Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The kitchen was too small for seven people, but they made it work.

It had become something of a tradition, really—this morning chaos where they all seemed to gravitate toward the same cramped space despite having an entire manor at their disposal. There was the formal dining room they never used. The breakfast room that Seonghwa had decorated with meticulous care. The garden terrace where they could eat outside. And yet, every morning, they ended up here, in a kitchen that was objectively too small, bumping elbows and stealing food from each other's plates and existing in each other's space like they couldn't bear to be apart.

Maybe they couldn't. After everything they'd been through to get here, separation felt wrong somehow.

"Mingi, if you don't stop stress-baking, we're going to run out of counter space," Seonghwa said, though his tone was fond as he watched the werewolf pull another tray of cookies from the oven.

The kitchen was proof of that stress-baking. Every available surface was covered—chocolate chip cookies cooling on wire racks, snickerdoodles arranged in neat rows, what looked like the beginning of a sourdough starter bubbling ominously near the sink, a pie crust waiting to be filled. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon and brown sugar was so strong it had probably seeped into the walls by now.

"Can't help it," Mingi mumbled, already measuring flour for the next batch. His hands moved with practiced efficiency, the kind that came from doing this too many times to count. "The eastern wards are fluctuating, the northwestern boundary hasn't been properly checked in three days, and we still don't have a coordinator. So. Cookies."

He said it like it was the most logical thing in the world. Problem: magical infrastructure falling apart. Solution: baked goods. To be fair, Hongjoong had seen worse coping mechanisms.

"At least we're eating well," Yunho offered, reaching over to snag a cookie from the closest rack.

"Don't touch those, they're still too hot," Mingi said without looking up from his measuring.

Yunho touched it anyway, immediately regretted it, and juggled the burning cookie between his hands with a yelp. Jongho, watching from the doorway, didn't even try to hide his smirk.

"He told you not to touch it," Jongho said.

"I have no self-control when it comes to cookies," Yunho said, finally managing to get the cookie onto a napkin. "This is a known character flaw."

"One of many," Wooyoung added helpfully from where he was sprawled across Seonghwa's lap at the breakfast nook, San in cat form purring on his chest.

"Valid coping mechanism," Wooyoung continued, speaking about Mingi now. "I vote we keep him stressed forever. These are amazing."

"You can't vote to keep someone stressed, that's not how voting works," Yunho said.

"I just did. Democracy in action."

"That's a dictatorship."

"Democracy, dictatorship, same thing." Wooyoung scratched behind San's ears, earning a deeper purr.

"Don't encourage him," Hongjoong said, but he was already reaching for a cookie himself, carefully selecting one that had cooled enough not to burn his fingers. He'd been in his office since dawn, trying to manage the ward reports alone, and his head was pounding. The sugar helped. Barely. "We need to find someone soon. The empire isn't going to run itself."

"The empire has been running itself," Jongho pointed out from the doorway, still leaning against the frame like he was posing for a portrait. "Badly."

"Thank you for that encouraging assessment," Hongjoong said dryly. "Truly. Your optimism knows no bounds."

"You asked me to stop sugar-coating things."

"I asked you to stop sugar-coating strategic military assessments, not our organizational disasters."

"What's the difference?" Jongho took a sip of his coffee, eyes glinting with amusement over the rim of his mug.

"The difference is my blood pressure," Hongjoong muttered.

Yunho laughed, warm and bright despite the early hour. He was making coffee—actual coffee, not the sludge Hongjoong tried to pass off as caffeine—and the domestic normality of it soothed something in Hongjoong's chest. The French press, the careful measuring, the way Yunho's hands moved with the same precision he used for everything else. It was grounding.

This. This was what they'd built together. Not just an empire, but a home.

"Your coffee isn't that bad," Mingi said, though he was clearly lying through his teeth.

"My coffee is perfectly fine," Hongjoong said.

"Your coffee could be used as a weapon," Seonghwa corrected gently. "I'm fairly certain it's already been classified as a hazardous material in at least three dimensions."

"You're all so mean to me. I work myself to the bone for this family—"

"You work yourself into an early grave," Yunho interrupted, pressing a fresh mug into Hongjoong's hands. The coffee was perfect—rich and dark and exactly the right temperature. "There's a difference."

Hongjoong wanted to argue, but the coffee was too good and Yunho was looking at him with those eyes that said I'm worried about you and I love you and please take care of yourself all at once.

"Fine," Hongjoong relented, taking a long sip. "Your coffee is better than mine."

"Much better," Wooyoung said.

"Significantly better," San added.

"Incomparably better," Seonghwa agreed.

"Okay, I get it, my coffee is terrible."

"The first step is admitting you have a problem," Jongho said sagely.

"The agency called again," Seonghwa said, steering the conversation back to safer waters. His fingers absently played with Wooyoung's hair, threading through the strands in a rhythm that Hongjoong recognized as soothing—for both of them. "They're sending candidates today."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop a few degrees. Or maybe that was just Hongjoong's anxiety manifesting as physical sensation.

"They've been saying that for weeks," San said, shifting into his human form without dislodging himself from Wooyoung's chest—a feat of coordination that always impressed Hongjoong. One moment there was a cat, the next there was a full-grown man, and Wooyoung hadn't moved an inch. "At this point I think they're just trying to placate us."

"They're definitely trying to placate us," Wooyoung wheezed slightly under San's weight. "You're heavier as a human."

"You're comfortable as a pillow."

"That's not a compliment."

"It is though."

"I may have threatened them," Hongjoong admitted, deciding to intervene before Wooyoung suffocated under San's affection. "The agency, I mean. Not Wooyoung."

"You definitely threatened them," Yunho corrected, pressing a mug of coffee into Hongjoong's hands. "I heard you on the call. Something about 'continued existence depending on contract fulfillment'?"

"Oh, I remember that call," Mingi said, perking up. "You made the head of the agency cry."

"I did not make them cry."

"Their voice got all wobbly," Wooyoung said. "That's pre-crying."

"I was diplomatic about it."

"You were terrifying," Mingi said, but he was smiling, a bit of flour on his cheek and his tail—visible at home, always hidden in public—wagging slightly. "It was hot."

"Everything I do is hot," Hongjoong said automatically, which earned him a cookie thrown at his head by Wooyoung.

The cookie flew in a perfect arc. Hongjoong didn't even try to catch it, knowing what would happen next.

"Your ego is showing, hyung."

"My ego is perfectly sized, thank you."

Seonghwa caught the cookie mid-air without looking, vampire reflexes on display, and handed it back to Hongjoong with the air of someone who had done this exact thing a hundred times before. Which he had. "Eat. You've been working since five AM."

"Four-thirty," Hongjoong corrected, then realized his mistake when everyone looked at him with varying degrees of concern and exasperation.

"Four-thirty," Yunho repeated slowly. "As in, four-thirty in the morning."

"When exactly did you sleep?" Seonghwa asked, his voice deceptively calm.

"I slept," Hongjoong said defensively. "For several hours."

"How many hours?"

"... Hours."

"Hongjoong."

"Three. Maybe three and a half if you count the time I dozed off at my desk."

"That doesn't count," Mingi said.

"Definitely doesn't count," Wooyoung agreed.

"Someone has to—" Hongjoong started, but he already knew he'd lost this argument before it began.

"We know." Seonghwa's voice was gentle but firm. He stood from the breakfast nook, carefully extracting himself from beneath Wooyoung, and crossed to where Hongjoong sat. His hands came to rest on Hongjoong's shoulders, cool and steady. "But you can't keep doing this alone. None of us can. We're seven very powerful beings trying to manage an empire that spans dimensions, and we're drowning."

The truth of it settled over them, dampening the playful mood like a wet blanket thrown over a fire.

It was always like this—they'd find pockets of lightness, moments of joy and domesticity and normalcy, and then reality would crash back in. The weight of what they carried. The responsibility they'd chosen. The price of the power they wielded together.

Jongho moved into the kitchen properly, his presence grounding as always. Despite being the youngest, he had a steadiness to him that centered them all. "The ward network needs constant monitoring. The portal junctions require coordination we can't maintain while handling our other responsibilities. Diplomatic meetings are backing up. And—"

"And I found another cookie in my shoe this morning," Mingi interrupted, trying to lighten the mood again. "Which suggests my stress levels are reaching critical mass."

"Which shoe?" Wooyoung asked, genuinely interested.

"The left one."

"Huh. Last week it was the right one."

"Different crisis, different shoe."

"That's actually a pattern," San said thoughtfully, now sitting up properly and stretching. "You might be developing a stress-response system."

"I am not using cookie placement as a diagnostic tool," Hongjoong said.

"Why not?" Jongho asked. "It's more reliable than half our monitoring systems."

He had a point. A ridiculous point, but a point nonetheless.

"We need help," Yunho said simply, pulling them back to the actual problem. "Real help. Someone who can actually handle the scope of this."

"We've tried," Hongjoong said, frustration bleeding into his voice despite his best efforts to stay calm. The coffee was warm in his hands. The kitchen smelled like cookies and home. His partners were all around him. And yet the anxiety sat heavy in his chest. "Seven candidates. All of them either underqualified or—"

"Or they took one look at the Nexus room and fainted," Wooyoung finished. "That was memorable."

"I still feel bad about that," Mingi said. "We should have warned her."

"We did warn her," Seonghwa pointed out. "Extensively."

"Maybe not extensively enough."

"How do you warn someone about the Nexus room?" San asked. "It's not like you can explain it. You have to experience it."

"We could show pictures," Yunho suggested.

"Pictures don't capture the existential dread," Jongho said mildly.

"Or the way it smells like static electricity and burned ozone," Wooyoung added.

"Or the humming," Mingi said with a slight shudder. "The constant humming."

"I like the humming," San said. "It's soothing."

"You would."

"We can't afford to be picky," Seonghwa said, bringing them back on track. "But we also can't afford to hire someone incompetent. The amount of access they'd have, the sensitivity of the information, the magical signatures they'd need to work with..."

He trailed off, but they all understood. They'd had this conversation before. Multiple times. The coordinator position wasn't just administrative—it was deeply integrated into everything they did. That person would see their schedules, their weaknesses, their private communications. They'd have access to the ward network, the portal system, diplomatic channels. They'd know exactly when and where each of them would be at any given time.

One wrong person in that position could destroy everything they'd built.

"It's a trust thing," Yunho said quietly. "We're not just hiring an employee. We're bringing someone into... this." He gestured around the kitchen, encompassing all of them, the intimacy of the space, the life they'd built together.

"Yeah," Wooyoung said softly. "Yeah, exactly."

San shifted back into cat form and stretched, claws extending to knead biscuits on the counter. The motion was meditative, repetitive, calming. "So we keep looking."

"The agency is sending candidates today," Seonghwa repeated, moving back to the breakfast nook. Wooyoung immediately rearranged himself across Seonghwa's lap like he'd never left, and San jumped down to drape across both of them. "Maybe this time—"

"Maybe this time we'll find someone," Hongjoong finished, trying to inject some optimism into his voice. He looked around at his partners—his family—and felt the familiar surge of protectiveness wash over him.

Yunho, who gave too much and asked for too little, who made coffee and kept them all functional and rarely acknowledged his own exhaustion. Mingi, whose loyalty ran bone-deep, who stress-baked and worried and loved with his whole heart. Seonghwa, elegant and deadly and so careful with all of them, like they were precious things he was afraid to break. Wooyoung, bright and fierce and more fragile than he pretended, who filled silences with noise because he was afraid of what lived in the quiet. San, who'd spent so long alone that sometimes he still seemed surprised they wanted him around, who shifted forms like breathing and trusted them with pieces of himself he'd never shown anyone. Jongho, steady and unshakeable, who'd appeared in their lives and simply decided to stay, who saw through all of them and loved them anyway.

They'd built this together. Brick by brick, decision by decision, crisis by crisis. They'd find a solution together.

Even if it killed him.

"Come on," Yunho said, tugging Hongjoong toward the breakfast nook. "Sit. Eat. The empire can wait ten minutes."

"The empire can't actually—" Hongjoong started to protest.

"Ten. Minutes." Yunho's voice was firm, brooking no argument. "The wards aren't collapsing. The portals are stable. The diplomatic meetings can wait. Sit."

Hongjoong let himself be pulled down, let himself sink into the warmth of Yunho's presence beside him, Mingi's shoulder pressing against his other side. It was crowded—the breakfast nook was meant for maybe four people, not seven—but they made it work. They always made it work.

Across from him, Wooyoung was tangled with Seonghwa again, the two of them having perfected the art of occupying the same space. San draped himself across both of them in cat form, purring loud enough to be heard across the kitchen. Jongho leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, watching them all with quiet contentment.

"This is nice," Wooyoung said softly, his fingers playing with the end of Seonghwa's sleeve.

"Mmm," Seonghwa agreed, pressing a kiss to the top of Wooyoung's head.

Mingi passed around more cookies, still warm from the oven. Yunho refilled coffee mugs. San's purring continued, a constant background rumble. Jongho smiled into his cup. Hongjoong felt the tension in his shoulders ease, just slightly, just enough.

This was what mattered. This feeling. This home.

The empire could wait. The wards could fluctuate. The meetings could back up.

For ten minutes, they could just be together.

They just needed to find someone who could help them protect it.

"Okay," Hongjoong said finally, accepting another cookie from Mingi. "When the candidates arrive—"

"We'll be professional," Seonghwa said.

"And intimidating," Wooyoung added.

"But not too intimidating," Yunho said. "We don't want them running away immediately."

"Just eventually," San said, and there was laughter in his voice even in cat form.

"Ideally not at all," Hongjoong corrected. "Ideally we find someone who can look at all of this—" he gestured around at the cookie-covered kitchen, at San in cat form, at the casual intimacy of all of them crammed into a space too small, "—and not immediately run screaming."

"That's asking a lot," Jongho said.

"We're worth a lot," Wooyoung said simply. "The right person won't run. They'll understand."

"You're an optimist," Mingi said, surprised.

"I contain multitudes."

"You contain audacity."

"That too."

Hongjoong felt something warm unfurl in his chest. Hope, maybe. Or just love for these ridiculous, wonderful people who'd chosen to build a life with him.

"Alright," he said, standing up and brushing crumbs from his shirt. "Let's do this. Let's find someone who can keep up with us."

"Bold assumption," Jongho murmured, but he was smiling.

"Confident assumption," Hongjoong corrected. "We're very keepupwithable."

"That's not a word," Seonghwa said.

"It is now. I just made it one. Leader privileges."

"Abuse of power," Wooyoung declared.

"Linguistic innovation," Hongjoong countered.

"Same thing."

And as they dissolved into bickering and laughter, as Mingi pulled another tray from the oven and Yunho poured more coffee and San remained stubbornly in cat form, Hongjoong thought: this. This is what we're protecting. Not just an empire, but this. Each other.

They'd find someone. They had to.

Because this—this family, this home, this love—was worth fighting for.

Chapter Text

The apartment was small. Clean, because Yeosang couldn't afford for anything to be out of place, but small.

One room that served as bedroom, office, and living space. A kitchenette he barely used because cooking for one felt like admitting something he wasn't ready to admit. A bathroom with a shower that never quite got hot enough, no matter how long he let it run or how many times he'd tried to fix the water heater himself.

It was fine. It was more than fine. It was his, and that mattered more than comfort.

The rent was paid on time, every month, never late. The walls were a neutral beige that the landlord had chosen, and Yeosang hadn't bothered to change them. There were no pictures hung, no personal touches beyond the bare necessities. A bed—full size, not queen, because that's what fit. A desk. A single bookshelf with his reference materials organized by subject and then alphabetically within each category. A small couch he'd found at a thrift store, reupholstered himself during a weekend when the silence had gotten too loud.

Everything had its place. Everything was controlled. Controlled was safe.

Yeosang sat at his desk—a folding table he'd found on a street corner and repaired himself, sanding down the rough edges and reinforcing the legs until it didn't wobble anymore—and stared at his laptop screen. The agency database glowed in the pre-dawn darkness, candidate profiles waiting to be organized, placement requests to be processed.

It was 4:47 AM. He'd been awake since 3:30, which was normal. Sleep was... difficult. It had been difficult for a while now.

His job. His purpose. The thing keeping him employed when no one would hire him for what he was actually trained to do.

Yeosang's fingers moved across the keyboard with practiced efficiency, updating profiles, cross-referencing qualifications, flagging potential matches. This was his fourth year with the agency. Four years of watching other people get placed in positions he could do in his sleep. Four years of being "between placements" himself, as if the phrasing made it better. As if calling it something else changed the reality.

Between placements, the agency called it. As if he'd ever get another placement. As if anyone would ever look at "succubus" on his resume and see anything other than a liability.

The word sat in his mind like a stone. Succubus. Even thinking it made something in his chest tighten. It had been his identity once—something he'd been proud of, even. The magic that came with it, the abilities that made him exceptional at his work. Emotional reading. Energy management. The kind of intuitive understanding of people and systems that couldn't be taught.

Now it was just a mark against him. A reason for doors to close before he even got through them. A thing that made people look at him and see danger, or temptation, or a problem to be managed.

He should be grateful, he reminded himself, fingers still moving across the keys. The agency had given him work when no one else would. Administrative tasks, filing, coordinating other people's success while his own skills atrophied. It was fine. It was better than nothing.

(It was killing him, slowly, but he couldn't afford to think about that.)

The database refreshed. New placement request from a tech startup looking for a magical infrastructure coordinator. Requirements: ward management, portal maintenance, crisis response. Yeosang scanned the details and immediately thought of three candidates who would be perfect. None of them were him.

He added the notes to the file and moved on.

His phone buzzed against the desk, loud in the silent apartment. Yeosang picked it up, already knowing who it would be. The agency director didn't believe in normal working hours.

Prepare candidate files for ATEEZ meeting today. Silvermoon and backups. You'll assist with presentation.

Yeosang stared at the message, something cold settling in his stomach. ATEEZ. He'd been compiling information on their empire for weeks now, watching position after position fail to fill. Watching candidates come back shaken, or not come back at all, withdrawing their applications without explanation.

The scope of what they needed was... immense. Beautiful, in a way. The kind of challenge he'd spent years training for.

The kind of position he'd never be considered for.

He pulled up the Nexus specifications again, even though he'd already memorized them. He couldn't help it—the file drew him back like gravity, like looking at something he wanted but couldn't have.

Ward network spanning six dimensions. Portal junctions managing traffic from fourteen different territories. Diplomatic coordination with over thirty separate factions. Magical resource management on a scale that would make most coordinators weep. Crisis response protocols that required split-second decision making and the kind of intuitive understanding that couldn't be programmed or taught.

It was exactly what he was good at. What he'd done for eight years across four different employers before—

His hands stilled on the keyboard.

Before.

The cursor blinked at him. The apartment was too quiet. Outside, the city was still dark, still sleeping, and Yeosang sat alone with his laptop and his carefully organized files and the weight of everything he couldn't let himself feel.

He didn't let himself think about before. Thinking about it meant remembering, and remembering meant the carefully constructed walls he'd built would crack, and he couldn't afford cracks. Not when he was barely holding together as it was.

Eight years. He'd built a reputation. He'd been good—no, he'd been exceptional. Three different empires had headhunted him. He'd turned down offers that other coordinators would have killed for because he'd been happy where he was, doing work that mattered, working with people who valued his skills.

And then—

No. No, he wasn't doing this. Not this morning. Not when he had work to do.

Yeosang closed the Nexus files and opened the candidate profiles instead, forcing his mind back to the task at hand.

Alaric Silvermoon—arrogant, overconfident, but technically qualified on paper. Yeosang had met him once, briefly, during a placement interview. The man had looked at Yeosang like he was furniture. Disposable. Beneath notice. He'd be a terrible fit for ATEEZ, but he looked good in a portfolio, and that's what mattered.

The backups were less promising, but they'd fill out the presentation. A ward specialist who'd worked for the European Coalition. A diplomatic coordinator with decent references. A generalist who'd managed a small territory network.

All of them would probably fail. The position was too big, too complex, required too much. But they'd try, and Yeosang would coordinate their interviews, and eventually someone would either succeed or ATEEZ would lower their standards or the position would remain unfilled.

He wouldn't be presented. He never was. And that was fine.

(It wasn't fine. Nothing was fine. But survival meant pretending, and he'd gotten very, very good at pretending.)

Yeosang pulled up Silvermoon's file and began updating the presentation notes. Professional highlights. Credentials. References that were glowing if you didn't read between the lines. He knew how to make candidates look good on paper—it was part of his job, part of what he did to justify his employment.

The irony wasn't lost on him. He could make mediocre candidates look exceptional, but he couldn't make himself hireable.

His tea had gone cold. Yeosang looked at the mug—white ceramic, no design, functional—and realized he'd made it two hours ago and hadn't taken a single sip. This was also normal. He made tea every morning out of habit, and then he never drank it because he got absorbed in work and forgot it existed.

He made a new cup anyway. The ritual of it was soothing. Boil water. Steep tea. Pretend today might be the day he actually drinks it.

The sky outside was beginning to lighten—that pre-dawn gray that meant morning was coming whether he was ready or not. Yeosang watched the darkness fade and felt nothing about it. Morning came. He had work to do. This was his life.

His alarm went off at 5:30—time to get ready. Yeosang moved through his morning routine with mechanical precision.

Shower first. The water never got properly hot, but it got warm enough. He'd learned to make peace with warm enough. The soap was unscented because anything else felt like too much, like drawing attention he didn't want. He washed efficiently, not lingering, because the shower was for getting clean, not for comfort.

When he looked down at his body, he saw the same thing he always saw. Unmarked skin. No scars, no blemishes, no signs of what he was beyond the faint shimmer that appeared sometimes when his control slipped. He kept his control locked down tight these days. So tight that sometimes he wondered if his magic had atrophied completely, withered from disuse like a muscle that hadn't been exercised.

Better that than the alternative. Better dormant than dangerous.

He dried off with a towel that had seen better days but was still functional. Dressed in the professional clothes he kept immaculate despite their age. The shirt was three years old but still crisp because he was meticulous about laundry. The slacks were older but well-maintained. The tie was a birthday gift from a coworker who'd left the agency six months ago—they hadn't kept in touch.

Everything matched. Everything was professional. Everything was perfect because perfect meant invisible, and invisible was safe.

Yeosang made tea he wouldn't drink. This cup was green tea, because he'd run out of his usual black tea and kept forgetting to buy more. The grocery store felt too bright, too crowded, too much. Online ordering felt too indulgent for someone in his position. So he drank green tea and told himself it was fine.

He reviewed the files one more time, even though he'd already memorized them. Silvermoon's credentials. The backup candidates. The ATEEZ specifications. The Nexus requirements that made his fingers itch with the desire to actually work with something that complex again.

He knew what he'd see when he got to the manor. Seven beings who'd built something unprecedented, something that should have been impossible. A vampire, a werewolf, a shifter, a demon, an elemental, a mage, and whatever Jongho was—the reports weren't clear on that. Seven different kinds of magic that shouldn't work together but somehow did.

They'd need someone who could handle that complexity. Someone who could read the dynamics, manage the interpersonal elements alongside the magical infrastructure. Someone who understood that coordination wasn't just about scheduling and logistics, it was about understanding people and systems and how they intersected.

Someone like him.

Someone they'd never consider.

Yeosang checked his reflection one final time.

The man staring back at him looked perfect. Professional. Controlled. Competent. Everything a good assistant should be.

His hair was neat—black and styled carefully, not too much product, just enough to look put together. His face was carefully neutral, the expression he'd practiced until it became natural. Pleasant but not friendly. Professional but not cold. Forgettable.

No one looking at him would see the exhaustion that lived in his bones. The hollow space where his magic used to flow freely, back when he'd been allowed to use it, back when it had been seen as an asset instead of a liability. The careful way he held himself like he was always expecting a blow, because he'd learned that blows came whether you expected them or not.

His eyes—dark brown, average, unremarkable—stared back at him. They used to have a slight shimmer to them when his magic was active. A telltale sign of what he was. Now they just looked tired.

Good. That was good. Tired was normal. Tired was human. Tired didn't make people nervous.

Yeosang straightened his tie one final time, grabbed his tablet and portfolio, and took a breath.

He could do this. He'd been doing this for four years. He was good at his job—the job he had, not the job he wanted. He was good at being invisible, at facilitating other people's success, at pretending the hollowness inside him wasn't growing larger every day.

The portfolio was leather, worn at the edges but still professional. He'd bought it eight years ago when he'd gotten his first coordinator position. Back then it had felt like the beginning of something. Now it just held other people's futures.

His apartment key went into his pocket. Phone, wallet, ID card for the agency. Everything in its place. Everything controlled.

The door locked behind him with a click that sounded too loud in the empty hallway.

Yeosang headed for the portal junction, his footsteps echoing in the pre-dawn quiet.

The streets were mostly empty this early. A few other early risers, shift workers heading home, the occasional magical being whose schedule didn't align with human daylight hours. Yeosang kept his head down and walked with purpose. Don't draw attention. Don't make eye contact. Don't give anyone a reason to notice him.

The portal junction was busier. It always was—magic didn't sleep, and neither did the infrastructure that supported it. Yeosang showed his ID to the attendant, who barely glanced at him before waving him through. Another invisible person in a city full of them.

He stepped through the portal with practiced ease. The sensation of dimensional shifting washed over him—a feeling he used to love, used to find exhilarating. Now it just made him slightly nauseous. Or maybe that was just anxiety. It was hard to tell the difference anymore.

The agency office materialized around him. Sleek, modern, designed to impress clients while making employees feel small. Yeosang had never felt anything but small here.

"Yeosang!" The director's voice cut across the lobby before he'd made it three steps. "My office. Now."

He followed without question. That's what good employees did.

The director's office was too warm and smelled like expensive coffee Yeosang would never be offered. She sat behind her desk—massive, cherry wood, meant to intimidate—and gestured impatiently at the chair across from her.

"The ATEEZ meeting," she said without preamble. "Silvermoon is our best shot. I need you to make sure the presentation is flawless."

"It is flawless," Yeosang said quietly. "I've triple-checked everything."

"Good. You'll accompany him to the interview. Take notes, handle any administrative questions, make sure he doesn't—" she waved a hand, "—you know. Silvermoon can be..."

"Arrogant?" Yeosang supplied.

"Confident," she corrected sharply. "He's confident. That's what clients like ATEEZ need. Someone who won't be intimidated."

Someone who won't see them as people, Yeosang thought but didn't say. Someone who'll treat them like a prestigious line on a resume instead of seven beings trying to build something meaningful.

But that wasn't his call to make.

"Understood," he said instead.

"You'll portal to the manor at 9:45. Don't be late. And Yeosang—" she fixed him with a look that made his spine straighten involuntarily, "—this is important. We've sent seven candidates already. If we lose this contract, if ATEEZ goes to another agency, that's a significant loss of credibility. So whatever you need to do to make Silvermoon look good, you do it. Understand?"

"I understand."

"Good. Dismissed."

Yeosang stood, portfolio clutched a little too tightly, and left.

Back at his desk—a cubicle in the corner, because actual offices were for people who mattered—he pulled up the files again. Made sure everything was perfect. Made sure the presentation would make Silvermoon look like exactly what ATEEZ needed, even though Yeosang knew, knew in his bones, that Silvermoon would fail.

They all failed. Because the position wasn't just about credentials or confidence. It was about understanding. About seeing the people behind the power. About caring enough to make it work.

And you couldn't fake that. No matter how good the presentation was.

Yeosang's fingers hovered over the keyboard. For just a moment, he let himself imagine it. Imagine being the one presenting himself instead of presenting someone else. Imagine walking into that manor and saying "I can do this. I can help you. Let me prove it."

Imagine being seen.

But that was fantasy, and he lived in reality. Reality was a cubicle and cold tea and other people's success. Reality was safe, even if it was suffocating.

He had a job to do. He was good at his job. That had to be enough.

It had to be.

The morning passed in a blur of final preparations. Confirming portal coordinates. Printing backup copies of documents because Silvermoon was the type to forget his tablet. Rehearsing answers to potential questions because Silvermoon was also the type to freeze under pressure despite his confidence.

At 9:30, Silvermoon arrived. He looked the part—tall, handsome in a conventional way, expensive suit, that air of self-assurance that came from never having to prove himself. He barely acknowledged Yeosang beyond a dismissive nod.

"Ready?" Silvermoon asked, checking his reflection in his phone screen.

"Ready," Yeosang confirmed, even though the question hadn't really been directed at him.

They portaled at 9:45 exactly. Punctuality was important. First impressions mattered.

And as the dimensional shift took hold and the world reformed around them, Yeosang pressed down every feeling that tried to surface. The wanting. The longing. The desperate, aching desire to be more than an assistant facilitating someone else's opportunity.

He had a job to do.

He was good at his job.

That was enough.

It had to be enough.

(But the lie was wearing thin, and Yeosang wasn't sure how much longer he could keep pretending he believed it.)

Chapter Text

## Hongjoong's POV

The Nexus room was giving him a headache.

It was the kind that sat right behind his left eye and pulsed with his heartbeat. He'd had it for about three days now, on and off, mostly on. The kind of headache that made his demon nature restless, made him want to stretch his wings even though he knew that wouldn't help.

Hongjoong stood in the center of the floating displays, watching the numbers tick downward. Ward strength at sixty-seven percent. No, sixty-six now. The northwestern boundary was degrading faster than their calculations had predicted, and he was too tired to recalculate why.

He rubbed his eyes, seeing spots when he pressed too hard. When was the last time he'd actually slept? Not just closed his eyes for an hour or two, but really slept?

"The northwestern boundary," he called out to Seonghwa, who was working at the eastern portal junction. His voice came out rougher than intended. "It's down to sixty-six."

"I know." Seonghwa didn't look up, his fingers moving through the data streams with practiced precision. "I flagged it yesterday. We need to schedule reinforcement."

"When?"

"That's the problem. I need to coordinate with border patrol, but Captain Torres needs forty-eight hours notice minimum. And we need materials."

Hongjoong moved closer, trying to focus through the fog of exhaustion. "What kind of materials?"

"The usual. Crystallized moonlight, phoenix tears, about seventeen pounds of crushed obsidian." Seonghwa paused, finally looking at him. "We're out of phoenix tears."

"Still?"

"It's been two months."

"Two months." Hongjoong repeated it slowly, like saying it again would make it make sense. "How did I not know we've been out for two months?"

"You did know. You've written it down." Seonghwa's voice was gentle, not accusing. "It's on your list. The third one, I think."

Hongjoong pulled up his interface, scrolling through notifications and lists and reminders that all blurred together. There it was, buried under hundreds of other tasks. "I can't..." He stopped, swallowed. "I can't keep track anymore, Hwa. There's too much."

"I know."

"I used to be good at this. I used to be able to hold it all in my head, you know? Every project, every deadline, every detail."

"The empire was smaller then."

"Yeah." Hongjoong slumped into the nearest chair. "Remember when our biggest problem was choosing the color for the official seal?"

"Blue or silver. We debated for six hours."

"Wooyoung made a presentation."

"With slides." Seonghwa's lips quirked slightly. "So many slides."

The main display flickered, drawing their attention. It had been doing that more and more lately.

"We should probably fix that," Hongjoong said without much conviction.

"We should fix a lot of things."

They stood there for a moment, just looking at their empire's vital signs cascading across the screens. It was beautiful, in a way. All those streams of data, those magical matrices they'd built from nothing. Beautiful and overwhelming and slowly falling apart.

The door opened softly, and Hongjoong knew without looking it was Yunho. He always knew when it was Yunho—something about the way the air changed, got warmer somehow.

"Hey," Yunho said, and Hongjoong could hear the concern even in that single word. "Brought coffee."

"You're a lifesaver."

"Just coffee." Yunho set a mug down beside him, then hesitated. "When did you last eat? And I mean actual food, not just whatever Mingi's been baking."

Hongjoong tried to think. "Yesterday? Maybe?"

"Joong..."

"I know. I'll eat something. After the interviews."

"That's what you said yesterday."

"Did I?" Hongjoong genuinely couldn't remember. The days were starting to blur together.

Yunho sat on the edge of his desk, a familiar move that meant he was settling in for a conversation. "The orientation materials were in your office. Under some ward reports and that proposal you started last week."

"Oh good. That's... that's good." Hongjoong took a sip of coffee. It was exactly how he liked it—Yunho always remembered. "Did you find all of them?"

"Most. The filing system ate two, but they were the old versions anyway."

"It's actually eating documents now?"

"Yeah. Seonghwa saw it happen."

"I did," Seonghwa confirmed, coming over to join them. "It just... absorbed them. While I was watching."

Hongjoong laughed, but it came out tired. "Our filing system has developed an appetite. That's... that's something."

"At least it's not picky," Yunho said. "It ate a rejection letter and a budget report with equal enthusiasm."

"Small mercies."

## Wooyoung's POV

Wooyoung stared at the ruins of spell attempt number seventeen and tried to remember why he'd thought this career was a good idea.

His workroom looked like he'd been living in it, which wasn't entirely wrong. There was a blanket thrown over one chair from two nights ago when he'd caught a few hours of sleep between experiments. Empty cups were scattered across various surfaces, some containing mysterious liquids that had started as tea but had evolved into something else entirely.

The spell circle on his main workbench was flickering weakly, like it was too tired to properly fail.

"Okay," he said to it, because talking to inanimate magical constructs was apparently his life now. "Let's think about this differently. You don't want to detect everything. I don't want you to detect everything. We're on the same side here."

The spell circle pulsed once, almost like agreement.

"So why do you keep freaking out about butterflies? What is it about butterflies that sets you off?"

Another pulse. This one felt almost... embarrassed?

"Wait." Wooyoung sat up straighter. "Are you... are you scared of butterflies?"

The spell circle flickered rapidly.

"Oh my god. You're scared of butterflies. My security spell has developed a phobia."

"Who are you talking to?"

Wooyoung didn't look up at San's voice. "My spell circle. We're having a breakthrough. It's apparently afraid of butterflies."

He heard soft paws padding across the floor, carefully navigating around the various books and papers scattered everywhere. Then the subtle shift of magic that meant San had transformed.

"Your spell is afraid of butterflies," San repeated, settling behind Wooyoung and draping his arms over his shoulders.

"Apparently. Which explains why it screamed for three hours that one time."

"That's..." San paused. "Actually, that makes a weird kind of sense."

"Right?" Wooyoung leaned back into the warmth of him. "If it's not malfunction but actual fear, then I've been approaching this all wrong. I don't need to fix the detection matrix. I need to... reassure it somehow?"

"You need to give your spell therapy."

"I need to give my spell therapy." Wooyoung laughed, but it wasn't bitter. Just tired. "This is my life now. I'm a spell therapist."

San's arms tightened around him. "How long have you been at this?"

"Today? About six hours. This week? I've lost count."

"You should take a break."

"I know." Wooyoung turned the spell components over in his hands. "But we need this working before... well, before everything falls apart."

"It won't fall apart."

"San, our filing system is eating documents. The ward boundaries are degrading. We haven't had phoenix tears in two months."

"Okay, so it might fall apart a little."

"A little?" Wooyoung turned to look at him. "We're barely keeping it together."

"But we are keeping it together." San pressed a kiss to his temple, right where a headache was starting to form. "That counts for something."

"Does it though?"

"It has to."

They sat there for a moment, just holding each other in the chaos of the workroom. The spell circle flickered between them, still apparently working through its butterfly issues.

"The candidates are coming soon," San said eventually.

"Yeah."

"Think any of them will work out?"

Wooyoung wanted to say yes, wanted to be optimistic. But... "Honestly? I don't know. The last one quit after three days. The one before that didn't even make it through the full tour."

"This could be different."

"Could be." Wooyoung fidgeted with a crystal on his desk. "I just... I keep thinking about what happens if we can't find anyone. If we just keep trying to do this ourselves until we can't anymore."

"We'll figure it out."

"That's what we keep saying."

"Because it's true. We always figure it out."

"But what if this time we don't?"

San didn't have an answer for that. Neither of them did.

## Mingi's POV

The kitchen smelled like vanilla and cinnamon and the particular kind of chaos that came from stress-baking for six hours straight.

Mingi had lost count of how many batches he'd made. There were cookies cooling on every available surface—chocolate chip on the cooling racks, snickerdoodles on the counter, something experimental with caramel in the oven that might either be brilliant or a disaster.

His hands moved on autopilot. Measure, mix, shape, bake. Measure, mix, shape, bake. It was meditative, in a way. Kept his hands busy so his mind could stop racing, kept his wolf instincts from demanding he pace or run or howl at something.

"That's a lot of cookies."

Mingi didn't look up at Jongho's voice. "There might have been some stress involved in their creation."

"Just some?"

"Okay, a lot. There was a lot of stress." Mingi shaped another cookie, pressing it down perhaps harder than necessary. "Did you know we're out of phoenix tears?"

"I heard."

"And the filing system is eating things now."

"That too."

"And the ward system thinks butterflies are a threat to our security."

"To be fair, Wooyoung's working on that one."

"He's been working on it for days." Mingi finally looked up, and Jongho was leaning against the doorframe, looking as composed as always. Except Mingi knew him well enough to see the tension in his shoulders, the way he was holding himself just a little too carefully. "I'm worried, Jongho."

"I know."

"No, I mean really worried. Like, can't sleep, can't stop baking, might actually scream if one more thing goes wrong worried."

Jongho moved into the kitchen properly, and Mingi could smell the concern on him—siren pheromones were subtle, but his wolf nose picked them up.

"We're all worried," Jongho said quietly.

"Even you?"

"Especially me." The admission was quiet, but it hit Mingi hard. Jongho was their rock, their foundation. "I can hear everyone, remember? Every stressed heartbeat, every exhausted sigh, every moment of barely-held-together panic. The whole building is basically screaming anxiety at me twenty-four seven."

"That sounds awful."

"It's... not great." Jongho picked up one of the cookies, turning it over in his hands without eating it. "But what worries me more is that I don't know how to fix it. We need help, real help, and every candidate we interview just..."

"Runs away?"

"Pretty much."

Mingi laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Remember the one who quit via email while still in the building?"

"That was impressive, actually. The speed of it."

"We hadn't even finished the tour."

"To be fair, that was the day the filing system first showed signs of sentience."

"True." Mingi went back to his cookies, needing something to do with his hands. "What if the new candidates are the same? What if they take one look at our disaster and leave?"

"Then we'll handle it."

"How? We're barely handling it now."

Jongho didn't answer right away. When Mingi looked up, he was staring out the window, his expression distant.

"I don't know," he admitted finally. "But we'll figure something out. We have to."

## Seonghwa's POV

Seonghwa had existed for six hundred and forty-three years, and he'd never felt quite this level of bone-deep exhaustion.

It wasn't physical—vampire physiology didn't really allow for that kind of tiredness. It was something deeper, more fundamental. The kind of exhaustion that came from watching something you'd built with your own hands slowly crack under its own weight.

He stood in the Nexus room, monitoring the data streams with the kind of automatic competence that came from centuries of practice. The southeastern ward was fluctuating again. The portal network was running at seventy percent efficiency. The communication array was making a sound it definitely shouldn't be making.

All of it needed attention. None of it was getting enough.

"How are we doing?" Hongjoong's voice came from behind him.

"We're managing."

"That's not what I asked."

Seonghwa turned to look at him. Hongjoong looked terrible—shadows under his eyes, hair mussed from running his hands through it, that particular kind of pallor that came from too much artificial light and not enough sleep.

"Honestly?" Seonghwa said. "We're drowning. Slowly, but definitively drowning."

"That's cheerful."

"You asked for honesty."

"I did." Hongjoong moved to stand beside him, their shoulders touching. It was an old gesture, one from their early days when they were still figuring out how to be partners in this impossible venture. "Do you ever regret it?"

"What? Building this?"

"Yeah."

Seonghwa considered the question. "No. I regret that we tried to do it with seven people, but the building itself? Never."

"Even though it's currently falling apart?"

"Even then." Seonghwa looked at the displays, at the beautiful complexity of what they'd created. "We built something that had never existed before. Something that changed how our world works. That's worth something, even if we can't sustain it."

"Very philosophical."

"I'm old. It comes with the territory."

"You're not that old."

"I'm literally centuries old, Hongjoong."

"Yeah, but you don't act it."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I don't know. You still get excited about new coffee flavors. Ancient beings aren't supposed to care about whether the café downstairs has seasonal drinks."

Despite everything, Seonghwa felt himself smile. "I contain multitudes."

"You contain a caffeine addiction is what you contain."

"Says the demon who hasn't slept in three days."

"Thirty-seven hours, actually."

"Hongjoong."

"I know. I'll sleep after the interviews. Promise."

Seonghwa wanted to argue, but he knew it wouldn't help. They were all pushing too hard, burning themselves out, but what choice did they have?

"The candidates will be here soon," he said instead.

"Yeah."

"Think any of them will work out?"

"I have to believe someone will. Eventually."

"That's not exactly confidence-inspiring."

"Would you prefer if I lied?"

"Maybe a little."

Hongjoong laughed, soft and tired. "Okay. These candidates are definitely going to be perfect. They'll solve all our problems and we'll finally get to sleep."

"Better. Completely unbelievable, but better."

## Jongho's POV

The thing about having supernatural hearing was that you couldn't turn it off.

Jongho sat in the strategy room, ostensibly reviewing the latest reports, but really he was just listening to the symphony of stress that was their building.

Three floors up, Hongjoong was typing aggressively, occasionally stopping to mutter something that sounded like either ancient demonic or just keyboard smashing.

In the workroom, Wooyoung was having what sounded like an actual conversation with his spell circle. "No, see, butterflies aren't dangerous. They're just insects with pretty wings. You don't need to alert everyone when you see one."

The kitchen was filled with the sounds of Mingi's stress-baking—the rhythm of kneading dough, the timer going off every twelve minutes, the occasional frustrated sigh.

Seonghwa was in the Nexus room, his breathing carefully controlled in that meditation pattern he used when things were getting overwhelming. In for four, hold for four, out for four. It hadn't been working for the past three days, but he kept trying.

Yunho was making his rounds, checking on everyone. His footsteps were deliberately light, trying to project calm, but Jongho could hear the slight drag that meant exhaustion.

And San... San was currently in cat form, judging by the very specific sound of paws on carpet and the occasional chirp that meant he was trying to comfort someone.

They were all at their limits. Had been for weeks now.

"We can't keep this up."

Jongho looked up to find San in the doorway, human form now, tail still visible—a sign of stress he'd been showing more and more lately.

"I know."

"No, I mean we really can't. Hongjoong hasn't slept properly in days. Wooyoung's talking to spells like they're people. Mingi's baked enough cookies to feed an army."

"I know," Jongho repeated.

"So what do we do?"

"Hope the candidates work out?"

"And if they don't?"

Jongho didn't have an answer for that. None of them did.

## San's POV

San had spent most of the morning in cat form, because it was easier than being human right now.

As a cat, he could curl up in sunny spots and pretend everything was fine. He could offer comfort through purring and head bumps without having to find words. He could observe without having to participate in the slow-motion crisis that was their daily operations.

But he couldn't stay a cat forever.

He transformed in the hallway outside the main conference room, adjusting to the sudden height difference and the return of complex human emotions. His tail stayed manifested, swishing anxiously—a stress response he couldn't quite control anymore.

The conference room was set up for the interviews. Orientation packets laid out neatly, courtesy of Yunho's salvage mission to Hongjoong's office. Water glasses arranged precisely, because Seonghwa insisted on proper hospitality even during a crisis. And cookies. So many cookies.

"This is ridiculous," Wooyoung said, entering the room with his hair sticking up at odd angles. "We have eighteen types of cookies but no phoenix tears."

"Nineteen," Mingi corrected, following him in with another tray. "I made lemon bars."

"When?"

"About an hour ago."

"Mingi, you need to stop."

"I need to do something. Baking helps."

"You've helped enough for a small country's worth of bake sales."

San moved to the window, looking out at their empire. From here, you could see the ward boundaries shimmering in the distance, the portal stations that connected them to the rest of the magical world, the towers where their employees worked to keep everything running.

It was beautiful. It was theirs. It was falling apart.

"Hey." Yunho's voice was soft beside him. "You okay?"

"Are any of us okay?"

"Fair point." Yunho stood next to him, solid and warm. "But I meant you specifically."

"I keep wanting to just... stay a cat. Hide until this is over."

"That's valid."

"But not helpful."

"Sometimes not helping is okay."

San looked at him. "You don't believe that."

"No," Yunho admitted. "But I thought it might make you feel better."

Despite everything, San found himself almost smiling. "You're terrible at comfort."

"I'm trying my best."

"I know. That's what makes it endearing."

They stood there for a moment, looking out at everything they'd built. The others were filtering in now—Hongjoong looking determined despite his exhaustion, Seonghwa carrying himself with that careful grace that meant he was running on pure willpower, Jongho quiet and watchful.

"Fifteen minutes," Hongjoong said. "Everyone ready?"

"No," Wooyoung said immediately.

"Same," Mingi added.

"Not even slightly," San contributed.

"I'm actively hoping they cancel," Jongho admitted.

"So we're in agreement," Seonghwa said dryly. "We're completely unprepared."

"But we're doing it anyway," Yunho said.

"But we're doing it anyway," Hongjoong confirmed.

San looked around at his partners—exhausted, overwhelmed, held together by determination and Mingi's baking—and felt a surge of affection so strong it made his chest tight.

They were a disaster. But they were a disaster together.

"Okay," he said. "Let's go pretend we're functional adults who definitely know what we're doing."

"That's the spirit," Wooyoung said. "Fake it til we make it."

"Or until Gerald the filing system achieves full sentience and takes over," Jongho added.

"That's also an option."

The grandfather clock in the corner (a gift from Seonghwa's vampire coven that was definitely haunted but they'd gotten used to it) chimed the hour.

"Ten minutes," Hongjoong said. "Final preparations?"

"I need to fix my hair," Wooyoung said.

"I need to hide some of these cookies," Mingi said, looking at the truly obscene amount of baked goods.

"I need to convince myself this will work," San muttered.

"I need phoenix tears and about six more employees," Seonghwa said.

"I need everyone to stop being so stressed because I can hear all of it," Jongho added.

"I need a vacation," Yunho contributed.

"I need..." Hongjoong paused. "Actually, I've forgotten what I need. Sleep, probably."

They all stood there for a moment, the weight of everything pressing down on them.

Then Wooyoung laughed. Not bitter or hysterical, just... laughed. "We're such a mess."

"The most successful mess in the supernatural world," Mingi said.

"That should be our slogan," San suggested. "'The Nexus: Somehow Still Functioning Despite Everything.'"

"'The Nexus: Powered by Stress and Baked Goods,'" Jongho offered.

"'The Nexus: Our Filing System Has Achieved Sentience But We're Dealing With It,'" Wooyoung added.

Even Seonghwa cracked a smile at that one.

"Alright," Hongjoong said, and there was something softer in his voice now. "Whatever happens with these candidates, we'll handle it. Together."

"Together," they echoed.

The clock chimed again. Five minutes.

San's tail swished nervously, but he felt steadier now. They were exhausted, overwhelmed, and possibly on the verge of systemic collapse. But they were facing it together.

Somehow, that made it bearable.

Chapter Text

## Yeosang's POV

The portal junction was crowded, as it always was on Thursday mornings.

Yeosang stood two steps behind Director Kim, exactly where he was supposed to be, holding his tablet like a shield. The portfolio tucked under his arm contained everything they might need—contracts, reference materials, technical specifications that he'd memorized anyway but kept printed because Director Kim liked props.

Around them, the portal station buzzed with activity. Business representatives heading to meetings, magical creatures of every variety going about their day, the occasional enforcement officer keeping watch. No one paid attention to him. That was how he preferred it.

How he'd learned to prefer it.

Beside them, Alaric Silvermoon was adjusting his perfectly tailored suit for the third time in as many minutes. The fae was beautiful in that otherworldly way all high fae were—sharp cheekbones, silver hair that caught the light like spun moonlight, eyes that shifted between blue and violet depending on the angle. He looked like he'd stepped out of a fashion magazine for the supernaturally attractive.

Yeosang had reviewed his file twelve times. He knew Alaric's qualifications by heart: five years at a mid-size nexus in the Eastern Territories, three years before that in theoretical study at the Moonspire Academy. Impressive on paper. The kind of resume that opened doors.

But Yeosang had also noticed what wasn't in the file. No mention of crisis management. No experience with integrated multi-species systems. No practical knowledge of ward harmonics beyond the basic level. The position at ATEEZ would eat him alive within a week.

Not that anyone would ask Yeosang's opinion.

"Stop fidgeting," Director Kim hissed at Alaric, though he himself was sweating despite the temperature-controlled environment. "You're making me nervous."

"I'm not fidgeting," Alaric said, fidgeting. "I'm... centering my energy."

Yeosang kept his expression carefully neutral. Centering energy involved stillness and focus, not whatever nervous preening Alaric was doing. But pointing that out would be speaking out of turn, and Yeosang had learned long ago what happened when he did that.

"Remember," Director Kim turned to him, apparently needing to assert authority over someone, "you're just there to provide materials if needed. Don't speak unless directly asked. Don't make eye contact. Don't—"

"Draw attention to myself," Yeosang finished quietly. "I understand, sir."

He always understood. After three years of this, he'd gotten very good at being invisible.

Director Kim nodded, satisfied that his pet succubus would behave. That's what Yeosang was, after all. The shameful secret the agency kept because he was too useful to fully discard but too dangerous to properly place.

The portal shimmered, silver light dancing across its surface. Their departure time.

"This is it," Director Kim said, straightening his tie one final time. "The ATEEZ account is the most prestigious we handle. Don't embarrass me."

That was directed at both of them, but Yeosang felt the weight of it more. Alaric could make mistakes and be forgiven—he was high fae, after all. Beautiful, powerful, socially acceptable high fae.

Yeosang was none of those things.

He checked his tablet one final time, making sure all the files were accessible, all the documents in order. His fingers moved across the screen with practiced efficiency, double-checking work he'd already triple-checked because being perfect wasn't enough. He had to be beyond perfect. Always.

"Ready?" Director Kim asked Alaric, ignoring Yeosang entirely.

"Born ready," Alaric said with a confidence that Yeosang envied and resented in equal measure.

Must be nice, he thought, then immediately crushed the bitter sentiment. Bitterness led to carelessness, and carelessness led to mistakes, and mistakes led to—

The portal opened fully, a doorway to another place entirely.

"Let's go," Director Kim said, stepping through.

Alaric followed with a swagger that suggested he thought the job was already his.

Yeosang took a breath, adjusted his professional mask one final time, and stepped through.

The sensation of portal travel was always disorienting—like being gently turned inside out and then rightside in again, all while colors that didn't have names danced behind your eyelids. Some people loved it. Yeosang had learned to tolerate it.

And then they were through, and Yeosang forgot how to breathe.

The Nexus room was alive.

That was the only word for it. The space itself pulsed with magic so complex, so elegantly interwoven, that Yeosang's trained eye could barely follow all the connections. Floating crystalline maps displayed every territory in their jurisdiction, ward lines glowing in soft blues and greens and golds. Energy streams flowed between dimensional junction points like rivers of light. Data cascaded down holographic displays in waterfalls of information.

It was the most beautiful magical workspace Yeosang had ever seen.

His fingers itched. He wanted to touch the displays, to trace the ward lines, to understand how they'd achieved this level of integration. He could see it—the layers upon layers of spellwork, the careful balance of different magical systems, the way everything connected and flowed and sang together in harmony.

Well, mostly harmony. There was a fluctuation in the northwestern ward, barely perceptible but definitely there. And the eastern portal junction was handling more traffic than optimal. And—

Stop it, he told himself firmly. Not your job. Not your place. Stand two steps behind and be invisible.

But his eyes kept moving, cataloging, analyzing, understanding.

The ATEEZ members were gathered in the center of the room, and that was another kind of overwhelming entirely.

Yeosang had read their files, of course. He'd prepared extensively, as he always did. But files didn't capture the sheer presence of them.

The demon—Hongjoong, the files had said, leader and founder—stood at the center. Even in human form, power rolled off him in waves that made the air shimmer slightly. He was smaller than Yeosang had expected, but size meant nothing when you radiated that kind of authority. His eyes were touched with red, demon-bright, and currently showing signs of exhaustion that probably weren't visible to most people. But Yeosang had gotten very good at reading exhaustion in others.

Probably because he saw it in his own mirror every day.

The vampire beside him—Seonghwa, logistics and planning—was everything vampire stereotypes promised. Elegant, controlled, devastatingly beautiful in that dangerous way that made your hindbrain whisper warnings even as the rest of you wanted to move closer. His dark hair was perfectly styled, his clothes immaculate, but there was a tightness around his eyes that spoke of stress held under iron control.

The others arranged themselves in a loose circle, and Yeosang cataloged them automatically, a survival habit he'd never been able to break.

The griffin shifter—Yunho—radiated warmth like a portable sun. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with a smile that looked genuine even though they were clearly all exhausted. His energy felt safe, protective, which was probably why he was standing slightly behind the others, a guardian position.

The werewolf—Mingi—was trying not to look anxious and failing. He kept shifting his weight slightly, a nervous tell that most wouldn't notice. There was flour in his hair, just a small dusting that suggested he'd been baking. Stress response, probably.

The witch—Wooyoung—had the sharpest eyes Yeosang had ever seen. Not physically sharp, but magically. His gaze seemed to see through things, into things, beyond things. It was the kind of perception that made Yeosang want to shrink back, to hide, to make sure none of his secrets were showing.

The shapeshifter—San—moved with fluid grace even while standing still. There was something distinctly feline about him even in human form, a lazy power that suggested he could go from relaxed to lethal in a heartbeat. He was watching everyone, Yeosang noticed. Not obviously, but those dark eyes were tracking everything.

The siren—Jongho—stood perfectly still, but Yeosang could feel the power humming beneath his skin. Sirens were rare, powerful, dangerous when they wanted to be. This one was clearly trying to project calm, but there was a tension in his shoulders that suggested he was picking up on everyone's stress.

They were powerful. Impressive. Intimidating.

And desperately, obviously, overwhelmed.

Yeosang could see it in a dozen small details. The way Hongjoong kept rubbing his temple. The careful control in Seonghwa's breathing. The shadows under Yunho's warm eyes. The nervous energy radiating from Mingi. The slight manic edge in Wooyoung's gaze. The tension in San's shoulders. The way Jongho was standing just a little too carefully.

They were drowning. All of them.

And Yeosang wanted to help them with a fierce, aching desperation that he immediately crushed down.

Wanting things had never done him any good. This wasn't about him. He was here to be invisible, to provide materials if needed, to watch another unqualified candidate take a position he could do in his sleep.

Just like always.

"Gentlemen," Director Kim began, his voice pitched too high with nerves, "may I present our top candidate, Alaric Silvermoon. He comes highly recommended, with fifteen years of experience in nexus management and—"

Yeosang stopped listening. He'd heard this speech before, seven times now for seven different positions. Director Kim always emphasized the years of experience, the prestigious education, the impressive references. He never mentioned practical skills or crisis management or the ability to integrate complex magical systems.

Because those things were harder to quantify on a resume.

Instead, Yeosang let his eyes wander back to the displays, unable to help himself. The northwestern ward fluctuation was definitely a harmonic issue—he could see it in the way the energy patterns stuttered every few seconds. About three degrees off optimal, if he was reading it right. Not critical yet, but it would be in maybe seventy-two hours if left unaddressed.

The eastern portal junction was running at... ninety-four percent capacity? No, closer to ninety-two. Still too high for sustained operation. They'd need to either split the traffic flow or reinforce the anchor points soon.

And there, in the southern grid, was that a—

"You."

The word cut through Yeosang's analysis like a blade.

Hongjoong was looking at him. Not at Director Kim, who had stopped mid-sentence. Not at Alaric, who was the actual candidate. At him. At Yeosang.

His heart stuttered.

"What's your name?"

No. No, no, no.

Yeosang's mind raced through possibilities, calculations, desperate attempts to figure out what he'd done wrong. Had he been staring too obviously? Had he moved without realizing it? Had his expression given something away?

"Sir, that's just my assistant," Director Kim started, a nervous laugh in his voice. "He's not—"

"I asked him."

The tone brooked no argument. This was a demon lord who was used to being obeyed, who expected answers when he asked questions.

There was no way out. No way to deflect or redirect or hide.

Yeosang met Hongjoong's eyes—red-tinged, demon-bright, and far too perceptive—and answered with the only thing he could give.

"Kang Yeosang, sir."

His voice came out steady, professional. He was proud of that. Inside, his heart was racing so fast he thought it might burst, but his voice was steady.

## Hongjoong's POV

Something was off.

Hongjoong had learned to trust his instincts over centuries of existence. Those instincts had kept him alive through wars, through political upheavals, through the dangerous early days of building their empire. And right now, those instincts were screaming at him that he was missing something important.

Director Kim was still talking about Alaric Silvermoon's qualifications—something about his time at the Moonspire Academy, his theoretical knowledge, his impressive connections—but Hongjoong had stopped listening about thirty seconds in.

Because his attention had snagged on the man standing two steps behind.

The assistant. Kang Yeosang.

At first glance, he was exactly what he appeared to be: a professional assistant, perfectly positioned to be unobtrusive, tablet in hand, expression neutral. The kind of person you were supposed to overlook.

But Hongjoong hadn't survived this long by overlooking things.

And this man... this man was looking at their displays with understanding.

Not the polite confusion most visitors showed when faced with their complex systems. Not the intimidation that came from seeing advanced magic you didn't comprehend. Understanding. His eyes tracked the energy flows with practiced ease, lingered on the ward fluctuations with recognition, studied the portal junction readings with the kind of focus that spoke of expertise.

He was reading their systems. Comprehending them at a glance. Analyzing them with an efficiency that spoke of years of experience.

That was... unexpected.

Hongjoong glanced at Seonghwa, caught his partner's eye. The vampire had noticed too—of course he had. Seonghwa noticed everything. There was a question in his raised eyebrow, a silent communication born of decades together.

Who is this person?

Hongjoong looked back at Yeosang, who was now very carefully not looking at the displays, eyes fixed on a point somewhere past Hongjoong's shoulder. Professional. Controlled. Invisible.

Trying so hard to be invisible.

"You work for the agency?" Hongjoong interrupted Director Kim's spiel, still watching Yeosang.

The man went very still. Not the normal stillness of someone pausing, but the careful, practiced stillness of someone who'd learned that movement drew attention and attention was dangerous.

Interesting.

"Yes, sir. I coordinate candidate placements and maintain client files."

His voice was smooth, professional, carefully neutral. But there was something underneath it. Something Hongjoong couldn't quite identify yet but that made his instincts sharpen further.

"How long?"

"Three years, sir."

Three years as an administrative assistant. But the way he'd looked at their systems suggested much more than administrative knowledge.

"Your background?" Hongjoong pressed. "Before the agency?"

A fractional tightening of Yeosang's jaw. So small most wouldn't notice, but Hongjoong had built an empire on noticing small things.

"I've worked in nexus management, ward maintenance, and diplomatic coordination for the past eight years across four different employers."

Eight years.

Eight years of exactly the experience they needed, and he was working as an administrative assistant?

Hongjoong felt something slot into place, a puzzle piece he hadn't known was missing suddenly obvious. He glanced at Seonghwa again, saw his own realization reflected in the vampire's expression.

"Nexus management," Seonghwa said slowly, his voice deceptively mild. "Which systems?"

"The Meridian Core, the Starfall Network, the Jade Passage, and the Northern Lights Array."

Hongjoong's eyebrows rose. Those were all major systems. Complex, multi-species, high-traffic nexus points that required significant skill to manage. The Northern Lights Array in particular was notoriously difficult, managing connections between seven different realms with wildly different magical signatures.

"Then why," Seonghwa asked the question Hongjoong was thinking, "are you working as an agency assistant instead of being placed yourself?"

The silence that followed was deafening.

Director Kim looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor. His face went through several interesting color changes—pale, then red, then a sort of mottled combination of both.

Alaric Silvermoon's expression twisted into something dismissive and ugly. "Isn't it obvious?" he said, his beautiful voice dripping condescension.

And Yeosang...

Yeosang's face remained perfectly blank, but Hongjoong saw the micro-expressions beneath. Tension in the tiny muscles around his eyes. Resignation in the slight downturn of his mouth. And underneath it all, a carefully controlled despair that spoke of this being a familiar song with familiar verses and a familiar, painful ending.

"I'm between placements currently," Yeosang said, his tone still professionally neutral. "The agency has been kind enough to offer me administrative work in the interim."

It was a lie wrapped in truth. Hongjoong could taste it, the careful way the words were chosen to be technically accurate while hiding something deeper.

Between placements. For three years? With eight years of experience in exactly what they needed?

No. Something else was happening here.

Hongjoong looked at Director Kim, who was sweating now despite the temperature-controlled environment. At Alaric, whose dismissive expression had shifted to something almost smug. At Yeosang, who was standing so carefully still, trying so hard to be invisible.

The pieces clicked together all at once.

"Mr. Kim," Hongjoong said slowly, feeling his temper start to rise. "You've brought us seven candidates over the past month."

"All highly qualified—" Director Kim started.

"All of them were underqualified." Hongjoong's voice was getting softer, which anyone who knew him would recognize as a bad sign. "Every single one."

Behind him, he heard Mingi shift nervously. Felt Wooyoung's magic crackle in response to his rising anger. Sensed San moving into a more protective stance.

His pack was responding to his mood. Good.

"We did our best to find suitable—"

"You brought us a recent graduate who'd never managed a system larger than a classroom projection." Hongjoong stepped forward, and Director Kim stepped back. "You brought us a specialist in single-species systems who couldn't comprehend multi-species integration. You brought us someone who took one look at our ward network and literally fainted."

Someone—Mingi, probably—snorted softly.

"So explain to me," Hongjoong continued, his voice now barely above a whisper, "why you've been hiding someone with eight years of practical experience in exactly what we need."

## Yeosang's POV

This was going wrong. This was going so, so wrong.

Yeosang stood perfectly still, his tablet clutched in hands that wanted to shake, and watched his carefully maintained invisibility shatter like glass.

He'd been so careful. So quiet. Had stood exactly where he was supposed to stand, looked where he was supposed to look, been the perfect invisible assistant.

But the demon lord had seen through it. Those red-tinged eyes saw too much, understood too much. And now he was confronting Director Kim, and Yeosang knew how this would end.

They'd be told the truth. About what he was. About why he couldn't be placed despite his experience. About all the reasons hiring a succubus was a terrible idea.

And then they'd look at him with the same disgust and dismissal he'd seen on every other potential employer's face.

"Sir, I..." Director Kim's face was going through more color changes, like a chameleon having an existential crisis. "Mr. Kang is an excellent administrator, but for a position of this... sensitivity... we felt that—"

"That what?"

This from the witch—Wooyoung. His eyes were sharp, too sharp, seeing things that made Yeosang want to shrink back. Magic sight, probably. The kind that could see through glamours and masks and all the careful walls Yeosang had built around himself.

Director Kim glanced at Yeosang, and there it was. That look. Apologetic and pitying in equal measure, the look that said 'I'm about to destroy you but it's for your own good.'

Yeosang knew that look intimately. Had seen it so many times he could probably draw it from memory.

"There are concerns," Director Kim said carefully, using the tone people used when discussing something shameful, "about placing a succubus in such a position of power and access."

There it was.

The word dropped into the room like a stone into still water, sending ripples everywhere.

Yeosang felt his carefully constructed professional mask threaten to crack. He kept his expression neutral through sheer force of will, kept his shoulders straight even though he wanted to curl in on himself, kept his breathing even though his lungs felt too tight.

This was it. The moment they'd look at him and see only his species. Only the stereotypes. Only the risk.

A succubus with access to powerful people's magical signatures. A succubus in a position of authority. A succubus who could theoretically use his influence to—to what? The fears were never fully articulated, just vague implications of seduction and manipulation and corruption.

As if he'd ever. As if he could, even if he wanted to, which he didn't.

But no one ever cared about that. They heard 'succubus' and that was the end of the conversation.

He waited for the dismissal. The disgust. The carefully worded rejections he'd heard so many times before.

"I see."

Hongjoong's voice was soft. Dangerous soft. The kind of soft that preceded violence.

Yeosang risked a glance up and immediately wished he hadn't.

The demon lord's eyes were glowing properly now, red bleeding through the human disguise. The temperature in the room had dropped several degrees. And his expression...

Yeosang had seen angry before. This wasn't angry.

This was rage. Pure, incandescent rage.

But it wasn't directed at him.

## Hongjoong's POV

Rage.

The word wasn't strong enough for what Hongjoong felt in that moment. It was fury and indignation and a protective instinct he hadn't expected all rolled into one burning sensation in his chest.

They'd been wasting his time. Bringing him inferior candidates for weeks, letting his empire struggle and his family exhaust themselves, because they didn't want to place someone based on their species?

Based on prejudice?

Based on the kind of small-minded bigotry that Hongjoong had spent centuries fighting against?

Beside him, Seonghwa had gone very still. Not normal stillness—vampire stillness. The predator kind that meant someone was about to become prey.

Behind them, Hongjoong heard Mingi's low growl, so quiet most wouldn't hear it. Felt the surge of Wooyoung's magic crackling in response to anger. Sensed San shifting into a more defensive stance, ready to move if needed.

His family was just as outraged as he was.

Good.

"You're telling me," Hongjoong said, his voice so soft it was barely audible, "that you've been wasting my time with unqualified candidates because you have a species prejudice."

"It's not prejudice!" Director Kim said quickly, desperately. "It's just—succubi have certain reputations, certain tendencies—"

"Based on?"

"Everyone knows—"

"Everyone knows nothing." Hongjoong let his demon nature bleed through a little more, just enough to make his point. The shadows in the room deepened, responding to his mood. "Everyone repeats stereotypes and fears that have no basis in reality."

"Sir, with all due respect—"

"Get out."

Director Kim stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

"You and Silvermoon. Out. Now."

"But the contract—"

"Will be terminated if you're still in my sight in the next thirty seconds." Hongjoong didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The promise of violence was clear in every word. "Twenty-five seconds."

They ran.

Director Kim scrambled for the portal, dignity abandoned in favor of survival. Alaric Silvermoon started to protest, something about connections and influence, but San had shifted partially—just enough to show fangs—and the fae decided discretion was the better part of valor.

The portal shimmer swallowed them both.

Silence descended on the Nexus room.

Leaving Yeosang standing alone in the center, still clutching his tablet, looking like he wasn't sure whether to run or freeze or possibly faint.

Hongjoong took a breath, pulling his demon nature back under control. The temperature slowly returned to normal. The shadows retreated.

When he turned to look at Yeosang properly, the succubus was still standing in exactly the same position, but there was something in his eyes—shock, confusion, and underneath it all, a desperate hope he was trying very hard to hide.

He was waiting for dismissal, Hongjoong realized with a pang. Even after what had just happened, he was expecting them to send him away too.

How many times had this happened to him? How many rejections had he faced? How many doors slammed in his face because of what he was rather than who he was?

"You were looking at the ward map when you came in," Hongjoong said, deliberately keeping his voice gentle now. "What did you see?"

## Seonghwa's POV

Seonghwa had spent centuries learning to read people. It was a survival skill when you lived as long as he had—understanding the truth beneath words, the emotion beneath masks, the real person beneath the performance.

Right now, watching Yeosang stand alone in the center of their Nexus room, Seonghwa saw layers upon layers of carefully constructed defense.

The professional posture that was just a fraction too rigid, spine so straight it had to be hurting. The neutral expression that required active effort to maintain—Seonghwa could see the tiny muscle movements as Yeosang kept his face carefully blank. The white-knuckle grip on his tablet that suggested he was holding himself together by will alone.

And underneath it all, visible to someone who knew how to look, was terror. Bone-deep, familiar terror of someone who'd been hurt before and was waiting for it to happen again.

Something in Seonghwa's chest cracked.

He'd seen that look before. In newly turned vampires cast out by their human families. In young witches whose covens had rejected them. In all the people their empire had been built to protect—the ones who didn't fit neatly into boxes, who were deemed too dangerous or too different or too much.

Hongjoong had asked about the wards, and Seonghwa watched Yeosang's internal war play out in micro-expressions. The professional instinct to demure warring with the desperate need to prove his worth. The fear of overstepping balanced against the possibility that this might be his only chance.

"I..." Yeosang started, then stopped. His fingers shifted on the tablet, nervous energy that he immediately suppressed.

"It's alright," Seonghwa said softly, using the voice he used with frightened fledglings. "We're genuinely asking."

Something in Yeosang's expression cracked, just slightly. The need won.

## Yeosang's POV

This was a test. It had to be a test.

They'd dismissed Director Kim and Alaric. Hadn't immediately thrown him out too. Were asking him technical questions instead of... instead of what usually happened when people found out what he was.

Maybe they wanted to see if he was competent before rejecting him. Maybe they were curious. Maybe—

It didn't matter. This might be his only chance to show what he could do, even if nothing came of it.

His eyes found the ward map without conscious thought, and the analysis came automatically. Years of training, years of experience, years of being very, very good at his job even if no one wanted to admit it.

"Your northwestern ward has a fluctuation," he heard himself say, voice steadier than he felt. "The harmonic is off by approximately three degrees. Nothing critical yet—you have maybe seventy-two hours before it becomes a problem—but it suggests either a slow drain from sustained monitoring by a hostile party, or more likely, a natural ley line shift that hasn't been compensated for."

He risked a glance at them. The vampire—Seonghwa—had moved to pull up diagnostic data on one of the floating displays. His elegant eyebrows rose.

"He's right," Seonghwa said, something like surprise in his voice. "We noticed the fluctuation two days ago but hadn't identified the cause. The three-degree measurement is exactly correct."

Something warm flickered in Yeosang's chest. He crushed it immediately. Don't hope. Hope hurts.

But he couldn't stop himself from continuing, the words flowing like water now that the dam had cracked.

"The eastern portal junction is handling more traffic than optimal. You're at approximately ninety-two, maybe ninety-four percent capacity. It'll hold for another few months, but you're risking cascade failures if there's any surge in traffic. You should consider either splitting the traffic flow—maybe routing thirty percent through your southern junction, which is only at sixty percent—or reinforcing the anchor points."

"Ninety-four percent," the siren—Jongho—confirmed, pulling up another display. "And the southern junction is at sixty-two." He looked at Yeosang with something like respect. "You calculated that just from looking?"

"The energy flow patterns are distinctive once you know what to look for," Yeosang said, then immediately worried that sounded like showing off. "I mean—it's just pattern recognition. Nothing special."

"Nothing special?" The witch—Wooyoung—laughed, but it wasn't mocking. "Do you have any idea how long it took us to learn to read those patterns? And you did it in thirty seconds?"

Yeosang didn't know how to respond to that. People didn't usually... compliment his abilities. They usually looked for reasons to dismiss them.

"There's more," he said, because he couldn't help himself. Once he started analyzing, it was hard to stop. "Your communication array in the southeastern section is showing early signs of degradation. Maybe two percent below optimal, nothing urgent, but it'll compound over the next few weeks if not addressed. And..." He hesitated.

"And?" Hongjoong prompted.

"Your filing system appears to be... unstable?"

There was a moment of silence, then the werewolf—Mingi—laughed. Bright, genuine laughter that filled the room.

"Unstable. That's one way to put it."

"It's eating documents," the griffin shifter—Yunho—explained, smiling warmly. "We think it might be developing sentience."

Yeosang blinked. "That's... actually that makes sense. If you're using a crystalline storage matrix with organic spell components, sometimes they can develop pseudo-consciousness. It's rare, but there are documented cases."

"You know how to fix it?" Seonghwa asked, leaning forward slightly.

"Not fix, exactly. Once they develop awareness, you can't really undo that. But you can... negotiate? Establish parameters? There's a process for it."

They were all looking at him now. Really looking, not the quick dismissive glances he usually got. Looking at him like he was something valuable. Something worth having around.

It was terrifying.

"I apologize," he said quickly, defaulting to the safety of professional deference. "I'm speaking out of turn. This isn't my place—"

"No," Hongjoong said firmly. "You're speaking exactly right."

## Hongjoong's POV

This was it. This was what they needed.

Not just someone technically qualified. Not just someone with experience. But someone who understood their systems instinctively, who could diagnose problems at a glance, who clearly had both the knowledge and the practical experience they desperately needed.

And he'd been hidden away as an assistant because of species prejudice.

The waste of it made Hongjoong angry all over again.

He looked around at his partners, reading their expressions. Seonghwa's subtle nod of approval. Yunho's warm smile. Wooyoung's intense interest. Mingi's obvious hope. San's curious engagement. Jongho's steady assessment.

They were all thinking the same thing.

"Kang Yeosang," Hongjoong said formally, feeling the rightness of this decision settle into his bones. "How would you like a job?"

## Yeosang's POV

The world tilted on its axis.

Yeosang stared at Hongjoong, certain he'd misheard. Certain this was some kind of cruel joke or test or—

"I... what?"

"A job. Here. With us." Hongjoong spread his hands, gesturing at the Nexus room around them. "You clearly have the skills. You understand our systems better than candidates we've been interviewing for months. We need someone. You need a placement."

He made it sound so simple. Like hiring a succubus for a position of power was reasonable. Normal. Not something that would have his vampire covens calling for investigations and his demon lords wondering about influence and corruption.

"It's not—" Yeosang's carefully maintained composure finally cracked, just a little, showing something raw and desperate underneath. "Sir, the agency was right to warn you. There are legitimate concerns about succubi in positions of power—"

"Based on what evidence?" Seonghwa interrupted, his tone genuinely curious rather than challenging.

"I..." Yeosang stopped. He'd never actually been asked that before. "Everyone knows—"

"Everyone knows stereotypes," Seonghwa said calmly. "I'm a vampire. Do you think I go around draining people without consent? That I can't work during daylight hours? That I'm constantly fighting the urge to turn into a bat?"

"Bats are actually very cute," San added. "I've considered it."

"You're a cat shifter," Wooyoung pointed out.

"I could be a multi-shifter. You don't know my life."

"Focus," Hongjoong said, though his lips twitched slightly. He looked back at Yeosang. "The point is, we don't make decisions based on stereotypes. We make them based on capability."

"But the access to magical signatures—" Yeosang tried desperately.

"Are you planning to use them maliciously?" Hongjoong asked.

"No! Never. But—"

"Are you incompetent?"

"I—no, but—"

"Do you have any intention of using a position here to harm us or our interests?"

"Of course not!"

"Then I fail to see the problem."

It was a logical trap. Yeosang could see it clearly. He couldn't argue against his own hiring without either admitting to malicious intent or agreeing with prejudice that he knew was unfounded.

But logic had never protected him before.

"You don't understand," he said, his voice getting smaller. "Every placement I've had has ended the same way. Someone finds out what I am, and suddenly there are concerns. Questions about whether I'm influencing decisions, whether I'm using my nature to manipulate outcomes. Even if there's no evidence, even if I've never—" He stopped, realizing he was saying too much. Showing too much.

"How many placements?" Seonghwa asked gently.

"Four."

"And they all ended because...?"

"Because I'm a succubus." The words came out bitter, exhausted. "It doesn't matter how good I am at my job. It doesn't matter that I've never once used my abilities inappropriately. Someone always finds out, and then there are whispers, and suspicions, and suddenly there's a budget cut or a restructuring or some other excuse, and I'm gone."

The silence that followed was heavy.

Yeosang wanted to take the words back. He'd shown too much, revealed too much bitterness, too much pain. Now they'd see him as damaged goods on top of everything else.

"That's unacceptable," Hongjoong said quietly.

Yeosang looked up, startled by the anger in his voice. But the anger wasn't directed at him.

"The fact that you've been discriminated against repeatedly is unacceptable," Hongjoong continued. "The fact that your skills have been wasted because of prejudice is unacceptable. The fact that you're standing here trying to talk us out of hiring you because you've been conditioned to believe you don't deserve it is unacceptable."

Each word hit like a physical blow, but not painful. More like... like someone hammering away at walls Yeosang had built around himself for protection.

"You don't know me," Yeosang whispered. "You don't know if I'm safe to have around."

"You're right," Hongjoong agreed. "We don't know you. But we know you have the skills we need. We know you've been denied opportunities because of prejudice. And we know we're willing to give you a chance."

A chance.

When was the last time someone had offered him that?

## Yunho's POV

Yunho's heart was breaking.

He was watching this brilliant, clearly competent man argue against his own hiring because he'd been conditioned to believe he didn't deserve it. Because people had taught him, over and over, that his species made him unworthy regardless of his abilities.

The griffin in him wanted to gather this person under his wing, protect him, keep him safe from a world that had clearly hurt him badly. The rational part of him knew they needed to tread carefully—this was someone who'd been burned enough times that kindness probably felt like a trap.

"Our mistake to make," Hongjoong was saying firmly. "If we're wrong about you, that's on us. But I don't think we are."

The silence stretched. Yeosang was trembling—so slightly that most wouldn't notice, but Yunho's enhanced senses caught it. The micro-tremors of someone holding themselves together by will alone.

This was fear, yes. But also want. The kind of desperate, aching want that came from having too many doors slammed in your face.

"You could have any candidate," Yeosang said, one last desperate attempt to protect himself. "Why would you choose—"

"The most qualified person we've seen?" Wooyoung interrupted. "The person who diagnosed three separate issues with our systems within minutes of arriving? The person who knows how to negotiate with our sentient filing system?"

"Gerald," Mingi added helpfully. "We named it Gerald."

Yeosang looked between them all, and Yunho saw the exact moment his defenses started to crack. The longing in his eyes was painful to witness.

"This is a mistake," he whispered, but there was no conviction in it anymore. Just exhausted resignation. "You'll regret it."

"Let us worry about that," Hongjoong said gently. "The question is: do you want the job?"

## Yeosang's POV

He should say no.

Every self-protective instinct he'd developed over the past three years was screaming at him to say no. To walk away before this inevitable disaster unfolded. To protect himself from the pain that would come when they realized their mistake.

When they realized what having a succubus in their inner circle really meant. When the questions started. When the suspicions arose. When someone suggested that maybe his advice was influenced by his nature, that maybe he was using his abilities to—

But he was so tired.

Tired of being invisible. Tired of watching less qualified people take positions he was perfect for. Tired of being the shameful secret the agency kept because he was useful but unmarketable.

Tired of pretending he didn't want things. Didn't dream of having a real position again, real responsibility, real purpose.

And they were offering it to him. All of it. Despite knowing what he was.

Some small, desperate part of him that hadn't been completely crushed yet whispered: what if this time is different?

It wouldn't be. It never was. But that small voice was so persistent. So hopeful.

"I..." His voice came out barely above a whisper. He cleared his throat, tried again. "I would be honored to accept the position."

The words felt like jumping off a cliff. Like opening himself up to inevitable pain. Like hoping when hope had only ever hurt him.

But he said them anyway.

Because he was tired of just surviving.

Because these people had defended him against prejudice he'd faced for years.

Because the demon lord was looking at him like he was valuable, and it had been so long since anyone had looked at him that way.

"Good," Hongjoong said, and there was something warm in his voice that made Yeosang's chest tight. "When can you start?"

"I... immediately? I mean, I should submit notice to the agency—"

"Already done," Wooyoung interrupted, looking entirely too pleased with himself. "I may have sent a resignation letter on your behalf while Hongjoong was kicking them out. Magically binding, very official."

Yeosang's eyes went wide. "You—what—how did you even—"

"I'm a witch." Wooyoung wiggled his fingers. "Also, their security is terrible. You should probably tell them that. Or don't. They deserve to be hacked."

"That's... that's probably illegal."

"Only if they can prove it."

Despite everything, despite the terror and confusion and overwhelming everything, Yeosang felt his lips twitch toward a smile.

"Welcome to chaos," Yunho said warmly, stepping forward with his hand extended. "Don't worry, you'll get used to it. Eventually. Maybe."

Yeosang looked at the offered hand for a moment, then took it. Yunho's grip was warm, solid, real in a way that made this feel less like a dream.

"I'm Yunho," the griffin said. "I handle internal operations and apparently emergency grocery runs when Mingi stress-bakes through our flour supply."

"It was one time," Mingi protested, then paused. "Okay, three times. This week."

One by one, they introduced themselves properly. Not the formal titles from their files, but real introductions.

San demonstrated his shift into cat form, turning into a beautiful black cat before shifting back. "You'll see me around in both forms. Cat me likes to nap in sunny spots and judge people."

"Human you doesn't judge people?" Wooyoung asked.

"Human me is just better at hiding it."

Mingi offered a slightly flour-dusted handshake. "I stress-bake. A lot. You've been warned."

"He makes excellent cookies though," Jongho added. "So it's not all bad."

Seonghwa inclined his head gracefully. "I look forward to working with someone who actually understands our systems. It's been... challenging."

"Challenging is one word for it," Wooyoung muttered. "Nightmare is another."

And Hongjoong, stepping closer, his presence somehow both intimidating and reassuring: "We'll start integration tomorrow. For tonight, we'll show you to your quarters, let you get settled."

"Quarters?" Yeosang blinked. "I have an apartment—"

"Residential quarters are included," Hongjoong explained. "Most of our core staff live on-site. It's easier given the hours. But if you prefer to commute—"

"No! No, on-site is... that's perfect." More than perfect. His apartment was a tiny, depressing space that he'd never bothered to make a home because what was the point?

"Your quarters will be in the east wing," Seonghwa said. "Next to Yunho's, actually. He can show you the way."

Everything was happening so fast. Too fast. An hour ago, he'd been an invisible assistant watching another unqualified candidate interview for a position he desperately wanted. Now he had the job, had quarters, had seven powerful beings looking at him like he belonged here.

It was too much.

"I..." He stopped, not sure what he wanted to say. Thank you seemed inadequate. This is a mistake seemed ungrateful. I'm terrified seemed too honest.

"It's overwhelming," Yunho said gently, apparently reading his expression. "We get it. Why don't we get you settled in, and you can process?"

Yeosang nodded, not trusting his voice.

As Yunho led him toward the door, Yeosang heard the others talking quietly behind them.

"Did we just accidentally hire someone competent?" Wooyoung asked.

"I think we did," Seonghwa replied, sounding faintly amazed.

"Gerald's going to be so confused," Mingi added.

Yeosang followed Yunho through beautiful corridors, trying to process everything that had just happened. He had a job. A real job. With people who knew what he was and hired him anyway.

It felt like a dream. Or a trap. Or maybe, possibly, a new beginning.

He was terrified.

But for the first time in three years, he was also hopeful.

And that, more than anything, was what scared him the most.

Chapter Text

## Hongjoong's POV

The Nexus room felt different after Yeosang left with Yunho. Not quieter—it had never been particularly loud—but emptier somehow, as though the air itself had registered the absence of the careful, controlled presence that had occupied it for the past hour.

Hongjoong stood in the center of the floating displays, staring at the ward map Yeosang had analyzed with such effortless precision, and tried to untangle the knot of emotions lodged somewhere between his ribs and his throat.

Relief flooded through him first, warm and almost dizzying. They'd finally found someone qualified. Not just competent or adequate, but genuinely, remarkably skilled. Someone who could look at their Byzantine ward network—a system that had taken Hongjoong and Seonghwa three years to build and another five to refine—and immediately identify the structural vulnerabilities they'd been too buried in day-to-day operations to notice.

The succubus had done it in under twenty minutes.

With a tablet that wasn't even properly synced to their network yet.

While actively trying to talk them out of hiring him.

Anger simmered beneath the relief, hot and acidic. Fury at the agency for wasting weeks of their time with candidates who couldn't tell a ward junction from a portal anchor. Rage at Director Kim for whatever petty, discriminatory game he'd been playing. And a deeper, colder fury at the casual prejudice that had created this entire absurd situation—that had kept someone this talented hidden away like a dirty secret.

But underneath both relief and anger was something else. Something that felt protective and oddly personal, which made no sense for someone he'd known for less than an hour.

Hongjoong reached out, letting his fingers pass through the holographic display where Yeosang had pointed out the cascading failure points in their ward structure. The analysis had been flawless. Quick, precise, insightful, and delivered with the kind of apologetic deference that had made Hongjoong want to shake the man and tell him to stop apologizing for being right.

"Well," Wooyoung said from his position on the floor, breaking the silence that had settled over them like a weighted blanket. He was still sitting cross-legged where he'd been for the entire interview, one of the grimoire-scanners perched in his lap like a particularly angular cat. "That was certainly something."

"That's one way to put it," Seonghwa murmured. He was leaning against the console nearest the eastern array, his expression thoughtful in that particular way that meant he was cataloging and analyzing every micro-expression he'd witnessed. "We just hired someone in approximately fifteen minutes."

"Fourteen minutes and thirty-seven seconds, actually," Jongho said from his spot by the auxiliary display. "I was timing it."

"Why were you timing it?" San asked. He'd shifted back to human form at some point during Yeosang's departure, and was now perched on the edge of the western console like some kind of curious bird.

"Professional interest," Jongho said mildly. "Wanted to see how long it would take us to recognize competence after weeks of incompetence."

"Fourteen minutes is pretty fast," Mingi observed. He hadn't moved from his position by the floor-to-ceiling windows, silhouetted against the late afternoon light. "Record time, probably."

"Technically, he interviewed himself," San pointed out. "Did anyone else notice he spent approximately five straight minutes trying to convince us not to hire him?"

"Oh, I noticed," Hongjoong said dryly. "Hard to miss someone eloquently arguing against their own employment."

"That was fascinating," Wooyoung said, genuine curiosity coloring his tone. "Like watching someone try to preemptively reject themselves before we could do it for them."

The observation landed with uncomfortable accuracy in the space between them.

Hongjoong turned away from the display to face his partners—his family, really, though they didn't always use that word. Six faces looked back at him with varying degrees of thoughtfulness, concern, and interest.

"What did you all think?" he asked, though he had a feeling he knew most of their answers already. "First impressions?"

Seonghwa pushed off from the console with fluid grace, moving to stand beside Hongjoong in that unconscious way they'd developed over centuries of partnership. Their shoulders didn't quite touch, but Hongjoong could feel the warmth of him, the steady comfort of proximity.

"He's brilliant," Seonghwa said first, because that much was obvious to everyone in the room. "The way he analyzed our systems—that wasn't luck or basic academy training. That was genuine expertise combined with intuitive understanding."

"Agreed," Hongjoong said. "What else?"

Seonghwa took a moment to gather his thoughts, his gaze distant. "He's very controlled. Professional to the point of being almost rigid. Every word seemed carefully chosen, every gesture measured. Very conscious of his positioning in the room."

"That could just be interview nerves," Jongho offered, though his tone suggested he didn't quite believe it. "Meeting seven powerful beings in a high-pressure situation after watching your boss get publicly fired would make anyone careful."

"Could be," Seonghwa agreed slowly. "But it felt more practiced than that. More ingrained. Like being careful is his default state, not a response to stress."

Wooyoung unfolded himself from the floor with boneless ease, the scanner clutched against his chest. "His magic was strange."

Everyone's attention shifted to him.

"Strange how?" Hongjoong asked.

Wooyoung's face scrunched up in concentration, a small furrow appearing between his brows. "You know how succubi usually have this really present magical signature? Like you can feel them in a room because their energy naturally projects outward? It's part of how they function—their magic needs to interface with others."

"Yes," Hongjoong said slowly, already sensing where this was going.

"His didn't do that. I mean, I could sense he was a succubus—that's unmistakable. But his energy was..." Wooyoung made a frustrated gesture with one hand, the scanner wobbling precariously. "Pulled in. Compressed. Like he was actively holding it back behind walls."

"Could that be a professional control thing?" Jongho asked. "Some people with strong magical signatures learn to dampen them in work settings."

"Maybe," Wooyoung said, but doubt colored the word. "I've just never felt a succubus signature quite that restrained before. Usually there's at least some ambient energy, some sense of their presence. His was almost invisible unless I was specifically looking for it."

Mingi shifted his weight, drawing attention to himself. "He was scared," the wolf said quietly. "Not obviously—most people wouldn't have noticed. But I could smell it underneath all that professionalism. Fear and something else. Resignation, maybe."

"Wouldn't you be scared?" San pointed out reasonably. "Seven powerful beings, all focused on you, after your boss just got publicly fired for discrimination?"

"Of course," Mingi acknowledged. "But this felt deeper than situational anxiety. More like an expectation."

Hongjoong frowned, turning that observation over in his mind. He'd noticed it too—the way Yeosang had held himself like he was braced for impact, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

"He argued against his own hiring," Hongjoong said slowly, "because he thought we'd regret it."

"Because of the species prejudice issue," Wooyoung said.

"No." Hongjoong shook his head. "It was more than that. He said 'every placement ends the same way.' Like it was inevitable. Like he was absolutely certain we'd eventually have the same concerns as his previous employers."

The room went quiet. Through the windows, Hongjoong could see the sun beginning its descent, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful and transient, like so many things.

"That's..." San started, then stopped, his expression troubled. "That's a lot of professional rejection to expect it as an unavoidable outcome."

"Four placements," Seonghwa added, his voice soft. "All ending for the same stated reason. That would shape anyone's worldview."

"So we're dealing with someone who's been professionally rejected multiple times," Hongjoong summarized, "and not only expects it to happen again but is so certain of it that he tried to protect us from making a 'mistake' by hiring him." He paused. "That's going to make this interesting."

His tone was dry, but everyone in the room could hear the concern underneath.

San tilted his head, a peculiarly feline gesture despite his human form. "He flinched when Yunho went to shake his hand at the end. Just for a second, but it was there."

"I didn't notice that," Mingi said.

"Most wouldn't. It was very quick—barely a micro-expression." San's golden eyes were sharp with interest. "Could be nothing. Could be that he's not accustomed to casual physical contact."

"Some people aren't," Seonghwa agreed.

"Or," Wooyoung said carefully, "it could be related to what his species is stereotyped for. If people have been treating him like a threat for years, maybe he's learned to avoid touch."

The observation settled over them uncomfortably.

They were all dancing around something, Hongjoong realized. All of them had noticed things that seemed slightly off, slightly unusual, slightly concerning. But none of them had enough information to know what any of it meant, or if it even meant anything at all.

He looked around at his partners—centuries of working together meant he could read every micro-expression, every subtle shift in posture. Seonghwa's thoughtful analysis. Wooyoung's genuine curiosity tinged with concern. Mingi's quiet observation. San's sharp attention to detail. Jongho's pragmatic assessment.

This was his family. These were the people he'd built something extraordinary with, not through hierarchy or authority, but through mutual respect and genuine care for each other.

And now they were trying to figure out how to extend that same care to someone new. Someone who clearly needed it but might not know how to accept it.

"We're speculating," Hongjoong said finally, making the decision as he spoke. "We don't know this person. We don't know his history beyond what was in that file—which was deliberately incomplete. We don't know what's normal behavior for him versus what's stress response."

"So what do we do?" Mingi asked.

Hongjoong looked around at his partners, his family, these people who had built something extraordinary with him. "We give him space," he decided. "We let him settle in, do his job, get comfortable with us. We don't push, we don't pry, we just... let him be."

"And if he needs something?" Wooyoung asked.

"Then hopefully he'll ask. Or he won't, and we'll figure it out as we go." Hongjoong met each of their gazes in turn. "But we approach this professionally. He's our new coordinator, not a puzzle to solve or a mystery to unravel. Clear?"

Nods all around, though Wooyoung looked slightly chastised.

"Good." Hongjoong rolled his shoulders, feeling some of the tension release. "Now, since we actually have a coordinator starting tomorrow, we should probably figure out what his first day is going to look like."

"Orientation," Seonghwa said immediately, already moving toward the administrative console. "System access, security protocols, introduction to department heads."

"Portal schedule review," Jongho added. "We have three major transits this week that need coordination."

"Ward maintenance is overdue on the eastern boundary," Mingi said. "That should probably be prioritized."

As his partners began discussing logistics, their voices overlapping in the comfortable chaos of collaborative planning, Hongjoong felt something in his chest settle. This—this was familiar. This was what they did. They adapted, they adjusted, they made things work.

They'd figure out Yeosang the same way they figured out everything else: together, carefully, and with more patience than anyone would expect from a demon lord and his eclectic family.

Seonghwa appeared at his elbow again, close enough that Hongjoong could smell the subtle scent of jasmine tea and old books that always clung to him.

"You're worried," Seonghwa observed quietly, pitched low enough that only Hongjoong would hear.

"I'm always worried," Hongjoong murmured back. "It's my natural state."

"This is different." Seonghwa's dark eyes searched his face. "You're worried about him specifically."

Hongjoong couldn't deny it. "We rushed this. One interview, one demonstration, and we gave him quarters and access to our most sensitive systems."

"We needed to. We're drowning without proper coordination."

"I know. Doesn't mean I have to like how fast we moved."

Seonghwa hummed in agreement. Around them, the others continued planning—San and Mingi debating optimal patrol schedules, Wooyoung and Jongho discussing archive organization.

"He tried very hard to protect us from himself," Seonghwa said after a moment. "That says something about his character."

"It says he expects to be a problem," Hongjoong countered.

"Or that he cares about not causing problems for others." Seonghwa shifted slightly closer, and Hongjoong let himself lean into the contact. "Those aren't the same thing."

They weren't. Hongjoong knew that. But the distinction felt thin when faced with someone who had been rejected so thoroughly that he'd internalized it as inevitable.

"Hyung," Wooyoung called out, breaking into their quiet conversation. "Should we set up a mentor system? Someone to help him navigate the first few weeks?"

"Good idea," Hongjoong said, grateful for the practical focus. "Yunho's the best with new people. He can handle primary orientation?"

"I'll handle systems training," Seonghwa offered. "Walk him through our databases and protocols."

"I can take portal coordination," Jongho said. "That's going to be the bulk of his job anyway."

"Ward theory with me," Wooyoung added, perking up with enthusiasm. "If he's going to coordinate maintenance, he needs to understand the underlying magical structures."

They were good at this, Hongjoong thought with a rush of affection. Good at taking care of people, at building systems of support, at making space for others to thrive.

"What about you?" San asked, looking at Hongjoong. "What are you taking?"

"I," Hongjoong said with a slight smile, "am going to make sure he actually takes breaks and doesn't try to prove himself into exhaustion in the first week."

"Ah, the 'do as I say, not as I do' approach," Mingi said dryly. "Very authoritative."

"Shut up," Hongjoong said without heat. "I'm allowed to be hypocritical. I'm in charge."

"That's definitely how leadership works," Seonghwa murmured, but his eyes were warm with amusement.

The planning continued, each of them contributing ideas and adjustments, their voices weaving together in a familiar symphony of collaborative problem-solving. This was the part Hongjoong loved most about what they'd built—not the prestige or the power, but this. The easy communication, the shared purpose, the way they could build something together without ego or competition getting in the way.

"Food," San announced after another twenty minutes, standing up and stretching with feline grace. "We've been in here for hours and I'm starving."

"You're always starving," Jongho pointed out.

"I'm a shifter. We have high metabolisms. It's a medical fact."

"It's definitely something," Wooyoung said, but he was already moving toward the door. "What are we thinking? Cook, or order?"

"Cook," Mingi said immediately. "I want real food, not delivery."

"I'll help," Jongho volunteered. "We can do that stir-fry thing."

"With the gochugaru sauce?" San asked hopefully.

"If we have the ingredients."

"We always have the ingredients. Seonghwa-hyung obsessively stocks the kitchen."

"It's not obsessive, it's practical," Seonghwa said with dignity, but Hongjoong could see the smile tugging at his lips. "Someone has to make sure we don't survive on instant noodles and coffee."

They migrated out of the Nexus room in a loose group, the conversation flowing easily as they moved through corridors toward the residential wing. The headquarters building was a strange hybrid of administrative sterility and lived-in comfort—the public areas all clean lines and professional aesthetics, but the private spaces slowly colonized by the comfortable clutter of actual occupation.

The residential wing where they all lived was firmly in the latter category.

---

## Yunho's POV

Walking through the corridors toward the residential wing, Yunho kept his pace deliberately casual and his demeanor friendly but not overpoweringly so. After centuries of working with diverse species and temperaments, he'd learned how to calibrate his energy to make people comfortable—or at least, less uncomfortable.

Yeosang walked beside him, though Yunho had noticed he'd started to fall back half a step before apparently correcting himself. The succubus was silent except for the soft sound of his footsteps, his attention seeming to catalog everything they passed with methodical precision.

Taking mental notes, probably. Learning the layout. Preparing.

For what, Yunho wasn't entirely sure. But preparation seemed to be Yeosang's default mode.

"This is the main administrative wing," Yunho explained, gesturing as they walked. "You'll probably spend a lot of time here. Offices, conference rooms, archive access points. The main archives themselves are three floors down, but there are terminal stations throughout the building."

Yeosang nodded but didn't speak.

"The residential wing is separate," Yunho continued, letting his voice stay light and informational. "We designed it that way deliberately—wanted people to actually be able to disconnect from work when they needed to. The layout is pretty intuitive once you get used to it."

Another nod.

Yunho snuck a glance at his new colleague. Yeosang's expression was perfectly neutral, professionally attentive, and completely unreadable. His posture was straight without being stiff, his hands loose at his sides, his gaze tracking their route with systematic thoroughness.

Everything about him screamed 'controlled.'

It made Yunho wonder what he looked like when he wasn't being so careful. Did he smile easily? Laugh? Or was this measured composure his actual personality?

"Most of us live on-site," Yunho said, keeping his tone conversational. "It's not required—plenty of our staff prefer to maintain separate residences. But it's convenient given the hours, and honestly the quarters are nice. Better than my first three apartments combined."

"They seemed very nice," Yeosang said quietly. His first words since they'd left the Nexus room, and they were carefully polite.

"Better than my first apartment," Yunho said with a smile, hoping to draw him out a little. "That place had a ghost that wouldn't stop reorganizing my kitchen. I'd go to bed with the plates in one cabinet and wake up with them in a completely different one. Took me three months to convince her that I actually liked my system."

He'd been hoping for maybe a smile, or at least some kind of reaction. Some sign that Yeosang was a person behind all that professionalism.

Instead, Yeosang just nodded politely, like Yunho had commented on the weather. "That sounds... disruptive."

"It was character-building," Yunho said, refusing to be discouraged. "Taught me to be flexible."

They walked in silence for a bit. Not uncomfortable silence exactly—Yunho was too practiced at putting people at ease for that. But not comfortable either. The kind of silence that happened between strangers who didn't know how to fill space yet and weren't sure they should try.

Yunho had walked this route thousands of times, but he tried to see it through new eyes. The headquarters building was impressive, he supposed—high ceilings, clean lines, the subtle integration of magical and mundane technology. Prestigious without being ostentatious.

Did it feel welcoming, though? Or just intimidating?

"Here we are," Yunho said finally, stopping at a door. "Your quarters. Let me just..." He pressed his palm to the access panel, felt the familiar tingle of recognition as it read his magical signature. "Okay, try yours now."

Yeosang stepped forward, and Yunho watched as he placed his hand on the panel with the same careful precision he seemed to apply to everything. The panel glowed soft blue, then green, accepting the authorization.

"There you go," Yunho said with an encouraging smile. "Biometric lock keyed to you specifically. No one else can access it without your explicit permission or a serious emergency override."

Yeosang's hand dropped back to his side. "Thank you."

"Want to take a look inside? Make sure everything's acceptable?"

For a moment, Yeosang hesitated, and Yunho got the impression he was trying to figure out if that was a genuine offer or some kind of test.

"If it's not an imposition," Yeosang said finally.

"Not at all. I'm here to help you get settled." Yunho gestured toward the door. "After you."

The quarters opened into a surprisingly spacious living area—sitting room with comfortable furniture, a small kitchen alcove, and a doorway that presumably led to the bedroom and bathroom. The decor was neutral but warm, designed to be pleasant without imposing any particular aesthetic.

Yunho watched Yeosang step inside, those dark eyes taking in every detail with systematic thoroughness. The succubus moved into the space carefully, like he was trying to take up as little room as possible.

"Kitchen's fully equipped," Yunho said, pointing to the alcove. "Microwave, small refrigerator, basic cookware. There's a communal kitchen too, if you prefer that, but this is here if you want privacy."

Yeosang nodded, moving to examine the kitchen with the same methodical attention he'd given everything else.

"Bedroom's through there," Yunho continued, gesturing. "En-suite bathroom. Climate control is that panel by the door—you can adjust it however you like. Internet access is automatic, and the building-wide network is—"

"The login credentials were in the orientation packet," Yeosang said quietly. "I reviewed them earlier."

"Of course you did," Yunho said with another smile. "Well, if you have any technical issues, Wooyoung's your guy. He practically built our network infrastructure himself, so he can fix anything that goes wrong."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you."

They stood there for a moment in awkward silence. Yunho tried to think of something else helpful to say, some way to make this feel less like a formal property inspection and more like a welcoming.

"The communal areas are pretty active in the evenings," he offered. "If you ever want to join us. No pressure, but we tend to congregate after work—usually in the common room or the kitchen. It's casual, nothing formal."

"That's kind of you," Yeosang said, which wasn't quite a commitment either way.

"And if you need anything—anything at all—my quarters are just down the hall. Third door on the left. You can message me through the building network, or just knock if it's urgent."

"Thank you, Yunho-ssi."

The formality stung a little, even though Yunho understood it. They were strangers. Coworkers. And Yeosang had no reason to trust casual familiarity from someone he'd just met.

Still. It felt distant.

"Just Yunho is fine," he said gently. "We're not really big on formality around here once you get past the initial professional stuff. I mean, use whatever you're comfortable with, but... yeah. Just so you know."

Yeosang nodded, but didn't repeat the name without the honorific.

"Right," Yunho said after another beat of silence. "I should let you get settled. But seriously—if you need anything, just ask. We want this to work out, and that means making sure you have everything you need to be comfortable."

"I appreciate that," Yeosang said. Still so carefully polite. Still so controlled.

Yunho wondered if the man ever let himself just relax. Or if years of professional rejection had trained him to always be on guard, always be perfect, always be ready for the other shoe to drop.

"Get some rest," Yunho said, moving toward the door. "Tomorrow's going to be a lot of information all at once. We'll try not to overwhelm you, but orientation is always kind of intense."

"I'm sure I'll manage," Yeosang said.

"I'm sure you will," Yunho agreed. Because despite the careful distance, despite the rigid professionalism, despite all the walls, one thing was absolutely clear: Yeosang was competent. Brilliant, even.

The question wasn't whether he could do the job.

The question was whether he'd let himself believe he belonged here.

Yunho stepped into the hallway, giving Yeosang one last encouraging smile. "Welcome home, Yeosang-ssi. I'll see you tomorrow morning."

He closed the door softly, hearing the quiet click of the lock engaging. Then he stood there for a moment, processing the interaction and trying to put words to the feeling settling in his chest.

Lonely. That's what it had felt like. Not the interaction itself, which had been polite and professional. But the sense he got from Yeosang—like watching someone stand on the outside of something beautiful and refuse to come closer even when invited. Even when the door was wide open.

Yunho had centuries of experience reading people, understanding the subtle signals that went beyond words. It was part of what made him good at his job, good at integrating new people into their organization. He could usually sense what someone needed, how to make them comfortable, what approach would work best.

But Yeosang was... difficult to read. Not because he wasn't giving signals, but because every signal was so carefully controlled that it was hard to tell what was genuine response versus practiced professional behavior.

That kind of control took work. Constant work.

What was Yeosang protecting himself from?

Yunho shook his head and started back toward the communal areas. The others would have migrated to the kitchen by now, probably starting on dinner preparations. He should join them, help out, and let them know how the quarters handoff had gone.

This was the version of their home that Yunho loved best. When it stopped being a prestigious organization and became just... theirs.

The walk back gave him time to think, to process, to figure out what he was going to tell the others. Because they'd want to know. Would ask questions. Would try to understand this new person they'd brought into their carefully balanced ecosystem.

He passed the training rooms—could hear the rhythmic impact of Jongho working through his evening routine. Past the archives—dark now, but tomorrow they'd be alive with activity. Through the administrative corridors that would buzz with people during work hours but now stood empty and quiet.

By the time he reached the communal wing, Yunho had figured out what he wanted to say.

Or at least, what he could say with the limited information he had.

 

---

## Yeosang's POV

The door clicked shut behind Yunho, and suddenly Yeosang was alone.

Completely, utterly alone in a space that was supposedly his now.

He stood frozen in the middle of the living area, his hand still clutching the tablet he'd been holding since the interview—when had that been? An hour ago? Two? Time had lost all meaning somewhere between Director Kim's dismissal and this moment.

The silence pressed against his ears, broken only by the faint hum of climate control and the distant, muffled sounds of the building around him. People living their lives, going about their evenings, existing comfortably in this space.

And him. Standing here like an intruder in quarters he didn't deserve.

Yeosang forced himself to move, to set the tablet down on the small table by the door. His fingers felt numb, clumsy. The tablet made a soft sound as it settled against the wood—real wood, he noticed. Not synthetic. Nothing in these quarters was synthetic or cheap or temporary.

Everything screamed permanence.

Which made it worse somehow.

He turned slowly, taking in the space properly now that he wasn't trying to remain professionally composed in front of Yunho. The living area was larger than his entire last apartment had been. Comfortable furniture arranged in a way that invited relaxation. Soft lighting that could be adjusted to preference. Windows that looked out over the city, the view expensive and deliberately chosen.

The kitchen alcove gleamed with appliances he'd probably never use. When was the last time he'd cooked? Months, probably. Easier to eat quickly, alone, without the domesticity that implied belonging somewhere.

Yeosang moved toward the bedroom on autopilot, his feet carrying him forward even as his mind spun in increasingly frantic circles.

This had really happened.

He'd really been hired.

By them. By seven of the most powerful beings in the region, who could have anyone they wanted, and they'd chosen him.

The bedroom was just as nice as the living area. Maybe nicer. A large bed with expensive linens. A proper desk with a high-end computer setup. A closet that would fit his entire wardrobe three times over with room to spare. The bathroom through the adjoining door looked like something from a luxury hotel.

Yeosang sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, his legs finally giving out.

What had he done?

He'd said yes. After trying so hard to talk them out of it, after laying out every single reason why this was a bad idea, after practically begging Hongjoong to reconsider—he'd still said yes.

Because that small, desperate, traitorous part of him had wanted to. Had heard Hongjoong say "we want you specifically" and "competence is what matters" and "I don't care about species prejudice" and had just... caved.

Like an idiot. Like someone who hadn't learned anything from four consecutive failures.

Yeosang dropped his head into his hands, pressing his palms against his eyes until he saw stars.

This was a mistake. Had to be a mistake.

They didn't know him. Didn't know about the whispers that always started a few months in. Didn't know about the investigations, the suspicions, the careful way employers began to distance themselves once they'd decided he was more liability than asset.

Didn't know that every single placement ended the same way, no matter how competent he was, no matter how hard he worked, no matter how desperately he tried to prove his worth.

Because his species was the problem. His nature was the problem. And you couldn't argue your way out of people's prejudices no matter how perfect your analysis or how flawless your coordination.

The interview played back in his head in vivid, excruciating detail.

Hongjoong's eyes when he'd asked his name. That moment of recognition, of seeing him as a person instead of just an extension of Director Kim's incompetence.

The way they'd all listened when he'd analyzed their ward network. Actually listened, asking questions, following his reasoning, treating his suggestions as valuable instead of suspect.

And then the offer. The actual job offer, delivered with such certainty, like Hongjoong had already decided and was just informing Yeosang of reality.

"I want to be extremely clear: I don't care about species prejudice, it doesn't factor into my hiring decisions, and anyone who suggests otherwise can take it up with me personally."

Yeosang had heard the conviction in those words. Had seen it in Hongjoong's expression, in the way the demon lord had held his gaze and refused to look away.

But conviction didn't last. Good intentions didn't survive the first whispered suspicion, the first coincidence that looked like influence, the first time someone suggested maybe the succubus was manipulating outcomes.

It never lasted.

Yeosang lifted his head, staring at the wall without really seeing it.

He'd argued against his own hiring. Had laid out every concern, every reason this would eventually fail. Had practically begged them to protect themselves from the inevitable complications.

And Hongjoong had looked at him like he was personally offended by the species discrimination Yeosang had experienced. Like it genuinely bothered him that someone would judge based on nature rather than competence.

That couldn't be real. Could it?

People didn't actually care about fairness when it came to succubi. They said they did, right up until something made them uncomfortable, and then suddenly all those principled statements about equal opportunity evaporated.

But Hongjoong had fired Director Kim. Actually terminated him, right there in the interview room, for attempting to exclude Yeosang from consideration.

That had to mean something. Didn't it?

Yeosang stood abruptly, unable to sit still any longer. He paced to the window, staring out at the city lights without really processing the view.

Tomorrow he would start. Would have to meet people, learn systems, prove himself all over again. Would have to be perfect from day one, because perfect was the only way to delay the inevitable questions.

He'd memorized the orientation materials already—had studied them on the train ride to the interview this morning, before everything had exploded into chaos. He knew the basics of their organizational structure, their primary functions, the general outline of their systems.

But knowing the theory was different from the practice. Tomorrow he'd have to perform, to demonstrate that he actually deserved this position, to make himself indispensable before anyone had time to question whether hiring him had been wise.

The weight of it pressed down on his shoulders like a physical thing.

Four failures. Four times he'd started with optimism—or at least hope—and four times it had ended with that same conversation. The one where they explained that while his work was excellent, concerns had been raised. Species-related concerns. Nothing personal. Just better for everyone if they parted ways.

Why would this be different?

Because Hongjoong had seemed sincere? Because they'd all listened to him like he mattered? Because Yunho had walked him to these quarters with genuine warmth and told him to reach out if he needed anything?

That wasn't enough. Sincerity faded. Listening turned to suspicion. Warmth became wariness.

It always did.

Yeosang turned away from the window, forcing himself to actually unpack. His small overnight bag sat by the door—pathetically small for someone supposedly moving in. But he'd learned not to bring much to new placements. Made it easier when he had to leave.

He pulled out his few belongings mechanically. Sleep clothes. Toiletries. The book he'd been reading on the train but hadn't been able to focus on. The photograph he never unpacked but always carried—his younger sister, before everything had gone wrong, smiling at the camera without any idea what their futures would hold.

Yeosang set the photo face-down in the bedside drawer. No point setting it out. No point pretending this was permanent.

In the bathroom, he arranged his toiletries with the same systematic precision he applied to everything else. Toothbrush, toothpaste, soap, shampoo. The basics. Nothing personal, nothing that would suggest he planned to stay long enough to make this space his own.

Because he wouldn't. Statistically, he had maybe six months before the pattern repeated. Maybe less if people were already primed to be suspicious of his species.

The fear that had been compressed tight in his chest all day began to expand, pressing against his ribs, making it hard to breathe.

He'd said yes. Had accepted this position knowing exactly how it would end. Had let himself hope—even for a moment—that maybe this time would be different.

Fool. He was such a fool.

Yeosang gripped the edge of the bathroom sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired. Strained. His eyes were too wide, his face too pale, his expression showing more than it should.

He forced the fear back down, compressed it behind the walls he'd spent years building. Schooled his features into something neutral. Professional. Controlled.

This was the person he'd be tomorrow. The careful coordinator, impeccably professional, who did his job brilliantly and never gave anyone reason to question his methods.

Same performance as always.

It had never worked before, but what choice did he have? He couldn't just not try. Couldn't just accept failure without fighting against it, even if the fight was futile.

He had to at least try.

Even knowing how it would end.

Yeosang changed into sleep clothes mechanically, going through the motions of a normal evening routine. As if this were a normal situation. As if he weren't screaming internally with the certainty of eventual disaster.

The bed was too comfortable when he finally lay down. The sheets too soft, the mattress too perfectly calibrated for actual rest. Everything designed for someone who belonged here, who had earned this comfort, who deserved this space.

Not him.

Never him.

But he was here anyway, in quarters he didn't deserve, with a job he'd tried to refuse, working for people who didn't know yet that hiring him had been a mistake.

They'd figure it out eventually.

They always did.

Yeosang closed his eyes, knowing sleep wouldn't come for hours, and tried to prepare himself for tomorrow.

For the performance.

For the slow countdown to disappointment.

For the same cycle, just with new players.

At least, he thought bitterly, he knew what to expect this time.

At least he wouldn't be surprised when it all fell apart.

---

## Hongjoong's POV

The communal kitchen was already alive with activity when Hongjoong arrived with Seonghwa. San and Jongho had claimed the stove, working with the practiced efficiency of people who'd cooked together countless times. Mingi was setting the table—the large custom table they'd commissioned specifically to fit all seven of them comfortably. Wooyoung had somehow manifested on the counter, legs swinging as he provided commentary that alternated between helpful and deliberately distracting.

"—no, more gochugaru, don't be shy with it—"

"This is already spicy enough to kill someone," Jongho said mildly.

"Then they'll die deliciously," Wooyoung declared. "Cowards."

"Not everyone has your tolerance for capsaicin," San pointed out, but he added more anyway.

Hongjoong settled into his usual spot at the counter, accepting the cup of tea Seonghwa pressed into his hands without having to ask for it. This was routine, comfortable, theirs. Centuries of building a life together had created rhythms that didn't require conscious thought.

"Yunho's not back yet?" Mingi asked, glancing toward the door.

"Probably still showing Yeosang around," Seonghwa said, moving to help with the prep work. "The residential wing usually takes twenty minutes or so."

"He's being thorough," Hongjoong agreed. "Making sure our new coordinator feels welcome."

"Think he does?" Wooyoung asked. "Feel welcome?"

"Hard to say," Hongjoong admitted. "He's very controlled. Difficult to read."

"That's going to make things interesting," San observed, stirring the wok with focused attention.

Yunho appeared in the doorway a few minutes later, looking thoughtful.

"How'd it go?" Hongjoong asked as Yunho crossed to the sink to wash his hands.

"Fine," Yunho said, but his tone suggested complications. "He seemed appreciative of the quarters."

"But?" Seonghwa prompted.

Yunho dried his hands, organizing his thoughts. "But he's very guarded. I tried to make conversation, tried to draw him out a little, and got nothing but professional courtesy."

"That could just be nerves," Jongho said reasonably.

"Could be," Yunho agreed, moving to help Mingi with the table. "But it felt more ingrained than that. Like he's so used to being careful that he doesn't know how to be anything else."

The observation settled over the kitchen heavily.

"Four failed placements," Seonghwa said quietly. "That would teach anyone to be cautious."

"Yeah." Yunho arranged chopsticks with more focus than the task required. "I just... I got the sense he doesn't think this is going to work out. Like he's already waiting for it to fail."

"Then we prove him wrong," Hongjoong said firmly. "We show him—consistently, over time—that we meant what we said."

"Easier said than done," Mingi pointed out.

"Most worthwhile things are," Seonghwa said.

They fell into companionable silence as the cooking reached its final stages. San and Jongho worked in perfect synchronization, and soon enough they were carrying dishes to the table. The stir-fry was perfect—vegetables still crisp, meat tender, sauce with exactly the right level of heat that would make Wooyoung happy and everyone else sweat slightly.

They settled around the table in their usual configuration, the arrangement that had developed organically over centuries. Hongjoong at one end, Seonghwa at the other, the others filling in between in a pattern that balanced personalities and energy.

"So," Wooyoung said around a mouthful of food, "tomorrow. First day. What's the plan?"

"Morning orientation," Hongjoong said. "Yunho takes primary. Show him the facilities, introduce him to department heads, basic logistics."

"I'll handle systems training after lunch," Seonghwa added. "Database access, security protocols, network navigation."

"Portal schedule in the afternoon," Jongho said. "We have three major transits this week—he needs to understand the coordination requirements."

"And at some point, ward theory," Wooyoung added enthusiastically. "I want to see how deep his understanding goes."

"Maybe not all on the first day," Hongjoong cautioned. "We don't want to overwhelm him."

"He seemed pretty capable of handling a lot," San observed. "The way he analyzed our ward network wasn't someone who gets easily overwhelmed."

"There's a difference between technical capability and emotional capacity," Seonghwa said quietly. "We don't know what his state of mind is right now."

"Probably exhausted," Yunho said. "Today was intense even before we hired him."

They discussed logistics while eating, the conversation flowing easily between work and not-work. This was what Hongjoong loved most—the way they could seamlessly integrate life and work, family and profession, without the boundaries feeling restrictive.

"He seemed very alone," Yunho said suddenly, in one of those moments of comfortable silence. "When I left him. Like he didn't know what to do with all that space being his."

The table went quiet.

"That's sad," Wooyoung said finally.

"Yeah," Yunho agreed. "It is."

"Then we make sure he knows he's not alone anymore," Hongjoong said. "Once he's ready to accept that."

"And if he's never ready?" Mingi asked.

"Then we keep trying anyway," Seonghwa answered. "Some things are worth the patience."

They finished dinner with lighter topics, the mood lifting as San told an elaborate story about a patrol incident involving a confused ghost, a very persistent raccoon, and what might have been a dimensional anomaly but was probably just a very lost pigeon.

After eating, they cleaned up together—another routine, another rhythm. San washed, Jongho dried, Mingi put away, while the others wiped down surfaces and stored leftovers. Choreography perfected over centuries of shared living.

"Movie?" San suggested once the kitchen was clean.

"Maybe," Hongjoong said. "Though I should probably check on some reports first."

"The reports can wait," Seonghwa said firmly. "You need to actually rest occasionally."

"That's rich coming from you."

"I rest all the time."

"Reading until three AM doesn't count as resting," Wooyoung pointed out.

"It does if I'm lying down."

They migrated toward the common room, still debating, still comfortable. Hongjoong let himself be pulled along, surrounded by family, feeling the warmth of belonging settle into his bones.

Somewhere in this building, Yeosang was alone in new quarters, probably not resting despite the late hour.

Tomorrow they'd start proving that this time really was different.

Tonight, they'd just be together and hope that eventually, Yeosang would let himself be part of this too.

---

## Wooyoung's POV

Wooyoung's quarters were an organized disaster, which was exactly how he liked them. Books stacked on every available surface, papers covered in notes and diagrams, three separate tea cups in various states of forgotten, and a complex web of string connecting various reference texts that made sense to absolutely no one but him.

It was perfect.

He'd retreated here after the movie (which they'd never actually picked, instead spending two hours arguing about options before giving up), claiming research as his excuse. Hongjoong had given him that look—the one that said "I know what you're doing"—but hadn't stopped him.

Now Wooyoung was surrounded by texts on magical theory, specifically about succubi and incubi. Their natural abilities, common applications, social stigmas. The works.

Not because he was treating Yeosang like an experiment (Hongjoong's concerns notwithstanding), but because he'd realized how little he actually knew. And Wooyoung hated not knowing things.

The grimoire-scanner chirped softly from its position on his desk, highlighting another relevant passage. Wooyoung leaned in to read, his latest cup of tea steaming gently beside him.

Succubi and incubi possessed naturally projective magical signatures. It was fundamental to how their species functioned—their magic needed to interface with others, to read emotional and physical states, to respond and adapt. A succubus in a room was like a warm breeze, present but not overwhelming, unless they deliberately pushed their influence.

That was normal. That was expected.

But Yeosang's signature had been nearly invisible.

Wooyoung had met succubi before—not many, but a few. Every single one had that characteristic presence, that sense of ambient energy. It varied in intensity based on power level and control, but it was always there.

Yeosang's hadn't been.

Or rather, it had been there, but compressed so tightly behind shields that Wooyoung had almost missed it. Like someone had taken all that natural projective energy and forced it inward, contained it, locked it down.

That took serious effort.

Why would someone do that?

Wooyoung flipped through another text, this one on magical signature suppression. The section on willing suppression talked mostly about dark mages hiding their nature, or curse victims trying to mask magical contamination.

Nothing about someone voluntarily compressing their own natural signature for extended periods.

That kind of sustained magical control would be exhausting. Like trying to hold your breath all the time. Possible, but at what cost?

His door opened without knocking. Wooyoung didn't look up—only one person entered his space like that.

"You're researching," Hongjoong observed.

"I'm always researching. It's my natural state."

"You're researching him specifically."

"I'm researching succubus magical signatures in general," Wooyoung corrected, finally looking up from his book. "Because I realized I don't know as much about them as I should. That's completely separate from him as a person."

Hongjoong moved further into the room, navigating the obstacle course of books with practiced ease. "Wooyoung."

"What?" Wooyoung met his hyung's eyes with as much innocence as he could muster. "I'm being academic about this! I'm learning things that might be useful for future interactions with diverse magical species. That's responsible coordination planning."

"That's a very pretty justification."

"It's also true!" Wooyoung gestured at his books. "We've never had a succubus on staff before. What if we get more applying now that we're hiring directly? I should understand the basics of their magic for professional purposes."

It was a reasonable argument, and they both knew it. Hongjoong just shook his head, but there was fondness in the gesture.

"Fine. Research. Learn things. Expand your knowledge base." Hongjoong paused, his expression growing more serious. "Just don't make him feel like an experiment."

"I won't," Wooyoung promised, and he meant it. "This really is just me being curious about magic theory. I'm not going to poke at him or ask invasive questions."

"Good."

"I mean, I'll probably ask some questions eventually, but they'll be work-relevant and appropriately timed—"

"Wooyoung."

"I'm just saying! If I'm going to help with ward theory training, I should understand how his magic interfaces with our systems—"

"Wooyoung."

"—which is a completely legitimate professional concern that has nothing to do with personal curiosity—"

Hongjoong put a hand over Wooyoung's mouth, gentle but firm. "I love you. You're a menace. Please try to be normal."

Wooyoung made muffled protesting sounds.

"I'm going to take my hand away now, and you're going to promise to approach this with appropriate professional boundaries."

More muffled sounds.

"Wooyoung."

Finally, Wooyoung nodded. Hongjoong removed his hand.

"I promise to be professionally appropriate while also satisfying my intellectual curiosity about magical theory in general," Wooyoung said quickly. "Which is a completely reasonable approach to expanding my knowledge base."

"You're impossible."

"You love me anyway."

"Unfortunately." But Hongjoong was smiling, that soft expression he claimed he didn't make. "Just... be gentle with him, okay? He's clearly been through a lot."

"I know." Wooyoung's playfulness faded into something more serious. "I really am just trying to understand, hyung. The way his signature was compressed—that's not normal. That's sustained magical effort. And I want to know if that's a personal choice or if there's a reason he feels he has to."

Hongjoong studied him for a moment, then sighed and settled into one of the chairs that wasn't occupied by books. "You think it's related to the discrimination he's faced?"

"I think," Wooyoung said carefully, "that if people have been treating you like your mere presence is a threat for years, you might learn to make yourself magically invisible. Even if it's exhausting."

They sat with that for a moment.

"That would be incredibly draining," Hongjoong said quietly.

"Constantly, yeah. Like trying to hold your breath all the time." Wooyoung looked down at his books, at all the theory he'd been absorbing. "I just want to understand what he's dealing with. Not to fix it or solve it, just... to understand."

Hongjoong regarded him with that piercing gaze that saw entirely too much. "You have a good heart, Wooyoung-ah. Just make sure you're using it wisely."

"I will. I promise."

After Hongjoong left, Wooyoung went back to his research with renewed focus. He wasn't trying to solve Yeosang like a puzzle—Hongjoong's concerns aside. He was just trying to understand the magical mechanics of what he'd observed.

Understanding was the first step to helping, after all.

And if there was one thing Wooyoung was good at, it was helping people. Even when they didn't ask for it.

Especially when they didn't ask for it.

The scanner chirped again, drawing his attention to a passage about magical signature adaptation in hostile environments. Wooyoung leaned in, reading intently, his tea growing cold (again) as he absorbed the information.

This was what he loved—the intersection of theory and application, the way understanding magical mechanics could help you understand people. Magic wasn't just energy and intention; it was expression. The way someone used their magic, shaped it, controlled it, revealed things about who they were and what they'd experienced.

Yeosang's compressed signature said volumes.

Wooyoung just had to figure out how to read it without making the man feel examined.

That would be the tricky part.

But Wooyoung loved a good challenge.

And this was shaping up to be a very interesting challenge indeed.

---

## Seonghwa's POV

Seonghwa found Hongjoong in the Nexus room again, late that night, unable to sleep.

This was familiar—his partner pacing between displays, working through concerns by occupying space. Seonghwa had watched him do this countless times over the centuries, and he'd learned that sometimes the best thing he could do was simply be present.

"Can't sleep either?" Hongjoong asked without turning around.

"Too much change in one day." Seonghwa moved to stand beside him, close enough to touch but giving him space to pace if needed. "We just restructured our entire operation."

"We hired one person."

"One person we know almost nothing about."

Hongjoong finally stopped pacing, turning to face him. "Second thoughts?"

"No. He's clearly qualified." Seonghwa paused, choosing his words carefully. "But I think we should be cautious. About expectations."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning he argued against his own hiring because he genuinely expected it to fail. That level of certainty usually comes from repeated experience." Seonghwa watched Hongjoong's face. "I don't think this is going to be straightforward."

"Nothing ever is with us."

"Fair point." Seonghwa allowed himself a slight smile.

They stood together in the quiet of the Nexus room, watching the displays paint patterns in the air. The ward network hummed along steadily, portal junctions operating within normal parameters, everything running as smoothly as their undermanned operation could manage.

Tomorrow, they'd have proper coordination again. Someone who could actually handle the complexity of their systems without drowning.

If he stayed.

If he let himself believe this could work.

"He tried very hard to protect us from himself," Hongjoong said quietly. "Did you notice that? The whole argument about why we shouldn't hire him—he genuinely thought he was saving us from making a mistake."

"I noticed," Seonghwa murmured. "It says something about his character."

"It says he expects to be a problem."

"Or that he cares about not causing problems for others." Seonghwa stepped closer, resting a hand on Hongjoong's arm. "Those aren't the same thing."

Hongjoong was quiet for a long moment, some of the tension slowly bleeding out of his shoulders under Seonghwa's touch.

"I want this to work," Hongjoong said finally, his voice soft. "Not just for us. For him."

"I know. So do I."

"What if we can't? What if we can't prove to him that this is different?"

"Then we try anyway," Seonghwa said simply. "We try, consistently and patiently, until either he believes us or we've done everything we possibly could. That's all anyone can do."

Hongjoong leaned into him, and Seonghwa wrapped him in a proper embrace. This was what they did for each other—provided stability, offered perspective, shared the weight of leadership. They'd been doing it for so long it was second nature now, as natural as breathing.

"Tomorrow," Seonghwa said after a while, "we start orientation. We'll introduce him to the systems, the people, the rhythms of how we work. We'll make space for him to settle in."

"And then?"

"And then we give him time. Space. The opportunity to see that we meant what we said."

"What if it's not enough?"

"Then we adjust," Seonghwa said. "We're good at that, remember? Adapting, finding solutions, making things work that shouldn't work on paper."

Hongjoong huffed out a laugh. "When did you become the optimistic one?"

"I've always been the optimistic one. You're just usually too busy catastrophizing to notice."

"I don't catastrophize—"

"You absolutely catastrophize. It's one of your most endearing qualities."

"That's not endearing, that's anxiety."

"Can be both," Seonghwa said, and felt Hongjoong relax further into the embrace.

They stood there a while longer, drawing comfort from proximity and shared silence. This was one of Seonghwa's favorite things about their partnership—the ability to simply exist together without needing to fill space with words.

Eventually, he guided Hongjoong back toward their quarters. His partner needed rest, even if sleep would be elusive. And Seonghwa needed to be the foundation tonight, the steady presence that Hongjoong could lean on.

Later, lying together in the comfortable darkness of their shared space, Hongjoong's breathing finally evening out toward sleep, Seonghwa allowed himself to fully feel his own concerns.

They'd brought someone new into their carefully balanced ecosystem. Someone wounded and wary, someone who expected rejection, someone who would probably test every boundary to see where the inevitable betrayal would come from.

It was going to be challenging.

But Seonghwa had never backed down from a challenge, especially one that involved caring for people who needed it.

And Yeosang clearly needed it, whether he'd admit that or not.

Hongjoong made a small sound in his sleep, and Seonghwa pulled him closer. His partner burrowed into the contact instinctively, seeking comfort even while unconscious.

This was what they were offering Yeosang, whether he knew it yet or not. Not just employment, but belonging. Not just professional courtesy, but genuine care. Not just a job, but a home.

If he'd let them.

That was always the question with wounded things—would they accept help, or would they run from it?

Seonghwa suspected Yeosang was a runner. But maybe, if they were very patient and very careful, they could give him reason to stay.

It was worth trying.

Everyone deserved a place where they belonged, where they were valued not despite their nature but as themselves, completely.

That's what Hongjoong had given him, centuries ago. What they'd built together for the others. What they could build for Yeosang too, if he'd let them.

Big if.

But Seonghwa had never backed down from a challenge, especially one that involved caring for people who needed it.

Tomorrow would bring its own challenges.

But tonight, there was just this—the quiet comfort of shared space, the certainty of partnership, the foundation they'd built together brick by careful brick.

Everything else, they'd figure out as they went.

The way they always did.

Together.

---

## Yeosang's POV

Yeosang didn't sleep.

He'd tried. Went through all the motions of a bedtime routine like someone following a script they'd memorized but didn't believe in. Lay down in the too-comfortable bed. Closed his eyes. Tried to will his mind into quietness.

But his mind wouldn't cooperate.

It spun in endless loops, replaying every moment of the day in excruciating detail. The interview. The confrontation with Director Kim. The moment when Hongjoong's eyes had fixed on him and everything had shifted, changed, become something he couldn't quite process.

"What's your name?"

And then it had spiraled so fast. The analysis of their systems. The questions. The job offer that he'd tried so hard to refuse. The acceptance he still couldn't believe he'd actually given.

Yeosang stared at the ceiling, watching shadows shift as clouds drifted past the moon outside his window. The quarters were quiet—soundproofed, probably, given the quality of everything else. He could hear his own breathing, his own heartbeat, and nothing else.

Just him and his thoughts and the crushing certainty that this was a mistake.

They didn't know him. Didn't know his history beyond what was in that deliberately sanitized file. Didn't know all the ways this could go wrong, would go wrong, always went wrong.

Didn't know that he'd been in this exact position four times before, and it had ended badly every single time.

Oh, they knew about the species prejudice—Director Kim had made that impossible to miss. But they didn't know about the rest of it. The pattern that emerged a few months into every placement. The whispers that started when colleagues noticed coincidences, good timing, favorable outcomes around him. The questions about his influence, about whether he was using his abilities inappropriately. The careful, quiet investigations that never found actual wrongdoing but left everyone suspicious anyway.

They didn't know how exhausting it was to be constantly proving you weren't manipulating people when manipulation was supposedly your nature.

Yeosang rolled onto his side, pulling the blanket tighter around himself even though the temperature was perfectly controlled. The fabric was soft, expensive, another reminder that this was temporary. That he didn't deserve this. That soon enough, they'd realize their mistake.

The first placement had lasted eight months before whispers about favorable contract negotiations started. Never mind that he'd simply done his job competently—people saw patterns where they wanted to see them.

The second placement: six months. That time it had been about staff scheduling, about how people who worked with him seemed happier, more motivated. As if basic competent coordination and treating people with respect was somehow sinister.

The third and fourth placements hadn't even made it to six months. People were looking for problems from day one, primed by his species to expect manipulation, influence, inappropriate control.

And now here he was again, starting over with new people who didn't know yet. Who still saw potential instead of liability.

How long until that changed?

Yeosang rolled onto his back again, giving up on sleep. The ceiling was smooth, unmarked, as perfect as everything else in these quarters. Like a blank slate waiting to be filled.

He wondered what Hongjoong and the others were doing right now. Sleeping, probably. Comfortable in their own spaces, secure in their decisions, not second-guessing everything.

They'd seemed kind. Professional, yes, but also genuinely welcoming in a way that Yeosang didn't quite trust because it felt too easy. Too good to be true.

Yunho walking him to his quarters, making conversation, trying to make him feel welcome. That smile, open and warm and probably practiced because he dealt with new people all the time.

And Hongjoong. The way the demon lord had looked at him when he'd been trying to argue against his own hiring. Not annoyed or dismissive, but... something else. Something that had looked almost like concern.

But that was projection. Had to be projection. People didn't genuinely care about employees they'd known for less than an hour. That was just professional courtesy, standard management technique, the kind of behavior you used to make new hires feel valued.

It didn't mean anything.

Couldn't mean anything.

Yeosang wouldn't let it mean anything.

He'd learned that lesson thoroughly enough. Hope was dangerous. Trust was dangerous. Believing that this time might be different was the most dangerous thing of all.

Better to expect the worst and be pleasantly surprised than to hope for the best and have it shattered.

But even knowing that, even armed with years of experience and disappointment, Yeosang could feel that small, stubborn spark of hope trying to kindle in his chest.

Maybe this time really will be different.

He crushed it ruthlessly.

It wouldn't be different. Nothing was ever different. The pattern would repeat because the pattern always repeated, and believing otherwise was just setting himself up for harder fall.

Outside his window, the moon continued its journey across the sky. Hours passed, measured by the slow shift of shadows and the distant sound of the city that never quite slept.

Yeosang lay in his too-comfortable bed, in his too-nice quarters, and waited for morning.

Waited for the moment when he'd have to put on his professional mask again, be perfect again, prove himself again.

The same cycle, just with new people.

He wondered how long this one would last.

And hated himself for wondering, for caring, for that tiny flicker of hope that refused to completely die no matter how hard he tried to snuff it out.

Tomorrow he would be perfect. Professional, competent, indispensable. He would learn their systems faster than anyone expected. Would coordinate their operations flawlessly. Would make himself valuable enough that maybe, just maybe, it would take longer this time before the suspicions started.

Before they realized he was more trouble than he was worth.

Before they looked at him with that particular expression—disappointed but not surprised, like they'd been waiting for the excuse to let him go.

The pattern had become so familiar it was almost comforting in its predictability. At least when you knew exactly how things would fail, you could brace for it. Could protect yourself. Could ensure that when the inevitable happened, it hurt a little less because you'd seen it coming.

Yeosang turned onto his side one more time, arranging himself in a position that might eventually lead to sleep even though he doubted it. Outside, the sky was beginning to show the first hints of pre-dawn lightening. Another few hours and his first official day would begin.

His first day of proving himself. Again.

His first day of being perfect. Again.

His first day of the slow countdown to disappointment. Again.

But this time, he told himself firmly, he wouldn't make the mistake of hoping. Wouldn't let himself believe in the kindness he'd seen in Hongjoong's eyes or the warmth in Yunho's smile or the genuine welcome that Seonghwa and the others had seemed to offer.

Wouldn't let himself imagine that maybe, possibly, this could be the place where he finally belonged.

Because belonging was the most dangerous hope of all.

And Yeosang had learned, painfully and repeatedly, not to hope.

No matter how much that small, traitorous part of his heart wanted to.