18+

Despite the disappointment of your birth, your marriage to the six-eyes wasn’t annulled. Still, it would take ten years before you met your husband-to-be.

You’d hear about him often, of his prowess—how, even being just a teenager, he was considered the greatest sorcerer in existence. Most revered him, the elders were smart enough to fear him, and you? Why, you couldn’t help but be a little bashful over the entire thing.

To think, your life, which, by all accounts, should have been doomed from your very first breath—curseless as you are, only fit to be a maid—had been saved before you were even born. Destined to be the great Gojo Satoru’s wife—a well-respected lady.

In your childish girlhood, lonely as you were often left, a protected outcast, you’d dream of him almost every night—your knight in shining armor, your prince charming, your soulmate. You were positively gushing from the thrill on the day of your first meeting.

He was handsome—the most beautiful boy, only a year shy of becoming a man, you’d ever seen—sitting there, next to the old Gojo clanhead, dressed in traditional robes, opposite you and your own clan’s respective leader. Snow-white hair, alabaster skin, dazzling blue eyes with a jaded look in them that would have you squealing and kicking your feet, if you weren’t expected to sit still and pretty like a doll.

Your elders spoke of many matters—political nothings. Neither of you was asked to join in. Still, Satoru would sigh every now and again, sometimes even utter a scoff—visibly irked. You could never dare yourself, but you found yourself agreeing with him. Sitting like that for so long, listening to higher-ups speak of highs and lows, is about as fun as watching paint dry. However, you could manage without letting it show on your face. It seemed Satoru, despite being older, still didn’t share your grace—rolling his eyes every other minute, scowling where he sat, back hunched and arms crossed, knee jerking, making his entire body shake with annoyance. You had to suppress a giggle at the sight.

You’d been wrong, though. Very wrong.

It wasn’t the higher-ups’ talk that bored him.

It was you.

“Maybe you’re just a late-bloomer.”

The clanhead had tasked Satoru with showing you the gardens, leaving the two of you alone together. 

You’d thought it romantic—dreamy like a fairy tale—picturing him as he would pluck your favorite flower for you and his absolute softness treading it behind your ear, calling you beautiful in the sweetest voice known between heaven and earth, just like in your fantasies.

“Maybe if I hurt you enough, that famous technique of yours will pop right out.”

You’d read too many books and watched too many movies. No one had warned you about reality. “What?” is the only thing you’re able to splutter out—the only question in your head, pitiful as it was fatal to every idea of your future that you’d had so far. Where’s the happily-ever-after you’d been looking forward to all this time?

“I’m not marrying some loser without any cursed energy.”

His grip on your arm was just shy of breaking the bone. He no longer looked anything like a prince, but rather some horrid creature taken from nightmares you’d never have the guts to think up on your own, eyes iridescent like a stove-top, and burning you just so.

“So, I guess I’ll just have to force it out of you.”

He’d barely given you a scratch before you’d started screaming and bawling. Your heart, broken into too many pieces, like splinters in your throat, as you lie curled up on the dusty ground beneath your fiancé.

Your wailing had both clanheads return before he could do much. Even so, he didn’t feel the need to anymore. It was plain as day, nothing he would have done could bring out something that clearly didn’t exist. 

You were just a plain ol’ stupid girl. Unworthy of him.

He sighed again, like he’d done throughout the meeting, like it was all beneath him, before turning on his shoe and shuffling away in disappointment, though not before spitting out a final utterance of pure disgust, 

“What a joke…”

And still, despite the clear rejection, news of an annulment never came.

Satoru became a man, and rumors of his bedroom activities would spread from the maids of the Gojo estate to the maids of yours, and ultimately into your ears. And seven years later, you were introduced to adulthood and finally allowed your own voice.

And with the wedding only half a year away, you find yourself back by your own volition and without your clan’s knowledge, bowing before the Gojo clanhead, making the brazen decision when putting in the request for an annulment yourself.

You speak clearly and matter-of-factly while laying forth the arguments. The only reason the two of you were supposed to marry in the first place was to keep each other in check, which wasn’t a requirement given the circumstances of you being without cursed energy. 

“It would be in the Gojo clan's best interest to marry into another more prominent clan.”

And yet, “You’ll remain fiancés,” is the decisive answer given by the old Gojo clanhead after you’ve finished pleading your case. 

“You might not have inherited your clan’s cursed technique, but it’s still in your blood, and any child you bear will have a strong chance of being granted the gift you weren’t. As such, the reason for your marriage is still relevant.”

You won’t say you aren’t miffed, especially after having come all this way and worded your arguments so well. Still, you know better than to argue with elders, and so you thank him for his time with a polite bow, then dismiss yourself without any further complaint—fists balled silently at your sides, worried for the drastic decisions you’re going to have to make if the marriage still stands come time.

Wracking your brain for an answer, it’s just before you’re fully about to leave the grounds, you’re stopped in your tracks by a familiar mean grip wrapped tightly around your upper arm—and maybe, with it, the unlikely answer to your problem.

“Try’na divorce me before we’re even wed?” his voice cuts through the silent temple, shattering against the barren marble walls. “Who the fuck do you think you are?”

It’s been eight years, in which time he’s become a man of twenty-five. He’s a Jujutsu High graduate now, certified in the field, rich—or so you’ve heard—but above all else, he’s a handsome rake, and maybe not one who’s all that eager to give up the title.

You scoff, smiling with a tiny laugh that takes him aback. “Figured you couldn’t be asked to make the trip, so I did it for you,” you drawl, cocking your head backwards and giving him a lazy sneer. “You should be happy.”

He looks at you, still with his hand digging into your arm as confusion rumples the space between his eyes.

“Oh, come on, Satoru, what’s with the look?” You cock a brow. “This union was never our choice. And from what I’ve heard you’ve done your fair share of protesting to it in your own unsightly ways, parading around like the common manwhore.”

Snickering, you can’t help but find some sick pleasure in the chagrinned blush breaking out across the top of his cheeks. 

“No need to be embarrassed,” you scoff then. “I’m glad we’re on the same side.”

It’s not really the right words for the situation, but still, despite everything, the two of you joining forces would be the path of least resistance. You just needed to hand him the baton, and then you could sit back and watch him do all the dirty work.

“But really? You’re the strongest sorcerer of the century—what are you still doing acting like a rebellious teenager? You’re a man now, time to wage war.” You poke his chest with your finger, punctuating your words. “Challenge your senile clanhead, and kick the geezer back in line where he belongs already.”

Then you smile wryly, lifting your hand and stroking his cheek with mock tenderness—manipulating your voice in the same fashion. “Shouldn’t be too hard for you. Just flash ‘em those baby-blues, and he’ll probably croak on the spot.”

He looks nonplussed both before and after you give the cheek a soft slap, looking at you, still with a deep furrow between his brows. And then he speaks, now with a tone you’d never think to hear from him—calmly saying, “I don’t remember you being so…” 

He trails off, never finishing it. But you don’t have much interest in hearing it anyway. Instead, you move on with a sigh, “Well, a lot happens when you grow up. You should try it.”

The grip he’d kept on your arm loosens, and you seize the opportunity to pull it to yourself as you extend your hand in truce, waiting for him to shake it.

“So then, can I trust that you’ll clean this mess up once and for all?”

It hangs there—poised in the air under his gaze as he deliberates with himself.

It’s unclear—maybe he makes the choice right then or there. Maybe it was something in the way you’d presented yourself, talking to him in that haphazard way no one had ever done before. Maybe that was all it took. Or maybe it was something completely different. 

“Nah…” He leaves your hand to hang. “Think I’ll go along with the old fools after all.”

It surprises you at first, face blanking before your brows draw together, assessing him with slim eyes, trying to gauge whether he’s pulling your leg or not. But by the looks of him, you think he’s serious.

“Why?” you demand, then, voice a little frazzled. 

“You heard the geezer. Even without a technique of your own, our children are sure to inherit one or the other,” he answers plainly, to which you scoff.

“As though you’ve ever been one to care about clan politics. Don’t make me laugh.”

He grins then, chuckling, “You got me there. But, you see, I’ve been thinking lately… And you’re right.” 

Leaning down to your level, he slips a cold hand under your chin, digits brushing along your cheek. 

“Being a bachelor’s become boring, it’s time to settle down.”

His eyes, blue like a comet’s tail, give you chills as they sweep over you with an unpleasant pause on your lips as he brushes a thumb over them.

“And what do you know? Right when I need her, I find a feisty little wife to amuse me.”

You swallow dryly, repeating the word, “Feisty?”

He chuckles, adding to it, “It doesn’t hurt that you’ve gotten prettier, too.”

The young you would have blushed, but the you today slaps him—this time hard. So hard there’s a red and perfectly hand-shaped print blooming on his cheek the next second.

And still, he keeps the grin, tasting his own blood on his tongue, watching you rush off whilst hollering, “I can’t wait for the honeymoon!”

The next months you’re forced to spend your days getting fitted into your wedding dress. It’s a beautiful thing, like something taken from your wildest girlhood dreams back when you wanted such things. Now, you can barely stomach looking at yourself. Instead, you focus on stuffing yourself full of pastries in the hopes you might choke on one.

It’s only a week before the wedding, now. You’ve tried plan A through Z of escape attempts, but with the amount of security posted on every corner of the estate, running away just isn’t in the cards.

Out of time and out of options, you find some sort of acceptance in knowing you at least tried, which is more than anyone could say when up against the strongest sorcerer of the century. And who knows, maybe another opportunity would present itself—it might not happen now, but sooner or later—and when it does, you’ll be on guard to seize it.

All preparations are completed—the dress, the vows, the flower arrangements, and the wedding rehearsal. All that’s left is one last little thing. It’s the day before the wedding, and with it, the Gojo clan's final requirement. A ritual, they call it, for all those who marry into the fold. They treat it like something holy, even though all it is is just a visit with the clanhead and their highest-ranking doctor, all so that they can test your childbearing qualities.

It’s funny… turns out, you weren’t just born wrong in one way. You were born wrong in full.

You laugh when you’re told—loudly, vehemently, with tears getting squeezed out of your eyes, sprinkling down your cheeks like popped confetti.

You’re barren.

And with the discovery, the Gojo clanhead calls off the wedding on the spot, granting you your annulment without granting your elders a single word of protest. And you breathe easy through a throat full of cackles, knowing you'll never have to be under the leer of those awful six eyes ever again, flooded with relief thinking about how close you came to being a trapped broodmare—saved by none other than your own shitty constitution like a warped punchline to some godawful joke.

In your room you’d come to think of as a prison cell over the years, you pack your bags happily. Thinking to yourself how you might be cursed, might be disowned by your clan, might be worthless, but at least, and at long last, you’re finally free. And nothing but that matters.

Or well…

If only he cared about any of that…

“Thing is…” the blue-eyed monster says through gritted teeth with you pinned beneath him in your own bed. “You’ve been mine since before you were born. Eighteen fucking years, I’ve waited for this–”

Still in disheveled marriage robes from the rehearsal, he laughs a laugh even fouler than yours.

“I’m not ‘bout to let it all go to waste on account of a fucking technicality.”

Dehydration crystallises like sediment in her mouth. It makes her bones heavy, bending against her flesh as if they’re groceries about to tear through a plastic bag. The balls of her feet are calcified, her thighs chafed. They rub against her threadbare jeans the same way a match reacts with red phosphorus to produce a flame. It burns, and so do her muscles. They feel moth-eaten and spent. Hung out to dry. 

The stench of damp soil and sugar maple impairs her like an opiate. The peal of idle birdsongs grate against her ears. She’s sick of it—she’s been here for three days—and already, she’s sick of it. 

She tries her phone again. It’s unresponsive, no signal. She unfurls her map but it’s mottled with rainwater and mud. Her lungs feel dry, pruney, as the dew drops slipping off fern plants seem to replicate the tears thawing in her eyes. 

Evening mist hangs over the ground, and the sky turns red-bottomed as it progresses into nightfall. It’s as if the mountain is sentient. Nocturnal. Stirring from a torpor once the sun sets and awakening all that lives within it. 

A sob wracks her ribs. It has the same effect of a bullet, ricocheting. She keeps moving even though she doesn’t know where she’s going. She believes that should she continue walking, nothing will be able to catch her. Not the spindly tree branches that take the shape of arms or serpentine shrubbery. She won’t give the mountain any time to fossilise her, if only she keeps moving.  

Her movements are clumsy though. Her eyesight is hindered by panicked tears, turning everything shapeless and blurry. She keeps tripping and skinning her knees like the hide of a pomegranate, her flesh peeling back to show the red pulp of her innards. 

It was a rashly undertaken lapse of judgement that brought her here. To a conscious mountain that lives and breathes and feels her fear. It was her heart, empty, carved out and replaced by brutal loneliness. Her friends back home are heedless and her parents are never satisfied with what she does. She figured that if none of them would listen, the woodlands would. 

And listen, they did.

When she cries out, the wind howls. When she changes her direction, pivoting on her heel, the soil rumbles. She sees things—a shadow spotting her vision, not composed of matter—peeking from behind a tree trunk before quickly slipping away. She witlessly calls out, asking if anyone’s there, and is met with the forest's silent presentiment. She feels the stark pressure of piercing eyes sprawling down her dewy neck, sweeping over her body. 

The longer she spends lost, the more she sinks into Appalachia.

It pulls her down like molasses. Like she’s an innocent fly trapped in glue. Soon, she knows there’s no hope. She knows her scent is written into the bark of trees—supple, sugary. A treat for whichever predator finds her first. 

A brown bear, swinging its claws at her until her entrails are threadbare and striated. A snake, injecting venom in her blood. A bobcat if she’s lucky. It would be a quick death—sinking its loose jowls into either side of her neck until it snaps and she goes slack. 

She’s apt to let go. She’s keen to yield to the alluring call of the woodland to let go, to fall to the forest floor and sit there until she rots. Until the roots worm into her breathing wounds and branches start growing out of her mouth. The urge to stop moving and become one with the mountain is suddenly cogent, leaves no margin of doubt. It comes with the promise of eternal respite and divine mercy. She’s about to find a cliff to jump off of, but before she can, something catches her attention. 

A plume of smoke curling in the air. 

Whorls of slate-grey soot thinning and disappearing into the sky. She looks for the source and follows it blindly, shouldering past pine needles and hawthorn and all but sobbing as a cabin comes into view. It’s made of wood and the tufts of wildflower that sprout from its thin fissures. It looks neglected and eaten by the elements. Its vaulted roof is stained by the off-white assault of bird droppings, discoloured by acid rain. Some of the windows look covered with dewy newspaper, but still, she knows it can’t be vacant. The smoke undulating from the chimney tells her that.

She staggers onto the porch. Her fist rasps against the door, clippings of wood burying itself into her skinned knuckles as she wildly knocks. Silence. Not even the leaves flutter against each other. Fleetingly, a stint of panic seizes her. What if nobody’s home? But she’s twisting the knob and pushing herself inside anyway, dropping her bag to the floor with a thump, stepping inside.

The cabin makes for a liminal space, smelling of sawdust and pine. There’s a layer of dust on every surface, making the air thick. All the furniture is carved from wood and a couple taxidermied deers are mantled above the stone fireplace, looking more like warnings than decoration. The pelt of a black bear is unfurled across the floor, and a few trinkets are strewn around—a bookshelf of spine-cracked novels, dead plants hanging from the ceiling beams. A mountain of used cigarettes, but strangely, no ashtray. 

There’s everything but picture frames. Nothing she can use to humanise the cabin nor the people supposedly living in it.

She guides herself to the kitchen by feeling the walls. There’s a piped stove in the corner and cast iron tools hanging above the counter. Her stomach bubbles, and immediately, she starts scouring for food. 

There’s three barrels by the door, and upon popping them open, the stench of brine sprays her in the face. It’s fish with a crust of salt, preserved. In the other barrel is meat buried in shelled corn, and fermented poultry in the last barrel. 

It’s all raw and bloody. She steps back, gagging, turning her attention to the shelves that line the faraway wall. Jars of pickled cucumber and carrots. Garlic braids hanging from the edge. Rusty milk churns nestled in the corner. 

There’s a galvanised tub full of ice on the floor. She digs through it and almost moans at the jars of jam. She untwists one, sticks her fingers in it, and wipes it clean with her tongue and teeth. It’s tart and tangy but it’s food, sticking to the walls of her stomach, satiating her. And once she starts she can’t stop. She goes back to the wall and finds a stained jar, fishing out a handful of fermented cabbage, stuffing it in her mouth, her face tightly puckering at the sharp sourness.

The juice of the food goes spilling past her lips, sluicing down her chest. It sticks to the chasm between her tits and mixes with sweat, making her shirt cling to her skin, revealing the barest outline of her nipples. She’s so engrossed in keeling over the counter and stuffing her face that she doesn’t even notice the pointed shift in atmosphere. The deer outside stopping their rutting, the trill of birds ceasing. The leaves stilling, as if holding their breaths to hide. Thick, silvery clouds nestling together and eclipsing the sun, casting a thin overcast over the woodland, darkening the already-dim surroundings. 

She’s too preoccupied to recognise the tell-tale croak of the door swinging open. It’s tinny, but bullied by the sound of her smacking on marinated cabbage. She doesn’t notice the dull, throbbing footfalls. Pays no heed to the stench of blood invading her senses because she believes it’s coming from her dry, leathery lips that split open as she widens her mouth to fit the cabbage inside.

It’s only when the room darkens, a box-shaped shadow sweeping over her vision, does her blood run cold. She freezes with a handful of vegetable raised halfway to her lips, the brine rolling off a cabbage leaf like it’s an awning, dropping to the floor—drip, drip, drip—the rapid succession of shedding liquid hitting the floor sounds similar to the beating of her heart against her fickle, feeble ribs. 

The saline spray in her mouth gets soaked up by her tongue, making it puffy, too big for her mouth. She turns around clemently—treating the shadow like a wild animal—no sudden movements. She goes rigid. 

It can’t be human. 

It’s huge. Bigger than anything she’s ever seen before. Sweeping shoulders, broad thighs. Its neck is bent uncannily because it’s too big to fit in the doorway. Its chest rises heavily like a bull.

She tries to find a face, and when she does, the blood is drained from her.

It just makes her feel… uncomfortable. Its face is the poor imitation of a human, as if someone tried drawing one from memory but scarcely failed. Failed to capture the humanity, the animation, leaving it looking like a half-convincing resemblance. Its tapetum lucidum glows yellow, burning in the thin mist of moonlight that penetrates the newspaper sticking to the windows. 

It stares blankly at her. The hair on her arms stick up, a bead of sweat slices down her neck. 

“I’m sorry…”

The creature raises an arm and pulls on a hanging bead-chain, tugging on the light, which is simply a naked bulb in the middle of the kitchen. The kindle is weak but does more than the delicate moonlight. Just barely illuminates its face. His face.

She tries not to let her fear show. Tries not to preen under his depthless eyes, the mean twine of his lips. His hair that seems to have been shaved too closely to his scalp, if the nicks and small cuts on the shells of his ears are anything to go by. 

He grumbles an idle prusten. He rolls his elbows back—his shoulder blades unfurling like folded wings—and twists his thick neck.

“What’re you doin’ in my home?”

“I’m so sorry,” she repeats, her words stifled around a wad of cabbage. “I– I’ve been lost for three days. I came up for a hike but lost my way and I saw your cabin and I’m sorry, but I’m just so hungry and–”

A deep, guttural voice peals from the living room. 

“Simon!” It says. “Where should I chuck the deer? It’s too big for the livin’ room.”

The aforementioned Simon, she presumes, doesn’t answer the unobserved voice. He keeps his eyes on her, face twisted into a puckered, mean mug.

A string of footsteps precede the face that appears behind Simon’s shoulder. A rounder, ruddier face. A salt-and-pepper stubble and eyes so blue they glow like bioluminescence. 

Johnny acts surprised as if Simon hadn’t smelled her from miles away. Her honeyed scent roiling off of her, curling into the air and thinning between the trees. Her sweat pooling in the gusset of her panties, raw and pungent. 

He’s purposely coy. It’s written into the furrow of his brows and the caper of his cupid lips but the girl is too disoriented to catch on. She looks at him and beseeches, but almost faints at the deer hanging limply over his shoulder. He holds it like it weighs nothing—a sack of sprouting potatoes.

He coos. “Who’s this?”

“Lost bird,” Simon grunts. “Found her diggin’ through our food.”

“Oh, poor lassie,” Johnny hums. More so to Simon than the girl, which makes her squirm. “She didnae mean any harm, Simon. She’s just hungry… tha’ right, lass? Are ye hurt?”

She stutters out a nod, gesturing to how her jeans cling to her knees, sun-bleached and darkened with blood. She rolls her shirt over her ribcage, showing them her wounded torso. How her skin sticks to her bones.

Johnny bristles. 

“The lass needs a place to stay, Simon,” he whispers. “And she’s hurt. Bleeding.”

They talk of her as if she’s advertised merchandise in a magazine catalogue. She squirms.

Simon turns to look at her. The depression in her cheeks due to her hunger and the split skin of her mouth. The pert curve of her breasts. The desperate look in her eyes. 

He grumbles, looks over his shoulder at Johnny. “I’ll start the fire. You take the deer out back and drain it ‘fore it hardens.”

“Aye,” Johnny says. He thumps away in clunky boots and a thin t-shirt and jeans. The deer sways with his gait and disappears behind the screen door when he steps outside. 

She redirects her attention to Simon, who’s already looking at her. More specifically, at her pulsing neck. His jowls are slightly unfastened, his pupils blown out and eclipsing his irises. 

Presentiment settles in her stomach. She blanches. 

Suddenly, Simon is grunting and gripping her arm, heedless towards her whimper of fear and fleeting stint of resistance. His nails are sharp, digging sickle-shaped impressions into her arm. He drags her down the hallway and into another room—a bathroom—and tugs the flickering light on. It lacks sheen, barely illuminates the room from its moss-covered nooks to the tiled floor caked with crusted dirt. 

(The lightbulb is so dull. It doesn’t reach the farthest corner of the bathroom where the radiator is placed. The radiator bathed in black, hidden beneath the lip of shadows, so she isn’t able to see the forgotten handcuff hanging limply from one of the pipes.)

Simon works his heavy body around the bathroom. He leans over the clawfoot tub—which he dwarfs—and twists open the spigot, watching as brown-coloured water slowly ripens into something clear, gushing out of the faucet. He stuffs a plastic plug into the rust-ringed drain. 

He straightens back into his full height. All-encompassing, panoramic. Simon is so impossibly large that it’s a wonder he has so much muscle packed under his skin. Rustic, hard thighs. A shirt that bends against his arms, about to snap. 

“Take a bath,” he commands. “Get y’rself cleaned up.”

Simon shoulders past her and ducks to exit the bathroom. There’s no door separating it from the rest of the house, but a multitude of beads hanging above the threshold to imitate one. She keeps her eyes trailed on it while she strips—peeling off her jeans, pulling her shirt over her head. Rolling down her panties and consciously hiding them beneath her other clothes. 

She clutches the lip of the bathtub for leverage and dips her toes into the water. Immediately, she melts. The hot water swallows her foot and travels like a spool of thread to the rest of her, weaving itself into her wounds, licking her open like the first thaw of spring. 

She submerges herself fully, bringing her knees to her chest. Her neck hoists backward and into the water, soaking all the grit and dirt knotted into her hair. It’s like plying through syrup as she lifts an arm, retrieving a homespun bar of soap, clutching it to test her grip. There’s coily hair knotted into it and sticking to the dried bubbles. She brings it up to her nose, sniffing. Hesitates before rubbing it into her skin and around her throbbing wounds. 

The water idly sloshes as she cleans herself. It’s a hollow sound, amplified by the echoey room. She trails her hand below her waist, slipping her sudsy fingers between her lips and stroking, rubbing herself clean. 

Beneath the tinny sounds of water surrounding her like a petticoat, something else peals out. Something like a whine. Her fingers cramp above her warm cunt and she goes taut. She turns her head to the threshold of the bathroom and nearly screams but her throat puckers before she can, blocking it, her mouth hanging open in a soundless screech instead.

It’s Johnny. He stands in the middle of the hallway, peering into the bathroom and staring at her, half-obscured by the bead curtains. He looks like a sit-and-wait predator like this—silent and unassuming, if not for his blindingly-white smile shining through the curtain like strobes of sunlight breaking past trees. He steps inside now that he’s been spotted, and that causes ice to lick her organs—she sinks her breasts below the water’s surface, squeezing her thighs together. She bristles as Johnny strides impossibly close, the lip of the tub cutting into his thighs.

He stinks of sweat and iron and wood. His t-shirt clings to his skin, darkened with deer blood, outlining the barest hint of his bulky chest.

He grins. “Brought ye some clean clothes.” 

“Oh. I… thank you,” she mumbles. “You can leave it on the toilet if you don’t mind?”

Johnny sets it down. A folded flannel and a pair of sweatpants. He idles a little longer, still smiling, before leaving the bathroom. She counts the minutes in her head and tries to find the right time to leave the tub, outstretching her hand for the towel once it comes to her. But the towel is just scarcely out of reach. The terrycloth grazes her fingertips, teasing her. It’s like it was methodically placed there. Bait at the end of a fish hook to ply her out of the water and stick her ass in the air, reaching over to grip the cloth and tug it over her breasts, stepping out of the tub.

Her eyes stay locked on the crude door while she changes. She buttons the flannel up to her neck and takes heed of the pointed absence of any undergarments, slipping her legs into the gauzy sweatpants, tying them at her waist.

Johnny bursts in as if on cue. He’s still slick with blood, his mohawk odd-angled, spun-thread and matted to his head with sweat. His cheeks bulge around another grin.

“Too big for ye, is it?” He pants. “Might as well take it off. Might trip and hurt yerself again. Wouldn’t want that happenin’, right honey?”

Johnny shortens the space between them in one stride. His fingers, thick and jaded, are already fumbling around the knot she tied, pulling it out of its bow and letting the sweatpants fall, pooling into a crimp around her ankles. 

The flannel is big enough to reach her thighs. Still, she clenches her fingers around the hem and tugs it lower, preening under Johnny’s smouldering gaze. It’s almost paradoxical how it works—his eyes are icy blue, yet they have the same effect as basaltic molten. Burning hot. He’s fixated on her skinned knees, gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Simon’s got the fire goin’,” he says. “Let’s go get yer wounds cleaned too, aye?”

Johnny’s walking out before she can blink. She follows after him, flustered, stumbling into the living room lit by a dulcet fire. Simon’s kneeled beside it, sticking his hand in to adjust a lopsided stock of wood, unaffected by the flames that eat away his arm hair. Johnny takes the girl by the scruff of her neck, guiding her to a hand-crafted chair placed conscientiously in front of the fireplace. He presses on her—the sensitive divot between her shoulder and her neck—and pushes her into the seat, unzipping a first-aid kit. 

Johnny takes her feet and pulls them into his lap. The angle makes her flannel hitch up, exposing her bare cunt to the hot embers of the fireplace, and the equally hot embers of Simon’s prying eyes. She squeaks and covers herself, averting her gaze as Simon’s stare darkens into the colour of midnight splash hanging over the sky.

“You’ll feel a wee sting,” Johnny warns. He rips the corner off a rag and drenches it in vodka, poising it over her flayed knees. “Should probably give my hand a squeeze or somethin’, ye ken? To lessen the burn, o’ course.”

She hesitates but slips her hand around Johnny’s all-encompassing one, her fingers barely meeting whilst wrapped around his palm. She winces when the ethanol meets her wound, shooting through her veins, and tries recoiling into herself. 

But the amplitude of her pain swells, and her muscles girdle. 

It’s Simon’s massive hand splitting itself across her thigh that keeps her pinned to the chair. His fingers bite rivets into her skin, the pinch overriding the sting of her tissue soaking up the alcohol.

“Stay still when he tells you to,” he grumbles. “Otherwise it’ll hurt.”

She wriggles uncomfortably. Tries not to flinch when the rag meets her knees again and burns her wound. Simon’s hand doesn’t leave her thigh until he’s throwing another block of wood into the fireplace.

Johnny hums. “So, what’re you doin’ up here? Religious retreat? Mental health?”

She smacks her lips, unsure if she should answer that. She chances a glance towards Simon and bristles because for some reason, she just knows that if she lies, somehow, he’d tell.

“Um. Just stepping away from home, I suppose,” she mumbles. “Friends. Family.”

“Oh. They dinnae care about you?”

She flinches. Not because of the vodka against her skin, but Johnny’s implications. 

“No,” she says. Her words are so fickle, so distorted by misery that not even she believes it. “They do care about me. I just needed space.”

He nods. Slowly, his eyebrows press together. “I don’t remember much of my family. It’s a wee bit odd. Can’t say if they liked me or not…”

Simon squeezes the back of his neck. “Enough of tha’. Pay attention.”

Johnny makes a sound like he’s humiliated. It’s only when he unrolls a spool of gauze, wrapping it around her kneecaps, is he afforded mercy when Simon changes the topic.

“Where’s the bird gonna sleep?”

“We’ve still got a cot in the root cellar, aye?” Johnny replies. “For hurricanes and tha’. Figured she wouldn’t mind it there. Wouldn’t ye, lass?”

Clemently, she shakes her head.

Simon grunts. He stands up, towering over them both. “The deer’s there, Johnny. What kind of hosts would tha’ make us? Puttin’ her up with a corpse?”

Johnny blushes as if he’s been scolded. His bottom lip curls out, petulant, a waspish colour flooding his cheeks. 

“Aye…” he grumbles. “Tha’s right. The livin’ room, then?”

The girl is sitting, her head oscillating between the two men like a pendulum as they talk. 

“No,” Simon says. “We’ll move the cot to our room.”

Johnny nods. He scratches his stubble, pretending to think. “It’s important we keep an eye on her wounds, too.”

“Exactly,” Simon says, petting Johnny’s head. “Smart boy.”

He clicks his tongue and Johnny shoots up, scurrying out of the living room to retrieve the aforementioned cot. Muffled sounds peal out from the root cellar below them. Johnny comes stumbling back up in mere minutes with a rickety cot fitted under his armpit and disappears into a dark room.

“Best get to sleep before it’s too late,” Simon splays his hand over the small of her back. “Y’must be tired.”

She submits to Simon’s touch, letting him guide her through the cabin and into the darkest room lit only by a lone oil lamp. 

Johnny is finishing up the cot when Simon releases her. He drapes a cable-knit blanket over the surface, fluffing up a pillow. She doesn’t point out how close it is to their bed, the lip of her cot almost touching their rickety mattress.

“Fair warnin’ lass,” Johnny begins, peeling off his shirt, kittening into bed. “Simon snores quite a bit. Dinnae be feart to smack his gob if he gets too loud, aye?”

She stiffly nods. She climbs into the cot and bunches the blanket around her, making a conscious effort to hide her bare legs. Simon crawls between them, the mattress sinking with his weight, and throws their whisper-thin blanket over his legs. 

Darkness penetrates the room when he blows the lamp out. The only smoulder is the silvery glow of moonlight invading the curtains and the reflective light in Simon’s eyes. 

He sits up impossibly straight, staring at her like a cryptid caught on a trail cam. It causes discomfort to congeal under her flesh, but slowly, the longer she looks, a bristle of sleepiness lays hold of her. She closes her eyes and falls into limbo. Her breaths thinning into a short, even pattern.

———

She’s between the threshold of awake and sleep when she hears it.

She can’t tell if it’s a dream or the amplified sounds of Appalachia. She feels as if she’s underwater or stuck in syrup, able to hear the rushing brook of her blood against her ears but unable to distinguish the sounds around her.

There’s a grunt. And a moan. The wail of the bed next to her snapping then creasing. Heavy breathing. Sprinting hearts. 

Her head is so muddled she can’t register anything. Her mind tells her that the violent slapping of skin against skin is the crack of thunder. That the strangled whimpers are the call of a cottontail. 

“Right there, Johnny?” A voice asks. “Takin’ my big cock so fuckin’ well. Greedy lil’ bitch, you are.”

A long, drawn-out whine chases after it. A choked-out scream as if something hurts, succeeded by a wet squelch. 

“Look at ‘er,” that voice jeers. “Think she’d take it? Better than you? Think she’d bleed all over it like– fuck… how I smelt it on her?”

The other voice—broken in, wispy—chokes on a response. It sounds a little stifled, as if speaking through something shoved in its mouth.

“No… nae better than me,” it mumbles. “Nae better than me…”

It’s like she’s drowning in purgatory. She can’t move, can’t speak. She’s caught in a phantasmagorical limbo between reality and fantasy. She can feel the serpentine hands of something with no material existence wrap around her and stain her slick with sweat, sweeping over the space between her legs, licking a wetness up her pussy. 

A dewy sound peals out. It’s a predator loosening its jowls, stringy and frothy, flaying its lips to bare its teeth. A rumbling roar rips out of its throat, animalistic. She can hear the popping of teeth sinking into flesh. The dull sound of skin breaking.

“Ah!” A squeal. “Simon, tha’– it hurts.”

She feels a vortex in her belly, an ache in her clit.

It’s like she resurfaces the water. All at once, she hears clearly. It’s a lone word whispered in a guttural cadence so close that she swears it’s mumbled against the hot hull of her ear.

“Good.”

———

She wakes the next morning with her tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth and a damp heat between her legs.

Sunlight filters through the gauzy curtains, hitting the bed next to her. The bed is starkly empty she notes, as she crawls out of her cot and pops the stiff muscles in her back, stretching. 

She pokes her head out of the bedroom and tiptoes around the cabin as if avoiding a barrage of landmines. There’s a downward force in her bladder that tells her she’s been in torpor for the better half of the morning, and a heavy crust in her eyes that shifts when she blinks. She finds her way to the bathroom and shucks the flannel over her hips, lowering herself on the toilet seat, emptying herself.

It’s the only stint of respite. The closest thing she can get to calm since losing her way in the mountain three days ago. She relishes in the idle birdsongs outside and the sound of overnight frost melting into the dew that slips off tree leaves, pitter-pattering to the ground. Listens to the stream of her pee peter out, and the ruffle of folding fabric as she tosses the flannel back over her thighs. She listens to the–

“How’d ye sleep, pretty girl?”

She flinches at the gruff voice. It’s written with sleep, barely lucid under a Scottish lilt. Her hands freeze under the running water of the tap as she watches Johnny waltz inside the bathroom, shucking his pants to his thighs and pulling out his cock, pissing in the toilet. 

She’s stiff. Fixed to the cold clay tiles of the floor, unable to be bent. She tries not to let her eyes wander, tries to block out the chubby mass of muscle swinging between his legs. 

“Oh…” her words are stifled by shock. “F-fine. I slept fine. Thank you again for opening your house to me.” She thinks back to last night—the whimpering, the croaking—and rashly decides to tack on, “But I did hear some weird noises. I could have been dreaming though.”

Johnny chuckles. “...Aye, it’s almost matin’ season ‘round these parts. I think you’ll be hearin’ more of that. It’s best to ignore it.”

Her body girdles when he sways his cock, shaking away the liquid on the tip. He stuffs himself back into his pants and pulls the flush, grinning. 

“Bet you’re still hungry. Simon’s wrappin’ up breakfast. Let’s go.”

He pats her bum and makes her squeak. He grips the hem of her flannel and reels it around his knuckles like a leash, tugging her into the dining area—which is more of a nook nestled into the living room—and pulls out a seat.

“Hope ye fancy porridge,” Johnny chuckles. He splits his palm across the top of her head, pushing her into the chair. 

She huffs and hoists her neck up, grimacing at the acrid scent of animal hide burning against the base of a cast iron pan. It takes a conscious effort to not crinkle her nose in disgust.

Simon ducks as he emerges from the kitchen threshold. He wields two bowls of food. One for her and the other for Johnny. She takes heed of how—despite his stature—Simon doesn’t have anything to eat.

However it’s a cursory thought, because she’s quickly pulling her lips into a weak smile and examining the bowl in front of her. Food is a generous word, since it looks more like coagulated milk than porridge and smells sour. Simon places a chipped plate of bacon alongside it. It’s curled because it’s overcooked, crusted with charcoal.

She swallows as Simon takes a seat next to her. Johnny, on the other side of her. 

“Looks delicious,” she hums. She turns to Simon, “Are you… not eating?”

He picks an off-white tendon from his canine tooth, flicking it away. 

He answers in a rigid tenor. “Don’t hurt your head over me. You eat your food.” 

She marginally shrinks into herself, embarrassment licking up her spine. She feels like a chided puppy, but perhaps that’s the sentiment. 

When she opens her lips and raises the spoon to her mouth, her flannel curls like a wisp of hair off her shoulder, baring her bruised albeit supple skin. She hastily pulls the sleeve back up. 

She speaks around the stale porridge and her rising apprehension. “Uh, do you have my clothes from yesterday?” She asks, squirming as her sweat glues the back of her thighs to the chair, sticky. “It’s just, uh, they fit me better.”

“Oh,” Johnny blinks, “o’ course.” 

She watches him stand up and slip through the backdoor. He walks towards a clothesline hitched between two trees and retrieves her clothes, returning with them tucked under his arm.

“Here ye go sweetheart,” he grins, setting them on her lap. Petting her head.

She slowly peels through her clothes. Her fingertips drag against her threadbare jeans, her overripe shirt, but never touch the sweat-imbued gauze of something more… intimate. Her maw tenses around the hot porridge. 

“Where are my… um…” she lowers her voice even though it’s redundant—Johnny is leaned in close, practically huffing against her ear, sniffing her neck. “... Undergarments?”

Johnny tilts his head, puckering his lips in confusion. He’s written with the innocence of a puppy—whether it’s real or fabricated, she can’t tell. The words have begun bleeding together, blotchy and unintelligible. 

“Panties, ye mean?” He laughs. “Ye never had any of those.”

She swallows thickly. 

“No, I… I did. I wouldn’t go hiking without–”

“Ye must be goin’ crazy, lass,” Johnny says. “This was all you gave me. Nae panties.”

He stares at her with large, intercosmic, unassuming eyes. His gaze flickers towards Simon. It’s so fleeting that she almost misses it. The sweep of his blue irises widening, eclipsed by his pupils. She tenses. Omniscience hits her like a brick.

Her tongue goes heavy in her mouth, melting her words. The porridge turns frothy in her gut, nausea sticking to her organs and presentiment curdling in the air. She tightens her throat around a gag.

“... When can you drive me into town?”

Johnny reaches over and grips her thigh. He digs divots into her flesh like a fish hook caught in a flayed gill.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as ye want, pretty. There’s nae rush.”

She feels bile crawl up her throat.

“Oh, well, I just don’t want to overstay my welc–”

“He’s excited to play host,” Simon growls. His words are marked by firm determination, leaving no room for objection. He leans over the table, his wifebeater clinging to his muscle, his wiry chest hair pressing against the soft cotton. “We rarely get visitors ‘round here and he’ll be upset if you leave. Y’wanna make him upset?” 

Finally, warnings blare like strobe lights in her mind. She fidgets in her seat, sweating, shooting a cursory glance to the backdoor. Calculating her chances of survival should she break through the mesh and make a run for it. 

“O-of course not. Not after everything you’ve done for me,” she stutters, feeling a bead of sweat travel down her neck. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry for asking.”

Simon settles back in his seat. Johnny, too, frowning around his porridge. 

“Good,” Simon grunts meanly. “Now shut your gob an’ eat.”

She clemently chews away at her breakfast, preening under their smouldering gazes. Throughout her polishing off her bowl, she’s reminded Simon doesn’t have one. It’s unseemly for a man so sturdy to not be eating, but as Simon’s lips peel back, sated while he watches her take her final bite, she spots a spray of red liquid washing the spire of his fang tooth, glistening in the sunlight. 

“How’d you like tha’, pretty?” Johnny asks. He collapses whatever thoughts—whatever inklings—begin to seize her about Simon as he smiles and their bowls, disappearing into the kitchen.

Right away, Simon is hooking his foot behind a leg of her chair, using it to pull her closer. 

He’s centimetres away from her face when he says, “How ‘bout you start pullin’ your weight?”

Her eyes flicker up to see Simon hovering over her. He’s dewy with sweat, big and burly and drifting above her like the closet-dwelling monster from everyone’s childhood.

“You’ve caused enough trouble in my home,” he continues. “Ate a lot of our produce. It’s time you make up for tha’.”

She resists the urge to snarl. She doesn’t even want to be here yet Simon is insisting she fill her role—whatever that role may be. 

But as she hoists her neck up at him, she gets skittish and looks away, her tongue knotting. She knows it isn’t smart to upset Simon again. He’s a beefy man with sharp canines and vertical pupils, with more hair sprouting from his forearms than what’s considered normal. A man who expels deep tonal flutters instead of regular breaths. Who—despite his size—can’t ever be heard approaching.

So she smiles instead, asking, “What is it you need help with?”

“Floors need scrubbin’.”

He shoves a rag in her hand and holds out a bucket of sudsy water she hadn’t noticed before.

“Kitchen, livin’ room… just get to work.”

The water sloshes over the lip of the bucket when he sets it down. Simon stands to his full height and stalks out of the room, leaving her alone with her multitude of thoughts. 

Slowly, she stands up. She hauls the water bucket to the middle of the living room and is starkly reminded of her strength—or lack thereof. Simon had picked the bucket up so naturally, but with the weak tendons lacing her arms, she struggles. It doesn’t help that her vision is still spotty. 

She lowers to her knees, wincing at the chord of pain beneath her bandages. She awkwardly drenches the rag in the water and wrings it dry, poising herself above the floor, working the rag into the floorboards. 

She tenses when Johnny walks back in. He’s behind her. Unlike with Simon, she can feel him creeping up. She can feel his eyes on the lips of her pussy where her flannel hitches up while she’s bent over, scrubbing the floors. 

Her cheeks burn. She blindly reaches behind her to tug the hem down, covering her warm cunt. 

Johnny chuckles. “This is wha’ Simon has you doin’ out here?” 

She looks over her shoulder, her skin prickling when she sees an axe in his hand. 

“We’re goin’ to the yard to chop some wood,” he says, “but I see you’re already busy bein’ our bonnie housewife.” 

She stutters. That operative word, housewife, burns a hole in the snail-shaped cochlea of her ear. “No, Simon j-just asked me to. He asked me to.”

“I know, sweetie,” Johnny replies. He squats next to her and rubs her back in slow circles, trying to hike up her flannel again. “Simon’s just takin’ the piss. He’s a meanie like tha’.”

She tries shouldering him away but Johnny only holds her tighter. Simon reappears in the doorway, watching with his arms crossed. 

Johnny clears his throat. “Thought we’d spend time in the yard today. Doesn’t tha’ sound sweet?”

She looks at Simon who’s already looking at her through hooded, brutish eyes. She realizes that her autonomy is divested—that she has no choice but to follow what they say because something is very, very wrong here. 

Perhaps this is what the mountain had warned her of. In all of its howling and breathing, the branches gripping her and the delirium written into her psyche, maybe, it was all a warning. 

She hangs her head. “Mhm… sounds great.”

She has no time to process what’s happening before he’s folding his hand into the cavity of her armpit and dragging her up and out of the door, into the backyard. 

It’s more of a cleared grove than a yard. Dead tree stumps litter the small expanse, grass the colour of ripe lemons because it’s been seared down. There’s a block of wood sitting on a stump, split down the middle. Sun-bleached clothes hanging over the clothesline.

“Y’can watch here,” Johnny says, gesturing to one of the tree stumps. “We’ve got to chop wood for dinner tonight.”

He pulls her down on the makeshift seat, finally letting her go. And just as Johnny pivots, slamming the spire of the axe into the block of wood, she sees him scrunch his nose as he sniffs his hand, drinking in the sweat from her armpit. It goes up his nose and through his nasal cavity, making him quiver as if her sweat is an opiate. Disgust slams into her, sinking in her stomach and settling there like sediment. She doesn’t even notice Simon walking out of the cabin and reaching for the axe, raising it over his head, until the resounding sound of wood snapping peals out, and she’s jumping in her skin.

“No need to be feart,” Johnny laughs. “Just his usual routine.”

She watches Simon work. He looks like a beast on its hind legs like this—impossibly large and splayed out with his arms over his head, growling whenever he brings the axe down on the tree stump, splitting it in two. Sweat burns through his wifebeater and turns the fabric translucent, revealing the barest outline of his chest. His chest hairs are matted with sweat, his sinews straining with each chop of wood. His face is curled meanly into itself, his trimmed hair nicked in different places from at-home shaving and washed with sweat.

Every time he brings the axe down on the wood, expelling a guttural groan, something stirs in her. He does it with such force, such strength, it makes her wary. He fractures the wood along the grain without so much of a blink, without any stifling in his muscle.

All those horror films she watches alone—when her friends say they’re too busy to join, when they lead her on after planning a get-together that doesn’t come to fruition—finally catch up to her, sowing the thought in her head that if she stays, she’ll become the tree stump. Impotent beneath Simon’s hacking and eclipsed by his behemoth-like body. 

Her missing panties. Johnny’s sticky hands. Simon’s less-than-human behaviour. It all slams into her like whiplash. 

Her fear rears its head as a rashly undertaken announcement tumbling out of her mouth.

“I have to pee.”

She ignores the way Johnny perks up, as if that activated something in his brain. His ocular vein goes large, rapt, his pupils blowing out as he looks at her and then her navel where her bladder sits, suddenly grinning. 

“I can come with–”

“I’ll go in the woods,” she says. “Behind a bush or something, okay?”

Simon grunts. It’s a deep prusten sound as he splits another block of wood. Johnny pouts but lets her go, watching with those imploring eyes as she disappears behind some foliage. 

It’s now or never, she decides. 

She makes sure she’s concealed by the flowering of a tree before speeding up her walk. She moves like an unoiled machine, rusty, as her walk ripens into a run.

She doesn’t know where she’s running. She doesn’t know how far the nearest town is or how to find the trail she lost herself on, but she knows she needs to get far away from here. 

The woodland is labyrinthine. Everything looks the same. She hopes she isn’t sprinting deeper into the heart of Appalachia and straight into her new grave, but still, she doesn’t stop running. Not until her lungs wilt into themselves and turn pruney, not until her heartbeat plateaus. 

It’s as if she’s working against a rip current. She feels as if a part of herself is already woven into the woodland soil, feels herself written into the rotting, wet trees. It’s like she’s treading water instead of sprinting. And it’s like a supernova has erupted in her ankle as it gets caught under a root, sending her face first into the dirt. 

She reorients as quickly as she can. She raises to her feet but winces at the flaring nerves in her foot, and looks around for a stick she can use as a crutch. 

But something else catches her attention. 

A dog-eared paper taped to a Basswood tree. It’s been eaten by the elements, mottled, barely hanging on. She steps closer and reads the blocky letters across the front, her blood running cold in her engorged vessels.

MISSING PERSON

Fleetingly, hope seizes her, but she soon remembers nobody back home is heedful enough to report her missing, let alone realize she’s missing in the first place. Additionally, the year suggests that the flyer is three years old. Her eyes slink down, trailing over what’s still intact.

LAST SEEN: CLIFF TRAIL

$3,000 REWARD FOR INFORMATION

Foreboding clings to her flesh. She quivers, her knees weakening.

FIRST NAME: J-

The tail-end of it is smeared, the ink bleeding and thinning into the paper. It’s unintelligible, so she trails her gaze lower, heeding the victim’s last name instead.

MACTAVISH.

“Sweetie!” Peals out from behind her before she can read any more. “What’re you doin’ all the way here? Had me and Simon thinkin’ ye ran away or something. Hah.”

Johnny hurries close and swallows her flinch with a tight hug. He frowns at the flyer. 

“Why’re you readin’ this silly stuff?” He asks. He tears it off the tree and crumples it up, tossing it away. “That shite gives y’nightmares.”

“Johnny, I–”

“You went pee?” Johnny asks. Nearly makes her screech when he dips his hand low and cups her cunt, feeling around for any dregs of liquid. He buries his fingers unnecessarily deep between her puffy lips, blindly massaging.

“No…” he clicks his tongue. “No. You didn’t. Did ye lie to us? It dinnae matter, sweetie. Here. Do it here, pretty. I’ll wait.”

She musters whatever pluck she has left to shake her head.

However her spine is fickle. All it takes is Johnny glowering, his eyes darkening, his pout upending and curling into something meaner, to force her back into submission.

“Simon’s already angry ye pulled this stunt, sweetie,” he says. “I’m helpin’ you out.”

A tear escapes her. It rolls down her gaunt cheek like the dew that dribbles down trees. She’s quickly crying, expelling howls that burn her energy. She trembles as she squats to the forest floor and pushes pee out of her. She sniffles as she stands back up and lets the liquid sluice down her thighs. 

“Good girl,” Johnny hums. “You’re so much sweeter when ye listen, ye ken?” 

She sobs into her palms, her ribs so brittle they rattle together. Johnny coos vacantly at her, rubbing her all over the same way one rubs stone fruit to test their ripeness, and croons at her swelling ankle.

“See what happens when you’re naughty?” He asks, picking her up, carrying her close to his chest. “Let’s get you home, honey. These woods are no place for a bird like you.”

She hates how she curls into him. It’s her repressed underbelly fighting its way to the surface because the accumulation of neglectful family and friends has soured her, carving a chasm in her heart that forces her body to respond to Johnny’s affections. He’s a warm body for her, a pair of listening ears. It’s scraps, but it’s more than she’s ever gotten.

They make it back to the cabin in what feels like minutes. Simon’s waiting next to the door with his arms tightly crossed, his face meanly pinched. He growls like a provoked animal. He hovers like an executioner. He’s the living antonym of light at the end of the tunnel, huffing like a bull as Johnny carries her inside. 

“How about you rest?” Johnny asks. He sets her down on her cot and pulls the blanket to her quivering chin, tucking her in. “Want some tea? What kind do you fancy?”

She purses her lips, trembling. Johnny sentimentally hums as if he’s sorry. As if he isn’t a part of her plight. Her piercing fear and deep-seated fatigue.

“Garden mint…” he says to himself. “I’ll be right back, bonnie.”

He disappears and returns a few minutes later with a cup dwarfed in his hand. Steam curls over the rim, thinning into the barren bedroom. He tilts it into her mouth, nursing her. 

With every sip she feels herself slip more and more back into the familiar territory of limbo. Her eyelids become heavy, her cognizance slackening.

She peels her tongue off her gums to muster a whisper. It’s so weak. Barely audible. 

“I wanna go… home…”

Johnny croons. He cups her cheek. “Honey, those people dinnae care about you. Not how me and Simon do. This can be your home.”

He raises the cup to her mouth again, stifling any protests on her tongue.

She hiccups around the drink, her eyes warm and wet.

That’s how she falls asleep. 

With hypnotic tea invading her bloodstream, turning her eyelids heavy. Turning her helpless.

———

She wakes with a start. 

It’s a crack of thunder that had stirred her, she realizes, instead of the enigmatic sounds of bed springs snapping.

The bedroom is dark and bathed in midnight light. She can barely see anything, save for the barest outline of Johnny in the bed next to her. When lightning strikes, illuminating the sky with a blinding impact crack, she’s able to see the swell of his body beneath his sheets and the shadow of his spun-thread hair. His chest rising and falling steadily. 

She’s caked with sweat. Her perspiration soaks her flannel and makes it cling to her flesh, which is flared up as if she rolled in a pile of poison ivy. Her mind is so cluttered she almost folds over as she stands up, testing the grip of her toes on the wooden floor, testing her ability to balance herself. 

She’s in limbo. A border space between heaven and hell, awaiting her execution. That’s how it feels as she tiptoes her way out of the room, reaching for an oil lamp, holding it out in front of her. 

It’s almost worse like this. A weak flame that barely illuminates her peripheral. She fears that should she turn too fast, an aberration will materialize from the margins of her view and tear her to ribbons. 

At this point, she supposes that’s a kinder fate. 

She slips into a pair of large boots because she can’t find her hiking shoes anywhere. She opens the door and pokes her head out, immediately met with the spray of rainwater on her face, the wind running through her ropes of neglected hair.

Sheets of heavy rain fall from the awning, creating another divide that keeps her trapped inside the cabin. She steps onto the porch, listening for any incongruous noises. Even if there were any, they would be bullied under the assault of rainfall. She can’t hear her own thoughts like this, can’t formulate a plan to get away from here once and for all.

So of course she doesn’t hear the floorboards settle behind her. Of course, she doesn’t hear the heavy drumming of feet closing in on her.

She doesn’t heed the body behind her until Johnny is sniffing up her neck and snuffing out the oil lamp, laying hold of her in a grudging grip. 

“You just dinnae listen, do you?”

He takes her by the scruff of her neck and pulls her back into the cabin, knocking the lamp out of her grip. It falls to the floor and flares into a crash, louder than the rain. Almost louder than her sprinting heart and the blood rushing to her ears.

She wrestles against his grip. “Fuck you both—you sick fucks!”

She almost vomits when her insults make Johnny moan, his cock fattening against her back in a crude Pavlovian response. Each time she struggles against him, his grip tightens. It reminds her of the mountain itself. The more she tries escaping its soporific arms, the deeper it drags her down. It’s fruitless for her to fight it—the whistle of the branches, the tight sinews of Johnny’s grip. 

He swings his arm around her neck, pinning her against his chest in a headlock. Her lungs stutter and her eyes turn dewy, her deep-seated fear ripening into paralyzing terror.

A web of lightning shatters the sky, and she almost dies right there.

It’s Simon but worse. A mutation gone wrong. A changeling, perhaps. He’s squeezed inside the threshold, breathing wildly. His wifebeater is torn in different places across his body, split around tufts of fur. Fur that is matted with thick ichor, wiry and sprouting from the spot behind his ears.

Another flash of lightning ignites the cabin, revealing the shaggy coat of hair on his chest. The sheet of fat over his stomach that flutters when he puffs, growling under his breath. He clenches his jaw because he can’t clench his hands, because his thick fingers have turned into claws, sharp spires covered in gore.

Simon snarls. Blood and spit drip from his bloodied teeth as if he’s a rabid animal with a limp maw. He rolls his shoulders and cracks the cartilage in his neck, the sound pealing out so loudly, it’s more like the popping of bubble wrap in rapid succession. 

She can barely see him through her tear-filled eyes. It’s the epilogue to her life as he strides in close, biting his talons into her hips and drawing out blood. A snarl of satisfaction escapes him when he smells it—her blood, sweet, albeit stale due to her dehydration. 

“Anyone ever told you you’re an ungrateful mutt?” He growls. “I give you food to eat an’ clothes on your back but here you are, tryin’ to sod off.”

Her cheeks dimple when he grabs her jaw. She opens her mouth to protest, but her grievances get smothered beneath Simon’s claws. He stuffs his fingers down her mouth, stunting her complaints. She gags and coughs around the taste of metal and mire crusted under his claws, bile shooting up her throat.

“Dogs don’t talk,” he tuts. 

He hoists his arm back and she puckers, preparing for an attack. However, instead of her cheek, Simon’s hand slices against her shirt. He tears her flannel into ribbons, making the fabric slide off her like water from a milk bath.

She stands naked, her skin pocked with fear. She shivers despite being pressed between Simon’s furry chest and Johnny’s warm arms. 

“‘Bout time someone taught you some manners,” Simon mumbles. “I was in the middle of my dinner you know? Fuckin’ rude to interrupt.”

She blanches when she sees a limp coyote behind him, splayed out on the porch. She recognizes it as the orpiment-coloured fur to the hair flossed between Simon’s teeth.

She screams as he wrestles her from Johnny’s grip, pulling her towards the bedroom. Simon throws her onto the stiff mattress, her spine shuddering from the impact. She tries covering herself, tries wrapping her arms around her body, but Simon is having none of that. 

He pounces, taking her hips and pinning them to the bed. He hovers over her, rainwater dripping from his broken nose, impossibly large as he makes up her whole world. Simon swallows her entire view, leaving her with no chances of escape. 

Her gaze flutters down to the chub outlined by his sweatpants and decides she’s left with no chances of survival, either.

She flails her legs as Simon slithers low, flattening his nose against her cunt. She lets out a protracted cry as he hitches his lungs and inhales, breathing in the musk of her bare cunt. The sweat stuck between her fuzzy hair, the sticky arousal that spreads as he forces her legs open. 

Simon hisses. It rides the ruck of his throat, expelled from his nose. It’s not in any capacity a human sound. It seems more like a bear flaring its nostrils, poised for attack.

Johnny notices the confusion between her eyebrows because he’s leaning in and murmuring against the shell of her ear, licking it.

“Remember wha’ I said about matin’ season, kitty?”

Johnny leans away, leaving it at that. Equivocal and cryptic and calcified into the furrows of her brain. She isn’t allowed to wade in her confusion though because Simon’s tongue is lolling out, sweeping a fat stripe over her pussy.

It’s like the first thaw of spring. Simon licks her open, spreads her out on his tongue. She can’t help the immediate warmth that courses through her, swathing her in silk. 

She cries out. Her back bends off the mattress when Simon pulls her lips into his mouth to suck. 

She looks to Johnny for help. She twists herself and tries reaching out, tries crawling off the mattress, but Simon is gripping her ankle and popping the gauze of her bandage with his claws, pulling her back down, wrapping his lips around her engorged clit.

Johnny’s face doesn’t show contrition, but is pinched in jealousy. He watches with a fat mass growing in his sweatpants.

She splits her hand over Simon’s shaved head, using the cauliflowered shell of his ear to try pulling him off of her. That only makes him growl, the vibrations quavering up her spine, his claws digging into her flesh. 

She folds her arms over her face, sobbing. Simon’s tongue is wet and hot against her pussy, lapping between her soft folds, slurping her juices. She flushes at how wet she is. At how pleasure leaks through the cracks in her resolve and spreads all over her, reducing her to a panting mess. 

Simon releases her clit with a pop. He raises to his knees, towering over her, and now she’s unsure if his glistening chin is because of the rainwater outside or her arousal. 

“Hold her down, Johnny.”

Her heart drums against her chest. Johnny crawls onto the bed and kneels behind her head. He pins her wrists down with his kneecaps, keeping her from squirming.

“Will ye let me put my cock in ‘er mouth?” Johnny asks. “Simon, will you–”

“Shut it,” Simon snaps. He shoves down his sweatpants, his cock springing out. All of her nerves bristle like rope, her heart sputtering to a stop.

Simon’s cock is fat and heavy. It droops between his thighs, drooling with precum. It’s stiff but hangs because he’s so large, the engorged tip angling downward, his balls plump, ruddy.

He chokes his hand around it, tugging it. Her throat closes in on itself but her legs instinctively peel apart. Her puffy lips spread open and she flushes at the sticky sound, hoisting her neck back to look at Johnny.

He has his cock out too, pumping it. He grins when they lock eyes and smacks his dick against her cheek. Johnny presses his cockhead into the corner of her mouth, using it to tilt her lips into a repugnant curl. It’s reminiscent of a smile, but it isn’t one. 

She wails.

They both make up her beginning and end. They trap her between themselves, leaving her with no escape. Simon at her feet, Johnny at her head. Each of the men are more intimidating than the other, both inspiring fear in her feeble heart. Both inspiring unwanted arousal between her legs. 

Simon slaps his flaring tip against her clit. She mewls and hates herself for bucking her hips into him. She’s dew-skinned as Simon pushes her knees to her ears, thumbing her clit.

He deeply inhales.

His chest expands, tugging at the steel-wool hair felted against his big chest. He quivers as he expels his breath, his mating call, and finally feeds her his cock, pushing past her first ring of muscle.

Her body tries curling in on itself like a Venus flytrap, but Johnny is quicker. He bites his fingers into her wrists and pins her to the mattress, keeping her still while Simon stuffs himself deeper. Johnny kisses her tears away while he does it. It’s oxymoronic and it’s betrayal—a Judas kiss—while he wraps his lips around sweet encouragement against her cheeks.

“Got so much fight in ye, sweetie,” he whispers. “Just stop strugglin’ and it’ll feel good.”

Simon leans over her, his cock slipping deeper into her warm cunt. The blood and saliva from his maw drips onto her chest, the blood is so fresh there’s still steam, hitting her like scythes.

Johnny’s getting restless. He watches raptly as Simon starts slamming his hips into her. Johnny ruts against the chafe of her brittle hair and hopes it will give him satisfaction by proxy, but it does little to offset the ache in his balls. His lip warbles.

“Simon, please,” a voice crack, “can I put my cock in ‘er mouth?”

“Fine,” Simon growls. His hips are piston-paced against the girl’s skin, unrelenting and uncaring to how her nails scratch striated lines down his chest in her struggle. “Just stop interruptin’ us.”

Her jaw cramps when Johnny cups her chin. He puppets it open and forces his fingers down. They’re caked with dirt as he swirls them over her tongue, coaxing up the warm spit from the furrow of her throat to be used as a natural lube. 

The only mercy she gets is the stint of time between Johnny pulling his fingers out and gripping his dick, laying it on her tongue. He forces her lips apart with the tip of his cock, smearing himself all over her. 

“So pretty like this sweetheart,” he hums. “Simon smelt it on ye. Hundreds of klicks away. How sweet y’are.” 

She doesn’t have the energy to decipher that. Most of it is being wrung on trying to fight the two men off, but it’s fruitless. Johnny is already slipping into her mouth, and her cunt is already stretched around Simon’s plump cock. 

Johnny starts pumping in and out, his cock embroidering a burn in the hinges of her jaw.

She lies there limply, but as Johnny’s wiry hair meets her nose, she realizes there’s one thing she can do. In her thrashing, she undertakes the lapse of judgement to clamp her teeth together, sinking them into Johnny.

He yells and pulls himself out. Johnny wraps a hand around himself, squeezing, placating the sting. A warm wash of tears twine his eyelashes together, long and babydoll-like. He looks to Simon, preening, imploring. 

“She bit me.” 

Simon slows his hips, only scarcely so. Only enough for her to fill her lungs halfway before he’s dragging himself out agonizingly slow, burying himself back inside. 

His eyes, hungry, flutter down to her. His lips wind back, revealing his sharp fangs. He snickers. 

“Now you’ve pissed him off, hm? Dumb girl. This is why puppies need owners.”

He pinches her clit, softly tweaking it between the pads of his fingers. He looks at Johnny and condescendingly smirks. 

“C’mere, boy. If she won’t suck you off, why not take a go at her other hole?”

She tenses. Fear washes over her like a rip current, all the way down to her ass that squeezes in protest. Her heart feels too big for her chest suddenly. She can’t even see Johnny’s blinding grin through her cloudy eyes as brine tracks down her cheeks, mixing with her sweat. 

She whimpers. “No–“

A palm whistles through the air, exploding into a crack of thunder as it breaks against the skin of her cheek. 

She lapses into silence. Little hiccups escape her while she peers up at Simon, sniffling. 

“Yes,” he says. 

He grips her by her hips and flips her over. This way, Simon’s on his back and she’s on top of him, his cock digging deeper. The position is etched with a degree of intimacy that causes heat to pool in her belly—she can feel his hot breath fanning over her face, she can see his feline-like eyes better.  

She almost jumps out of her skin when Johnny presses his fingers into her ass, trying to break her in. He thumbs at the puckered muscle, chuckling when it tries squirming away from him. 

“Cute little thing,” he says. “She ever been fucked?”

The way she sobs when Johnny forces his forefinger inside gives him his answer. He almost comes right there. At the sound of her slick lubing her up, at the sound of her being torn open like a stone fruit and her pitiful cries for mercy. 

“Stop…” 

“Stop?” Johnny repeats, “Sweetie, if I stop it’ll hurt when I fuck you. Ye need prep, silly.”

That only wracks her ribs harder. The patrionizing lilt in his voice, the way he pats her bum like she’s nothing but a dumb puppy. Johnny sinks another finger in, knuckle-deep, and curls himself into the walls of her ass, massaging it.

Simon starts thrusting again. He takes one of her tits in his mouth and tongues at her nipple, snapping his hips into her. It only adds more pressure to her other hole, the one being fingered open by Johnny.

“Y’think she’s ready, sweetie?” Johnny asks. He slaps his cock against her hole, teasing her. “I think she’s fuckin’ hungry. Look at ‘er winkin’ back at me.”

Johnny collects the saliva moulded into his gums and sputters out a wad of spit, wetting her tight asshole. He presses his cockhead against her opening, pushing himself inside.

She buckles, doubling over. Her cheek falls on Simon’s chest, chafing against his coarse hair. She’s never felt so full. Folded between the men and being fed two big cocks, left with no space to breathe. She isn’t given respite. No mercy. No time for her to stretch around their cocks.

Johnny splits his hand across the divot where her spine begins and shoves her into Simon. Her jaw hangs loose, her lips parted dumbly, her drool trickling onto Simon’s chest. She’s limp. Letting them have her way with her. Letting them brand her with their fingers digging sickle-shaped scratches into her skin. Letting them break her open with each of their jackhammering thrusts, letting their pants of encouragement and degradation swirl around her like whistles from the woodland, causing goosebumps to arise and her head to pound.

“Do ye feel it, Simon?” Johnny pants. “Is it comin’ on?”

His words sprawl by like a lazy river in her mind. Desultory, like lukewarm water. They don’t click into the empty chasm of her cognizance until something else happens. Something inhuman. Something that has her choking on the raw bile that scratches her throat and the spit coaxed into the rivets of her tongue by Johnny’s assaulting fingers.

Simon’s ramming gets shaved into stunted thrusts. It isn’t due to a loss of energy, but is due to something else keeping him from slipping out. A balloon pushing against the walls of her pussy, swelling inside her. It isn’t fat but is chubby enough for her to feel it, flutter around it.

The knot snarled into Simon’s cock plugs her up. She can’t pull herself off him because it’s puffed up past her cunt, keeping her stuck on top of him. It doesn’t help that Johnny keeps slamming his hips into her, riling the thin skin that separates her cunt from her ass, bending it to the shape of Simon’s cock.

Johnny gasps. “I’m close– shite, I’m close.”

She doesn’t want to admit it, but she is too. She feels her nerves begin to fray at their edges, her stomach wearing thin. Johnny slips his hand low and blindly sweeps at her clit, nibbling on the husk of her ear.

He only gets three more pumps in until he’s emptying his balls in her ass. He grabs her hair when he comes, puppetting her head back so her mouth falls open and he can spit inside. His thrusts are slow and deep and peter into something calm, his cock softening inside her. Johnny grins.

“Say thank you, kitty.”

It crosses her tongue as an unintelligible mumble. She can’t speak properly with Simon’s cock still in her.

Johnny chuckles at that. He wraps his arms around her and pinches her nipples. Twisting them, pulling them.

Simon’s so big beneath her, lounging like a bear. He fucks into her, his thrusts curtailing into sloppy snaps of his hips.

“He’s close, bonnie,” Johnny says. “Kiss ‘im when he comes. It’s what he likes.”

Finally, Simon’s knot unravels, his thick ropes of come sticking to her walls. He makes sure that the warm come dressing her is so deep, it’ll have no choice but to take. 

Her body betrays her when it crests and crashes into her orgasm. She’s flashbanged with blinding light, gushing out an off-white liquid that coats Simon’s thighs. It seizes her so deeply it hurts, the panoramic pleasure. An orgasm that makes her brain melt, makes her feel otherworldly.

Belatedly, she remembers Johnny’s order. She leans down to kiss Simon, her lips leathery against his. She only wants a modest peck—something to sate Johnny—but she can’t pull away because her bottom lip is caught between Simon’s teeth, pinched, and being sapped of its blood.

He laps it up before letting her go. 

He slips his softening cock out but keeps his come inside her with two fingers, his claws having retracted.

He huffs like a bull. He presses his heavy paw into her abused cunt, palming it. He reeks with a carnal musk, the aftertaste of his rut heavy in the air.

Suddenly, it all makes sense to her.

Simon is the crux of all cautionary tales. The mountains aren’t sworn off because of rabid raccoons or feral fishers but because of something eldritch, whose reputation and folklore precedes any proof of its existence. Whatever Simon is, it can’t be put into words or into anything material, so he’s condensed into the urban legends that have haunted the woods for centuries. The stories that keep hikers off needle-covered paths and unmarked trees and make them carry crucifixes in lieu of bear spray.

She doesn’t even realize she’s softly sobbing. It feels like that’s all she does these days.

Johnny hugs her as if he hadn’t taken a part of her dignity. 

He kisses her, kittening into her so that Simon is able to wrap his arms around them both, hugging them. 

The calm that lolls after the storm only bruises her further. They act so normal after they’ve stripped her of everything. Johnny massaging her thighs, Simon igniting a cigarette between his lips. 

“Will you ever let me go?” She mumbles against Simon’s chest. 

He exhales the smoke. “Go where, love? You came into my house, remember?”

Johnny won’t stop kissing her. He’s a pest that’s attached itself to her dewy flesh, trying to lick her clean. Simon curls his fingers in her and makes sure that’s where his come stays.

Simon takes another drag of his cigarette. “Not like anyone back home would miss you, anyhow.”

———

She watches with a smile on her face as Johnny roasts the flank of a moose on a homemade grill and as Simon chops some more firewood.

She lounges in a chair, swathed in her caribou-hide coat. Winter is at its height, laying a skin of pillowy snow across the mountain.

The cubs wriggle in her lap, pawing at the loose tendrils of her hair and trying to pinch her nose.

“Lookin’ so pretty today, mama,” Johnny hums. She giggles when he kisses her, scratching at the cubs’ bellies. 

“Ain’t she bonnie?” Johnny turns around and prompts Simon, “Our wee looker.”

Simon pauses his wood chopping and nods. He grips the hem of his lumberman’s jacket and raises it to his forehead to wipe his sweat away, revealing his chest and his hair that disappears into the waistband of his jeans. The cubs yip when he resumes his chopping, splitting a tree stump in two. 

She grins. 

She loves her family. Her providers and the offspring of their seed. She loves the cubs’ fine hair rubbing against her cheek when they jump on the bed to wake them up in the mornings, their blunt fangs biting her when they’re hungry, and the tiny chines on their back where their sharp spine will eventually grow in, just like Simon’s.

Briefly, she tries to remember her other family. The one that came before this one. But all that encompasses her mind is a supermassive black hole in place of memories. For some reason she can’t delineate them. The face of her father is blurry and the features of her mother fit together like a crudely sewn patchwork quilt.

She doesn’t remember much of her family. It’s kind of weird. She can’t remember if they liked her or not.

But she knows that doesn’t matter. Not when she has doting men around her and their litter hanging off her hips, another one currently swelling under her belly.

She pays no heed to the missing person posters taped to the fringes of the mountain that look eerily similar to her. Not to the K-9’s that try tracking scents but fail because she’s written with Simon and Johnny’s musk. She ignores the odd helicopter passing through each month, scarcely flying past their ramshackle cabin.

the woods were alive.

not just the woods. the mountains, trees, and every single pebble you stepped on getting here. they, too, were alive. watching. whispering.

they knew your name even if you didn’t know theirs. rumors spiraled through each blade of grass. they reached the ears of stalking predators and the fish in the streams. your secrets were not safe anywhere.

even the walls have ears.

not much changed since you left for seoul in your sleepy small hometown. the same mom and pop corner stores that you used to visit after school were still up and running. you remember it well. on especially hot summer days, you and your friends would excitedly hurry over to one, taking your pick of the colorful popsicles waiting for you in the freezer.

you would sit on the stairs discussing school. that math test you bombed. that one project that’s due at the end of the semester. that one teacher you swore had a vendetta against you. you’d sit as the cicadas filled the silence with their acapella hymns.

those were the days.

the sun beat down on you from above, heating your scalp. you sat in the grass, one knee propped up as you twist open a green bottle of soju. the weather made you reminisce about your childhood, the days you would spend in the woods picking butter-yellow honeysuckles to replenish your energy. every new scar, every new bug bite was another story to recount as your auntie would bandage and scold you for wandering in the forest so late.

‘you can’t see them, but they can see you,’ she’d say, wagging her finger in your face as you crossed your arms and pouted.

you never understood her many warnings, nor the rest of your family’s until you were older.

don’t whistle at night.

don’t look in the trees.

if they speak your name, don’t acknowledge it.

silly superstitions like that have always plagued you. even now when you bounce your knee absentmindedly, you can hear the voice of your mother reprimanding you.

‘it shakes away your good fortune,’ she’d warn as she laid a hand on your knee to stop it from shaking.

you wish you had listened sooner.

you poured the liquid into the clear shot glass on the small portable floor table, spilling some on the dark mahogany colored wood. you set it down next to the utensils, a colorful display of side dishes in front of you.

you poured yourself a glass as well, before you took a shot.

you smiled before setting it down.

chuckling, you sat with your legs crossed, preventing you from bouncing your knee again. your movement caused the grass to shift, which was kept uncut and overgrown. honestly, you could barely see your feet.

your family’s headstones stared back at you, overgrown with moss and weathered from the elements.

you can still see them sometimes in your dreams. mostly in your nightmares.

you were raised religious. your lineage consisted of mediums, psychics, and practitioners of the divine. ancient folktales and traditions were gospel in your household, and the way of life in the countryside. even the residents that didn’t believe in your family’s beliefs still took caution to their warnings.

you grew up surrounded by rituals, sigils and incense. art of the old gods decorated the walls of your house, and there were almost always fresh offerings on the altars. you watched as they chanted spells under their breath, watched as they communed with the spirits that resided in your house. some in your family could speak to the dead. others could detach their soul from their body temporarily, freely able to explore the spirit world. you’ve even heard stories of your ancestors letting their bodies be possessed by spirits, a dangerous and rare but powerful ability.

it was something about the wild and untamed energy present. something untouched that the city didn’t have.

you didn’t know how much of your family’s teachings were real, but you soon realized that perhaps there was some truth behind most of their fables.

you remembered that when you were young, you were never permitted to stay outside after dark. people had begun to disappear, most of their bodies never found. the ones that were found had been declared to have passed in their sleep. homes began to grow vacant, and the tiny population of your hometown dwindled more and more.

you noticed it the most at school. gossip spiraled. everyday, there was a new empty desk.

the strange part about it all was that there was no struggle. there was no trace of any of the families that had disappeared. their homes were still vacant and preserved perfectly in time.

your family knew that this was most certainly the work of something spiritual. they armed you with protection charms, random pockets of herbs and talismans just to walk to school.

one day, you stayed out later in the mountains despite your family’s warnings. it was getting dark, and you had figured that if you had at least brought a protection talisman with you, you’d be safe.

it wasn’t even that far from the house. it was just the edge of the clearing.

the trees and the forest had gone eerily silent before you had time to react.

a human-

no.

this thing wasn’t a human.

this… creature had crawled out of the glowing purple tear in the space behind you. unfortunately it had taken notice of you. its form was skinny and malnourished. you could easily count the ribs. its skin was a dark midnight blue, and from what little you could see, its eyes…

oh, you weren’t able to sleep properly the following nights after that.

only the irises had been visible, bright yellow rings in a sea of black.

and the creature smiled.

from ear to ear, it only bared sharp canines.

you couldn't move. couldn’t pick up your feet that seemed to have been made out of lead at that moment. you couldn’t even scream. it began to crawl towards your frozen form, deeming you as easy prey.

‘run,’ you willed your legs. ‘please, run. let me move.’

it opened its mouth, its rows of teeth in full display as you felt your energy draining in waves. you could feel your previous fear being siphoned out of you as you felt what could only be described as heavy fatigue overtaking your body.

it was like you were suffocating. the air in your lungs felt as if it was being sucked out, and your mind was attempting to swim in a riptide current.

you collapsed to the grass, awaiting your death.

your eyes shot back open when you heard shrieking from the demon, a blade flung towards its chest as it began to evaporate into bright purple ashes.

your aunt dislodged the blade that was thrown at the demon out of the grass before checking if you were okay.

you hadn’t noticed it before, but you could see it now. you could see a barrier. it blanketed the sky, the earth, everything. it undulated, reminding you of the slow calm waves of the ocean.

and something had just torn right through it.

she scanned you, studied every inch of your skin. once you were verified to have no injuries, she promptly took you by the ear and yanked you back home.

it had turned out that the talisman that you had brought with you for protection had dropped out of your pocket a few hundred feet back.

you got the scolding of your lifetime that night.

they had explained later on that it was a shield that kept the spirit world and the human world apart. occasionally, demons could tear through the weak spots to escape to the human realm.

ever since then, you began to witness more and more things, things your parents have told you that you didn’t believe in until you had almost died.

you checked the barrier everyday to see if new tears or holes had formed, paranoid that your soul would be taken again. because of this, your family had decided to teach you how to fight against them.

they, however, taught you that you must not hate them for what they do.

why, you asked.

‘we cannot hate them when we ourselves don’t know the reason why they do what they do. there are things out there, in all those different realms, that we may never understand. reasons that we may never know,’ they said.

your family has told you that while they may be demons, they too, once had a soul.

‘no creature, be it spirit or animal, is born innately evil.’

you didn’t understand. the demon that you had met had just tried to suck out your soul. that seemed pretty evil to you.

since then, you were able to see more and more of them. not just demons, but other spirits too. you could hear them stalking you, lingering around you, trying to get your attention.

lighting a stick of incense, you placed it on the burner. the smell of dragon’s blood flooded your senses, the small line of smoke floating upwards and carried on by the passing breeze. even still, after all of the protests, after all of the complaining about how annoying all their superstitions were, you still remember to obey most of them.

you still remember to put the mirror facing away from your bed.

you still never whistle at night, even in the city.

you still never respond to anyone saying your name unless you’re sure that it’s them.

maybe it was because it’s the only thing that you have left of them. the only important things that they, and the ancestors before them, had passed on.

you hummed, rooting through your bag to find a leftover orange that didn’t fit in the fruit bowl on your makeshift table.

you peeled it, digging your fingers into the soft flesh of the orange to pick apart the sectioned pieces. you popped one in your mouth, and set it on your bag.

from the distance, you noticed it.

a lurking form. you stopped chewing, your gaze focused. maybe they didn’t notice you. or maybe they wanted nothing to do with you.

Its head snapped right to where you were sitting, its beady eyes zoning onto you. It began to crawl towards you, before it picked up the pace and lunged.

you were worried that this might happen again.

you rolled your eyes, tilting your head back in frustration.

shit, you were gonna miss your bus.

· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·

the train rocked back and forth as it sped across the tracks. the night can do very little to block out the city’s skyline, the silhouettes of the buildings visible from the wide windows that lined the walls of the train.

you had gotten lucky to be able to take the last train of the night. if you were just a few minutes late then you would have had to cut off an arm and a leg for a taxi ride.

it was quiet, and there was no one else in your cabin. just the occasional sound of wheels screeching to a halt on the tracks.

“이번 역은: 잠실새내. 잠실새내. 내리실 쪽은 오른쪽입니다.” the automated message echoed.

you leaned on the pole next to your seat, one hand still on the handle of your suitcase. the entire trip had drained your battery, and all you wanted to do once you got home was to sleep. no time to shower or unpack or brush your teeth. just collapse face first on your futon. lord knows you can’t afford a bed.

surprisingly, you had missed your little basement dwelling in your part of the detached home. you got two rooms (which were practically closets), a small kitchenette, and a bathroom. honestly, to have all of that for the price you were shelling out was a steal. sure, there was a cricket problem and half the size of a standard apartment in seoul, but it was yours.

and rent’s cheap…er.

you had found it back when you had looked for places to live for college. the landlady was a sweet elderly woman, who you occasionally conversed with when you passed her while going out.

your eyes glazed over and landed on one of the advertisement screens hanging from the ceiling. the hot pink and purple lights had caught your eye. it was for a girl group that you’ve seen rise to fame recently. you thought their music wasn’t half bad. you preferred them over the other girl groups that debuted recently.

they looked about your age. it was refreshing to see a k-pop group that didn’t have underaged children debuting. their skills were also nothing to scoff at. you couldn’t even dream of hitting notes as high as the leaders in some of their songs.

you looked up above their heads at the name of the group: huntr/x.

well, it’s not like you haven’t seen crazier names.

”출입문 닫습니다. 출입문 닫습니다.“

the train shook back to life, slowly accelerating to the next station. you settled on looking back outside of the windows as the view of the city was suddenly blocked by the brick wall of the tunnels.

maybe you should listen to some of huntrix’s songs. you were starting to get a bit tired of the white noise of the train. that and the deafening screeching noise of the vehicle coming to a halt.

and you were, admittedly, influenced by the ad.

you scrolled through their albums and their singles, picking the most popular one. popping in your earbuds, you began to zone out as you continued to stare out the window. the tune was catchy, and the beat was addicting. you couldn’t help but hum along softly to the melody.

as you began to drift off to sleep with your music still playing, you noticed that the lights in the train began to flicker on and off. you blinked your eyes open, slightly confused. sighing, you pulled your luggage to your lap, unzipping it.

you really thought that being back in the city meant that there wasn’t going to be as many spiritual encounters, but of course almost as soon as you stepped back into seoul the world had to fuck you over.

hopefully, this is just a false alarm.

you knew it wasn’t. it never was.

you just hoped that there really was no one else on the train. then, things may be a little easier. you wouldn’t have to worry about collateral or the risk of being seen attacking a seemingly innocent human. pocketing your phone, you waited for another flicker. you gripped your suitcase a little tighter. couldn’t you just go one day without being attacked by a demon?

the lights had shut off, with only the advertisement screens illuminating the cabin.

you felt it. a ripple in the barrier. a tear was nearby.

the presence of a demon.

from the far end of the cabin, you sensed a being. you couldn’t exactly tell what from the darkness of the tunnel the train was in. the tunnel light that the train zoomed by helped you barely make out an unassuming middle aged woman. she was tall, her hair draped over her shoulders in loose, thin waves. her smile was innocent, as if she wanted to ask if she could sit next to you.

of course, you knew better. you could see the glowing purple patterns on her neck. you only stared at her, knowing for a fact that she also hadn’t opened the door behind her.

the train exited the tunnel, letting the moonlight shine.

in the blink of an eye, she had morphed into an inhuman, uncanny valley monstrosity.

its scarlet skin was the first thing that stood out to you. the irises were a bright red, which harshly contrasted its pitch black scleras. it unhinged its jaw, which made the sharp tusks that jutted out of their lips much more visible to you. its tongue lolled out, elongating past their chin and down towards its neck.

its skin was like fabric, too thin and barely draped onto its bones. nearly all of its veins were visible from where you were, sticking out in lightning patterns across their epidermis. its lanky arms swung by its side, their knuckles nearly making contact with the floor.

even to this day, their true forms never failed to form a pit in your stomach.

its shadow grew, slowly lengthening towards your feet.

you frowned as more demons began to crawl out of the purple hole in the floor, all equally as hideous as the first one. their movements were harsh, and they contorted their bodies in jerks. they clawed at the linoleum floor towards you slowly.

they waited. waited for a hint of fear from your body. waited for you to turn on your heels and sprint away. waited so that they could lunge and tear you apart and leave the husk of your corpse limp and bleeding out on the ground.

you could only rub your temples before you set down your luggage on the floor. rising to your feet you sighed, both of the ritual blades that were in your suitcase now in your grip. the old leather of the handles squeaked beneath your palms. the sharp curved edges of the metal caught the moonlight, which reflected back at your foes.

you turned to face them, your eyes meeting theirs.

“다음 역은: 잠실. 잠실. 내리실 쪽은 오른쪽입니다.“

this better be finished before your stop.

a/n: the first three chapters are gonna take place about two years before the events of the movie. i have so much planned for this fic, i’m talking about literally marking up a map of seoul for all the locations that we’re gonna see in this fic lmao. putting my time in korea to good use.

translations: “this stop is: jamsilsaenae. jamsilsaenae the doors are on your right.”

"the doors are now closing. the doors are now closing."

“the next stop is: jamsil. jamsil. the doors are on your right.”

i also got excited and drew the end scene for this chapter. i may draw more scenes from future chapters :3

taglist: @cptg00s3 @artendityshroomswilloft @kashasenpai @frogeddeyes @adorabluesposts @inojinieeee

Your mother didn’t believe in monsters.

Not in the old gods, not in whispers from the forest, not even in the claw marks left on temple stones. She believed in hard work, clean water, and the kindness of strangers.

She lived alone on the edge of a village that no longer remembered her name. She sang while she worked. And when the tall man with eyes like firelight came to her door, she smiled at him like he wasn’t a curse.

He spoke like honey, moved like a dream, and called her beloved.

She believed him. Because no one else ever had.

You were born beneath a blood moon, the villagers said. They never touched you. Your mother wrapped you in cloth soaked in saltwater and kissed your brow like a promise. She called you mine even when you were quiet and strange and strange-eyed, even when the crops died early and the animals refused to come near.

You were five winters old when the man returned.

But he did not come himself.

He sent a demon.

The boy arrived before dawn, soaked in snowmelt, his hands bare. He looked too young to carry death on his back.

Your mother cracked the door open with a broom in hand. You peeked around her legs, breath frosting in the air.

She did not recognize him — but he knew her.

And he knew you.

His eyes lingered on your face, something sharp breaking behind them. Not hunger. Not delight.

Regret.

“I’m here for the girl,” he said.

Your mother stared. “You must be mad.”

The boy shook his head. “No,” he whispered. “Just… damned.”

She slammed the door. But he didn’t leave.

You remember her panic. The way she bolted the door. The way she clutched your shoulders. The way her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

And then, the sound: wood groaning, something heavy cracking through the doorframe.

The boy didn’t tear it down. It opened for him.

Your mother threw herself between you. She screamed curses at him, words you’d never heard, clawed at his coat with bleeding hands. He didn’t fight her. He just looked at her like he didn’t want to be here either.

And when he finally touched you, it was so gentle you nearly leaned into it.

“I’m sorry,” he said to no one in particular.

Your mother wept. You screamed. But he carried you away as if you were glass, as if maybe this one small mercy might outweigh the damnation he’d chosen.

The world changed somewhere between footstep and fall.

One moment, there was snow. Wind in the trees. The shrill crack of your voice calling Mama. Then, silence.

Not quiet. Silence. Like sound had been swallowed whole.

The sky split.

Colors bled wrong here — too dark, too loud. The ground beneath his feet looked like stone, but pulsed faintly, like something living curled just beneath the surface. Shadows clung to the boy’s shoulders like old friends. The air tasted like ash and honey.

You couldn’t breathe for a moment.

And then you screamed again.

He didn’t hush you. He didn’t promise things would be alright. He only looked forward and walked. The path sloped downward, wide and spiraling, as if the entire world had been carved into a mouth.

You clung to his shoulder with your small hands, your face sticky with tears, until even screaming felt pointless.

Finally, you spoke. “Are you going to eat me?”

His steps faltered.

“No,” he said. “No. Not you.”

You didn’t know it then, but most demons didn’t walk the path. They were born in this place, or made in agony, bursting out of the void as if the pit itself had spat them up. But Jinu was different. Gwi-Ma had spared him that torment. Only that one.

Instead, he offered him a deal, a voice that could steal breath from lungs — and a command.

Bring her to me.

And Jinu, tired and lost and only a few months into his damnation, obeyed.

He didn’t understand why.

He wouldn’t understand until much later — when he heard you sing for the first time.

When the gates appeared, you buried your face in his shoulder. You don’t remember what they looked like, only how they felt: cold, and enormous, and watching.

They opened without a sound.

He didn’t stop walking.

The gates peeled open like breathing stone, thick with ash and echoes, and the heat hit you like a wave — not the heat of a sun, but something alive, ancient and watching. The kind of heat that burns your name off your soul.

You buried your face in Jinu’s shoulder again. His skin smelled like smoke and rain and something colder underneath. He didn’t comfort you, didn’t lie. He just kept walking through the mouth of hell like he’d been here before.

Because he had.

The realm inside was vast and dark and wrong.

There was no sky. Only a storm of molten clouds far above, pulsing violet and fuchsia, streaked with what looked like veins of lightning. The landscape shifted when you weren’t looking — hills made of glass, trees that moved like muscle, rivers that didn’t flow with water.

And demons. Dozens of them. No two alike.

Some crawled. Some floated. Some wept into the dirt like they’d never stop. Others stared at you from behind masks — or wore faces you swore you’d seen in dreams.

None of them dared approach Jinu.

Even in his silence, he was terrifying.

Even in the calm way he carried you — like porcelain, like obligation, like guilt with a heartbeat.

He walked across a stone bridge suspended in nothing, to the place where the throne was.

But there was no throne.

Only flame.

Pink and purple and seething — a column of living fire that pulsed with breath and voice, flickering higher than any tower. The heat licked at your skin, but didn’t burn. It recognized you.

It knew what you were before you did.

Gwi-Ma.

“Show her to me,” the fire said.

It did not echo. The words bloomed in the air behind your eyes.

Jinu stopped at the base of the flame. Slowly — so slowly — he bent down and set you on your feet. You stood on trembling legs, too stunned to cry.

“She’s small,” Jinu said, voice low.

And then the fire bent — unnaturally, impossibly — coiling downward until it hovered just above your face, like a dragon made of smoke and stars.

You didn’t flinch. That’s what you’d remember years later. You didn’t scream or run.

You looked it in the eye.

And the fire laughed.

“She has your defiance,” Gwi-Ma mused, though to whom, it was unclear.

Jinu didn’t answer.

“She’ll survive this place. Or she won’t.”

Still, no response.

“Take her,” Gwi-Ma said. “Raise her. Feed her. Teach her nothing of her mother’s weakness.”

Jinu’s jaw clenched. “And if she asks?”

“She won’t,” the flames answered coldly. “Children only remember what pain allows.”

And then, like a match being pinched out, the fire collapsed into itself — a final hiss, a flicker, and gone. The heat remained.

Jinu reached for your hand, and for the first time, you didn’t resist.

He looked different in this light. Not human. Not anymore.

His skin shimmered with the faintest lines, like cracks carved by magic. His golden eyes, cat-slit and burning, never left your face. He wore his darkness like a robe, layered and neat, like he had accepted it long ago.

But his hands were still gentle.

“Come on,” he murmured.

“Are you my father?” you asked, small.

He blinked. The question hit him like a knife. And yet, the corner of his mouth twitched into a sad, confused smile.

“No,” he said. “But I think I’m the one who has to stay.”

You didn’t understand what that meant — not fully. But something in you knew it wasn’t good.

You held out your hand.

He stared at it for a second too long before he took it, his claws careful not to scratch your tiny fingers. His palm was warm. Steady. It felt like the safest thing in this place where nothing else made sense.

You walked with him into the dark.

The path twisted like a serpent through the fire-lit halls. Demons lurked behind shifting walls — some curious, some mocking, a few licking their teeth. But none came close.

They could smell it on you. What you were.

What you might become.

Jinu ignored them all.

You tried to, too.

The room he brought you to was carved from black stone and lit with floating orbs of purple fire. It was small — just a table, a cot, a basin. Not a prison, not quite a home. But it was his.

And now it was yours, too.

He knelt beside the cot and unwrapped the heavy coat from your shoulders. His claws fumbled a little at the knots in your dress — he’d never quite done this for his sister — but his movements stayed slow, precise.

You stood there, silent, watching him work.

“Are you going to hurt me?” you asked softly.

His hands stilled.

“No,” he said. “Never.”

You looked at him for a long time. Then, quietly:

“Even if the fire says to?”

His golden eyes met yours.

“No,” he said again, this time like he meant it.

He brought warm water in a carved bowl, soaked a cloth, and tried to wipe the dirt from your face. You squirmed. He didn’t scold you. Just tried again, more gently.

Your voice broke the silence first.

“What’s your name?”

“Jinu.”

“That’s not a demon name.”

He paused. “It used to be a human one.”

“Are you human?”

“I was.”

You blinked. “Why aren’t you anymore?”

He didn’t answer right away. His hands dipped back into the bowl. The cloth dripped between his fingers.

“I made a mistake,” he said. “And then I made another. And then I said yes when I should’ve said no.”

“That’s a lot of mistakes,” you said wisely.

Jinu laughed. Just a breath. Just once.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “It is.”

That night, he slept on the floor beside you.

You asked him if the monsters would come.

“They’re already here,” he said.

“Will they eat me?”

“No.”

“Will they eat you?”

“…Maybe.”

You sat up and peered over the cot’s edge, your little brows furrowed.

“Then you can sleep here,” you offered, scooting over.

He looked startled. Then thoughtful.

“No,” he said quietly. “But thank you.”

And somehow, that was the first time you smiled.

It wasn’t much—just a small tug at the corner of your mouth, the barest shift in your eyes. But he saw it. Jinu always saw everything.

He didn’t say anything. Just looked away, jaw tight, as if the flicker of warmth had cut deeper than your silence ever had.

━━━━

He walked ahead, shoulders tense beneath his robes. You followed, the heat of Hell licking at your ankles like wind, curling up your back like a reminder. The other demons kept their distance—always did. They whispered about you, loud enough for you to hear but never brave enough to speak to your face.

“Why is she here?”

“She doesn’t even look like one of us.”

“She smells like a human.”

They were right. You looked like you didn’t belong. Like your skin had never cracked under fire. Like your soul hadn’t been scorched down to its softest parts. But Jinu never questioned it—not out loud. Not even when Gwi-ma’s flames had ordered him to protect you.

“You remind me of someone,” he said once, later. His voice had been quieter than the fire around you. “My little sister. She had soft hands too.”

He hadn’t looked at you when he said it.

You didn’t know what to say, so you didn’t say anything. But you remembered. The way his voice broke at the word sister. The way his golden eyes dimmed with something almost human.

You were supposed to fear him. All the demons were terrifying—twisted, snarling things that dragged their pasts behind them like chains. But Jinu…

Jinu was still beautiful.

He shouldn’t have been.

His skin was marked in violet lightning, his eyes molten gold, hair falling just shy of his brow like shadow. He was carved in elegance, in stillness, the only demon who moved like the world owed him space. And maybe it did.

You saw how the others averted their gaze when he passed.

But you didn’t. You stayed close. You followed.

Some nights, he stopped at the edge of the obsidian lake, where the screaming trees reflected against the still black.

“She used to braid flowers into my hair,” he whispered, as if forgetting you were there. “I miss her.”

You didn’t reach for him. But you sat beside him. Quietly. As if you belonged there.

He noticed. He always noticed.

“You’re not like them,” he said once, studying you. “Not like us either. What are you?”

You met his eyes. “I don’t know.”

He stared for a long time. The answer didn’t scare him. Nothing ever seemed to. But it made him sad.

“I think that’s worse,” he finally said, almost to himself. “Not knowing.”

The fire cracked behind you. The lake hissed.

Neither of you moved.

Jinu is the orchestrator of this obsession, the leader who convinced the others that you belong to all of them. His four centuries of existence have taught him patience, but when it comes to you, that patience has limits. He watches you with those dark, calculating eyes, always three steps ahead of any attempt you might make to distance yourself. When you're being "difficult," he'll corner you with that deceptively gentle voice, recounting how he abandoned his own family centuries ago—and how he'd do far worse to keep you. His manipulation is subtle but devastating; he'll make you feel guilty for wanting independence, reminding you how much they all love you, how they've given up their demonic duties just to focus on you. Jinu's jealousy manifests as cold control rather than explosive rage. If someone else catches your attention, they simply... disappear. He'll never tell you what happened, but the way he holds you afterward, whispering apologies against your hair while his grip leaves bruises, tells you everything. He's convinced that his love is redemption for his past sins, and you're his salvation—whether you want to be or not.

Mystery is the most unsettling in his obsession because you never know what he's thinking behind that curtain of silver-violet hair. He's the one who watches you sleep, sitting motionless in the corner of your room for hours, just observing the rise and fall of your chest. His love is silent but omnipresent—you'll find gifts you never asked for, letters written in elegant script that detail everything you did that day, photographs of yourself that you don't remember being taken. Mystery speaks to you in riddles and half-finished sentences, making you lean in closer to understand, which is exactly what he wants. His possessiveness is subtle but absolute; he's memorized your schedule, your preferences, your fears. When you try to make friends, Mystery has already spoken to them—not threatened, just... talked. Something about his presence, the way he never quite shows his full face, unsettles people enough that they distance themselves from you naturally. He'll curl up beside you like a cat, humming softly while running his fingers through your hair, and you can never shake the feeling that he's marking his territory.

Abby expresses his yandere tendencies through physical dominance and protection. He's the one who carries you everywhere, insisting you're too delicate, too precious to walk on your own. His massive frame becomes a prison disguised as a shield—he'll block doorways when you try to leave, scoop you up when you're "being stubborn," hold you against his chest until you stop struggling and accept his affection. Abby's jealousy is the most visible; his jaw clenches when others look at you, his muscles tense when you mention other people. He has no qualms about using his intimidating presence to scare away anyone who might take your attention. But with you, he's deceptively gentle, constantly asking if you're comfortable, if you need anything, while his hands remain possessively on your body. He'll work out shirtless in front of you, flexing deliberately, fishing for compliments and growing sulky when you don't give them. His room is filled with photos of you—candid shots of you laughing, sleeping, even crying. "You're so beautiful when you're sad," he'll murmur, wiping away tears he caused with his overwhelming presence.

Romance is the most deceptively sweet of your captors, showering you with gifts, love letters, and dramatic gestures that would be romantic if they weren't so suffocating. He's the one who plans elaborate dates that you can't refuse, who writes songs about you that become increasingly possessive in their lyrics. Romance's yandere nature manifests as emotional manipulation disguised as pure love. He'll cry if you seem unhappy, blame himself dramatically, threaten to hurt himself if you try to leave—all while looking absolutely beautiful doing it. His heart-shaped hair and pink aesthetic make him seem harmless, but he's perhaps the most dangerous because he makes you feel guilty for not appreciating his affection. Romance keeps a detailed journal of every interaction you have together, analyzing your moods, your words, looking for signs of wavering loyalty. He's the one most likely to stage situations to make you dependent on him—suddenly you're locked out of places you need to be, your phone mysteriously breaks, you find yourself stranded and needing rescue, and Romance is always conveniently there to save the day.

Baby is the most unpredictable and perhaps most frightening because his childlike appearance masks centuries of demonic cunning. Despite being the youngest in appearance, his obsession with you is disturbingly mature and calculating. He treats you like his favorite toy, something that belongs to him absolutely. Baby's tantrums when you don't give him attention are terrifying—furniture breaks, windows shatter, and his cute facade drops completely to reveal the ancient demon beneath. He's the most likely to hurt you "accidentally" during his possessive episodes, then cry and cling to you while the others clean up the destruction. Baby is also the most invasive; he goes through your belongings, reads your diary, listens to your phone calls. He justifies this by saying he needs to know everything about you to love you properly. His childish appearance makes others underestimate him, which he uses to eliminate threats to your relationship with terrifying efficiency. He'll sit in your lap during conversations with others, playing with your hair and making innocent comments that somehow manage to reveal personal information about the person that makes them deeply uncomfortable.

Together, they form a suffocating network of obsession. They share information about you, coordinate their schedules to ensure you're never alone, and enable each other's worst tendencies. Jinu makes the plans, Mystery gathers intelligence, Abby provides muscle, Romance handles emotional manipulation, and Baby eliminates loose ends. They've convinced themselves that loving you together is healthier than competing for you individually, but in reality, it just means you face five different types of yandere behavior simultaneously.

They justify their polyamorous arrangement by claiming that you're too precious for just one person to love, that you deserve multiple protectors, multiple sources of affection. But the truth is darker—each of them feeds off the others' obsession, validates it, makes it seem normal. When one of them goes too far, the others don't pull him back; they comfort you afterward and promise it won't happen again, all while planning how to better hide their tracks next time.

Your age makes their obsession even more intense. They constantly remind you how young you are, how much you need their protection and guidance. They've appointed themselves your guardians, your boyfriends, your everything, and they'll destroy anyone who suggests you might be better off without them. After all, they're demons who've lived for centuries—who better to protect and love someone as precious as you?

Yandere Saja Boys who first met you at an interview to be their manager. You had been an assistant manager for Huntr/x, working with Bobby before and he recommended you for this role. It would pay more and be a good chance to get yourself more out there! You definitely weren’t the hugest fan of them but so what? The pay was great and it was an amazing opportunity.

Yandere Saja Boys who couldn’t control themselves when you entered the interview room. You. Their precious mate- the one they had mourned over not meeting yet and waited for ,and for centuries. Standing in front of them in a white blouse and tiny jean skirt, smelling like heaven incarnate.

Yandere Saja Boys who’s skin were flickering in and out of purple, marks branding them as demons and claws sharpening. Instincts howling to mark you and fuck on the floor for anyone to see.

Jinu who tried to stay calm and in control but his eyes were practically glowing neon orange.

Baby who barely let you fully observe the room before pouncing- teeth bared and grabbing at you. His arms were stiff around you as he inspected you, seemingly ignorant to your yelps and confusion at the strange idol groping and sniffing you. You who cursed, kicked and slapped in desperate attempts to get him off but it became increasingly clear he wasn’t human.

Yandere Saja Boys who gathered close, instincts pulled taut at your noises of distress. You were human so you obvisouly didn’t feel the insane possessiveness to mark and posses. You who pulled and clawed at Baby’s head hoping to get him off of you only for him to growl and teeth at your neck, causing you to look for help from the others. Only to see the same purple marks, fangs, glowing eyes, and claws. None of them were human were they?

Jinu who grabbed baby by his neck and jerked him away giving him a warning stare. Before you could sprint away, Abby blocked you forcing you to face Jinu.

Jinu who grabbed at your face with his claws, softly wiping your tears. He looked like sin incarnate. You felt a deep tug in your heart as if you were connected to all of them in some deeper spiritual sense. You couldn’t help but relax at the beautiful nonhuman man in front of you, carressing your face. Something was calling you to him.

Jinu who apologized for Baby’s actions, and explained that because you knew they were demons, you HAD to work for them, but don’t worry your pretty little head, they would make sure you taken care of financially (physically too but you weren’t ready for that).

You who passed out due to all the stress you were put under. Long story short you woke up in a crazy huge penthouse in a guest bed with 5 demons surrounding it. You didn’t take it too well. But who would? But after some yelling and screaming at them (who only looked at you like confused puppies) you realized they seemed pretty harmless. They just wanted a manager. Right? So you succumbed to being their manager, I mean the pay was too good.

Yandere Saja Boys who let a personal driver take you home. Jinu had to hold three of them back from chasing you down. They didn’t want to let you leave their home, but they need to court you properly. They didn’t want to break your little human mind down in fear and trauma, you would come willingly eventually. The bond would ensure it. Or they would.

You, their pretty manager who start planning their rehearsals, shows, and tours. Always ensuring their on track, and getting enough breaks. it was hard at first relaxing around them and acting normal. You never did get use to it, but you at least stopped shaking around them.

Their staff who quickly realize not to go near you, with what happened to one of the backstage staff who tried asking you out for coffee. And you were completely oblivious to it. But the staff knew. It was hard not to see the crazy glare in the Saja Boy’s eyes when they get to close to you.

Yandere Saja Boys who are constantly grabbing and draping themselves across you despite your many protests. It will look weird to the fans! but they don't care. They want to be seen touching you. They want their claim on you to be clear to everyone- humans and demons included. You don’t even know they’re your fated mates. And they’re happy to play the role of not understanding that constant cuddling, coddling, hugging, groping, and biting aren’t normal for humans. (They know it isn't normal, 100%)

Yandere Jinu who plays the role of the controlled leader. He may look or pretend to be protecting you from the other saja boy’s constant affection, but in reality he is encouraging it. If you think he will save you from Mystery licking your face or Abby not letting you go, you’re completely wrong. He will only save you if he gets something out of it. This is his favorite manipulation method. Oh you want him to tell Romance to stop groping your ass as he walks by? Hmm.. only if he gets a kiss from you! (Romance only stopped for about a day.) In conclusion, Jinu will only play the savior role if he gets something from it. He has accepted he isn't a good guy, but he’s happy to play innocent for you.

Yandere Mystery who can be the most feral. He’s smarter then most realize and will gladly act like a dumb puppy if it means he can get away with licking your face randomly and nuzzling you. No! He doesn’t understand that what he is doing is not normal to humans! Friends in the demon world do this constantly! (Only to their mates) Mystery will be the first to growl and bark at people for getting to close to you. He is one of the biggest pulling you in their lap abusers. Just sit there all pretty! No this isn’t weird. Don’t worry about what the fans think.

Yandere Abby is the headlock final boss. Oh his cute little manager is walking by? All of a sudden his beefy arm is wrapped around your neck pulling you back into him, a purr in his throat. Unless you’re crazy tall, he’s definiteley taller. And he will abuse it everyday. His head is on top of yours, his arm on your head like an arm rest, and he uses his hand to measure your stomach. To see how much you can eat of course! (He wants to know how big his dick would be inside your stomach). Abby is definitely the tank of group per say, he’s the first to step in front of you when people are near or bothering you, often carrying you away from situations he doesn’t approve of. Oh someone is asking you out, or flirting with you? Abby is throwing you up on his shoulder and walking away with you. You’re always to busy scolding him and banging your fist on his back to notice the other boys closing in on the person who dared try to romance you. Don’t worry there wont be any remains left of his body for anyone to find.

Yandere Romance who always has his mouth on you. Kissing your hand, your forehead, your neck when you aren’t suspecting it- he just can’t get enough. You try hitting and dragging him off but he only laughs and nips you in return. He is always bringing you gifts. From flowers, to necklaces that cost more then your apartment. He sneakily tries to guilt you into letting him have his way and smacking your ass when you walk by. He buys you so much stuff doesn’t he? They all do. This is normal for demons, you’re the youngest of the pack per se, this is normal. Don’t expect him to care about you scolding him. He will only stop when Jinu tells him too, which is rare. And Jinu’s command only lasts for a few hours. Maybe a day if you’re lucky or you give him something really good in return.

Yandere Baby who is the most aggressive. At first you think he really hates you. Why has he been glaring at you for the past 30 minutes? And when you make eye contact he only creepily smirks. He must want to tear you apart, or at least that’s what you assume. (Your clothes. he’s fantasizing about tearing all your clothes to shreds so your forced to be naked and using them as a nest to fuck you on.) When I say he’s the most aggressive, its not in a hateful way. It’s in a way where he finds you too fucking cute, and gets cuteness aggression. He just can’t help but sneak up on you and bite your neck. And not in a gentle way. He doesn’t mean to hurt you- he just needs his teeth in you. He needs to be in you in whatever way you’ll let him without having a panic attack and dying of a heart attack. So he’ll stick to biting you. Consented or not his claws are ALWAYS clutching onto you. You’re walking them to a meet and greet? His claws are on your hip, digging in when you try to move away. He’s one of the biggest growlers of the group, growling to show affection, to warn others away, growling when you try to push him away. Or in pleasure when you pull his hair. FIRM believer in he has an oral fixation. Fight me on it. You quickly learned not to have a lolipop or gum in your mouth, because he will pry your mouth open with his hands to steal it. On camera nontheless.

Yandere Saja Boys who are all obsessed with ensuring their scent is on you. Having you walk around smelling like them? Pure mindgasm for them. You’re they’re little manager. The youngest, the baby, the runt of the pack. Of course they’re all babying you. Once they get on their long tours, Jinu requests (forces) you stay in the same hotel with them. More like they rent a penthouse for each city they’re in. It does NOT get easier to live with them over time. The tours are just so long so its months into moving around for shows and living with them. And it isnt easier. They only get more bolder. Sneaking into your bed, forcefully group cuddling you. No you aren’t allowed to move off their laps when they pull you in.

Saja Boys fans who start shipping you with them. You start blowing up with the boys too, and you think maybe someone will smoke them for how gropey, touchy, and forceful they are. But no. The fans eat it up. They love any interaction with you and them, videos and pictures of you and them blowing up everywhere.

Yandere Saja Boys who insist on giving the fans what they want. Cmon’ just a kiss for the TV? Won’t you be a good manager? Don’t you care what the fans want?

Today, you were helping out behind the scenes—cleaning up, running errands, doing whatever the other staff didn’t have time for. The entire building was in chaos, people rushing around, shouting schedules, checking equipment. Apparently, some new boy group was debuting soon.

Like, in a week or something? You hadn’t seen them yet, but you had heard things.

"They’re gorgeous," One of the stylists whispered while curling a wig. "Like, inhuman levels of beautiful."

That alone was enough to catch your attention.

You weren’t trying to ogle anyone. You just needed some visual inspiration. For art, obviously.

So when someone asked you to bring water to the practice room? You may or may not have speed-walked your way there with the excitement of a fangirl and the blank expression of a very tired assistant.

The moment you opened the door, chaos greeted you. They were arguing. And loud.

Great for drama. Better for material.

"Do you want to achieve world domination or not?!" The black-haired one snapped, voice sharp like he was conducting a military operation instead of a boy group practice.

"Then hit the beat— on time!"

Ah, the leader. Jinu, you think was his name.

"You're 0.5 seconds off." The one who's half of his face was covered with hair flatly said.

"I told you, it’s called flair." Said the one with pink hair, heart-shaped bangs framing his face.

"You mean lag." The mint haired muttered, eyes glued to his phone.

"Shut it." Groaned the one with the ridiculous muscles, dabbing sweat off his face like a disappointed gym coach. "Let’s just start from the top before Captain Serious combusts."

That’s when they noticed you.

But by then, you’d already seen them—and everything else.

Oh, your eyes. They were blinding.

It was like walking into a manhwa panel. Ethereal lighting. Sweat glistening on toned arms. Perfect jawlines. Tall, broad silhouettes. You barely managed not to trip over your own feet.

This was it. The vision. You felt it. The inspiration burning through your veins.

You cleared your throat, doing your best to keep a neutral expression as you set the bottles near the mirrors.

And then, you said it. Casual. Straight-faced. Deadpan. "If this is what world domination looks like, I think the lighting needs work."

Silence.

They stared, blinked, and glanced at one another. Confused.

Jinu sighed. "Let’s take five."

The rest of the group immediately relaxed, stretching, dropping to the floor, cheering like they’d survived a war. Understandable. You heard they’d been practicing for hours.

You tried not to stare. You failed.

A voice pulled your attention.

"Thanks for the drink, cutie." It's the long haired dude. His voice was smooth and his smile was confident, borderline illegal.

Romance. That had to be his stage name.

Your eyes did a quick scan. You were mentally labeling all of them. It wasn’t weird. Not in a weird way. No. This was research.

Another one, shirt clinging to his abs like it was painted on, snatched a bottle and chugged it like he hadn’t tasted water in days. Abby, clearly.

You blinked. He was broad. The kind of chest that made you think of shirt buttons fighting for their lives. He smirked at you.

You immediately looked away and bowed slightly, mouthing a silent apology for being caught staring.

Then your gaze moved to the one on his phone, laughing at something you can't tell.

"That's so dumb." Mint hair said under his breath. His face? Cute. His voice? Low. Totally not what you expected, but love. You eat that kinda character up in stories.

He must be Baby.

Then there was the guy with long pastel hair partially covering his face. He hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t even looked your way. Mysterious aura? Check. It's clear he's Mystery.

And finally, back to Jinu. The leader. He carried himself like someone dependable. Stern but fair, and he's like that because he wants to see them all succeed.

That's such an eye watering story.

You tried not to squeal. Really, you did. But your fingers were already itching to draw. You can't wait for break to come.

Speaking of break... You look at them. It's only been a minute since they started that. You shouldn't, yeah.

"Excuse me." And yet you're already speaking. "Would it be alright if I took some photos?"

The room quieted a little. You could practically hear their thoughts. Another poor staff member, helpless under their charms.

"Go ahead." Jinu said, offering a small smile. What a charming fella.

He seems like he’d be one of those knight captains in those historical webtoons. The kind who stands behind the throne, silent and strong, carrying the kingdom on his back without asking for thanks.

Daydreaming later, let’s get clicking!

With permission granted, you lit up and pulled out your phone, trying hard not to bounce in excitement. As soon as your camera opened, they were already posing.

Of course they were.

You took a few shots—clean, fast, a few from different angles. They assumed you were done. They assumed wrong.

You lowered your phone, frowned slightly, and pointed at Abby.

"Flex your arm. No—more toward that side. Yes, hold that. Chin down."

They all froze.

"Huh?" Abby blinked.

And just like that, a full-on impromptu photoshoot began. You were directing them like your life depended on it. They followed along, slightly confused but too prideful to stop now.

"Yo..." Abby muttered, peeking at one of the photos. "I didn’t know my abs could look this good. Muscle definition on point."

He's beyond satisfied and that boosts your confidence in your photography skills yet again.

Soon, the rest of them were swarming your phone, snatching it to see their pictures and gawk at their undeniably gorgeous self.

Before chaos could start between them, you took your phone back in your hands as a really huge and bright smile was on your face.

"Thank you so much for indulging this staff member her request!" You made your way to the door with an awkward half-bow, twisting the knob, turning back one last time.

"I’m rooting for you guys! You got this!"

And with that, you were gone. Silence lingered in the room.

"So are we just letting random staff direct us now?" Baby asked, glancing at the others. "Cool. Cool cool cool."

"Yeah." Romance agreed with a nod. "But she's cute isn't she?"

"Every girl’s cute to you." Abby said, bumping his shoulder against him and tossing an arm lazily around Romance’s neck. "Get new taste, man."

"She didn’t even ask for an autograph." Jinu added, almost puzzled. Usually people would ask for that. He did his research well, you know.

"She just wanted photos." Mystery mumbled, his head tilting slightly to the side.

"Of us," Abby said proudly, a sudden, inexplicable breeze swept through the room—no open windows, no vents. Just vibes(?)

The edge of Abby’s fitted shirt lifted slightly, just enough to reveal a flash of perfectly sculpted abs.

He smirked. "Duh."

Fast forward—

Your first day ended early. Convenient, right? That meant more time to look at the pictures you took earlier. You couldn’t wait to study those shots, not in a weird way.

You’d been stuck on one panel of your webtoon for days, and no matter how deep you dove into Pinterest or Google, nothing looked quite right.

But thanks to that idol group, your prayers were answered. Sort of.

You expected to be on the bus by now, earbuds in, zoning out to music. Instead, you were standing in front of a convenience store, digging through your bag for your wallet when a realization hit you like a truck.

No cable. No charger. Not even a hint of it.

You double-checked. Nope. Gone.

You groaned out loud, dragging a hand down your face.

"Perfect." You muttered with a scowl. "Love that for me."

Then again, a bit of late-night cardio never hurt anyone. Yeah, scratch that shit. The universe clearly hated you.

The studio was still unlocked, the lobby empty. You flashed your staff ID in front of the scanner near the door—it beeped, the lock clicked, and in you went.

The overhead lights had been dimmed. Most of the staff were long gone. The silence was oddly calming.

You retraced your steps, mentally going through every place you'd stopped during the day. The break room was empty. No luck. The side lounge? Same story.

Third option: the rehearsal room.

You sighed. "Third time’s the charm." You mumbled, adjusting the strap on your bag as you headed down the hallway.

Your steps slowed as you neared the practice room. The door was closed, but voices leaked through—low, intense. Not the usual banter or off-key singing. Just… murmurs. Uneven. Cult-like.

You blinked. 'Holy hell, they’re still practicing?'

You glanced at your phone. It was late. Your shift ended an hour ago.

What are they made of? Protein powder and ambition?

What are they eating? Dreams? Caffeine? Hope??

You needed to ask. Not for curiosity. For survival. Your deadline was crawling up your spine like a tax collector and you were this close to drawing stick figures for tomorrow’s update.

The lights under the door flickered—blue, then red, then something that looked like a Windows error message.

You stared. Paused. Maybe they were testing stage lights.

Maybe they were summoning Satan. You didn't care. You just needed your charger. So you pushed the door open.

"I’m really sorry for disturbing you, but—" No matter how tired you were from today’s chaos, you still had manners.

They stood in a loose circle, shadows stretched long and unnatural, and… was that a portal? How the hell did they manage that?

If it was an illusion, it was top-tier. What were they feeding these hologram artists? Everyone in this team was way too talented.

Six heads snapped toward you.

You only blinked, admiration shining in your eyes. "Cool cosplay. Is this for the music video?"

A beat of silence.

Then your gaze flicked to the ceiling, eyes narrowing in critique. "Lighting’s a bit much, though. Shadows are swallowing Jinu’s jawline—tragic. Tilt the main source up just a bit next time."

You said what you said and you don't want to wait for a reply. You turn on your phone flashlight and started scanning the floor, stepping past the demon-plush aesthetic like you were dodging cables on a cluttered set.

There. Your charger lay near the edge of the mirror wall.

You scooped it up with a triumphant sigh and gave them all a quick thumbs-up.

"Good luck on the scene rehearsal." You chirped, already walking toward the door.

Click.

The door shut behind you, leaving nothing but baffled beings.

"…Who was that?" One of the figures finally asked, voice low and sharp.

"Staff." Abby replied, blinking.

"A weird human." Baby added, eyes at the door just like the others.

The tallest demon tilted its head, "Should we take care of her?"

The hunger was clear in its tone. Like it could already taste your soul.

Jinu was the first to speak. "No," He said sharply. "Not yet."

There was a pause. The demon turned slightly toward him. "You hesitate."

"I don’t make moves without information." Jinu said, arms crossed. "She’s… off."

"Off?" One of the smaller ones asked. "She looked normal."

"She looked like she was analyzing us," He muttered as he thought back to your behavior from earlier. "Not scared. Not confused. She looked like she’d seen stranger things."

"She was watching our movements earlier," Mystery informed from his corner, his voice soft. "Sketchpad in her lap."

"You sure it's not some fanfic crap?" Baby deadpanned.

"No." Jinu replied, tone quieter now. "It wasn’t that kind of writing. It was too structured. Like she was mapping something out. Watching patterns."

The demons seemed vaguely amused by the theory.

"So… a spy?" One of them asked, half-joking.

"Maybe," Jinu’s expression darkened. "Or something else. Either way, I’ll figure it out."

He didn’t voice the rest:

She looked one of the demon in the eye like she was judging him.

She also told them to fix the lighting.

She moved like the demon was interrupting her schedule.

Either she’s an expert who’ll be a problem later…or just another idiot with good timing and bad boundaries. Still. Better to play it safe.

The demons didn’t press. They glanced at one another then shrugged. Fine. Let him figure it out. Would’ve been more fun if he let them eat her soul, but hey—he’s the leader.

Without another word, they vanished through the pink portals back to the demon realm, leaving behind silence.

It didn’t last long.

Romance sighed dreamily. "Okay but… if she is a spy, she’s kinda hot."

Jinu didn’t reply. He just rubbed his temples, the beginnings of a headache forming right behind his eyes.

First a debut, now possible espionage from the world’s most dead-eyed assistant with a sketchpad.

Great.

He’d already built enough stress to level a small village. Now this?

…Cool. Fine. He’ll handle it. He always does.

Still.

Lighting advice?? Who just— No. Never mind. He stood straighter, his focus clear as glass.

He'll take care of you sooner or later once he knows your motive.

And so you lived through the first day of your new side-job.

Sure, it ended with strange flickering lights, a suspiciously cult-like gathering, and the very real possibility that the idol group you just met might be into LARPing or, worse, weird method acting.

But hey, sick concept. You respect the dedication. You genuinely hoped they listened to your advice about the lighting.

Still, your charger was back in your bag, your sketchpad was bursting with ideas, you get to draw that panel finally, and your rent wouldn’t pay itself.

So, if a bunch of pretty boys wanted to summon smoke and dramatic lighting on company time?

Not your business—as long as they made great reference material.

As you draw, you think things like:

Abby’s arms practically had their own agency. You swore his biceps flexed every time he blinked.

Jinu looked like a man carrying the weight of his group… and your outstanding bills.

And Romance? Prince face, main character energy, and probably the type to Google himself just to read the fan comments.

You, on the other hand, were so innocently, completely unaware of what awaited you.

Probably harassment, but definitely plot.

Day 2: HR Is Not Ready for This

You didn’t expect much on your second day.

Maybe some light sweating, a few awkward water runs, and enough quiet time to sneak in some sketching or brainstorm for ideas on your story.

You just wanted to observe, breathe, survive. Simple.

But the universe and apparently five very nosy boys had other plans.

The moment you entered the room, the air shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough to feel… watched.

Your gaze moved from one to the next—Abby adjusting his shirt (and definitely flexing more than needed), Mystery casually stretching nearby like a ninja cat, Baby muttering to himself while scrolling, and Jinu… he was definitely looking at you.

But you didn’t notice that.

You were too focused on your clipboard, scribbling poses and notes like a diligent little artist.

"You’ve been staring again."

You jumped a little. Jinu’s voice. Low. Observant.

You blinked up at him. "Oh, um— sorry?"

His brow arched before a tiny smile tugged at his lips. An attempt to lighten up the air around. "It’s fine. Just… felt like you were memorizing our skeletons."

You laughed, a little too nervously. "No! I mean—well, kind of? I’m an artist."

"...Right."

Was that judgment? You should be offended, right? Yes. But inside.

"It’s for character design," You explained. "I draw for webtoons. You guys are… kind of perfect models."

Jinu studied you. Scribbly. Polite. Very tired. But his gut didn’t trust you. "…Just don’t publish anything weird about us."

You gave him a two-finger salute. "No promises."

He walked off—suspicious, calculating, and weirdly handsome about it.

You sighed, then looked down. You’d circled a line on your page.

"Too symmetrical. Suspicious."

The second day at work is fun! Yeah, right. Fucking fuck. Today's exhausting. And not the "Wow, they’re so dreamy, I’m swooning~" kind.

No. This was “I swear to god if one of them breathes over my shoulder again, I will throw this pen” level of tired.

You were just trying to observe quietly, take notes, and survive the shift.

But subtle glances? Apparently that translated to "please, harass me."

Romance started singing, badly, every time your pen moved. Said it helped set the mood. You told him to change the playlist.

Abby kept "accidentally" standing right in your view. Shirt raised. Flex engaged. Asking, "How’s the lighting on my triceps now?"

Mystery appeared over your shoulder with zero warning, stared at your sketch, nodded, then vanished again like an IKEA ghost.

Baby? Baby muttered your critique out loud just to mess with you.

"‘Neck angle inconsistent’? Wow, harsh." All while smirking so handsomely. Baby. As in the one from hell. With Wi-Fi and zero respect for your peace. Like his fucking members.

You squinted at him, nearly blessing the world with the ugliest scowl known to man. "How are you even reading that from across the room?"

He didn’t answer. He just smiled wider.

Oh, these bastards were enjoying your suffering.

Was bullying the new staff part of their team-building exercises? Hazing disguised as charisma? They haven’t even debuted yet!

The audacity when their Spotify numbers are still at zero.

You'd think world domination came with manners, but no.

Contrary to their faces—artfully sculpted by angels or Photoshop—their personalities were straight-up hellspawn. (Ironic.)

By the time you were done, your social battery had collapsed into dust. You passed by a staff member in the hallway, maybe a stylist or someone from props.

"You look… drained."

You nodded. "Drained is generous. I feel like I’ve been emotionally dry-cleaned."

They laughed. You didn’t. You're mourning your peace.

Meanwhile, back in the practice room:

The air was quieter now. But tense.

Jinu stood near the speaker, arms crossed. His expression unreadable. "She’s hiding something."

The others didn’t laugh this time.

"Maybe she’s just weird." Baby offered his thought.

"Doesn’t mean she’s not dangerous." Jinu replied.

"So what, we just keep annoying her until she cracks?" Romance said, upside-down on the couch, legs kicking in the air like a chaotic cat.

"No." Jinu’s eyes didn’t waver. "We keep watching her until she shows us what she’s really here for.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Abby grinned like he's excited and can't wait to act whatever on his mind. "So. Strategic pestering. Got it."

Jinu didn’t stop him, or anyone of the boys. Whatever it takes to make you crack he guess.

Later that night, you collapsed at your desk.

Still alive. Barely.

You flipped open your sketchpad, flipping past pages of poses, muscle references, and narrowed notes.

"Abby’s arms could run their own business."

"Romance: pretty, but loud."

"Baby = gremlin with a phone."

"Mystery—??? Stop teleporting???"

You sighed, poked at your charger, then scribbled one last line before calling it a night.

If tomorrow’s like this again, I might fake a cold. Or a coma. Or both.

THE LIONESS WHO RULED your popularity exploded overnight. fans started asking for your autograph at meet & greets. they begged you to join the group and perform. the boys had no say in this. why? because if the fans want something, they get it.

sure, maybe it helps their corruption plans. maybe corrupted souls taste better when people adore the whole group. you're a better marketing strategy than they ever expected, but they won't tell you that.

your own schedule just got a hell of a lot longer, because now you have to learn choreography and lyrics under twenty-four hours. congrats, you are the 6th unofficial member!

THE SODA POP CIRCUS their debut song became a number one hit. “soda pop” took over charts, and so did you… unintentionally. during a performance, you accidentally wandered into the camera frame, because you were just checking the mic levels, okay? we don't want to have any technical issues, and boom, you were given the centre position.

jinu noticed you looked a little overwhelmed, so he calmly walked you through the choreo in front of thousands of fans like it was nothing. abby joined, then romance and before you knew it, it was “manager-nim meet & dance”.

and of course… the shipping tags started. the fandom loves you and jinu. no, abby is better? you have to be joking, romance is right there! but mystery is so calm around you, and baby even freestyles for you!

YOUR RELATIONSHIP WITH THE SAJA BOYS, or your babysitting shift that no one pays you for.

JINU is one cocky, smirking, definitely suspicious, extremely good looking man. he acts like he doesn’t want you interfering in his plans, whatever those are, but deep down, he’s the first to notice when you’re tired or stressed.

one time you tripped backstage, and he caught you in his arms like a literal k-drama moment. you swear time slowed down, the lighting was perfect, the atmosphere was unrealistically romantic and there was music coming from who knows where. his smile? blinding.

then he dropped you.

like right on the floor after he stared right into your soul. you assigned him to night duty after that. studio lockup, cleaning everything alone. no complaints from him, though. he just smirked and wished you a good night.

“you keep falling for me.” “i’ll fall on you next time, jinu.”

ABBY is a shirtless menace, even worse he is a walking thirst trap. probably allergic to buttons. you’ve tried to make him dress appropriately, but does he listen? no. instead, he stands shirtless in front of you asking,

“this one or this one? can’t decide, wanna style me?”

he’s built like a greek statue and knows it. he flirts with his eyes, lips, abs, his entire existence. steals your phone, takes normal selfies, then mirror ones and cherry on the top is when he fills your gallery with thirst traps. now 99% of your storage is abby, and the other 1% is screenshots of your to-do list.

still, he’s protective: carries your bags, shields you in crowds, even throws an arm around you when paparazzi swarm.

“don’t worry, princess. i will be your sanctuary.”

ROMANCE lives up to his name. heartthrob, gentleman, professional flirt. somehow always knows where you are in a room and always finds a way to be close enough to brush your shoulder.

he makes hearts appear from thin air. you hope it’s cgi or some special effects. probably not, but you won't question it.

he constantly asks your opinion on fashion, only to wear whatever you say makes him look “most kissable.” his excuse? “the fans like it.”

he winks at you during interviews. throws air kisses during rehearsals. and when you get flustered?

“aww, manager-nim, blushing again? you’re so cute when you try to be professional.”

this boy flirts without even speaking. one way or another he will always keep you close, especially when it's a crowded space, he will hold your hand, because he doesn't want to lose you.

MYSTERY with his face usually covered, speaks in hums and nods. you suspect he’s either an introvert… or plotting global domination, possibly both.

he’s usually calm, soft, and sweet until he isn't.

one time, a male fan got way too close to you and the next thing you knew, mystery was growling and biting the guy’s arm like a possessive and territorial lion. you had to spray him with water ... no, you are not joking, you had to.

“bad. bad mystery. sit.”

poor boy looked guilty afterward. quietly said sorry, as you forgave him, gave him a hug… and he melted. behind you, the other members stared daggers, he just smirked.

mystery: 1

everyone else: should have been me

BABY has the maknae privilege at max level. he does something wrong? it’s okay, happens to the best of us. he wants extra snacks? sure. needs a nap? go ahead. wants cuddles? of course.

you baby him more than the group does. he knows it and abuses it.

until the day he crossed the line.

he added demonic hellfire hot sauce to your lunch ramen. not spicy, not even buldak. no, this was 4th dimension inferno level. maybe if you drank lava it wouldn't cause such an effect. you took one bite and transformed into a dragon with a hot steam coming from your ears, face bright red, tears streaming.

and baby? had the audacity to laugh ... right in your face.

so you sprayed him with the emergency water bottle too.

“i didn’t mean it.” “you literally labeled the sauce ‘hellfire.’”

he apologized… eventually, when he found out you stopped spoiling him or giving him the extra attention. you forgave him, after he promised he wouldn't do it again. 

oops, he did it again.

FINAL RESULT AND SHIFT REPORT you’re definitely the human holding this group together, while also being the main character in a demon-infested boy band that came straight from nowhere.

the most fun part is you don’t know they’re demons. just suspect things like superhuman strength, suspicious magic, teleporting, glowing eyes, strange skin patterns. but as long as they don’t cause trouble, which they are every good at, you let it slide. you love them anyway.

even if you're starting to wonder why your soul feels slightly strange every time jinu smiles at you or abby takes his shirt off again.

but remember, you signed the contract. and ... you didn’t read the fine print though, did you?

taglist: @seneon @y2kuromi @maruflix