Things & stuff

ABBY

The hallway darkens as his massive frame fills it. Broad shoulders, shirtless, hair sticking up. And then he sees the knife in your tiny hand. The blood everywhere. You, shaking and clutching yourself. Blood smeared on the doorframe. Blood streaked down the wood floor. Blood soaking your skin, your clothes, your fingers trembling as you try in vain to press against the wound.

His girl. His sweet little human.

Bleeding out against the front door.

His eyes lock onto you, and in that moment, your chest seizes. You wait for rage. Punishment. The brutal consequences of trying to escape again.

But he doesn’t even look at the door.

“…Oh, fuck.”

In three long steps he’s there, crouching beside you, shadow swallowing yours. He’s so big up close, his presence so much it’s suffocating. His voice is gruff, roughened from sleep, but it’s low. So low it almost shakes through your bones instead of your ears. “Easy. Hey.”

Drip.

Drip.

Drip.

You’re staring at the mess, the red dripping steadily down your arm, the way it stains his bare feet when he kneels in it. You choke on your own sobbing breaths. “I-I’m sorry—”

“Shh.” A huge hand, comes to your face. Not to strike, though the fear makes you flinch anyway, but to steady. His other hand hovers over your bleeding arm, and closes around the wound. His palm is so broad it covers nearly the whole wound, heat pressing into your slick skin as he clamps down. “I’ve got you.”

It hurts like hell. The pressure makes you whimper, body tensing, but he doesn’t let go.

“Yeah, I know.” He mutters, more to himself. “I know, baby. Hurts like a bitch.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, tears leaking out hot and fast. “Are you mad?”

The silence stretches a second too long. Then his chest rumbles with something halfway between a laugh and a snarl. “Mad? At you?” His hand slides down, almost trembling as he adjusts the pressure. “Sweetheart, you think I give a shit about that door right now? I don’t care about the fuckin’ door.” His voice cracks, just a little, buried under grit. “Don’t ask me if I’m mad. You’re all I—”

He stops again. Bites it down.

Your whole body shakes. You’re terrified. “I can’t— I can’t stop it—I just wanted to—I had to—please don’t be mad, I didn’t mean to—”

“I’m not mad. Fuck—sweetheart, I’m not mad at you.” His voice is low, but his eyes are wide, frantic, darting between your face and the wound, pupils blown. The smell of your blood hits him like a brick to the skull. His fangs ache, pressing at his gums, and for the first time in centuries he has to will himself not to lose control.

Not now. Not with you.

His breath is steady as he tries to force rhythm back into you. “I’ll stop it for you. Always. That’s my fuckin’ job, babe. You hear me?”

You nod weakly, though your chest still jerks with panic.

“That’s it. Atta girl.” His massive hand slides the knife away from your fingers, careful. He flips it once, tosses it far across the hall without looking, like it’s a problem already solved. His focus doesn’t leave you, can’t leave you. But he’s shaking like he’s not built of stone, like he doesn’t know what to do.

It’s insane, because he does know. He’s patched up men gutted in battlefields, he’s tied off stumps, cauterized wounds, fixed worse than this with nothing but mud and fire and a shirt. Protocol is burned into him.

But this isn’t a soldier. This isn’t some faceless ally or enemy.

This is you.

And that changes everything.

And you can’t stop crying. Can’t stop shaking. You’ve never heard Abby talk like this. Not like a cocky asshole, but like a man watching the only thing that matters slip through his fingers.

His pressure on your wound is steady, his free hand cradling the back of your head now, careful.

He knows. Knows why you did this. Knows it’s on him. Knows he’s the reason you wanted out so badly you’d risk bleeding out on the floor.

Your breath comes in gasps, but his stays even. He’s forcing calm, you realize. For you. He’s burning alive on the inside, fumbling with the fact that it’s you, but he refuses to show it. If he cracks, you crack, and he knows it.

“Look at me, babe.” He tips your chin up with his knuckle, steady and firm. “You’re fine. I’ve had guys take spears through the ribs and walk it off, alright? You’re tougher than you think. This—” his eyes flick down to the blood, then back to you, locking hard “—this isn’t taking you out. No way.”

Your lip trembles. “I can’t—breathe.”

“You can. You are.” He leans closer, his frame a cage around you, blocking out everything but his voice. “In through your nose. Come on. Just copy me.”

He breathes slow. Exaggerated. You try. Fail. Try again. His hand never leaves your arm.

“There you go.” he mutters when your breath finally stutters into rhythm with his. His eyes are still wide, darting between your face and your arm. Inside, he’s losing it. He knows exactly how much blood that is. He knows how fast it can drain out of you. He knows that he should’ve never let this happen. And the thought of you fading, of you disappearing right here in his hands—

It makes his stomach flip. It makes him sick.

But outside? He’s calm. A fortress.

When you flinch as he presses a little harder, he softens. “I know, I know. Hurts. But you gotta let me. Trust me, babe.”

The world blurs between sobs and shallow breaths and the press of his hand holding your skin together. And even though your arm is screaming, even though your lungs feel too small, some part of you sees it, how Abby’s just as scared as you are.

Not of blood. Not of wounds. He’s seen worse a thousand times.

But of you. Of losing you.

You’re slipping in and out, your eyelids heavy, head lolling against his chest. And he presses his lips, gentle, impossibly gentle, against your sweaty temple, against your damp hair, against the crown of your head.

He doesn’t even realize he’s rocking you slightly.

The sound that leaves your chest isn’t crying. It’s beyond crying, it’s ragged, animal, uncontrollable. Too much breath, not enough air. Your lungs fold in on themselves, and it hurts worse than the cut. You can’t stop the noise, can’t stop the way your throat claws to make it out.

Abby’s already soaked. Your blood streaks across his chest, smears down his abs, stains the waistband of his sweats. “Alright. Fuck it. Come here.”

One massive arm sweeps beneath your knees, the other cradles your back, and suddenly you’re up. Your body folds instinctively, legs wrapping around his waist, arms clutching at his shoulders. The sound of your crying is raw against his ear.

“Shhh. Got you. Got you.” His voice is soft as he can make it, steady when everything inside him isn’t.

You choke on another sob, words tangled and useless. “I—didn’t—m-mean to—”

“I know. I know you didn’t.” He rocks you a little. “You’re fine. We’ll fix it. Just hold on to me.”

Abby’s stubborn. Always has been. Too independent, too proud, the kind of man who refuses to admit when he needs someone else. But he has no choice now. He has no choice but to walk down the hall with you, bleeding himself from where your panicked hands scraped him, but he doesn’t feel it. No choice but slam his knuckles into a door. BANG. BANG. BANG. The wood rattles against the frame.

“JINU!” His voice shakes the hall. “NOW.”

But Jinu’s already there. The smell of blood hit him like a punch the second you cut yourself. He’d thrown himself out of bed, so the second knock hasn’t even landed before his door opens.

His eyes go to Abby. Then to you. In Abby’s arms. Your blood slick and dripping, staining both of you. Your body trembling, breaths shallow, wet with sobs. Your face buried against Abby’s neck, your fingers tangled tight in his skin.

“Inside.” Jinu says. He steps aside immediately, clearing the way into his room.

Abby shoulders past him without hesitation, carrying you. He doesn’t even wait for Jinu to close the door before he’s lowering onto the edge of the bed, still holding you tight against him, refusing to let you go.

You’re gasping into his chest, your cries muffled by his skin. He can feel each one vibrate against his sternum, each shudder of your lungs. And the closer you cling, the more it shatters him.

Jinu goes to the bathroom for that little med kit, and when he comes back he crouches in front of you. His robe hangs loose around him.

Abby tries to put you down onto the bed.

“No—no, don’t—” your voice falls into another sob, your legs tightening around his waist.

Flattering, sure. Normally, Abby would crack some comment, bask in the fact that you’d rather be glued to him than anywhere else. But not now. Not when your grip feels more like desperation than choice.

His lips press into a thin line. He straightens again, holding you in place. “She won’t let go.”

Jinu doesn’t argue, he just motions Abby closer. “Then don’t put her down. I’ll work around you.”

Abby sits back against the headboard so you can stay wrapped around him. His broad chest rises and falls beneath you, steady, like he’s trying to trick you into syncing with his breathing. His palm keeps pressure against your arm, big and firm, refusing to slip even as blood stains his skin.

“Let me see.” Jinu’s voice is calm, panic without raising itself. His hands are precise as he unfolds gauze, opens antiseptic, what the fuck not.

You shake your head, hiccuping, trembling. “Don’t—don’t touch me—”

“I won’t hurt you.” he promises, so low it’s almost a whisper. His hands hover, waiting. “Just let me look. Please.”

Abby’s hand strokes your spine. “C’mon, babe. He knows what he’s doing. Just let him.”

You don’t know if it’s Jinu’s pretty eyes or Abby’s warmth that makes you nod, but you do. Slowly. Hesitantly.

Jinu moves slow and careful. His fingers peel Abby’s bloody grip from your arm just enough to inspect the gash. His jaw tightens, breath hissing through his teeth, but he keeps it under control.

You try—god, you try—to explain, but the words tumble out between sobs, messy. “I—was—door—I wanted—please—”

And Jinu listens. He really listens. Even though none of it makes sense, even though you’re babbling half-sentences through a storm of tears, his gaze stays locked on your face like nothing else exists. He comes closer, careful not to spook you, careful not to move too fast.

“It’s alright. You’re alright.” he murmurs. His hand ghosts near your bleeding arm, not touching yet. “Don’t worry about explaining. I understand. I do.”

You shake your head violently. “No, no, you don’t—I didn’t mean—I just—I—I was trying… the door… the knife… slipped…” You can barely keep it together. Every inhale makes your chest rise in uneven spasms, every exhale ragged and trembling.

“It’s okay.” Jinu says softly. “Slow down. I’m listening. I hear you.” He nods once at Abby. “Tilt her arm for me.”

Abby adjusts you carefully. He keeps one arm locked around your waist, his other hand lifting your injured arm toward Jinu. You whimper, burying your face deeper into Abby’s chest.

“You’re good.” Abby mutters into your hair. His lips brush against your temple. “You’re fine, babe. Just hold on to me. Let him do it.”

You clutch Abby tighter at that, burying your face against his shoulder. He doesn’t say it, but the pressure of his hold does: You don’t let go, then I don’t let go either.

The sting of antiseptic hits, and you jolt, crying harder. Abby’s grip tightens, a steady cage around you. “Shh, I got you. I got you. Bite me if you have to, I don’t care.”

Abby glances at Jinu, tense, massive biceps flexing as he shifts your weight slightly, and Jinu navigates around him, doing what he has to do with that pretty cut of yours.

You whimper, try to pull your hand back, but Abby’s grip is firm. “Shh, babe. I got you. Just a little longer.”

The sound of his voice doesn’t match the way his hands tremble. Doesn’t match the way his throat bobs hard when Jinu presses a cloth to your wound and you hiss in pain.

“Careful.” he snaps, glaring daggers at Jinu.

“I am.” Jinu replies.

And for the first time in a long, long while, Abby doesn’t feel like the biggest thing in the room. He feels small. Because you, bleeding in his arms, matter more than his size, his strength, his war-hardened pride. You matter more than anything.

Abby murmurs in your ear. “I got you. Just squeeze me. Don’t look at him. Just me.”

You whimper, tears hot against his neck, but you do as you’re told.

The room is quiet but for your sobs, Abby’s low reassurances, and Jinu’s calm instructions like: “Tilt her arm this way. Good. Hold her tighter. Don’t move, Y/N. You’re doing well.”

You don’t even register half of it. Your world is Abby’s heartbeat hammering against your cheek, his chest sticky with blood and sweat, his voice rough as he whispers nonsense like “good girl, that’s it, breathe, don’t let go of me.”

But it stings. So much, and you can’t help but flinch away. “Stop—please, stop, it hurts—”

Abby shushes you, but his jaw is set so hard it looks like it might snap. He looks at Jinu over your head. “You’re not hurting her more than you need to, right?”

Jinu’s eyes flick up, annoyed but calm. “I’m doing exactly what I need to. Unless you want her arm to rot off, don’t question me.”

Abby grits his teeth, mutters, “Fuck you.” but doesn’t move. His grip on you doesn’t falter.

Jinu ignores him. Keeps working. Keeps his touch as steady and minimal as possible, even when your cries spike louder. “I know. I know it stings. Just another second. You’re doing good.”

Another swipe. Another whimper. Abby presses his lips to your hair, whispering nonsense.

Your voice weakens, quiet now, a whimper against Abby’s throat. “Don’t let go.”

“Not fucking happening.” Abby growls, raw, and if there’s one thing in the world you can trust right now, it’s that he means it.

Jinu glances up once, meeting Abby’s eyes. There’s no argument, no complaint. Then he goes back to cleaning.

The cut gleams angry and raw, blood still leaking, but slower now. Jinu’s hands are wet, his sleeves rolled up, his face calm as ever. “We’ll need to stitch it.”

Your whole body jerks in Abby’s lap. Your breathing stutters and then spikes into ragged sobs again. You shake your head fast, too fast, like if you deny it hard enough, the whole situation will just be gone. You want to sink into the floor.

“No, no, no, no, no—” You’re babbling, desperate, tugging your arm back. “I can’t—I can’t—don’t—don’t—”

Abby tries to keep you still, his massive hand locking around your wrist, but you’re wild now, thrashing in panic.

“Hey—hey, calm the fuck down.” His voice is rough, trying to sound commanding, but it’s not the same. His grip tightens as you try to wrench away. “Babe, stop. Stop—”

But you don’t stop. The word stitches has rooted itself in your mind, and suddenly all you can see are needles, thread, pain. You fight harder, kicking, clutching Abby’s neck so tight he can barely breathe. “Please! No, please, don’t let him—”

Abby looks up at Jinu like he wants to murder him for even saying it. “She’s fucking terrified, man. Don’t—”

“She’ll get worse if we don’t.” Jinu says coolly, not lifting his gaze from your arm. He reaches for a fresh cloth, fingers calm as ever. “Hold her still.”

That’s it. No apology, no softness. Just command.

And Abby does. He doesn’t want to, but he does, his arm around your waist’s one side and into the middle of your chest, not sexual, just pinning you back against his chest, his other hand clamping your wrist steady. He’s strong enough to hold you even through your panicked thrashing. He mutters against your ear, “Shh—shut up, stop fighting—you’re safe, you’re safe, I got you—” but it’s useless. You’re sobbing harder, nails clawing into his shoulder, trying to bury yourself into him like you can escape through his skin.

“Don’t let him, Abby—don’t let him, please, I’ll be good, I swear—”

It cracks something inside him. His grip almost falters. His heart is slamming against your ribs like it wants out. He looks at Jinu again. “She doesn’t want it.”

Jinu’s face doesn’t move. His dark eyes flicker up, sharp as knives. “She’ll want her arm intact tomorrow.”

The eye contact lasts seconds. Your sobs fill the silence, raw and jagged, your body twisting desperately against Abby’s iron hold. Finally, with a guttural sound, Abby squeezes his eyes shut and pins you tighter, letting Jinu work.

“Fuck—just do it quick.”

Jinu doesn’t nod. He doesn’t agree. He just prepares. Thread, needle, alcohol. He lays them out, precise, and the sight of it tips you into full panic.

“No! Please—please, Abby, don’t let him—don’t—” You’re gasping so hard you can barely breathe, your voice shrill and ruined. “I’ll die, I’ll die, don’t let him—”

Abby’s heart rips in half. He presses his forehead into your hair, his voice hoarse: “You’re not dying. You’re not—fuck—you’re fine, babe.” But you’re not listening. You’re trembling too violently, sobbing too hard.

And Jinu, for all his coldness, notices. His hand pauses above the needle. He watches you, not the cut, not the blood, you. The frantic way you claw at Abby’s chest, the way your voice breaks on every begged “please.”

He exhales slowly through his nose. Puts the needle down.

“…Closures.” he says finally. “We’ll use closures. No needle.”

The relief is instant but shaky, your sobs collapsing into hiccups, your body still trembling but not thrashing now. You sag against Abby like you’ve just been pulled from drowning.

Abby’s head snaps up. “Then why the fuck didn’t you say that first?”

Jinu ignores him. He already has the butterfly closures in hand, sterile and ready. His calm fingers peel one open, align it over the wound.

You flinch, whimper, but it’s not the needle terror anymore, it’s tolerable, barely. Abby presses his mouth against your temple, muttering low, steady nonsense to keep you still: “There you go, babe—just a little longer—fuck, you’re doing so good—so fucking good—”

Jinu works fast now, laying strip after strip across the cut until it holds together, until the edges are neatly closed. He presses the last one firm, then wipes the blood away one final time.

“It’s done.” he says flatly.

You sag completely, the fight draining out of you all at once. Your forehead falls against Abby’s collarbone, your body trembling with the aftershocks of panic. Abby’s arms lock tighter around you. He’s shaking too, though he won’t admit it, his whole massive body wound tight with adrenaline and leftover terror. He kisses the top of your head.

Jinu cleans the last of the blood from your skin. He doesn’t speak again, doesn’t argue. But when he looks up, just for a second, his gaze lingers. Not on the cut. On your face, slack with exhaustion against Abby’s chest. On Abby’s massive arms curled around you like steel.

It’s over.

Your cheek presses against Abby’s chest. His skin is warm, tacky with sweat and streaked faintly with your blood, but his heartbeat is steady. A drum under your ear. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He shifts you in his lap, settling you higher, arms sliding under your thighs and back until you’re cradled against him like a child. And he bounces you just a little. A steady rocking motion. A subconscious instinct, maybe, like how one might soothe a baby. His lips brush your hair when he mutters low. “There you go. That’s it. It’s over.”

Your eyes burn again, too raw for fresh tears. Your face must look fucking horrible, puffy, streaked, swollen. He studies you, tipping his head down.

“Look at you.” he murmurs, his voice still hoarse from everything that just happened. “Pretty even like this. Puffy face and all.”

All you can do is breathe, shaky and uneven, pressed against his chest while his massive hands adjust their hold.

Then, finally, he exhales. “Let’s go to bed, babe.”

He stands, lifting you with no effort, your legs dangling but still weakly curling around his waist. His shoulder flexes under you.

Jinu looks at Abby. “Don’t let her pull at the wound. She needs rest. And fluid.”

Abby pauses in the doorway, glancing back. His jaw tightens, but he nods once. “Yeah. I got her.”

And then it’s just Abby carrying you down the hall.

The place is quiet, but not still. You hear it, the faint shuffle of someone shifting at the far end. You lift your heavy head just enough to see them.

Three shadows gathered by the wall.

Romance, shirtless, his hair mussed from sleep, worry on his beautiful face. Mystery, leaning with his arms crossed. Baby, further back, a bottle still in his hand, his thin frame silhouetted against the faint glow of a lamp. All three of them are watching. You, limp in Abby’s arms. Blood on his chest. Your face swollen from crying.

Abby doesn’t stop walking. His jaw is set, his eyes forward, his arms around you tighter than ever. He doesn’t give them a glance. Doesn’t give them the satisfaction of acknowledgment. Like they don’t exist.

You can’t even hold onto him properly anymore, your hands are loose on his shoulders, your body pliant against his chest. The smell of him floods your senses. His heart still pounds, faster than normal, betraying him, but his expression when you glance up is carved from stone.

When he finally nudges open the door to your pretty room, the shadows of the other boys vanish behind you. The door clicks shut. And suddenly, it’s quiet again.

He lowers you onto the bed slowly, but when he tries to slip his arms free, your fingers clutch weakly at his skin. A reflex, automatic.

“Babe…” His voice is soft. Cautious.

You shake your head against the pillow. Small, frantic, a silent don’t.

Abby stares at you for a long moment. His throat bobs. Then, wordlessly, he shifts onto the bed beside you. Lays down on his side, pulling you against him again, your head tucked beneath his chin. His arm locks across your waist, a promise that nothing will touch you again tonight.

The silence stretches. Your breathing evens, shallow but steady.

Finally, he murmurs into your hair, words so quiet you almost miss them: “Scared the fuck outta me.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. Sleep is dragging you under, the panic crash leaving you heavy and half-dreaming. But Abby stays awake. His massive body curls around you protectively, his chest rising and falling slow, forced steady. His eyes fixed on the door like he’s daring anyone else to come near.

It’s over.

ROMANCE

He rounds the corner, voice light as ever. “Sweetheart, you know, it’s way too late to be—”

And then he stops. A sharp inhale. The dead halt of his voice.

When you look up, he’s frozen in the hall. His whole world drops out from under him in an instant.

Blood. His girl. His love. On the floor.

“…No.”

It’s not the knife he notices. Not the escape attempt. Not the screws half-loosened on the door. It’s you. You, pale and trembling and drenched in scarlet. You, wide-eyed and crying. You, his girl—his whole fucking world—bleeding right there in front of him.

He’s on you in seconds. So fast it barely registers. One hand rips the knife from your shaking fingers, flinging it across the room with a metallic clang. The other cups your face, firm, demanding you look at him. “Hey—hey. Look at me. Look at me, love.”

You choke out another sob, twisting weakly in his grip. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean—don’t—don’t be mad—”

“Mad?” His voice breaks on the word. “Mad? Baby, no. No.” His breath is ragged. His hands shake against your skin. “I could never be mad at you. Never. You hear me?”

But he doesn’t know what the fuck to do. Not a clue. For centuries he’s been every monster in the book, every lover, every destroyer, every playboy. But a girl he loves bleeding out at his feet? A girl he can’t lose? That’s brand new.

“Okay, okay, okay.” he mutters, more to himself than you. His hands leave your face only to press against your arm, over the wound, trying desperately to stop the flow. “Hold still. Just—fuck—just hold still, sweetheart, I got you, I promise I got you—”

But his palms come away slick and red, and his stomach lurches.

The smell is everywhere. Metallic, sweet, overwhelming. It drives into his skull like a drug. He can taste it at the back of his throat. And god, some dark, disgusting part of him wants it.

But you’re crying.

And that kills the thought before it can form.

Because you’re not food. You’re not prey. You’re his girl. His reason for breathing.

“Shhh, love, shhh—don’t cry, don’t cry, baby girl, please, please—”

You shake your head, tears streaking. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes you can. Yes you can. You’re fine, you’re fine. You’re so strong, you’re my strong girl, okay? Just stay with me. Just keep looking at me.”

His hands are everywhere at once, clumsy and desperate. One keeps pressure on your arm, the other smoothing your hair back, cupping your cheek, stroking your jaw. He’s trying to be gentle and firm at once, trying to be everything you need.

Trying to be a man.

His eyes are wild, darting between your wound and your face. He can’t even mask the panic now. Not from you.

“I’m sorry.” you hiccup, voice so small. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—”

His shirt is ruined, his hands painted red, his chest heaving with every breath. But he doesn’t care. He doesn’t even see it. All he sees is you.

Both of you panicking is not a good combo.

Romance is terrified. You can see it in his eyes, wide and frantic, darting over your face. His breathing is ragged, shallow. For a man who always smirks, always jokes, always flirts like it’s the only language he knows, he looks like the world is ending.

And maybe it is.

But then, he forces himself to breathe. To sit up straighter. To swallow down the fear like he’s swallowing glass. He can’t let you see him like this. He can’t let you believe you’re already gone.

So he mans up.

“Shhh, baby girl. Hey, hey—” His voice is low, coaxing. He cups your face again. “You’re okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you. Just stay with me, sweetheart, alright? Look at me. Don’t look at anything else.”

Your eyes flicker down, to the mess of your arm, to the blood smeared over both of you.

“No.” he whispers sharply, tilting your chin back up. “Eyes on me. Always me. You’re safe. I’ll take care of you. I promise.”

But promises won’t stop the bleeding. Promises won’t get you patched up before you pass out.

And for once, Romance knows sweet words won’t cut it.

He replays it in his head, fast and frantic. The first night they arrived here, months ago. He’d wandered every room, nosy as hell, rifled through closets and cabinets, memorizing where the good stuff was, food, alcohol, blankets, mirrors. He knows he saw a med kit somewhere.

Where?

Fuck. Fuck. Why isn’t his brain working? Why can’t he remember? Why is his head so fucking empty? He needs to think. He needs to move.

“Okay, angel.” he murmurs, shifting his weight, sliding an arm carefully under your shoulders. “We’re gonna get up now, yeah? Just lean on me. I’ll carry you if I have to.”

You shake your head, weak, terrified. “I can’t—I can’t—”

“Yes you can.” He doesn’t let you argue. He presses a kiss to your temple, firm, decisive. And then he moves you. One strong arm hooks under yours, pulling you upright. Your legs wobble, nearly buckle, but he’s there, bracing your entire weight against his side. His other hand grips tight around your waist, holding you.

“Good girl.” he breathes, almost to himself. “That’s it. That’s it, love. Just a little further.”

Step by step, he walks you down the hall. Your blood streaks across the floor, drips in steady drops behind you both. His shirt is ruined, darkened and sticking to his skin, but he doesn’t care. He can only focus on moving you, on keeping you upright, on murmuring soft words into your hair.

“You’re so strong. Stronger than me, even. Knew you were. Knew it since the day I saw you.”

“That’s it. Lean on me. I got you. My strong girl. My sweet girl. Just a little more, okay?”

“Don’t close your eyes. Keep looking at me, yeah? So pretty when you look at me.”

“Shhh. Just a little more. I’ve got you. We’re gonna fix this. I promise, love, I promise.”

You don’t fight him. Maybe because you can’t. Maybe because deep down, as much as you hate them, you know if anyone can keep you alive right now, it’s these monsters.

And then—thank god—the sound of other footsteps. Abby is first, towering in the hall, shoulders squared like he’s ready for a fight. But his eyes snap to the red soaking your arm, your shirt, the trail you and Romance have left behind.

His face drops.

“Shit.” His voice is deep, cutting. “What the fuck happened?”

Romance doesn’t answer. He can’t.

Baby appears next, bare feet padding on the floor, a bottle still in his hand, his hair wild. The second he registers the scene, he sobers instantly. His smirk dies.

Mystery follows, tense, the way his posture stiffens betraying how badly he wants to lunge forward.

And last, Jinu. Barely visible in the dim light, leaning in the doorway, expression not visible. But his eyes… his eyes see everything.

Romance’s throat is tight. “She’s bleeding. Bad.”

No one hesitates after that. Abby steps forward fast, scooping you out of Romance’s grip like you weigh nothing. You let out a startled cry, weakly reaching back for the man you’d just been clinging to.

Romance didn’t want to give you away. Every cell in his body screamed to keep holding you, to never let go. But your legs are giving out, your eyes rolling back, and Abby’s bigger, steadier, capable in ways he can’t be right now. So he lets go. And it’s like ripping his own heart out. Every muscle screaming to take you back, but Abby is already moving. Baby drops the bottle on the floor and bolts. Mystery is already following Abby, steady and focused.

Jinu doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just watches, dark eyes tracking every inch of you. He knows you don’t want him close.

Romance should follow. He should go with you, make sure they don’t fuck it up, make sure you know he’s still here.

But he doesn’t.

He can’t.

He looks down at himself.

At his arms, slick and dripping. His hands, painted to the wrists. His chest, smeared with your blood. And suddenly, he can’t breathe. He’s gutted people before. Split them open, painted whole rooms in red. He’s lived centuries bathing in blood that wasn’t his. But this, this is yours. The girl he worships. The girl he swore to protect. The girl he loves with the kind of madness that makes a man dangerous.

Your blood is all over him.

And it’s wrong. It’s so fucking wrong.

He freezes in the middle of the hall, legs locked, chest heaving. His hands tremble uncontrollably as he stares at them, at the proof of how fragile you are, how close he came to losing everything.

He wants to follow. He wants to shove Abby aside, be the one to patch you up, kiss your tears away, tell you it’s okay.

But he can’t move. He’s stuck in place, horror rooting him to the floor. The blood trail glistens on the floor under the dim light.

Romance stands there, empty-handed, as the love of his life is taken from his arms. His shirt clings wetly to his chest. It’s in his hair, on his skin, inside his fucking head.

His stomach turns over. He’s never hated himself more.

Because some twisted, ancient part of him wants to taste it.

Fuck. No. No, no, no.

From down the hall, he hears your muffled cries. Abby barking orders. Baby’s footsteps across tile. Mystery’s quiet voice.

He should be there. He should be at your side. But instead, he’s stuck, back pressed to the wall, shaking like he’s been gutted himself. He can’t move.

Jinu lingers. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even look at Romance directly. Just a flick of his eyes, a silent acknowledgement, before he disappears down the hall after the others.

Leaving Romance alone.

Alone with your blood.

From far away, he hears them working, water running, drawers opening, Abby’s low rumble, Baby cursing under his breath. He hears your whimpers, the shaky sound of your voice, and every one feels like a knife to his chest.

But he can’t step closer.

“Good job.” he mutters bitterly to himself. “Fucking good job, Romeo.” His head tips back against the wall. He closes his eyes, but the image burns there anyway, your face pale, your tears, your blood spilling because you were trying to leave him.

He can’t even blame you.

Not for wanting out. Not for running. Not for hating him.

But if he loses you, if he really loses you, he knows there won’t be anything left of him worth saving.

BABY

He appears at the edge of the hallway, shirtless, pale skin glinting under the low light, a bottle in his hand that he immediately lets thunk onto the little table by the wall as his eyes find you. And… he stops. For once in his spoiled, bratty, cigarette-stained existence, he has nothing sharp or snide to say.

His eyes flick from the door, to the blood streaks, to the knife, then to you, shaking, crying, clutching your arm.

“Fuck.” he mutters under his breath, and it’s not aimed at you. Not this time.

He drops to his knees, quick, skidding a little against the floor, his hand immediately grabbing for the knife where it’s half-kicked under you. He pries it out of your trembling fingers, tossing it far down the hall with a clatter.

“Jesus Christ—stop, stop, stop, don’t—don’t squeeze it like that—” His words stumble, harsh but clumsy, the way his always are. His hands are frantic. They’re already on you, fumbling, trying to peel your bloody grip away from the wound, muttering curses under his breath, half to himself, half to you. “Why the fuck—you can’t—fuck, you’re bleeding—”

You choke, sobbing harder, jerking against the door. “I-I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, I d-didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“Shut the fuck up.” he snaps, but it’s weak, not cruel. His voice cracks halfway through, and it’s the first time you realize, he’s panicking too. Baby. The one who always lounges with his smug face, kicks at Abby just to be a pain, downs liquor like it’s soda, he’s panicking. And not about the door. Not about the knife. Not even about your little escape attempt. He’s panicking about you.

Your sobs only break harder, the apology spilling out like your blood. “I—I didn’t mean to—Baby, I didn’t—I’m sorry, don’t—don’t be mad, please don’t—”

But he cuts you off by grabbing your face, smearing more blood on your cheek as he forces you to look at him. His eyes are wide, fierce, but there’s something else in them too, something you’ve never seen before.

“I’m not mad.”

It’s sharp. Absolute.

And it shuts you up.

Your breath hitches, a messy hiccup, and you just… stare. Wide-eyed.

Baby swallows, visibly, like it’s hard for him. His hand trembles on your jaw, and he jerks it back down to your arm instead, pressing the heel of his palm hard against the gash.

You scream at the pressure, and your whole body jolts.

He winces, literally flinches like your pain just stabbed him. “Fuck, I know, I know.” he mutters, voice low, desperate. “But you’ll bleed out if I don’t—fuck—”

And he holds it there. Firm. Unrelenting. His skinny little frame leaning all his weight into stopping your blood from leaving you.

“Why the fuck would you—fuckin’—do this shit—”

“I just—I wanted—”

“You wanted out?” he snaps, cutting you off, and your tears come harder.

But then he sees it. The way your face crumples. The way your whole body shakes. And his own mouth falters.

“…Don’t cry.”

It’s quiet. Not harsh. The softest thing he’s ever said in his fucking life.

Your breathing hitches again, and you can’t even answer, you’re too busy choking down sobs, gasping.

Baby looks like he’s choking too. His face twists, tight and unsure. His eyes flicker everywhere, your wound, your face, the blood around you. His lips part and close again, like he wants to say something, like he needs to, but doesn’t have the words.

Your lungs can’t get air the way they’re supposed to, everything inside you feels jagged, and the pressure on your arm hurts so much you want to claw at your own skin just to distract yourself. And yet, your body does something you’ve never done before. You lean. Not away. Not toward the door. Toward Baby.

Your head drops, shaky and clumsy, right onto Baby’s shoulder. Your forehead presses against his collarbone, and your whole weight shifts until you’re leaning into him. Your shoulder knocks against his skinny chest, your forehead finding the edge of his collarbone, your whole trembling frame seeking him.

For the first time since you’ve known him, you don’t pull away.

You go towards.

“Baby…” your voice cracks, raw, small. You don’t even know what you’re asking for. Maybe nothing. Maybe everything.

Baby freezes. His palm is still clamped hard against your arm, sticky with your blood, and his other hand, hovering stupidly in the air, finally lands on your back, splayed awkwardly, unsure if he’s supposed to hold you or just… keep you steady. He stares down at you, his mouth twitching, his brows pulled low. His eyes, normally so sharp, bratty, smug, look almost… startled.

He rolls his eyes. And it’s not at you. It’s at himself. He knows what he has to do. And he hates it.

He’ll have to get one of the others.

He has to do the one thing he hates most, rely on Jinu or Abby. Because Baby doesn’t know shit about fixing wounds, not really. He knows how to tear skin, not sew it. He knows how to pour a drink, not disinfect a cut.

And if he stays here, if it’s just him and you, you’ll bleed out against his chest.

His gut twists. But he’s not stupid. He’s selfish, bratty, spoiled, cruel, but not stupid. He knows you need more than his clumsy hands. You need someone who knows how to stitch, to clean, to not just sit there bleeding out on the floor like you are now.

Still, when he shifts, when he tries to peel himself away from you, your good hand grabs a fistful of his skin.

“Don’t—” you choke out, raw. “Please, don’t go.”

It guts him.

It guts him.

Baby. The boy who kicks Abby for fun, who laughs at Jinu’s irritation, who smiles and laughs when people cry, Baby feels his whole heart split in two. You’ve never said that to him before. Never begged him for anything except distance. Never looked at him like this, clinging, desperate.

And now you don’t want him to leave.

He tries to cover it up, rolling his eyes like it’s no big deal, like your fingers on his skin aren’t searing him straight through. “You’re a pain in the ass, you know that?” he mutters, voice cracking just slightly. But his heart, his rotten, selfish, candy-stealing heart, is breaking in his chest.

Because for the first time, you want him.

And for the first time, he has to walk away.

He forces himself to pry your hand off, finger by finger. His movements are rough, but if anyone looked closer they’d see it, his knuckles trembling, the way his lips part. He pulls back harder this time, prying your hand off him. His jaw clenches as your fingers slip, leaving a faint streak of red on his skin.

And you look at him. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Your eyes say everything: Please. Don’t leave me.

He curses under his breath, looking away, like maybe if he doesn’t see you, it won’t hurt as much. But it does.

“Fuck.” he mutters, dragging his hand over his face. His other hand presses one last time against your wound, hard, trying to slow the bleed. “I’ll be back.”

And then he drags himself up. Literally drags, knees cracking, palms red with your blood, stumbling to his feet like gravity doesn’t want to let him go.

Your eyes, wide and wet, track him as he smears blood on his thighs. His own breath is uneven, his face a little too pale, and he doesn’t look at you when he says, “Don’t fucking move. Don’t make it worse.”

And then he leaves you there.

You can hear his footsteps echo down the hall, faster now, urgent, but the second they fade, you’re left in alone.

Baby didn’t want to leave. You saw it, in the twitch of his eyes, in the way his hand lingered a second too long. And it makes no sense. He’s a spoiled brat, selfish, rotten to his core. But he didn’t want to leave you. And that hurts almost worse than the knife.

Baby walks down the hall, his bare feet sticking against the floor where your blood tracked behind him. He scrubs his palm against his shorts, frustrated, muttering every curse he knows under his breath.

He’d steal candy from a baby and laugh at its cries. He’d mock anyone, spit at anyone, flip them off and walk away. But not you. Not this time.

And then a door opens.

Abby steps out. His muscles flex as he rolls his shoulders, casual like he’s just getting up from a nap, but he’s in feral mode, because the smell of blood woke him. Blood. Your blood.

And there, not ten feet away, stands Baby. Baby’s body is stained, hands painted with your red, streaks drying against his pale skin. His chest is heaving, each breath loud in the silence. With his knobby shoulders tense and his thin chest rising sharp. Forearms slick red. Pale hands painted in the smear of you.

The two of them lock eyes.

And for one second, the world stops.

Because Abby thinks he hurt you.

But then he sees Baby’s expression. And Abby doesn’t think. Doesn’t breathe. Doesn’t even blink, just growls low in his throat, and he bolts. To you. He shoulders past Baby like he doesn’t exist.

And Baby—spoiled brat, selfish bastard, liar, thief—he keeps his promise. He comes back to you.

The scene at the front door is worse than Abby expected. You’re crumpled against the wall, knees bent, back pressed to the wood. Blood streaks the floor beneath you in thick, ugly trails. Your arm—your poor, fragile arm—is still leaking, sluggish. You’re pale. Breathing hard. Tears streak your cheeks. And the knife, the knife you used to betray yourself, is still lying inches away.

Abby’s at your side in less than half a second, crouching, big hands already reaching for you, checking, searching, assessing. “Fuck.” His voice is rough, guttural. “Fuck, sweetheart. What did you—what the hell did you do?”

Baby’s shadow appears behind him, slower. He knows Abby’s thinking that maybe Baby did this. He just says, low: “She did it herself.”

“Don’t—don’t look at it.” Abby tells you roughly, not paying attention to Baby. His huge hands move fast but careful, pulling your wrist up, clamping his palm over the wound to slow the bleed. His grip is iron, steady in a way Baby’s couldn’t be. “Look at me. Just me.”

You can’t. Your vision keeps darting, panic tugging at every nerve. But Abby won’t have it. His free hand grabs your chin, not cruel, but firm, tilting your face up toward his.

“Hey. Me.” His eyes bore into yours, unblinking, relentless, then he looks back at Baby, clearly expecting some words.

“I was here first.” Baby mutters, unsure of what Abby wants from him. “I—I didn’t know what the fuck to do.”

For a second, Abby wants to roar. Wants to shove him against the wall, demand why the hell he didn’t fix it immediately, why he left you like this even for a second. But then he sees the way Baby’s fists clench at his sides. The way his lips tremble once before he bites down hard to stop it. The faint wobble in his stance, like his legs don’t trust him to stand.

Abby rips the hem of his own sweatpants clean off with one violent tear, fabric splitting under his grip like paper. He threads the cloth around your arm, tight, tying it high, staunching the blood. He’s done this before, too many times. “You look at me, sweetheart. Right here.”

But you don’t.

You’re looking at Baby.

At the brat standing uselessly behind Abby, his bony hands painted in your blood as he comes down next to you, his hair falling into his eyes.

Abby pulls at the cloth. You whimper when the pressure bites into your skin, but he doesn’t ease up. And without thinking, your free hand reaches.

For Baby.

Your fingers catch his. Cold. Thin. Shaky.

And you hold.

You hold his hand, clutching it with everything you have left.

Baby blinks.

He’s been touched before. Plenty. Shoved. Pushed. Grabbed by the wrist. Smacked upside the head.

But never like this.

Never held.

And for a second, just a second, the brat disappears. The sneer, the smirk, the spoiled cruelty, gone. All that’s left is a boy with his heart split wide open because someone finally reached for him.

He lets you have his hand.

“Keep pressure here.” Abby mutters, shifting slightly, pressing Baby’s hand over the tied wound so he can get more strips of fabric ready.

Baby stiffens. “What—”

“Do it.” Abby’s tone brooks no argument. “You want to help? Then fucking help.”

Baby swallows hard. And then, slowly, carefully, he presses his free palm against your arm. And for the first time ever, his touch isn’t selfish.

Abby works quick, his big fingers surprisingly gentle as he ties and re-ties the cloth, presses down to stop the bleeding. “Easy. Breathe. I’ve got you, love. It’s fine, you’re fine.”

And you sob through it. Your body shakes. Tears streak down your face. You lean into Abby’s hold, but your hand never lets go of Baby’s.

But then Abby’s had enough. He sees how pale you’re going. Sees your knees slipping against the floor. Sees the blood still dripping, slow, stubborn.

And he doesn’t hesitate.

“Shhh. Shhh, I got you.” he murmurs, so low it barely makes sense coming from his mouth. His hands move to cradle the back of your head, his other arm sliding under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing at all. “Up you go, sweetheart. Easy, easy.”

He scoops you up.

You sob.

Not from the wound. Not from the movement. But because when Abby lifts you, your hand slips out of Baby’s.

“No—” Your voice cracks, desperate, tears spilling over. You twist weakly in Abby’s hold, eyes wild. “Wait—wait, please. Can he—Can Baby come too?”

Abby freezes mid-step.

Behind him, Baby’s mouth drops open. His chest feels weird. Tight. Like someone’s squeezing his ribs from the inside out. And he wants to say something cocky. Something bratty. Of course you want me. Who wouldn’t? But his throat doesn’t work. All he can manage is to take one shaky step closer, his bloodstained hand hovering useless at his side.

Abby adjusts his hold. “Alright. Alright, he’s coming. I’ll fix you up, and he can sit right there. Yeah?”

You nod against his chest.

He looks at Baby. “But keep the fuck out of my way.”

Abby adjusts his hold on you, tucks your head closer into his chest, and starts down the hall again. “Come on, brat.” he mutters. Low. Rough. Almost… begrudgingly soft.

And Baby follows. For for the first time in his rotten, spoiled, fucked up life, someone begged for him.

The bathroom lights are too bright. They burn your eyes, cold and clinical, bouncing off white tiles. Abby lowers you onto the counter beside the sink, one giant arm still bracing behind your back until he’s certain you won’t topple over. You feel weightless in his grip, and when he finally lets go, you cling instinctively to the only anchor you have left.

Baby.

His hand. Again. Still tacky with blood, slippery and warm, his thumb rubbing awkward circles against your palm.

Abby keeps muttering under his breath, like you’re a kid again. “Shh. I know. I know it hurts. Just a bit more. You’ll be fine, love. Just a scratch, hm? Breathe for me.”

And you do breathe. Because Baby’s hand is there. His fingers are awkward, too thin, bones sharp under skin, but they’re warm. You can feel his pulse, thudding fast, too fast, like he’s the one bleeding out.

Abby adjusts you on the counter. His big hands frame your knees so you don’t wobble. He’s shirtless, muscles flexing as he tears away the soaked strip of fabric he tied earlier. The wound opens again, spilling fresh, hot red over your arm.

You choke on a sob, clutching Baby’s hand tighter.

The door creaks.

“Fuck.” Abby growls. “Not now.”

But it’s Jinu. Hair messy, in that fuckass robe he has. He takes one look at the scene, blood, you, trembling, Abby looming, Baby pale and shaking, and his whole expression changes.

“Fuck me.” Jinu mutters under his breath, stepping in, closing the door behind him. His gaze snaps to Abby. “How bad?”

“Deep.” Abby grits. His hand tightens around your elbow to keep it still. “Not gushing, but it’s a mess. Needs cleaning. Stitches, probably.”

At that, your whole body lurches. The sound that comes out of your mouth is pitiful, half a sob, half a scream. You shake your head violently, trying to wrench your arm away, trying to curl in on yourself. “No, no, no, please—don’t—”

And your hand clamps harder on Baby’s. You’re searching his eyes.

Save me.

Please.

Jinu crouches down to pull the first-aid kit from under the sink. He flips it open, tossing out antiseptic, gauze, whatever shit he needs idk about these, a little packet of butterfly closures.

Abby shoots him a look. “Stitches.”

Jinu doesn’t argue immediately. His eyes flick to you thrashing against Abby’s grip, to your death grip on Baby’s hand, to your wild, pleading eyes.

He sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “…Butterflies.”

“Won’t hold.” Abby warns.

“They’ll hold enough.”

You don’t understand the words being tossed around, you only hear “stitches” “hold” and you’re panicking again, heart racing, chest tightening like you can’t get enough air.

Jinu sighs. “Abby, hold her arm steady.”

Abby does, his big hands wrapping firm but careful around your forearm, keeping it still against the counter. “Easy. Easy, little thing. Just hold still. Won’t take long.”

But you’re still whimpering, still trembling.

The antiseptic stings like fire.

You cry out, jerking against Abby’s hold, but his grip is iron. Jinu works fast, but you still thrash, whimper, try to yank away. Your nails dig into Baby’s palm, sharp enough to hurt, but he doesn’t flinch.

Every time you jerk, Abby murmurs, “Easy, doll. Easy. Almost done. You’re doing good.”

But no matter what they say, no matter what they do, your hand never leaves Baby’s. Through it all, through every sting, every burn, you’re locked on Baby. Your hand in his. His awkward face, pale and tense, trying so hard not to fuck this up.

When the last closure is pressed down and gauze wrapped carefully over the wound, Jinu finally leans back. His face is calm, impassive, but his shoulders sag with relief. “That’s it.”

Abby releases your arm slowly, cautiously. He adjusts the wrap once more, his huge fingers brushing careful circles over your skin like he doesn’t want to let go.

They’re all so strong. So capable. So terrifying. They can be gentle when they want, sure, manly in that steady way that makes you ache with unwanted admiration. But the one you reached for, the one you clung to, was Baby. The asshole. The brat. The boy with the sharp tongue and the skinny ribs and the alcohol bottles stashed under his bed.

Because when it came down to it, he stayed.

And he let you crush his hand until your knuckles ached.

After a little more talk between the boys that you don’t quite catch, Abby carries you out of the bathroom, his chest streaked with dried blood. You’re limp against him, exhausted from the pain, cheek pressed against his shoulder.

And Baby follows. Only until the door of your room, though. He watches Abby settle you into bed, careful, tucking the blankets around you. Watches your lashes flutter shut, your breathing evening out.

And only when Abby pulls the door closed does Baby finally back away. His palms are sticky. His throat is dry. He smells like blood, like you.

And he can’t breathe.

The shower is on before he even realizes he’s moving. The water pounds against tile, steam clouding the glass, fogging the mirror.

He strips, throws the bloodstained clothes in the corner, steps under the spray. It’s too hot. It scalds his skin, reddens it, makes him hiss. But he doesn’t turn it down. He scrubs. Hard. Fingernails dragging over his arms, his chest, his neck. He scrubs until his skin burns raw, until rivulets of pink swirl down the drain, until the water stops smelling like iron.

But it’s not enough.

Because when he looks up, the fogged glass still shows his reflection.

And god, he can’t stand it.

That face.

His own.

He looks like a monster.

Worse, he looks like himself.

He should’ve left. He should’ve walked away when he first saw you bleeding at the door. Should’ve laughed, should’ve called the others, should’ve kept his distance. That’s what Baby does. That’s who he is. But he didn’t. He knelt. He touched you. He held your hand.

Baby’s chest aches, remembering the sound of your voice. The way you said his name. His stomach turns. His throat tightens. He hates that he liked it. Liked your hand clutching his. Liked the way your eyes found his through the pain, desperate, pleading. He liked it too much.

He rakes both hands through his wet hair, pulling hard, until his scalp burns. He wants to crawl out of his own skin. He wants to smash the mirror to pieces.

But he doesn’t.

All this because of a cut, mind you.

MYSTERY

He appears at the end of the hall, hair all messy. His expression doesn’t change much when he sees the scene in front of him, but his body does. A flicker of tension in his shoulders, a deep breath. He sees you. The ruined doorframe, the knife gleaming red in your hand, the slick trail down your arm, your wide, panicked eyes, your whole body trembling. Sees the blood, smells it, and no matter how much it riles him up, he’s conscious enough to know now’s not the time.

For one heartbeat too long, the world holds still. And in that second, you expect him to snap. To grab you, shake you, drag you back by the hair, yell about how stupid you are, how pathetic. That’s what you’ve been trained to brace for. Even if they fell in love with you since that and became much more gentle, in situations like this, that instinct can’t help but come out all over again.

But he doesn’t. He’s moving, straight toward you. Fast.

You whimper and stumble back against the wall, words tumbling out of you without thought: “I’m sorry—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—please don’t—”

But he’s not listening. He drops to his knees in front of you. His hand shoots out, and before you can stop him, he’s prying the knife from your slippery fingers. He tosses it across the hall, far out of reach. It clatters loud, but you can’t even flinch at it because he’s already on you again. He grips your wrist, firm but not cruel, peeling your trembling hand away from the gash so he can look at it. His jaw tightens when the blood wells up fresh.

Your sobs are choking you. “I didn’t—I didn’t mean—”

“Shhh.” It’s the first sound he makes. Barely audible. He takes his shirt off. He folds it quick, presses it against your wound, hard. His hands are steady, strong. Yours aren’t. You’re shaking too bad to even keep pressure right.

“You—y-you’re angry—”

He shakes his head firmly. No. Then, softer: “Breathe.”

But how? How are you supposed to breathe when you’re drowning inside your own chest, when the air feels like knives, when the smell of copper is filling the hall and your vision’s blurring at the edges? “D-don’t—” You choke on the words, trying to shrink back, tears streaking your cheeks. “I’m sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—”

You’re terrified he’s going to yell, call the others, punish you for the escape attempt. You expect cruelty, like always. You expect teeth bared, mocking laughter, a shove, a grab, a rope. You can’t help it.

“Stop.” he finally says.

You freeze, your sobbing hitching into hiccups. Your voice is small. “You’re… you’re not mad?”

“No.” He doesn’t let go of your arm. Not even once. He just keeps pressure, ignoring the blood soaking through his shirt, staining his skin. He looks at you. “…Scared of me?”

You blink at him, tears catching in your lashes. “…Yes.”

He just nods once, as if he expected it. As if he deserves it. His eyes drop back to your arm. But then, softer: “…Don’t be.”

His shirt is already soaked through. He adjusts it, folds the fabric tighter, holds it there. He’s done this before. Too many times.

Your voice breaks, small. “I’m sorry.”

He shakes his head again. That same silent no. Not angry. Not at you. “Breathe.”

You try. You really do. Inhale, shudder, choke, exhale. Doesn’t work. You’re too dizzy. Too hot. The tang of blood is filling the air and you know he smells it and still, he hasn’t bared his teeth.

“Hold.” he murmurs, pressing the shirt into your more.

You blink through tears, barely processing, your free hand curling into his bare shoulder without thinking, gripping him. You try to hold the shirt like he told you to, tears blurring everything, blood seeping through his shirt, but he’s already shifting closer, tucking himself against you so your injured arm is pressed firm to his chest, his body heat forcing stillness into yours.

You’re shaking, gasping apologies into his bare skin. He doesn’t tell you it’s okay. He doesn’t tell you it’s not. He doesn’t use words at all anymore. Just steadies you, over and over, with pressure, with the calm of someone who’s seen worse and refuses to let this end badly.

When you sag against him, too dizzy to hold yourself upright, he adjusts easily, like he was built for this, like your weight is nothing. He gathers you under one arm, your injured arm still pressed against his chest, and pushes himself up from the bloody floor.

Effortless. Strong.

Your feet barely skim the ground before he steadies you into standing, one of his hands braced firm around your waist. He doesn’t falter, not once, even with crimson dripping down his side from your wound soaking his shirt.

“Walk.” he says simply, a soft command at your ear. And you do, because he’s guiding you. The doorframe, the knife, the blood, all of it blurs behind you as he half-carries, half-leads you down the hall.

You can’t stop trembling at how gentle he is. How automatic. How he didn’t even think about the escape attempt. Only about you.

Your bare feet drag against the hallway floor as Mystery half-guides, half-carries you down the hall, his shirt bunched around your arm and soaking through dark. Your breathing is a stutter, uneven, broken by sobs you’re trying not to make but can’t stop. Every step is a miracle you’re upright at all.

A door clicks open.

Romance.

His head peeks out first, his hair mussed, robe slung loosely around his shoulders, his chest bare underneath. His expression is ready to tease, ready to smirk, but then he stops. Stops dead. You. Against Mystery’s side, trembling, covered in blood, the trail smeared across the floor.

And the hunger dies. Instantly.

His face changes so fast it’s terrifying. His whole chest tightens, his throat constricts, his pretty mouth pulls tight. He stumbles into the hallway, robe dragging, his hand clutched at his own chest like he can’t breathe.

“Baby—” His voice cracks. Actually cracks. He takes three hurried steps forward, already reaching for you with hands that tremble.

Mystery shifts instantly, his body tightening, pulling you back against him with an instinctive growl low in his chest. His arm is solid across your stomach, keeping Romance from even brushing you.

Romance’s panic only spikes higher. His eyes shine, wet, his jaw trembles. “What—what happened, what did—? You’re—” His voice stumbles into nothing. His hand hovers like he doesn’t even know where to touch you, terrified of hurting you worse. He swipes at his face furiously. “Don’t cry—please, don’t cry, it’s okay—shhh, my love, my heart, it’s okay—Fuck, you’re so pale—Mystery, she’s so pale, oh god, she’s—”

Your breath hitches, your chest shuddering. His panic only mirrors yours, amplifies it. You can see tears running down his cheeks already.

“Not helping.” Mystery’s hand tightens against your waist. He doesn’t even glance at Romance as he says it.

Romance hovers, wringing his hands. “Please, let me—let me hold—”

“Back.” Mystery growls it, low and threatening, and when Romance tries to step closer, Mystery shoves him. One-handed, hard to the chest, enough to send him stumbling back against the wall. “Jinu.”

Romance immediately understands what he means. He chokes out a curse, then stumbles down the hall, already shouting, voice cracking as he slams his fists against Jinu’s door.

“Jinu! Wake the fuck up—Jinu, now! It’s Y/N, it’s bad, fuck—”

Him doing this bullshit on Jinu’s door would actually be so hilarious if the situation wasn’t so serious.

Mystery just holds you tighter, steady as stone, and keeps the pressure on your wound, because that’s what matters.

The seconds stretch like hours before Jinu’s door slams open. Romance is a mess in the hallway, hair sticking to his damp face, chest heaving with frantic breaths, and Jinu walks out in his robe, his hair disheveled around his face, but his eyes are sharp, awake in an instant.

He doesn’t even hesitate when Mystery shifts you forward, just slips under your arms, guiding you into him like you weigh nothing.

“Got her.” Jinu mutters. One second, you’re against Mystery’s stone-like chest, the next you’re swept into Jinu’s hold. “There we go.” he murmurs. His focus is entirely on you as he slides his arms under your armpits and lifts you with practiced ease. “Got you. Easy, easy.”

Your head lolls slightly against his chest. You’re dizzy, half-drained. You blink up at him. “Hi.”

Jinu looks down at you, and his mouth twitches, caught between a smile and a grimace. Then he exhales softly, short and fast. “Hi.”

He shifts his grip, tucking you close against him, one arm around your back, other under your pretty ass. You gasp, the air suddenly cold as Mystery’s shirt falls, but Jinu only tightens his hold, pressing you against his chest.

Romance huffs beside him, and you catch it even through the haze of your tears. He swipes at his wet cheeks, and when Mystery finally stands, wiping his bloodied hand down his own thigh like it’s nothing, Romance throws him a look, wet, biting. It’s all silent, but the message is clear. You gave her up? Just like that? You giver her to Jinu but not me?

Mystery doesn’t rise to it.

Your breaths are ragged, stuttering, panicked. This is too much. It’s nice that Jinu holds you, but god, it hurts. You whimper, clinging to him weakly. He shushes, dipping his head to murmur against your hairline: “I’ve got you. That’s it. Just me. You’re safe.”

Safe. What a lie.

You don’t even register the way there, just that Jinu kicks his bathroom door open with his heel, walks inside, and sets you down on the counter. The bathroom is too white, too clean. It makes the blood on your arm look worse, almost obscene against porcelain. Jinu has already rolled up his sleeves, calm as ever, his robe hanging open at his chest. He looks like this isn’t his first time with blood and injury, which it isn’t.

“Hold her still.” Jinu says smoothly, not even glancing up as he twists the cap off the antiseptic bottle. His voice is unshaken, clinical. “If she jerks when the needle’s in, we’ll have a real problem.”

Needle.

You don’t even think, you lunge to the side, to anywhere but here, to anywhere that isn’t Jinu’s hands. But Mystery’s arm hooks around your waist, dragging you back against his chest like you weigh nothing, pinning you in place. His hair falls in his face, hiding his expression, but his strength is brutal.

“No—! Let me go, please—” Your voice cracks, high and raw. You thrash against him, clawing at his arm, kicking out desperately. Your heel slams into the cabinet beneath the sink with a dull thud.

Romance is there in a second, and he grabs your kicking legs, pinning your thighs down against the counter with his weight. You shriek, twist, but he’s stronger than he looks when he has purpose.

“Shhh, baby, baby, baby—” He tries to soothe you even as he wrestles you into place. “I know, I know, it’s scary, I hate it too—shhh, my pretty girl, it’s okay—”

“Get off me!” Your foot jerks, catching Jinu’s hip just as he leans forward with the needle in hand. He doesn’t even flinch, just scowls, a sharp flash of irritation across his perfect face.

You sob, twisting your wrists against Mystery’s iron grip, but it’s useless. He’s immovable.

“I can’t, I can’t—I can’t—” Your chest heaves, your vision swimming. “Please, don’t—don’t stitch me, please—”

Mystery’s arms tighten, pressing you back against the mirror. His chest is solid, heat radiating off his bare skin. His breath brushes your ear, even if his voice never comes.

“I know, I know, my love, I know you’re scared—but you have to trust us, please—” Romance is begging, even as he restrains you, his thumbs stroking over you.

“Jinu, please—” You’re still crying, still shaking, your entire body trembling under their hands.

But Jinu isn’t looking at you. He’s looking at the wound, at the blood.

He threads the needle.

You scream before it even touches you. The sound rips through the small bathroom, your legs kicking, back arching, anything to get away.

Mystery locks your hips in place, iron against your thrashing. Romance folds himself over your arms, cheek pressed against your hair, murmuring desperately even as you cry beneath him.

“Shhh, shhh, baby, don’t—don’t fight, it’ll hurt more if you fight, I swear it’s almost over, he’s fast, he’s good—” His words tumble over themselves, panicked, frantic. “I’ll kiss it better, I’ll kiss every inch of you better, just stay, please, stay for me—”

Jinu presses his palm flat on your thigh to hold you still from sliding off the counter.

“Please—please, no—I’ll be good, I’ll listen, just not that—please, please, Jinu, please.”

Jinu finally looks at you. He sees it, that you’re not just afraid, you’re gone, hysterical, ready to claw your way through the mirror if it means avoiding that needle. He exhales, long and slow.

“…Fine.” The needle clatters back into the medkit. Relief floods your chest so fast it makes you dizzy, your knees giving out. Mystery’s grip loosens a fraction.

Romance loosens his grip a little, stroking your thigh instead, whispering, “See? No needle. You’ll live. He’s not such a bastard, hm? He wasn’t gonna stitch you. It’s okay, pretty baby, it’s okay…”

“Butterfly closures.” Jinu mutters, tearing open a packet. “Less secure, but…” He glances up at your face, then shakes his head. “…better than watching you claw me to death. Stop moving.”

You nod furiously, swallowing back sobs, willing yourself to stay still.

Jinu dabs antiseptic over the wound and you jolt violently, a strangled scream ripping out of you. “Hold her still.”

Mystery does. He cages you completely, his arms locked around your middle, pinning you to the marble counter.

You try to kick again, but Romance blocks it, leaning all his weight onto your legs. He kisses the inside of your calf, murmuring nonsense sweet things, too much, too fast, but at least it keeps you from collapsing into pure panic.

Jinu works quickly. The little adhesive strips press across your wound, pulling the skin together, and the tight pinch makes you hiss through your teeth.

And then Romance changes. Something clicks in him. He straightens a little, still holding your leg, but his voice grows steadier. “Hey, Y/N.”

You’re still crying, head turned away from the sharp sting of Jinu’s hands.

Romance tilts his head, tries to catch your eye, voice softer. “Look at me, sweetheart. Not at him. At me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you do. Through blurred lashes, you meet his gaze.

He smiles. “See this asshole?” He nods at Jinu, who doesn’t even blink at the insult. “Biggest prick alive. He could’ve stitched you just to be a bastard. But he didn’t. Which means…” His grin grows, a little wobbly, a little wild. “You win. You totally won this round.”

Something shakes out of you, half a sob, half a laugh. It’s tiny, but it’s there.

Romance lights up instantly, relief breaking across his face like sunrise. “There she is. My pretty girl, my gorgeous thing—look, you’re still glowing even with tears on your cheeks, you know that?”

You shake your head weakly, voice rough. “I look horrible…”

“No.” he says firmly, without hesitation. His hand squeezes your calf. “You’re perfect.”

Jinu mutters something under his breath about talk less, hold more, but Romance ignores him, grinning wider when you breathe out another small, shaky laugh.

The pain is still there. The panic still sits heavy in your chest. Mystery still has you in an iron cage against his chest. But somehow, with Romance talking nonsense and Jinu’s hands finally gentling now that the wound is closed, it feels, just barely, bearable.

Romance leans closer, voice dropping into that cooing tone he uses when he’s trying to charm the whole world. “There’s that smile. Knew I’d get it out of you. Look how pretty you are, still prettier than any of us.”

You sniffle, cheeks heating, and Jinu makes a noise low in his throat, clearly disapproving. “Romance—”

“What?” Romance says innocently, tossing his hands up. “I’m distracting her. You want her crying again, or you want me to keep being the funny one while you play mad scientist?”

And somehow, against everything, the tension breaks. Mystery’s grip loosens enough that you can feel his warmth, his strength without the crushing weight. Jinu keeps working, butterfly closures neat across your arm, his hands steady but softer now. And Romance keeps talking, ridiculous, crude jokes about Jinu’s handwriting on the medical chart that doesn’t exist, about how if you scar, he’ll draw a heart around it every morning with eyeliner so you never forget how beautiful you are.

And you, god help you, you smile through the tears.

By the time Jinu tapes the last strip down and tapes fresh gauze over it, your face is damp, your throat raw, but you’re not panicking anymore. Romance’s chatter fills the space, soft jabs at Jinu, little jokes, reassurances whispered just for you. He doesn’t stop until the supplies are packed away, until Jinu finally steps back and mutters, “Done.”

Mystery loosens his hold at last, but not fully. His hand stays on your side. Romance raises from your legs softly, brushing blood from his palms, and leans in close, his nose brushing your temple.

“You were so good for us.” he murmurs, his lips ghosting against your damp cheek. “So fucking good. My brave girl.”

You don’t answer. You can’t. You’re too wrung out, too exhausted, too sore. But when your lips twitch upward, just the tiniest, tiredest smile, Romance presses a kiss to your hair, and Mystery finally lets you breathe again.

“Now.” Jinu says. “What happened?”

You swallow hard. “I… I was trying the front door. And—I had a knife, but it slipped. It wasn’t—it wasn’t supposed to…” Your throat tightens, guilt thick in your voice. “It was an accident.” Silence settles, thick and humming, until you force yourself to continue. “…Mystery was there. He—he helped.”

At that, Mystery shifts back slightly, still bracing you, but his head turns just enough that you catch the faint flush coloring his cheeks beneath the curtain of hair. He looks away almost immediately, as if embarrassed to have been mentioned at all.

Romance notices, of course. His mouth curls into the faintest smirk. “Of course he was. Our Mystery always knows when to swoop in.” He kisses your cheek, then lowers his voice to a soft murmur meant only for you. “But I’m glad you told us, pretty thing.”

Jinu exhales slowly, tension leaking from his posture. He gives a curt nod, clearly filing the incident away. “Good. We’re done here.” He wipes his hands.

Romance slides his arm beneath yours and eases you off the counter, guiding you down like you’re porcelain. “C’mon, pretty girl.” he murmurs, already coaxing you toward the door. “Enough of Dr. Jinu in here. You’re coming back to bed.”

You let him, too tired and rattled to argue. Mystery’s grip lingers for a moment, reluctant, before he lets Romance take you fully. His hair falls back into his face, hiding whatever expression had threatened to show.

Romance keeps an arm snugly around your waist, almost possessive, as he leads you out of Jinu’s bathroom and room. The two of you step into the hallway, and waiting there, leaning like predators against the doorframe, are Abby and Baby.

They look ready to kill.

Abby’s huge frame takes up the left side of the hall, arms folded, eyes narrowed. His expression is the kind that could send men running without a word. Baby is beside him, shirt half-buttoned, brows pulled low as his gaze zeroes in on you, then on Romance’s arm wrapped around you.

For a second you forget how to breathe, tucked against Romance’s side. And then, with a tiny, shaky courage, you look up at them and whisper “…Hi.”

Abby’s entire face softens in a snap, like flipping a switch. His arms fall to his sides, his mouth breaking into something almost warm. “Hi, babe.” he says back, deep voice suddenly syrup-sweet.

Baby lifts his brows, mouth twitching into a quick little straightening of his lips. Wordless, but clear as day: hey.

But it doesn’t last, because both of them turn their eyes, furious, on Romance. The softness evaporates.

The shift is so fast it’s hilarious.

Romance, to his credit, doesn’t falter. He glares right back, chin tilted high, his own fury lit up behind his eyes. His grip on you only tightens, pulling you snugly against his side. He glances down at you. “Alright, sweetheart. Bed.”

He shoots Abby and Baby one last look, before turning on his heel and guiding you down the hall. Mystery follows silently behind, as though daring anyone to interfere.

You can still feel Abby’s glare burning into Romance’s back. You can still sense Baby’s eyes.

Romance’s hand rubs slow circles on your hip as he leads you back toward your room. The door to your room clicks softly behind you, Mystery’s hand lingering on the knob before he lets it fall. The three of you are quiet as Romance guides you across the space, his palm warm and steady against your back, your arm tucked protectively to your chest. Every little wince you make is a knife to him, it’s all over his face.

Derpy lifts his head from the floor the moment you appear, yellow eyes glinting in the low light. He rises with a low chuff, padding toward you, tail flicking like he can smell the wrongness in the air. Sussie stirs on your table, feathers ruffling.

You’re pale, exhausted, wrung out from pain and panic, but still stubbornly upright. “I can walk.” you murmur once, voice papery-thin, but Romance only hushes you.

“I know, baby. But let me.” Romance guides you right to the mattress, lowering himself with you. “Easy.” he murmurs, even though you’re already moving slow. “Easy, sweetheart.”

Mystery doesn’t speak. He simply steps past Romance, pulls back the blankets, and with one smooth motion, helps you sit down.

And then you’re down. On your bed. Hugging the big pillow to your chest.

Romance kneels down beside you, his hand sliding up to cradle your bicep. “God, baby.” he says softly, almost a whisper. “You scared the hell out of us. Thought my heart was gonna tear right out of my chest when I smelled blood.” His voice cracks a little on blood. He hides it with a quick, shaky laugh.

You want to apologize again, but your throat won’t let you. Instead, you just curl into yourself, dragging your pillow closer, hugging it against your chest.

Romance watches you tuck in, watches your pretty lashes lower, your cheek press against soft cotton. His hand slides gently over your uninjured arm, fingers gliding featherlight, then settling to caress your upper arm in the faintest, sweetest strokes.

God, you’re too much. Too much for both of them.

“I didn’t—” Your throat is raw, your voice cracking as you try to explain. But what comes out isn’t useful at all. “I was just… the door looked… mean.”

Both boys pause. Mystery’s head lifts a fraction.

Romance makes no attempt to hide the way his lips curl into a pretty smile. “The door looked mean.” he repeats, and nods. “God, you’re so right. You’re always so right, sweetheart.” His hand slides down your arm, warm, reassuring, soothing each time you flinch. “The meanest door in the world. Hate that thing.”

You blink at him, dazed, your mouth tugging into a weak, confused smile. “Meanest door.” you mumble.

“That’s right.” he coos. “You tell me next time, yeah? I’ll beat the shit out of it for you. You just sit pretty, I’ll handle the doors.”

Mystery huffs softly, which is a little laugh, though he doesn’t add anything. He just stands, pulling back slightly to give you space.

They’ve seen blood before. Oceans of it. But yours, god, yours nearly sent them to their knees.

“…Jinu… Jinu’s always—always with his little… little angry hands.” you mutter. “Like… ‘Abby, fix this door, Abby, fix this, don’t… don’t drink, Baby,’ like—like, who put him in charge of the… kitchen…?”

Romance doesn’t laugh. He nods solemnly, as if you’ve just uttered profound truth. “You’re so right.” His thumb presses another slow line up your arm. “Exactly, sweetheart. Exactly. You’ve got it.”

You blink at him, dazed. You don’t even know what you said, but he does. He always does. “Mmh… Jinu…” you mumble into your pillow. “An’ Abby… Abby’s, mmh… Abby’s Baby—f-fuckin’ Baby…” The rest dissolves into unintelligible hums. “Mmh… hmm mmh.”

Romance’s lips curl into a wide smile. “Yeah, baby, I know. Abby’s fucking Baby.”

Your brows furrow, confused by your own sentence. “No—no he’s not—he’s just—” you trail off into soft, garbled syllables that don’t even form words.

Romance doesn’t correct you. He keeps caressing your arm, keeps whispering: “You’re right, you’re so right. Smartest girl alive.”

Mystery shifts at the foot of the bed. When you murmur Jinu’s name again in some half-dream tone, his jaw ticks. But he doesn’t interfere. He just stands there, silent, while Romance feeds you comfort.

The babbling slows. You turn your face into the pillow Your lashes flutter closed, and you look so impossibly small like that. Fragile. Hugging the oversized pillow to your chest as though it can shield you from the entire world.

Romance just stares. He can’t help it. You look so small, so soft, so human. His throat burns with words he can’t say, how badly he wants to curl up with you, how badly he wants to be the one you reach for in your dreams.

Mystery exhales quietly. But then he touches Romance’s shoulder, which means: enough. Time to go.

Romance drags the blanket a little higher over your shoulder, tucks it in under your chin. “Sweet dreams, baby.” he murmurs, softer than a sigh. Then he rises to his feet, casting one last long glance at you, memorizing the way you curl around the pillow, the way your lips twitch faintly in sleep.

They back out together, step by soft step, careful not to wake you.

They saw you.

For a moment, the world stilled. The stage lights, the chaos of the crowd below, the burn of demonic energy ripping through the air… it all fell away the instant their eyes landed on you.

Jinu’s breath caught, his chest twisting painfully as though the soulbond itself had constricted. No. She can’t be here. His mind reeled. How had you slipped past the barrier? Had you been watching their performance, their sin, their descent into the very thing they tried to shield you from?

You looked up at them, the glow of the stage painting your face with fractured light. Pain lived in your eyes, yes, but also something deeper. Something that burned through his fear. Is that… love? Could she love us still, after all this? After what we had done?

And then he saw the determination carved into your features, the kind of resolve he had only ever seen in soldiers before they leapt into death. It broke him open. 

Haneul’s blood roared in his ears. All he saw was you. Small, fragile, too close to the fire. His body itched to move, to run to you, to grab you and haul you back where it was safe. He wanted to scream until you listened.

How long have you been here? Did you see us? Do you know what we’ve done, what we’ve become? His chest heaved with fury and terror all tangled together. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was you. Your safety, your life. The rest could burn.

Seoha’s mind fractured between disbelief and awe. The threads of the bond pulsed painfully, reacting to your presence. She came. Even after everything. She came to us. He searched your face for hatred, for disgust, but what he saw instead was unbearable: pain, yes, but threaded with tenderness.

She still feels something for us. For me. That thought alone nearly sent him to his knees.

Hwimori trembled, torn between relief and devastation. His soul throbbed like it wanted to leap into yours. She came back… she didn’t run from us… she still— But the thought was too dangerous. His claws flexed uselessly at his side. He could smell your scent from here. The look in your eyes shattered him.

Why are you here, sweetheart? Why would you put yourself in this fire?

Seungho’s gaze cut sharp and cold, but his chest was a battlefield. He memorized every detail, the determined set of your jaw, the trembling light in your eyes, the way your hand balled into a fist at your side. She looks like she’s ready to die. Rage boiled in his veins. No. I won’t let her. Not her. Not again.

His hands curled into fists as the bond seared red-hot in his chest.

And then Rumi stepped forward. Her patterns lit like molten silver across her skin, glowing brighter with every heartbeat. Her voice, steady and resonant, broke the silence like a crack of thunder.

“Nothing but the truth now.”

The hymn was not human, it was something older, deeper. Magic pulsed from her throat and wrapped itself around your body, through your veins, igniting your fingertips until your very eyes burned with its iridescent light.

You walked beside her, every step echoing with the thrum of song and spell. It wasn’t just sound, it was a current, raw and endless, tethering to your soul and pulling you forward.

“Nothing but the proof of what I am.”

Jinu’s eyes widened as realization crashed through him like lightning. He staggered back, horror rising in his throat. The beginning note Rumi sang, the hunter’s oath, and now the song to awaken and… you. All steps he remembered decoding himself from Daehyun’s old journal.

The ritual. She’s doing the ritual. And Y/N… she’s here to complete it.

Memories slammed into him, Rumi’s mother convulsing, her body tearing, screams drowning in white fire. The smell of blood. His own voice roaring as he begged it to stop.

“No…” Jinu’s voice cracked. Not again. Not her.

The others felt it too. Panic. Rage. Terror. They had known of this ritual. Jinu had told them of the option before they had gone on stage today. And they had agreed never to touch it. Too dangerous. Too costly. And too late. And yet here it was, unspooling before their eyes with you at its center.

“Y/N!” Haneul’s bellow tore through the stadium, primal and furious. He was the first to lunge, claws sharp at his sides.

“The worst of what I came from, patterns I’m ashamed of Things that even I don’t understand—”

But as he charged, Gwi Ma’s shadow slammed down on them.

The boys collapsed mid-stride, writhing, as the demon’s hold coiled like chains around their chests. Pain exploded through their bodies, searing down their spines. They clawed at the stage, gasping for air, muscles seizing under invisible force.

“Y/N!” Their voices broke, desperate, as they tried to drag themselves toward you.

“I tried to fix it, I tried to fight it My head was twisted, my heart divided My lies all collided I don’t know why I didn’t trust you to be on my side—”

Your body lurched forward, instincts screaming to reach them. To tear them out of the fire, to put yourself between them and their suffering. But Rumi’s hand shot out, gripping your arm with iron strength.

“Don’t.” Her voice was harsh, urgent. Her eyes blazed as she hissed, “This is what Gwi Ma wants. To use them to get to you. To stop this. Don’t give him what he wants.”

Your throat clenched. The sight of them, your boys… writhing in agony clawed at your chest. You couldn’t breathe. Every instinct screamed to go to them, but Rumi’s grip held you fast.

“Y/N!” Haneul’s roar cracked like a whip, his voice thick with pain. The sound of it made your tears spill over.

“I broke into a million pieces, and I can’t go back But now I’m seeing all the beauty in the broken glass—”

The boys’ eyes locked on you, terror in every line of their faces as they watched the magic blaze brighter inside you. They could feel it… if this continued, it would consume you.

Jinu groaned, dragging himself up inch by inch, his body trembling with effort. Around him, the others clawed their way forward, desperate to reach you before it was too late.

And still Rumi’s body glowed, the patterns racing brighter across her skin.

“The scars are part of me, darkness and harmony My voice without the lies, this is what it sounds like—”

And then, another voice. Clear, ringing, from the left side of the stage.

“Why did I cover up the colors stuck inside my head?”

Zoey. She strode onto one of the platforms, her voice carrying strength and conviction. The moment her note joined, something jolted inside you, like a vessel slowly filling, your soul pressing against the seams of your body.

But Rumi felt it first. The resonance. The shift. Her knees nearly buckled with relief. She joined. Even after what I did… she’s here.

The note wasn’t just a harmony, it was forgiveness stitched into melody. It was Zoey saying I still believe in you, without words, without conditions. A lump rose in Rumi’s throat, threatening to choke her mid-song, but she forced the hymn forward, channeling the light in her chest. She trusts me again… she trusts me enough to stand beside me.

And from the right, another voice, solemn and strong:

“I should’ve let the jagged edges meet the light instead.”

Mira. She walked the other runway, her voice weaving seamlessly into the song.

Rumi’s chest cracked wide open. Mira, the one who had looked at her with suspicion sharper than blades, the one who had always carried questions in her eyes. And yet here she was, singing anyway. Lending her power, her belief, her voice to complete the ritual Rumi had begged them to risk.

They should hate me. They should have left me to burn with my lies. But they didn’t.

Her throat tightened as the harmony wrapped around them all, golden threads weaving through the air, binding the three of them in song. It was more than magic. It was mercy. They had chosen to sing with her, even when she had nearly destroyed everything. Even when she wasn’t sure she deserved it.

And that broke her in a way no demon ever could.

The three voices blended. Rumi, Zoey, Mira… into a harmony so raw it felt like the world itself tilted to listen. It wove around you, through you, a song of truth and unmasking. Completion. Activation.

“Show me what’s underneath, I’ll find your harmony The song we couldn’t write, this is what it sounds like—”

Rumi’s tears blurred the stage lights. She kept singing, because she had to, but her heart ached with gratitude so fierce it nearly split her chest open. They had shown up, for her, for you, for all of them.

I don’t deserve them. I don’t deserve this trust… but I won’t waste it. Not this time.

Your lungs seized as they carried out that last harmony, you gasped, body shuddering with the sheer force of it. Rumi’s hand crushed your wrist, eyes locked on your face in alarm.

And then she saw it. The glow in your veins, spreading like wildfire. Your eyes, burning iridescent… the same living colors of the Honmoon.

She didn’t need words. She saw your nod and she understood. Continue. 

“Stop the song!” Gwi Ma’s voice cracked like glass through thunder, reverberating across the stage until the ground itself seemed to tremble. His fiery shadow bled outward, flames licking like living chains, slithering across the floor as if the world itself bent to his fury.

The earth split. And from the chasm poured them… hordes of demons clawing their way into existence. They surged like a tide, faceless and shrieking, their bodies bent at grotesque angles, black mist dripping like rot from their mouths. Some skittered on all fours with insect speed, others towered high, spindly-limbed monstrosities dragging talons against the ruined stage. All of them reeked of hunger.

Your breath died in your throat. The train.

The memory struck like a blade: the screech of steel, the lifeless eyes of the passengers, the press of bodies and claws. You had cowered in fear that moment until your lungs shredded, yet the horror had chased you still. Every sound, every shadowed figure before you now ripped open the scar. Your body remembered before your mind could deny it. The helplessness, the inevitability of being cornered.

No. Not again. Your knees buckled.

Rumi stepped in front of you in a flash of steel. Her arm swept in a practiced arc, summoning her hunter’s blade, the light of it singing as it carved against the darkness. She planted her stance firmly, shielding you, her presence solid and unshakable even as chaos bled from every corner.

And still, the song carried on. Voices unwavering against the storm like they had done this countless times before.

“We’re shattering the silence, we’re rising, defiant Shouting in the quiet, you’re not alone—”

“No!” Jinu’s voice rang raw and ragged, snapping the air like a whip. The sight of you standing there, terror stark in your eyes, trembling from old scars, fed the wildfire inside each of them. Their devotion twisted into something monstrous: an obsession that burned hotter with every heartbeat you suffered.

They couldn’t bear it.

Jinu’s lungs heaved like bellows, each breath burning as the restraints dug into his arms and chest. The shadow-chains cut into his skin, leaving streaks of black fire, but still he pulled, veins bulging at his temples, muscles trembling with the effort. His mind spiraled with a single certainty, a mantra that drowned out everything else: she is mine to protect, always, only mine. Every time your eyes flicked toward the demons, every shiver that raced through your body, the vow rooted deeper into his bones. He would tear himself apart before he let you be touched.

Haneul’s chest cracked beneath the weight of his vow, his ribs straining against the feral roar he bit back. His arms strained against the shackles, shoulders wrenching forward as if brute strength alone could drag him to your side. His teeth ground until they bled, copper flooding his mouth, but the pain only reminded him of his oath: never again, never again will she bleed while I breathe. The memory of you in another life, blood on your lips as death consumed you, seared hotter than any restraint. His body shook, not from weakness, but from fury kept barely caged.

Seoha’s laughter fractured, a sound as raw as it was hysterical, spilling through clenched teeth as he writhed against the binds. His voice broke again and again on your name, a song of devotion that came out shattered. Every chain that held him was a mockery, every second stolen from him a cruelty he could not endure. His wrists twisted, skin splitting, yet still he thrashed like a man possessed, his heart chanting the truth he clung to: she thinks she is free, but her heart already belongs to me. Even bound, he felt it, your pulse fluttering in terror through the bond, and the madness of wanting you only tightened its grip.

Seungho’s silence was sharper than any roar. His gaze sliced like a blade, cold and gleaming, narrowed on every demon that dared step closer to you. His hands curled into fists until the nails bit through flesh, blood dripping down his palms unnoticed. The shadows tightened around his neck, but he did not thrash. He waited, coiled, every muscle tensed like a predator about to strike. In his mind there was only one promise, clean and vicious: no one looks at her, no one touches her. If they try, I will cut them apart piece by piece. His stillness was more terrifying than his rage.

Hwimori trembled, his whole body vibrating with suppressed instinct, every vein lit with the bond’s feedback of your terror. He could feel it… your heartbeat racing, your breath snagging in your throat, the way your soul recoiled from the horde. Each sensation gutted him alive, until his own ribs ached as though they housed your fear. His lips peeled back, a low animal growl rumbling in his chest, the restraints digging into his skin as he twisted against them with jerks too sharp to be human. Her pain is mine. Her terror is mine. I’ll kill them all if I have to. His eyes burned red, the beast inside him clawing against his skin, desperate to be freed.

Madness bloomed between their ribs, uncoiling and unstoppable, because you were theirs. And the sight of you caged in fear broke something inside each one of them, a fissure that no power on earth could mend. The chains might have bound their bodies, but their obsession had already broken free.

Zoey’s enchanted blades snapped into her hands, gleaming silver as they cut the air. Mira’s Moon Blade shimmered with captured light as she spun it forward, its arc slicing like lightning. Their voices didn’t falter.

“We listened to the demons, we let them get between us But none of us are out here on our own—”

They moved like a storm. Zoey’s knives whistled, each one burying into shadowed flesh with perfect precision. Mira’s blade carved long arcs, every strike spilling darkness like ink.

And Rumi… Rumi did not yield. Her sword danced with merciless grace, each motion a strike in a song of survival. She carved demons down with a fluidity that was beautiful and terrifying. Black mist painted her skin, but her stance never faltered.

You stared, stunned. This was Huntrix. Their true selves. Not idols, not girls who only sang, but killers who sang through the bloodshed. It was terrifying. It was awe.

A pang pierced your chest. They saved me on the train. They’ll save me again. Even after everything… I can trust them.

The boys strained against the chains, their bodies arching and muscles searing as if their very souls were being shackled. Each kill the girls had made, each demon that dared to try to get close to you had made them nearly mad with fury. Shadows writhed around their limbs, biting deep, but their resolve only sharpened. They would not… could not, stay bound while you stood in danger. 

Huntrix was strong. But the amount of demons was just too much. They wouldn’t dare leave your safety in anyone else’s hands but theirs.

“Let us go!” Jinu’s voice thundered, raw with desperation, the sound reverberating across the stadium. His eyes blazed gold as he glared at Gwi Ma, each word a sword drawn against him. “You keep me from her. You keep me from protecting what is mine!” His chest heaved, every vein in his neck straining against the force of his fury. There was no more logic left. Only desperation.

Gwi Ma’s laughter slithered like oil through the air, “Pathetic little things,” he sneered, his voice like grinding stone. “You think you can change the ending? You let them come in and attempt what I already told you would fail? The girl will die, as she always dies. And this time, you will watch her burn.”

Jinu’s jaw clenched, the cords in his throat trembling as he pulled harder, the chains rattling under the weight of his wrath. “I didn’t plan this. I was doing everything like you asked!” he spat, grunting in frustration as shadows flared. “You don’t understand what she is to us. You never will.”

Your scream sliced through the chaos, high and terrified. Demons surged around you, teeth gnashing as their black forms crowded closer.

“No!” Haneul’s roar cracked like thunder. His eyes widened in anguish, his body arching so violently against the restraints that blood poured from his wrists. “Not her. Don’t you touch her!” His voice cracked on the last word, breaking through the air like a prayer laced with fury.

Hwimori’s gaze found you through the smoke. The moment he saw your frightened expression, the trembling of your lips, the glassy wideness of your eyes… something inside him broke. He felt it, your fear vibrating down the soulbond like barbed wire. They all did, but for Hwimori it was unbearable, primal. It stripped him of reason, left him only with instinct. Loyal and ferocious. A dog that had been caged too long, now watching his master threatened.

“No… no, no, no…” Hwimori shook, every muscle jerking as his body smoked. His skin blistered with heat, his eyes wild. “Stop!” His voice cracked with a guttural growl, spit flying past his tusks as they forced their way out of his mouth, elongating, sharp and gleaming in the firelight. His back arched, bones snapping under the strain of transformation. “Don’t touch her!” he bellowed, voice deeper, almost unrecognizable.

The boys turned their heads toward him, eyes flashing with both worry and awe as they saw him unravel. Black smoke poured from his skin, swallowing his form until he loomed larger and larger, his body contorting. Claws erupted from his hands, his frame stretching into something massive, monstrous. With a guttural roar, Hwimori’s body exploded into a towering fox-beast, nine tails lashing, his fur a swirling mass of shadow and mist. His eyes burned blood-red, locked only on you.

The beast had awoken.

The chains shattered like glass around him. Hwimori broke free with a sound that was neither beast nor man but something hungering between the two. His massive head swung toward the demons, and he lunged, scattering them with the force of a storm.

Seeing him break free, the others writhed harder, their rage twisting into strength. Seungho’s eyes cut like knives as he let blood drip freely from his torn palms, willing the chains to snap. Seoha’s throat bled with broken laughter as he screamed your name, thrashing so violently his restraints cracked. Haneul’s vow burned through his chest like molten fire, his muscles tearing as he ripped at the binds.

And Jinu… Jinu’s glare fixed on Gwi Ma, golden eyes glowing like suns. His voice dropped, low and trembling with something ancient. “There’s one thing you’re mistaken about.” Shadows cracked around him, his body trembling as the chains split thread by thread. He bared his teeth, his body blazing with light as he finally tore through the dark restraints.

“You think we’re bound by your fate,” he snarled. “But we are bound only to her. And nothing, nothing, will take her from us again.”

“So we’re not heroes, we’re still survivors,” 

Huntrix sang, their voices weaving through the air like steel and silk combined. Mira’s moon blade flashed, Zoey’s enchanted knives spun silver arcs through the air, and Rumi’s sword cut clean as a bell note. Every strike harmonized with their song, every twist of steel igniting the magic that surged into you. Demons fell like wheat to a scythe, the girls’ voices rising into something divine.

But more portals ripped open. From the blackened ground behind you, a crack split wide, glowing red with fire and stinking of sulfur. Shadows surged. You didn’t notice until you heard it, the splitting of stone, the guttural hiss of breath.

Slowly, you turned… and your heart stopped.

Your eyes widened in pure horror as towering demons lunged toward you, hulking things with serrated jaws, skin split by glowing fissures, and arms twisted into blades. Their bodies crawled with writhing worms of shadow, and their eyes were voids, endless and hungry.

“RUMI!” you gasped, voice splintering with terror.

“Watch out!” Mira and Zoey’s voices pierced through the air.

But Rumi wasn’t fast enough.

Something else was.

A massive shadow slammed into the nearest demon, tearing through its chest with a sickening crack. Smoke and blood sprayed as the creature fell in pieces, its body shredded like paper. Another fell, ripped in half by teeth too massive to comprehend. The stage shook under the impact.

You froze in shock, breath caught in your throat as the giant black fox-beast tore through the horde. Its snarls shook the very air, low and guttural, a sound born of madness and devotion.

What was this? What was this thing?

The beast turned, its body wreathed in mist, blood dripping from its maw. Its red eyes burned as they locked onto you, and in that moment, everything inside you froze.

Hwimori.

Your heart pounded, breaking against your ribs as your mind reeled. You saw him, not just here but before. Memories flickering of a fox spirit long ago, glowing and gentle, a companion that had watched over you with loyalty. And now… this. Twisted. Darkened by centuries of pain and loss, his form corrupted into something monstrous. Tears welled in your eyes as grief split your chest.

“Hwi…” you whispered, your voice trembling, caught between horror and love.

The beast whimpered, a low, mournful sound that didn’t belong to a monster, but to the boy you knew.

“Watch out!” you cried as more demons lunged.

The beast turned with a snarl, tearing into them with savage, brutal force. His claws ripped through demon flesh, smoke curling from his body as he tore them apart in showers of blood and shadow.

Rumi tugged sharply at your sleeve, dragging you back. You stumbled, backing away, eyes never leaving Hwimori as he fought like an unholy storm.

And behind you, Huntrix’s voices rose like a blade.

“No lying, I’m tired,” the girls sang, their harmonies cutting through the chaos, their weapons blazing as they carved demons down.

And ahead, the others strained harder against their breaking chains, their hearts and fury focused only on reaching you.

Haneul was the first to break. The old warrior instinct in him surged like wildfire, muscles straining as his arms trembled against the chains of shadow that held him down. His breath left him in ragged bursts, the sound caught between a growl and a vow, his body slick with sweat and smoke. Then, with a guttural roar, the shackles cracked. His chest heaved as he tore himself free, stumbling forward only to gather balance instantly, eyes already locked on you. He held no weapon but he had his claws, his fury, and his promise.

Jinu followed, the crimson threads of the bond writhing visibly along his arms as if lending him strength. His jaw clenched, every vein in his throat standing out as he forced himself upright, grunting in sheer frustration at the restraint holding him from you. His gaze cut through the chaos, straight at you. And with one final, vicious wrench, he ripped himself loose. 

Seoha and Seungho tore free in turn, their desperation carving their escape. Seoha’s lips moved soundlessly, your name spilling like a prayer as his whole body shook, his skin crawling with barely restrained power. Seungho’s eyes burned pitch-black as he ripped apart his binds with a motion so violent it sent a shudder through the floor beneath him. 

One by one, they burst forward, their bodies shaking with the frenzy of being released too late, too long.

And then they were in it, hurling themselves into the massacre.

Huntrix’s song filled the stadium, harmonies blending with steel. Their movements had a rhythm, a choreography born of trust. But beside them, the boys fought differently. Not graceful, not united. Brutal. Wild. The stage cracked beneath their blows, demons screaming as they were ripped apart by claws, smoke, and raw power.

They weren’t here to help Huntrix. They weren’t here for the world. They were here for you. And only you. They had to get to you before you’d reach a point in the ritual of no return.

Jinu ripped through the horde with nothing but his hands, his eyes glowing faint amber as threads of crimson light crackled around him. Each punch landed with the force of a blade, each movement cutting a path straight toward you, straight toward the center. His every step was fueled by rage and obsession, the singular need to reach you before you made contact with all of them. Because once you had, it would be too late to stop it.

Seungho fought like death itself, his body cold and unrelenting. Shadows thickened around his fists, coating them like armor, his every strike shattering demon flesh and bone into dust. He snarled through the blood and mist, gaze snapping toward you between kills, as if checking every heartbeat that you still stood.

Seoha’s movements were sharper, controlled yet frantic, his voice muttering broken fragments of promises as smoke and charm-like illusions exploded from his hands, disorienting demons before he cut them down barehanded. His expression twisted between devotion and despair, his focus never leaving you, as if he could draw you back to him by sheer will.

Hwimori tore through the hoards with fangs and claws. A beast to behold, snarling at any demon that dared get between you and him. A fierce loyalty and desperation driving him closer and closer to you.

And Haneul… he was relentless. Centuries of war lived in his body, his every move calculated but soaked in rage. He grabbed a demon by its throat and snapped it in two, then spun, eyes wild as he lunged across the stage. He was making for you, each kill a step closer.

“Y/N!” he shouted, voice breaking, desperate, as he saw you slowly make your way closer to Mira and Zoey. His chest heaved, fury darkening his face as the girls dragged you inward, toward the center, toward the moment of no return.

You staggered with them, your pulse racing. You saw them across the carnage, your boys cutting through demons in their madness, and the girls ahead of you, determination warring in their stares.

“No—Y/N—don’t!” Their voices clashed with Huntrix’s song.

“But dive in the fire, and I’ll be right here by your side—”

The lyrics burned through you as Rumi yanked you forward, your body colliding with Mira and Zoey in the center. Their arms wrapped around you, the three of them pulling you into a joined embrace.

The moment their skin touched yours, something lit inside your chest.

It was like every nerve burst into flame, every thread of your soul tugged taut. The magic clicked into place, painful and radiant. You gasped as a rush of energy surged through your veins, your heartbeat syncing with theirs, your body glowing with blinding light that forced even the boys to squint against its brilliance.

Three voices. One heart.

“No…!” someone screamed from across the stage.

The girls pulled back, eyes locking with one another. In their stares, a thousand unspoken words bled through: fury, forgiveness, acceptance. A love born of bond, trust hard-earned and somehow found again.

You felt it. Forgiveness. Belonging. A choice.

The boys didn’t stop fighting. They couldn’t. Demons still poured onto the stage like a living flood, and they cut them down with everything they had, tearing, clawing, obliterating. But their eyes never left you. Their voices broke in fury and fear.

“We’re really doing this,” Zoey whispered, her breath shaky but firm.

“I don’t quite understand what all this is…” Mira muttered, raising her blade again, “but I know what I have to do.”

Then, together, all three pairs of eyes turned to you. “Are you ready?”

Your breath hitched. The magic swelled inside you, tethered to their voices, their touch. Yet your heart tugged, mercilessly, toward the demons who loved you, who screamed your name as if it alone could break fate. “I–”

“Y/N!” The cry ripped across the chaos of the battlefield. Haneul’s voice, raw and desperate.

Power surged through his body, muscles straining, eyes blazing. He broke free of the hoard first, of course he did. The warrior. The protector. His fists whistled through the air in a single, merciless arc, cleaving through the demons that swarmed him. The air filled with the sickening crack of bone, the hiss of black blood spraying the stage. He cut them all down, fury and desperation guiding every strike, until nothing remained between him and you.

His chest heaved, eyes burning as they locked on you, and then he lunged.

But Huntrix were faster. Mira pivoted, her Moon Blade flashing like silver lightning as she blocked his blow with a clang that shuddered through the stage. Sparks leapt from the clash.

“You can’t stop this-!” Mira grunted.

Haneul’s voice cracked as he shoved against her blade, snarling. Her words falling on deaf ears. “Y/N, don’t do this!” His eyes darted to you even as he fought her, wide with terror, with longing. “Don’t throw yourself away!” The plea was carved in centuries of desperation. “I won’t lose you again!”

The ground trembled as more of them broke through the hoards of demons. Seoha and Seungho erupted into motion, finishing off their opponents. Seoha’s smoke wafted through the air with lethal precision, glowing crimson with his fury. Seungho’s claws tore through shadows, each strike brutal, feral. They turned, and when they saw you at the center of it all, their faces twisted with a singular focus: Taking you back.

“Come with us!” Seoha shouted, his voice echoing like a vow across the blood-slicked floor. His eyes gleamed with something both broken and unyielding. “We’ll protect you, we’ll keep you safe!”

Seungho roared, slamming a demon’s head into the ground before tearing it apart with his bare hands. “You’re ours. We won’t let you be taken from us again!”

The girls met them head-on, steel against claws, power against desperation. Blades clashed, magic sparked, and still the boys shouted, their voices raw with pleading.

“God– you guys are the most STUBBORN demons I have ever met!” Zoey yelled in frustration, dodging Seungho’s claws. 

You watched as Rumi dodged a blow from Seoha, kicking his shin. Zoey yelped as Seungo tried to grab her throat. Mira was grunting, strength faltering at the sheer force that was Haneul.

Through it all, your own scream tore the air apart. “This is my choice! You can’t take this from me…Like you’ve taken everything else!”

The words struck like lightning.

Every one of them faltered. Swords slowed, punches stilled, claws hesitated. Even Jinu and Hwimori— who had only just finished slaughtering the demons around them, stilled in place as your voice echoed, sharp and shattering.

The air grew heavier. Gwi Ma’s laugh rumbled, deep and mocking, as more demons spilled forth from the shadows. Flames erupted high, burning meters into the air, licking the ceiling of the stadium. You turned your eyes towards his looming flames.

“You really think you can defeat me?” the Demon King’s voice thundered, every syllable dripping with scorn. “Change your fate? Save them all?”

Your knees trembled, fear gripping you like ice, but you refused to let it show. You lifted your chin, glaring at the towering inferno of his form. He was the one who had taken everything again and again. The one who turned your loves into monsters. The one who forced them to kill and suffer. The one who laughed as you died in lifetime after lifetime. The one who thought he could use you to control them. Use you… to get what he wanted.

Hatred burned through your veins, but stronger still was your resolve. “You think I’m powerless,” you said, your voice steady even as your heart pounded. “You think I’m just a damsel destined to die over and over again…”

Gwi Ma’s laugh shook the earth, cruel and certain.

But your resolve didn’t crack. “But you overlooked one thing.” Your voice rang out, clear, piercing through fire and steel. “You let this soul bond happen. You allowed it to grow strong. Strong enough to instigate your ruin. And for that, you’re the fool.” You spat. “The one thing you could never take from me despite my constant deaths…. is my love for them. No matter how many times you’ve broken us, I still choose them. And this time, I choose to save them. Even if it means giving everything.”

The boys froze, staring at you as if the ground had been ripped out from under them. “And that… will be your downfall.”

Seoha’s breath caught, his claws lowering slightly. He had spent his life crafting illusions, manipulating emotions, but here you were, the one person who had every reason to hate him, still choosing love. His chest ached, a sharp pang of self-loathing twisting inside him.

Haneul’s grip on Mira’s blade trembled. He had promised himself never to fail you again, and yet here you were, showing a courage that dwarfed his own, a strength that made his protection feel like nothing. He had unleashed destruction before. You, instead, chose sacrifice.

Seungho’s expression broke, fury softening into anguish. He had always been possessive, his love sharp-edged and selfish. And yet, you, after all their sins, still loved them enough to risk your soul.

Hwimori’s great form stilled. His chest rose and fell with ragged breaths, every instinct in him screaming to protect, to cling, to never let you go. Yet as your words pierced the air, his claws flexed uselessly against the ground, his tail curling tight. And for the first time, he felt powerless to shield you. You were the one shielding them. His wild heart quivered, torn between the instinct to cage you close and the awe of realizing you loved them enough to give yourself away.

Even Jinu faltered. Jinu, who had always clung to control, who believed fate bound you to him unshakably. He saw you now not as someone shackled to him by destiny, but as someone strong enough to choose despite everything. And you were choosing goodness. Choosing the world. Choosing them.

And for once, he was the one left powerless.

You turned to them, eyes blazing. “This is my choice. Mine. And no one, not even you, can take that from me.”

Their faces fell. Crestfallen. For so long they had tried to bend your will, cage you, keep you as theirs. But here you stood, unyielding, and they realized: if they stole you away now, they would lose you forever. If they let you go through with this, they might lose you anyway. Either way, you had already chosen.

It cracked them open.

Rumi’s voice cut through the silence, steady and sharp: “It will work this time, Jinu. We have the three voices… and your bond.”

Jinu turned on her, eyes blazing like he could burn her alive. His jaw clenched, as though every part of this was her fault.

But then you whispered, soft yet unshakable. Eyes wide with unshed tears of frustration and desperation. Pleading. “Trust us.”

Those eyes. The same ones he’d seen as you begged them not to go through with this. The same ones that haunted him ever since you had found out the truth. Now he had a chance to make it right. 

Jinu’s amber eyes locked on yours, his body trembling. Slowly, he reached toward you, but Mira and Zoey stepped in front of him, blades ready.

“It’s okay,” you breathed, lifting a hand. The girls hesitated, then stepped aside.

Jinu closed the distance in a heartbeat, his palm coming to rest against your cheek. His touch was warm and gentle, as if you might break beneath his hand. His voice shook.

“When it comes to losing you… I don’t know if I can.” His eyes slipped shut, jaw clenching tight. “I swore I would never let it happen again. Not after all I’ve done. Not after the blood I gave to keep you tied to me. I can’t—”

You covered his hand with yours, your gaze softening. “Jinu,” you whispered, “it was your will, your blood, that forged this bond. You thought you were chaining me to you, but you don’t see… you gave me the strength to stand here now. You have to trust that bond. Trust me. For all my lives I’ve been powerless, dying again and again while you suffered. But not this time. This time I can do something to end it. For you. For all of you.”

Jinu’s breath hitched, his grip trembling as though your words cut him open.

Seoha’s voice came low, from behind him, threaded with anguish. “You think you’re saving us, but all I see is you throwing yourself into the fire. I spent my whole life weaving lies, breaking hearts, because I thought that was the only way to keep what I loved from leaving me. And still, I lost you. Every time.” His eyes shimmered, lips pressing into a crooked, trembling smile. “And yet here you are, loving us enough to set us free, even when we don’t deserve it.”

You turned toward him, tears spilling, but your smile was full of love. “Seoha, you’ve always wanted to make me believe in the dreams you spun. Let this be the one dream I’ve chosen for myself. Please… believe in me now.”

His composure cracked, his claws flexing helplessly as he looked away, unable to bear it.

Haneul stepped forward next, his feet dragging against the ground. His voice was hoarse, raw with terror. “I swore to protect you. To keep you safe, no matter what. But what kind of protector lets you walk into death? I can’t—” His throat closed, his eyes red, his chest heaving. “I can’t watch you burn, not again. Not when I’ve already destroyed you once with my own hands.”

You reached for him, cupping his cheek the way you had before, pressing your forehead against his for one trembling moment. “Haneul, you’ve carried that guilt for centuries. But this isn’t you destroying me. This is me choosing. This is me saving you, like you’ve tried to save me over and over. You’ve protected me enough. Let me protect you now.”

A sound broke from him, low and agonized, as he nodded, though his eyes begged you not to ask this of him.

Finally, Seungho pushed forward, his movements rigid, as though his body fought against the choice he had to make. His voice was cold at first, but his eyes betrayed him… wet and burning. “I wanted you all to myself. Always. If I couldn’t have you, then no one could. That’s who I am. That’s all I know. But…” His voice cracked. “…if this is what you want, if this is the only way you’ll stay with us, then I’ll tear apart the world just to keep you safe while you do it.”

You lifted your hand to his chest, feeling the frantic beat of his heart beneath your palm. “Seungho, I’ve always seen you. All of you. Even the parts you hate. And I still love you. Let this be enough… for both of us.”

The weight of your words silenced them all. The fire, the demons, even Gwi Ma’s laughter seemed distant now, drowned by the raw, breaking sound of their breaths.

Your tears fell freely as you looked at each of them, your voice shaking with years of pain and lifetimes of loss.

“I’ve died over and over again. I’ve felt your pain, your grief, your rage each time. And I understand it… I understand you. But I can’t let it go on. Not for me. Not for you. This is my choice… to take back the power we never had. To end the cycle once and for all. Just as you’ve always wanted, but could never do. Let me. Please.”

Your body shook as the words left you, your chest rising and falling with sobs, but your eyes blazed with a love so fierce it left them breathless.

And one by one, they bowed to it, shattered, but accepting.

Haneul was first, jaw tight, eyes shining with fear he couldn’t hide. He lifted a hand, brushing your cheek with trembling fingers. “We’ll hold them back,” he murmured, voice cracking. 

You cupped his cheek and pressed a kiss there. “Thank you.”

Seungho swallowed hard, his fists clenching as he looked at you. His eyes, always sharp with cruelty, were now wide and wet. “Don’t you dare die on us,” he rasped.

Seoha exhaled, shoulders slumping as he dragged a hand through his hair. His smile was crooked, pained. “Even now, you still surprise me. I… I’ll believe in you.”

Hwimori whined from behind. He didn’t speak, he couldn’t. His eyes alone said it all: fear, love, desperate devotion.

And finally, Jinu. His amber eyes met yours, and for once there was no command, no control, only surrender. He gave the smallest of nods.

“I love you. All of you.” You whispered, voice breaking as you looked at them. The boys who had been your curse and your salvation. 

Then, you turned to the girls. The expressions on their faces stopped you.

Mira’s lips parted slightly, her Moon Blade still drawn but trembling in her hands. For so long, she had believed demons were incapable of love. That they could only hunger, devour, corrupt. But the look on the boys’ faces now, the desperation etched into their every breath, the way they shattered before your choice… it was not hunger. It was love. Terrifying, twisted, selfish, yes, but love nonetheless. She felt the certainty she had clung to splinter, and for the first time, she wondered if she had been wrong.

Zoey’s eyes softened, brimming with something she hadn’t expected… sympathy. Her heart tugged painfully as she looked between you and them. She had always seen them as monsters who caged you, but now she saw the cage wasn’t built of cruelty alone… it was fear, grief, devotion so consuming it bordered on madness. And still, you loved them. Still, you chose them. Her throat tightened, because she finally understood just how impossible your choice was… caught between the world and the boys who had given everything, even their souls, to keep you.

Rumi exhaled, relief washing through her tense shoulders. For endless moments she had feared the boys would never bend, that they would drag you away again and ruin everything. But seeing them yield, seeing them finally listen to you, lifted the weight from her chest. The bond between you all was terrifying in its power, but now she understood: it wasn’t only chains. It was trust. And maybe, just maybe, that was enough to finish what her father once dreamed of.

They said nothing. They didn’t need to. The silence of their shared realization was louder than any battle cry.

Mire sighed. “Then, let’s do this.”

They joined hands around you, forming the circle. You looked to each of them and all shared a smile. Then, the girls began to sing.

“You fools!” Gwi Ma bellowed, shadows writhing, but it was too late. More demons poured forth, hoards upon hoards, crashing onto the stage like a tidal wave. And the boys moved instantly, springing into action to protect you as they formed a five-pronged shield around you and the girls.

Steel, claws, and smoke. Each one fought with everything they had, bodies weaving into a ring of destruction around you.

The song rose…

"We broke into a million pieces, and we can't go back But now we're seeing all the beauty in the broken glass…"

Their voices wove into harmony, power thrumming through your chest like a heartbeat. Soulbond threads ignited, glowing brighter than ever, searing you from within. Light filled you, pain and beauty all at once.

And as Jinu glanced back and saw your body begin to glow, fear twisted his face. His teeth clenched, memories of Rumi’s mother’s body splitting apart clawing through his mind.

Still, the girls sang.

"Why did we cover up the colors stuck inside our head? Get up and let the jagged edges meet the light instead…"

Their song was a spell, and you were its lock.

Your eyes shut as the tether pulled you apart, your soul screaming. Magic surged, tearing and stitching you at once, every nerve aflame. And still, you held on. Because this was your choice.

You opened your eyes into chaos, demons crashing against the boys’ fury, fire and shadow tearing the air, blood spraying black across the stage.

And you thought: Now. It’s now or never.

Haneul tore into the nearest horde. Every strike crushed through bone and armor as if they were paper. His veins glowed faintly with power, his movements swift and merciless. A demon lunged at his side, he pivoted, caught its jaw, and ripped it clean off with a snarl.

Seoha flicked his fingers, crimson magic crackling like glass shards through the air. Illusions flared, phantoms of himself darting between enemies, confusing and scattering them before the real Seoha struck with burning precision. One demon howled as it slashed at nothing, only for Seoha’s claws to dig into its spine from behind.

Seungho was pure brutality, his body a storm of smoke and feral rage. He slammed a demon into the ground, claws ripping through its chest, before whirling to gut another. Every movement was savage, primal, his lips pulled back in a snarl as black blood coated his arms.

And Hwimori, your heart caught at the sight of him. Towering in his soul beast form, his fur streaked with glowing markings, eyes burning red. He crashed through demons like a hurricane, tail whipping bodies into the air, jaws snapping through flesh and bone. A beast made flesh, terrifying and beautiful all at once.

“Gods,” Seoha panted between strikes, dodging a blade of black fire as his illusion shredded another demon. “I don’t think I’ve fought this many of these fuckers in a long while.”

Haneul grunted, tearing his claws through a demon’s chest. “And you’re still complaining.”

Seungho kicked a demon so hard its spine cracked against the stage wall. “Feels like home, honestly.”

Hwimori let out a deafening roar, shaking the rafters as he crushed two demons beneath his massive paw.

Seoha smirked even in the chaos, glancing at him. “Careful… Hwimori’s getting drool everywhere again.”

Seungho barked a sharp laugh, ducking as another clawed at him. “He’s more beast than man tonight. Someone throw him a bone.”

Hwimori growled low, his eyes cutting to them, offended. His massive tail lashed, knocking three demons into the fire.

“Easy, puppy,” Seoha teased, snapping his fingers to ignite a demon’s face in flame.

Another guttural roar tore out of Hwimori’s throat, a sound that made the air quake.

“Alright, alright,” Haneul muttered, lips twitching despite himself. “Less jokes, more killing.”

Behind them, Huntrix moved in closer. Mira, Zoey, and Rumi turned their backs to you, shoulders squared, weapons drawn, but voices alight. Only one or two demons managed to slip through the carnage, and each time, the girls struck them down with swift precision.

Mira exhaled sharply, blade slick with black blood. “Never thought I’d be killing demons… with demons.”

Zoey huffed a laugh, spinning her dagger before plunging it into a demon’s chest. “Don’t tell anyone. Ruins the aesthetic.”

“Well technically,” Rumi stated, slashing her sword into a demon’s neck, “You’ve been fighting alongside me for years so…” 

Mira’s mouth twitched in spite of herself, and she swung her Moon Blade upward to cleave another in two.

But then the air rumbled. Gwi Ma’s growl rolled like thunder, shaking the stage. Flames burst higher, and new demons poured forth, larger, uglier, more twisted than before. Their claws gleamed obsidian, their jaws dripping venom. The boys braced as the new horde surged forward, but their eyes never left you.

And you— You felt it. The tether.

It pulled at your chest like a vise, ripping and stitching at once, your soul screaming against the weight of it. A coil wound tight inside your ribcage, squeezing until you gasped aloud, hand flying to your chest. The world blurred, fire and steel, and still the ancient magic pulsed.

It was time. The choice.

The magic demanded you close your eyes, to either reach for it or let it go. Your breath shook, your body trembling, and then… you took it.

Your hand clenched against your heart as you seized the magic and let it pour into you. It coursed like fire in your veins, like molten light flooding your lungs. You gasped again, almost doubling over, eyes snapping open wide as a searing brightness erupted across your chest.

“Y/N!” Jinu’s voice cracked, full of panic, as he cut down a demon trying to reach you. The others turned too, their faces filled with raw fear.

“Y/N?” Zoey asked, her voice tight.

“I’m fine,” you grit out between breaths, chest heaving. You clenched your teeth. “I can take this.”

Because you could. You had endured lifetimes of agony. Fires, blades, poison, every death imaginable. This pain was nothing compared to that.

You straightened, forcing yourself to ease into the magic as it roared through you. And then, you felt it. The soulbond tugging at your heart, pulling outward. Your eyes widened as the light on your chest shifted, burning into a blood crimson glow.

It was time.

When the time comes, call out their names one by one.

Your gaze swept the battlefield, and your heart found him… Haneul.

He was a storm, cutting down demon after demon with his bare hands, his body a wall between you and destruction. A warrior sworn to protect you, even when you didn’t need saving. You loved him for it, the steadfastness, the certainty, the way he’d burn the whole world down just to keep you safe.

“Haneul,” you whispered.

The air cracked. He froze mid-strike, his body locking as his eyes snapped to yours. A thread of crimson light shot from your chest to his, tethering you together. His gasp echoed above the chaos, his body suddenly wrapped in a shimmering crimson sheen. Demons clawed at him, but their blows bounced harmlessly away.

He couldn’t move his body. All he could do was surrender to you, to the bond, as his feet lifted from the ground with yours. His gaze held yours, unblinking, surrendering.

You gasped, the magic urging you on. “Seoha.”

His head snapped up instantly, illusions shattering around him as the crimson thread seared into his chest. His smirk faltered as the glow covered him, his illusions multiplying in brilliance until they lit the stage. His body stilled mid-step, eyes fixed on you, as though nothing else existed.

“Seungho.”

The crimson light whipped across the battlefield, striking him like lightning. His body jolted, claws dripping with black blood, before the sheen spread across him. His knees buckled, but the bond lifted him, freezing him in mid-air opposite you. His sharp gaze softened, lips parting, undone by the power of your voice.

“Hwimori…” Your breath trembled.

The beast froze. His ruby eyes widened as the crimson thread tethered him to you. The glow erupted across his fur, every marking lit aflame as if carved in starlight. His massive body lifted, paws hanging in air, his eyes locked to you. For once, the beast simply surrendered.

Each name steadied the bond, each soul flaring brighter and brighter until you felt them anchoring you, holding you even as the magic tried to tear you apart. This was why you needed the soul bond for it to work. They had to anchor you through this. 

And every time you called a name, Gwi Ma’s fury grew. His growl was an earthquake now, his flames boiling higher, hotter, until finally… with a roar, he pulled demons back, sucking them into his body. The air warped as his flames ballooned, stretching massive, monstrous, his form swelling with their strength.

Huntrix froze mid-fight. Jinu’s claws dipped. The boys, tethered, could only stare in horror. The Demon King towered, fire twisting into something more terrible than before.

“The ritual cannot defeat… me!”

The growl of Gwi Ma was monstrous, shaking the stadium to its foundations. The girls’ singing faltered as his flames twisted upward, gathering into a single beam of crackling, magenta-dark energy. In an instant, it shot straight toward you.

“No!”

Rumi was closest. She sprang forward, her sword glowing faintly as she planted herself in front of you, blade raised to catch the infernal beam. The impact reverberated like thunder.

“Rumi!” Mira and Zoey’s voices tore across the stage, panicked, as demons clawed at them from behind. They slashed back desperately, unable to get to her side.

“Keep… singing..!” Rumi’s voice strained through clenched teeth, her arms trembling as the beam pressed harder and harder against her sword. Sweat streaked down her brow, her knees buckling, the sheer force driving her backward.

Jinu snarled, tearing through the remaining demons in his path. He leapt into the air, whisps of energy snapping wide, but before he could reach you, demons swarmed his torso, dragging him down. His roar was deafening, his body thrashing against the weight of them.

The boys tethered in the air could do nothing. Their bodies were frozen in the crimson glow, powerless to move without breaking the ritual. They could only watch, agony twisting their faces, as your eyes stayed closed, your body trembling, holding desperately to the bond.

The magic was a raging storm inside you. Every nerve felt flayed raw, every vein flooded with molten fire. You clenched your teeth, head thrown back as you forced yourself to endure it. Hold on. Just hold on. You had suffered death a hundred times, and you would not break now.

“No!” Rumi screamed, her sword bowing under the pressure, cracks splintering down its glowing blade. Her muscles shook violently, the power far too strong. She couldn’t fail. She couldn’t… she had to be the third voice, she had to protect you.

And then, all at once, her scream was cut short.

A larger shadow loomed over her. She stumbled forward into a slump as she realized the pressure had lifted. Her eyes widened, flicking upward.

Jinu.

He stood in front of her, his back turned to the blast, his body a shield against the torrent of power. The beam slammed into him full force, tearing at his flesh, eating away at his form like smoke unraveling into the wind.

“Jinu!” Rumi’s voice broke, horrified. “What are you doing?!”

He grunted, muscles quaking, his body cracking with light as the beam chewed through him. “What does it look like?” His voice was strained, but unyielding. It took everything in him to hold on. And he would. He would give himself just to protect you.

Your eyes flew open at her scream, and when you saw him, saw him sacrificing himself again, giving everything to shield you, you felt your soul crack.

“No… no!” Panic surged through you, tears spilling as you saw the beam scorching his skin, dissolving him piece by piece. His roar of agony ripped through the air, primal, unrestrained, as he struggled to contain it. It was happening again. He was breaking himself for you.

“Jinu!” you screamed, your voice shaking the stage.

A crimson thread shot from your chest, piercing directly into his. His body froze, the bond searing across him as he too was tethered to you.

The moment it latched, the crimson sheen spread across him, shielding his body in the pact. The beam bent, rebounding back, crashing into Gwi Ma’s own form with a thunderous crack.

The Demon King staggered, flames writhing violently, bellowing in rage. And then—

The tether was complete.

All five of your demons were bound to you, their crimson threads blazing across the stage. The magic anchored you in place, lifting you higher into the air, their souls fueling the torrent inside you. 

The light surged so bright it was blinding. Their voices, their lives, their love… it all pulsed within you.

You surrendered to it, to them.

“If this is what it means to be yours… then let me be the tether.”

And then the music swelled—

“Oh, hey This is what it sounds like Oh, oh, oh Hey, hey This is what it sounds like…”

The crowd, breaking from their trance, began to sing with Huntrix, their voices amplifying the magic. The ritual thrummed louder, stronger, a chorus of souls uniting as one. 

The girls ran to the center, their voices alight as they too were lifted into the air, their bodies glowing with the blue hue of souls. Ancient magic wrapped around them like threads of starlight.

Rumi glanced up at you, heart hammering. This was where it went wrong, she thought. We can’t let it fail this time. We have to keep singing.

“We broke into a million pieces, and we can’t go back But now I’m seeing all the beauty in the broken glass…”

The magic inside you burned hotter, searing your veins, flooding into your blood. You gasped, clutching at your chest, your body writhing with the effort of containing it. Every breath was fire, every heartbeat thunder. It tore through you like knives, like being split apart from within, yet you held on. You had to.

Your skin blazed, emitting beams of white light so bright they swallowed the stage. The brightness engulfed Gwi Ma, who howled in agony as it consumed him. His flames fizzled, his form unraveling, sputtering into nothingness. Around him, the demons shrieked, their forms flickering before dissolving into ash.

But the light inside you was too much.

“Aahh!” You screamed, body convulsing, as the power ripped through you. Iridescent threads burst across your skin, glowing sigils etching themselves like living brands. The magic tried to tear you apart, light exploding outward in violent bursts.

The boys panicked. Their voices thundered across the bond.

“Y/N!” Hwimori’s roar shook the air.

“Stay with us!” Seoha cried, his voice cracking.

“Don’t you dare leave!” Seungho bellowed.

“Please!” Haneul begged, his voice raw, desperate.

And Jinu screamed the loudest. His terror split him open, his voice ragged with memory. He saw it again, the same light tearing Rumi’s mother apart, her body disintegrating into dust before his eyes. His mind shattered with it, the horror of losing you the same way clawing at his throat.

“Stop it now!” Jinu bellowed, his roar shattering against the walls. “It’s too much for her!”

But Huntrix didn’t stop. They couldn’t. Their voices rose, hands intertwined, bodies glowing brighter as they poured everything into the song.

“Show me what’s underneath, I’ll find your harmony Fearless and undefined, this is what it sounds like…”

Your scream broke into song, your voice uniting with theirs, even as the light consumed you from the inside. It tore at your flesh, your soul, every part of you burning, breaking. You anchored yourself to the bond, clinging desperately to the five threads that tethered you to them.

But the agony kept building, pressing against the edges of your existence until your vision flickered. The thought crept in, sharp and merciless… was it too much? Was this where your story ended? Would you dissolve like Rumi’s mother, your body unraveling into ash and memory? Was this what she had felt… light so beautiful and terrible it devoured everything?

Your chest heaved, every breath a ragged gasp as your mind clawed for them, for the boys. If you failed here, if the light burned you away, they would lose you again. You pictured them reaching into the smoke with empty hands, their souls screaming against the bond as it snapped. 

You imagined Jinu’s broken face, Haneul’s howling grief, Seoha’s illusions shattering with his heart, Seungho tearing himself apart, Hwimori keening like a wounded beast. You dying again, leaving them behind. Would they survive it this time? Or would your end finally unmake them completely?

Tears blurred your sight, not from the searing pain, but from the weight of the thought. 

If this was it, at least it was your choice. For once, you weren’t a pawn, a victim bound to fate or their desperate love. You had given this your all. If you died now, it would be because you chose to. That truth wrapped around your despair like a thin comfort.

The irony hit you, jagged and cruel. You were just a normal girl weeks ago. A girl who thought love was something fleeting, fragile. And now here you were, suspended in ancient magic, sacrificing everything… for demons who had loved you across lifetimes, who had broken and bled for you, who had chained themselves to you in devotion so twisted and real it defied every law of the world. 

Your heart clenched as the light split you further, and the thought whispered through you like a farewell: This is my goodbye. My last song. If I burn here, at least it’s for them.

But through the roar of the magic, through the blinding agony, their voices bled into you. Not spoken aloud, but echoed across the tether.

“Don’t you dare leave me.” Seungho’s voice, ragged and furious, trembling beneath the weight of desperation. “I’ll rip the heavens apart before I let you go again.”

“Please, stay with us… stay with me.” Seoha’s whisper cracked, stripped of his usual charm. “Don’t let this be the last time I see you breathe.”

Haneul’s voice thundered, yet it broke with a sob he couldn’t hide. “I swore I’d protect you, and I can’t protect you from this. Don’t leave me powerless again. Don’t—” His words faltered, raw and human beneath the warrior’s steel.

Hwimori’s cry was a keening wail, wordless at first, the sound of a beast in mourning. And then, softer, trembling: “I’ll die if you die. I can’t… I can’t exist without you.”

And Jinu, his voice tore through them all. A roar, a prayer, a plea. “Not again! Y/N, not like her, not like before! You are not ashes, you are mine, do you hear me?! You are mine!” His rage gave way to breaking, desperate sobs that rattled your very bones.

The bond burned with their grief, their terror pouring into you until you could feel their tears, their panic, their shattered hearts beating in time with your own.

And yet, as you floated at the edge of nothingness, you thought, if this was it, then at least they would know I chose this. That my last act was for them, not stolen, not forced.

A mortal girl swept into something endless and terrible, now burning herself alive for the love of demons.

If this was my end… it was mine.

And then… the song ended.

The white light detonated like a supernova, swallowing the stage, the stadium, everything. The demonic energy shattered, Gwi Ma’s presence annihilated. The crowd broke free from their trance, gasping, weeping, screaming as if waking from a nightmare.

“Y/N!” Jinu’s roar was broken, desperate. They dropped from the tether to the ground, knees hitting the stage hard. The light consumed everything, blinding, unrelenting.

The boys cried out, reaching, convinced you had been burned to ash. Just like before. Just like Rumi’s mother.

Jinu’s scream tore through the void, raw and shattering, as the light devoured all trace of you.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: Dun Dun DunnnnnI hope you guys enjoyed this! The events and emotions are so heavy on this one. I'm sorry for ending on another cliffhanger, but idk I like keeping you guys on your toes, I'm sorry! Also- there's quite a lot of individual detail here regarding the boys because I wanted to give you guys a glimpse into what each one of them is thinking, their reactions, their fighting, etc. I think it digs deeper into their characterizations, and I always want to stay loyal to that.

Also finally got to unleash Hwi's beast form at lasttttt. I had that one in my pocket for a while.

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!

Willa x.

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“Rumi?”

The name cracked from your throat like it wasn’t ready to leave. Like your heart couldn’t quite believe what your eyes were seeing.

She stood just inside the apartment, the magenta light behind her casting flickering shadows over her frame before it disappeared. Her demon markings glowed faintly beneath the ambient light, curling over her collarbone, creeping like vines up her neck. She looked… different. Ethereal. Ancient. Powerful. But also like her. Like Rumi.

Your heart beat unevenly in your chest. She met your gaze with something unreadable. Stillness first, then something gentler. Her mouth parted just slightly, as if searching for the right opening line to break the silence between you.

“So this is where you’ve been holed up all this time,” she finally said, her voice dipping somewhere between dry humor and tired relief. Her eyes wandered the apartment, drinking in the quiet warmth of it. “It’s a nice place. Took me forever to find, though.” A short exhale left her, heavy. “They really did hide you.”

You stood frozen, your body uncertain, your mind still catching up. And then you looked closer at them. Her markings. That low, purplish glow that didn’t belong to any normal human girl. They pulsed along her skin like whispered truths come to life.

A sharp, breathless laugh escaped you. Disbelief tangled in it, curling around your ribs like thorns. So it was true. Those glowing patterns. Those demon traits. They weren’t an illusion. They weren’t a fever dream from the livestream. They were real. She was real.

Your eyes drifted lower, hesitating on the curve of her cheek where the mark met her jaw. Rumi caught your gaze and shifted, her expression faltering. Her shoulders tightened. She turned her face away, lowering her head as if the marks themselves were something she could hide. But the glow still kissed her skin.

“You’re… a demon,” you whispered, the words tumbling out as though admitting them might make sense of everything.

Rumi closed her eyes, the shame unmistakable on her face. She inhaled slowly through her nose, her jaw tense. “Yes…” she murmured.

But before the weight of it could settle over you both, a familiar sound padded through the tension. Derpy ambled forward towards your uninvited guest, his massive paws soft against the floor. His striped body brushed against Rumi’s legs, purring loud and deep. She blinked down in surprise, and the lines of worry on her face softened as she reached to scratch behind his ears.

You watched her hand linger in his fur, gently stroking, and the absurdity of it sparked something strange in your chest.

“I see you’re acquainted with Derpy…?” you asked, brow furrowing.

“That’s his name?” Rumi scoffed lightly. Her hand still rested on Derpy’s head, as though grounding herself through him. Then she looked back at you. This time more hesitantly.

You folded your arms across your chest, swallowing hard. The air between you hung thick with everything unsaid. Still, one question pressed hardest against your ribs.

“Are you working with them?” you asked, voice steadier than you felt.

Rumi’s eyes widened slightly, but she shook her head with quiet certainty. “No… I’m actually here for you.”

You blinked. Her words pierced through your wariness. For me?

There was a beat where you weren’t sure what to say. You just stared. Heart ticking a little faster in a rhythm you couldn’t place.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t able to come to the awards today,” you said, guilt blooming sharp in your chest. “I know I told you I would, but they—”

“They locked you in,” Rumi said, her voice gentler now. Like she understood more than she let on. She stepped past you toward the balcony, drawn to the faint hum of the magical barrier. You watched her touch the glass, fingers grazing the surface. The barrier shimmered in soft pulses, reacting to her presence.

She scoffed. “Of course they did,” she muttered, more to herself. Then she turned back to face you, something tired behind her eyes. “Look,” she said, voice firmer, “I don’t have much time. But I need to tell you everything.”

You shifted your weight, arms tightening around the pillow you’d been clutching. Your eyes swept her from head to toe again, still trying to bridge the image of the Rumi you knew and this version standing before you—marked by power, by pain, by secrets.

“Yeah,” you said under your breath, brow furrowing. “I’ll… I’ll need you to explain this too…”

She followed your gaze again. The shame in her eyes was quieter this time. More resigned than fearful. But your voice surprised even you when you asked, softly, “Are you okay?”

Rumi’s head jerked slightly, like she wasn’t expecting that. Her lips parted, breath catching.

You continued, “I watched the livestream…”

Her expression collapsed for a moment. She looked away, visibly swallowing the weight of those memories. “I… I don’t think I am,” she admitted, voice barely audible. “But that’s not what’s important right now.” She met your eyes again. This time, with raw honesty. “I’m here because I need your help.”

Your breath stopped. You straightened slightly. Your help? For a moment, the room seemed to shrink around you.

“Tonight,” she said, glancing out the window, “the Saja boys are planning on sacrificing thousands of souls to Gwi Ma.”

You followed her gaze, dread blooming sharp and sickly in your gut. Namsan Tower gleamed in the distance, innocent to the bloodshed it would host. “I know,” you murmured, voice cracking. 

You ran both hands through your hair, gripping the strands as if they could ground you. “I tried to stop them. I begged. I asked them to find another way—”

“There is another way.”

You blinked. Your head jerked up, eyes locking with hers. “What?” you asked, a breath short of a gasp.

Rumi’s eyes flared with something you hadn’t seen before: hope. “That’s why I’m here,” she said. “I can’t do this alone. To stop them… to save them, and you… I need your help.”

The hope that bloomed inside you felt dangerous. Too fragile. Too warm. But it was hope. You swallowed. “How?”

“There’s a way to save everyone, Y/N,” she said again. “A way to stop the soul harvest, free them from their deal with Gwi Ma, and save everyone.”

You leaned forward, your fingers clenching the edge of the couch cushion. “What is it?”

Rumi stepped closer and you shifted, making space for her to sit beside you. The weight of her body beside yours was oddly comforting, so normal despite the glowing markings on her skin.

She noticed. The absence of fear in your eyes. The absence of disgust. No flinching. No judgment. Just… presence. Her heart ached quietly. She remembered Mira’s look. Zoey’s silence. Even when they hadn’t said anything, the betrayal in their eyes had torn her apart.

But you were just looking at her like… like she mattered.

“There’s a ritual,” she said carefully. “One that can change everything.”

You held your breath, waiting.

“It needs three things: a soulbond strong enough to connect worlds. You already have that with the boys.” She paused, making sure you were still with her. “Then, the voices of three Hunters—me, Mira, and Zoey.”

You nodded slowly.

“And finally…” She hesitated. “A soul willing to become the tether.”

You blinked. “Tether?”

Rumi nodded. “It’s not like the Honmoon. The tether doesn’t repel demons. It acts like a gate between this world and the demon realm. It binds them, anchors them to a realm. Gives them a way to exist.”

You tried to breathe. The weight of her words settled on your chest like stone. You still didn’t full understand what she was saying. But you got the gist of it.  “This is possible?” you asked, voice small.

Rumi nodded again.

“How do you know this?” you whispered.

She lowered her gaze. Then carefully, she pulled a small, worn journal from her bag. “Because…” her voice cracked again, “my parents tried to do it too.”

Your heart lurched.

“They loved each other,” she continued. “My father was a demon. My mother was a Hunter. They were soulbonded, just like you and the boys.”

She turned a page in the journal delicately, fingers shaking. “They wanted to build a future without the Honmoon. Without blood. Without fear. So they could live and be together. But something went wrong. And I lost them both.”

You didn’t miss the way her voice shook. It trembled with sadness you couldn’t understand. You scooted closer without thinking, your hand reaching out to rest gently on her shoulder in comfort. She blinked, startled at the touch, then offered a small, grateful smile.

“I only found out about everything after reading his journal,” she murmured. “I couldn’t decipher all of it, so I asked Jinu for help.”

“Jinu?” you repeated, sitting up straight. “He knew about this?”

Rumi flinched, immediately regretting her phrasing. “Yes. I needed his help deciphering it.”

Your thoughts went wild. He knew. He knew of another way. And still, he chose the bloodshed. Even after you had begged him with everything. Your stomach twisted in betrayal. The same man who held you at night, who promised he’d never let harm come to you, had learned of another way… and still led them toward slaughter.

Rumi saw it in your face. The tremble of your lips, the white-knuckled grip on your knee. She leaned forward, her voice gentle. “He only knew after I came to him,” she said quickly. “And at first, he agreed. He wanted to help. He said he’d do it.”

You looked at her sharply, pain thick in your voice. “Then why didn’t he?! I begged them to find another way! I begged him! And he had it?!”

Rumi’s eyes dropped. “In the demon realm, he saw what happened to my parents,” she said softly. “I think he backed out because he wouldn’t risk the same thing happening to you.”

You stared at her, unable to breathe. “That should’ve still been my choice to make…” you said, voice shaking.

Rumi moved closer, her hand almost brushing yours. Her face was soft, but held a confused edge to it. Like she was struggling to understand him herself. “He thought what he was doing was best,” she murmured. “Because of the risks.”

You blinked. “Risks?”

She nodded slowly. “If the ritual fails… you could lose your soul. Your body. You could shatter to pieces and fade to… ash.” Rumi closed her eyes almost in pain at remembering Celine’s words earlier. “And if it succeeds, you might become something… not human.”

The words hit you like ice down your spine.

“He saw what it did to my mother,” she added. “He wasn’t willing to gamble your life.”

You sat there in silence, your heart a battlefield of logic and emotion. Of course he made that choice. Of course he would. He always tried to protect you. They all did. But that didn’t mean you agreed.

And it sure as hell didn’t mean you’d let the choice be made for you again. Not this time.

“So... to do this, I have to die?” Your voice was quiet. Thin. It didn’t even sound like you. It cracked mid-sentence like it couldn’t carry the weight of what you were asking. The room felt heavier now, like the air itself was holding its breath.

Rumi didn’t respond right away. Her brows pulled together as she looked at you gently, almost painfully. She opened her mouth, then hesitated. “No. You transform. Into the seal. Into the living bridge. You let the ones you love… stay.”

She swallowed hard, as if saying it made it more real. As if it conjured the truth into the room like a ghost neither of you could send away.

“So for the ritual to work... I have to become this... tether...”

Rumi nodded slowly. “You're... the only one who can become it,” she whispered. “With a soulbond as strong as yours, it's had time to complete, to seal.” She breathed out shakily, her voice barely holding. “My parents... they didn't have that. Their bond wasn’t old enough, deep enough. And the ritual they tried didn’t work because... my mother couldn’t be a tether. As a hunter, she was already sworn to the hunt. Her voice could only bind, so her soul couldn’t have been what a tether needed.”

You sat there, her words echoing through the cracks in your heart, and you suddenly couldn’t breathe. Transform. Seal. Living bridge. What did any of that even mean?

You blinked hard, your throat tightening as your mind reeled. What if it hurt? What if it broke you? What if something went wrong? If you transformed into this tether, this living seal between worlds… would you even still be you?

The boys would be free… but at what cost? Your soul? Your body? Your life? And what if it worked?

They’d have to live knowing you became something inhuman. Something that didn’t breathe like you do now. That didn’t age. That maybe didn’t even bleed. You could feel it… feel the magnitude of what this meant clawing at your ribs like vines. You could die. Not just physically, but something worse. It would rip apart your soul. The kind of death that left you behind in the shape of something no one could hold again.

Now… now you understood why Jinu hadn’t told you. Why he hadn’t even considered it an option. Of course he wouldn’t. Not after knowing what happened to Rumi’s mother. Not after witnessing what failure looked like.

He didn’t trust the ritual to spare you. Didn’t trust himself not to lose you all over again. Because to him, to all of them… losing you was the greatest agony. And yet… Didn’t you deserve to choose that agony for yourself?

You clenched your jaw, heart pounding in your throat.

Rumi watched you carefully, her expression soft. “I’m not going to force you,” she said after a quiet moment. “Because if this is something you don't willingly want to do, it won’t work.” She shook her head. “But I am asking you to consider it.”

You stared blankly at the wall beyond her, at the faint shimmer of the barrier outside the window, your thoughts spiraling.

Why me? Why did it always come down to me?

You were just a girl. A normal person once. You had friends. You went to work. You had a favorite drink order, a music playlist, a half-finished novel on your shelf. You laughed. You cried. You loved. How did your life become this?

How had your fate become the fulcrum upon which life and death now balanced? You were tired. So tired of the universe demanding that you save it.

You closed your eyes. And when you did… the memories came. They always did.

So many deaths. So many endings. Over and over, your life cut short in the hands of monsters, of flames, of blades. You could still hear the screams in your bones. Still feel the suffocating cold in your lungs. You had died. You had died so many times—

Would it be so different this time… if it was you who chose it? Would it be kinder, if you could finally decide how the story ends?

A silence fell between you and Rumi like snowfall. And then she asked, softly. “Can I ask you something?”

Your eyes opened, bleary. You turned to her.

“Do you love them?”

The question hit you like a stone to the chest. You blinked at her, startled, but she held your gaze, unwavering. Not accusing. Not even judgmental. Just... searching.

You knew what she meant. She wasn’t asking about some fairytale version of love. She was asking about them. As they were. As they are. Demons. Killers. Monsters. Obsessive, violent, possessive. She was asking if you loved them anyway.

You hesitated, breath catching as the images flooded your mind. Of course it hadn’t been easy. They’d ripped you from everything you knew. They had haunted your days and stalked your nights. Their love was suffocating. Consuming. Some days you felt like a bird in a gilded cage… beautiful, adored, but never free.

There were moments they made decisions for you. Spoke for you. Lied to you to protect you, to keep you close, to keep you theirs. Your life had become a tangle of shadows, blood, and bone the moment you met them.

But… You understood why. You understood them.

They had suffered too. Hundreds of years. Centuries of agony. Lifetime after lifetime, clawing through death and despair only to lose you again and again.

They’d gone mad with grief. Possessed by devotion. Their love had twisted, not into cruelty, but into desperation. Into something ravenous and raw. You had felt it in Jinu’s quiet obsession, Haneul’s protective violence, Seungho’s chilling possessiveness, Seoha’s manipulative control, Hwimori’s aching dependence.

They were broken. But they were yours. And more than that… you were theirs.

They kissed you like you were sacred. Held you like their lives depended on it. Whispered confessions with tears in their eyes. Each of them had offered you parts of their hearts they'd never shown the world. And through the bond… you felt it. Their agony. Their love. Their soul-deep need for you.

And through that… you’d learned to love them too.

You were the only one who could. The only one who saw them not as monsters… but as boys still clinging to a love they never stopped chasing.

Maybe you were here because you were the only person in the world who could handle that kind of love. Who could tether them back to humanity. Who could say: I see you, even at your worst. And I choose you anyway.

They had chosen you. Every time. In every life. And maybe this was why.

Memories of each of them returned like a tide. Seoha brushing your cheek as if you’d vanish. Haneul washing your body like you’re made of glass. Jinu’s lips on your wrist. Hwimori’s head in your lap. Seungho’s hand holding yours when he thought you were asleep.

Flawed. Obsessed. But also… deeply, achingly loving.

You sniffled, running a hand through your hair as your vision blurred. You looked up at the ceiling, your heart breaking open all over again.

“Yes,” you whispered. “Yes, I do.” You laughed bitterly and shook your head in disbelief, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yes, I love them.”

Rumi looks at you, wistfully. Almost like she wasn't really gazing at you. Like for a moment, you weren’t even you. Like you were someone else she remembered from another life. One she could have lived, but never got the privilege to.

She releases a harsh breath, the sound caught between a scoff and something softer, sadder. “So that’s what it must’ve looked like,” she murmured.

You blink. “What?”

Her gaze sharpens, but there’s something watery about it. Like she’s seeing the edges of a memory that isn’t hers. Like her heart is breaking for a ghost.

She doesn’t answer at first. Just stares at you. At the way your face still held grief and tenderness. At the tears that still hadn’t fully dried on your cheeks. At the quiet devastation you carried in your chest, and yet, still, the way your eyes held love when you spoke of them. Even now, even after everything… you had chosen them.

Rumi’s jaw tightened. She couldn’t call you stupid. Couldn’t call you naive. Because she saw now, that wasn’t what this was. This was something else.

This was the kind of love her mother must’ve had for her father. That quiet, terrifying kind. The kind that ran upstream even when the current told you to run the other way. The kind that could weather betrayal, blood, and bone. The kind that didn’t flinch in the face of claws and patterns. The kind that saw the monster… and still reached out a hand.

It was the kind of love that heals, even if it never forgets. The kind of love that persists not in spite of someone’s darkness… but because of it.

Why couldn’t Celine have loved her like that? Why couldn’t Mira or Zoey? Would they have, if she’d just told them sooner?

Her voice cracked when she spoke again. “They’re lucky.”

You looked up at her.

“So damn lucky that you love them despite what they are.”

Your chest ached at the look on her face. Half grief, half longing. She smiled, but it was tired, as if the words cost her something.

It hit you then, a quiet realization slipping into your ribs like a blade. Rumi had been hiding this part of herself from everyone her entire life. Because of what she was born as. Because of who her parents were. Because of what the world said she shouldn’t be.

She lived with this secret curled around her spine like a parasite. Growing. Whispering that if anyone saw her for what she truly was, they’d leave. You couldn't imagine the ache of that kind of hiding. The way it must’ve clawed at her skin every time she laughed with Mira and Zoey. Every time she’d been praised as a perfect hunter. Every time she looked in the mirror and wondered if this time, they’d see her patterns. They’d see, and they’d leave.

And then... to have it revealed on stage, not by her own choice, but dragged into the light for everyone to see. Like a scar, ripped open…

You swallowed hard, heart heavy. You saw it now. The shame in her shoulders. The way she talked about them being lucky because… because she craved it too. That someone could look at her patterns, her duality, her truth, and still say: you’re worthy of love.

Your hand moved before your mind did. You reached forward and placed it gently over hers. Warm. Solid. A little tremble in your fingers. She looked at you in surprise, blinking as if she didn’t believe it. But your expression held no hesitation. No fear. Just acceptance. Soft and real.

“For what it’s worth…” you whispered, voice full and honest. “I think you’re beautiful like this.”

The words pierced through the silence like a drop in still water. Rumi’s lips parted. Her eyes glistened. “Yeah, well…” she sniffed and glanced away, trying to cover the shake in her voice, “you’re probably just biased.”

You laughed. “Maybe,” you said, a playful tilt to your tone. “But that doesn’t make it any less true.”

She didn’t speak. She couldn’t. She just looked at you like she was trying to memorize this moment, this feeling. As if no one had ever said those words to her before. Not like that and mean it.

“I love demons,” you continued, gently, “But that’s not why I think you’re beautiful.”

She blinked at you.

“I think you’re beautiful because you fought to be who you are. Even if you didn’t mean to. You survived the shame. The silence. And you’re still here. Still trying to do the right thing. That’s… that’s something I admire.”

Her shoulders trembled. Tears spilled over. She swiped them away quickly, huffing a broken laugh. “God… I just can’t help but think about my mother. How she must’ve been someone like you. Someone who looked at my father and saw him. Not what he was. Just… him.”

She laughed again, pitiful and aching. “Sorry… orphan things…”

You smiled, a lump rising in your throat. Your hand rubbed her back in comfort. “Well, if it makes you feel better, you can call me ‘Mom’ if you want.”

Rumi snorted, choking on her next breath. “Absolutely not.”

A soft, sweet laugh bubbled between the both of you. The air cleared slightly. Just enough. She wiped her cheeks again, a little calmer now. Her eyes still shimmered with emotion, but the weight had lessened.

“Thanks,” she whispered.

You nodded, offering her a smile. A quiet stillness passed between you, almost like peace. You glanced at the clock on the wall. 11:30 PM.

The Idol Awards performance would start soon. A shiver passed through you. Time was running out. You turned back to her. “So…” you breathed. “What do I have to do?”

Rumi froze, lips parting. “Wait… really?” Her brows lifted, stunned. “You want to do it?”

You nodded. Slowly. Carefully. “This is a choice I’m making for myself,” You gave a weak, dry laugh, the kind that ached in your throat. “And I haven’t gotten to make too many of those lately.”

Your voice softened as you looked to her. “If I can do something to fix this, I’ll take it.”

Rumi looked at you like you’d just opened the sky. Like you were stronger than anyone she’d ever met. Her chest swelled as her eyes welled again, not with pain, but with something like awe.

You were just a human. A human who had been stalked, hunted, possessed, and loved by five demons, now sought out by a half-demon, had to deal with attacks from more demons and then saved by hunters, and still, you stood here… choosing to save them all.

She nodded slowly, breath catching. “When the time comes,” she said, voice soft, “I’ll need you to say their names. One by one. Let your love speak. Then let go of who you were.”

You swallowed.

“Let the world pass through you… and hold it together.”

You blinked, nerves tightening like a noose in your chest. “What does that even mean?”

Rumi moved forward and took your hands. Her grip was firm. Grounding. “I’ll be there with you,” she said. Her voice was trembling, but it carried certainty. “We can do this together.”

Something inside you clicked into place. Your fear didn’t vanish, but your courage stood taller than it. You nodded. Your voice shook, but your heart didn’t. 

“If I must be the boundary…” you whispered, eyes burning, “then let me be the one who lets them stay.”

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The crimson winds of the Demon Realm howled like the ghosts of centuries past, curling around obsidian pillars that jutted into the sky like fractured bones. The sky above them cracked like glass, bleeding shadow where light should have been. Before them towered the remnants of the Honmoon. The ancient seal that once kept their world locked away, flickering like a dying flame. 

Behind them, the ground trembled with anticipation. Hoards of demons shifted restlessly, clawed feet scraping stone, wings and horns silhouetted against the sickened light. Their snarls were silent. Their hunger was deafening.

And at the center of it all stood the Saja boys. Silent. Still. Bound in their finest stagewear, glowing faintly with sigils and magics carved into their skin. They looked like idols, divine and terrible. But their eyes betrayed them.

Seoha stared at the sky, jaw clenched, his heart pounding. The false smile he’d worn for so long was gone. All that remained was the boy underneath, the one who once dared to dream of writing songs for love, not death. She’s going to hate us, he thought, as if whispering it into the void could soften the blow. She’s going to look at us, and see monsters. And she’ll be right.

Beside him, Haneul’s hands twitched, always ready to fight, to protect… but tonight, there was no shield strong enough to block what was coming. He had already failed you. He’d promised you he would be good. He told you he’d never let you suffer again. And now here he was, about to bring suffering to thousands. Just to spare you. Just to keep you.

Seungho didn’t look at the Honmoon. He couldn’t. His gaze was locked inward, lost in thoughts darker than the skies above them. They'll scream. The idea made his stomach turn. They’ll all scream. Would she be able to hear it? She’ll never forgive us. And still, he would do it. If it meant waking up beside you for the rest of eternity. If it meant no one could take you away again. Not death. Not time. Not even you.

Hwimori stood with his head low, fists trembling. The tether between him and you had been unbearably quiet these past hours, like you were holding your breath across the veil. He hated it. Hated how alone he felt without your warmth bleeding into him through the bond. You’re scared, he knew it. ‘I can feel it even now’. But he also knew… you weren’t scared of death. You were scared of them. Of what they were about to do. ‘And we’re still doing it anyway’. His breath shuddered.

Then there was Jinu.

Jinu, always the mask, always the leader, stood at the very front, expression unreadable, heart clenched like a blade in his chest. He had begged Gwi Ma for your soul. Had searched every ancient scroll, every spell, every fucking myth for something else other than this. And when Rumi came to him with her father’s journal and her desperate hope, a part of him had dared to believe. Until he saw what it had done to her mother. Until he saw what could happen to you. He couldn’t. Not again.

Even if you hated him forever. Even if you never forgave him. At least you'd be alive to hate him. And he could take that. He would take your hatred, your disgust, your silence… just to make sure you stayed in this world.

He felt the others behind him, his brothers. His monsters. His family. They were ready to burn for you.

A deep voice echoed through the air, like ancient stone cracking beneath their feet. “Well done,” came Gwi Ma’s voice, low, pleased, terrible. The God of All Hungers burned atop a throne made of bone and breath, carved from lost souls. His fiery grin was jagged, fanged and endless. “Ready to free her forever?”

Jinu’s breath caught, eyes flashing with memories. You. Crying in his arms. Begging. ‘Please don’t do this. Please—there has to be another way.’

And then the echo of your deaths. Every life. Every lifetime. Every drop of blood they couldn’t stop. Every time they lost you. Every scream. Every grave. Every time they arrived seconds too late.

“Yes,” Jinu said, quietly. Resolutely. The word twisted in his mouth like ash. “Yes.”

Gwi Ma’s grin widened. “Good. I’m ready to feast.”

Jinu raised his chin slightly, voice firmer now. “Once you have your souls... you'll free her from the cycle. You'll give her to us. Forever.”

Gwi Ma laughed, a deep, guttural sound that shook the realm. “Once everyone in that audience is mine... I'll give her to you. Body. Soul. Thread and flame.”

None of them moved, but inside, each one fractured.

Seoha’s eyes burned. He thought of your laugh. The way you tilted your head when you were confused. The way your hands curled into his when you were scared.

Haneul swallowed against a tight throat. He thought of the way you’d clung to him after your nightmares. Of the kiss you gave him when you thought he was asleep. Of how small you looked when you begged him not to do this.

Seungho saw the way you looked at him that morning. Not with fear, but pity and desperation. He hated that most of all.

Hwimori heard your voice in his head. ‘Don’t go.’

And Jinu— Jinu remembered the way you had looked at him when he held the truth from you. The quiet betrayal in your eyes. The pain. He hadn’t protected you from it. He only made it worse. But maybe, if this worked… if this worked, you’d live. And they could finally… finally… stop losing you.

Forever was a long time. But not long enough for how much they loved you.

And so, they turned. One by one. To the shattering Honmoon, its veil now thin, laced with cracks that glowed like old wounds. The path to the human world stretched before them like a curse and a promise.

They stepped forward. Willing to become monsters. Willing to become devils. So that you could finally… finally… be free.

And theirs. Forever.

But even as their feet crossed the threshold, something deeper gnawed at them… something ancient and human. Guilt.

Because they knew. They knew this wasn’t salvation. This wasn’t nobility. It was selfishness. It was desperation dressed in devotion. They weren’t just doing this for you. They were doing this because they couldn’t bear to be without you. Because the thought of eternity without your voice, your warmth, your forgiveness… was worse than hell itself.

This isn’t justice, Seoha thought bitterly. This is obsession pretending to be love. But it’s all I have left.

Haneul felt it too, a tremor in his soul. She’s begged us. Cried for us to stop. And we’re ignoring her. How can we say this is for her, when we won’t even listen to her voice?

But what choice do we have? Seungho asked himself over and over, like a prayer. The world was never kind to us. Life always took her. Always. Just this once, we’re taking something back.

Even Hwimori, who often acted on instinct, felt the weight of his decision. Maybe we are monsters. But if monsters are the only ones willing to tear the world apart for her... then so be it.

And Jinu, who carried all their sins on his shoulders, accepted it fully. There is no redemption for this. Only results. I don’t need her to understand us. I just need her to live.

They weren't blind to the horror. But they believed, hoped, that maybe someday, when the dust had settled, and your soul was safe in their arms, you might look at them again. And maybe, just maybe, understand.

Not forgive. Not forget. But understand why they had to become monsters.

For you.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The world warped around you.

It was like being yanked forward through a thousand miles of darkness in less than a heartbeat, your stomach lurching and your ears popping. Rumi’s fingers clamped around your arm, small but unyielding, her grip the only anchor in a sensation that felt like falling and spinning at once. For one disorienting second, there was no ground beneath your feet, no sky above your head, only a rushing, soundless void pressing in from every side.

Then, with a snap like reality knitting itself back together, your feet hit solid ground. The landing wasn’t graceful. The world reappeared in a blur of concrete, distant lights, and cool night air, and your knees buckled, momentum threatening to send you stumbling. 

Rumi’s arm shot out across your chest, steadying you before you could faceplant. “Sorry,” she winced, her own breath uneven, the faintest tremor in her fingers as she loosened her hold on you. “I’ve only learned how to do this tonight…”

You shook your head, letting out a shaky breath that carried a small, nervous laugh. “It’s fine,” you managed, brushing it off even as the echo of that dizzy, stomach-churning pull lingered in your bones. “I’m sure you’ll get plenty of practice.”

Rumi let out a dry laugh at that, short, almost brittle, before her gaze drifted past you. You followed her line of sight.

You had landed just outside the concert hall, at the base of Namsan Tower. The entrance loomed ahead, a yawning mouth spilling faint magenta light across the dark pavement. The faint vibration of bass and distant chanting throbbed through the soles of your shoes.

A handful of people were still trickling in through the doors, their movements slow, almost sluggish. Something was wrong with their faces. Their eyes were vacant. Glazed. Like glass marbles reflecting nothing but the lights ahead.

Your stomach dropped.

They walked as though tethered by invisible strings, their postures slack, their expressions utterly devoid of anticipation or joy. Not a single phone in hand. No laughter, no chatter. Only the low, heavy hum of the chants spilling from inside, pulling them forward like moths to an open flame.

“Saja. Saja. Saja.”

Beside you, Rumi shifted, her own expression tightening in something between unease and grim resolve. The air here felt… heavy. Weighted with something you couldn’t name, as though every breath dragged something thick and unseen into your lungs.

“It’s starting,” Rumi murmured, almost to herself.

You looked at her. She looked at you. And for a brief, silent moment, there was nothing but the pounding of your hearts in unison, a shared understanding passing between you without a word.

Let’s do this.

You both stepped forward, falling into pace with the last few drifting figures.

Every step toward the entrance felt like tightening a knot. The ritual’s instructions looped in Rumi’s mind like a litany, what had to be done, when it had to be done, the risk if they mistimed even a second. There was no room for failure.

Rumi could feel them here—Mira and Zoey. The hum of their presence was faint but distinct, like a memory you could smell but not see. She would find them. She had to.

But layered beneath that was the weight of the Saja boys’ plan for this performance. What they were about to unleash. The souls in this building, every single one, were meant to burn for the sacrifice tonight.

Could they really stop it? Could she and you pull this off before the massacre began? Her jaw tightened. There was no going back.

You weren’t sure if your feet were moving you forward or if the pull in your chest was dragging you. The looming glow of the entrance swelled with every step, and your thoughts tangled into a frantic snarl.

What were you walking into? How were you supposed to do this? Would they know the second you stepped inside? Would they feel you the way you felt them?

And when they did… what then? Would they stop? Would they turn on you? Would they be angry, furious, that you’d dared to interfere? Or would they… try to keep you from leaving again?

Your fists clenched against the chill that had nothing to do with the night air. They’d made their choice. Now, you were making yours.

You were going to save them.

The entrance yawned closer, magenta light spilling across the dark pavement. The sound from within swelled, and somewhere beyond the doors the crowd erupted in wild, deafening cheers.

You froze mid-step. The song had begun.

The first notes curled through the night air, deep, haunting, and your chest tightened until it almost hurt. The memory hit you like a physical blow: Hwi’s voice, teasing but insistent, making you sit on his lap and listen to this song for the first time the other night. His small smile when you admitted you had liked it.

Now, here it was. Real. Alive.

The opening chant rolled through the air like a tolling bell.

“Dies irae, Illa Vos solve in Favilla Erus In flamas Eternum”

Your breath caught. You and Rumi reached the doorway at the same time, the scene before you freezing you both in place.

There they were. The boys stood, or rather, hovered, above the stage, each draped in black hanboks so deep they seemed to drink the light around them. Darkness crawled over the silk like veins of blood and moonlight, glinting faintly beneath the beams from above.

Their hair stirred in some invisible wind, faces dark and covered in their demon patterns, eyes bright and burning like embers in shadow. They floated limply at first, like corpses suspended in deep water, the folds of their robes swaying as though in the pull of a tide.

The hum of the song filled the hall, low, resonant, vibrating in your bones like the echo of a funeral bell. The crowd went absolutely mad. And suddenly, you knew with bone-deep certainty, this was no ordinary performance.

"I'll be your idol."

Your heart stopped. It was the first thing you heard from them tonight, Jinu’s voice, low and magnetic, laced with something that curled through you like smoke in your lungs. The moment the words hit the air, they dropped from the suspended height above the stage, landing in perfect unison on their knees. The thud of impact reverberated through the floor, through your bones.

Haneul rose first. The black silk of his hanbok caught the magenta light and shimmered like oil on water as he walked forward, the space parting for him like the stage itself bent to his will.

"Keeping you in check (Uh), keeping you obsessed (Uh) Play me on repeat, kkeudeobsi in your head Anytime it hurts (Uh), play another verse (Uh) I can be your sanctuary"

You’d never seen him like this. Haneul, the strong one who would steal the last bite of food just to watch your annoyed expression, now moved with a predator’s grace. There was no trace of the man who shuddered whenever you whispered his name, or fed you as if it was his own little way of keeping you safe and happy. 

His face was carved into something colder, sharper, every feature lit in a way that made him almost unreal. His eyes found the crowd, and for a heartbeat you thought they found you too.

It chilled you. Not because it wasn’t him, but because it was. Every detail, his smug stare, the effortless command of his movements, was honed to allure. He was dangerous in every inch of him, a demon made beautiful to pull you in until you couldn’t breathe.

The crowd didn’t blink. They leaned forward, breathless, eyes locked to him as though tethered. You could feel it, the pull. The spell. How were they supposed to look away from this? How could anyone?

"Know I'm the only one right now (Now) I will love you more when it all burns down More than power, more than gold (Yeah) Yeah, you gave me your heart, now I'm hеre for your soul"

Their movements shifted, each one falling into place in choreography so precise it looked inhuman. Limbs snapped into position with razor accuracy, then flowed with sinuous grace the next second. Voices layered, harmonized, twined together in a way that was both perfect and wrong, like hearing church bells in the middle of a funeral.

Your eyes caught Hwi, his sharp, almost violent precision cutting through the formation. His energy was fire, every movement edged and lethal. This was not the Hwi who made you tea every morning or waited by your door like a wounded animal as you cried. This was something stripped of warmth, a weapon dressed in human skin.

Seoha was different still. He had always been charming, his smiles melting and warm, but now his allure was coiled like a serpent ready to strike. It was romance turned into a blade, soft enough to make you lean in and sharp enough to cut you open without you noticing.

And the lyrics…

‘I will love you more when it all burns down’

The words pressed like a brand to your mind. Did they mean the world? People? You? The way they sang it, it was intimate, almost tender, and it made you think, had this been written for you? Had they already known they would burn everything to keep you?

‘Yeah, you gave me your heart, now I'm here for your soul’

Seungho had said the opposite once. They had wanted your heart. But this… this was hunger for the souls of millions. The duality twisted something deep inside you. You remembered how they wanted you, how the rest of the world was just collateral in that desire.

Jinu stepped forward, liquid in his control, each movement slow but deliberate, the way a predator circles prey. He was all shadow and sin, pulling every gaze to him without effort.

"I'm the only one who'll lovе your sins Feel the way my voice gets underneath your skin"

The word sins lodged in your chest. They said they would love yours, no matter what you’d done or would do. But could you love theirs? Could you love them for this, this mass seduction, this slaughter? And yet, you knew the answer. That was what terrified you most.

"Listen 'cause I'm preachin' to the choir Can I get the mic' a little higher? Gimme your desire I can be the star you rely on (You rely on) Nae hwanghol-ui chwihae, you can't look away (Hey)"

Neither you nor Rumi moved. The words were true, you couldn’t look away. You didn’t even want to. The doorway felt like the edge of the world, and they were the abyss pulling you in. Every tilt of their heads, every flicker of amber in their demon-marked eyes, every perfect synchronization in movement was spellwork made flesh. It had you and Rumi in a chokehold. Unable to move. Unable to tear your eyes away from their magnetism.

"Don't you know I'm here to save you Now we runnin' wild Yeah, I'm all you need, I'ma be your idol"

Your breath hitched… ‘Save you’. This wasn’t just performance, it was confession. They had saved you before, from danger, from yourself, from a life without them. 

Running wild… that was what they were doing now, tearing through the world for you.

‘I’m all you need’… it was obsession. A declaration that they wanted all of you, not just your love but your surrender. Was this why they’d never made you listen to the song? Because it was this?... a gospel of devotion and possession.

The trance tightened over the crowd like a net, and even Rumi’s gaze was glassy now. Magenta light erupted across the stage, swallowing them whole before they reappeared mid-center. Between them, demonic fire roared to life, casting them in flickering shades of blood and shadow.

"Uh! bichi naneun fame, gyesok oechyeo, I'm your idol Thank you for the pain 'cause it got me going viral Uh, yeah, natji anneun fever, makin' you a believer Nareul wihae neon jonjaehaneun idol"

Seungho’s voice cut through like a blade. Sharp, rhythmic, each syllable hitting with surgical precision. His rap was alive, dangerous, commanding, and you could feel the crowd leaning into it like a tide.

"Don't let it show, keep it all inside The pain and the shame, keep it outta sight Your obsession feeds our connection I sungan give me all your attention"

Your skin prickled. This wasn’t just for the audience… it was for you. Your obsession. Your attention. They wanted all of it, and they knew they already had it.

"Living in your mind now Too late 'cause you're mine now"

It was truth. You were theirs, just as this crowd was theirs to feed to the king of the Demon Realm. Their outstretched arms looked like an invitation to worship… and to die.

Jinu’s voice slid in smooth as silk: "I will make you free, when you're all part of me"

The line chilled you. You hadn’t been free since you met them. And yet, being with them was the freest you’d ever felt. But this freedom they promised? It was bought in blood.

"Listen 'cause I'm preaching to the choir Now, can I get the mic a little higher? Gimme your desire Watch me set your world on fire"

They had set your world on fire. Everything you’d been, everything you’d known, burned to ash in their wake. You were their desire, and they were yours, no matter how wrong it was. The flames behind them grew monstrous in size. Terrifying, consuming.

The realization hit like cold water. You blinked a couple of times, shaking your head as if to snap out of it. The trance cracked and you turned, Rumi was still lost in it, her eyes wide, unblinking.

"Rumi," you said sharply.

Nothing. She remained staring at their performance, no different from anyone in the audience before you. You grabbed her shoulders, shaking her. "Rumi! Snap out of it!"

"...No one is coming to save you."

The line slid from the stage like a blade through silk, and Rumi gasped, her trance shattering. She stared at you, horror dawning in her eyes. Had she been caught in that trap? If it weren’t for you shaking her free, she didn’t know what would have happened. 

“We have to do this. Now,” you said, fear and determination crashing together in your voice, colliding until they were indistinguishable.

Rumi’s mouth tightened into a thin line, but her eyes, steady, unblinking… held yours as if anchoring you. You both shared a silent nod, a pact forged in that breathless moment.

She stepped closer, taking both your hands in hers, the weight of them grounding you. Her palms were warm, too warm… like she was already carrying a spark of something bigger than either of you. The low hum of the Idol Awards echoed from beyond the doors, every cheer and bassline a reminder of how little time there was.

“Remember what I told you,” she said softly, voice trembling only at the edges. “When you feel the tug, open your heart… and make your choice.”

Your stomach knotted, but you nodded. She smiled, not carefree, but the kind of smile someone gives when they know the cost and have already accepted it.

Then… she began the ritual.

From the journal, Rumi remembered the line she and Jinu had painstakingly translated from Daehyun’s cramped, ink-blotted handwriting: “Three voices. One heart. To awaken the tether, the Hunter must first call upon the soul.”

It wasn’t just a starting note… it was a naming, a summoning. The first voice had to be sung, not spoken, because music carried what words could not: resonance that marked the chosen soul, a frequency that forged the Honmoon itself. To become the tether, you had to be called, and that call had to come from a Hunter in direct contact with the heart they meant to bind.

Rumi squeezed your hands, grounding you in the present as the music beyond the doors reached its end. The boys’ voices thundered from the stage:

"You’re down on your knees, I’ma be your idol—"

And then… the sound shifted. Rumi closed her eyes. A breath, sharp, steady, left her lips, and then she sang.

It was one note. Pure. Bright. Unyielding. A single sustained tone that seemed to cut the air in half. It was both battle cry and prayer, drawn from some place within her chest that felt impossibly deep. The sound was not just heard, it was felt, vibrating in your bones, rippling in your blood.

Her markings lit faintly along her skin, tracing over her arms and collarbone like veins of molten iridescence. You gasped as heat bloomed in your chest, the soulbond roaring awake, your heart thrumming as though it had been sleeping for centuries and she had just called it by name.

It was like she’d reached inside you and pressed her palm to the quietest, most hidden part of you, whispering: I see you. Wake up.

Her voice shifted into words, not her own, not entirely… but ancient, echoing as though spoken by more than one voice at once.

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

The air thickened with a hum you could feel in your teeth. Power surged through her hands into yours, a living current that burned but didn’t hurt. In your joined grasp, a faint wisp of magic coiled, white and alive, threading itself from her skin into yours.

The journal had warned: ‘The bond must feel the current, or it will not hold.’ You could feel it, threading, binding, wrapping itself into something irreversible.

Rumi opened her eyes, now molten amber, their glow faint but unmistakable. She stepped forward, still holding you for a heartbeat longer, and then gently placed you behind her. 

“Stay hidden until I give the signal,” she murmured.

You swallowed hard, throat dry, and pressed yourself to the shadows of the doorway. The crowd had already begun to part, like something unseen told them to make way. Rumi walked out into the open, every step carrying the gravity of someone walking toward an execution they’d chosen.

And there they were. Gwi Ma, and the boys, turning toward her. And for that moment, it was like the world stopped breathing.

Jinu barely heard the roar of the crowd now. He kept his mask fixed, the practiced smirk, the glint in his eye. But beneath it, suspicion curled like smoke.

What is she doing?

This wasn’t in any of Rumi’s plans. There was no advantage in drawing attention like this, not now, when everything was already falling into place. The cycle was about to be broken. The soul-harvest seconds away. The Honmoon already shattering.

So why come here like this?

Before he could chase the thought further, Gwi Ma’s voice rolled across the stage, deep and low, a predator toying with prey. The flames behind him swelled, licking the edges of the air until it hurt to breathe.

“You come here like this?” His words dripped with mockery. “You think you can fix the world? You can’t even fix yourself.”

Rumi’s gaze didn’t waver. “I can’t,” she admitted, each syllable carrying more weight than a scream.

“And now, everyone finally sees you for what you really are.”

“They do.”

“And the Honmoon is gone.”

“It is.”

Jinu’s jaw clenched under his mask. His thoughts sharpened to a knife’s edge. What’s her angle? She has no cards left. He was sure to have burned them all. He’d already made it clear last time they spoke… whatever she thought they were, whatever strange alliance they might have had, it was over.

She couldn’t undo this. Couldn’t outplay him. So what the hell was she trying to achieve? If she kept pushing, she’d only make it worse for herself—

“…So we can make a new one.”

His thoughts cut like a snapped wire when Rumi’s voice rang out, steady and deliberate. The words barely had time to register before movement stirred in the shadows behind her. Footsteps. Slow. Unhurried. A shape emerging from the dark, light catching on your features.

Jinu’s heart stopped. The air in his lungs turned to ash. You were here. Walking toward the stage like the chaos below didn’t exist, like the tearing Honmoon below wasn’t swallowing the earth.

Behind him, the other boys froze. Seungho’s eyes widened, Haneul’s breath hitched, Hwimori’s lips parted like he’d just seen a ghost, and Seoha’s blood turned ice cold.

Rumi didn’t move. She only tilted her head as you came to stand beside her, your presence so blindingly real that it felt like the entire world had tilted on its axis.

Jinu couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. The world seemed to hold its breath, sound folding in on itself, lights burning too bright… because you were not supposed to be here. 

And yet, here you were.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: I'm so sorry for the cliffhanger! It had to be done, as the next chapter will be written as a heavy, action-packed sequence. This is everything I've been building this story up for. I have the ending and all the events in place, so trust it's gonna be worth it!

I wanted to ensure I wrote Rumi and Reader's interaction to be as raw, emotional, and heartfelt as possible. I wanted the two girls to understand each other. For reader to agree to this plan, she needed to understand Rumi and the weight of this decision on her shoulders. It's not an easy position to be placed in, given the risks. But I wanted to highlight that while this love we have with the boys isn't perfect, we need to also understand their motivations too and what made them this way. It is a yandere fic after all. But imo, their actions reflect very well the pain and suffering they've been through. Their desperation. And we have to understand that fully to be capable of loving them as they are.

I also wanted to be sure that the boys are aware of the kind of love they can give. It's in a way... the only kind of love they know how to give after centuries of suffering. It's dark, obsessive, and difficult to understand. And that's what makes it so complicated and beautiful at the same time. It's twisted... but it's supposed to be like that.

Thank you for sticking with me this far, and I promise the end will be worth it.

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!

Willa x.

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As it gets closer to the boys’ first appearance, rather than go to Healer Han, the girls go out for bubble tea. In the alleyway, Jinu still tries to trip Rumi up but she uses his momentum against him to swing him into a dip. Internally, Jinu’s stunned and stuttering like a teenage MC in a romcom.

Zoey and Mira were also prepared this time. Instead of drooling over abs and pretty faces, they gush over everything but the actual boys themselves: their nail polish, their clothes, even their jewelry. Next, they move onto getting them to try their boba. Only Baby goes for it but the moment is revolutionary—every scene after, instead of a lollipop or water, Baby has a new boba flavor in hand. Meanwhile Abby is getting BIG Sad Eyes because no one’s looking at his abs.

Having done enough emotional sabotage, Rumi sets Jinu to rights while Mira and Zoey remove their whirlwind of gushing distraction. The trio practically skip out the alley, leaving the five flabbergasted behind.

During their Soda Pop performance, the girls actually let themselves enjoy the song, bopping along even when the boys flash their patterns. Later, while the Saja Boys are on the variety show, the girls make their reappearance, but instead of glammed up for war, they’ve gone for a softer look this time. No leather to betray them.

The boys still run off with the girls close on their heels, but rather than follow into the bathhouse, Huntrix stops just outside and all 3 knock incessantly on the door. This completely disarms the boys who were already posing for the confrontation inside. Jinu eventually creeps forward to crack open the door, bracing for a blade and is instead hit with a “hey do you want to get hotpot?” from Rumi. The door swings open the rest of the way so Zoey can pop her around the frame to yell “the rest of you are invited too!” at the other boys.

Totally unprepared, the boys just kind of look at each other before turning to Jinu to make a decision. Jinu has no clue what’s happening, but agrees in the hopes of potentially messing with the hunters.

Sitting down to eat is nothing like what the boys expected. For starters, the girls are ravenous. And they’re LIVELY. Zoey’s carrying the conversation for the whole table. Mira’s cajoling the boys to try different things. Rumi’s taken charge of the pot, making sure everything’s evenly cooked. The final shock is when Rumi takes her jacket off, flashing iridescent patterns that bring the boys to a screeching halt.

From there, dinner turns messy. Abby puffs up in anger, nearly spilling his drink across the table, while Romance and Baby’s gazes turn cold and calculating. Jinu won’t stop staring and Mystery continues his silence. When the first 3 try to flash their yellow eyes in intimidation, Rumi glares right back, one eye flaring gold.

It’s Zoey who gets everyone back on track. Ignoring the stare down, she grabs more food, turning to Mystery to share some. When he accepts the offered food, tensions break, and things ease back to a calmer level.

Rumi goes on to explain her heritage and how she and the girls know demons can be more than what Gwi-Ma makes them be.

The hallway swallowed her whole.

Darkness pressed in from every side, broken only by flickering neon lights buzzing overhead, pinks, greens, and blues bleeding through the haze like broken shards of color. The floor trembled faintly beneath her as the crowd above roared in confusion, unaware of the unraveling happening behind the curtain.

Rumi ran.

She didn’t know where her legs were taking her, only that she had to get away. Away from their eyes. From the look on their faces. From her own reflection, etched into her mind like a curse, glowing purple marks that didn’t fade no matter how hard she wished they would.

Tears streamed down her face, hot and endless, blurring everything until even the lights seemed to bleed.

How had it come to this?

This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. Y/N was supposed to be here. They were supposed to perform the ritual. Quietly, secretly. The crowd would cheer above, oblivious. And by the end of the night, they would’ve changed fate. They would’ve rewritten everything. Saved the world and saved themselves. Together.

But now… Now Zoey and Mira had seen what she was. Her skin had betrayed her. Her stomach churned with nausea and panic as the memory came crashing down, jagged and unforgiving. That moment onstage, the lights flashing, the crowd erupting… and then her two best friends standing backstage, staring at her with wide, horrified eyes.

They weren’t the ones who’d exposed her. The Mira and Zoey who had torn off her jacket with venom in their voices… they hadn’t even been real. Demons. They’d been demons.

But the real Mira and Zoey had seen everything too. And their faces… their faces haunted her more than any demon ever could. Betrayal. Shock. Fear. Like she was a stranger. Like she was dangerous. Like she was no longer one of them.

“I was just trying to fix it,” she whispered to herself as she ran, voice cracking. “I was trying to fix me.” Her breath hitched as more of the memory crashed down, sharper now, clearer. The confrontation backstage, their voices laced with hurt.

“You were hiding this from us? This whole time?” Mira’s voice, betrayed. Like every secret Rumi had buried had just detonated between them.

“No—I had a plan. I was going to erase them. Jinu was supposed to, and Y/N—”

“Jinu?” Zoey had repeated, disbelief hardening into something worse. “You were working with him? With Y/N?”

“No! No—I was using him. To fix all this!—”

“We believed you, Rumi,” Mira had said. "We trusted you. Even if we knew you were hiding something," She scoffed a laugh in disbelief, "And this is what it was this whole time? 

Zoey’s voice had cracked next, soft and full of betrayal. “We trusted you even without all the answers. Even when you couldn’t do the same with us.”

Rumi’s chest caved as she remembered what she’d said, desperate, pleading. “I just wanted to fix all of it. Fix me. So we could all do our duty. So we could be together—”

“How could we be together if we can’t tell your lies from your truths, Rumi?” Zoey had said. Her voice was hard, but her face… her face had looked like her heart had broken in half.

A sob tore through Rumi’s throat as her feet pounded against the metal flooring. She could barely breathe. The pain in her lungs wasn’t just from running, it was the ache of watching her world crumble from the inside. Mira. Zoey. Her girls. Her teammates. Her family.

She remembered the weight of their weapons as they raised them. Not quickly, not eagerly. But hesitantly. Reluctantly. Still… they had pointed them at her. Mira’s moonblade, trembling in her grip. Zoey, voice quivering, barely able to meet her eyes. 

“Zoey, please…” Rumi had whispered.

And Zoey had raised her blades anyway.

That moment had shattered something inside her. How could they look at her like that? After everything? After the battles they’d fought, the nights they’d spent in the apartment laughing until dawn, the trust they’d shared? How could a few glowing marks suddenly turn her into their enemy?

Her breath hitched as she ran down another hall, heart hammering in her chest. She clutched her arms to her chest, trying to smother the marks, the truth, the shame.

“Jinu! Jinu!” she called out, her voice breaking, echoing into the dark. He had to be here. He had to.

They’d made a deal. They were supposed to perform the ritual together. He was supposed to bring Y/N. They were supposed to end this nightmare. Why had he lied? Why wasn’t Y/N here?

Unless… unless something had happened. Unless they locked her up… trapped her somewhere to keep her from coming. Was that it? Had he betrayed them both?

Her chest constricted at the thought. No. No, he couldn’t have. He wouldn’t. But the uncertainty tore her apart.

She rounded a corner of scaffolding, bright lights cutting through the shadows, and then froze. There. Jinu stood under a scaffold light, glowing faintly purple. His demon patterns were visible. Brazen. Like he wasn’t hiding anything anymore.

And standing beside him were Mira and Zoey. But not her friends. She knew immediately. Something in their posture, the slight twitch of their smirks, that they weren’t human. Just the shells of her friends, possessed and twisted. The same demons who had stolen their faces on stage.

“Say you didn’t do this,” Rumi gasped, heart pounding.

Jinu raised his hand and snapped his fingers. The illusions dissolved into smoke. He’d summoned them. He knew.

Rage surged through her. “You bastard!” she shouted, running at him. She shoved him hard. He didn’t even flinch. “How could you do this?!”

His eyes didn’t soften. They didn’t flicker. Only coldness. Exhaustion. “It was all a lie,” he said.

“No—it was real! The ritual, the journal… you transcribed every word with me! You—you helped me believe it could work!”

“I just needed you to trust me,” Jinu said. “That’s all. The ritual was never going to save her.”

“Don’t say that!” Rumi shouted, grabbing his arm. “You don’t know that! You can’t know that!”

“I do.” He turned, eyes like fire. “Because I saw it.”

Her breath caught. “…what?”

“I went into the demon realm. I accessed the echoes of the past. I saw the ritual. Your father… he tried to save her.” Jinu looked at her then. Really looked. And something in his voice cracked. “But it tore her apart. Your mother. The ritual split her into pieces. I saw your father on the ground, clutching nothing but ash.”

Rumi staggered back like he’d hit her.

“She never would have survived it,” Jinu whispered. “And neither would Y/N. You think I would risk that?” he snarled. “You think I would ever gamble with her life?”

“But you said she needed you to find another way—”

“YOU DON’T GET IT!” Jinu roared, and the walls seemed to vibrate with his voice. “This is the only way!”

She flinched. He stepped closer.

“I will do anything to keep her alive. Even if she hates me. Even if I burn the world to do it. Your first mistake, Rumi, was thinking I would ever choose anything over her.”

Rumi’s tears blurred everything again. Her voice came out hoarse. “But she’s not the only thing that matters. You could have chosen her and the world. That’s what she would’ve wanted—”

Jinu didn’t speak.

“You didn’t even tell her, did you?” Rumi whispered, voice shaking. “Did you lock her up? She told me she was coming—she wanted to help—”

“She’s safe,” he said simply.

And that was the truth of it. That was all he cared about. Your safety. Not your choice.

Rumi stared at him. And slowly, it sank in. This was love. Demon love. The kind that consumed. That clutched. That controlled. But also the kind that bled and broke and sacrificed.

“I hope you’re ready to live with her hating you,” she whispered.

Jinu’s eyes flickered with something unreadable. “I’m a demon,” Jinu whispered. “Just like you. All we get to do is live with our pain. That’s all we deserve. That’s our inheritance. That’s what we are.”

He started to walk past her. “What your father wanted…” he muttered, “It wasn’t meant for creatures like us. We’re mistakes.” 

And with that, he vanished into the shadows. And Rumi, left behind under the humming lights… collapsed to her knees. She sat there, crumpled on the floor, arms wrapped around herself as if she could hold her pieces together.

“We believed you.”

“We trusted you.”

Their voices echoed like ghosts. Maybe they were right. Maybe she had been pretending this whole time. Maybe she had no right to hope for anything else. She’d lied. Hidden. She was marked… stained since birth. Maybe the proof had always been there, glowing purple underneath her skin like a warning.

She wasn’t a hero. She wasn’t a hunter. She was just a demon pretending not to be.

And now? Now the Honmoon was tearing itself apart, and she couldn’t stop it. She didn’t deserve to.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The broadcast room buzzed with faint static, its monitors flickering softly in the dim overhead light. Outside, the roar of the crowd in the city square below echoed even through the concrete walls. Seoul was alive, unaware that tonight would be its death knell.

Inside, four demons stood waiting.

Seoha leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, jaw tight. He was the calmest of them on the surface, but the tension in his shoulders gave him away. His fingers tapped against his bicep, betraying the fact that his mind was far from this room.

Hwimori sat perched on the edge of the table, headphones slung around his neck, gaze distant as he stared at the idle broadcast console. The usual hum in his chest was gone. No music filled his head now… just you. Your cries, your fear. Were you crying? Were you scared of them?

Seungho stood silently by the window, one hand in his pocket, the other curled tightly around the edge of the windowsill as he stared at the distant silhouette of Namsan Tower. A storm brewed behind his blank eyes. His lips were set in a grim line. He hadn’t said a word since they got here.

Haneul paced. He walked slow circles around the room, jaw clenched, unable to sit still. The silence was unbearable. The absence of your presence was unbearable.

“She found out by now,” Hwimori muttered, stopping Haneul at his tracks. His voice cracked like dry earth. “The barrier. She’s seen it. She knows we locked her in.”

The room fell heavier. Haneul lowered his gaze. “…She’s going to hate us.”

Seungho didn’t turn from the window. “She was already halfway there after tonight.”

“Don’t,” Seoha snapped quietly, but the bitterness in Seungho’s voice lingered in the air.

They remembered it clearly. The moment Jinu and Seoha raised their hands earlier that day in unison and the magenta spell locked the front door of the apartment, glowing circles sealing the frame like cursed ivy. Magic woven with protection, and fear, and desperation.

“It’s for her own good,” Jinu had said. His voice had been calm, resolute.

“She’s not gonna see it that way,” Haneul had whispered then, his brows pinched in guilt. “None of this is good.”

Even now, Haneul remembered the ache in his chest as the lock sealed. The way the apartment went still, like it was mourning with them. They’d all stood there, hearts silent, breaths held. They were monsters pretending it was mercy.

As they all had turned to leave the apartment hallway, Hwimori found himself lingering by the door for just a little longer. He pressed a hand against the cold wood, lips trembling. “I’m sorry,” he whispered under his breath. “It’s all for you.”

Then he turned and walked away, the weight of the door burning into his memory.

Back in the broadcast room, the sound of footsteps pulling into the space drew all of their heads up. Jinu had returned. He appeared in a blink of dark light, magic smoke curling around his shoes. His expression was unreadable, eyes lowered, jaw sharp, shirt still ruffled from the confrontation none of them had to ask about.

They exchanged brief glances, nothing needed to be said. They were all in now.

“Ready?” Seoha asked, his voice hollow.

Jinu gave a slow nod. They stepped into place behind the broadcast table, the screen behind them glowing magenta patterns.  The camera light blinked on.

“Hey everybody…” Jinu’s voice came dejected, sad—mask on. “You must all be so sad about the Huntrix breakup. We are too.”

A forced pout. Faux empathy. A line rehearsed.

“So to cheer everyone up,” he said, hands clasping, “we’re going to do a special live performance tonight. Midnight. Namsan Tower. Don’t miss it for the world.”

The camera cut and silence returned. Their masks dropped and no one spoke for a long moment. Then, Seoha sighed, pushing back from the table, his hands rubbing his face as though to wipe away whatever soul he had left.

“That’s it. Broadcast’s out to every station. City square’s already swarming.”

“Stage is rigged,” Seungho added. “Gwi Ma’s essence is already on-site. He’ll be there when the time comes.”

“…There’s no stopping it now,” Hwimori said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“But we already knew that.” Jinu’s tone was steel. Still, none of them moved.

They thought of you. Had you watched the Idol Awards? Had you seen what happened to Huntrix? What they’d done?

Seungho’s jaw tightened. “She’s probably crying.”

“Or screaming,” Haneul added bitterly. “Or throwing something.”

“She’s scared,” Hwimori murmured, eyes down. “I can feel it. She’s confused and angry and sad and—”

“We’re doing this for her,” Seoha said firmly, trying to cut through the weight of their guilt. “We keep telling ourselves that. We have to.”

“She’ll never forgive us,” Haneul said.

“She doesn’t need to,” Seungho muttered. “She just has to live.”

Jinu’s voice broke through the silence again. “I’ll make sure the Namsan performance isn’t live-streamed. She won’t see it. She won’t have to see what we become. What we do.”

They looked at each other, eyes hollow, hands clenched. They were demons. They were monsters. But tonight, they would become something worse. Murderers. Massacres in satin Hanboks.

“I’ll keep her in the dark,” Seoha said. “If I have to break every satellite in the city myself.”

“Then let’s finish this,” Jinu said. They moved to the edge of the room, their silhouettes framed in red light now. The tower loomed in the distance, glowing like the end of the world.

“We’ll burn for her,” Seungho muttered.

“Bleed for her,” said Haneul.

“Lie for her,” whispered Seoha.

“Kill for her,” said Hwimori.

Jinu didn’t speak. But they knew what he would say. 

He would end for you.

And he would take the world with him.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The air around the Headquarters was too still. A place once full of order, peace, and the scent of sacred smoke now felt like it was holding its breath. Trees rustled in slow, stifled motion. The shadows bent unnaturally. The wind carried the smell of something wrong.

Celine stood alone in the moonlit garden, beneath the great Hunter Tree… the heart of it all. The source of their strength. Of their identity. Towering above her, its ancient branches clawed at the black sky like it was begging the heavens to put an end to the horror.

And around it, flickering in a splintered fracture of light, the Honmoon trembled. Magenta light forked across the space, cracking the illusion of peace wide open. Wisps of energy curled like dying smoke through the leaves, twisting the light into something eerie. Haunted.

Celine's cardigan clung uselessly to her frame, doing nothing to stop the cold that crawled up her spine. Her long hair clung to her cheekbones, falling in soft, loose waves — her silhouette calm, but her eyes wide with dread as she stared up.

No. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Her voice caught in her throat as she watched the Honmoon tearing open. “What have they done?” she whispered.

Then…a sound. Soft. A shuffle in the dark behind her. The air shifted instantly. Her hunter instincts snapped to life. She whirled around, sickle drawn with a cry— And froze.

Standing just beyond the soft shimmer of moonlight, stage clothes tattered and soaked with memory, eyes cast to the dirt, demon patterns glowing faintly over every inch of her body… was Rumi. Celine’s breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled. The sickle slipped.

“Rumi?” she gasped.

But Rumi didn’t meet her eyes. She just stood there, broken, haunted. “I thought I could fix it all…” her voice was rough, hollow. It echoed unnaturally, the edges of a demon voice rippling just beneath her words. “Fix me. But I ran out of time.”

The markings etched down her arms pulsed faintly. Seeing them, hearing her voice like that… Celine's knees nearly buckled. Her sickle clattered to the ground, forgotten.

Rumi stepped forward, eyes still downcast. “They saw,” she whispered. “They know. There’s no denying it now.”

Celine didn’t speak. Her mouth was parted, her hands frozen mid-air, like she was watching something she couldn’t believe.

“This is what I am,” Rumi said, quietly.

“No,” Celine finally managed. “Rumi—no. Don’t say that—”

But Rumi’s voice darkened. “You knew I was a mistake from the very start.”

With a chime of metal, she summoned her sword. Celine’s heart stopped. “Rumi…”

But Rumi didn’t raise it. She dropped to her knees. Holding the blade in both trembling hands, arms outstretched toward Celine like an offering. “Do what you should’ve done a long time ago,” she said. “Before I destroy what I swore to protect.”

Her eyes remained downcast, tears threatening to spill. “Please… do it.”

The voice on that last word wasn’t hers. It was a demon’s. Celine’s mouth quivered. Her eyes filled. “I—”

“...What would your choice be this time, Celine?”

The voice didn’t belong to either of them. It rippled through the air like a curse. Both Rumi and Celine turned, startled. From the edge of the garden’s shadow, a figure emerged.

The Old One.

He stood tall and gaunt, as though shaped from smoke and silence. His robes shimmered like oil under moonlight, swirling with ancient sigils and tattered elegance. His eyes were impossibly black. Voids framed in pale skin, too smooth for age, too old for time. Wisps of gold and decay clung to his form like moss on stone. He smiled as if he knew how this story ended.

Rumi instantly rose to her feet, sword raised, her pulse thundering.

“You—” Celine breathed, voice sharp with panic. Her body tensed, pulling Rumi behind her. “Get away from her.”

"And so," the Old One murmured, eyes gleaming, "the daughter makes the same request as the father."

“What—?” Rumi stiffened. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice cracking.

Celine barked, “Rumi, get away from him! He’s a demon—!”

“I see years after the incident haven’t changed your sentiments,” the Old One said, eyes directed at the older woman, almost amused. He tilted his head toward Celine, mock-pity in his tone. “I wasn’t going to involve myself. But I couldn’t just watch my friend’s daughter commit the same mistake he did.”

Rumi’s blood ran cold. “You… you knew my father?”

Celine's voice rose. “Don’t listen to him, Rumi. He’s a demon. All they do is lie—!”

“Like you?” Rumi suddenly snapped, turning to her. As if the mention of her father had brought back the same ire she held for Celine the past couple of weeks. Her voice shook. “All this time, Celine. You preached about truth. About light. About purity. But you lied to me every single day. About who I was. About who my father was.”

Celine froze, visibly wounded. Rumi's breath trembled as her fury softened into aching clarity. “You knew,” she whispered. “You always knew. You chose to lie.”

She turned back to the Old One. “How do you know my father?”

The demon’s expression gentled. "You have his eyes,” he said softly. “And that god-forsaken hair of his.”

Rumi’s throat tightened. This stranger… this demon… knew things. She felt it.

“So it’s not a shock to me,” he continued, “how ironic this all is, hmm… Celine?”

“Ironic?” Rumi echoed, turning to the older hunter. “What’s he talking about?”

Celine looked ready to shatter. “Rumi, don’t—”

“Why don’t you tell her the truth?” the Old One murmured, low and sharp. “You were there for everything. You partook in it. Let it happen.”

Celine’s hands rose to her head. “No. No, no no no—”

Rumi reached forward and caught her wrist. Her voice broke. “If you ever cared for me at all… please. I need to know the truth.” She tightened her grip. “I know you’ve been keeping things from me. I found the letter. The journal.”

Celine's head snapped up. “What?! You— You were never supposed to find out—”

“Find out what?!” Rumi shouted.

The Old One said nothing. Just watched. Waiting. Celine trembled. Her eyes welled.

“Tell me the truth,” Rumi said. Quieter now. “You owe me that much.”

Celine's hands trembled where they clutched the hem of her cardigan, knuckles bone-white. She looked so much smaller now. Not the sharp, commanding woman Rumi had grown up under, but just a woman cracked open by grief long buried.

Her voice was barely above a whisper. “Your mother met him on a hunt.”

Rumi’s breath hitched.

“She kept it from us. Snuck out… night after night. We were trained to sense lies, but she was always one step ahead. Always too clever. We didn’t know what she was doing until it was too late.”

Celine swallowed. “She said she had fallen in love with a demon.”

“Daehyun,” Rumi murmured, her voice breaking.

Celine looked up at her, eyes wide in shock — then nodded slowly. “Yes,” she breathed. “Daehyun.” She spat the name out with so much venom, Rumi bristled, her legs nearly giving out.

Celine looked away, ashamed. “I was furious at first. All of us were. How could she? How could she… love something we were taught to destroy?” Her mouth twisted. “It went against everything we believed. Everything we bled for.”

She paused, her voice quieter. “But then… we discovered the soulbond.”

Rumi’s eyes widened.

“It’s rare… so rare among demonkind and humans that it’s only ever spoken of in legend. But I felt it between them. That pull. That… thread. It wasn’t just desire. It wasn’t manipulation. It was fate. Like their souls had been searching for each other across lifetimes. And who were we to tear that apart?”

Rumi clutched her chest. The soulbond… like what she saw with you and the boys.

Celine’s voice softened. “She was my best friend, Rumi. My family. So when she told us she was pregnant…” Her voice cracked. “From that demon...” The disgust returned. She spat the word like it physically hurt her. “…we had no choice but to support her. To protect her.”

Rumi’s eyes shimmered.

“Your father told us of a ritual,” Celine continued. “He said it could solve everything. If the Honmoon was sealed, they’d be separated forever. But this ritual… he said it would anchor them. That it would create a living tether — someone who could serve as a gate, a guardian. A bridge between the human world and the demon realm.”

Rumi’s mind raced. The Tether.

“He wanted to make her into that bridge,” Celine said, eyes glassy. “Your mother.”

“He said it would work. Said we’d all win. The Honmoon wouldn’t have to be strengthened to Gold. She would become it, our duties preserved, and they could still be together. And your mother…” 

Her voice broke completely. “She loved him, Rumi. So much. Enough to believe in a miracle. She begged us. Begged me. She said she trusted him. Said she’d die before losing him. She just wanted to try.”

Celine’s voice trembled. “The night before the ritual, she handed you to me. Swaddled in a silk blanket. Your tiny hands were so warm. She asked me to make a promise.”

Rumi felt her knees shaking. Her heart throbbed in her ears.

Celine was weeping now, hunched in on herself. “She made me swear to protect you. That if anything went wrong, I would raise you. Keep you safe.”

She pressed a trembling hand to her heart. “But the ritual—” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “It failed.”

Rumi’s stomach twisted violently.

Celine shook her head, eyes shut against the memory. “She was torn apart… in bursts of light. I watched her scream, her body unravel like it was being rewritten by something older than magic. There was light and ash and nothing. Nothing left.”

A sob ripped from her throat. “He lied to us! Tricked us. He killed her.” She looked up, grief sharp in her eyes. “I hated him. For what he took. For the hole he left behind.”

She turned her eyes back to Rumi, hollow now. “And that’s why I never told you. I kept it all from you — the bond, the ritual, the truth. I didn’t want you to carry that pain. I didn’t want you to see what your father really was.”

Rumi was frozen. Her throat burned. Her body felt like it was shattering inward, piece by piece. “I did it to protect you,” Celine whispered. “Because I made her a promise.”

She turned to glare at the Old One. “And he was there. He knew of the plans. Watched it happen.”

“You can’t trust them,” she hissed. “Demons lie. They smile and twist their words and make you believe things you shouldn’t. They don’t love, Rumi. They take.”

Silence. Rumi’s face crumpled. “You’re wrong,” she said softly. She couldn’t believe those words. Not after reading her father’s letter. Not after knowing that all he’d done was for the sake of his family. Her mother. Not after seeing Jinu and the boys with you.

Celine looked at her, startled.

“My father loved my mother.”

Celine’s mouth twitched, and then she snapped. “If he loved her, she wouldn’t be dead.”

Rumi flinched. A silence passed… it was heavy and cold.

Then the Old One let out a small, pitying tsk. “Still not the whole truth, is it, Celine?”

Rumi’s eyes snapped to her. “What’s he talking about?”

Celine froze. Rumi stepped forward. Her voice cracked like glass. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

Celine stared at the Old One with pure loathing, her mouth tight, fists trembling at her sides. The ancient demon simply smiled. Slow, knowing, and cruelly gentle. Like he had been waiting decades to witness this moment unravel.

“Go on, then,” he whispered. “Tell her. Tell her why her… earlier request must’ve felt so familiar to you.”

Celine's face drained of color. Her lips parted, a small breath escaping. “No…” she whispered.

Rumi’s brows furrowed as she turned to her, eyes wide and glimmering with confusion. “My… request?”

It hit her like a slow oncoming wave. The sick twist curling in her gut, the tightening behind her ribs. No. He couldn’t mean what I think he means…

Celine looked at her. And for the first time in Rumi’s life, Celine’s eyes broke. No armor. No duty. Just something ancient and trembling. Rumi stepped forward, voice cracking. “What’s the whole truth? What else are you not telling me?!”

Celine’s mouth opened but no words came. Rumi’s voice rose in anguish, tears now slipping freely down her cheeks because deep inside she knew. She had a feeling what the old demon was talking about. 

“Tell me! Or I’ll assume the worst—”

“I—” Celine turned away, her voice choking. Her hands curled into fists, nails digging into her palms. “I can’t—”

“Tell me!”

Celine crumpled. “That night…” she whispered, still facing the tree. “The night before the ritual. I held you in my arms. You were so small. Your mother was asleep beside me… and then Daehyun came in.”

She shut her eyes, pain twisting every word. “He said… that if anything happened to her—if she died… to raise and protect you.”

Rumi’s lips quivered. Her whole body was trembling.

“And then…” Celine’s voice cracked, so raw it barely held shape. “He asked me… to kill him.”

Rumi gasped, barely a whisper, “What…?”

Celine turned now. Her face was wet with tears, red and swollen. “Your father… said he couldn’t live a life without her. That if she died, she wouldn’t be reborn. And there’d be no reason for him to stay behind. He told me to kill him if it failed.”

“No,” Rumi breathed. Her knees buckled slightly.

“I didn’t understand him,” Celine cried. “Not really. I didn’t know what it all meant. So I said no. Not until—” 

She turned her face away, voice cracking into a sob. “When it failed… when I saw her… my best friend… rip apart in that burst of light, that scream—” her voice caught, and she clutched at her chest like it still physically hurt. “I watched your father hold what was left of her. Clutch at ash. He was wailing, sobbing. His screams, his grief… he wanted to die.”

Celine’s voice dropped to a trembling hush. “And I… I let rage take over. I thought none of this would’ve happened if it weren’t for him. For that damn ritual. For him—a demon. I hated him. I hated him so much in that moment.”

Rumi shook her head slowly, disbelieving. “No, no, you didn’t…”

“He looked up at me,” Celine whispered. “Kneeling on the ground. Shaking. Empty. He didn’t fight back. The last thing he saw was me. Me. And then—” Celine’s voice shattered.

“I killed him.”

The words landed like thunder cracking through the sky. Rumi collapsed. Her sword fell to the ground with a heavy clang as she dropped to her knees. A sound escaped her—broken, small, too soft for the pain that came with it.

“No,” she whispered, clutching her chest. “No, no, no—”

Celine dropped to her knees too, crawling to her. “Rumi, please—he asked me to. I didn’t want to at first—I couldn’t bear everything he had done. He couldn’t either—he wanted me to—”

“You KILLED him!” Rumi screamed, twisting away from her touch. Her voice was fire and grief, shattering the night air. “You murdered him—!”

“I didn’t mean to!” Celine sobbed, reaching out but not touching. “Not at first…he begged me, Rumi! He wanted it—he couldn’t live in a world without her. He told me it was the only thing I could do for him.”

“I trusted you!” Rumi shrieked, crawling backward, shaking violently. “You were supposed to protect me! You promised her—!”

Celine broke into fresh sobs, burying her face in her hands. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry… I was trying to protect you. I didn’t want you to grow up with that legacy, with that pain. I was trying—”

“You took him from me!” Rumi screamed. “You took both of them—!” She sobbed so violently she doubled over, gripping her own arms like she could stop herself from falling apart.

The Old One approached then, his steps silent in the dark grass. He knelt beside her, placing a weathered hand on her shoulder. His touch was warm. Solid. Gentle.

“I knew him,” the Old One said quietly. “Daehyun. A stubborn bastard. Noble. Soft-hearted where it mattered.”

Rumi’s eyes met his, tear-streaked and wide.

“We were friends once,” the Old One continued, voice low and aching with time. “He loved your mother beyond reason. Beyond life. And when she was gone, he didn’t wish to be saved. He told me that he couldn’t live in a world without her.”

Rumi hiccupped, trembling. “He… he really loved her?”

“With every cell of his soul.”

She swallowed, her voice shaking. “Then… he chose this.”

He nodded. “It was his choice. And sometimes, love… asks the impossible of us.”

Behind them, Celine still wept. Silent. Ashamed. Small. Rumi turned her head slightly, watching her fall apart in the shadows. Her insides twisted. She didn’t know what she was feeling anymore—grief, fury, confusion, love… hatred.

She was both her mother’s daughter and her father’s legacy. And suddenly, she didn’t know who that made her at all.

Celine’s hands trembled, reaching toward Rumi, almost begging. Her face was streaked with tears, broken by the pain, by the plea behind her eyes. “Rumi… please,” she whispered. “Forgive me.”

Rumi looked down at her, gaze unreadable. A mixture of grief, fury, and something heavier than either. “Well,” Rumi murmured, her voice brittle, hollow, “it’s over now.”

She glanced down at her own arms, at the jagged, glowing patterns snaking across her skin. Her birthright, her curse. “The Honmoon is destroyed… I’m…” Her throat closed. “…me. And it’s over. Like they died for nothing.”

“No, no—Rumi, listen to me.” Celine surged forward, wrapping her cardigan around Rumi’s shoulders like a second skin, like it could somehow erase the marks beneath. Her voice shook with desperation. “We can’t fail. You can’t fail. We can still fix this.”

Rumi didn’t move. She just looked at her with a numb kind of shock, as if unsure whether this was kindness or control.

“We can cover these up. Make everything right again. We can’t let them win,” Celine muttered, her gaze flicking toward the Old One, whose smirk only deepened. She glared at him with venom. “I’ll tell Mira and Zoey it was all a trick. A projection. An illusion cast by Gwi Ma to turn them against you. I’ll fix it. I’ll—"

But the words died in her throat when she saw the look on Rumi’s face. Disbelief. Contempt.

Rumi’s eyes turned to the Old One, unsure, searching. And Celine’s fear grew. “You can’t trust demons, Rumi,” she hissed, stepping between them. “They’ll say anything to get what they want. They lie. That’s all they do—”

“You’ve been lying to me my whole life!” Rumi screamed. “You lied about my father. You lied about who I am! You told me I was just like them—like I was normal!”

“Rumi—please. We can still fix this!”

“Don’t you get it?!” Her voice cracked into a roar. “This is who I am! You tried to erase my father like that would erase me! You thought if you just hid my patterns, it would disappear! But look at me!”

Celine tried to meet her eyes. But she couldn’t. Not now. Not after everything. Not when she looked so much like… him.

“Why can’t you look at me?” Rumi’s voice broke. “Why couldn’t you love me?”

“I do,” Celine said, voice trembling.

“All of me?” Rumi asked, and this time her voice wasn’t human. It was deeper. Echoing. Her demon timbre rolled through the garden like thunder. The ground quaked. The great Hunter Tree behind them groaned, and the Honmoon below, whatever was left of it,  shimmered violently around them, cracks splitting through its core.

Celine flinched. “See?!” she shouted, wild. “This is why we must hide it! Our faults and fears must never be seen! They’re dangerous! It’s the only way to protect the Honmoon—!”

Rumi looked around her. The Honmoon below was tearing. Wisps of it frayed like cloth in wind. Everything they’d ever sworn to protect, fading with each breath she took.

And it dawned on her.

This was the Honmoon? This fragile thing held together by lies and fear? This was what she had bled to protect? This... weak thing that breaks at her faults, at their simple feelings. A thing that depended on their voices, on their unity as Hunters... this thing that depended on perfectionism, hope, and hiding the truth? 

"This..." she said, barely a whisper, "this is what we’ve been strengthening all these years?"

The silence pressed in like a weight.

“If this is the Honmoon I’m supposed to protect,” Rumi said, staring up into the unraveling light, “then I’m glad to see it destroyed.”

Celine staggered. “No—Rumi—please, don’t say that—”

“It’s over now.” Rumi muttered. And then—

“…Is that what you really think?” The Old One’s voice slid through the garden, soft and low.

Both women turned toward him. He looked at Rumi with eyes ancient and wise, his tone almost paternal. “After all your father sacrificed. After your mother gave up everything. Do you really think this is the end?”

Rumi’s chest heaved. Her voice was tight. “But… it failed. The ritual. It cost them everything. How am I supposed to…”

The Old One stepped closer. “I don’t know what Daehyun left in that little journal of his,” he said softly. “But I do know why it failed.”

Rumi and Celine looked at him, breath held.

“The ritual required three voices,” he said. “And one heart. Your mother… she was a hunter, sworn and branded. That left them with only two voices. Not enough to bind. Not enough to hold. Not strong enough to survive.”

“What…?” Rumi’s eyes went wide.

“You can’t make a tether from someone sworn to the Hunt,” he said, glancing toward Celine. “No matter how strong the love.”

Celine’s voice sharpened. “You’re wrong. That’s not how the bond—” But she froze when she saw Rumi’s face. Wide-eyed. Realizing. “…Rumi?” she asked carefully.

Rumi’s lips parted. “So… it can work,” she whispered. “We can succeed.”

The Old One smiled. “You were right.”

Celine turned on him, panicked. “Rumi, what are you saying? Have you found someone—?”

“But they won’t let me go through with it. Jinu… he knows. He knows the risks.”

“So don’t give him a choice,” the Old One said, with a knowing glint in his eye. He stepped closer, just beside her now, voice low, gentle. “You’re your father’s daughter. And he believed in the impossible.” He looked at her with something almost like pride. “So do I.”

Rumi stared up at him. That ache in her chest didn’t fade, but the fear in her eyes dimmed. Just slightly.

“You just need her.” His voice was a whisper. “Convince her. And you can finish what they started.”

“Rumi—no.” Celine stepped forward, voice breaking again. “If you’re thinking what I think you are—don’t. Please. This is madness!”

But her words were smoke. Rumi backed away slowly. She looked at the Old One and gave a small nod. He returned it solemnly. Then her gaze landed on Celine one last time. She looked at the woman who raised her — the woman who protected her, betrayed her, loved her, and lied to her.

Her voice was quiet. Steady. Icy. “I forgive you,” Rumi said, “but I won’t let you decide my fate anymore.”

Magenta light bloomed around her in a swirl of smoke and embers. And then—

She was gone.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You sat curled on the couch in the apartment’s dim light, the television flickering in front of you like it was struggling to fill the silence. You hugged a pillow tightly to your chest, your forehead resting against it, heart pounding too loud to ignore. Your legs were curled under you, knees shaking slightly from nerves you couldn't calm no matter how many deep breaths you took.

Everything had gone so, so wrong.

Your eyes remained fixed on the screen. The news anchor’s voice sounded dejected, not completely detached from the chaos you’d witnessed not long ago.

“Due to the Huntrix public breakup on stage, today's International Idol Awards have been cancelled.”

Cancelled. Cancelled? The words echoed like a scream in a vacuum. Your mind reeled, heart trying to catch up.

“Here are the winners of the International Idol Awards. Artist of the Year: Saja Boys—”

You blinked, disbelieving. Your stomach twisted, cold sinking into your limbs. What? Your eyes stayed glued to the screen as each title rolled in, golden letters and polished press photos playing against soft pop music in the background. 

You pressed the pillow tighter, like it could protect you. They were winning. Every category. Racking up titles like candy. And at what cost?

Your lips parted as the realization dropped deeper into your gut. Was this their plan? Not to do anything at the awards ceremony itself… but to use the awards to amplify their reach? To gather attention, mass celebration, momentum? You thought something would happen tonight, during the ceremony. You’d been bracing for it. But they had waited. They were waiting.

And suddenly… your thoughts spiraled to Huntrix. To Rumi. The images burned behind your eyelids, the stage, the gasps from the crowd, the lights crackling. The demon markings that split across her arms like jagged lightning. You remembered the way she screamed. The raw truth in her voice. And the look on her face when Mira and Zoey turned on her.

Was it real? Was any of it real? Was she really a demon…? And a hunter? Was that even possible? Did the boys know? Did they plan it? Did they use her for this?

You bit your lower lip hard enough to taste blood. The news kept rolling:

“Best New Artist: Saja Boys.”

“Song of the Year: Soda Pop.”

“Worldwide Icon of the Year: Saja Boys—”

The screen glitched. You jolted upright, breath hitching. A flicker. A distortion in the signal. For a second, it buzzed with static. Then cleared. And then… your blood ran cold. There they were. The five of them. Standing against a clean magenta backdrop of stars and shimmer. Hair styled, faces perfect, outfits crisp, skin glowing. Not a single thing out of place.

It was them, but not them. Not the you-woke-up-in-my-arms boys you knew. Not the ones who held you when you cried. This was their mask. Their public face.

And then Jinu stepped forward. “Hey everybody,” he said, voice sad, dejected. Familiar.

You couldn’t breathe. Your heart thudded like a drum in your ears as you watched his faux frown. The sadness in his voice wasn’t real. Not to you. Not when you knew that face too well. Not when you'd seen what it looked like when it was real.

“You must all be so sad about the Huntrix breakup,” he continued. “We are too.”

Liar. It chilled you to the bone. You stared at the screen, pulse racing.

“So to cheer everyone up,” Jinu said with a faint, charming grin, “we’re going to do a special live performance tonight.”

Your breath caught. Somehow, you knew what was coming.

“Midnight. Namsan Tower. Don’t miss it for the world.”

Your entire body went still. There it was. That was the plan. That was the moment. Your limbs were trembling before your brain even fully registered it. You shoved the pillow aside and leapt off the couch, running to the balcony doors. Your hands pressed against the glass, heart hammering. The faint shimmer of the barrier still pulsed there, reacting to your touch like it could sense your desperation.

But through the glass, you could see it. Namsan Tower. Glowing. Tall. Drenched in light like a beacon, visible from nearly every part of the city. The thought hit you like a knife in the chest.

Thousands. Thousands of people would be there. That was where they were going to do it. That was where the massacre would happen. You banged your palm helplessly against the glass. “No… no, no, no—”

Tears stung your eyes, your chest rising and falling rapidly as the enormity of it all sank in. The boys. Your boys. Doing this. For you. You stumbled back, pacing the living room in circles, your thoughts spiraling faster than your feet could carry them.

They loved you. They said it. Swore it. But they were still going to go through with this? Was that love? Or something twisted wearing its skin?

You bit your nails, your gaze snapping to the balcony again, where Namsan Tower stared back like an omen. Derpy and the Magpie had perched nearby, watching you with quiet, eerie focus. The tiger’s eyes glinted, concerned, his giant paws tucked under him. The Magpie sat upright, feathers slightly puffed.

“I can’t stop them,” you muttered to the two familiars, voice shaky. “They locked me in. They knew I’d try.” You paced again. “They knew I’d come and beg them not to do this…”

You collapsed back onto the couch, eyes still darting between the tower and the TV screen. Time ticked by. The air felt heavier. Tighter. You curled into yourself, nerves raw.

You picked up your phone. There was no livestream. No broadcast. Just silence.

And then—Crack.

The air shifted and you froze.

The Magpie immediately leapt from its perch, wings outstretched. Derpy growled low and deep, rising, muscles taut and protective. The air in front of you twisted, like invisible glass bending inward, warping.

Crack!

The sound tore through the silence. It shimmered and fractured. You stood, eyes wide, breath frozen. Was it—? Had they—? Thoughts raced into your head. For a moment hope had flickered in your chest. Had they decided not to do it? Were they coming back home? 

A burst of magenta light exploded in the middle of the apartment. And there she was.

Rumi.

Her form materialized from the magic like smoke and ash, glowing faintly in the low light of the apartment. Her demon markings pulsed across her skin like molten gold, sharp and jagged, raw and beautiful. Her expression was grim, focused.

One of her eyes glowed amber. Just like them.

You froze. You hadn’t expected to ever see her like this. Not Rumi. Not the hunter. Not like them. But there she stood, radiating quiet power. A look of determination on her face. She was still in her performance outfit, just as you’d seen her through your phone screen merely hours ago. In her right hand, she held a hand bag. The brown leather a great contrast to her white clothes that glittered under your apartment lights.

Your breath caught in your throat. Why was she here? Why now?

Her gaze swept across the room quickly, scanning everything like she didn’t have time to waste. And then her eyes landed on you. Unblinking.

And she didn’t look away.

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: Wahhh it was so heartbreaking to write this out! I wanted to expand on the truth and backstory of Rumi's parents and reveal the Ritual with this one! I expanded a bit on the lore of what really happened to them in the scene with Celine. The Old One is back to instigate the truth and push Rumi forward to going through with the plan. I'm sorry for making it as tragic as it was, but I wanted to make sure that the risks of the Ritual were justified- especially given Jinu's decision not to go through with it. (His first priority is you after all). I also wanted to give a valid reason why Celine decided to hide the whole truth from Rumi. Given how dark everything is, it makes sense for her to want to shield Rumi from the truth of what happened. (But still doesn't make it right though!)

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!

Willa x.

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It’s 5:47 A.M.

You’re not sleeping. You’re sitting cross-legged on the floor, hair an absolute crime, wearing a hoodie and no pants. In your lap? A fucking wrench.

You are undoing the front door.

Not unlocking it. Not sneaking out. You are physically disassembling the door. You’ve got screws scattered across the floor, hinges half-loose, and a thin line of sweat on your brow. There’s a bite mark on your lower lip from where you’ve been gnawing at it.

“Stupid ass… demon-infested… male whores—”

click

Another screw. Progress.

You are removing. The. Door.

“Mornin’.”

You freeze.

Two silhouettes approach down the hall, backlit by early morning gold. One tall, one taller. Robes, muscles, smugness.

Jinu’s in his robe, hair messy from sleep. He’s got a coffee mug in hand and the patience of a saint, or a man who thinks he’s got you wrapped around his stupid pretty finger. Abby is shirtless. Wearing some low-slung joggers, and he’s got an arm slung lazily around Jinu’s shoulders. Go back sixty nine-ing you fucking assholes.

You go back to the hinge you’re unscrewing.

“Still trying the door?” Abby grins, voice sleep-hoarse, leaning against the frame like it’s all so casual. “You missed a bolt near the bottom.”

Jinu sips his coffee. “She’ll find it.“

You don’t answer.

“You want the manual?” Jinu adds.

You ignore them, now pulling at the top hinge.

“Y’know,” Abby continues. “if you use a hairdryer on low heat over the center seal, it could melt it a little. Might shave a few hours off this whole process.”

“You know this won’t work.” Jinu says gently.

You don’t look at him.

“You’ll get past the locks, sure. Maybe even crack the containment. But once you open the door…” He gestures vaguely. “You’re not getting away. Plus there’s a security system. Last time, Romance cried when he forgot to turn it off before leaving.”

“I did not.” comes a muffled shout from down the hall.

“I almost feel bad.” Jinu continues, watching you now.

“I give her another fifteen minutes before she hits the door with the screwdriver.”

Jinu hums. “Ten. She’s losing patience.”

You are losing patience. But not because of the door. Because of them. “Don’t you two have something better to do?”

“Absolutely not.” Jinu says.

Abby raises a brow. “We’re making breakfast after this. You want anything?”

You throw the screwdriver at him. He dodges easily. Asshole.

“Hey, good aim though.” he says, catching it off the bounce. “You’re getting stronger.”

“You’re getting dumber.”

Jinu stretches, robe falling open a little. “That’s impossible. He’s already at max capacity.”

“Hey.” Abby frowns. “Some of us didn’t have to learn math before we got stabbed in the neck.”

You blink at that. “What—”

“Long story.” Abby says quickly. “The point is, you’re not leaving.”

“I’m not staying.” you snap back. You groan and go back to the door, defeated. And you’re so close. Not to escaping. No. That ship sailed three screwdrivers and a half-baked curse ago. But the top hinge is loose now. Wiggling. Practically begging for release.

Jinu sits down on the floor. Abby drops to the other side of you, casually letting one knee fall open, arm still thrown lazily around Jinu’s shoulders.

“Here.” Jinu murmurs, reaching past you, fingers brushing your wrist. “You’re angling wrong. You’re going to strip the screw.”

“I hope I strip you—”

“Careful what you wish for, baby.” Abby says with a wink.

You almost stab him. Instead, you hiss out a breath and go back to it. Try to ignore the way Jinu’s robe brushes your bare arm. Or the way Abby sits, legs spread.

“Okay.” Jinu says softly, pointing with one clean finger. “Hold the screw like this. Thumb under. Palm steady. Just like that.”

You do it. You do it right.

There’s a click.

Abby grins and slaps you once on the shoulder, firm and warm and ridiculously proud. “Atta girl. Look at you go.”

You blink.

Jinu actually claps. Out loud. One elegant, sarcastic clap that echoes through the hallway.

It’s the deep voices.

It’s the fact that they know shit about doors.

It’s… so hot.

This isn’t okay.

“This isn’t okay.” you mutter aloud.

Abby cuts in, voice breezy. “Okay, so you’re one hinge down. Now, that little metal’s gonna slip out easily if you do it right. You’ll wanna grab it and twist.”

You squint. “…Where?”

Jinu points to it. “There. You’ll need pliers.”

“Do I look like I have pliers?”

Instead, you reach back for the screwdriver, but Abby doesn’t give it. He holds it up instead. “Say please.”

You narrow your eyes. “I hope you fucking let Mystery kill you the next time you two fight.”

“Mm. Still not a ‘please.’”

You swipe the screwdriver from his hand and jab it back at the hinge, grumbling under your breath.

“Y/N.” Jinu says, his voice dipping low as he watches you with those stupid warm eyes. “Careful there. If you slip there, you’ll grate your hand. Badly.”

He says it so gently. So genuinely concerned. And his fingers ghost over yours again, adjusting the placement.

You hate that your skin warms where he touches it.

Abby nods. “Okay. Now you need to unhook that. Slide your finger under it—gently, babe—yeah, right there.”

You follow instructions. Reluctantly. Unfortunately. And the damn thing works. You feel the metal and screws give under your fingertip.

“You’re kidding.” you whisper.

Jinu leans over to see. “Well done.”

“Keep your hand steady, babe. There’s a trick to the angle. Real wrist shit.” Abby adds.

You get it wrong. Your hand slips. You yelp.

Jinu’s hand is on your back instantly, steadying. “Careful.”

Abby frowns. “Did it burn you?”

“No.” you mutter. “Just—startled me.”

They both stay close. Too close. And for one moment, one stupid, stupid moment, you let yourself imagine this is normal. That they’re just… annoying boyfriends teaching you how to fix something. That you’re safe. That you’re home.

You blink it away.

Behind you, Jinu leans over to whisper something to Abby that you can’t catch.

Abby mutters something, gets up, and slaps your shoulder as he passes. “Nice try, babe. If you start chiseling, lemme know. I got a crowbar.”

And then it’s just you and Jinu.

You don’t even have time to react before he gets up, reaches down and grabs you. It’s not violent. It’s worse. It’s deliberate. Fingers slipping beneath your arm, palm pressing into your lower back, hauling you up like you’re nothing but weightless. A quiet manhandling that makes your heart hiccup before you can stop it.

You twist. “What the fuck—”

He just guides you down the hallway, barefoot and infuriatingly calm.

Your heels drag for two seconds before you dig in. “Let go.”

“Can’t.” he says, not looking at you. “You’ve had three crackers in the last two days and are currently plotting a jailbreak.”

“So?”

“So,” he exhales. “you’re annoying me.”

“Oh, I’m annoying—”

“—yes, shut up.”

In the kitchen, you’re set on a stool like a child. You sit stiff-backed as Jinu moves calmly, boiling water, opening drawers, slicing fruit with a small paring knife that glints every time he turns it in his fingers.

“You know,” he says, slicing clean through a strawberry. “I was going to let you sleep.”

You stare. Say nothing.

“I was going to leave you alone,” he continues. “because you’re pissed and grieving and very, very tired of us.” He glances back at you, fingers stained red with juice. “And I thought—maybe space would help.”

Your knuckles clench on your thighs.

“You didn’t really want to open that door. I know you want to believe you did,” he continues. “but it’s easier to chase escape than to face the fact that they left you. That they haven’t come. That they won’t.”

You hate him.

“And you want me to be grateful for your little pep talk? Is that it? You want me to say thank you for lying even now?”

“No.” Jinu says. “I want you to eat your fucking breakfast so you don’t pass out while you’re trying to disassemble steel.”

You’re silent. You don’t know why you don’t walk away.

He places the plate in front of you. Strawberries. Toast. Tea steeping in a delicate ceramic mug with lavender flowers painted on the rim.

“Eat.” he says.

You don’t touch it.

“I said eat.”

You look up at him—quiet, cold, fucking furious.

And Jinu…

Jinu just looks in love.

Tragic. Starved. Like he wants to bury his hands in your hair and whisper forgiveness until it drowns you both. His eyes are dark, deep, in a way. His lips part.

You look up. Meet his gaze. And for one terrible second, all the rage in you softens into something worse.

Longing.

Because he’s beautiful. And fucked up. And so full of belief when he looks at you.

You hate him.

And you love him.

“Fuck you.”

Jinu smiles.

“What’d I miss?” Abby’s voice crashes into the kitchen.

Behind him, Romance.

You know something’s wrong the second you see his face.

He’s grinning. Too much teeth. Hands behind his back.

You don’t like the way they look at each other. Or at you.

Something is off.

“Come here for a second.” Jinu says.

You look at him. “…Why?”

He gestures lazily toward the refrigerator. “Wanna show you something. It’s weird. Like a mark—burned in. Look.”

Abby’s already whistling like he’s pretending not to be a part of this. Romance is pretending to examine the ceiling. His hands are still behind his back. Suspiciously jingling.

Curiosity gets the better of you. You step over. “I don’t see any—”

CLICK.

Fur snaps around your wrist.

You whirl around, yanking hard, only to be met with Romance’s smug face. He lifts a hand and gives you a little wave.

Handcuffed.

To the fucking fridge.

You look down.

Fur.

Bright red.

Heart-shaped.

You blink.

You process.

“WHAT THE FUCK.”

Romance, absolutely radiant with joy, steps back and gives a playful raise of his hands. “Voilà!”

“ARE THESE SEX HANDCUFFS?!”

Jinu, behind you, claps his hands once. “Well done.”

You start yanking on the cuffs. Hard. “LET ME OUT.”

“Soon.” Jinu says smoothly. “We’ve got to redo the entryway. Since you figured out how to break it.” His tone is… not mad. Not even disappointed. He almost sounds proud.

“Consider this a… timeout.” Romance purrs.

“Are you fucking joking.”

Romance sighs dreamily. “They’re my favorite pair, too.”

Jinu, smooth as ever, stands behind you and adjusts the cuff so it doesn’t bite your skin. “We’ll be back in a few hours. Abby has a photo shoot. The other three and I are needed for… some stage bullshit.”

“This is a crime.” you snap, wriggling. “This is actual—like, real world illegal!”

“Oh, and no messing with the hinge anymore.” Abby adds. “We’ll fix that. You earned points for figuring it out, but we’re not stupid.”

You growl—actually growl.

Jinu steps in, calm again, hand under your chin, tilting your face up to his. “Relax.” His voice drops to that terrifying register again. Gentle. Final. “We’ll deal with your little escape trick later. For now… stay. Be good. Eat something. Or don’t. You’ll crack eventually. Don’t hurt yourself.”

You don’t speak. You glare so hard it should start a fire in his soul.

He just smiles, kisses your temple, and steps away. To the hall, you suppose to get Mystery and Baby.

The heart-shaped fucking SEX cuffs bite every time you shift. Soft fur or not, they’re starting to piss you off.

Romance leans lazily against the counter, arms crossed over his chest, skin glowing under the soft morning lights. Abby’s dropped into one of the kitchen chairs, legs splayed.

You remember. Who they really are. Not idols. Not boyfriends. Not annoying roommates who make breakfast too loud and leave hair in the sink. No. These are demons. They turned themselves into something unnatural. They’ve killed. They’ve tortured. They’ve torn souls from bodies and never looked back. Abby ripped through a human body like it was paper. Romance kissed a dying man just to taunt him.

And now? They’re just… here.

You swallow hard. Don’t cry. Not now. Not in front of them.

Romance breaks the silence first. “You okay, love?”

You look at him. Dead-on. Flat and empty.

“You look pissed.” he says, as if this is new information.

“I want to die.” you say, because it’s easier than saying you terrify me. Easier than I used to have a life. Friends. Now I talk to a tiger and cry myself to sleep tied to kitchen furniture.

Romance hums. Crosses one ankle over the other. “Well. Let’s not be dramatic.”

You don’t speak.

He reaches into the fruit bowl, takes out an apple, and winks at it. No, seriously. He winks at the apple. Then offers it to you. “No?”

You say nothing.

He shrugs and bites into it himself. Loudly.

Next to him, Abby opens the fridge—literally reaches around you like this is normal—and grabs a bottle of water. He doesn’t even look at you, just twists the cap off with one hand and chugs.

You glare at him. “Baby spat into that.”

He whistles, low and appreciative. “Smart and hot. You’re kind of a nightmare.”

“I hate you.”

“Yeah,” he grins. “you’re really gonna hate me when you find out we’re coming home late.”

You tug your arms, the cuffs pulling taut. “You can’t keep me here.”

“We are keeping you here.” he says, all casual.

“But we’ll make it nice.” Romance adds softly, stepping closer. His voice drops into velvet. “You don’t have to be angry all the time. We know this sucks. We know we’re not… ideal. But we do care, sweetheart.”

“Then let me go.”

They don’t feel evil. Not to themselves. They’re comfortable in it.

“Oh, baby, you didn’t even touch your food.” Romance says softly, peering at your plate. “Jinu put love into this.”

You shoot him a look that could cut marble. “I’m handcuffed.”

Romance shrugs, eyes twinkling. “I’d pay to be handcuffed near ice cream and you.”

You hate it here.

“Look, since you’re so hungry you were trying to take the door off its hinges,” Abby says, voice full of that teasing weight that makes you want to throw furniture “might as well eat before you pass out.”

“I’m not eating.”

Romance walks over to your untouched plate and picks up a fork. “Don’t be dramatic.”

“Oh, I’m the dramatic one?”

They move in.

Together.

Romance is first, always the most forward, bringing a bite of Jinu’s lovingly crafted breakfast toward your mouth. “Say ‘ahh,’ sweetheart.”

You refuse the first bite. Lips tight. Eyes hot.

Abby leans down, his arm bracing the fridge, his voice at your ear. “Just open your mouth, babe. No one’s watching.”

You hate how your brain twitches at the tone of it—how close they both are now. How they radiate warmth and power and something evil that still draws you.

You feel the cuffs bite into your skin as you pull again.

“Don’t.” Abby says, and there’s a sharpness to it now. “You’ll bruise. Jinu’ll get pissed.”

You turn your head.

Romance sighs. “You’re being mean. Love of my life. Please take one bite. Just one.”

And then he lifts the fork.

You press your lips together.

“Open.” he murmurs.

You don’t.

So Abby takes his own fork and comes at you from the other side. The bastard.

Suddenly you’ve got two men feeding you.

“You’re not serious.” you whisper.

They are.

Abby gently nudges his fork forward. “Bite. Come on. Bite it.”

Romance strokes your hair. “Love, please.”

You breathe in slowly. Close your eyes. Then, bitterly, you open your mouth.

Romance slides his fork in first.

You hate that it tastes good.

Abby, immediately jealous, shoves Romance aside. “My turn.”

He holds up his fork, brows raised, and waits.

You open again.

Another bite. Another fork.

It goes on. Fork from the left, fork from the right. Abby gets competitive and starts cutting the food into better pieces. Romance pours a little sparkling water and holds the glass to your lips.

You look at them. Their pretty faces. Abby’s arms. Romance’s smile. They’re not good people. They’re not redeemable. Not the “soft boys with a past” you once tried to convince yourself they were. They’re bad. Evil, even. But they’re in love with you. Because their eyes—when they look at you—don’t lie.

Romance kisses your forehead after your last bite. “Shit, I’d do anything for you.”

Abby grunts. “Except set you free.”

Romance sighs. “Yeah. That.”

You’re still cuffed.

You’re still furious.

And maybe—maybe—a little full.

Jinu walks back in, calm and calm and calm. Mystery behind him, hands in his pockets. You immediately glance his way. Hopeful. Baby, phone in hand, pink gum in his mouth. Disinterested. That classic I don’t give a single fuck aura surrounding him.

“She’s fed.” Abby says, so proud of himself.

“Hydrated.” Romance adds.

You scowl.

Baby looks up from his phone.

Sees you.

Stops.

He fucking laughs.

It’s quiet, at first. Just a low pff— through his nose. But then he full-on laughs, head tilting back, hand over his mouth, gum nearly flying from between his lips as he doubles over, breathless.

You’ve never heard Baby laugh. Not once. And now here he is, taken the fuck out, because you’re handcuffed to a fridge.

You glare, cheeks heating. “Glad you’re enjoying yourself.”

He doesn’t even look at you. Just smirks, and mutters something to Jinu that’s too low for you to hear.

Jinu steps forward. He looks you over, lingers on your wrists, and gives you that impossibly gentle smile. “You’ll be alright, won’t you?” he says, like he’s tucking in a child.

You stare. Blank. “Go fuck yourself.”

He nods, like you just said “I’ll be good.” Bastard.

Abby claps you on the shoulder. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“I can’t.”

“Oh right.”

Romance blows you a kiss. He’s already halfway out the door, fluffing his hair.

Mystery walks by last.

You catch his eye. You puppy-eye his soul.

Silent. Pleading. Please.

He pauses. Just a second. Just long enough to make your heart thump with irrational, burning hope.

He shrugs.

And walks out.

Your soul leaves your body.

The door closes behind them with the softest click.

Silence.

Just you.

“…Fuck.”

Meanwhile, the three HUNTR/X girls sit in a semicircle on low designer couches, the city sprawling behind them in that fancy ass apartment or penthouse or the fuck they have.

Just silence.

And you. The empty space where you should be, I mean.

Zoey sits forward, elbows on her knees, spinning a ring around her finger over and over again. She’s the only one who isn’t scowling. Yet.

Across from her, Rumi has a laptop in her lap, screens open, tabs minimized and maximized again and again. She’s got a pen in one hand, clicking it with ruthless precision. Nothing is adding up.

Mira looks like she’s five seconds from punching a hole in the window.

“Still nothing.” Rumi says.

“She’s not dead.” Zoey says softly, spinning her ring faster. “They would’ve made it known if she was dead.”

Rumi snorts. “Comforting.”

Zoey leans back, biting her lip. “We don’t even know where to start.”

“She’s somewhere they go.” Rumi says.

Zoey lights up. “Then we follow that. Track their movements. Figure out where they disappear when they’re not on camera.”

“We’ve been trying that for weeks.” Rumi throws a hand toward the screen. “They’ve covered every trail.”

“They’re arrogant.” Mira says darkly. “That’s the crack in the glass.”

Rumi sighs. “If we had a way to find the exact location—”

“But we don’t.” Mira snaps. “Because someone,” she gestures vaguely toward the city below, then to Zoey. “thought it was a great idea to let them off the leash.”

Zoey sighs. “They were charming at first.”

“They’re psychopaths.”

“They were hot psychopaths.”

“I will rip their spines out and braid them together.”

“You’re so romantic.”

Rumi ignores them both, gaze pinned to a video of a Saja fan account recording some concert footage. They’re on stage, singing. Abby with his shirt half off, Romance blowing kisses. Jinu saying something quiet into the mic that makes the crowd lose their minds. The crowd eats it up. They always do.

“Can’t go to Bobby.” Rumi mutters, thinking aloud. “If we tell him they have her, he goes to corporate. They go public. She becomes a PR incident. We need to be smart.”

“And fast.” Mira adds.

“I still think she’s okay.” Zoey whispers.

Mira presses her fingers to her temples. “Okay isn’t enough. She was taken. We don’t know where. We don’t know what they’re doing to her.”

“I think we can get her back.”

Mira snorts. Loud. Unamused. “You think.”

“I know.” Zoey sits up straighter. “I—I mean, I hope. They didn’t kill her. That would’ve… we’d know. I’d feel it.”

“Same.” Rumi says, eyes still locked on her screen. “They wouldn’t. They want leverage. They want information.”

Mira snaps, voice sharp. “Then they’re torturing her for it. Great. Fucking great.”

Zoey shakes her head. “I didn’t mean—”

“You did.” Rumi says, calmly. “But you’re right.”

Silence.

Mira’s fists curl. She kicks a chair. Like, kicks it. Across the floor. It skids and slams into the glass.

Zoey sighs. “I know they’re pretty, but that doesn’t fix them. Objectively.”

“They’re not that hot.” Rumi mutters.

Zoey looks at her. “They are.”

Rumi glares. “Don’t remind me.”

Another silence.

They’re not good at this. Not the waiting. Not the planning. They’re warriors. Fighters. They know how to handle demons and stage lights. Not this aching, empty absence.

Zoey leans forward. “What if we just… bait them?”

Mira grins. “You want to piss them off?”

“Yes.”

“I love you.”

“They’re boys.” Zoey says. “They’re messy.”

They all pause.

Look at each other.

And for the first time in days, there’s something like hope.

Fuck these timeskips man. The front door clicks open. It’s late, past midnight. You’re still handcuffed. To the fucking refrigerator. In the kitchen. And maybe you’re crying.

Shut up.

You’re not like sobbing sobbing, just… that kind of silent crying that leaves your cheeks streaked and your throat raw. That exhausted, hopeless crying that you’re trying to keep quiet even though no one’s here to hear you.

Until they are.

Until Romance rounds the corner and stops dead in his tracks. He sees you. His smile drops.

“Oh no.” he says, soft.

He’s on you in two strides.

You blink through the blur in your eyes, chest too tight to yell, to spit, to insult, but you don’t need to. His arms are already around you, tugging you into his chest. You don’t want to let yourself lean in. You do anyway.

“Oh, baby.” he murmurs. “You crying? You really—ah, shit, don’t be like this. Shit—no, no, don’t—don’t be like this, gorgeous, c’mere—“

You let out a breath that’s barely a laugh. Barely anything.

“Okay, okay.” he pulls back just enough to cup your face, thumbing under your eye. “Is this because of the cuffs? Are they too tight? Are you dehydrated? You haven’t had sugar today, have you? That’ll make you emotional. Or maybe it’s hormones. Is it your period coming? Were you bored? Were you hungry? It’s okay, I know, I know—shhhh—”

You make a strangled sound.

“Oh, no no no, don’t cry harder—Abby!” Romance whips his head. “Abby, get the fucking keys!”

“WHAT?” Abby yells, somewhere down the hall.

“The handcuffs, you slab of meat!!”

“I think they’re in your pants.” Abby offers from the hallway.

“THEN FUCKING GO GET THEM.”

“I said I think—”

Romance shoots him a look that could unlace his spine.

Abby sighs and vanishes. There’s a deep groan. Footsteps. More cursing.

Jinu rolls his eyes, the heartless bitch. “Abby, fix the door before it falls off. Mystery, stop growling at your own reflection. Baby—don’t start. Don’t look at the wine. Don’t touch anything.”

“I’m not doing shit.” Baby responds, which is exactly what people who are about to do shit say.

“Abby.” Jinu calls calmly. “Fix the fucking front door while you’re up.”

“MAN.” Abby’s voice carries. “I just got home. I have, like, baby oil on me from—”

“Then you’re lubed and ready.” Jinu calls back. “Don’t waste the opportunity.”

“God forbid I take a piss first.”

You sniff. Romance cradles your head. You try to move your face away from him but your hands are still pinned, and he just hugs you tighter. One hand cups the back of your head. The other rubs down your spine.

“You’re okay now, shhh—hey, I got you. I got you, baby. What happened, huh? Did it get too much? I’ll make it better, I will. Just don’t cry like this, okay? It breaks my fucking heart, you gorgeous little witch. Don’t cry, gorgeous. I’ll cry if you cry.”

Jinu turns. “Baby—don’t track mud on the rug. Shoes off at the door.”

Baby scoffs—so Baby—but kicks them off mid-stride anyway.

Through it all, Romance doesn’t let go of you. He pulls your face against his neck, murmuring into your hair. He kisses your hair. Twice. And goes back to cooing.

“I swear, sugarplum, if I knew these cuffs were gonna make you cry I wouldn’t have let it happen. This is all Jinu’s fault. Probably Abby’s too. And like… Baby.”

“Fuckin’ right it’s not my fault.” Abby says as he walks back in, keys in hand.

Romance catches them without looking, still holding you with one hand, unlocking you with the other like it’s something he’s done a hundred times. The cuffs click off.

But your wrists are marked, even beneath the red fur. Tender red dents across the softest part of your skin, too tight, too long, too fucking humiliating. And Romance still has the balls to hold your hands. Gently palms them open, his expression soft and full of guilt like he wasn’t the one locking them on you.

He kisses your wrists.

Both.

Slowly. Lovingly.

He looks up at you, eyes glossy, lips still barely grazing your skin.

“Get the fuck off me.” You yank your hands away so fast he actually stumbles back a step. Your chest burns, eyes glassy again. Suffocating. You don’t spare any of them a look as you storm past.

The tiger follows, with a single flick of his fluffy tail as he pads after you.

You slam your bedroom door shut.

A few seconds later, Mystery lets out just one high-pitched little dog whimper.

Abby sighs. Loudly. Rolls his eyes, takes a knee at the front door, the one you nearly got off the hinges, and starts inspecting it. His massive, stupid hands flex as he tugs at it. He’s muttering under his breath already.

Baby opens the fridge, takes a fuckass little juice box, walks out of the kitchen. He doesn’t say anything, just takes a long, annoying slurp from the tiny straw and makes direct eye contact with Jinu as he walks past.

Abby’s crouched on the floor, tools scattered beside him.

Baby kicks him in the thigh. Not even that hard. Just enough to be a bitch.

“Fucking—ow, you dick.” Abby mutters, not even looking up.

Baby shrugs. Keeps walking. Slurping on that little fuck of a juice box.

Jinu’s already turning away, and disappears down the hall.

Romance just stands there. Alone in the kitchen. His hands still smell like your skin. He stares at the spot you stood. Eyes half-lidded, mouth parted. And then slowly, reverently, he brings his fingers to his lips.

He kisses them.

Then he exhales. Picks up the fur cuffs from where they’ve fallen on the floor.

“Yeah.” he mutters to himself, pacing back toward the table, still dazed. “We’re totally getting married.”

One day I’ll learn how to do a pretty timeskip, anyway, now it’s the middle of the night. Only a few hours passed, but you’re asleep. I mean that’s good, fucking great, you needed it. You’re half under Derpy, half tangled in a blanket, and with Sussie curled up against your neck.

You didn’t mean to fall asleep.

You definitely didn’t mean to cry yourself there.

You’d calmed down, sure. The tears stopped. But the anger didn’t. So when the knock comes, you wake up so fucking confused. Just… fucking exhausted.

You push yourself up with a groan, the tiger huffing once and adjusting to let you go. You just slide out of bed and pad barefoot across the room, open the door slow—

And there’s Jinu. In his hands, a takeout bag. Neatly packed. Still warm. Your comfort order. From your favorite place. Not a coincidence. Never a coincidence with him.

“Hi.” he says, quiet, careful.

You stare.

“I know you haven’t eaten.” he adds.

You glance down at the bag, then back at him.

He holds it out. You don’t take it.

“I thought—” he starts, but you cut him off with a look.

A look that says: Don’t fucking try it.

He sighs through his nose, smile faltering just slightly. “Look,” he murmurs. “I just… wanted to bring you something. Something you like.”

“I’m still mad.” you say, voice hoarse from sleep, maybe from earlier tears too. “You’re still a fucking criminal.”

That makes him laugh, soft. “Yeah.” he says. “That part’s fair.”

You narrow your eyes. “This is bribery.”

“It’s dinner.” he argues, lifting the bag.

“Bribery.” you repeat.

“Okay. It’s bribery dinner. But it’s your favorite bribery dinner.”

You snort, bitter. “I’m not forgiving you.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“Then what are you asking?”

He meets your eyes, serious now. “I’m asking you to eat.”

From behind him, bare feet slap against the hardwood, and a second later, Baby walks past in the hallway, shirtless and SKINNY AS FUCK now that you take a look at it. A bottle of clear liquor dangling from one hand.

He doesn’t look at either of you. Doesn’t say a word. He just slams his foot into the back of Jinu’s knees as he walks by, enough to make Jinu jerk with a grunt, almost drop the food.

“Ow—fuck, seriously?” Jinu hisses, half-glancing over his shoulder.

Baby keeps walking. Down the hall. Bottle swinging, spine relaxed, middle finger casually tossed over his shoulder without turning around.

Jinu exhales like he’s used to it. Stabilizes himself. Holds the food out again like nothing happened.

You look at the bag. Then at him. You bite the inside of your cheek. “You’re lucky I don’t throw this in your face.”

“Please don’t.” he mutters.

You still don’t take it.

He steps forward. A little closer. Holds it between you. “You can hit me later if you want. Or tomorrow. With something heavier. I deserve it.”

You look at him for a long time. Then you shut the door in his face.

Jinu exhales on the other side. “…Okay. Fair.”

You stare at the door.

Your stomach growls.

You hate him so much.

You rip the door back open.

Jinu hasn’t moved. He’s still there. Staring straight ahead, like he knew. Like he always knows. His eyes lift to meet yours, surprised? No. Amused? Maybe a little.

You snatch the bag right out of his hands. You don’t look at him. Don’t thank him. Don’t say a word. Just slam the door in his face again. A little petty, honestly.

You hear a soft laugh from the other side. Bastard.

You sit on the floor, legs crossed, and you eat.

And fuuuuuuck, it’s delicious.

Why did you open the door?

Why do you always open the door?

These boys are awful. Criminals. Monsters. Demonic entities posing as boyband idols. They kidnapped you. They tortured you. They laughed when you tried to escape. They put you in fur-lined heart-shaped sex cuffs.

And now they’re hand-feeding you takeout, bringing you flowers, whispering in the hallway about who gets to see you first.

It’s fucked up.

Why do you feel bad for them? You shouldn’t. You shouldn’t. You’re the victim here. You’re the one who was taken. The one who cries at night. The one who hasn’t seen the sun in weeks. You should be angry. Furious. You are.

But…

And it’s so stupid. It’s so fucking stupid, but you want to know.

You want to know what made them like this.

Because no one’s born this evil. Right? So what happened? What’s their damage? Why are they so lonely?

…And why does that make your chest hurt?

You bury your face in your hands. You feel sick.

You realize… you don’t know them. Not really. Not at all. Not who they were. Not what made them this way. Not why they’re like this now. Not what it means when Jinu says he’s interested and yet shackles you in the kitchen. Not what it means when Romance calls you the love of his life in one breath and locks you to a fridge in the next.

You know they’re evil.

But you don’t know why.

You don’t know that Jinu threw up last night.

Twice.

Not from alcohol. Not from illness.

Just guilt.

You don’t know that—right now—he’s leaning over the sink in his bathroom. That he’s breathing heavy. Not angry. Not frustrated.

Ashamed.

You don’t know that he looked himself in the mirror just now and gagged.

You’re soft. You’re kind. You’re fragile. You don’t belong with him, not even in the same story. And still, he keeps you here. For himself. Because he’s selfish. Because he loves you.

His reflection stares back at him from the mirror, hollow-eyed and handsome, and he hates it.

He hates himself.

You don’t know that Romance is stretched across his massive bed, the dim gold of his bedside lamp casting a warm glow across his chest. He’s not sleeping. He’s not even trying. He’s just lying there, staring at the ceiling. An ice pack sits under one thigh where Baby kicked him earlier for calling him “adorable” with too much eye contact. There’s a glass of wine on the nightstand. Forgotten.

Romance knows he could be a good boyfriend. He knows it. He would do everything right. He’d be good for you. He knows he would. He’d run your baths. Paint your nails. Carry your bags.

He would worship you.

Because loving you is the only good thing left in his life.

You don’t know that Mystery is standing shirtless in the fogged-up bathroom. His wet hair is pushed out of his face. He looks boyish like this.

He stares at himself in the mirror. Long. Too long. Water still drips from the tip of his nose. His collarbones are pretty. He looks pale in the sterile light.

He leans in just a little.

Do you think he’s pretty?

You’ve never said.

You’ve called Romance an idiot, Abby a gym rat, Jinu a manipulative bastard, Baby an asshole, but you haven’t said anything about him. Not once.

He wants to know what you see.

Does he scare you? Does he look human to you? Do you think he’s worth saving?

His breath fogs the mirror again. He wipes it clean with his hand.

Then he steps back, wraps a towel around his waist, and heads to his room in silence.

You don’t know that Abby is staring at the ceiling, in bed. Or… on bed.

His hand runs through his short hair.

He tried sleeping. He even counted pushups in his head instead of sheep, but it didn’t work.

He’s such a bad person that he knows you should hate him, and still, he wants your forgiveness. How pathetic is that?

He doesn’t know how to do better. That part was never taught.

He wishes he could be less.

Just enough to be held by you.

You don’t know that Baby is alone in his room. Sitting cross-legged on a plush white rug, wearing nothing but shorts and staring at the wall.

He doesn’t let the others know he still has this side. If they saw it, they’d ask questions. Romance might hug him. Baby can’t deal with that.

He lets his head fall back against the wall, a slow thud of skull against it. No one tells him to stop. No one ever tells him to stop.

Not unless it’s Jinu. And fuck Jinu.

He is bad. He’s done terrible things. He’s not lying about that. He’s a brat. A fucking alcoholic. But the real shit, the origin story? It’s worse than any of them know.

They’ve done unspeakable things. You’re not dumb. You know. They’ve killed. They’ve tortured. They’ve stolen and lied and ruined lives with a single breath. Whatever they’ve done to become this, it wasn’t clean.

And still…

Still, you think of Abby’s crooked smile when he gets something right, like a little boy who finally tied his shoe.

Still, you think of Jinu pressing the warm takeout box into your hands, his eyes begging.

Still, you think of Romance kissing your wrists and whispering to you.

Still, you think of Baby walking by with that bottle of liquor and a kicked knee, but his hand, didn’t it shake, just a little?

Still, you think of Mystery whining when you left them there.

You don’t want to want them. You don’t want to forgive. You don’t want to care. You don’t want to imagine hugging Jinu in the kitchen instead of shoving the food back into his chest. You don’t want to imagine petting Mystery’s hair. Or letting Romance lay his head in your lap while you caress his skin. Or letting Abby do pushups while you sit on his back. Or sitting down next to Baby by your own free will.

You don’t want to love them.

But something in your heart is soft where it should be hard.

What’s wrong with you? What is so wrong with you that even after everything…you still want them to feel loved? Why do you want to hold Abby, not for his body but for the feelings that are even bigger than him? Why do you want to brush Mystery’s hair back and tell him yes, of course you think he’s beautiful? Why do you want to rest your head on Romance’s shoulder and listen to his awful, overdramatic little stories? Why do you want to crawl under Jinu’s arm and pretend, just for a second, that he isn’t what he is? Why do you want to hand Baby a juice box and wrap him in a blanket and say you don’t have to be this person anymore?

They’re nightmares in perfect skin. And they would absolutely ruin you in bed.

Okay, WOAH, where did that come from?

No but for real, dogs. Nasty dogs. There’s a weird little headboard breaking vibe to the way they look at you, and you know they’ve each imagined it. More than once. Probably all at the same time.

Why the fuck are you thinking about how they’d sound whining beneath you? How they’d look all pathetic and breathless, fucked out and ruined for you?

You cough, half out of shame, half to try and physically dislodge the mental image.

Abby, shirtless and cocky and loud, biting his own fist to keep quiet, grinding his hips up for friction like a dog in heat.

Jinu, pretending to be composed even when his back arches, soft gasps slipping past perfect lips as he clutches your thigh. Even when you slap his cheek lightly for talking back, and his eyes close.

Romance, head thrown back, begging with his whole chest, kissing your hand, his voice desperate and cracking. Whimpering against your neck, saying sorry, sorry, sorry through a gag until you push him away and he begs you not to. Spread out, wrists tied in red silk scarves he definitely already owns, trying to talk his way through it like he’s not rock hard at your heel pressed against his chest. He’d laugh at first. Until you didn’t. Until you put pressure behind your words. And suddenly he’s choking on a “yes, baby” like it’s the first real thing he’s said in centuries.

Mystery, eyes wide and wet, cheeks flushed, arms bound above his head, perfectly still until you tell him otherwise. Quiet, feral, with that flash of defiance that only makes it more fun when you yank him back by his hair. Until he’s panting, low and choked, nails clawing the floorboards because he won’t beg unless you force him to, but when he does, it’s pitiful and lovely and you almost feel bad.

And Baby. Cold, bratty Baby, hiding his trembling behind clenched teeth, whispering “fuck you” even when he’s the one gasping every time you touch him. He’d pretend he didn’t care the whole time, rolling his eyes, acting bored, spitting out shit like, “Are you done yet? This is lame.” Right until you grabbed him by the jaw and made him care. And suddenly that smart mouth wouldn’t know what to say anymore, his knees would still hit the floor.

NO.

NO.

They kidnapped you.

They’re twisted inside and out.

They’ve done horrible things.

And they’re getting under your skin anyway.

You wrap your arms around yourself, try to ignore how fast your heart is beating. Your breath hitches. The thought of their hands softening only for you, slipping under your shirt, holding your jaw, breaking for you, is like swallowing lightning.

They don’t deserve your sympathy.

But they have it anyway.

What they do deserve though, is to get smacked across the face. To be shoved back by the collar and told no. To be denied, humiliated, reminded they don’t own you.

So you began to ignore them.

For days.

No eye contact. No small talk. No “fuck yous.” Nothing.

It starts small. The cold shoulder when you pass them in the hall. The way you refuse to lift your eyes when Jinu asks, softly, if you want him to make your tea. The stiff back when Romance touches your shoulder with a hopeful, “Baby, don’t be like this.”

But it builds.

You start giving them the kind of petty indifference that only someone truly furious can pull off. You live in the same house, eat from the same fridge, breathe the same air, and yet you do not exist.

Unless, of course, you need something.

When you can’t open a jar, you still hold it out wordlessly. No “please.” No “thanks.” Just stretch your arm and raise an eyebrow, stone-faced, unimpressed, and one of them (usually Abby) always comes. He pops the lid off with one twist and no effort, looks at you like a puppy who just did a trick, and you? You take the jar, walk away. Not even a nod.

They’re dying.

Jinu tries to play it off, at first. He pretends like this is good, like you’re giving yourself space, like this will pass. He tells himself it’s a phase. But when you don’t look at him for the third day in a row, when you walk past him while he’s speaking, mid-sentence, asking you something gentle, even sweet, he clenches his jaw so tight it clicks.

He’s not angry.

He’s going fucking loco.

He forgets appointments. Forgets to lie to management. Forgets what day it is. Baby throws a shoe at his head.

He’s started jerking off in the shower just to feel something that isn’t regret. But your voice, your silence, is always there in the background.

“Don’t touch me.”

“I hate you.”

“Leave me alone.”

Oh god, he wants your voice back.

Romance is in hell. Real, emotional, sexually repressed, oxytocin-deprived hell.

You’re ignoring him. Romance. The man who could make literal royalty fall in love with him in under three minutes. The man who’s carried empires with his jawline and you, his sweet little muse, won’t even look at him.

He keeps trying.

He makes your tea just how you like it, then pretends he wanted it when you ignore the cup. He lights candles in the hallway near your room. He writes you a four-line poem on a sticky note and slides it under your door like a fucking sixth grader.

Nothing.

His hands are in his pants. Constantly. Not even in a sexy way, half the time. Just stressed. Palming himself while reading, while eating cereal, while sitting on the edge of his bed with your old hoodie in his lap. Always cums pathetically fast. At night, he’s curled up, soft moans pressed into his pillow as he fists himself over the idea of you finally breaking, crawling into his bed, whispering, Romance, I forgive you, you pretty idiot.

He tries to bait you, loudly moaning from his room for your benefit, walking through the house in his robe with nothing underneath, but no reaction.

He’s a wreck. He’s also somehow still exfoliating. It’s impressive.

Mystery is suffering quietly. Which, for him, means he’s masturbating in the dark and miserable about it.

He doesn’t whine. Doesn’t beg. But his eyes? They’re so fucking lonely. And the fucking point of this is that you can’t SEE that.

When you don’t speak to him for the third day in a row, he just lowers his head slightly, like a scolded dog.

He spends a lot of time in the shower now. A lot. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Imagining you.

Abby’s coping the only way he knows how. By being a fucking asshole. He starts working out more. Louder. Grunting. Slamming weights. Going shirtless in every room to give you subtle hints of the vibe “I miss you, please notice me.”

When that doesn’t work? He starts messing with your stuff. Moving your books. Rearranging the fridge. Leaving your favorite snacks just slightly out of reach. Then he works out for six hours straight. You walk past the gym. You don’t even glance in. He’s shirtless. Sweating. Arms the size of your self-worth. And you just… walk. Right. Past. No reaction. Not even a twitch.

He gets so mad he punches a hole in the punching bag and then grumbles, “This is dumb” before he stomps off to sulk in his room. Cue: him, hands under the covers, fucking his fist, muttering “fuckfuckfuckfuck” because he can’t stop thinking about your face. About the way you cried when he massaged you, about the sound of your laugh, which he hasn’t heard in DAYS. Your face behind his eyes. You, in all your unbothered, furious beauty. You, walking away, flicking him off, that one time you pressed a finger to his chest to shove him back—fuck, that was hot.

It’s torture. It’s worse than physical pain. But he keeps imagining you saying his name, just once. Just once more. He thinks about you storming into the gym when he’s lifting. Yelling at him. Throwing something. Just acknowledging him.

He’s literally stroking himself to the idea of you hating him out loud.

You asked him to open a jar the other night and he nearly came.

Baby says nothing. He’s mad that he misses you. Mad that he wants you to push him against a wall and call him a brat. Mad that he’s getting off on the idea of you calling him mean and insufferable while riding him until he forgets his name.

The silence makes him meaner. Picks fights with everyone. Shoves Mystery when he walks too slow. Flicks Abby in the head. Blows smoke in Jinu’s face and calls Romance things that would make you cry.

He kicks the back of chairs when you sit in them. He takes the last juice box every time now. He left the TV on full volume the other night just to see if you’d yell. He walks by you and shoves you a little harder than he used to. Spills things near you hoping you’ll snap. Lights a cigarette and blows smoke right near you just to get a reaction.

You say nothing.

He watches you walk away and mutters, “Bitch” but it sounds weak. Sounds like heartbreak.

But every time he passes you in the hall and your shoulder brushes his, his heart flips.

You’re his karma. He’s sure of it.

It’s like withdrawal. Actual, medical-grade withdrawal.

They want to touch you, even if it’s just a brush of your arm. They want you to yell at them, curse at them, cry at them. Anything. This silence? This empty, pretty silence? It’s killing them.

It’s been days.

Days since you started punishing them with your silence.

Days since any of them heard your voice, your laugh, your bite. Since your presence meant anything to them besides the slow death of being ignored.

And they are starving.

Romance lasted longer than they expected. You didn’t even crack when he left you chocolates. Or perfume. Or a whole ass handwritten love letter sealed with his kiss and sprayed with his signature cologne.

So only he moves.

Because Romance is the only one with no shame left to lose.

He knocks on your door at night. Gentle. You know it’s him. Of course you do. Nobody else knocks like this, even though he usually doesn’t knock at all.

You ignore it.

So he comes in.

You’re standing already. Back straight. Eyes flat.

He shuts the door behind him.

Then drops to his knees.

“Please.” he says, voice already breathy. “Please, baby.”

He doesn’t stay at a polite distance, no, he wraps his arms around your thighs, presses his cheek into your lower stomach, hands clasped behind your legs.

“Please don’t hate me anymore.” he whispers, muffled against your skin. “Don’t look at me like I’m everyone else. I’m me. You know me.”

You try to step back. He won’t let you. His grip tightens, his forehead presses into your body, and he sounds so pitiful when he talks.

“I can’t take this anymore. I’ll be better. I’ll be so good. You won’t even recognize me. Please just talk to me. Please just say something. I’ll slit my wrist for that.”

You grit your teeth.

He sniffles and stuffs his face between your legs. Not sexually, no. Desperately.

“I’d do anything.” he murmurs. “Anything you want. Please talk to me. Say something. I’ll take anything. You can tell me to go fuck myself, I swear, I’ll even moan when you do it—just—just don’t leave me in this fucking silence.”

He lifts his head just slightly, eyes glassy but bright. Gorgeous, even like this. And it’s so pathetic. So pathetic. Big, watery eyes. Mouth trembling.

“You’re so quiet. I didn’t realize how much I needed your voice until you took it away. Now it’s the only thing I think about. The only thing I want.” He pulls back, looking up at you with his fingers curled around your legs. “You can hit me. Spit in my mouth. I’ll thank you for it.”

You roll your eyes

Romance exhales, shaky. “Just… please. Please talk to me. Say something. Yell. Tell me I’m the worst. But let me hear you. I’m not trying to get off.” he lies. “I’m not trying to seduce you.” he lies again. “I just miss you.”

Still, you don’t move.

And so Romance slides his hands down your thighs, down to your knees. He presses his lips to them.

You reach down.

He freezes.

And you shove him back. Not hard. But clearly.

He stumbles a bit, catching himself on his palms, and his eyes flick up to you. And fuck, he looks so pretty on his knees like that. Red-cheeked. Wide-eyed. Heartbroken. Wanting.

He crawls back slowly. Hands and knees on the floor like something tamed. Still facing you. Still hoping.

“Punish me if you want.” he murmurs. “Hurt me. Use me. Just—don’t ignore me. Please don’t ignore me.”

He’s beautiful like this.

Your eyes linger on the man at your feet. You watch the way his shoulders rise and fall with shallow breath, the slow way he trembles like he’s holding in a sob. His face is pressed to your leg. He hasn’t dared look up in minutes.

“…Clothes.”

His head lifts an inch. Slowly. Carefully. Not quite hope, but something desperate that wants to be.

You look down at him now. “New ones.” you clarify.

“Of course, baby. Of course. Anything you want.” His voice is breathless and boyish and trembling with relief.

You hum. Barely a sound. Then, your fingers reach out, slow, and trace along his forehead. Middle and pointer finger moving like little legs, mock-walking across his skin, down the bridge of his nose.

His eyes flutter closed, lips parted.

“I want a proper skincare shelf in the bathroom.” you say next, tone casual. “And I want the pink shampoo. The one you assholes always use up before I get to it.”

“Yes. Yes, of course, baby. I’ll get you twelve. One for each day. For the tiger too.”

You “walk” your fingers again. Down the curve of his cheek, then back up.

“And a vanity mirror. With lights. And the snack drawer filled. I want that strawberry chocolate that Baby always eats.”

His hands tighten just slightly on your thighs, like the mention of things you love makes him ache. He nods fast, eyes still closed, voice low and breathy. “Yes. Done.“

“And a white bag.” you murmur, still tracing his skin, now gently picking at a lock of his soft hair between your fingers. “Like, a really good one.”

He nods.

You sigh, slow and thoughtful. Your fingers dance beneath his chin now, tilting his face up, thumb brushing his bottom lip, not sweetly. Just testing him. Like he’s a plaything.

And he lets you.

God, does he let you.

“God, you’re so fucking easy.” you whisper, just enough venom to tease.

You let your hand fall from his face. He almost leans into the loss.

And then you murmur, “Stand up.”

He does. In one graceful move, tall again, towering above you but not daring to be above you.

He’s holding his breath.

You nod toward the door.

“You can go now.”

He nods. Sheepishly. And turns to leave.

You stare at the door for a long, long while after he leaves.

On the other side though, Romance’s bare feet thunder down the hall, and he doesn’t knock, he doesn’t wait, he doesn’t breathe, he just kicks Abby’s door open. “ABBY!” he yells, breathless, wild-eyed, radiating joy. “You fat fuck I need your wallet!”

Abby’s lying on his bed, shirtless, boxers yanked halfway down, muscles tense, a tissue box on one side, one huge hand currently on his cock.

Romance’s eyes drop for one second to take in the situation. “…Ah.”

“Get the fuck out.”

“No, no, no.” Romance says quickly, walking across the room without a lick of shame, jumping on the bed as Abby covers himself up with the covers. “This is life or death. She spoke to me. She fucking talked to me, Abby, do you get it?! She touched me. Like—touched my face. With her little human hands. Like this.” He does a dramatic little finger-walking motion across his own cheek.

Abby stares at him.

Romance beams, unapologetic.

Abby stares harder.

Romance starts bouncing a little, like he physically can’t contain the joy.

Abby sits up slowly, dragging his boxers back up.

“She wants clothes. She said she wants shampoo, and chocolate, and a bag—Abby, Abby, we have to go shopping.”

Abby groans, drags a hand down his face.

Romance leans forward and grabs his bicep. “We’re gonna get her everything. Do you understand? I’m gonna be the BEST fucking boyfriend alive.”

“Fuck you.”

Romance rolls over, hugs Abby’s side dramatically. “Aww. You’re so in love with me.”

“Get your gay ass off me, I’m soft.”

“Ew.” Romance shoves him. “I hate you. Anyway, she’ll forget all about being handcuffed to the fridge.”

“Still think that was funny as fuck.”

Somewhere down the hallway, someone, probably Baby, shouts: “SHUT. UP.”

Silence.

Romance sighs. “Do you think she’d, like…” he scratches his head, trailing off. “I dunno. Do you think she’d ever kiss me?”

“Dude.”

“Not now. But like, later.”

Abby shrugs again. “She kissed me once.”

Romance’s head snaps toward him. “WHAT?!”

“By accident.”

“HOW do you get kissed by accident?”

“She fell. I caught her. There was lip contact.”

Romance glares. “You are a liar.”

Silence.

Romance bites his cheek. “You ever think we’re too much?”

“No.”

“You think she liked my hair?” Romance asks, flicking his fingers through it. “I curled it a little today. Not on purpose, but like, it fell that way.”

“Did she look at it?”

“She didn’t not look at it.”

“Then she liked it.”

Romance just leans his head on Abby’s shoulder.

“…You think she touches herself?” Romance asks suddenly, in a tone way too casual for the horror of the question.

Abby doesn’t even blink. “I think she does it when we’re not home.”

“Shit.”

(Guys I’ll be naming clothes sizes here, no matter what size you wear, you’re beautiful and the Saja boys would totally hit, but I needed to name them for the conversation! If you’re not that size, just replace it, I love you either way!!)

“…So like.” Abby mutters, rubbing a hand over his stomach, “if she wears, what—like, a medium shirt? You know the one. What size do we get?”

Romance blinks slowly. “Depends on the brand. Also on if it’s a crop top or a regular shirt or like… you know, the ones that do the thing.”

Abby looks at him sideways. “What thing.”

Romance raises both hands and mimes two invisible mounds in front of his chest. “The thing where it does the pushy-up-y thing. Like—”

“Pushy-up-y.”

“You know what I mean. With the—” He points at his own pecs, then flexes them. “Like this. But on her.”

Abby looks at him. Looks down at himself. Then brings both hands up and shoves his own pecs together, frowning with intensity. “…Like this?”

“Yeah, exactly.” Romance says. “But prettier.”

They stare at Abby’s pecs for a second.

Both of them very quiet.

“Okay. So. What’s a size 6?”

Abby shrugs. “A… small one?”

Romance frowns. “But not, like, too small?”

“Medium-small.” Abby offers.

“Is that even a real size?”

“Bro, I don’t know,” Abby replies honestly. “women’s shit is complicated.”

Romance thinks for a second. Stares forward. Nods. “…We need to reverse engineer this.”

Abby looks over. “What?”

“We use our memories. We recreate her.”

“…Bro.”

“No. Trust me.”

Abby sighs, but shifts anyway. They both sit up straighter, serious now. Tactical. Focused.

Romance raises his hands to his own chest, pushes his pecs together, thoughtful. “Her tits are like this. Right?”

Abby, chewing the corner of his lip, stares. Tilts his head. “No, no—wait. Tilt more. Your chest is too high. Hers is rounder. Softer.”

“Yours are hard as fuck, dude.” Romance agrees, then nods to himself. “Okay, so if we… press more here—”

They both adjust their pecs. Mashing them together like absolute fucking morons. Expression dead serious.

Romance pauses. “We’re geniuses.”

Abby mutters, “I think I’m getting aroused.”

Romance tilts his head. “They’re not, like, huge.”

“No.”

“But they’re… I dunno.”

“Perfect.”

“Yeah.”

They sit in silence, heads nodding a little.

Romance presses his pecs together, moves them around. “Like this?”

Abby squints. Mimics the motion. “No, dude. Yours sit too high.”

Romance looks down. “So yours are low?”

“They’re not low, fuckwad, hers are just like—” He frowns. Thinks hard. “Tch. Y’know?”

“Wait, wait—” Romance adjusts again, eyebrows furrowed in intense scientific focus. “This?”

They both look at each other’s chest as they press their pecs together in slightly different configurations.

Romance grunts. “I think you’re right.”

“Told you.”

Boy math.

They’ll figure out your size eventually. One ridiculous guess at a time.

“Human girls are so weird.” Abby says. “They cry when they’re mad, but they laugh when they cry, and then they don’t want help, but they get mad when you don’t help, but if you help too much they think you think they’re weak, and then somehow, that’s your fault.”

Romance shakes his pretty head. “You can’t get them with flowers or food or gifts. Not for long. That’s rookie shit. What she wants—what all women want—is to be understood. And if you can’t do that, then at least be devoted. Fully. You don’t get women by just looking good.”

Abby blinks.

Romance looks at him. “I’m serious.”

“I look good, though.”

“No, yeah. We both do. That’s not the point.” Romance waves a hand through the air. “Women are intuitive. You don’t get them by posturing. You get them by understanding the ecosystem.”

“…The what?”

“The yoni, man.”

Abby makes a face like Romance just brought up taxes. “Oh fuck off.”

“Means womb. Sacred feminine. The origin of all life. The portal to divinity, and shit.”

Abby pauses. “That’s… kinda beautiful, actually.”

Romance nods. “Right? Women are god. They carry pain, creation, time, all of it—inside. And if you treat them like shit, you’re missing the whole fuckin’ point.”

Abby’s mouth parts just slightly. This is above his intellectual paygrade, but he’s not about to say so. “Respect.”

Romance runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “You don’t seduce a woman like that with flowers and abs and dumb little pet names. You gotta make her feel. Like you’re safe. Like she’s seen. Like she can open the locked door inside her chest and you’re not gonna throw a grenade in there.”

Abby makes a long, drawn-out sound. “Hmm.”

Romance glances over. “You thinking?”

“…Mostly about your nipples.”

“Fair.”

“But also… you’re right. I think.”

Romance grins, tapping his temple. “There’s a brain up here somewhere. Okay, okay—sit up, fatass.”

Abby scowls. “I’m not fat.”

“You are objectively massive.” Romance says, kicking him in the calf. “And I mean that in the most homoerotically admiring way possible.”

“Back off.”

“Listen, I’m serious now.”

Romance grabs Abby’s wrist, warm hand wrapping over bulging forearm, and drags him upright. Abby goes with it begrudgingly, sitting up against the headboard again.

Romance props his chin in his palm and stares. Unblinking. His hair falls into his face again, framing that ridiculously symmetrical face. “You need to apologize to her.”

“What.”

“You like her?”

“…Yeah.”

“You respect her?”

Abby pauses.

Romance raises his brows. “Wrong answer.”

“…Yes.”

“Then you’re not gonna fix this by standing around. You hurt her. You lied. So you gotta show up with your chest out, no shirt, bonus points, heart on your sleeve, and you say: I was wrong.”

Abby looks at him, unblinking. “That’s it?”

“Okay, no, not just that. You say you were wrong, you say why. Be specific. Say something like, ‘I didn’t tell you the truth because I’m fucked-up with the emotional IQ of a cactus but I love you and I want to do better.’ Then—”

“Wait.” Abby interrupts. “That’s what you’d say.”

Romance slaps a hand against Abby’s chest—solid, broad, godlike—and leaves it there. Palm flat. Warm. Centered over the beating thing inside that chest, his knee sliding between Abby’s legs. “You say sorry and then stay. Because if you leave right after, she’ll think you’re just doing it for her reaction. Not for her.”

“Shut up.”

“I will not shut up.” He points a finger into Abby’s chest, poking directly at a pec. “Do you know why? Because I like her. I like seeing her exist. I like when she eats the food I make. I like when she’s mean to you.”

“She’s always mean to me.”

“Because you’re a dick, Abby.”

Abby sighs and drags a pillow over his face.

Romance yanks it away. Then he leans in closer, his hand now cupping Abby’s jaw. “No. No hiding. Look at me.”

Abby opens one eye, unimpressed. “What do you want me to do? Cry?”

The silence is heavy.

Too heavy.

Their eyes meet.

Because suddenly they’re very close. Like very close. His face inches from Abby’s. Breaths mixing. Hands still on each other.

“…Dude.” Abby says, very low.

Romance blinks. “Are we—?”

Abby squints. “Is this—?”

“No.” they both say at the same time, recoiling slightly.

“Anyway.” Romance coughs, dramatically adjusting his position like he wasn’t just seconds from initiating the world’s most confusing demon bromance kiss. “Point is, you’re apologizing.”

Abby groans, rolling his eyes so hard his skull might crack. “Fiiine. I’ll try.”

“You go make that human girl forgive you, and you do it with your whole ass, you hear me?”

Abby stands. Massive. Brooding. Slightly flushed. “…I hear you.”

“You go to her with sincerity. You use your words. And for the love of hell, you don’t bring Mystery.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s prettier than you and might get forgiven faster.”

“…Fair.”

And just like that, the demon of brute strength walks out of the room, psyching himself up to do something harder than convincing Jinu to not whoop his ass for fucking a move up: say sorry.

Abby stops in front of your door.

Romance mouths “Go in.”

Abby flips him off and knocks.

You don’t answer with words. But he hears the quiet shift of the bedsheets inside.

The door creaks open and Abby steps inside.

You’re sitting on the bed. Legs crossed, looking devastating. Sleep clothes clinging to the kind of body he’s not strong enough to not look at.

Abby shuts the door behind him. No escape now. He stands there awkwardly for a second, all that muscle and rage and guilt trapped in one idiotically gorgeous frame, and then he rubs the back of his neck, clears his throat like a teenager, and says “…Okay. So. I suck.”

Nothing. You blink.

“I mean. Like—like not literally, ‘cause, I mean—I could. I’ve been told I’m good at—okay, no, wait—not the point. I’m here to apologize. Kinda.”

Your stare is lethal. So is the face card.

Abby looks at the ceiling, breathes through his nose, then finally lets it out in a grunted, desperate, honest mess: “I’m sorry we handcuffed you to the fridge.”

That gets a blink.

He keeps going. “I mean, I’m sorry about all of it. That you’re here. That we keep being dicks. That we don’t—I don’t—know how to do this. With you.”

You raise an eyebrow. He swallows.

“So… yeah. I’m sorry. That’s it. That’s all I’ve got.”

God, he sucks ass at this.

He shifts his weight. The silence stretches.

Then, as if his own brain catches up to the vulnerability he just let loose, he panics and throws in, “Also you look fucking hot right now.”

The tiger growls. Low. Protective.

Abby raises both hands. “I’m going, I’m going.” He backs toward the door, not breaking eye contact, even as he fumbles for the handle like it’s fighting him.

“Wait.”

He freezes.

You pat the bed beside you, once. “Come here.”

He doesn’t even hesitate. Just obeys. He closes the door gently. Crosses the room in just a few slow steps and sinks down beside you on the bed. Not too close, but close enough that his thigh brushes yours. He doesn’t look at you. Not right away.

You look at him, though. Eyes scanning the side of his face, the set jaw, the guilty slope of his eyebrows.

He’s so big. So strong. So dangerous. And he followed that one word like a dog.

“You were human once, right?”

He blinks. Slowly. Then shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Do you remember your name? Before Abby?”

“…No.”

You nod, like that’s alright. “Do you remember your mother?”

He swallows. Doesn’t answer right away. “Bits.”

“Do you think you’re a good person?”

He scoffs. Immediately. Like it’s the stupidest thing you could’ve asked. “No.” Silence. Then, softer: “Not even close.”

“What made you like this?”

That’s the one that gets him. His whole body shifts, defensive, and he glances at you, then at the wall. His jaw tightens. You wait. “I don’t know.”

“How old were you when you turned into a demon?”

He blinks. It’s not what he expected. “I don’t… know. Twenty-something, I guess.”

“Siblings?”

“I had a younger brother.”

And then—just to give him a breath—you grin a little, tilt your head to look at his arm. “…How big are your biceps?”

That makes him huff out a laugh. “Big enough.”

“Like—how big though?”

He flexes, looking away as if it’s nothing.

You glance, just for a second. “Hmm. Yeah. Passable.”

You touch his bicep with two fingers. Just tap it.

“You could kill someone with this.” you mutter.

“…I have.”

You both go quiet again.

“What are you feeling right now?”

“I… I don’t know.” he says slowly.

“Do you even know what you feel for me?”

He looks up.

Right at you.

And the look in his eyes is pure confusion. Not because the answer is no, but because the answer isn’t clear. Because feeling anything that isn’t rage or lust is a fucking foreign language to him.

“I don’t know.”

And he keeps saying he doesn’t know, but he really doesn’t. He so doesn’t know.

“Do you even remember your human life?” you ask, voice quiet.

He’s silent for a long beat. Then shrugs one shoulder. “Pieces.”

“What happened to you?”

“Stuff.”

“Stuff.” you echo dryly.

He huffs. “I didn’t come here for therapy, alright?”

“…You know you’re not forgiven, right?” you say, soft but firm.

“I know.”

“And you know what you did to me is wrong?”

“Yeah.”

“And you’re still going to keep me here.”

“…Yeah.”

You sigh. Let the silence stretch again. Then murmur, “You need to work on your apology game.”

He snorts. “Noted.”

You brush some hair out of his face. He watches you like a kicked dog.

You don’t say it aloud, but god, you missed him.

The silence holds for another breath. Then another.

“…I do appreciate the apology.” you say.

Fuck, it’s impressive that you’re still so fair and nice even now.

You keep going. “And I know that’s probably the best version of an apology that someone like you is capable of.”

His jaw shifts, like he wants to argue that, but knows you’re right.

“So,” you continue. “if you can fix yourself, then we’ll see what happens.”

“That’s a tall fuckin’ order, babe.”

You glance at him sideways. “Then you’d better get started.”

He lets out a short laugh. Rough and dry. “Fair.” And then, because he’s Abby and subtlety is not in his toolkit, he blurts, “Romance said you asked for new shit.”

Your eyes narrow, half-glare, half-grimace. “Yeah. I did.”

“Clothes?”

“Mhm.”

“Anything else?”

“Thought about asking for a tiny dog.”

“…Why didn’t you?”

You sigh, looking away toward your bedroom wall. “Because I don’t want to put a poor innocent animal through whatever the hell this is.”

Abby laughs. “Shit. That’s fair.”

You glance at him again, arms crossed loosely over your chest. “What? You don’t think I deserve new clothes?”

“No, I think you deserve everything.” he says instantly, too fast to pretend it was casual.

You almost feel sorry for him. Almost. But then again, you’re the one who’s been dragged into this against your will.

Still.

“I meant it.” you say after a beat. “If you’re really going to try… then maybe there’s a version of this where I don’t hate you. Think about it.”

He nods again, eyes flicking toward yours. “Yeah… maybe.”

Silence. A soft one, you’d say.

“…Why do you keep me here?”

He tenses. Immediately. His jaw flexes. You keep going.

“You know I’m not going to talk. You all let go of that a long time ago, so… why? Why keep me?”

Abby stares at you.

His eyes, fuck, his eyes are wide now. Round. Almost soft. Which is ridiculous, because nothing about him is soft. Not the muscle under his skin, not his brutal hands, not the way he’s hurt you, over and over.

But now he just… looks at you.

Is he supposed to confess his fucking love to you now??

You see the panic flicker there for half a second. Just a flicker. But it’s enough.

“Get out.” you say softly, not unkindly. “I wanna sleep.”

“Yeah.” he mumbles, rising to his feet with a heavy stretch. “Yeah, alright.”

He walks to the door, one last glance over his shoulder before he slips out.

God, what a coward.

What a fucking mess.

He’s been a soldier. A demon. A killer. A protector. A brute. A thing that obeys or dominates. He knows how to crush skulls. He knows how to grab what he wants. He knows how to hold you against a wall and make you feel.

But ask him what he feels?

He’s useless. Lost. Like a fucking kid again.

He doesn’t know.

That’s the truth.

Not that he’s hiding the answers. Not that he’s manipulative like Jinu, or performative like Romance, or eerily silent like Mystery, or keeping secrets like Baby.

Abby just… genuinely does not know. There’s a locked box inside of him that hasn’t been opened in centuries, and even if he wanted to open it, he doesn’t know where the key is.

And worse, he’s a man. A man surrounded by other men like him, all pretending they’re fine, on that crying is weakness shit, fucking instead of feeling, laughing instead of healing.

He never had the chance to become emotionally fluent.

He’s been living his life in survival mode for longer than you’ve been alive.

So yeah, he could answer some things. He could tell you he had a brother, and that’s already more than most people get out of him. He could tell you how many lives he’s taken, how many times he’s seen death, how it looks when the blood gets under his nails and won’t come out no matter how hard he scrubs.

But ask him why? Why you stay here? Why he can’t let you go?

He doesn’t know how to make his mouth shape those words. His tongue has never been trained to speak love. Just lust. Just loyalty. Just need.

You ask him how he feels?

He doesn’t know.

You ask him what happened to him?

He doesn’t know if he can answer that, if the memory is even right, if Gwi-Ma didn’t fuck the memories up.

You ask him why he keeps you here?

He doesn’t know, because the truth is too terrifying. Because the only word that fits is love, and love is something he watched get stabbed, hanged, burned, and buried a long time ago.

“Awww. That was adorable.”

Gwi-Ma’s back, everybody.

“You and your little human girlfriend. I think I felt something. Your little heart nearly grew three sizes today.”

And before Abby can shut it out, before he can even breathe, he’s slammed with a rush of memories.

Every mistake.

Every hand he broke.

Every neck he snapped.

The child he couldn’t save.

The brother he watched die.

The lovers he abandoned.

The blood.

The war.

The smell of fire.

He tries to lock the thoughts out. To think about you. About how warm your thigh felt next to him on the bed. About how you didn’t push him away immediately.

But Gwi-Ma slaps it out of his mind.

“Pathetic.” Gwi-Ma hisses. “Coward.”

You said he should try to fix himself. And Gwi-Ma laughs at the idea.

Because there’s nothing to fix. Not in someone like Abby. He’s muscle. Meat. He’s a weapon, not a person.

Dumb.

Fucked up.

Violent.

Selfish.

Meat-brained.

Guilt-ridden.

Empty.

Ignorant.

Simple.

Clueless.

Emotionally castrated.

Expendable.

Disposable.

Replaceable.

STUPID.

That’s what he’s been told for decades. Centuries. Over and over. Every time he opens his mouth and can’t find words for what’s inside.

He tries to shut Gwi-Ma out. Presses the heels of his hands into his eyes, hard.

But the voice is in him. Not separate.

He wants to fix himself. Doesn’t he?

Maybe. Maybe not.

But it doesn’t matter.

Because the minute he even thinks about it, truly thinks about what it would mean to be better, to be someone who deserves you, Gwi-Ma hurts him. Again and again and again.

The truth is cruel.

He’s not someone in progress. He’s someone trapped.

The worst part is the humiliation. The humiliation of trying, and still being told it’s worthless.

Because Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them try. Not really. The moment any one of them reaches even a thread of softness, you, a thought of you, a smile you gave them once, a moment where they think maybe they could be better for you, he’s there. He’s always there.

Not just cruel, intimate. Personal. He knows where to hurt.

They can’t breathe.

None of them can, not really.

Abby, jacked and dead-eyed in his own bed, scratches at his forearm until the skin splits. He didn’t even realize he was doing it. Not until the blood warms.

He’d thought about trying again tomorrow. Thought about asking you if you wanted help, or offering to fix something in your room. Something small. Something human.

“You’re a joke. Look at you.”

And Abby did look. Into the mirror. Into his own face. And all he saw was a stranger.

Jinu is worse. Because he knows what he’s doing. But even Jinu, ruthless and slick and selfish, can’t stop Gwi-Ma from slithering under his skin.

“You’re a parasite.” Gwi-Ma whispers to him when he’s alone. “You don’t love her. You want to own her. Same thing, right?“

And you’re not stupid. You’ll figure it out eventually.

And then what?

When Romance puts a hand on your shoulder or whispers sweet things in your ear, Gwi-Ma leans in and coos, “She likes you best. Doesn’t she? Oh, she wants it. Wants you. Don’t worry about the others. They’re not built for it like you are.”

But the moment Romance believes it, lets the warmth in, imagines you choosing him for real, Gwi-Ma flips the blade. “Delusional little rat. She’ll see it. Eventually.”

And when he distracts himself with his hands, his hips, a sigh into his pillow and a slick palm and a fantasy of you, just as his breath hitches, right when the softest sound escapes his lips—

“What a little lapdog. Disgusting. You think you’ll be the boyfriend she deserves? You? Loverboy, candlelight, wine glass in hand, I can see it, even.”

Mystery, alone in the dark bathroom, runs cold water over his hands. He look in the mirror too long. He wants to be pretty, because you like pretty boys, right? Everyone does.

“She doesn’t care. You’re a pet. Not worth talking to. Why would she love you? You don’t even speak.”

Baby pretends he’s immune.

The alcohol helps. It’s the only thing that makes Gwi-Ma’s voice slur. Even a little.

But that’s not better.

Not at all.

“Not enough alcohol in the world to erase what you did. Drink up. Drown it. That’s all you’re good for.”

They all want to try. To say something kind. To change. To fix themselves for you.

But Gwi-Ma doesn’t let them.

Even when they still try, still fumble toward kindness, still find themselves reaching for you, it’s unbearable.

To want so badly to be better.

And to be reminded, again and again, that maybe they can’t be.

They like you so much. It’s stupid, how much.

But no matter how loud that love is, Gwi-Ma’s louder.

They still want you.

They still crave your laugh, your attention, your touch, your eyes.

They want to deserve you.

But they don’t believe they can.

So they keep stumbling.

Keep hurting you.

Keep hurting themselves.

The apartment was silent… but not peacefully so. 

It was the kind of silence that hummed with sorrow—wet, heavy, and sharp. The kind of silence that made the walls feel too close, like the whole world was holding its breath and didn’t know if it would ever exhale again.

An hour had passed since the door shut behind you. Since the lock clicked. Since your voice, once so warm, so bright—had splintered into cries behind a wall no one could breach. It wasn’t just the sound they heard. It was feeling. Their feelings, mirrored back through the bond with yours amplified tenfold, raw and ragged like blood beneath cracked glass.

And still, no one moved. Not at first.

Hwimori was the closest to your door. He hadn’t left since you locked it. He hadn’t eaten, hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even lifted his head. He curled himself around your old sweater on the hallway floor like a wounded thing—shivering and quiet, fingers tracing useless wards into the hardwood with the tip of his finger.

He breathed with you. Cried with you. Felt every ache inside your chest like it was his own. His voice, when it came, was nearly soundless. A quiet and broken: “Sorry.” He whispered it again, and again. Until his throat burned.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please, stop crying. I’m so sorry…”

Across the room, just past the kitchen threshold, Jinu stood still.

He hadn’t sat down since you left. He hadn’t taken off his coat. His hands were still in his pockets, his shoulders rigid, his jaw locked so tight it looked like he might break his own teeth. His gaze never strayed far from the hallway. From the door you locked. From the shadow of Hwimori curled outside it.

His eyes were bloodshot. Not from crying—he hadn't allowed himself that. He was too busy calculating.

She asked us to stop. She begged me.

And I still said no.

He replayed the moment again, and again, and again. Your voice. The tears. The silence that came after.

She doesn’t understand—no. She does. That’s what makes it worse. She understands, and still, she begged.

But what choice do we have?

He didn’t move. Not even when Haneul finally stepped forward. Not out of strength—but necessity. His hands were trembling. He washed the rice three times and boiled broth in silence, eyes fixed on the steam rising from the pot. He didn’t blink often. His motions were too careful, too perfect—like if he made just one wrong stir, everything else would fall apart too.

When he passed the counter, he paused. Just for a second. Just long enough for his eyes to catch on the tray of unfinished sweets. One of the cupcakes had a heart piped just a little off-center. Like you were rushing. Distracted. 

He couldn’t bring himself to touch it. Couldn’t even cover them. The bowl in his hands felt heavy—warm, yes—but nothing like the soft care you’d folded into each shape of mochi. He left the sweets where they were. He didn’t touch them. He couldn’t. He didn’t deserve them.

He made congee with a soft-boiled egg and a drizzle of sesame oil. Scallions too. Just the way you liked it. He stood over the bowl with his hands pressed flat to the counter, chest tight.

She’s hurting. And it’s my fault.

His jaw clenched as he added the toppings into the bowl. Evenly, slowly, with more time than it should have taken.

She won’t eat. She’s crying. I was supposed to be the one who kept her safe from this. I failed.

He slipped the food onto a tray and stared at it for a full minute before moving. The hallway was dim as he crouched beside your door. He heard you shift inside—heard the rustle of blankets, the low, cracking sob that shook your whole body. His heart ached as he glanced at Hwimori clutching your sweater a few paces away.

Haneul sighed. He wrote a note on a folded scrap of paper, hands trembling.

‘There’s food outside. We know you don’t want to see us. We just want you to eat. – H.’

He slipped it under the door, set the tray down, and walked away.

Minutes later, the tray disappeared. Not a word. Not a thank you. Just the creak of the door, the food gone, and then the lock clicking shut again.

The sobs didn’t stop. And Jinu… still hadn’t moved.

She’s still crying. I caused this. All of it. Every word she said to me tonight was true.

And still… if I had to do it again, I would.

Even if she never forgives me.

Even if she forgets me.

His hands curled in his coat pockets.

I told her I’d free her. And I will. Even if I have to burn for it.

Seungho stood in the studio, still as a blade just before it cuts. His eyes were fixed on the piano, unmoving. He hadn’t played. He hadn’t spoken. His hands hung by his sides, fingers twitching like they didn’t know what to do without you.

She said she craved my touch. Then she looked at me like I was filth.

He pressed his palms to the piano keys once. No sound. Just weight.

She’s right. I am. I told myself I’d become anything to keep her… even this.

And then he turned away. Not even music could fix this.

Seoha paced the living room. One hand in his hair, the other clenched at his side, breathing shallow. His steps were too fast, his thoughts spiraling too loudly.

She thinks I romanticized it. Us. That I turned her into a fantasy I could own… 

He stared at the direction of your room wistfully. With so much sorrow marred into his face. Such a contrast to his usual smug expression.

…But how do I prove it was real when I lied to her face just to keep it?

He paused in front of your door, pressing his forehead gently against the wood. His breath fogged on the cold surface.

“I never wanted to lie,” he whispered.

His voice cracked.

“But I was so afraid you’d leave if I told you. And now you’ve sealed yourself away from me.”

Still no response. Not even a shift on the other side. He stood there for a while. Behind him, in the hallway shadows, Jinu’s gaze was still locked on the same spot. Unblinking. Haunted. A strategist standing in the aftermath of his own design.

I built this plan to protect her. And now it’s the reason she’s in there—alone, crying, hating me.

But the alternative? Watching her soul vanish into nothing? No. I can’t… I won’t choose that.

She called it obsession. Maybe it is. But I’ve waited too long. I’ve lost her too many times. If this is madness—then I’m already lost to it.

He whispered your name, barely audible, like he was afraid even the walls might shatter if they heard it. And for the first time, his knees buckled. Just slightly. Just enough to feel like something inside him was beginning to rot.

Dinner was a ritual no one had the appetite for. The table was dimly lit, a single overhead bulb flickering with soft static. The food on their plates steamed faintly, untouched.

No one touched the cupcakes. The tray sat at the center of the table, soft frosting still holding the shape of your careful piping, hearts tilted just slightly where the cream had begun to sag. They looked… sweet. Hopeful. Like something from a different day.

“She made those before everything,” Seungho muttered, eyes fixed on the pink swirls. “Before we ruined it.” He was already seated, arms resting on his thighs, head low, eyes flicking up every time a creak in the floorboards sounded from your room. Hope. Then devastation. Repeat.

Seoha’s fingers twitched from the kitchen doorway, staring at the sweets like it haunted him to go near. Like he might reach for one, but didn’t. “She was so excited,” he mumbled softly, quiet. “She said she wanted Hwi to have something sweet on his birthday.”

No one moved.

Haneul sat closest to the door, but furthest from the table. He leaned back in his chair with his arms crossed, eyes fixed on the bowl of untouched rice in front of him. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days. There was rice on his sleeve. He hadn’t noticed.

Seoha finally dropped into his chair with a loud exhale. “She’s still crying.”

“She’s not going to stop,” Seungho muttered. “Not after what we said. What we did.”

“She asked us to stop,” Seoha said. “And we’re not going to.”

Haneul’s gaze drifted again. Past the cold congee, past the boys—to the untouched bowl of mochi mix you’d left on the kitchen counter. The cover had been sealed neatly, the whisk rinsed and left to dry. All those careful steps, all that sweetness—abandoned mid-thought.

“She made all of this with love,” he said softly. “Even when she knew we were hiding something from her.”

“We don’t deserve them,” Seoha added, his voice bitter. “Or her.”

The silence that followed was thicker than before. Heavy with things they couldn’t say.

Jinu still hadn’t spoken. He sat at the head of the table like a statue cracked down the middle, staring through his plate like he was somewhere else entirely.

“She asked us to find another way,” Haneul murmured. “We gave her nothing.”

“We don’t have anything,” Seungho snapped. “That’s the damn problem.”

“She deserved to know the truth,” Haneul added, voice sharper now. “I wanted to tell her. When she first started asking.”

“And what?” Seoha barked. “Tell her while she was smiling at us over tea? You think that would’ve softened the blow?”

“She trusted me,” Haneul snapped. “I looked her in the eye and said she was safe here.”

“That wasn’t a lie,” Seungho growled. “She is safe here. It’s the rest of the world that isn’t.”

“We lied to her about the music’s purpose. Our means.” Haneul grit his teeth. “We should have told her ourselves!”

The room tensed.

“I didn’t want to lie,” Jinu said quietly. His voice cracked. “But if I told her—if I showed her what we were… what we’ve done… she would’ve run. And we wouldn’t have had time to fix it.”

He shook his head. “We still don’t.”

“Then maybe we shouldn’t go through with it,” Haneul whispered.

That made Jinu look up. Eyes sharp. Wet. “You think I haven’t thought of that?” he asked. “You think I haven’t run every possible outcome through my head, over and over, for weeks?”

He pushed back from the table, standing slow and stiff like his body was suddenly heavier than it had ever been. “If we don’t go through with it, Gwi Ma takes her from the cycle. She’s gone. Not just from this life, but every life after. No more soul. No more rebirth. No more her.”

His eyes drifted one last time to the cupcakes. The piped hearts. The handwritten note on the fridge still stuck with tape—’Don’t touch! Birthday surprise!!’

His chest tightened. She made these for Hwimori. For us. Before any of us deserved them. And now… they’re just leftovers from a life we shattered.

The silence that followed was suffocating. Jinu’s hand gripped the back of the chair, white-knuckled. “She asked me to stop. She begged. And I still said no. Because if I say yes—I lose her. Forever.”

Haneul’s jaw clenched. He looked down. Seungho looked away. Seoha was still. Even Hwimori, still silent in the hallway, let out a quiet, broken breath.

“She said this isn’t the kind of love she wants,” Jinu whispered. “Maybe it’s not. Maybe it never was. But it’s the only kind I have.” He turned toward the door.

“Where are you going?” Haneul asked.

Jinu’s voice was steel wrapped in fire. “Air.”

“Don’t disappear,” Seungho muttered.

Jinu’s hand hovered over the doorknob. The light above flickered again. Behind them, your soft weeping continued—barely audible, but deafening through the bond.

She’s crying because of me. Because of us. 

And I’d still rather be the reason she lives in hatred than the reason she never breathes again.

The cupcakes still sat untouched on the table. The frosting was starting to sweat. None of them moved to put them away. No one wanted to be the one to erase the last sweet thing you left behind.

Jinu opened the door and left the apartment. He didn’t tell them where he was going.

But in his hoodie pocket, the note from Rumi pressed against his torso like a blade.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The apartment door clicked shut behind them with the weight of a thousand regrets.

No one spoke.

Shoes were kicked off lazily, not from comfort but fatigue. Shoulders slumped under invisible burdens. They trudged across the living room like ghosts, each carrying the sting of battle not in wounds, but in what they witnessed, what they couldn’t stop.

Rumi sank onto the edge of the couch first, lowering herself slowly like her body had only just remembered how to be tired. She didn’t lean back. Just perched there, elbows on her knees, face in her hands.

Zoey dropped beside her with a quiet grunt and an audible exhale as her body hit the cushions. “Oh my god,” she groaned, sinking deep into the softness like she might dissolve into it. But the bliss was short-lived. Her eyes fluttered shut, then cracked open again with a heavy sigh. Her gaze drifted toward the ceiling. “This couch is the best part of the whole freakin’ day.”

Mira stood for a moment longer than the others. Her arms were crossed, her lips drawn in a thin line. Then, without a word—she lowered herself into the armchair opposite them, eyes staring at nothing.

The silence between them stretched. It was uncomfortable. Heavy.

Finally, Mira broke it, her voice low and distant. “She really didn’t know.” Her brows furrowed faintly. “They really did brainwash her then.”

Zoey’s expression fell further, her arms curling around herself like she was trying to hold in her own grief. “They probably just didn’t tell her so they wouldn’t look bad.” Her voice cracked as she added, “She looked… devastated. Hurt.” She swallowed. The memory of your face, your wide, betrayed eyes, your voice trembling with disbelief—stabbed into her chest again. She looked away. “She didn’t deserve that.”

“Well, what did you expect?” Mira said bitterly. “That’s what demons do. They lie. They deceive.” But her voice faltered. Because as much as her brain wanted to cast them as villains… she couldn’t quite shake the memory of their faces when they’d arrived. They hadn’t looked triumphant. They hadn’t looked smug. They looked shattered. Furious. Frightened.

They thought we hurt her, Mira realized, mouth tightening. Idiots.

Still… something about the way Baby had lunged forward with eyes wild, the way Mystery’s hands had trembled like a cornered wolf, the way Abby had looked ready to tear his own skin off… something about it unsettled her. She didn’t say that part out loud.

Rumi hadn’t spoken. She sat perfectly still, but her eyes flickered faintly behind her fingers. Too many thoughts colliding too fast. The bond. The Idol Awards. The Honmoon. Your choice to stay. Your tears. What Jinu would think. The guilt. The threat.

She wasn't supposed to feel this involved. But she did.

It was impossible not to think about her parents. About the ritual, about her father’s letter, her mother’s choice. Was this how it all started? With a bond you didn’t ask for and truths you weren’t ready to face?

What would happen to the soulbond now? Would it break? Would you?

“Do you think she’ll come to the Idol Awards tomorrow?” Zoey asked suddenly, cutting through Rumi’s spiral.

Mira snorted. “Who knows? She chose to stay with them. They’re probably feeding her more lies already.”

“But we need her there,” Zoey insisted. “I mean… if she’s there, they’re less likely to try anything. It would hinder them, right?”

“She was attacked today,” Mira said, leaning back. “And she just found out the people she trusted have been lying to her for god knows how long. You really think they’ll let her out of their sight now?”

Zoey’s lips pressed into a line. “Probably not,” she admitted. Her chest ached. The pain on your face, the raw betrayal in your voice… it hadn’t been fake. That much she knew. “I just—she looked so lost.”

The three of them exhaled as one, the exhaustion catching up to them all at once.

“Whatever,” Mira grumbled. “Once we seal the Honmoon tomorrow, she’ll be safe again anyway. She’ll get away. Maybe.”

Rumi’s voice was soft. “But now we know the soulbond is real.”

The room froze.

Zoey looked over, concern deepening. “What happens when we seal the Honmoon and they disappear? Will she be okay?”

Mira's lips parted, but she hesitated. “Not our problem,” she muttered. Except her eyes didn’t match her tone. They flickered with guilt. With doubt.

“No, Mira,” Zoey said. “It is our problem. She’s human. It’s our job to protect humans from demons. That’s our oath.”

“I’m not going to go sacrificing the entirety of humanity for one soulbonded human, Zoey,” Mira snapped, sitting upright. “We’re hunters. If it comes down to it, we’ll have to make a choice.”

Her words rang out like steel against stone. Zoey flinched. Rumi looked away. They all knew she was right. And that truth—made their hearts heavier.

Zoey’s voice was quieter now. “Should we at least message her? See if she’s okay?”

There was silence for a moment. Then Mira gave a reluctant nod. “Yeah… we should.”

But Rumi didn’t move. Her thoughts had turned inward again. Spiraling back to her father’s notes, the glyphs, the notebook under her pillow, the symbols she’d copied by hand. She had to see Jinu. Tonight. She had to show him what she found. She had to convince him that maybe… just maybe… there was another way.

Because if the bond was strong enough… if the ritual was real… then everything could change. She needed answers. And she had to know if he was willing to help her find them.

“…I just remembered something strange,” Zoey said suddenly, furrowing her brow.

Mira looked up, arching an eyebrow. “What?”

Zoey’s gaze shifted toward Rumi, voice tentative. “Earlier… when Y/N held your hand on the train, Rumi… did you see the Honmoon glow? Just for a second?”

Rumi froze. The words hit like a slap to the face. She had nearly forgotten about that. Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her heart gave a sickening lurch.

Mira straightened where she sat, eyes narrowing. “Wait. Yeah. I—I thought I imagined it. It was faint but…” She frowned. “That was real?”

Zoey nodded slowly. “It was like… just a flicker. Barely there. But it reacted. And she isn’t a demon...”

Rumi could feel her chest constrict. Her mind reeled—symbols, glyphs, soul marks, the note she’d scrawled in ink. 

Stronger than the Honmoon?

It responded to her touch. Just from a second of contact. Could this really mean the ritual was viable? Could it finally, finally, be the key?

“Rumi?” Zoey asked again, her voice gentle but suspicious now. “Do you… know anything about that?”

Rumi blinked rapidly. Her throat was dry. “No! I mean—” Her voice came out sharper than intended. “I don’t know what it was. Probably just a fluke. A delayed reaction or something. Or maybe it’s because of her soulbond.”

Mira didn’t respond. Her eyes stayed fixed on Rumi, expression unreadable.

Zoey tilted her head. “But it wasn’t like anything I’ve ever seen before. The Honmoon doesn't do that—especially when demons touch us. And she isn’t a demon, so...”

“It’s nothing,” Rumi said too quickly. “I’m sure it’s just residual energy or…” She waved vaguely toward the kitchen. “Whatever. I don’t know.” She sighed. “Look, I was actually gonna go out for a bit. I—I forgot we’re out of miso.”

Mira’s brow twitched. “You’re leaving now?”

“Yeah,” Rumi said, forcing a shrug. “I need the walk. Clear my head.”

She forced herself to stand casually, walking over to the coatrack. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached for her tote bag. Inside it held the letter and her father’s journal.

“Do you want us to come with?” Zoey offered, eyes soft but probing.

“No, I’m good,” Rumi said quickly, clutching the strap tighter. “You guys look dead on your feet. I’ll be quick.”

There was a beat of silence. Mira and Zoey exchanged a glance. “…Be careful,” Mira said flatly.

Rumi nodded once, not meeting their eyes. “I’ll be back soon.”

She slipped out the door. The lock clicked shut behind her, quiet as a whisper. Mira didn’t move for a moment. Then, slowly, she stood.

Zoey blinked at her. “Where are you going?”

Mira’s gaze flicked down the hallway. “She’s hiding something.”

Zoey frowned. “Come on. Maybe she’s just… stressed. We all are.”

“She’s been weird for days,” Mira said bluntly, already walking. “And she got real weird just now. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

Zoey sighed but followed. “I noticed. I just… don’t want to jump to conclusions.”

They stopped outside Rumi’s door. Mira hesitated just for a second. “I shouldn’t be doing this,” she muttered under her breath. “But if she knows something that could mess up the Honmoon tomorrow, I need to know.”

She pushed the door open. The room was still. Neat. Too neat. Zoey stood behind her, silent. Mira scanned the desk. Nothing unusual. She opened a drawer and found just pens and sketchpads. Another drawer–stickers, a crumpled concert ticket, receipts.

She moved toward the closet, rummaging quickly through the shelves. Still nothing. 

“Mira, I don’t think we should be doing this…” Zoey stood unsure by the doorway. As if entering her friend’s room without her knowledge was a serious crime.

Mira didn’t respond. Then, her eyes landed on the bed. Specifically… the pillow. Her brow furrowed. “She stuffed something under there a few days ago,” she murmured. “When I called her for practice.”

Zoey bit her lip. “Mira…”

“I know,” she said softly. “But I have to check.” She reached forward, lifted the pillow—

—and froze.

There it was. A slim, worn notebook. The edges frayed, the pages bent from use. Mira pulled it out carefully, her fingers already flipping through. At first, it was normal. Lyrics. Scribbled doodles. Pages of song notes crossed out and rewritten.

Then… symbols.

Drawn with eerie precision. Glyphs of a language Mira didn’t recognize, arranged in elaborate patterns. And then, a line scrawled boldly across the page:

‘Stronger than the Honmoon?’

Her breath hitched. “Zoey,” she called, sharper now. “Can you come here for a sec?”

Zoey finally entered, alarmed. Her eyes trained on the notebook. “What’s that?”

“It’s hers,” Mira said tightly.

Zoey took a step closer, frown deepening. “Okay but… come on, this isn’t right. You and Rumi are already—”

“Just look.”

Mira turned the notebook so Zoey could see. Zoey stared. Her brow furrowed. The symbols. The line: ‘Stronger than the Honmoon?’ Then:

‘I need Y/N there. For the ritual. For the proof. For everything.’

‘Three voices. One heart.’

Zoey blinked. “What… is this?”

“I don’t know,” Mira admitted. “But it’s weird. She never told us about any of this.”

Zoey took the notebook gently from her hands, flipping the pages slowly. “These aren’t just doodles. These look… planned. Like she’s copying something.”

They paused on the symbol in the center—the glyph for the soul. Zoey’s face went pale. “This is serious. This isn’t just a theory or a song idea. Why would she link Y/N to this?”

Mira crossed her arms. “And what ritual? What proof? What does she mean by ‘three voices, one heart’?”

“I’ve never heard of that during ur training,” Zoey muttered. “Maybe it’s something old? Or something forbidden? Like the soulbond she’s read about?”

The room chilled.

“She’s hiding something,” Mira said again. “And if she’s messing with something that could interfere with the Honmoon…”

Zoey looked down at the book in her hands. “She wouldn’t do something reckless,” she said quietly. “Right? I mean this is Rumi. She’s the most determined to seal the Honmoon out of all of us. She pushed up the Golden release…She– ” Zoey’s thoughts trailed on and on. Was this why Rumi asked her to send that invite to you for the Idol Awards? 

Neither of them could answer that. They stared down at the notebook. And for the first time in years, they realized—

Maybe… they didn’t know Rumi as well as they thought.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

You curled tighter into the bundle of blankets on your bed, knees to chest, jaw clenched hard against the ache building behind your eyes. Derpy’s warm weight pressed against your hip, his fur oddly silken despite his unnerving stare, and the Magpie nestled on the headboard above, occasionally fluffing its feathers with a quiet thup-thup. Their presence didn’t erase the pain… but it grounded you. You kept your fingers buried in Derpy’s thick coat like a child clutching a lifeline.

Your heart hurt. In that deep, bone-dragging way. You’d been crying for so long you weren’t even sure when it had started, or when it would stop. Maybe it wouldn't. Maybe this was just how your body would feel from now on. Like something inside you had been cracked in half and didn’t quite know how to fuse back together.

Then came the sound. A soft rustle. The near-silent click of ceramic against wood. And then… silence. You felt it before you saw it. A warm pulse beneath your ribs.

Haneul.

Your eyes burned as you sat up and reached for the note slipped beneath the door.

‘There’s food outside. We know you don’t want to see us. We just want you to eat. – H.’

You stared at the handwriting for a long time. He had cooked for you. Even now. Even after you sealed yourself away from them. You stood on trembling legs and opened the door just wide enough to reach out. The tray was still warm. Congee. With a soft-boiled egg, scallions, sesame oil. Everything you loved. The bowl trembled slightly in your hands.

You didn’t deserve it. They didn’t deserve to be here either. You brought it back inside and set it gently on the desk. Then you sat in silence.

The sob that tore from your chest wasn’t loud—but it broke something open. Because outside that door, you felt it again.

Hwimori.

His presence was impossible to miss now. The quiet scrapes, his fingers or claws, you couldn’t tell—moving against the floor just beyond the wood. Sniffling. A muffled whimper. The way he breathed in sync with yours.

It was like his sorrow pressed through the crack beneath the door, heavy and earnest and unrelenting. You didn’t have to see his face to imagine it: eyes red-rimmed, lashes wet, hands balled on the floor as he curled there like something abandoned. A creature who loved too much. Who didn’t know what to do with that kind of pain.

Your throat tightened unbearably. And then… another voice. Softer. Barely audible.

“I never wanted to lie…”

There was a pause and your breath hitched.

“But I was so afraid you’d leave if I told you. And now you’ve sealed yourself away from me.”

You couldn’t be sure, but you knew that voice. Seoha. The words were distant, like a whispered prayer through the fog of the soulbond. But they landed anyway. Like a stone thrown into your ribcage. Your heart twisted. Because it wasn’t a lie—not really. It was fear. Devotion turned desperate. Love tangled in the threads of consequence.

They were all out there. Hurting. Bleeding silently. Crushed under the weight of your grief. And it broke you more than you thought it would.

You wiped at your face, but the tears didn’t stop. Derpy nosed at your side, whimpering low in his throat. The Magpie hopped down onto your pillow and cooed, its feathers brushing your cheek.

“I don’t know what to do,” you whispered.

Neither of them answered. But they stayed close. And that meant everything. You pulled your phone from beneath your pillow and blinked at the glowing screen.

You had three message notifications.

One was from Zoey: ‘Are you okay? Please tell us if you’re in trouble. We’re here.’

Your heart twisted just a tad more at the message. Even now after you’d left the station, she had still messaged you. 

The next messages came off as quite a shock. It was from Mira. 

‘If you need help, real help, we’ll come. Just say the word.’

It was curt. Direct to the point. Sharp, just like she had seemed earlier today. You weren’t sure why she had even made the effort to message you given how sharp her words had felt. But the message meant something to you regardless. She didn’t have to say this. They all didn’t have to…

The last one was from Rumi. ‘I hope you’re safe. I’m so sorry for how today went. Please rest. Don’t be afraid to reach out.’

You stared at them for a long time, heart thudding like thunder in your throat. They’d saved you. And they looked so genuinely… broken. Rumi’s trembling hand. Zoey’s panicked eyes. Mira’s furious defiance. They weren’t lying… not then. They believed what they were doing was right. And now… you had proof.

The boys hadn’t told you everything. They hadn’t told you about the Idol Awards. They were still harvesting souls. And they were planning a massacre tomorrow. It wasn’t Huntrix’s lies that kept the truth from you. It was theirs.

You clutched Derpy tighter.

But how do I blame them, you thought, when all they’ve ever done is love me like I’m their entire world?

You could feel their love even now. It pulsed through the bond like blood through veins. Warm. Fierce. Terrible. You felt the phantom heat of Seungho’s palm against your cheek. The way Seoha used to read you stories like he already knew your favorite parts. Jinu brushing the hair behind your ear like it was instinct. Haneul holding you steady through your worst panic. Hwimori curling up beside you and crying when you cried.

They loved you.

In ways you never thought possible. In ways that went deeper than words or vows or rings. They belonged to you. And you… to them.

But love isn’t always right. Not when it came wrapped in thousands of bodies they were willing to sacrifice. Not when it meant carving your soul out of the world just so they could hold it in their arms.

You picked up the spoon but couldn’t eat. Not yet. Your hands shook too much.

How did things get so complicated?

You came to Seoul to chase dreams, not dance with devils. And now here you were, in a locked room, soulbonded to five demons, hiding from the rest of the world while they planned to kill thousands in your name.

The tray was heavy on your desk. The scent of the congee turned your stomach now… not because of the food, but because of what it meant. That even in all this, they wanted to care for you. Feed you. Love you.

And it hurt.

What am I supposed to do?

Because the worst part wasn’t the betrayal. It was understanding it. You curled inward again, clutching Derpy, letting the Magpie nest against your collarbone. It was love. Twisted and dark and horrifying… but still love. 

They wanted to save you.

Huntrix wanted to save the world.

And you… you were stuck in between. The bridge. A human that was bonded to five demons. The one heart pulled in five directions.

And still… you remembered Mira’s voice. The steel in it. Zoey’s trembling hands on your shoulders. Rumi’s worried eyes darting over your person to check if you were harmed.

They weren’t your enemies. Maybe they never were. Maybe—just like the boys—they were simply trying to survive the only way they knew how.

You didn’t know what scared you more. The thought that one side had to lose, or the possibility that no one would win.

You breathed slowly, painfully. “There has to be another way,” you whispered. “There has to be.”

But no answer came. Only silence. And the distant sound of claws on hardwood. A broken apology just outside your door.

And the weight of a love that might just destroy everything.

────────── ⚘ ──────────

The alley was quiet, carved between two rows of dusky buildings in an older part of Seoul where time seemed to linger. Neon lights blinked faintly from a noodle shop at the far end, their colors reflecting softly in the puddles left behind by the afternoon drizzle. Stone steps led up to a narrow teahouse perched on the second floor, and flower pots lined the stair railings, half-forgotten by their owners. It would’ve felt romantic, almost charming, if not for the weight pressing down on Jinu’s chest.

He stood still in the middle of it all—too still. Arms crossed. Eyes staring at the cracked concrete underfoot. The silence pressed in on him like a vice. Not just the quiet of the alley—but the stillness in his bond with you.

He inhaled slowly through his nose, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. Images flashed uninvited through his mind—your face when the truth had unraveled, when the pieces finally clicked. No scream had hurt more than the way you looked at him in that moment.

Jinu pressed his hand against the wall beside him, steadying himself. He had always known this would break you. He told himself he’d be ready. But he hadn’t been—not when you curled in on yourself. Not when you locked them out.

A soft footfall drew him out of the spiral.

Rumi.

Jinu tensed. He didn’t want to be here right now. His fingers curled tight on the meeting invite Rumi had sent yesterday. He didn’t want to see her. Not after what she and the others had done.

She didn’t announce herself. Just leaned against the wall beside him like she’d been there all along. Her cream jacket was zipped up to her throat, and a few strands of her hair clung to the dampness in the air. She didn’t look at him right away. Just stared down the length of the alley, as if seeing some invisible thread he couldn’t.

Jinu didn’t look at Rumi. Not yet. He stood with his back against the wall of the narrow alley. His voice came low, scraped raw from silence, like he’d been holding something in too long.

“I’m here. Say what you have to say.”

Rumi winced. There was no warmth in his tone. Just the echo of a wound festering under composure.

“How is Y/N?” she asked, carefully.

His eyes snapped to hers, slow and cold. “You don’t get to ask that.”

The words landed like a slap. Rumi stiffened. “What? After we saved her today? You’re really going to pretend like you have the moral high ground when you’re the ones who lied to her?”

Jinu’s jaw clenched. “We would’ve told her the truth in time.”

“When? After someone else died in front of her again? How was I supposed to know you were keeping everything from her?!”

His eyes burned. “She deserved to hear it from us,” he said. “Us. Not cornered on a train platform by hunters she barely knows, half out of her mind.”

“For the record,” Rumi said, voice rising, “there were almost a hundred demons on that train. They were sucking the souls out of everyone. If Mira hadn’t reached Y/N first—if we had been a second too late—she would’ve been gone.”

Jinu faltered. “What?”

Rumi’s hands shook slightly. “There was a demon holding her. A big one. I saw it. I watched Mira drive her blade through its back just before it could crush her. Y/N didn’t even scream—she just stared, frozen and terrified.”

Jinu looked staggered. Stunned. “She didn’t tell us,” he whispered.

“What?” Rumi blinked. “She… she didn’t?”

He shook his head once. Slowly. “No. When we brought her home… she only asked us one thing. To tell her the truth. About the soul harvesting. About everything.” His eyes darkened. “Not a word about that happening to her.”

Rumi’s breath caught. “She found out because she witnessed it, Jinu. She saw what the demons were doing. She saw Mira kill one. I—I tried to stop Mira from saying more after, I swear. But she insisted, and Y/N kept asking what those demons were, and…”

Jinu exhaled, sharp and broken, dragging a hand down his face. His eyes finally met hers—and this time, she saw it. The grief. The guilt.

“...thank you.”

Rumi almost did a double take at his sudden change of tone. 

“Thank you… for saving her. For protecting her when we weren’t there…”

Rumi saw how Jinu’s jaw clenched in frustration. His eyes were pained. An agonizing look she hasn’t seen on him before. 

“Jinu…”

“She looked at us like we weren’t real,” he murmured. “Like she didn’t recognize us anymore. Not as people. Not as the ones who’ve loved her since the start.” His voice cracked on the last word. “She asked if we ever cared, Rumi. If any of it was real.”

Rumi’s heart twisted at the rawness in his expression. It wasn’t just anger burning behind his eyes now—it was heartbreak. Regret. The soul-deep kind that rotted from the inside out.

“I didn’t mean to take that from you,” she said quietly.

Jinu looked away. There was a long silence, dense, aching, broken only by the distant hum of a passing scooter and the faint clatter of dishes from a restaurant above.

“She doesn’t want us to go through with it,” he said, finally. “The soul offering. The deal. The Awards. She said… if we love her, we’ll stop.” His shoulders dropped, like the weight had finally become too much. “But we can’t stop, can we?” he added bitterly. “Not without Gwi Ma tearing everything apart. Not without damning her in another way.”

He let out a half-laugh, humorless and hollow. “She begged us to find another way. And I’m standing here with nothing. No plan. No hope. Just a stage and a knife, and the knowledge that no matter what we choose… we lose her.”

Rumi didn’t speak. She was watching him too closely now—reading the twitch of his jaw, the tremble at the edges of his fingers. This wasn’t the Jinu she knew from afar. This wasn’t the leader of the Saja Boys, the cold strategist, the distant puppetmaster with unshakable calm. This was the boy underneath the blood and glamor. The one who looked like he’d just buried the only light he’d ever known. And Rumi’s heart cracked with the weight of it.

Not just for him. Not just for you. But for all of you. All bound together by a love no one had asked for—and none of you knew how to survive.

She had no right to feel sympathy for Jinu. Not after everything he’d done. Not after the silence, the soul-harvesting, the deals he’s made with Gwi Ma. The choices he’s made on his own. He wasn’t hers to care for. And yet—something stirred.

It clawed its way up from the marrow, ancient and aching, threaded into the very bones of her inheritance. A pulse not wholly hers, but not foreign either. The echo of a love older than she could comprehend. Fierce. Reckless. Whole.

Maybe it was her father’s ghost, whispering through her blood like smoke curling from old fire. Maybe it was the memory of her mother’s defiance—how she had clung to love even when the world called it blasphemy. Or maybe it was the quiet, unbearable truth:

She was born of the same kind of madness. Of a bond that defied law and reason.

And in Jinu—torn, proud, breaking in the shadows—she saw her father. That haunted look behind guarded eyes. The hands, calloused by consequence, reaching for something they believed could save them. He stood at the edge of ruin, like Daehyun must have, daring to hold love in one hand and fate in the other—hoping one would outweigh the cost of the other.

How could she not feel drawn to that? She was the result of a love that dared the impossible. A child born not from safety, but from sacrifice. From longing that bent the rules of both heaven and hell.

And perhaps that’s why, despite everything, she couldn’t turn away from him now. Because if her father had lived… would he have made the same choices Jinu had?

Would he too, have chosen love even if it meant becoming a monster? And if so—wasn’t that what made it all human?

She closed her eyes, just for a breath, letting that ache settle deep in her chest like a bruise spreading slow beneath the skin.

She didn’t owe him anything. But something in her soul reached out anyway. Not for the demon. But for the part of him that was still trying to love… the way her father once did.

“Do you think… demons can love the way humans do?”

Jinu turned, brow furrowing. “What?”

She didn’t look at him. Her gaze stayed fixed ahead, at the narrow mouth of the alley where the streetlamps buzzed like distant thoughts. “I mean real love. Not obsession. Not the kind that takes. But the kind that gives everything. Even when it’s doomed.”

Jinu’s expression flickered… something unreadable behind the amber in his eyes. “Why are you asking me that?”

Rumi exhaled slowly. Her voice, when it came, was almost a confession. “Because… I think I’m the result of that kind of love.”

He stared.

“I’m the result of what happens when a hunter falls in love with a demon.” she continued. 

Jinu’s eyes widen in shock. He hadn’t known that about her. A hunter… and a demon…

“But I was raised by another hunter. My mom’s best friend, Aunt Celine. She was fierce. Proud. She never spoke about my father. Just that he was dead. That he was… a mistake.”

Rumi swallowed, jaw tightening. “When I was little, Celine taught me that demons were monsters. No soul. No heart. Just hunger in a pretty shell. I believed her. I had to. It was safer to believe. To belong.”

Jinu’s eyes didn’t leave her.

“But then I met you,” she said. “And Y/N.”

Her voice softened. “When you said you were soulbonded to her… something inside me shifted. It didn’t feel foreign. It felt like… recognition. Like déjà vu in my own blood. I didn’t know why. Not then.”

She turned to him finally. “My father’s name was Daehyun.”

The name fell between them like a stone dropped into still water. “I found his letter. His journal. And I know now—he wasn’t a mistake. He was a demon. And he loved my mother. He was soulbonded to her.”

Jinu’s breath caught audibly, eyes wide in disbelief. Daehyun. He had left behind a daughter?

“He tried to forge something stronger than the Honmoon. Something older. A ritual born not from blood or power, but belief. He called it something… but it felt like… more than just a bond. A teth–”

Jinu’s lips parted. “A tether.”

Rumi blinked, shocked. “...Yes. You’ve heard of it?”

Jinu nodded slowly, a hand lifting to rake through his hair as if the weight of recognition struck all at once. “The story was a cautionary tale. A demon who tried to make a hunter into a tether. A bridge. They said it killed her.”

“It did,” Rumi said softly. “And him too. He failed. The ritual didn’t hold. But it wasn’t greed. It wasn’t control. He just wanted to stay with the woman he loved. To create something that could protect them. Protect me.”

Silence spilled between them.

Then Rumi asked quietly, “Did you know him? Daehyun?”

Jinu’s face shifted, grief threading through his expression. “No, not personally. I just heard about the story a few years ago. I didn’t know it was real. Or that he was… your father.” He shook his head. “Daehyun was an older demon, almost ancient… I’ve never met him.” He swallowed. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded once, her throat tightening. Worth a shot.

And then she straightened, voice firmer. “If there was another way. One that didn’t involve the Idol Awards, or the Honmoon, or Gwi Ma… would you take it?”

Jinu didn’t answer. Not at first.

Because in that moment, he saw you again, exactly as you’d been just hours ago, standing in their living room, broken and brave and begging with tears in your eyes. “You say you did it to stop me from dying. To give us forever. But what’s the point of forever… if I can’t live with myself?”

The way your voice cracked. “If you truly love me… you’ll stop this. You’ll find another way.”

The way you looked at him, like he was already slipping away. “I can’t watch you become something I can’t forgive.”

The way you still loved him, even as your heart was breaking. He felt it like a blade to the chest. Jinu closed his eyes.

“…Yes,” he said.

But the word barely settled before doubt carved through him like ice. His eyes opened again—hardened now, like armor snapping back into place. Like he suddenly understood what Rumi was asking him to do.

“No. No—don’t do this. You’re talking about conducting the same ritual.” His voice rose, sharp and cutting. “I won’t let what happened to them happen to her.”

Rumi flinched. “Jinu—”

But Jinu’s head was hot. The very thought of it failing and losing you forever burned in his mind. No. No way in hell. “It was a foolish dream,” he said bitterly. “She was never meant to survive it.”

Those words—those awful, final words—hung in the air like smoke from a battlefield. Rumi’s breath caught. Her eyes burned. “She was my mother,” she whispered.

Jinu froze. His anger dissolved in an instant, replaced by something close to shame. “I didn’t mean—Rumi, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know,” she said quietly, shaking her head. It was hard, so hard to understand his candor. But it was the truth. She was asking for a lot. But what choice did she have?

And then, without another word, she reached into her bag and pulled out the envelope and the journal. Her hands didn’t tremble as she offered them.

“I’m not asking you to risk her,” she said. “I’m asking you to read. To see.”

Jinu hesitated. Then he took the letter.

It was smaller than he expected. Worn soft at the edges, the parchment yellowed with time and grief. He opened it slowly. And read.

‘My little star,

If you’re reading this… then maybe the ritual didn’t work.’

The first line made his throat tighten. He blinked. Once. Twice.

‘Or maybe fate intervened, and you’re standing in a future I never got to see.’

A future they never got to live.

‘I loved her, Rumi. So deeply it became my reason for existing.’

Jinu’s breath caught. He didn’t know Daehyun—not personally. The stories of him were half-myth, whispered between demons like cautionary tales. A hunter and a demon. A soulbond that defied bloodlines. It had always sounded like fiction. A tragic love story with no ending.

But this… This letter was real. And it was brimming with such raw, aching love that Jinu felt it beneath his ribs, in the places he hadn’t let himself look since your tears carved holes in him.

‘The soulbond. A link forged by choice. By devotion. By heart.’

He inhaled sharply. His heart beat slower as he reached the last lines—words meant for a daughter born of the impossible.

‘There’s another path, Rumi… not one the gods built, or hunters—but one the heart can open.’

He closed the letter gently. As if anything rough would shatter it. She was never meant to survive it… That was what he had said earlier.

But this letter—this man—had believed in it. In her. In a future built not from sacrifice, but from love. Just like you had begged him to believe. Jinu glanced at Rumi, who sat quiet, hands clenched by her sides. He could see the tension in her jaw, but also something soft beneath it. She hadn’t just found a letter. She had found her origin.

He looked down at the journal next. A thicker, older tome. When he cracked the cover open, the pages rustled with memory. The demonic symbols were arcane, looping and layered. Unlike the letter, they weren’t meant to be read by just anyone. But Jinu had lived four centuries. He could read enough.

He traced a line of text with his thumb, murmuring aloud. “The tether… not just a seal, but a gate. A guardian. A chance for love to rewrite the laws.”

Rumi’s eyes flicked to him. “What does that mean?”

Jinu didn’t look up yet. He kept reading, voice low. “The ritual failed. She wasn’t strong enough. Or maybe I asked too much. There must have been something I failed to see…”

Another line gleamed as he spoke it aloud: “Three voices. One heart. A bond strong enough to breach fate.”

Jinu sat back slightly, blinking at the text. “Three voices…” He looked at Rumi, slowly, thoughts turning over. “A tether isn’t like the Honmoon,” he said softly. “It doesn’t require to be strengthened periodically with voices. It’s created with those voices, but once made… it’s a living seal. A being created from a soulbond so strong, it can anchor others—hold portals shut, link realms, undo curses… even defy Gwi Ma.”

Rumi’s breath hitched. “Like a guardian.”

Jinu nodded. “It’s the soulbond itself, given form. A bond is required because it’s the strongest thing that links the two realms. But it has to be unbreakable. Devoted beyond reason.”

“Is that why it failed?” she asked. “Did he write why?”

Jinu’s brow furrowed as he scanned again. “No… not clearly. But this line—‘Three voices. One heart’—it might be the key. Maybe the bond wasn’t strong enough. Or maybe it wasn’t complete.” He let that thought hang in the air.

Rumi whispered, “But what if the soulbond is strong enough? Say… 400 years old. With more than one demon?”

Jinu stiffened. She didn’t need to say your name. They both thought of you in the same moment. He thought of the crimson threads wrapping around your chest. How the bond affected you much stronger in this lifetime. Of the pain you were in when it had finally sealed and you had remembered. 

His mind drifted to earlier—your voice, pleading in the living room. That image surfaced like a knife in water. Your eyes wet, desperate. Your hands trembling. That moment had etched itself into the marrow of his being.

He hadn’t let himself hope then. But now…

Rumi licked her lips. “Also, earlier today. In the train… Y/N took my hand as I was helping her up. She was shocked, terrified. And then…” She swallowed. “The Honmoon glowed.”

His heart skipped. “What?”

“It pulsed. The minute our skin made contact. It glowed gold and crimson. Just for a second. But it was reacting. To her. To the bond. I think… it reacted to what she was. I’ve never seen the Honmoon do that before…”

A silence settled between them. Charged, fragile, blooming with something dangerous.

Hope.

Together, they turned back to the journal. Slowly, methodically, they translated lines—Daehyun’s inked desperation looping through diagrams of symbols.

Soul. Sacrifice. Choice. None of it was simple. But it was possible. If they could decipher the ritual, if they could prepare it and enact it properly… you wouldn’t have to die. No blood would have to be spilled at the Idol Awards. No more soul-harvesting. No more Gwi Ma.

Jinu felt it rise in his chest like sunlight after years of dark: freedom. Freedom for him. For his brothers. For you.

But it was a risk. If they failed, you could suffer the same fate as Rumi’s mother. Was he willing to risk that? Would him failing to even try mean failing you? But if he didn’t try, that would be the same thing, wouldn’t it?

He closed the journal slowly. The weight of it settled heavy in his hands. Jinu stared down at the faded ink, the ghost of Daehyun’s desperation still pulsing between the lines. His voice came quieter now, but thick with tension. “Even if it’s possible… even if we translated it right… it’s still the same ritual. The one that failed. It killed your mother, Rumi. It killed him.”

She didn’t flinch this time. “Yes. Because something was missing. But what if it isn’t, now?”

Jinu shook his head, jaw clenching. “You don’t understand. A tether isn’t just a seal—it reshapes fate. It asks for everything. If we misstep even once…”

He couldn’t say it. Couldn’t say your name in the same breath as the word risk. “I won’t gamble her life,” he said. “Not again.”

“But you already are,” Rumi said softly. “With the Idol Awards. With the massacre. With Gwi Ma watching every move.”

Her words were calm, but steady. And true. “If we don’t try and either of us wins. The Honmoon turns gold, or it’s destroyed… it would ruin her and you either way, Jinu.”

“If we do it properly this time,” she continued, “If we prepare—just like my father wrote—and if the bond is truly strong enough… then maybe this time, it won’t fail.”

Jinu stared at her. He wanted to believe it. But the past clawed at his thoughts. The echo of the train station. The sound of your voice breaking when you asked him for the truth. The way your body trembled before you collapsed. How your soulbond had flared crimson when you reached for him.

He didn’t deserve another chance. But maybe you did.

He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, over the place where his heart burned quietly for you. Where the bond pulsed like a bruise. Where hope had started growing again, whether he wanted it to or not.

Was this madness? Or mercy?

He looked up at Rumi, her expression lit by the distant glow of a streetlamp. The shadows couldn’t hide the fear in her eyes… but they also couldn’t hide her hope.

“Help us win the Idol Awards tomorrow,” she said again, gently this time. “We’ll perform the ritual there. I need you to bring her. We can’t do this without her.”

Jinu closed his eyes and let the silence stretch. Could he do this? Could he lead you into the heart of danger again, with nothing but an old legend and a desperate daughter’s faith?

But then… wasn’t this exactly what you’d asked for?

“Just find another way.”

Maybe this was it. Maybe the least he could do, for everything he’d broken—was try.

He opened his eyes and nodded once.

“…okay.”

TO BE CONTINUED

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A/N: I apologize for the angst continuation but it had to be done! I'm sowwy. But I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter regardless! In this chapter we explore the aftermath of the blow from chapter 14. I wanted to expound on how all the characters feel. The internal conflicts, moral dilemmas, and possible solutions that could be explored to fix what had happened. Rumi and Jinu are one step closer to the truth and finding out about her parents. Weee! Thank you for staying patient with me as this chapter took longer to write. I appreciate your comments as always!

I hope you guys enjoyed the chapter!

Willa x.

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