenant did not flinch. “If nothing else,” he remarked dryly, “your entrances remain unmatched. Ten out of ten.”

Jaein lowered her head slowly, molten eyes narrowing at him. “I do not appreciate your sarcasm.”

The demon wrapped in shadows tilted his head in mock contrition. “Sarcasm, my lady? Never. I only meant that your arrivals are… gloriously explosive. No doubt the hunters will be awestruck… once we actually cross paths with them. Until then, I suppose the villagers will have to bear the full weight of your dramatic timing.”

Jaein’s teeth ground audibly. “You are lucky you are so useful.”

The lieutenant dipped his head just enough to be proper. “Thank you, my lady. I live to serve.”

With a final crack of her whip, Jaein unfurled a surge of flame beneath her feet. Fire roared upward, lifting her from the crater in a blaze of heat. She soared into the night like a burning comet, trailing sparks through the canopy until she vanished beyond the treeline, the air still shimmering with her fury long after she was gone.

The canopy above smoldered, tongues of fire licking at the leaves, embers drifting down. The villagers remained prostrate on the ground, too terrified to move.

The shadow demon sighed through his nose. “Always the flair.” He snapped his fingers. The flames above winked out in an instant, smoke curling away into the night air.

Golden eyes glowed faintly as he glanced at the cowering villagers. “For a shadow demon, I’m getting far too good at putting out fires,” he muttered, before melting back into the darkness.

A circle of blue light rippled open across the floor of Bobby’s living room, humming with otherworldly energy. A heartbeat later, a blast of frigid wind tore through the apartment, rattling the blinds and scattering papers off the coffee table.

Bobby jerked awake with a startled yell, flailing as he toppled off the couch and hit the rug in a tangle of blanket and limbs. He blinked blearily up just in time to see shapes rising through the glow.

HUNTR/X emerged first, shoulders and hair dusted with snow, the chill still clinging to their skin. Zoey wrapped her arms around herself and sneezed, Mira swiped melting flakes from her jacket, and Rumi blinked against the icy draft curling into the room.

The large blue teleporting tiger that had whisked his girls away along with a strange bird wearing a hat perched calmly on his ears, equally dusted in snow, rose through the portal next. Around them rose the heap of performance equipment, speakers, mixing console, fog machine, even the concessions cart, all powdered with frost. Another slurry of snowflakes spilled into the room before the portal sealed itself shut, leaving only a chill lingering in the air.

Zoey gave a sniffle, wrapping her arms tighter. “Okay, that was freezing.”

Mira nudged at the nearest speaker with her boot, frowning. “I just hope this stuff is at least mildly water-resistant.”

The tiger gave a mighty shake, sending a fresh spray of snowflakes scattering across the room. The bird, perched on the tiger’s head and lightly dusted herself, somehow managed to stay rooted despite the motion. She let out a sharp, affronted squawk, golden eyes blinking as if to announce her disapproval to everyone present.

Bobby finally scrambled upright, still tangled in his blanket, breath hitching as the scene fully hit him. “You’re…” His voice cracked. “You’re back.” The words came out raw with relief. He stumbled forward, arms opening before any of them could protest, and wrapped all three girls in a desperate embrace. “Oh, I’m so relieved you’re safe!”

Rumi stiffened at first, but then gently patted his arm. Zoey laughed breathlessly, returning the hug, while Mira grumbled, “Alright, alright, you’ll crush us.”

But Bobby only clung tighter, tears shining in his eyes. “I was so worried you wouldn’t come back. When all the equipment vanished while I was in the bathroom, I—” His voice broke. He pulled back enough to see their faces, his expression crumpling. “I’m just glad you’re here now.”

Rumi gave him a soft look. “Thanks, Bobby. But we’re about to leave again. There’s a new town we need to check out, another performance waiting for us. We just came back to drop off the gear.”

Bobby’s face fell. “No! Wait—” He shook his head quickly, fumbling for the right words. “I’m not saying stop, just… take care of yourselves. It’s five in the morning. I know you’ve been up since yesterday, and after everything you’ve been through, you must be exhausted. Please, sleep here. Even just for a few hours. Leave after a nap at least.”

The girls exchanged glances, the unspoken weight of fatigue visible in their eyes. Still, Rumi shook her head. “We’d like to. But… we left the boys outside the snowy village.”

“Then bring them here too!” Bobby insisted. “I don’t mind. Sleeping on the floor with blankets and pillows is still better than freezing in the snow or crashing in some strange demon village.”

Zoey winced. “Bobby… we can’t. Gwi-Ma—he’s like the super evil demon king—can spy through the Saja Boys like they’re his personal security cameras. If we brought them here, your apartment would become a target.”

Rumi nodded grimly. “We can’t put you in that kind of danger. It would put us at risk too. Changing locations at random keeps us safer from an ambush.”

Bobby’s hands fluttered helplessly before clenching into fists. “But… wait. Can Gwi-Ma actually recognize my apartment by sight?”

Rumi blinked, startled. “What?”

Bobby rushed on, words tripping over themselves. “There’s nothing personal in here. I hardly ever use this place. It’s small, bare, undecorated. There’s nothing to say it belongs to me. Just… tell the Saja Boys it’s some random crash pad you rented with cash. How would Gwi-Ma even know this is mine?”

“That—” Rumi began, but Mira cut her off, arms crossed.

“What about you?” she asked sternly. “They’d recognize you.”

Bobby swallowed, then straightened his shoulders. “Then I won’t be here. I’ll rent a hotel nearby, or… stay with a friend. No credit card trail for the government to notice. Or hell—” He gestured toward his bedroom. “I’ll hole up in there the entire time, if that’s what it takes.”

Rumi’s expression softened, but her protest remained. “We don’t want to impose on you like that.”

Bobby stepped forward and caught Rumi’s hands, his grip firmer than his trembling voice. His eyes were bloodshot, his cheeks hollowed from lack of sleep, but he held on as though she might vanish if he let go.

“Please,” he whispered, the word frayed with desperation. “I’d honestly feel so much better knowing you at least had a safe spot to sleep. You have no idea how worried I’ve been. Let me help, even if it’s just in this small way. Please.”

Rumi glanced at Mira, then Zoey. They both shrugged, weary but not unsympathetic. When she looked back, Bobby’s expression nearly undid her.

“Alright,” she said softly. “Thank you, Bobby. We appreciate it. And… thanks for letting us stash our gear here too. We didn’t exactly ask permission for that.”

Bobby shook his head quickly, a huff of nervous laughter breaking through. “Don’t worry about that. If it means you’ll check in, you could bury this place in speakers and fog machines and I wouldn’t care. Just knowing you’re safe—” His voice caught. He swallowed hard. “That’s worth more to me than anything.”

He hesitated, then drew a steadying breath, turning his tired gaze toward Zoey. “Ah—speaking of being worried. Zoey, I’ve talked to your parents.”

Zoey blinked. “Wait… you called my parents?”

“No,” Bobby said, shaking his head. “They contacted me first. The government reached out to them after everything that happened at the Idol Awards. Then they both called me separately, hoping I knew more than the scraps the officials were willing to give them.”

Zoey’s throat tightened. “What did they say?”

Bobby rubbed a hand over his face, voice weighted with fatigue. “Your dad drove up from Busan—four hours in the middle of the night. He got to Seoul about an hour ago. They’ve put him in a government-arranged hotel, but officials won’t even meet him until morning, which he’s… understandably frustrated about.” He exhaled hard. “Your mom’s on a flight from L.A. right now. She won’t land until late this afternoon. They both asked me the same things: how long you’ve been fighting, what you’ve been facing, what the government’s actually doing to get you back.” His voice dropped, thick with guilt. “I didn’t have answers. Not the ones they needed.”

Zoey pressed her hand over her mouth, whispering, “They both came…”

Bobby gave her shoulder a squeeze, eyes shining. “I think you should call them. Just hearing your voice would mean everything.”

He turned next to Mira, visibly bracing himself. “I… I don’t have a way to reach your parents. But I’ve been talking to your brother.”

Mira froze. “You’ve been what?”

Bobby winced under her stare. “He reached out a few years ago. Gave me his number in case HUNTR/X ever needed a hand. I never thought I’d actually use it, but… I did. He has government connections, and I hoped he’d know more than what they’re telling me or Zoey’s parents.” He gave a hollow laugh. “He wouldn’t tell me much. Said it was confidential, but he alluded to being involved in the rescue efforts and swore they’re doing everything they can to bring you back safe.”

Mira’s expression hardened, suspicion and disbelief flickering in her eyes. Bobby’s voice softened. “And that’s also with your parents throwing their full backing behind the effort. I’m talking about the full might of the Hansung group.”

Her arms crossed defensively, as though to shield herself. “That… that can’t be true.”

“I know you haven’t spoken to your family since you left home,” Bobby said quietly. “But maybe consider it. At least your brother. He’s the one who gave me his number. He genuinely cares about you. I think they all do, Mira.”

Mira lowered her gaze, brow furrowed, lips pressed thin as she wrestled with the thought.

Bobby turned last to Rumi, his shoulders slumping under the weight of everything unsaid. “And Celine… I’ve been calling, texting, every channel I can think of. Nothing. I think the government confiscated her phone and put her in lockdown for questioning. I’m sorry—I don’t have anything reassuring to share there.”

Rumi exhaled heavily, her shoulders sagging. “Thanks for trying, Bobby. I’m not worried about her safety—she’s not someone even the government can handle easily. I just…” Her chest ached a bit in guilt. “I can only imagine what she must be thinking right now. Seeing the Honmoon change so drastically and then government officials showing up on her doorstep…” She pressed her hand to her temple. “I’m not looking forward to explaining all this.”

“You’re doing everything in your power to help people,” Bobby said firmly, his voice rough but resolute. “How could she find fault in that?”

Rumi looked down at her exposed demon patterns running down her arms. After a long silence, she nodded, more to herself than to him. “You’re right. This isn’t the path she forged for us, but… I think she’ll understand. She’s never actually spoken with demons who aren’t under Gwi-Ma’s control—” she looked up, her gaze steady with conviction—“they’re just people. And this is the right thing to do.”

Romance lounged in the makeup chair, tilting his chin obligingly as a stylist swept powder across his cheekbones. From the wall-mounted monitors, Jia’s cheerful voice floated through the speakers—bright, practiced, the kind of polish that made composure sound effortless. She was interviewing the Idol Awards host, the same man who had frozen onstage the night before, too afraid to step near the portal that tore open at center stage. Now they smiled and bantered as if they hadn’t watched reality split apart less than twelve hours ago—as if Gwi-Ma’s laughter hadn’t rolled through the stadium while Jinu was dragged away in front of them all. The memory still burned at the edges of Romance’s mind, sharp and sour, though he wore his smile like armor and gave the stylist nothing but a steady chin.

Beside him, Celine stood like carved stone, arms locked across her chest. Her eyes fixed on a patch of wall as though sheer will could bore a hole through it. Her expression had settled into that familiar grim line—the kind that could curdle wine or silence a room.

Romance smirked at her reflection in the mirror. “Would it kill you to not look like you swallowed a lemon? Honestly, is my presence so unbearable?”

She didn’t blink. Didn’t shift. The wall remained infinitely more deserving of her attention.

Romance let out a long, theatrical sigh. “Fine. Keep glaring at the plaster. But here’s the truth: we don’t have to like each other to work together. Whether you believe me or not, I am—” he adjusted his collar with an elegant flick of his wrist, admiring his reflection, “—on humanity’s side. That’s why I’m here. After wrestling with those stiff-backed officials all night, I finally convinced them this was the only viable path. Covering everything up with cheap excuses—CGI, promotional stunts, whatever nonsense they were spinning—wouldn’t hold for long. Eventually, it would all unravel and leave the Honmoon weakened from panic, fear, and confusion. No.” His eyes gleamed in the mirror. “The better way is to be honest. Let the fans see, let them believe. If enough of them stand with HUNTR/X—if their devotion pours into the Honmoon—we can reinforce it from this side. A little trust goes a long way, hmm?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

Celine’s arms tightened across her chest. “This is too big a gamble. Having it all out in the open—”

“It’s a bigger gamble trying to cover it up,” Romance cut in smoothly.

Her huff was sharp, almost a scoff. “You only managed to convince the government because you dragged the Hans into it.”

Romance’s smile thinned. “And why shouldn’t I? A stronger Honmoon protects the girls even while they’re in the demon world. If it holds strong, they spend less time patching the cracks and will come back sooner. Of course Mira’s family would back me. They understand the stakes. I would think you would too—” his tone dropped colder, blade-edged, “—but then again, you were the one who wanted to tear it all down.”

Their eyes locked, the air between them taut as wire.

Celine’s voice came out clipped. “Why am I here?”

He flashed a smile that never reached his eyes. “Because someone has to make sure this all actually works. I need a hunter, and you’re the only hunter available… unless, of course, you can get me in contact with Yun Jaein?”

A sharp ache pricked Celine’s chest. She held his gaze, her tone clipped. “Jaein passed from this world many years ago.” The words left her lips smoothly, a careful veil over the truth.

Romance tilted his head. “Pity.” His grin returned, thinner now. “I suppose you’ll have to do.”

Celine’s mouth curved in the faintest suggestion of a sneer. “This…” She reached out, fingertips brushing the protective projection that shimmered faintly along the studio wall. Her touch was hesitant, distasteful, as if the light itself might sear her. The veil pulsed at the contact, rainbow hues rippling outward like water disturbed. “…whatever it is, it is not the Honmoon I know.”

Romance’s smirk dropped, his gaze sharpening into something colder. “Can’t you feel it? Rumi’s intent is woven through this. Her hope. Her kindness. Why are you so bitter…so afraid of change that you’d blind yourself to what’s right in front of you?”

The reply did not come from her lips.

Your faults and fears must never be seen. Isn’t that right, Celine?

Gwi-Ma’s voice slid through her skull, velvet over iron.

So righteous, so certain, dismissing everything you fear. I suppose I admire that about you. So determined in your path, nothing sways you. Not anyone. Not anything. You’d make a fine subordinate.

His laughter oozed, low and corrosive.

Celine grimaced, pressing her palm more firmly against the glowing veil. The rainbow light flared, washing over her in a tide of impossible calm. Her chest loosened; her pulse steadied. Gwi-Ma’s voice was cut off—snuffed out beneath the steady thrum of something warm, serene, and utterly foreign to her.

Taking a measured breath, she finally glanced toward Romance. He met her eyes with an imperious coldness, sharp as glass.

“What’s your plan then?” he asked, voice clipped. “If you reject this Honmoon, will you tear it down again? It’s the only thing standing between humanity and Gwi-Ma right now.”

His gaze swept up and down her, and his lip curled. “It’s not as if you can build it back to what it once was. Your popularity has waned. It’s HUNTR/X’s time now, and whether you approve or not, they’re the ones actively shaping it.”

Celine’s voice was quiet but edged in steel. “Then what do you expect me to do? As you said, my popularity has waned. I no longer have the power to sway the fans.”

Romance arched a brow. “Do your hunter thing. Make sure the Hon-gi from those fans flows into the Honmoon. I don’t know how hunters manage to direct another person’s soul-energy, but you’re the hunter here—retired or not. That’s why you’re here.”

Her mouth tightened. “Hon-gi? Are you referring to the Heart’s Song?”

Romance gave a half-smile, more bitter than amused. “What a poetic term. I’m talking about the soul-energy humans constantly emit. Do you need to actively push it into the Honmoon, or does it just flow when they resonate?”

Celine stared at him coldly, then turned her eyes back to the wall, offering nothing.

Romance let out a sharp breath, exasperated. “Right. Because I’m asking for such game-changing state secrets.”

He pushed abruptly to his feet, the chair skidding back a fraction. The stylist, brush still half-raised, startled at the sudden movement. She froze where she stood, lips parted as if to speak, but the charged air between hunter and demon held her rigid. Even breathing too loudly—let alone resuming her work—felt impossible, as though the smallest motion might splinter the room in two.

Romance ignored her, crossing the short distance to Celine in three decisive strides. His shadow fell across her, voice rising with uncharacteristic heat. “You know what? Whatever! I am so sick of your stuck-up, xenophobic attitude. What makes me so different from you, hmm? Why am I so undeserving of even a sliver of respect?”

“You are a demon,” Celine said flatly. “Demons kill humans—”

“So do humans!” he shot back, words snapping like a whip. “Humans kill humans all the time! Just because some do doesn’t mean all are evil.”

Her eyes narrowed, icily certain. “And you expect me to believe you’ve never killed a human yourself? Never devoured a soul?”

Romance’s scoff was sharp, almost a bark of laughter. “No, actually, I haven’t. Not a human, not a demon. And the souls taken from the human world? They all went straight to Gwi-Ma. I’ve never devoured one. That’s why I volunteered to stay behind. I’m weak by demon standards—too young, too… restrained. I never boosted myself by swallowing anyone else’s life.”

His voice dipped, raw and urgent now. “So try again, Celine. Why can’t you just work with me—for Rumi’s sake, for the others? You don’t have to like me. You don’t have to like this Honmoon. But right now, we are all you have. We’re all that stands between Gwi-Ma and a full invasion.”

He exhaled, the fight draining from him, leaving only raw intensity. The sharp edges of his posture softened, but his eyes burned brighter, stripped of their smirk, their sneer, their games.
“I’m not a hunter,” he said, voice low, almost hoarse. “I don’t know how the Honmoon truly works. But you do. So please…” His words faltered, catching in his throat. “If I have to beg, I will. Help me strengthen it.”

Celine’s jaw tightened. His desperation was naked, unvarnished, and it unsettled her more than his arrogance ever had. It would have been easier to dismiss him if he kept sneering, kept playing the demon prince. Instead, he stood before her like a man stripped of armor, asking for help he shouldn’t have needed from her.

Her arms stayed crossed, fingers digging into her sleeves until her knuckles blanched. The knowledge itself was not really a guarded secret. Gwi-Ma surely already knew. But could this demon be trusted with it? Could he twist even her smallest compliance into another weapon against them?

But Rumi’s name lingered in her mind, heavy as stone. For Rumi’s sake. For the others.

Celine’s lips parted, then pressed shut again. The silence stretched taut as a bowstring. Finally, with the slow reluctance of someone stepping into a trap, she spoke.

“When hunters sing,” she said carefully, her voice edged with caution, “if the music truly reaches the audience, we can sense their Heart’s Song. One or two voices are faint—hardly discernible. But gathered together, their resonance builds. It’s the difference between a trickle and a wave.”

Her gaze flicked briefly toward him, then away again. “We weave that resonance into the Honmoon. And from that moment, there is a… connection. A tether, of sorts, between the fan and the Honmoon itself.”

The admission lingered in the air, fragile as glass. Even as the words left her, a part of her wished she could pull them back.

Romance’s brows shot up. “So you have the Honmoon permanently leeching off the fans?” His tone was half-curious, half-disbelieving. A crooked smile tugged at his mouth. “Huh. That’s a lot more insidious than I expected.”

“No!” The word snapped out of her sharper than she intended. She drew a steadying breath. “It’s a loose, temporary connection, and it doesn’t harm anyone. It fades on its own, but listening to the songs again, attending another performance, replenishes that bond.”

Romance’s smirk faded into something more thoughtful. “So when we were converting HUNTR/X fans into Saja Boy fans…” His eyes narrowed as the pieces clicked. “We were cutting those connections?”

Her voice was flat, unflinching. “And weakening the Honmoon anywhere too many connections were cut at once.”

He leaned back a little, considering. “What about new fans? Do you have to… forge each of those connections yourself?”

“When hunters first start their career, yes,” she admitted. “But once they gain recognition, the resonance is already there. Old fans and new fans weave together. The Heart’s Songs connect to each other on their own. A new fan’s voice gets pulled into the Honmoon, bound through the web of emotions their fellow fans already carry. It becomes less a bunch of loose threads we tie and more and more a net that catches them.”

Romance let out a long breath, some of the tension slipping from his shoulders. “Good. Then I don’t really need you to strengthen the Honmoon after all.”

“No,” Celine said evenly. “Not with HUNTR/X already so firmly established. But I will be joining the interview.”

His eyes narrowed, sharp and assessing. “Why?”

“Because I don’t trust you.” Her tone was cool, but the words landed heavy. “I watched the footage of you addressing the crowd at the Idol Awards. You were out of line.”

A flicker of offense crossed his face before it smoothed back into a thin smile. “Was anything I said untrue?”

Celine’s jaw tightened. His smug smile made it easy to despise him, to dismiss him as nothing more than an arrogant demon. Yet the words echoed in her mind like a bruise pressed too hard: Was anything I said untrue?

“Don’t you dare judge me,” she said, her voice low, taut with fury. “You don’t know me. You don’t know what I’ve endured, what I’ve sacrificed.”

Romance’s eyes narrowed, his tone equally sharp. “Then stop judging me. You don’t know me either.”

For a long moment, neither moved. Their gazes locked, blades clashing in silence, the air between them thick enough to suffocate.

A tremulous voice broke it. “U-um…” The stylist, still clutching her brush like a shield, cleared her throat nervously. “S-sorry to interrupt, but… Ms. Celine, if you’re joining the interview, we’ll need to do your makeup and wardrobe now. The segment starts in fifteen minutes, and that’s… really not a lot of time.”

The spell shattered. Both Celine and Romance blinked, tension snapping like a thread pulled too tight.

“Yes. Of course,” Celine said, her tone suddenly brisk.

The stylist bobbed her head quickly and hurried to a nearby table, fumbling for a measuring tape. “Let’s get your sizes,” she said, reaching for Celine’s jacket. Her hand barely brushed the fabric before Celine’s palm clamped down, stopping her with surprising force.

“I… only need a size forty-four jacket and pants,” Celine said, her words too fast, too precise. “Shoes, two-fifty. No need to measure.”

The stylist blinked, startled, then nodded furiously. “Yes, of course. I’ll grab a few options from wardrobe. I’ll be right back.” She scurried out, tape trailing from her hand.

Romance watched her go, then tilted a brow at Celine, amusement curling at the corner of his mouth.

Celine straightened, brushing an invisible speck of dust from her sleeve. “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt for now, demon. Do not disappoint me.”

For once, his smile wasn’t sharp or mocking. Just a faint curve at the corner of his lips, almost human. “I’ll take it. Perhaps you’re not such a lost cause after all.” He extended a hand toward her. “Let’s save the world.”

Celine eyed the hand as though it were a snake ready to strike. But after a beat’s hesitation, she reached out, her grip cautious.

Romance seized it with sudden vigor, shaking it up and down with almost comic enthusiasm. The exaggerated motion tugged her sleeve back, baring the pale length of her forearm. His eyes dropped instantly, narrowing as he scanned her skin with intent that was far too focused to be casual. He was looking for something.

Her hand stiffened in his grasp. She said nothing, but her eyes tracked his gaze, cold and unblinking, watching him watch her.

When he found nothing, he let her go with a shrug, the gleam in his eyes fading back into feigned levity. “What can I say? I got carried away. Can you imagine? A day ago, the thought of you shaking hands with a demon would’ve been unthinkable. We’re making progress.”

Celine tugged her sleeve back into place with deliberate care, her face an unbroken mask of stone. She didn’t call him out. Doing so would only sharpen his suspicion. She knew exactly what he had been searching for. And for once, she almost felt grateful for Gwi-Ma’s cruelty: the patterns he had seared into her flesh were a mockery, fanning across her back like twisted wings instead of curling down her arms like Rumi’s… or like the brands he so often etched into demons and the corrupted, those partially claimed and slipping toward damnation.

Even with his voice muted, she felt the phantom echo of Gwi-Ma’s laughter, low and mocking, reverberating through her bones.

“Right,” she said flatly. “There’s no way this could possibly go wrong.”

Romance only gave her a wry smile, as though that had been the answer he expected all along.

The blinds were drawn, but thin slats of mid-morning sunlight slipped through, casting narrow bands of gold across the apartment. The living room looked more like a refugee camp than a home—pillows and blankets strewn across the floor, draped over speakers and equipment cases, spilling into the narrow hallway where the air still carried a faint tang of sweat and metal from last night’s chaos.

Mira was the first to stir. She sat up with a groan, stretching her shoulders until her joints popped. Across the room, a familiar mop of messy hair poked out from beneath a quilt that looked like it had been wrestled half off the couch in the middle of the night. Baby blinked blearily awake, rubbed his face, and scowled at the ceiling as though it had personally wronged him. Abby was curled in the corner against the wall, broad shoulders hunched like a guard dog standing watch even in sleep. Mystery, by contrast, sat upright on a cushion with his back perfectly straight, eyes half-lidded, as if he’d never actually slept at all.

“Ugghh,” Baby groaned. “Is there any coffee? Not the premade stuff I swiped yesterday. That stuff’s been sitting out too long. We need fresh coffee! Think those soldiers at the concert stadium had another delivery?”

From a tangled heap of blankets in the hallway, Rumi’s voice rasped out. “Stop stealing coffee from the Special Forces or whatever. We don’t need to antagonize them.”

“You don’t even drink coffee,” Baby shot back, pushing hair from his face with exaggerated indignation. “So you don’t get a say.” His gaze swept the room. “Where’s the tiger?” he asked before his eyes landed on the lump of striped fur serving as Zoey’s pillow. 

He trudged over, crouched, and patted Derpy’s flank with the solemnity of a man performing a sacred rite. “Derpy, let’s go for a coffee run. Same place as last time.”

Derpy cracked open one large amber eye. Without bothering to lift his head or disturb Zoey curled up against him, the tiger exhaled a slow rumble. A shimmering blue portal yawned open beneath Baby’s feet.

Baby gave him a curt nod, as if this were standard operating procedure. “Thanks.”

The portal stayed open emitting bright blue light that stirred Zoey awake. Minutes later, Baby re-emerged triumphantly, arms straining around a fresh beverage dispenser sloshing with coffee and a precarious tower of disposable cups balanced on top.

“Coffee delivery!” he announced, grinning like a conquering hero. “Oh, and they’ve got scientist-looking people hanging around the concert stadium now. That’s new.”

Rumi sat up enough to glare through sleep-mussed hair. “Uggh. No more stealing coffee from the concert stadium. They’ll probably shoot you next time.”

Baby shrugged, already sloshing a third cup into his mouth. “It’d be worth it. This is good coffee.”

His gaze drifted toward the single closed door at the end of the hall, right beside where Rumi still lay wrapped in her blanket heap. A sheet of printer paper was taped across the wood, Zoey’s scrawl in thick black marker:

“DO NOT ENTER OR ELSE!”

Beneath it was a doodle of herself roaring with sharp teeth and devilish horns.

From behind the door came a muffled sneeze. Rumi stiffened, then hurriedly faked one of her own, rubbing at her nose as if she’d been the culprit all along.

Baby, oblivious, scowled at the sign. “Why can’t we go into that room there? It’s shady. And that drawing? Offensive. She’s not even a demon. Cultural appropriation.”

Mira, still groggy, pushed her hair out of her face. “How do you even know what cultural appropriation is?”

Baby puffed up, affronted. “Jinu lectured us about it after I said I wanted dreadlocks.”

Zoey groaned softly as she wriggled free of her nest of blankets—and from Derpy, who huffed as his warm pillow duties were disturbed. She rubbed her eyes and squinted at him. “Wait. I don’t think dreadlocks are cultural appropriation though?”

Baby flopped back onto the cushions with all the drama of a dying man. “It’s not. But Jinu said enough people would still get upset over it that it wasn’t worth the controversy.”

He jabbed a finger toward the doodled horns. “Still, this is. You’re implying horns make you scary, or violent, or whatever. That’s rude.”

Mystery, who had been silent in his usual statue-like posture, spoke without opening his eyes. “I think the horns are cute.”

Zoey’s cheeks flushed as she ducked her head, smiling despite herself.

Mira arched a brow. “Why are you offended? You don’t even have horns.”

Baby crossed his arms, indignant. “I’m still a demon. I am allowed to be offended by this gross caricature of my species.” His grin curled suddenly, wicked and unrepentant. “Unless, of course, you were implying something else… like maybe you’re… horny?”

The room erupted in groans. Pillows were hurled his way in rapid fire, pelting him from every direction.

Unbothered, Baby only laughed. “I mean, come on. You’re not subtle. You were practically drooling over Mystery when he was changing his shirt last night. Idol or not, no one likes feeling like a piece of meat.”

Mystery slowly blinked. He stared down at his fidgeting fingers, voice soft but clear. “I… I don’t mind. If it’s Zoey.”

A blush crept up his cheeks, betraying the stoicism he usually wore like armor.

Baby deadpanned at him. “Way to play hard to get.”

Mystery ducked his head lower, ears pink. Zoey hid behind her blanket, mortified. Mira pinched the bridge of her nose. Rumi groaned from the hallway floor, pulling the quilt over her head.

Baby, satisfied with the chaos he’d sown, shook his head and stretched out. “You’re all boring and gross. Maybe there’s something better on TV.” He snagged the remote, flopped dramatically back onto the couch, and nestled into the quilt he’d abandoned earlier as if the morning’s entertainment had been entirely his doing.

Baby flicked through the channels with idle impatience, the television filling the room with fragments of weather reports, cooking shows, and an overenthusiastic cartoon jingle. Then he froze. His eyes went wide, thumb hovering over the remote before jabbing the volume button higher and higher.

Romance’s voice filled the apartment.

“Everything you saw at the Idol Awards was real,” he declared smoothly, framed perfectly by studio lights and a glittering broadcast backdrop. There was a familiar logo in the corner of the screen, StarDrop: Your K-Culture Compass. 

“Demons, hunters, Jinu being kidnapped… every last bit of it was real.”

The room exploded into motion. HUNTR/X scrambled off their makeshift beds, crowding around the couch. Abby abandoned his post in the corner, Baby leaned forward so far he nearly toppled off the cushions, and even Mystery broke his statue-like calm to get a clearer view.

Zoey’s gasp was almost a squeak. “Woah! Celine’s there too!”

Rumi leaned in, her hair falling into her face, but there was no disguising the tentative smile tugging at her lips. “She’s… working together with Romance.”

On screen, Jia, the StarDrop host, tilted her head, perfectly composed but sharp as ever. “I believe you. I was there. You can’t fake a portal tearing open or lava boiling into a stadium in front of a live audience. But some fans at home still think it was CGI—or a publicity stunt. What do you say to that?”

Romance’s smile was effortless, practiced, devastatingly charming. “It’s understandable people are skeptical. Technology is wild these days.” He spread his hands, eyes glittering. “But all I can do is keep proving it.”

And then he vanished. One heartbeat he was on stage, the next he was gone in a burst of flames that licked the air and left the audience screaming.

“Instantaneous teleportation,” his voice carried from somewhere else, rich with amusement. “Pretty hard to fake.”

The cameras swung wildly, searching, until they found him seated smack in the middle of the front row. He leaned casually against the armrest, materializing a blood-red rose out of fire. With a gallant bow, he handed it to a wide-eyed young woman beside him, her face flooding crimson.

Baby snorted. “What a showoff.”

The moment soured when the man whose seat Romance had commandeered tapped him firmly on the shoulder, one brow raised.

Unbothered, Romance conjured another rose—this one a crisp white—and pressed it into the young man’s hand. “For you,” he said warmly, eyes sparkling. “I don’t discriminate by gender.” With a wink, he dissolved once more in a fiery whoosh, leaving shrieks and laughter in his wake.

He reappeared back onstage as if he had never left.

Jia clapped with mock indignation, lips pursed in a playful pout. “That’s very impressive, but I feel a little left out.”

Romance didn’t miss a beat. A bouquet of pink roses burst to life in his hand, which he presented with a graceful flourish. “Here. Pink is my favorite color.”

Jia laughed, bowing her head. “Thank you! And what about your lovely co-guest?”

Romance’s grin widened as the camera cut to Celine. She sat like a statue carved from frost, every line of her posture screaming resistance. Her face was a mask of composure, but the muscles in her jaw ticked, the faintest tremor betraying how tightly she was holding herself together.

Zoey winced from the apartment couch. “Oh… she does not look happy.”

On screen, Romance arched a brow, grin sharp as a blade. “I would,” he drawled, “but I think she’d gut me.”

Laughter rolled through the audience. Celine’s eyes narrowed.

“And yet,” he went on, puckering his lips in exaggerated fashion, “who could resist?” He blew her a kiss.

It shimmered in the air, condensing into a glowing pink heart that streaked toward her like a comet.

Celine moved before the audience had time to gasp. Twin saingeom blades blazed into existence in her hands, silver arcs that split the air. With two strikes—clean, precise—the heart shattered into a spray of glittering shards. They rained harmlessly to the floor like broken starlight.

The crowd fell into a stunned hush. Then the applause crashed down, thunderous, a wave of awe at the display.

Romance chuckled softly, unruffled. “What can you do?” he mused, shrugging. “You give away your heart, but not everyone’s willing to take it.”

The audience roared again, charmed by the quip.

Celine dismissed her blades, the light fading from her hands. Her expression remained locked, but for the briefest moment, her gaze flicked, not at Romance, but toward the camera. Toward the millions of eyes watching. And something cracked there: a flash of fear, quickly smothered, as if the weight of all those stares pressed too close.

“Enough games,” she said, each word clipped as she strode across the stage toward Romance. “It’s time to get to the point. HUNTR/X is—”

“And the other Saja Boys,” Romance interjected smoothly, flashing a smile that had the audience chuckling again.

Celine’s eye twitched. Her nostrils flared, but she ground through it. “Fine. HUNTR/X and the Saja Boys are fighting in the demon world… and they need your help.”

The shift in her tone was unmistakable. The laughter died down quickly, the studio dipping into a hush, as if her voice had carved clean through the noise.

In Bobby’s apartment, Mystery murmured, “She doesn’t see it. He was steering the whole conversation. Making demons less terrifying, more… familiar or at least fascinating.”

On screen, Romance let his smile soften into solemnity. “They’re up against Gwi-Ma, the demon king who’s given all us demons a bad name.”

Abby muttered from the couch, “That’s understating things.”

Zoey jabbed him with her elbow. “Shhh.”

Romance pressed on, his expression earnest now. “I have to acknowledge that not all demons are good people. Gwi-Ma isn’t a good guy—and yes, he has demons who are genuinely loyal to him. But most? They just want to live their lives. Maybe fall in love, start a family… or just open a kimchi store.” The corners of his mouth lifted at his own levity, then steadied again. “Demons are people with their own hurts, their own wants, their own passions. I like to sing. And now, I’m fighting in my own way. For a cause I believe in.”

His voice dropped lower, rich with conviction. “The world is in crisis. That’s why we’re here on this show. To spread a message.”

He turned to the camera, gaze intent. “My friends—humans, demons, and in Rumi’s case, both—are building a Honmoon that will connect and protect both worlds. But they can’t do it alone. The Honmoon gets stronger only when people believe… when they resonate with each other. Every time you listen to HUNTR/X, when you let the music move you, when you send them your love, your hope, your admiration, you’re helping. You’re strengthening the Honmoon.”

In the apartment, Mira folded her arms, but her lips twitched despite herself. “He’s good,” she admitted grudgingly.

Romance glanced at Celine then, not with his usual teasing glint but with genuine acknowledgment. “Celine and I spoke before this. We don’t always see eye to eye. But we both want the same thing.”

The camera lingered on his face as his expression gentled into something open, vulnerable—a soft smile breaking through like light after a storm. “To achieve peace between our worlds.”

He leaned closer, voice warm but fierce with resolve. “So please—everyone watching. Don’t let Gwi-Ma win. Don’t let fear or uncertainty rule your heart. The Honmoon will live or die on your willpower, your belief. Believe in HUNTR/X. Resonate with your fellow fans. Spread the word.”

The audience surged to its feet, cheering, clapping, voices rising like a wave.

In Bobby’s apartment, the roar from the television washed over them like a tide. Baby groaned into his pillow, muffling, “He’s cringier than Rumi.” Zoey sat wide-eyed, caught between awe and disbelief. Abby only shook his head with a crooked smirk, while Mystery remained still, his quiet gaze betraying a flicker of approval. And Rumi—she drew her blanket tighter around herself, her heart thundering as if it were beating in rhythm with the crowd on the screen, each cheer striking against her ribs like a drum.

Jia leaned in with a teasing smile. “That was heartwarming. You should consider politics if being an idol doesn’t work out.”

Romance gave a careless shrug, as though the idea barely grazed him. “Who knows? Human–demon relations is a brand new field. Maybe I’ll reinvent myself as an ambassador.”

“It would suit you,” Jia said with a grin. Then her tone shifted, the warmth cooling into something sharper. “But changing the subject—any word on how HUNTR/X or the rest of the Saja Boys are faring in the demon world? How close are they to rescuing Jinu?”

Romance folded his hands loosely on his knee, his voice dipped into solemn reassurance. “No word yet. But I have no doubt they won’t rest until Jinu is safe.”

Back in Bobby’s apartment, Zoey nearly inhaled her sandwich in surprise, coughing hard. Mystery was at her side instantly, one hand rubbing her back in steady circles.

“He doesn’t mean that literally,” Mira muttered, pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Maybe,” Abby said, gaze narrowing as he glanced over at Baby, who was slurping the last of his fourth ramyeon cup, all Mira’s Spice Queen flavor. Baby leaned back, burped thunderously, and looked smug about it.

“What?” Baby said, throwing up his hands. “I need to eat. Once everyone’s got enough carbs and caffeine, I’ll probably be the one pushing you all to keep up.”

The inevitable bickering between Baby and Abby sparked, sharp words traded like pebbles tossed back and forth, until Mira snapped her fingers for silence. “Shhh. I want to hear this.”

They fell quiet just as the broadcast moved on, having missed a volley of lighthearted banter between Romance and Jia.

“Alright,” Jia said, her voice turning crisp, “time for the hard questions.”

Romance leaned forward, unflinching. “Go ahead. I want transparency. This situation is unlike anything the world has ever faced, and hiding truths now only hurts us later.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that,” Jia replied, her tone dipping with gravity. “But I think this question is better suited to Celine.” She turned, gaze flicking to the woman sitting beside Romance. “And I’m very glad you agreed to join us this morning, Celine, because there’s something the entire world is dying to know.”

The camera zoomed, tightening on Jia’s face as she delivered the question with deliberate precision:

“Who is Rumi’s father?”

Celine blinked, her composure faltering. “…Excuse me?”

Jia pressed, relentless. “He’s a demon, isn’t he? So, does that mean he’s alive? Is he somewhere in the demon world? And if so, which side is he on? Is he loyal to Gwi-Ma… or does he stand with humanity?”

The camera cut to Celine. Her jaw tightened, her eyes flickering with something dangerously close to panic. “…That’s… personal information. And irrelevant to current events. He disappeared over two decades ago.”

“Hmm,” Jia mused, head tilting. “But if he’s alive and still in the demon world, then there’s a chance Rumi could encounter him… isn’t there?”

On the couch, Rumi tensed. She got up and crossed the room in quick strides, stopping directly in front of the television. Her eyes locked on the screen just as the camera zoomed in on Celine’s face, tense, cornered, visibly rattled.

She drew in a breath, lips parting as if to answer—but before a word could escape, the view of her face vanished. Romance had risen smoothly, stepping into place with practiced ease, his shoulders filling the frame until Celine was hidden entirely. The camera adjusted, pulling back to recenter on him. His smile was faint, almost gentle, but his tone carried the weight of dismissal. “The demon world is vast. Assuming he’s even alive, there’s no guarantee they’ll ever meet.”

Jia’s eyes narrowed, her tone sharpening. “So you don’t know who he is?”

Romance shook his head without hesitation. “No. In the demon world, there weren’t even whispers that Rumi carried half-demon blood. Not a trace of rumor. No idea who could have possibly stolen the heart of Ryu Mi-yeong.”

Jia leaned forward, her voice dropping into the cadence of a reveal. “Well then, I suppose you’re in for a treat. Because my team uncovered something… intriguing. A photograph, buried in a tabloid decades ago. It went briefly viral online before it fizzled out due to the timing of events being impossible.”

The broadcast cut to the grainy image. A young couple, frozen mid-gesture. The man wore a dark beanie pulled low and a worn leather jacket, his head bent as he pressed a kiss to the back of the woman’s hand, eyes lifted toward her with a tenderness that could not be staged. The woman’s face was partially obscured by her own hand, her smile bright enough to gleam even in the low resolution. Her hair was braided low, the same style Ryu Mi-yeong often wore, though she also sported delicate, round-framed glasses rarely seen in her public images.

The background glowed with movement and light: a crush of festival-goers, storefront signs spilling neon, and the unmistakable sweep of a green dragon-shaped lantern float rolling past. The festival’s lanterns washed the scene in uneven gold, catching the angle of the man’s face and illuminating his features clearly—far more clearly than the woman’s, whose features mostly lingered in shadow, enough to invite some skepticism of her identity.

Back in the studio, Jia’s voice rang out: “This photo was taken in Jongno, near the end of the Lotus Lantern Festival—around nine p.m. Which would have been impossible for Ryu Mi-yeong, given that the Sunlight Sisters had just finished a concert at the Busan Asiad Main Stadium the very same night. There would have been no way Ryu Mi-yeong made a five-hour trip from Busan to Seoul in half an hour or less… unless, of course, teleportation was involved.”

The photo took up the screen again.

Rumi had risen without realizing it, standing directly before the television in Bobby’s apartment. Her voice was small, fragile. “That’s… my father?”

On screen, the camera cut to Celine. Her lips were pressed into a thin, hard line, her eyes shimmering faintly under the studio lights. When she spoke, her voice was hoarse, fraying at the edges.

“This interview is over.”

Celine’s voice cracked slightly, hoarse but unyielding. She rose in one sharp motion and strode offstage without looking back. She left in her wake the sharp scatter of applause, gasps, and a sudden thrum of whispered speculation, an atmosphere charged with questions she refused to answer.

Romance leaned casually into the camera’s gaze, unshaken by the stir around him. “They’re clearly in love,” he said, his smile faint, almost wistful. “And those eyes… I know them. The same gentle eyes Rumi had when she sang Free with Jinu.”

He glanced at the photograph still displayed on the screen, his expression softening. “Seems like you hit the jackpot, Jia. You should give those researchers of yours a raise. Though I’ll say this—teleporting that distance isn’t something I could manage. Whoever he is, he wouldn’t have done that lightly, so she must mean a lot to him.”

The audience hushed again, caught between his measured words and the lingering image.

Romance’s smile widened, warm this time. “Can I get a copy of that photo? I think Rumi will want to see it when she comes back. It’s honestly beautiful.”

Jia clasped her hands together, charmed despite herself. “Aww. You really are such a sweetie. Of course! And we still have more questions for you—after the commercial break. But first, a quick word from our sponsors.”

The broadcast cut abruptly to a bright jingle for bottled tea.

In Bobby’s apartment, Baby, still clutching the remote, muted the TV with a sharp click. The sudden silence was heavy, pressing down on all of them.

Zoey shifted uneasily, her voice tentative. “Uhh… are you okay, Rumi?”

Rumi didn’t move. She stood rooted before the screen, her hands balled into fists at her sides. When she spoke, her voice was slow, distant, as though her thoughts were still catching up. “Yeah… I guess I never even considered that I could… maybe meet him.”

The room held its breath.

Then her head lifted, eyes hardening with sudden determination. “I need to talk to Celine.”

Zoey shook her head, alarm flashing across her face. “Wait, Rumi, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“I’ll be quick.” Rumi’s tone was resolute. “I just need to find out what she knows about my father.”

Mira’s arms crossed over her chest, her eyes narrowed. “Do you have time to be distracted? What about Jinu?”

Rumi turned sharply, her expression fierce but not dismissive. “Jinu is the priority. He’s in real danger. Still… I want to know. He’s my father… the one I’ve written off my whole life just because he was a demon. I thought that made him evil, that he was the source of all my problems. But things have changed. If I don’t at least try, I’ll regret it.”

She took a breath, steadying herself. “Look, I have to hurry before Celine leaves the studio. Otherwise it’ll be much harder to get her alone. Just… get ready to head out as soon as I’m back.”

Crossing the room, she crouched beside Derpy, who had been relaxing near the couch. “Derpy,” she murmured, stroking his fur, “can you make a portal to the talk show set we just saw on TV?”

The tiger blinked his golden eyes and rose to his feet. A ripple of energy shimmered beneath them, the carpet warping as a portal slowly unfolded.

“Thanks, Derpy,” Rumi whispered, giving a quick wave over her shoulder to the others. They sank into the glow, Rumi and Derpy swallowed by the light before anyone could muster a proper protest.

The apartment was still. Mira groaned into the silence, dragging a hand down her face. “I can already tell this is going to end badly.”

From the pile of discarded blankets, Sussie let out a squawk in agreement.

Chapter Text

Romance leaned back in his chair, legs crossed with casual precision, as if he had all the time in the world while the set churned around him in its orchestrated chaos. Stagehands whispered into headsets as lights flickered in adjustment, while from beyond the cameras came the restless hum of the audience, freed by the commercial break to chat among themselves. It was a convenient lull. A breather where the high emotions of the dramatic reveal and Celine’s abrupt exit could be reset… and where he could test for any more unexpected surprises.

He let smile number twelve slip into place, one of his most reliable, the kind that softened resistance and nudged people exactly where he wanted them. Just crooked enough to seem accidental, the slight lift at the corner of his mouth suggesting a private joke, a secret only she was in on. Paired with the steady smolder in his eyes, it came across as genuine and effortless, carrying the impression of mild infatuation without tipping into overt seduction. He saw the faint flush rising across Jia’s cheeks.

He leaned closer, close enough for the floral trace of her perfume to mingle with the sharper tang of stage dust and lingering sweat. His brows drew together just slightly, an artful touch of vulnerability, calculated innocence. Jia swallowed, caught between fluster and composure, and Romance knew he had her.

“That was quite the surprise you sprung,” he murmured, his voice pitched low, intimate, as though it were meant for her alone despite the bustle all around them. “You didn’t mention anything like that before the show.”

His gaze pinned her. Jia blinked, faltered. “Uhh… it was more genuine that way. Makes for a better show.”

Romance let his mouth curve into a faint pout, eyes dropping as a subtle quiver touched his lower lip. He conjured the bleakest possibilities for Jinu, just enough to thread a sliver of truth to enhance his acting. The hint of real ache gave his feigned sorrow weight; his lashes dampened, his eyes glistened with a carefully measured shine. When he lifted his gaze again, the effect was devastating.

“I thought we were closer than that,” he said softly, before adding, “Can’t we just be honest with each other? No more surprises, right, Jia? We have so much at stake. This interview needs to go seamlessly.”

Her blush deepened, and she shifted under the weight of his gaze, caught between fluster and composure. For one breathless moment, Romance felt the scene balanced perfectly in his hands, tipping exactly where he wanted it.

Then the air shifted.

A prickling raced over Romance’s skin, lifting the hairs along his arms and neck. The comfortable noise of the studio fell away as one by one, heads turned toward the sudden flare of blue light. Conversations died mid-sentence, crew froze with half-raised hands, even the audience in their seats leaned forward, breath caught. The set held itself in suspension, every eye fixed on the blue portal expanding on stage.

Romance’s stomach lurched. They couldn’t possibly have rescued Jinu this quickly, so why—oh. His chest tightened. This was not good.

From the rift rose Rumi, eyes burning with determination, still boldly baring her demon patterns for everyone to see. At her side, the striped bulk of Derpy followed, claws clacking across the stage, his great head lifted like a sentinel.

Romance was on his feet before he realized it, his chair toppling back with a clatter that rang far too loud in the frozen hush. For a ridiculous heartbeat he thought the feed might still be live, that he would have to craft some desperate spin on the spot, but no. Commercial break. Cameras down. Thank the Honmoon.

“Where’s Celine?” Rumi’s voice cut across the stunned crew and murmuring audience, sharp as a blade.

Romance’s mouth went dry, but he managed, “The dressing room, most likely. Changing out of her borrowed stage clothes.”

“Thanks!” Rumi shot back, already striding offstage, Derpy padding along at her side with a casual grace despite the speed they were moving.

Romance let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, but behind him came the sharper edge of Jia’s voice:

“I don’t care if we’re on commercial! Get me someone with a portable camera, now! We’re following her!” Jia’s voice cut sharp through the sudden bustle, her hand already raised as if to corral the nearest stagehand.

Romance’s heart sank. Every instinct screamed to follow Rumi, to find out how the Saja Boys were doing and if they’d made any headway rescuing Jinu, but he forced himself still. Instead, he turned, closing the distance until he stood a foot in front of Jia, placing himself squarely between her and the frenzy of staff she was trying to command.

“You can’t,” he said, and for once there was no charm in his tone. No playful lilt, no practiced smile. Just iron.

Jia blinked, thrown by his gravity. “What do you mean, I can’t?”

“You can’t go and film Rumi and Celine’s conversation,” Romance pressed. “In fact, you should act as though Rumi never appeared at all.”

Her eyes narrowed, indignation rising. “Why not? This is the story people want. They deserve to know what’s happening.”

“Maybe,” Romance allowed, his voice low, deliberate, “but right now, what’s safeguarding humanity is a magical barrier held up by sheer belief in Rumi and HUNTR/X. If you broadcast anything that undermines that faith, you’re not just reporting, you’re putting the entire world at risk.”

Jia’s chin lifted with an arrogant tilt. “I’m a journalist. It’s my duty to tell people the truth.”

Romance's jaw tightened. He forced a smile and drew in a slow breath through his nose to blunt the retort on his tongue. Journalist? You? Oh, please. She trafficked in rumors, turning idols' slips into headlines. He swallowed his incredulity, let it fall away, and shifted strategy. When he spoke again, the steel in his voice had been polished into velvet.

“Jia,” he said gently, relaxing his facial muscles into a more polished smile. “It’s admirable, really, that you hold to such strong principles. You clearly care a great deal about the fans.”

Her face brightened, relief softening her tension. “Yes, exactly.”

Romance nodded along, voice warm, agreeable. “Then I hope you can evacuate everyone in time.”

Jia nodded along instinctively before her brow furrowed. “Evacuate? What are you talking about?”

He cast a glance around the stage, then steered Jia a few steps aside, just beyond the tangle of crew and the restless murmur of the audience. The noise wrapped around them like cover, ensuring no one else could catch a word. His voice dropped, quiet and deliberate.

“Oh, it’s obvious,” he said. “The moment you air Rumi’s personal drama, this studio becomes the first target for demon invasion. The Honmoon will falter here before anywhere else, and Gwi-Ma will see his opening. He’ll go for Rumi when she’s most vulnerable—upset, distracted, cut off from Mira and Zoey. Picture it. A portal so vast it swallows the entire stage, spilling open like a wound. And from it, wave after wave of demons, flooding in by the hundreds.”

Her lips parted, her voice thinner now. “Hundreds?”

Romance tilted his head as though reconsidering, then sighed. “You’re right. Too few. More likely thousands. Yes, thousands of Gwi-Ma’s soul-hungry soldiers tearing into this very room. The only thing holding them back right now is the Honmoon, but if you weaken it with your broadcast? Well, inevitability speaks for itself.” His tone softened into regretful sympathy. “Still, I understand. Journalistic integrity must come before the lives of a few hundred audience members and staff. We’ll do what we can to mitigate casualties, of course. Best to start evacuating nonessentials immediately.”

Color drained from Jia’s cheeks. She swallowed hard. “C-can’t you stop them?”

“Me?” Romance let out a rueful laugh, low and hollow. “I’m a weak demon at best. If I’m lucky, I’ll bring down a handful before I’m swarmed and torn apart. Gwi-Ma’s soldiers are ruthless, though. They enjoy toying with their prey. Draw it out, make a game of it.”

He watched her, cataloguing the fear that was already knitting itself into her features. Not enough, he decided. Dropping his voice into a mock-confidant whisper, he said, “Do you know there are two hundred and six bones in the human body? Some demons make a sport of it, seeing who can name the most while they break them.”

Her color drained. He closed the gap until their breaths mingled.

“One—” He snapped a knuckle, and she flinched. “—by—” He snapped another, never breaking eye contact. Then, keeping his body unnervingly still, he tilted his head and cracked his neck, a dry, final, loud snap and finished, “—one.”

“Ahh!” Jia flinched, throwing up her hands. “You know what? I think we should leave Rumi and Celine to sort themselves out privately. The world is at stake, after all.”

Romance’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Hah. You caved earlier than I expected. I didn’t even get to the good part.

Outwardly, he shifted his expression to display only concern. “Are you sure? We might be able to limit the casualties to just you, me, and a few of the crew. Though with less prey, Gwi-Ma’s demons may grow a little… crueler.”

Jia had somehow gone paler, her nod frantic. “I’m sure.”

Romance inclined his head solemnly, voice steeped in gravitas. “Well that’s probably the more responsible choice. Now, about the rest of the interview…”

The door slammed open.

Celine jolted, standing up and knocking a few things over in her surprise. Her jacket hung loose around her shoulders, half on, half off. Instinctively, she yanked it closed in a single motion—too quick, too sharp—her pulse racing at the near exposure. Her eyes flicked downward, scanning her sides as if to confirm nothing had slipped into view. Only then did she dare look up, though the edge of panic clung stubbornly at the back of her throat.

“Rumi?” she blurted, shock roughening her voice. What was Rumi doing here? Had she seen?

A beat stretched between them. From behind Rumi, the strange demonic tiger prowled out and immediately walked towards her. Celine took a step back and summoned her blades only for the tiger to completely ignore Celine and head for… an upended waste bin Celine had knocked over in her surprise.

The demonic tiger, singularly focused on the waste bin, kept pawing at it. Well, if it wouldn’t take her seriously, that wasn’t her problem. This idiotic tiger was Rumi’s sole means of traveling to the demon world. Celine raised her blades. Perhaps if she…

“Wait! Don’t hurt Derpy! I think he’s a guardian spirit.”

What?

Celine observed the tiger that was continuously failing to upright a fallen waste bin. And did she say it’s name was Derpy?

Rumi expected her to believe this was one of the legendary guardian spirits written about in the old texts? Celine just pointed to the tiger and skeptically asked, “Really? That? A legendary existence guiding hunters of distant past with their profound wisdom?”

Derpy—what kind of name was Derpy?—still hadn’t uprighted the waste bin, had dumped most of its contents, and was slowly pawing the fallen scraps back into the bin.

Rumi gave a small, distracted smile. “It’s a working theory,” she said. Then her expression sobered. “But that’s not why I came here.”

Her voice cut clean through the air. “I need to know. About my father. You knew him, didn’t you?”

Celine’s shoulders stiffened. “I’ve told you before. He isn’t someone worth knowing. He was a demon. He took advantage of your mother’s kindness, and because of him… she’s gone.”

Rumi’s eyes narrowed. “You can’t blame him for her death. She died in childbirth. That’s not his fault.”

Gwi-Ma’s laugh slithered through her mind, velvet over venom. Ah, yes. That tidy little lie. Convenient, isn’t it? Keeps her from asking the right questions.

Celine’s jaw locked. She forced her breathing even.

“You’ve never told me anything else,” Rumi pressed. “What kind of person was he? What was his name? How did they meet?”

Celine bit off the words. “He was one of Gwi-Ma’s generals. Cold. Ruthless. He killed hunters without hesitation. He was nothing but a weapon.”

“If he was nothing but a weapon, then why would my mother love him?” she demanded. “That photograph, he didn’t look how you’re describing him. They looked like they were in love.”

“He never deserved her love!” Celine shouted, then clamped her mouth shut.

Rumi seized on it instantly, stepping forward, her eyes fierce. “What does that mean? Did he do something? What aren’t you telling me?!”

A whisper coiled through Celine’s skull, slick as oil. Oh, it’s not what 'he' did that you’re hiding. But we both know you won’t tell her the truth. So what will you give your precious little daughter? A lie? A twist of the truth—something you’re so very good at? Gwi-Ma’s laughter followed, a low, poisonous rattle that scraped at her bones.

Heat prickled beneath her skin. The faint trace of her demon patterns smoldered like live coals, answering her shame with a searing throb. They crawled across her back and shoulders as if eager to betray her, to brand her in front of Rumi.

“He disguised himself as a human,” Celine ground out, each word brittle as glass. “Pretending to be harmless so that we’d let down our guard. He preyed on your mother’s kindness, and once he got what he wanted, he left. He is dangerous. Ruthless. If you find him, you’ll only bleed for it. I will not speak of that man—” her breath hitched, voice hardening to a snarl “that monster again.”

Rumi swallowed, but the tremor in her throat only sharpened her resolve. Her voice softened, though steel ran beneath it. “I still need to know, Celine.”

Celine shook her head, jerking her jacket tight around her shoulders as though neat folds of fabric could hold her together. She turned sharply, angling to brush past Rumi, her silence more abrasive than denial.

But Rumi pressed on, indignant, her voice catching as she forced the words out. “If you won’t tell me, then I’ll just have to ask Jaein.”

The name pierced Celine’s composure. She stilled mid-motion, her breath caught. “Jaein?”

The memory surged unbidden. Jaein as she had last seen her, face carved in fury, patterns blazing across her skin like molten chains. Eyes, golden and slitted like a demon’s, and her patterns had spread unchecked, draping over her face like a dark veil of mourning.

“She’s a demon now,” Rumi pressed, her voice trembling with both fear and defiance. “Did you know? Is this just another thing you decided to keep from me?”

Celine shook her head, each word forced past the tightening band around her chest. “You didn’t need to know. She… she would never return to the human world. And she would never serve Gwi-Ma.”

True, Gwi-Ma chuckled, his voice curling with amusement in Celine’s mind. Quite the ‘hothead’, that one... Heh, you’d get the joke if you saw her now.

Rumi’s jaw set, her tears catching the light. “Then I’ll find her. She’ll give me the answers you refuse to. And then I’ll find my father.”

“Aren’t I enough?” Celine’s control splintered. The words tore from her throat harsher than she intended, brittle with desperation. “You don’t need to meet him!”

Rumi froze, then spoke with a quiet ache that hit harder than her shouting. “I’m sorry, but no. You’re not enough. Not anymore.”

A silken voice slid through Celine’s head, half amused, half affronted. Ouch. That’s got to sting. Jaein, Mi-yeong, Rumi. Is there anyone you haven’t failed?

Rumi was still speaking, her mouth moving, her eyes burning, but Celine’s head had begun to ring. The sound of her ward’s words dissolved into muffled echoes, drowned by the rush of blood in her ears. Her breath came ragged. Her back seared. Her throat dried to ash.

“Alright, then go,” Celine forced out, though her own voice sounded distant, as though spoken from across a canyon. The lump in her throat burned hotter, sharper. “Since you think you know better. I raised you, took you in after Mi-yeong’s death, but sure, run to the man who ruined everything!”

“I’m not ungrateful for what you’ve done, Celine. I’m not trying to replace you!”

“Then why do you need to go to him?” Celine’s control cracked further, her voice rising, jagged. “Things were fine. Everything was going to be fine.” She staggered a step closer, anguish dragging her words into a snarl. “We were—” Her breath faltered. She almost choked on the final syllables. “—so close to fixing everything…”

Her chest heaved once, and then she surged forward until she was nearly nose to nose with Rumi, accusation dripping from every word. “Until you decided your feelings mattered more than the safety of the world.”

“That’s not—” Rumi started, defensive, but then stopped short. Her eyes widened, narrowing on the faint purple glow creeping up from Celine’s collar, pulsing at the base of her throat.

Rumi’s voice thinned to a whisper, fragile as glass. “What… why do you have patterns?”

Celine’s breath seized. Her gaze snapped downward, frantic, her hands clawing at her jacket as though sheer will might smother the glow. But the purple light crept insistently past her collarbones, spilling across the edges of her skin. Her knees buckled. She collapsed onto them, clutching the fabric to her chest like a shield, as if it could ward off the truth.

“I… I don’t understand…” Rumi’s words shook, unsteady with disbelief.

Celine hunched lower, her body folding inward, every line of her posture begging concealment. At last, she lifted her face. Her eyes were wild, rimmed with shame and fear, locking onto Rumi’s like a cornered animal. “It’s… it’s not what it looks like.”

Rumi’s expression twisted—confusion, shock, and betrayal tangled together. Her demand came broken, her voice cracking under its own weight. “Then explain.”

Celine’s lips trembled. She clutched her arms tight around herself, as if the embrace might anchor her. “You don’t understand what it was like back then… the tactics Gwi-Ma used… the pressure we were under. I—” Her voice faltered into a rasp. “It was just one moment of weakness.”

She rocked forward slightly, hugging herself tighter, eyes glassy and distant. “This is why we can’t let our personal feelings get in the way of our duty. Gwi-Ma only needs the smallest crack to carve a canyon wide enough to swallow everything.”

Rumi recoiled, horror blooming across her features. “What deal did you make with Gwi-Ma? How could you work with him? Trust him? You’re a hunter!”

Her cry split the air, creating a jagged ripple of crimson reverberating through the Honmoon, the discordant ripple jarring both women to silence.

And then, insidiously smooth, Gwi-Ma’s voice coiled again in Celine’s mind. Tell her what you traded for. Your deepest desire, offered on a silver platter. Not a shred of dishonesty or subterfuge from me, yet I’m being made out as the villain here. 

Celine’s chest heaved. She scrabbled for words, but none felt solid. “It doesn’t matter what the deal was. None of that matters. We were going to fix things. The Golden Honmoon would have erased this stain from both of us—left it as nothing more than a bad memory.”

Rumi closed her eyes, a tremor in her lips. A single tear escaped, sliding slow down her cheek. When she opened her eyes again, they carried a depth of sorrow, a gentleness that should have soothed, yet to her it seared like salt. Those eyes. Those pitying eyes. The sight of them tore open an old, unhealed memory, a ghost that surged up before she could push it down.

“It wouldn’t have fixed anything,” Rumi whispered. “Just hidden it. Celine—”

“No!” The word ripped from Celine’s throat like steel tearing through flesh. She lurched upright, her demon patterns blazing hotter beneath her skin. Her voice quavered with fury and despair, ragged enough to splinter the air. “I refuse to be looked at with pity through those eyes again. His eyes!”

She staggered back a step, straight into Derpy’s massive flank. The tiger huffed, startled, and Celine’s balance failed. She pitched sideways, colliding with the waste bin before crashing down in a cacophony of noise. A metal chair toppled with her, clattering against the tile with a shriek that reverberated through the room.

She landed hard, a crumpled heap on the floor. Her legs sprawled awkwardly over Derpy’s back, her jacket sliding uselessly from her shoulders to puddle around her wrists. The last of her concealment gone, the glowing lattice of demon patterns had grown to cover her shoulders and were now in full view, pulsing like shame branded into flesh.

The door burst open. “Are you guys oka—” Romance stopped short, eyes widening. Then a brow lifted, his smile curving sharp. “So the demon-hating hunter is marked herself. Hypocrite.”

Celine froze. Rumi’s pitying gaze—those eyes, his eyes—bored into her like a blade. Romance’s cold judgment pressed in from the doorway. Even the tiger, unblinking and inscrutable, regarded her with a weight that felt damning.

The walls seemed to close in around her. Every direction hemmed her in and the one exit blocked. She was exposed. Boxed in. Trapped.

Do you want an escape? I can get you out. The silk-tongued thought purred through her skull, Gwi-Ma’s voice slipping neatly into the cracks of her mind.

Her breath hitched. Her heart hammered against her sternum; the heat of her patterns flared, bright and furious beneath her skin. Air came in shallow, brittle pulls. Her faults and fears that she so desperately tried to keep hidden were spilling out into the open, and she couldn’t bear the ruin of it.

“What do you want from me?” she asked, the words barely a rasp.

“For you to talk to me. Tell me what’s going on. Why didn’t you tell me about your patterns? What happened for you to get them?” Rumi’s voice was steady despite everything, urgent but gentle, as if she were trying to coax a fracture closed with nothing but patience.

For the escape, Gwi-Ma murmured, I only ask that you truly hear a proposition I have for you.

Celine’s throat worked. “Why?” she whispered inward and outward at once.

“Because we’re family,” Rumi said. “And we can work through this… but I need to understand.” Her words trembled on the edge of pleading, and the honesty in them made the room colder.

Because I like you, Celine, Gwi-Ma replied, sultry and oddly intimate. And I think there’s a way we can both get what we want.

The admission scraped at something fragile inside her. She swallowed until it hurt. “Things will not end well if I give you what you want,” she managed.

How can you be sure without hearing me out?
“How can you be sure without trying?”

Gwi-Ma coaxing, patient as a predator overlapped with Rumi’s gentler insistence.

I’ve never lied to you, Celine. I respect you too much to, Gwi-Ma said, as if offering flattery could seal a bargain. But of course, it’s your choice. Who would you rather talk to? Your precious adopted daughter… or me?

The choice hung between them like a blade suspended in the air. Celine felt its cold edge against her throat. Either answer felt like it would be a kind of death.

Rumi stepped closer. The scrape of her shoes against the tile sounded far too loud. She crouched until she was level with Celine, voice trembling but steady enough to cut through.
“Even if you make mistakes, I wouldn’t turn my back on you. I’d stand by you, because you’ve always stood by me. We’re family.”

The words pierced deeper than Rumi could know. They carried another voice within them—Mi-yeong’s voice, soft and unwavering, superimposed on her daughter’s like an echo resurrected. No matter the mistake, I wouldn’t turn my back on you. I’d stand by you, because you’ve always stood by me. I’ll always love you as a sister, no matter what happens.

The overlap hollowed Celine out. Rumi’s tear-streaked face blurred into Mi-yeong’s gentle countenance, and behind it all loomed the shadow of that man. Together, they merged into one unbearable vision. Guilt swelled, pressing against her ribs, threatening to burst her apart.

Her eyes slammed shut. Her whisper trembled into the charged air. “I can’t do this. Not now… Take me away from here, Gwi-Ma.”

As you wish. His voice coiled with smug satisfaction.

“What—?” Rumi’s heartbroken cry was the last sound Celine heard before the tug came, sharp and merciless, yanking from the center of her chest. Her patterns ignited, searing hotter than ever before, as though fire had been branded into her flesh. She gasped, then the floor dropped away.

She felt herself plunging backwards, and for a moment, her limbs felt oddly light against the lead in her chest. Sound collapsed into the single drum of her heartbeat, a high keen at the edges of her hearing, while a white-hot press of heat skated under her skin.

In that narrow, breathless instant, a heavy sense of dread settled in her bones.

She couldn’t help but feel like she had just made a terrible mistake.

They called him so many names before anyone called him Derpy. Big names and small names. Some were proud like Cheonbeom, as if he’d been born out of the sky. It feels loud in his chest, like a mountain answering. Although he can fly, he much prefers the ground. You can’t nap on clouds, after all.

When he trailed hunters or sat under temple eaves, they would call him Suhoryeong, which sounds like a folded hand and a promise to keep watch. He does like to keep watch for his strays, but after he had seen so many things break, his teeth do not hunger for hurting the way they used to.

Bubi was a good name. Little hands gave it to him once, quick, sticky fingers that would sometimes give him oranges. It means to nuzzle. He likes nuzzling. He does it a lot. He likes pressing his big head into knees and elbows and the hollow behind collars until people bend and laugh, because warm places are what he has to give.

And he keeps thinking of a more recent one, Cheongryeon. It is a type of flower. A gentle man chose it, picking each syllable like he was laying a small cloth over something fragile. He hasn’t seen that man in some time, the man with a voice that felt like a steady river, quiet on top, and carrying a deep pull underneath. A bit silly and stubborn of Derpy, but he hopes he’ll hear it again.

He likes names. They are small warm things that he can tuck into his fur so the people he loves don’t vanish entirely. Every name is a kindness, and kindness is the treasure he hoards when the rest of the world forgets.

He hopes he can keep the name Derpy for a while. His newest strays, these noisy, bright, determined cubs, smell like hope now. Once they smelled only like loneliness and grit. But Rumi smells more like loneliness again after the flame-man took that other hunter. It makes her hold herself wrong.

So he does the thing he knows. He nudges his forehead into her side until her fingers find the place behind his ear. He is clumsy with comfort but steady. Sometimes that is enough. Sometimes a small warm thing unravels a long, thin sorrow.

She breathes against him. “Thanks, Derpy,” she says, voice small and real. “I’ll… be okay.”

Derpy notices Romance then. The man’s hand hangs in the air, hovering a breath from Rumi’s shoulder as if he is afraid the warmth will set off an alarm. Foolish cub, Derpy thinks. Offering a little warmth never hurts. Romance pulled back. Derpy stared at him blankly. He knew he had a habit of collecting the most helpless into his pile of strays. It’s how he ends up with pockets full of people who need holding. 

Well maybe licking will help. Licking works wonders. He has seen it give courage where there was fear, make a shouted apology softer, teach a stubborn hand to stay.

He shifts, thinking to sidle over and press his nose to Romance’s wrist, to give a generous, consoling lick. That would nudge the man into softness and then everyone could breathe. But before he can wind himself into action, Romance looks down at Rumi, blinks as if catching himself, and moves. He leaves the room softly, the door whispering closed behind him.

Derpy blinks. He will lick him when he returns, he decides. Romance can wait. Rumi needs the warmth now.

Seconds thrum by like slow drums. The backstage air smells of hairspray and hot lights and something metallic that always tastes like hurry. Then Romance comes back, quiet and still a bit hesitant. He moves with practiced gentleness and carries a small scrap of paper between two fingers like it is brittle treasure.

“Umm, Rumi,” he says, voice fumbling the edges of tenderness, “I, uhh, don’t know what you’re going through, but I thought this might cheer you up.”

Rumi turns. Romance holds the paper out, palms open, like an offering. Derpy watches her face fold toward it, waiting to see if the small thing will do what licking sometimes does: make the world tip kind for a breath.

“This is why you came to the recording studio, right?” Romance says. “You saw the picture of your parents? I asked some staff to print it out for you.” His voice is careful, like he’s pushing words through gauze.

Rumi takes the paper reverently and turns it toward herself so she can stare. Derpy snuggles his head closer to get a better look. Pictures don’t have smells or sounds, and he’s not good at telling people apart with only his eyes, but since these are Rumi’s parents, he wants to see too. The human viewing mirror didn’t show the picture for very long but it had seemed familiar for some reason.

Oh! The man in the photo! That’s one of Derpy’s strays, the one who gave him the name Cheongryeon! Derpy let out a yowl in happiness.

Jin. That was his name. Short for something, but he liked being called Jin. And the hunter with him, the one who took the scent of Jin’s loneliness away. They had made Rumi together! Derpy looks from Rumi to the picture and back again, tasting the notion for a moment. Derpy was pretty sure Jin had silver hair, like the skin of the moon. Rumi’s hair is purple though. Where did that come from? Well, it doesn’t matter. Purple suits her. Derpy’s whiskers twitch in approval.

There is something else in the photo that makes his old bones prick. A dragon, enormous in paper form, hung behind them looking just like Derpy’s annoying rival! That dragon had always been the sort to brag about every little thing, loud and pompous, and the humans had made him into a lantern the size of a small hill. Derpy remembered scuffing his paws in annoyance then. The tiger display had been so small in comparison, shoved off to the side, and the colors weren’t even right!

Rumi’s quiet words pulled him from his musings.

“I have to get back to the interview soon,” Romance said, checking the door with one quick look. “I’m pretty sure they’ve taken twice the normal commercial break already, but how is everyone doing? Is everyone okay? And have you made any progress in finding Jinu?”

Rumi took a breath, smoothing the edge of the hurt from Celine. “Everyone’s fine. They’re safe. We’ve made some progress in bolstering the Honmoon from the demon world, but we haven’t found where Jinu is being held, not yet. We’ll keep looking.” Her voice threaded resolve through the tiredness.

“Thank you, Romance, for what you’ve been doing,” she added, turning to him. “I think the Honmoon would be in tatters if you weren’t here, holding it up in the human world.”

Romance gave a small shrug. “I’m good at this sort of thing. Just stay safe… and bring Jinu back.” He patted Rumi on the shoulder.

Derpy decided to step forward and give Romance the lick he was determined to give earlier anyway, you know, out of encouragement and thanks. He pressed his nose to Romance’s hand and licked, fast and earnest. Romance looked at his palm, and made the same funny face at the slick shine as he always did when Derpy licked him, which Derpy was sure meant he appreciated it.

Rumi chuckled at the expression. Romance sighed, soft and a little tired and turned to Derpy. “Take care of them, okay, Derpy? They’re relying on you,” he said, and his voice had the plain gravity of someone who was weighed down too much.

Derpy bobbed his head. Of course he would. Taking care of strays was what he was for. Still, Derpy didn’t like that Romance talked like he wasn’t one of Derpy’s strays too. Huh. Maybe he needed another lick.

He angled himself to lick Romance again, but Rumi interrupted. “Let’s go back to the others now, Derpy. I’m sure they’re worried.”

Derpy glanced between them, then decided she was right. He started to form the pathway the way he always did and felt the seam of the world loosen, and then he noticed Romance again, the smell of loneliness had thickened a touch.

Silly cub, Derpy thought. Good thing I know how to help.

He stretched the pathway making sure it would open beneath Romance as well. The air hummed, a small pressure like breath through a reed. Romance made a surprised, tiny yelp just before the world tipped.

They landed in the living room under the human viewing mirror. Immediately sounds of relief and questions folded over one another like blankets. Faces turned. Derpy blinked and squinted at all the familiar, worried shapes of his current strays, and felt, for once, that the room smelled a little less like loneliness.

Yet, that didn’t last long. His nose twitched. He noticed a single strong curl of loneliness, sharp and cold. He turned his head this way and that until the scent tightened like a string in his teeth. It came from behind the closed door.

Oh. That was the big human friend of HUNTR/X. The one who stayed back and was so happy to see them when they reunited. Derpy didn’t know why the man had to wait behind the door, but when loneliness smells that strong, you fix it. Fixing was what he did. Derpy didn’t mind taking on another stray. It was a habit. It was a calling.

He made a small pathway and slipped through the world to the other side of the door. The air there smelled like sweat and the man’s heavy breathing.

When Derpy emerged, he found himself nose-to-nose with his new cub.

“Ahhhh!” the cub screamed while flailing backwards, and then immediately clapped both hands over his mouth. The cub’s eyes were very wide, as if Derpy had turned into a thundercloud.

From the next room came a strange, loud sound, Rumi’s “Ahhh-choo!” with the long, surprised “Ahhh” stretched like someone drawing a ribbon. Derpy’s whiskers twitched. “Uhh, allergies…” she said, all embarrassed and small, before the other room filled up again with the familiar tumble of voices.

Derpy took a breath. Smell told him things the ear did not. Fear was sharp, like metal left too long in the rain; it prickled along his nose and went right to his teeth. The new cub stood there, hands glued to his mouth, eyes big as coins. Derpy wanted to nuzzle him flat into comfort. He stepped forward.

The smell of fear grew stronger.

That was not how it was supposed to work. How was Derpy supposed to comfort him if he couldn’t get closer? Derpy paused with his head cocked. He had to leave soon with his other strays, so he didn’t have time to slowly show he was not going to hurt this new cub. What could he do in a hurry that still fixed things?

Oh! Sussie. Of course Sussie. She had answers when Derpy’s big brain got stuck in knots. She would know what to do.

He shifted back into the other room where he last saw her sleeping on top of a tidy tangle of blankets that looked like a small hill. Sensing Derpy’s arrival, she cracked her many eyes open one by one, little moons blinking awake.

Derpy made a soft whine and pointed his head at the closed door, the one that hid the lonely cub. Sussie always understood him when he asked for help.

Sussie did the thing she always did when he asked for her help. She tipped her head back, closed her eyelids half, and puffed a breath out that said, you’re being a silly tiger, but all right. Then she folded herself into motion.

She flew across the room and landed with grace behind a steaming cup of ramyeon someone had left on the floor near the window. The steam wrapped around her like a halo, and her many eyes turned toward Derpy, bright and patient.

Food! That makes sense. A fed cub wouldn’t feel as scared. Sussie is so smart! But, hmm, that would be hard to carry, but Derpy would try his best. He opened his mouth to try to grab it with his teeth, only to be smacked on the head by one of Sussie’s wings. Bop. Right on the crown of his head. Derpy blinked, very confused. Wasn’t that what she told him to do?

Sussie made that expression again for when Derpy was being silly, then drew a circle on the ground with her wing. Oh! Derpy understood. Not pick up, just make a pathway under the food. Simple and smart.

Sussie, never one for half-measures, then also flew over a pair of chopsticks and a neat kimbap roll still in its wrapper and dropped them beside the ramyeon and flapped a shooing motion with her wings as if to say, What are you waiting for? Go.

Pleased, Derpy angled himself to lick Sussie, which she deftly dodged and flew away, but Derpy knew she knew that he was saying thanks.

He widened the pathway just enough to swallow the food and himself. The world loosened underneath his paws with a soft, busy hum. The conversation happening around him stuttered to a halt when Baby yelled, “My ramyeon!” as Derpy was disappearing into the pathway.

Derpy rose up from his pathway back into the bedroom now carrying treats to feed to his new stray… who was now for some reason half under the bed. His midsection was jammed awkwardly against the bedframe, shirt riding up, legs splayed out like someone who’d misread the size of the opening he was trying to fit into. Did he not know you were supposed to sleep on top of the bed, not under it?

Derpy’s whiskers went stiff from the smell of panic from his new stray, loud and metallic in the air. The cub’s eyes were huge, cheeks flushed, breath fast, but when they slid down to the food Derpy brought along, the panic seemed to dissipate as if carried away by the steam from the ramyeon.

“Oh… is that… for me?” the cub whispered, voice tiny.

Derpy bobbed his head, a solemn, theatrical nod. His silly new stray shuffled, wiggled, and slowly edged out, keeping his eyes locked on Derpy as if the tiger might change his mind. Once free from under the bedframe, he reached, careful and hesitant, for the chopsticks and the warm ramyeon cup, and the room breathed a little easier.

“You look scary, but you’re actually quite a softie, aren’t you?” the cub whispered. His mouth tugged into a small, shaky smile.

Good. Smiles were warm things. Derpy liked warm things. He shoved his head into the cub’s side before the smile could vanish, pushing hard enough to make him squeak.

“O-ohh, you’re soft inside and out. That’s a good demon tiger…” the cub murmured, patting the top of Derpy’s head like he was fragile glass instead of teeth and claws.

Fear still clung to him, thin, sharp, like rust, but he didn’t run. He stayed. He even kept petting. That was brave. Brave strays deserved nuzzles.

“Hi. I’m Bobby. Umm, nice to meet you.”

So this cub had a name. Bobby. Derpy tucked it away with the others.

Bobby hesitated, then asked softly, “Why did you come into this room? Were you just curious?”

Derpy answered by butting his head a few times into Bobby’s chest.

“For me?” Bobby asked.

Derpy bobbed his head. Of course.

“Why? I’m useless. I can’t do anything to help the girls rescue Jinu or… or save the world.”

Derpy licked his cheek. Bobby sputtered and made a funny noise. Then Derpy pretended to sleep for a heartbeat before nuzzling again. The cub needed to know his own worth.

“You’re saying I gave them somewhere to sleep? That’s nothing.”

Derpy blinked slow, the way he always did when strays said silly things. He pushed his head more firmly against Bobby’s chest, wrapped his body closer around him, and poured all his weight and warmth into the cub until he could feel the steady thrum of two heartbeats pressed together.

The sharp tang of fear faded. Bobby’s breath came out slow, softer. “I guess. That’s… not nothing, is it?”

Derpy nodded, doubling down with another deep cuddle. Strays always forgot how even the simplest gestures can matter the most.

Bobby’s arms circled him at last, pulling him tight. “Just being there. That can make a difference. I get it… thank you.”

Derpy rumbled low in his chest. Yes. This cub was learning.

He thought about curling closer, pressing Bobby flat into safety for a while longer, but then the air shifted. The Honmoon stirred. It was like feeling the floorboards tremble under heavy paws, a ripple too big to ignore.

Derpy’s ears pricked. His head turned sharply toward the pulse, every whisker straining. The rest of the den went quiet too; even the noisy strays could smell something had changed.

“What? What happened?” Bobby whispered, voice thin and urgent.

Derpy didn’t know. The Honmoon was not his domain. Perhaps his other strays would have a better idea.

Giving a farewell lick to his newest stray, he made a quick pathway back to the large room where most of his strays had gathered. They smelled of confusion, sharp and restless. Sussie fluttered down and landed neatly on his head, all her eyes open and bright. She was listening too.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” Mira muttered, fists tight at her sides.

Mystery had his hand pressed against the Honmoon’s surface, eyes closed. “It seems to be coming from the demon world.”

Zoey’s worry was sweet and sharp, like citrus. “Maybe it’s a trap?”

“Even so,” Rumi said, voice steady even with grief still clinging to her like smoke, “we have to check it out.”

The strays looked at one another, their confusion hardening into determination.

“Wait,” Romance cut in, glancing at the glowing human-viewing mirror where the loud woman still waved her arms. “Send me back to the studio first. Jia’s been floundering with excuses for my absence for a while now. I should probably get back to it.”

Rumi nodded, turning to Derpy. “Derpy?”

Derpy understood. He stretched open a small pathway, shaping it to the place he had fetched Romance from.

“Good luck, and don’t do anything reckless!” Romance called, already stepping closer to the seam. His eyes flicked to Baby. “I’m looking at you.”

“Hey, that was uncalled for!” Baby barked, bristling.

Abby smothered a laugh.

“You’re not that much better, Abby,” Romance added smoothly.

“What? I’m way less reckless than him,” Abby shot back, affronted.

Mystery just patted both their shoulders. “I’ll take care of them. You stay safe too.”

Romance gave a small, tired smile, nodded once, and stepped into the fold of Derpy’s pathway. The seam closed behind him with a soft hum, like the snap of a thread being tied off.

The room breathed slightly easier from their banter, though the air still smelled of nerves. Rumi pulled herself straighter, dragging a steady breath into her lungs. Her voice carried quiet steel when she spoke.
“Alright then. We’re probably walking into something dangerous. Maybe it’s a trap. But either way, we need to know what’s happening. Are you with me?”

One by one, the strays nodded. Their fear smelled sharp, but their resolve smelled stronger. That was good. Resolve was what kept strays from breaking.

Derpy dipped his big head in agreement. He padded forward and pressed his paws into the space between moments, tugging at the seam until it loosened. The air bent, rippling like water. He focused on the Honmoon, following the ripples of change to its center, and tying the pathway there. Derpy didn’t know what waited on the other side, but he noticed the ripples were getting larger.

He set his shoulders, opened the way, and hoped that this time, his warmth would be enough.

Chapter Text

Rumi watched the glow of Derpy’s portal unfurl beneath their feet, widening like a living pool of light. Meanwhile, the ripples in the Honmoon continued to pulse, getting larger and impossible to miss. Was this the right decision? Every instinct told her it was a beacon, a lure. But why would Gwi-Ma choose to get their attention by strengthening the Honmoon instead of weakening it? To bait them into letting down their guard?

She set her jaw. Whatever the reason, she couldn’t afford hesitation.

Her hand tightened around the hilt of her blade as she summoned it, the familiar weight providing some comfort. With a sharp nod, she signaled to Zoey and Mira. Both summoned their weapons without hesitation, the reflex born of hunters who had faced ambush after ambush and learned to let their years of training and guidance harden into instinct.

For a heartbeat, Rumi’s thoughts drifted to Celine. The image rose uninvited, Celine’s face, sharp with authority yet softened by a noticeable warmth. She could almost feel the steady weight of that hand on her shoulder, hear the low, certain murmur: You’ve trained hard. You can face anything Gwi-Ma throws at you. The words had once anchored her. Now they ached. The memory wrapped around Rumi like a phantom embrace, tender and biting all at once. Her chest tightened, eyes blurring as warmth and hurt folded into one indistinguishable ache.

No. Not now. She blinked hard, forcing the memory back into its corner. Her pain could wait. The confusion, the raw tangle of what had just happened with Celine… all of it had to wait. Right now, focus was survival.

The portal swelled. Derpy rumbled deep in his chest, ears pricked forward as they sunk into the portal. Blue radiance swallowed them whole, until gravity itself felt unmoored.

Then they rose again, and were hit at once by a wall of sound.

Music. Loud, raw, unrestrained. It crashed over them in a riot of rhythm, drowning even the pounding of Rumi’s heart. A jagged snarl of guitars ripped through the air, distortion buzzing so violently it seemed to shake the marrow in her bones. Drums thundered beneath it, relentless, every strike a heartbeat of rebellion that rattled her ribs.

And above it all, a voice. Rough, furious, flaying each word with brutal precision:

“Jealous coward who tries to control
 Rise above, we’re gonna rise above
 He distorts what we feel
 Rise above, we’re gonna rise above”

The music hit like a physical force, too raw to be just a performance. It wasn’t just the sound, it was the defiance in it, the refusal to bow. Rumi felt it surge through her, hot and frightening, because part of her wanted to rise with it.

Derpy’s portal had dropped them into the maelstrom itself. A crowd of demons pressed shoulder to shoulder, their fists rising in time with the beat. With every fist pump, colorful bursts of Hon-gi shot to the sky, flaring streaks of light that rocketed upward into the Honmoon, pulsing with each downstroke of the drums. The air reeked of sweat, smoke, and ozone, thick with the heat of bodies moving as one. Chaos reigned. Flashes of light, guttural shouts, the floor trembling beneath the crush of sound and demons jumping with the music.

Rumi shoved past a hulking demon blocking her view of the stage, elbow catching against his ribs as she fought for a line of sight. When the stage came into view, her breath caught.

Yun Jaein.

Of all people, it was her, the last Sunlight Sister, now a notorious demon known only as the Executioner, singing with wild ferocity, a battered electric guitar slung low across her body. Her voice ripped through the air like barbed wire, unyielding, unrelenting. Behind her, a mismatched band of demons drove the chaos higher: a squat demon with a single, bulbous eye thumped an electric bass, its strings rattling under thick fingers, a towering brute with downward-curved horns hunched over a guitar that looked laughably small in his massive hands, wringing snarls of distortion from it, and on the drums, a figure cloaked entirely in black, only their golden eyes visible, flashing with every crash of the cymbals.

Rumi forced herself to steady her breathing, letting the music crash over her until the initial shock dulled into something she could process.

“Try and stop what we do
 Rise above, we're gonna rise above!
 Cause Gwi-Ma can’t rule by himself
 Rise above, we're gonna rise above!”

Beside her, Mira’s lips curled in something close to a grin, her head bobbing with the beat. “Sick,” she called, short and sharp, her version of high praise.

Zoey had to practically shout, cupping her hands around her mouth just to be heard. “Oh! I know this song! It’s Rise Above by Black Flag! Except… some of the lyrics are different!” Her eyes were wide, alight with excitement. “Punk rock totally suits Jaein. But where did they even get electric guitars? They’re not plugged into amps—” she gasped suddenly, eyes sparkling, “—do you think they’re magic guitars?” The word magic came out with a delighted squeal, as if she’d stumbled on the best possible explanation.

Baby barked out a laugh, loud enough to cut through the roar around them. “Now this is music! Why don’t we have songs like this?” he shouted, fists pumping in time with the beat. His eyes gleamed, catching the light of the Hon-gi flashing above the crowd. When the chorus crashed back in, he threw his voice into it without hesitation, his shout raw and unpolished but full of fire:

“We are tired of your abuse
 Try to stop us, it’s no use!”

Then, as if summoned by the words, a demon near the front jumped onto the stage and lunged for Jaein. He barely took a step before Jaein reacted. With practiced ease she slung the guitar to her back, one hand already drawing the coiled length at her hip, a whip, which promptly ignited in a burst of flames. In the same motion she snapped it forward, the crack loud enough to split the music for a heartbeat. The intruder went sailing above the crowd, tumbling end over end before crashing somewhere beyond the sea of bodies.

Only then did Rumi notice the chaos at the fringes of the chanting audience: demons locked in combat, some fighting to defend the performance, others trying to tear it down. Gwi-Ma’s loyalists were clashing against those swept up in Jaein’s furious anthem.

But Jaein didn’t even spare a glance toward the fighting. She holstered the whip with a flick, swung her guitar back into place, and dove into the next line without missing a beat, as if the interruption had just been a part of the show.

“We're born with a chance
 Rise above! We're gonna rise above!
 I am gonna have my chance
 Rise above! We're gonna rise above!”

The song drove on, Jaein’s voice lashing like fire, and soon the square unraveled with it. Fighting rippled inward until it swallowed the whole crowd. Blurred edges dissolved into a single, writhing mass where claws, fists, and weapons flashed in every direction. Friend and foe became indistinguishable.

Rumi ducked as a wooden club swept past her shoulder, the air hissing with its miss. Mira and Zoey flanked her automatically, covering her sides as they shoved forward through the press of bodies. The Saja Boys, however, were nowhere in sight.

“Get to the front!” Rumi shouted, her voice straining to cut through the din. “We need to reach Jaein before she disappears!”

Mira’s hand shot out, yanking Rumi back from a spiked elbow, while Zoey drove her shoulder into a demon lunging too close. Rumi risked a glance behind. Baby and Abby had dug themselves into the thick of the melee, Baby bellowing along with Jaein’s chorus as if it were a battle cry, fists punching in rhythm with the lyrics. Abby’s strikes were cleaner, but the two were surrounded.

Before Rumi could signal Mira and Zoey to fall back for them, Mystery appeared in a shimmer of violet flame behind the boys, seized both by the collar, and vanished, only to reappear an instant later at Rumi’s side, dragging them forward like unruly kittens.

“What was that for?” Baby barked, affronted, shaking off Mystery’s grip.

“We have to stay together,” Mystery said, his tone flat but firm.

Abby gave a nonchalant shrug. Baby clicked his tongue. “Tchh. Fine.”

They pressed on as a group, fighting their way closer to the stage. Rumi shoved past the last line of snarling demons… and froze.

Jaein was staring right at her.

Their eyes met, and the riot of sound and motion around Rumi fell away. The cheering, the clash of weapons, the roar of the crowd. It all blurred into silence until there was only that gaze, sharp and blazing, pinning her in place.

A smile split Jaein’s face, broad, gleaming, and edged with something feral. She didn’t look away, not even as she continued singing. The notes tore from her throat like fire, wild and searing, as though this meeting was the crescendo she’d been building toward all along.

Chaos erupted around her. More demons lunged for the stage, but Jaein’s band met them without missing a beat. The drummer hurled a drum stick that cracked against a grunt’s temple, knocking him out. The hulking guitarist simply sat on another attacker before strumming on, unbothered. The one-eyed bassist plucked a string free, strung an arrow to it, and fired with a sharp twang. The bolt hit a demon scrambling up the edge of the stage, sending him tumbling to land in a bleeding heap at Rumi’s feet.

Rumi flinched, staring down at the body, then back up, just in time to catch a shift in Jaein’s expression. For a heartbeat, the woman looked puzzled, eyes flicking to the fallen demon as though expecting something else. Then realization flickered across her face, swift and electric, and her grin returned, sharper now, alight with wicked delight.

Her gaze snapped back to Rumi and didn’t waver again. The final notes of her song ripped through the air like a battle cry, fierce and exultant. Then, drawing in a large breath, Jaein threw her arms wide. Her voice cracked like thunder across the square.

“Hunters! You and I have some business!”

The ground seemed to tremble beneath the force of her words. Rumi flinched, not from the sound, but from that blazing, unrelenting stare that seemed to pierce her very soul with its intensity.

Then sudden, raucous applause erupted behind Jaein, snapping Rumi from her daze.

“That was amazing, my lady! Way better than all those failed introductions before!” cried the hulking guitarist, clapping enthusiastically before slapping one clawed hand against his guitar for emphasis.

“Truly inspired! All your practice paid off!” added the one-eyed bassist, grinning with almost puppy-like eagerness.

Jaein spun on them like a blade unsheathed, the flames crowning her hair flaring higher.

“Shut up, you idiots!”

Both demons recoiled as though scalded. The bassist hunched behind his instrument, holding it up like a shield, while the guitarist stammered a half-swallowed “sorry.”

Jaein let them cower a moment, then turned back to the hunters, a faint flush warming her cheeks. She was still smiling, but it felt stiffer now.

“As I was saying…” Her voice slithered low, predatory. “Now that I’ve found you, why don’t we continue this somewhere a little—”

An arrow hissed through the air, slicing past the space her head had occupied a heartbeat earlier. Jaein tilted lazily to the side, the movement so effortless it looked like a dance step, her fire lit twin puffs swaying with the motion.

Her grin widened, sharp and delighted.

“…easier to talk.”

Mira, unbothered by Jaein’s casual display of fighting prowess, stepped forward, eyes narrowed.

“What do you mean ‘found us'?” Mira shot back. “We found you.”

“Only because we kept missing you!” the bassist blurted, voice cracking. “Three concerts in a row!”

Predictively, Jaein whirled on him, fiery twin puff tails flaring like a torch. The bassist squeaked.

“Minions,” Jaein hissed through bared teeth, “should know when to be silent.”

She inhaled, smoothed her expression, and swung back to Rumi as if the outburst hadn’t happened at all.

“Whatever. Every time my incompetent minions scraped up intel, you were already gone. I got tired of wasting time, so I staged my own concert to make you come to me.”

The shadow demon drummer muttered, voice thick with dry sarcasm. “Incompetent, right. Because it’s so easy to build a flawless information network in a few hours, spanning EVERY major city and town… especially with this brilliant team at my disposal.” He shot a withering look toward the other two demons on stage, who had both clamped their hands over their mouths in exaggerated obedience, eyes wide and earnest as if keeping silent was now their sacred duty.

Jaein’s smile froze, stiff and gleaming, like glass about to crack. She didn’t even bother turning her head.

“Did you say something, Muun?”

“Only marveling at your dazzling genius,” he replied without missing a beat, deadpan to the core. “It’s impressive what impatience can do for creativity.”

For a moment, Jaein simply stared upward, as if appealing to some unseen higher power for patience. The Honmoon above her shimmered in response, colors rippling faintly, as if laughing at her predicament.

She exhaled sharply. “Enough chatter. You’re here. That’s what matters.”

Her hand snapped through the air like a whip. “Muun. Take us to the hideout. Now.”

Muun bowed, one black gloved hand pressed to his chest. “Yes, my lady.”

Then, without another word, he stepped backward and vanished into his own shadow. It rippled like oil across water, then began to spread, stretching outward to merge with the darkness cast by his drum set, his bandmates, and finally Jaein herself. The shadows bled together into a single, living mass, climbing their legs and curling over their forms like ink rising through water.

Cries erupted from the nearest demons as the crowd surged toward the stage, but the spreading shadow darted around them with eerie precision, weaving between bodies as though sentient, refusing to touch anything it had not chosen. Rumi’s breath caught as the black tendrils extended further, slithering over the edge of the stage until one reached her feet.

It connected with her shadow.

Cold shot up her legs as the darkness began to climb, consuming her in waves of liquid night.

“Rumi!” Mira and Zoey lunged toward her, trying to wrench her free, but the instant they made contact, their shadows fused with hers. The inky tide surged higher, dragging all three of them under.

Derpy, with Sussie perched jauntily on his head, paused only long enough to sniff the creeping void. Then, apparently satisfied, he padded forward into it. The Saja Boys exchanged quick glances, delivered a few last, reckless blows to the nearest hostiles, and leapt after them, pouncing into the shadow without hesitation.

But Rumi barely registered any of it. Her gaze was locked on Jaein. The older woman stood calm amid the chaos, her grin sharp and wild as the shadows climbed to claim her. Even as the darkness rose to her throat, she didn’t look away, her eyes still glinting with that manic light. Then, without sound, she mouthed the words, ‘You look so much like her’.

Rumi froze. The grin lingered, bright against the consuming black.
And then the world went dark.

When Celine’s feet struck earth again, the ground shuddered beneath her boots, sending loose pebbles skittering down a slope of blackened stone. Heat pulsed up from below, alive and restless, and the air hit her lungs thick with sulfur and ash. She staggered forward, catching herself against a jagged outcrop, her palm hissed where it met the searing rock.

The world around her glowed dimly, painted in shades of gray and ember red. Smoke poured from fissures in the ground, curling upward to merge with the heavy haze that choked the sky. Except… it wasn’t a sky at all. There was no blue, no sunlight, not even the faintest trace of stars. Above her was only a bruised canopy of clouds, and spread across them, the Honmoon itself. Its shifting light blanketing the cloud cover, pulsing faintly against the murk, its glow stretching outward as far as she could see.

Celine stared upward, breath caught in her throat. For a heartbeat, her mind refused to name what her eyes already knew.

She wasn’t standing on top of the Honmoon.
She was standing beneath it.

She was in the demon world.

Celine exhaled, the sound barely audible over the volcano’s low, relentless rumble.

There now, Gwi-Ma murmured in her mind, his voice curling around the edges of her thoughts like smoke. Space for you to breathe.

Celine dragged in a breath that caught jagged in her throat. The air scorched going down, thick with sulfur and heat. Her patterns still burned faintly beneath her skin, glowing like half-buried embers that refused to die. She folded her arms tightly across her chest, as if she could hold herself together through sheer force of will, but the gesture only made her seem smaller, more fragile against the vast, hellish landscape.

“Why am I in the demon world, Gwi-Ma?” she demanded, her voice hoarse but steady.

You asked to be taken away, he replied, smooth and amused, but you never specified where. And it’s more convenient this way. After all, this is where you need to be for the proposition I have for you.

Celine’s composure cracked. “No,” she shouted into the haze, the word tearing out of her. “Take me back to the human world now! I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t mean this!”

Tsk, tsk. His voice lilted, patient and mocking. Already asking more of me, and you haven’t even finished the current deal. How bold.

Celine’s breath came in ragged bursts, her head swimming. The fractured Honmoon. Rumi demanding answers about her father. Her own cowardice, fleeing instead of facing what she’d done, only to end up here, in the demon world of all places.

The weight of it all pressed down on her like the thick, choking air. The air shimmered with heat that crawled beneath her skin, every breath tasting faintly of metal and smoke. She dug her nails into her arms, desperate for something solid, something real. But the world tilted beneath her feet, her thoughts slipping like sand through her grasp. There was no sense of direction, no escape, only failure closing in from every side.

It was too much.

Frustration. Panic. Fury. They all collided inside her, twisting tighter and tighter until they could no longer fit in her chest.

She tried to breathe, to center herself as hunters were trained, but the air clawed her throat and burned on the way down. Failing that, she reached for the only anchor she had left, her mantra ticking hard in her skull. Our faults and fears must never be seen. Our faults and fears must never be seen. The words quickened, fractured. They. Must. Not. Be. Seen.

For a second, she almost laughed. A hysterical, broken sound that never left her throat. Then the breath hitched, twisted, and turned into something else entirely.

She screamed.

The sound tore through the air, raw and unrestrained, echoing off the scorched stone before sinking into the volcano’s deep, restless rumble. When her voice finally broke, she collapsed to her knees, the strength bleeding out of her as the echoes died away.

For a moment, she simply closed her eyes. Just done. Too tired to think, too hollow to rage.

Then his voice came, soft and sinuous, curling through the edges of her thoughts like smoke.

I know what it means to carry everything, Gwi-Ma murmured, tone honeyed and unhurried. To be the strong one. The pillar everyone leans on. It’s exhausting, isn’t it? They see your strength, but never the cost.

Silence followed, measured, deliberate. When he spoke again, his words came low and velvet-smooth.

I see you, Celine. Not the mask. Not the facade. You. I understand your pain.

Her throat tightened. Heat burned at the corners of her eyes, but she clenched her jaw until it ached, refusing to let the tears fall.

“You and I are nothing alike,” she spat. “How dare you insinuate otherwise.”

Gwi-Ma chuckled softly, the sound deep and knowing.

Believe it or not, he said, we’re both just trying to protect what’s important to us. You and your broken little family. And me, with the entirety of the demon world.

Celine’s jaw tightened. “You just want power.”

Well, he replied, amused, power certainly helps.

She took in a shuddering breath and forced herself upright. Her limbs trembled from more than exhaustion, but she refused to let it show. With a deliberate motion, she brushed the soot from her clothes and summoned her twin Saingeom swords, the air around her hands shimmering from the light.

“If you won’t take me back to the human world,” she said, voice rough but steady, “then I’ll find a way myself.”

She turned and began walking, boots crunching over brittle rock, each step pulling her farther from the molten glow of the volcano.

A pause followed, long enough that she thought, briefly, he might be gone.

Then his voice came again, soft and almost indulgent.

What if your little family didn’t have to remain broken?

Celine scoffed, her pace steady and unhurried.
“I’m not interested in your lies and tricks, Gwi-Ma,” she said coldly, forcing the words through clenched teeth.

Mm, he hummed, the sound laced with quiet amusement. Did you know demons have something called a demon core?

Celine kept walking, her only answer the crunch of her boots against the brittle rock and the distant hiss of the volcano behind her.

For your information, Gwi-Ma continued lightly, you don’t have one… yet. If, or rather when, your lovely patterns finish consuming you, I’d make one for you myself. Based on your frosty disposition, perhaps an ice core would suit you?

Celine’s irritation prickled beneath her skin. She hated when he prattled on like this, annoying her with random commentary and slipping in bits of mockery and false affection to see what stuck. But she refused to give him the satisfaction of a reaction. Her stride never faltered.

Now here’s the interesting part, he purred. When a soul dies near a demon core, that soul’s energy is automatically absorbed.

She brushed off the words, filing them away as useless trivia meant only to bait her into engaging with him.

Naturally conceived demons are born with demon cores, he went on, his tone growing smug, each word drawn out as if savoring it. But what about half-demons?

Celine froze mid-step. The air seemed to grow heavier around her, heat pressing in close.

Ah, Gwi-Ma murmured, satisfaction bleeding through every syllable, that’s right. I happen to know that your precious half-demon ward was born with a core of her own.

Her mind began racing, leaping ahead of him, assembling the terrible implications even before he could say them.

And who died just feet away from Rumi so soon after her birth?

Celine’s breath hitched. The name slipped out of her before she could stop it, barely more than a whisper.

“Mi-yeong.”

He had her attention now, completely, though she told herself it was only so she could find the weakness in his lie.

To be honest, he continued, I don’t know if Mi-yeong’s soul is still intact. It’s been, what, two decades? Souls fade, scatter. But she was strong-willed, that one. There’s a chance…

A beat of silence followed, long enough for her heart to start pounding again.

A chance, he finished softly, that she could be brought back.

Celine clenched her fists until her knuckles burned. “I don’t believe you.”

Of course you don’t, he said, almost kindly. But you want to.

Her jaw tightened.

I’ll remind you, Gwi-Ma continued smoothly, I’ve never actually lied to you. And would you really turn down the chance to bring Mi-yeong back over something as small as doubt?

Air scraped her throat. The world around her seemed to tilt, the oppressive heat warping her balance. She knew his words were poison, and yet, even knowing that, a part of her still ached to believe him.

The woman you loved, he murmured, voice dark with satisfaction, but were too ashamed to ever tell. You could have her back.

Her heart stuttered painfully.

All you have to do is bring me Rumi, Gwi-Ma said. I won’t harm her. In fact, to sweeten the deal, I’ll turn her completely human. There’s no real downside for you, Celine. You’d get your perfect little family again, just as you always wanted.

Celine swallowed hard, forcing her voice to sound steadier than she felt. “And what’s in it for you?”

Well, he said, a low chuckle curling through her mind, there is something you can do for me.

The pause that followed stretched thin, drawn taut by the slow, volcanic pulse beneath her feet. Heat pressed against her skin, the air itself holding its breath.

I happen to have a little nuisance stashed away, Gwi-Ma continued, his tone languid and pleased, someone you can help me deal with.

The words slid into her thoughts like oil spreading across water.

You remember him, I’m sure, he added, almost gently. Your rival on the battlefield… and in love.

Celine’s breath hitched.

“Woljin.”

The name came out low and exhausted, stripped of venom. Whatever fury she’d once carried had long since burned itself hollow, leaving only the dull ache of inevitability. 

Good, Gwi-Ma murmured, satisfaction threading through his voice like silk. It seems we understand each other.

His laughter lingered, low and indulgent, until it blended seamlessly with the volcano’s simmering heartbeat. Celine stood unmoving, eyes fixed on the horizon, the ash rising around her like falling snow. She couldn’t tell anymore if the trembling in her hands was from fury…

...or from resignation.

Rumi felt herself floating in an endless void that seemed to stretch forever. No air. No sound. She tried to reach out. Zoey and Mira had been clinging to her before the shadows swallowed them, but she felt nothing. No warmth, no contact, just emptiness pressing in from every side.

Panic prickled at the edge of her thoughts, but before it could take hold, pressure built in her ears. Then, with a soft, shuddering pop, it released like breaking the surface after being held too long underwater. The darkness began to thin, bleeding into color. Sound came roaring back in a rush, and the world solidified around her once more.

They emerged into a vast underground cavern alive with motion and noise. The air was thick with the scent of scorched minerals and smoke, and the walls glowed in uneven rhythm from torches burning with uncanny, color-shifting fire. Demons filled the space in loose clusters, sprawled across worn cushions or hunched over low tables. Some were dozing, tails twitching in their sleep. Others were hunched over board games, the clatter of dice echoing faintly through the chamber. A few were tuning instruments, ranging from a very traditional looking haegeum to something that vaguely resembled a saxophone but released bubbles with each note.

But as more heads turned, the atmosphere shifted. Conversation thinned. Dice hung mid-roll, and the strange bubble-sax wheezed to a stop. One by one, demons lifted their gazes toward the intruders. The music died, the murmurs fell away, and a low awareness spread through the cavern like the aftershock of a struck drum. Every eye fixed on Jaein and on the unfamiliar company tagging along.

Without a word, Jaein slipped the guitar strap from her shoulder and held the instrument out. A small demon with a tumble of bubblegum pink hair and oversized orange spectacles darted forward, nearly tripping in her haste. She accepted the guitar with reverent care and scampered off to the far end of the cavern, where a few others immediately gathered to begin what looked like meticulous inspection or maintenance.

Behind Jaein, more demons began descending upon the drum set, disassembling it with efficient, wordless precision. Each carried off a piece, vanishing into the tunnels that branched off from the cavern.

Within moments, the space grew even busier. Fresh arrivals flickered into being in the cavern with bursts of fire or clawed their way from puddles that hadn’t been there moments before. Most notably, a jagged streak of lightning tore through one of the side tunnels, struck the wall with a thunderous crack, and solidified into a dazed, smoking figure who shook off the sparks with an irritated grunt. All the new arrivals came bruised and soot-streaked, their clothes torn and smoking in places, smelling faintly of ozone and burnt stone. With their entrance, the murmur of conversation began to spread, clusters of demons exchanging news, laughter, and gripes that echoed off the cavern walls. Rumi caught snippets of various conversations of the nearby demons.

“The concert was fire!”

“No, Lady Jaein didn’t actually set anything on fire this time, can you believe it?”

“Just because Lady Jaein doesn’t appreciate your unique musical talent doesn’t mean you should quit. Hey, look! She brought the human hunters with her. They throw concerts too, right? Maybe their standards are lower.”

“You know how Muun’s always complaining about recruitment? Yeah, funny story, by the end of Jaein’s second song, almost half of Gwi-Ma’s grunts that showed up to fight us decided to fight with us instead. Especially the water demons for some reason. I’m telling you, music’s a better recruitment strategy than anything we’ve tried so far.”

That last snippet made something click for Rumi.
A lot of these demons, the ones who arrived in the cave scorched and limping, they’d been there, at the edges of the chaos. They had been at the concert, fighting. Guarding the perimeter. Protecting the performance from whatever forces had tried to crash it.

As the chatter rolled on, Jaein moved through it like a living flame cutting through smoke. Wherever she passed, the air shifted. Conversations faltered, dice hung mid-roll, and demons instinctively drew back to clear her path. The murmurs that trailed her weren’t words so much as a hum of reverence and wariness, rippling through the cavern like the aftersound of a struck chord.

Rumi’s gaze followed her to the far end of the chamber, where the cavern walls arched upward into a natural rise of stone. The formation had been chiseled into rough steps, leading to an alcove recessed high into the curve of the wall. The work was crude, uneven, and looked to be done with minimal effort, but despite its imperfections, the intention was unmistakable. It was a throne.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Jaein ascended, her boots striking the stone in steady rhythm. She reached the seat and dropped into it with casual command, one leg thrown over the other, whip coiled loosely at her hip like a tamed serpent. The firelight licked along the curve of her weapon, then caught the edge of her smile as she leaned back, every inch the ruler of her own chaos.

Then Jaein’s gaze found her.

It was a look that pinned Rumi in place, measured, unblinking, dissecting. The kind of stare that didn’t just see but pried, peeling back the outer layers of a person until only the rawest truths remained. Rumi felt exposed beneath it, as if Jaein were reading the seams of her soul, tracing every fear she’d tried to hide.

She swallowed, forcing her breath steady, and took a cautious step forward. So many questions pressed at her throat… answers she’d chased across two worlds, but none found shape on her tongue. It was hard to reconcile this intimidating woman before her, now a demon, with the stories she’d grown up hearing. The Jaein she’d imagined had been a hunter, a hero. This Jaein was something else entirely. The Executioner. Sharp, unpredictable, and dangerous in ways Rumi could feel in her bones.

Jaein might have wanted to talk. She’d made that much clear. But talk didn’t necessarily mean help. And Rumi couldn’t shake the gnawing certainty that they’d walked straight into the lion’s den without a single plan for what came next. The demons crowding the cavern walls were no ordinary rabble. They looked far stronger than the foot soldiers Gwi-Ma usually sent against them, and there were so many. One word from Jaein, one flicker of intent, and the whole chamber could descend on her and her friends in an instant.

Rumi’s pulse hammered against her ribs, each beat sharp with regret. She had brought them here, dragged them into this, on nothing more than instinct and faith. There was no turning back now. She couldn’t afford to falter now.

As if sensing her unease, Mira stepped closer and placed a firm hand on her shoulder. The quiet weight of it grounded her. When Rumi turned, Mira met her eyes and gave a single, deliberate nod, a steady, silent encouragement. On her other side, Zoey added a hand of her own, her smile bright and determined, followed by a small, comically earnest thumbs up.

The warmth of it broke through Rumi’s panic like sunlight through fog. Right. She could do this. One step at a time. Start with something simple… harmless questions, feel out Jaein’s mood, test her intentions before risking anything deeper. The woman seemed quick to anger, and Rumi wasn’t about to light that fuse too soon.

Rumi drew in a slow, steadying breath, the beginnings of a question forming on her tongue—
but Jaein spoke first.

“So, Rumi… hunters.” Her voice carried easily through the cavern, low and resonant, the kind of tone that demanded attention without needing to rise. “What happened to the Honmoon?”

The question caught Rumi off guard. Of all the things Jaein could have said, she hadn’t expected that. It felt like an accusation disguised as curiosity. Rumi hesitated, forcing the words out evenly.

“We changed it,” she said. “Made it better.”

Jaein’s stare didn’t waver. The flicker of torchlight painted shifting shadows across her face, but her eyes stayed fixed, sharp, almost luminous.

“Better?” Jaein’s voice was quiet, but it carried, steady, precise, cutting through the cavern like a blade. “You were close to creating the Golden Honmoon. I felt it. Every demon did. And instead of completing what generations of hunters devoted themselves to, centuries of discipline, of wisdom… you tore it apart. You took something sacred, something safe, and replaced it with… what? Uncertainty? A barrier so weak and permeable it barely deserves the name. You chose a path that tramples on everything hunters stand for.”

Each word landed with the weight of both conviction and condemnation, echoing off the cavern walls.

Rumi’s pulse quickened, but she refused to flinch beneath the scrutiny. She thought of the Saja Boys behind her, demons who had risked everything to protect their friend, who had shown courage, loyalty, even tenderness, despite both worlds stacked against them. None of them deserved to live under Gwi-Ma’s cruelty. None of them deserved to be treated as monsters.

She lifted her chin. “Then maybe that path was wrong,” she said, her voice steady, low but sure. “Demons aren’t inherently bad. They’re just people. Different, but still people. And if being a hunter means I have to fight them just because they’re demons, then maybe I’m not a hunter anymore.”

Silence followed, thick, charged. The only sound was the faint hiss of the torches, their flames swaying with the slow pull of air. Each flicker threw restless shadows across the stone, bending and shifting like living things that refused to be still.

Then Jaein exhaled, the sound hovering somewhere between a sigh and a laugh, soft, almost wistful. A ghost of a smile curved her lips, but it didn’t reach her eyes. There was sorrow there, buried deep, threaded through the lines of someone who’d seen too much and felt even more.

“You are so much like your mother,” she murmured.

The words hung in the air like an invocation.

Jaein lifted a hand and brushed her fingers along the stone wall where it arched into the ceiling. At her touch, the surface shimmered, and for a heartbeat the familiar pattern of the Honmoon flared to life, its glow rippling in soft, prismatic hues before fading back into the rock.

“You know,” she said quietly, almost to herself, “a day ago, I wouldn’t have agreed with you.”

Her tone carried no edge now, only fatigue, the kind that seeps into the bones. She let her hand rest against the wall, fingertips tracing the faint shimmer of the Honmoon as if drawing comfort from its pulse.

“I was… angry,” she admitted. “All the time. It was like breathing. Gwi-Ma only had to whisper, and that anger flared bright again, feeding on itself. But even when his wretched voice wasn’t in my head, the fury never left. I thought it was just who I’d become, a demon born of rage. I told myself it was inherent, inevitable. And though I never hated humans, I knew better than to try to go back to the human world. I couldn’t trust myself not to destroy what I once protected.”

She paused, eyes unfocused, the flames reflected in their depths.

“I thought all demons were like that,” she went on softly. “Slaves to their own vices. Hollow versions of who they used to be. Twisted, consumed, defined by the very sins that made them fall.”

A long breath slipped from her lips, somewhere between a sigh and confession.

“But then the Honmoon changed.”

Her palm slid across the wall again, and the surface shimmered faintly under her touch. The rainbow hues rippled like oil on water, then settled into a muted glow.

“And suddenly… I could think again. The noise quieted. The anger, the hatred… it didn’t vanish, but for the first time, I could see it for what it was. Most of it wasn’t even for Gwi-Ma and his forces. It was for myself. I’d turned my self-loathing outward and called it righteousness.”

Her voice had grown quieter, more fragile.

“I projected that hate onto every demon I saw,” she murmured. “Even the ones who didn’t deserve it.”

For a moment, she let the words hang in the still air. The only sound was the faint hum of the Honmoon where her palm rested against the wall. Then she exhaled and added, almost absently,

“I’ve been talking with the Honmoon a lot, and—”

Mira cut in sharply. “Wait. What? You’ve been talking with the Honmoon?”

Jaein arched an eyebrow, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.

“You gave life to the Honmoon,” she said dryly, “and didn’t think it might have something to say?”

Rumi blinked, uncertainty flickering across her face.

“What do you mean, life?”

Now Jaein’s stare turned flat and incredulous. She looked from Rumi to Mira, then back again, as if waiting for the punchline.

“You… don’t know it’s alive now?” she said slowly. “You’re telling me you set out to fundamentally change the nature of the Honmoon… but you just accidentally gave it sentience?”

Rumi hesitated. “Uhh… yes?”

For a long moment, Jaein simply stared at them, speechless. Her mouth opened as if to respond, then closed again. Finally, she just sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Zoey, oblivious to the tension, brightened immediately.

“That’s so cool though! What does the Honmoon like to talk about? Are they a girl Honmoon or a boy Honmoon? Oh wait, is that too conformist? They don't have to pick a gender! Ooh, what about a name! What do you call them when you talk to them?”

The sheer earnestness in her voice bounced through the cavern like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. A few nearby demons snorted. Jaein just blinked at her, visibly recalibrating her understanding of the group she’d just accused of reshaping the cosmic balance.

Before she could find words, the Honmoon itself stirred. The wall behind Jaein pulsed—then bulged outward in a soft, translucent swell that bumped gently against her shoulder. The faint rainbow shimmer rolled through the stone like liquid light.

Jaein froze, then turned slowly to stare at the glowing surface now… nuzzling her. She furrowed her brows, caught somewhere between disbelief and resignation.

“Uhh,” she said, deadpan, “the Honmoon would prefer to be treated as a girl. And… would like a name.”

The cavern erupted into quiet murmurs, a few demons exchanging wide-eyed looks. Zoey, meanwhile, gasped with delight.

“That’s awesome!”

She waved enthusiastically up at the ceiling, bouncing on her toes and then jumping, as if sheer enthusiasm might close the distance.

Above her, the Honmoon rippled again. Light gathered, condensed—and formed a rough, luminous hand that wiggled its fingers in a distinctly friendly wave.

Zoey’s eyes widened like she’d just been handed the universe’s best toy.

“Okay, okay, names,” she said, already pacing in thought. “How about Lunarella Sparkleheart? No, wait, she deserves something dignified. Maybe Princess Moondora the Benevolent? No, too long, too formal. Hmm…”

She paused, snapped her fingers.

“Moona Lisa! Because she’s dignified and mysterious!”

A ripple of laughter rolled through the cavern, some nervous, some genuinely amused.

Mira groaned. “You can’t name the Honmoon something so ridiculous!”

Zoey blinked, genuinely baffled. “What? What’s wrong with it?”

Mystery, standing with his arms folded and expression unreadable, offered in his calm monotone, “I like Moona Lisa. It rolls off the tongue nicely.”

Zoey brightened instantly. “Thanks, Mystery! See? I told you I come up with good names.”

Mira turned on him, jabbing an accusatory finger in his direction. “Do you even know what that’s a pun of?”

Mystery tilted his head slightly. “Moona. From Honmoon?”

“Yes, but that’s not—” Mira threw up her hands with a groan. “Ugh, never mind.”

Zoey gave her a sunny, placating smile. “Well then, do you have any ideas, Mira? The more the better, right?”

“I, uhh…” Mira froze, suddenly aware that half the cavern, including several nearby demons, had gone quiet to watch her. Her usual confidence wavered under the weight of dozens of curious stares. She rubbed the back of her neck, searching desperately for inspiration.

“Iri… irides… sane…” she muttered, then straightened abruptly as if she’d found something profound. “Iridesane. Because… she’s iridescent and… makes demons more sane.”

Her voice trailed off, and a faint flush crept up her neck as she realized how ridiculous it sounded aloud.

Abby immediately snorted, the sound echoing through the cavern before he could stifle it. Mira whipped around, glaring daggers at him.

“Something funny?” she snapped.

Before Abby could reply, Jaein’s eyes narrowed from her seat on the throne. “Are you implying I wasn’t sane before?”

Rumi let out a nervous laugh, stepping in quickly. “Haha, of course she didn’t mean it like that! Just that the Honmoon, uh… brings clarity, right? Enlightenment! Peace of mind!”

The tension might have held if not for the sudden movement at Jaein’s feet. Her shadow rippled, flickering like disturbed water. From it, a black clad figure emerged, tall and languid, his expression unreadable.

Muun. Rumi recognized him instantly. The shadow demon drummer who teleported them here.

He stepped forward, hands clasped neatly behind his back. “To be fair, my lady,” he said in his smooth, unhurried tone, “since you began conversing with the Honmoon, the number of projectiles you’ve thrown at your subordinates has dropped by roughly forty percent.”

A thin, silver needle whistled through the air.

Muun didn’t even flinch as it grazed past his ear and embedded itself in the cavern wall behind him. He tilted his head slightly. “Thirty-eight percent now.”

Jaein’s eye twitched.

Unbothered, Muun continued, “If you’d prefer to characterize this behavioral shift as less sane, perhaps you’d appreciate my suggestion: Lunacy. It seems fitting, given how the entire demon realm’s gone mad since the Honmoon changed.”

“Muun,” Jaein said through clenched teeth, her voice low and dangerous. “Get out of my sight.”

“Yes, my lady,” he replied smoothly, though there was an undertone of smugness in there. He inclined his head in an elegant half bow, stepped backward, and melted once more into Jaein’s shadow.

Silence settled over the cavern again, taut for a heartbeat until Zoey’s stifled giggle escaped, bright and irrepressible. A few demons snorted quietly in their corners, quickly pretending they hadn’t.

Then, from behind the carved throne, the Honmoon stirred. Its surface rippled like liquid glass before a soft, prismatic bulge emerged, brushing affectionately against Jaein’s shoulder again.

Jaein sighed. “What? No, that’s not how names work. You can’t just…” She broke off, shoulders slumping as the glowing curve of light continued to nuzzle insistently against her arm. “Fine. Have it your way.”

She looked almost pained as she relayed, “The Honmoon says she likes… all of them. And would like her name to be…” Jaein hesitated, visibly regretting every decision that had led to this moment. “Princess Moona Lisa Lunarella Sparkleheart Iridesane Lunacy… the Benevolent.”

Zoey gasped, stars practically lighting up her eyes. “That’s the best name ever!” she squealed. “Hi, Princess Moona Lisa Lunarella Sparkleheart Iridesane Lunacy the Benevolent! Can I call you Moona-unnie for short?”

The Honmoon pulsed in response, light rippling outward in delighted waves until the entire cavern ceiling shimmered with iridescent color as if accepting the title with regal pride.

Jaein closed her eyes and sighed, long and weary, the kind of sigh that carried years of fatigue rather than minutes of exasperation. When she spoke again, her voice had lost its earlier bite, replaced by something closer to resignation.

“So,” she said, “why are you even in the demon world? You don’t need demons to strengthen this new Honmoon. Relying on humans is easier, safer. It’s far too dangerous to be trouncing around here, especially while dragging along demons with Gwi-Ma’s mark.”

Her gaze flicked toward the Saja Boys, sharp and knowing.

“Those three wear his brand as plain as daylight. You do realize Gwi-Ma can spy through them, don’t you?”

Rumi stiffened but didn’t look away. “We’re looking for a demon named Jinu,” she said. “He was captured by Gwi-Ma to lure us here. We’ve been teleporting almost at random so Gwi-Ma can’t easily lock onto our position, but… we haven’t found any leads. Not on Jinu. Not where Gwi-Ma’s holding him.” Her voice softened. “Can you help us?”

For a moment, Jaein said nothing. Then, slowly, she frowned.

“What do you mean Gwi-Ma captured a demon to lure you here?”

Before Rumi could answer, the Honmoon above them began to stir again. Its glow fractured into countless ripples, each wave tightening, crowding, overlapping. Colors cascaded together until the light turned dense, prismatic and then coalesced into a shifting mosaic.

A faint hiss filled the air, like static from an old broadcast. The sound sharpened, refined until the first discernible notes of Free echoed through the cavern.

Gasps rippled among the watching demons as an image resolved across the ceiling. It was grainy at first, then clear enough to make out the stage, their stage at the Idol Awards. Rumi stood beside Jinu, their voices weaving together in harmony as the crowd roared around them.

Then came that terrible instant. Jinu’s voice faltered. His body jerked, eyes widening in pain. Flames erupted, devouring the space around him. Rumi’s own image froze mid-reach as Jinu was torn from view, swallowed by fire.

The flames rose higher, coalescing into the rough shape of a face. The features were amorphous, ever-shifting, but the presence behind them was unmistakable. A voice filled the cavern, low, resonant, and malicious, vibrating through stone and bone alike.

“Hunter who bears my mark… 

I have taken the traitorous wretch you turned against me. What will you do?

Abandon him, and prove you are just another coward, grasping at virtue to mask your selfish heart or…

Will you enter my domain?

Come for him…if you dare.”

The final words reverberated through the cavern, fading into a deep, uneasy quiet as the flames in the vision twisted themselves into a spiraling black vortex. Then the image began to unravel, peeling away as the Honmoon’s surface rippled and slowed, its waves separating one by one like water settling after a storm.

The small fragment of the Honmoon that was perched on Jaein’s shoulder, still glowing softly, slipped off from where it had been contacting Jaein, and plopped back into the main body of the Honmoon like an exhausted creature curling into sleep.

Jaein let out a quiet breath, the tension in her shoulders easing. She reached out and traced her fingertips across the stone where the glow had faded, her touch uncharacteristically gentle.

“Don’t strain yourself over something like this,” she murmured.

The Honmoon shimmered faintly in response, a fragile, wavering pulse of light, dull compared to its earlier brilliance.

Jaein gave a small, almost fond scoff. “Yes, it was impressive,” she said with a weary hint of amusement. “Now rest for a while.”

The light pulsed once, weak but content, before dimming entirely. The cavern settled into stillness again, the air heavy with the lingering echo of what they’d just witnessed.

Jaein turned back toward HUNTR/X, her expression unreadable. She folded her arms, the gesture deliberate, grounding herself in authority as silence stretched taut between them. For a long moment, no one spoke.

Then her voice cut through the stillness, calm but edged with something sharper.

“I’ve been wondering about something for a while,” she said slowly. “And Gwi-Ma’s little speech there… well it’s starting to paint an interesting picture.”

Her gaze swept over them, lingering on Rumi.

“The amount of Hon-gi he must have expended to open that portal would have been immense. And yet…” She tilted her head slightly. “He didn’t send a single demon through it. Not one soldier. Instead, he called out to you, Rumi. Not the other hunters. Not the demons who were on that stage with you. Only you.”

Her tone hardened, curious and accusing in equal measure.

“And then, during the concert, when one of Gwi-Ma’s lackeys fell off the stage and died, I expected to feel his Hon-gi come to me. I should have. I was the nearest demon.” Her smile thinned. “That is… unless we count you.”

The pause that followed was long enough for the torches to crackle audibly.

“Rumi,” Jaein said at last, “do you have a demon core?”

A murmur rippled through the surrounding demons, curious whispers spreading like wind through dry leaves. Even among the Saja Boys, a flicker of confusion passed. Baby shifted his stance, while Mystery’s eyes narrowed in thought.

Mystery’s brow furrowed as if piecing together fragments of a puzzle. Then his gaze darted toward Rumi, realization dawning.

Rumi swallowed, her pulse suddenly loud in her ears.

“Why does it matter,” she asked quietly, “if I have a demon core?”

Jaein’s eyes narrowed.

“Because hunters and demons don’t draw power the same way,” Jaein said. “Hunters are human. Their souls can only hold a small amount of Hon-gi before it bleeds off. That’s why they rely on the Honmoon as a conduit, sending their energy to it, then drawing it back to forge weapons or strengthen their bodies.” 

Her eyes darkened. “When I became a demon, the Honmoon rejected me. Its flow shut me out completely. I could no longer touch the Hon-gi within it… well at least until yesterday.”

She paused, studying Rumi as though weighing each word. “Demons, though… we carry our own reservoirs. A core. It’s what defines us. A demon core can only control its own Hon-gi, but it can hold an infinite amount if it’s fed. And to feed it…” Her voice sharpened. “We take. From humans. From each other.”

Jaein rose from her throne and started walking towards Rumi slowly, the firelight tracing the edge of her silhouette. “A demon core draws in any nearby free Hon-gi,” she said. “When something dies, human or demon, their soul and the Hon-gi bound to it come loose. The nearest core pulls it in by instinct. Just like yours did, when that demon died in front of you.” Her eyes gleamed, the faintest curl of a smile ghosting her lips. “As well as, I’m assuming, with any of the demons HUNTR/X has killed over the years.”

She stopped, glancing up toward the faint shimmer of the Honmoon above them. Its light flickered across her face, turning her expression unreadable.

“And then there’s the Hon-gi humans shed simply by living, by feeling. They can’t hold on to it, so it spills into the world around them.” Her gaze lowered back to Rumi, sharp and certain now. “So tell me, what do you think happens when a demon walks through the human world, surrounded by thousands of souls burning bright with life? Or during a concert,” she added, voice softening to something dangerous, “when you draw in all that Hon-gi to tether it to the Honmoon?”

Her smile turned sharp as she faced Rumi fully. “If you were born with a demon core… how much have you absorbed without realizing it? Every HUNTR/X concert. Every demon you’ve fought. Even every soul you’ve ever passed on the street in a densely packed city like Seoul.”

The air in the cavern thickened, heavy with the weight of implication. Jaein took a slow step forward, her shadow stretching long across the stone.

“Tell me, Rumi,” she said softly, “just how much power do you think you’re carrying?”

Rumi tried to grasp the weight of Jaein’s question, but the implications were too heavy, too vast to take in all at once. Meanwhile, the air in the cavern seemed to change around her, thickening, charged, humming with restrained energy. All around her, demons had gone still. One by one, their gazes turned toward her until the weight of them became almost physical, pressing against her skin, stealing the breath from her lungs. Her confusion curdled into wariness.

She caught Mira and Zoey tensing at her sides, their movements subtle but practiced. They shifted their stances, bodies angled just enough to cover her blind spots, ready to move if anything went wrong.

Behind her came Mystery’s low whisper, almost swallowed by the cavern’s silence.

“Derpy, if we get attacked, take us out immediately. We can’t fight them all.”

Rumi’s pulse hammered. She couldn’t turn away from Jaein, who was still advancing, slow, deliberate, each step echoing softly against the stone. The older demon’s smile was sharp, her eyes glinting like drawn blades.

Rumi’s fingers tightened around the hilt of her sword, still summoned from the earlier fight. Every instinct screamed to raise it, to prepare, but she held that urge back, waiting for Jaein to actually attack before she responded in kind.

Jaein stopped directly before her. The air between them was thick enough to choke on. Then, slowly, she lifted her right hand, which had been languidly resting near her whip.

Rumi tensed.

Jaein flicked her forehead.

The tiny thwack rang absurdly loud in the tense silence.

Mira and Zoey’s weapons came up instantly, then halted mid-motion as confusion overtook instinct.

Jaein stepped back with a dry scoff, folding her arms.

“If I wanted to steal your Hon-gi,” she said, arching a brow, “do you really think I’d waste time explaining it first? What do you take me for? A monologuing villain?”

“I, uhh, well, you were kind of…” Rumi waved her hands vaguely, trying to find the right words. Her brows furrowed. “Intimidating,” she finished lamely.

Jaein only crossed her arms, studying her with thinly veiled amusement.

“Sorry,” Rumi mumbled, releasing her sword. It dissolved back into the Honmoon in a ripple of light.

Jaein humphed and then asked, “Do you want to know for sure if you have a demon core or not?”

Rumi hesitated, throat dry, then swallowed hard and nodded. “I do.”

“I can sense for it,” Jaein said, “but I’ll have to get close and send my Hon-gi directly into your soul.”

Mira immediately stepped forward, her stance sharp, protective. “Is it dangerous?”

“Absolutely,” Jaein replied without missing a beat, “but it’s the only way to know for sure.”

Zoey glanced uneasily at the Saja Boys, worry flickering across her face. “What do you guys think?”

Mystery furrowed his brow, thoughtful. “If you train your Hon-gi sensing, you can eventually feel your own reserves,” he said slowly, “but… I’ve never heard of anyone being able to sense someone else’s.”

Jaein let out a sharp scoff. “Centuries of existence, and most demons still rely on instinct alone. It’s pathetic.”

Mystery crossed his arms, his tone calm but edged with cynicism. “That’s because Gwi-Ma sends his enforcers after anyone who grows too strong, either to kill them or drag them into his ranks. Only craftsmen are left in peace long enough to hone their skills, and even they have to be careful not to accumulate too much Hon-gi or risk drawing Gwi-Ma’s attention.”

“I managed it,” Jaein shot back, chin tilting up.

Baby gave an exaggerated tch and rolled his eyes. “Like you're not old yourself. And not everyone’s lucky enough to start with formal training, grandma.”

Jaein froze mid-breath. Slowly, very slowly, she turned toward him. “What did you just call me?”

Before things could spiral, Rumi darted between them, hands raised in a nervous, placating gesture. “He’s just joking! Don’t take him seriously.”

Behind her, Abby leaned toward Baby, casually ignoring Jaein’s glare. “Wait, how old are you actually?”

Baby shrugged, completely unbothered. “It’s not important.”

Abby raised an eyebrow but decided not to press.

Jaein was still glaring past Rumi at Baby, eyes narrowed, sparks practically visible in the air. Then she exhaled sharply through her nose, flicking her gaze back to Rumi.

“Fine,” she said. “Ignoring the unresourceful, whiny little brats who don’t know how to use their own Hon-gi,” her eyes flicked briefly toward Baby again, “do you want me to sense for your core or not?”

Rumi turned to her friends. The Saja Boys exchanged a look, then shrugged almost in unison, their expressions unreadable.

Zoey bit her lip, glancing between them all, uncertainty written plain across her face.

Then Mira stepped forward. With a flash of light, her Gok-do materialized in her hands, and in one smooth motion, she leveled the blade at Jaein’s throat. The weapon’s glowing edge cast a thin line of brilliance across Jaein’s neck.

“If you hurt Rumi in any way,” Mira said, her voice low and steady, “I’ll make you regret it.”

Jaein didn’t so much as blink. A faint, amused smile tugged at her lips. “How cute,” she murmured. “A little kitten trying to roar.”

Mira’s eyes narrowed, but she didn’t lower her weapon. Rumi, though, felt a small surge of gratitude at her friend’s protectiveness. The warmth of it steadied her. She met Jaein’s casual, expectant look. Jaein might seem unpredictable and dangerous, but she hadn’t actually done anything but help them so far, and she was still their only lead on both Jinu and her father. Sooner or later, they’d have to take the risk. And Rumi wasn’t alone. She counted the people beside her: Mira and Zoey, her steadfast best friends who had never once left her side; the Saja Boys, awkward but earnest, whom she now dared to think of as friends; and Derpy and Sussie, ridiculous, loyal, and miraculous to have on their side. All of them were here, ready to step in if things went wrong. Whatever happens, they’d face it together.

Rumi drew in a slow, grounding breath.

“Okay,” Rumi said finally, her voice quiet but firm. “Do it. I’ll trust you.”

Jaein’s smirk deepened. With a casual motion, she reached up and pushed Mira’s blade aside using just one finger, the gesture deliberate and dismissive. Then she stepped closer until she was within arm’s reach of Rumi. The air between them felt charged, alive.

Jaein raised a hand and pressed her palm flat against Rumi’s sternum.

A strange warmth bloomed in Rumi’s chest, soft at first, then spreading deeper, threading through her veins like liquid sunlight. It wasn’t painful, but it was invasive, foreign, as if something alive was moving through her, searching.

Jaein’s eyes slipped closed, her brow furrowing in concentration. The air between them vibrated faintly, the Hon-gi humming low like a held note. Rumi tried to stay perfectly still, keeping her breaths shallow even as her heart thundered beneath Jaein’s hand.

Time stretched. Sweat gathered along Jaein’s temple, catching the firelight. Then her expression changed. A sudden inhale. A twitch at the corner of her mouth. And finally, a full smile, sharp enough to gleam. Her canines caught the firelight, unmistakably predatory.

Without warning, Jaein tore her hand away and burst out laughing.

The sound cracked through the silence like thunder, rolling through the cavern, echoing off the stone walls until even the torches seemed to flicker in its wake. The nearby demons froze, startled, then instinctively edged back. A few exchanged wary glances, as though this kind of laughter never ended well.

Rumi turned helplessly toward Zoey and Mira. Both only shrugged, eyes wide, no more certain than she was.

So she stood there, heart still pounding, caught between fear and confusion, until the laughter finally began to fade into breathless chuckles.

When Jaein spoke again, her voice was still rough with amusement.

“Ha! No wonder Gwi-Ma wants you,” she said, grinning. “Not only do you have a demon core, but you’re brimming with a truly ridiculous amount of Hon-gi.”

Although her laughter had faded, the gleam in her eyes only sharpened, wild and alive with the thrill of discovery. The air between them seemed to vibrate, charged, as if something had already begun to wake.

Jaein leaned forward slightly, her smile all teeth.

“So, Rumi,” she said, voice crackling with excitement, “do you want to learn how to use it?”