#silentvoice.

It hurt.

Everything they said— everything they thought about you. You tried to convince yourself that you couldn’t make everyone happy,

But let’s be real.. you can’t make anyone happy. Especially not when they were right about you.

Your phone screen was the only thing that gave light to the dim room, as you stared at each sentence they typed out so carelessly— they felt like cuts across your already wounded skin. At first, you told yourself you were reading to understand. To see what you need to change—because if you could do that, then they wouldn’t hate you as much. Right?

Only after hours of scrolling did you realize that you weren’t looking for understanding at all— you were looking for proof that they were right. And you’d found it. Over and over.

Your gaze drifted to the shelves of your room. Letters, Drawings, Plushies, Trinkets. Things that your fans had given you with care in their eyes, as if you were someone they had admired. Now each one just stared back at you like a lie.

Your fingers wrapped around a keychain that was shaped like a star. You remembered the fan who gave it to you, you remembered the warmth in her voice. And yet all you could picture at that moment was her writing something cruel with the same hands that once held yours with care.

The star hit the floor with a sharp clink— even such a small item can make a sound with enough force. So why can’t you? It was silent— you hated the silence. You needed something, anything.

And so, you tore through the rest of your stuff to let out the anger— you snapped a bracelet in half, you ripped hundreds of letters until your hands stung. Until the paper cuts made your hands bleed. You broke it all apart, until the noise became desperate enough to mask the absence of your own voice.

Because maybe if you tried hard enough, the sounds would replace the silence.

By the end, your room looked like someone had broken in. Pieces of torn paper covering your room, pearls from a once well made bracelet lay scattered, and the cotton from the stuffed toys are ripped out of their shells.

It felt suffocating.

You shoved your arms into a hoodie, pulling it over yourself. And, before you knew it, you slipped out of your room. The penthouse was quiet at this hour—the other three were asleep.

Your footsteps barely touched the floor as you moved through the halls silently, avoiding the creaks you knew by heart. The glass doors at the lobby gave way to the cool night air, and the moment it hit your skin, you felt… lighter. You didn’t feel like an idol. Not a disappointment, nor a hunter.

You felt normal for once.

You didn’t look back at the Tower. You just ran, letting the streets blur around you until the city lights thinned and the hum of cars and generators faded into nothing.

You didn’t know where you were going, all you knew was that you needed to leave. You ran until it took you to an empty beach.

The sand stretched out endlessly under the moon, No people. No voices. Only the wind and the ocean’s waves.

You walked further, past the sandcastles and drawings on the sand, the lost ring that shone under the moonlight, the set of keys that laid rusted, half-buried under the sand. All of it— things that had mattered, now forgotten.

Like you.

You stopped at the edge of the water.

If you go in.. will you finally be enough?

If you die, Huntrix will get the kind of sympathy they can’t buy. Rumi will finally stop feeling like she needs to compete for the leader spot. Zoey won’t have to feel guilty every time the group fights over you. Mira will have her perfect family without you ruining the picture. The people would stop talking about you.

And your mother.. she’ll only have her golden child to worry about. Not you. Not the disappointment. She’ll be happier.

Your throat burned— not because you talked too much, but because you haven’t talked. It hurt because of all the words you’d never been able to give a voice to.

You took a step into the ocean.

The water wrapped around your ankle like it was pulling you in. You took a step further.

The cold climbed up to your knee. Even the tide made a sound as it receded, the water slamming against the shore. The sun was long gone, it was just the moon and its stars in the dark sky. Honestly? The water felt nice, it felt calming.

You took another step, feeling the waves wash over your hips.

And if you were to take a few more steps, if the water went a bit higher, if you went a bit farther, it would drag you down with it, and you wouldn’t have to fight anymore. The silence would win.

You would be at peace—

“Hey!”

The voice cut through the silence. And you froze.

An old woman stared at you with concern, a knitted shawl pulled tight around her shoulders, hair bright against the dark. She walked towards you, just close enough to grab your wrist, her grip firm but not rough, guiding you back toward the shore.

“It’s dangerous out here so late,” she said softly. “The waves get so much stronger during the night.”

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You felt it. that noose. the noose that choked you whenever you dared to speak, the one she had tied around your throat the moment you were born.

The door to the common room was slightly ajar, just enough for the sounds of muffled laughter, an action scene, and the voice of someone— probably Mira, complaining about the plot to be heard. You wouldn’t admit it but you definitely smiled at the thought of them enjoying it.

They deserved the break.

You stayed just outside, the plastic bag in your hand wrinkling as you held it tighter. Inside were the snacks you had bought after training— You wanted to watch with them too, but maybe not tonight.

So instead of walking in, you crouched by the doorway and gently placed the bag on the small table beside it. A handwritten sticky note went with it.

For movie night. Sorry, had to do something. —yn

You looked at the door one last time. You swallowed down the ache already making it’s presence known in your throat, then turned and left— already dreading the appointment.

You remembered to leave Rumi a text though.

Rumi had tried contacting you, but was met with a simple ‘Can’t go‘ message. It definitely made a part of her upset, but she didn’t dare comment on it.

Midway through the movie, during an in-between scene, Zoey glanced towards the door.

“Was that open before?” she asked, pointing. Mira squinted. “Huh?”

Rumi turned her head. “Wait—” She got up, walking over to peek through the gap. “Guys…” she called, crouching. “She left snacks.” She smiled softly.

“What?” Zoey blinked. “Who?”

“yn.” Rumi held up the bag and unfolded the note. Her eyes softened. “She.. wrote something.”

Zoey made a face. “So she was here?”

“And she left without even making her presence known, again.” Mira sighed. “Why even bother?”

Zoey whined, probably for the hundredth time this day. “It’s like she wants to avoid us on purpose. Like—come on, just hang out with us for once. Is that so hard?”

“She said she had to do something. She did send a message earlier too,” Rumi said, lips pursing.

“Yeah, well, she always has something to do,” Zoey said, grabbing a handful of her gummies. “I don’t get her.”

“Maybe they’re just excuses,” Mira muttered, though a part of her sounded unsure.

Rumi didn’t say anything else. She sat back down, popcorn in her lap. But her eyes weren’t on the screen anymore.

They were on the door, even though she knew that you wouldn't walk through that door. Atleast not tonight. She just wondered— where were you? and why aren’t you coming home tonight? again, she wouldn’t dare admit it, but a part of her was jealous— who were you coming home to?

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The soft lighting of the clinic makes the room feel way more colder than it actually is as you sit across from the doctor.

“Your voice is still unstable, we’ll manage it best as a chronic condition,” he explains. “You’ll need daily medication and strict dietary restrictions—no seafood, no junk food, no cold drinks and no stress that might trigger flare-ups. Please understand this isn’t optional.”

You give him a nod as he hands over a written care plan / prescription. “Let’s check your progress in two weeks,” he added.

It had been a few days since then. And unfortunately, due to Rumi uploading the Golden MV out of the blue, you were forced to use your voice more than planned.

You guys had performed a concert a few days prior, and the honmoon almost turned gold. You could assume this was the reason Rumi pushed through the release of the single earlier than planned, however, your voice was at its limit.

It was already discussed that you’d get a week of break after that concert— yet now you were forced to sing a live version of Golden immediately after. This infuriated you. First, she takes your spot as the leader, and now she changes the schedule last minute?

But that wasn’t even the worst part.

Your name trended—for the wrong reasons.

And even though fans didn’t know the full story, even though they didn’t know about the nights you had coughed up blood into tissues just trying to rehearse—you couldn’t help but scroll.

And scroll.

And scroll.

Each post chipped away at your heart. You’d been quiet because you needed to. You were just following what your mom told you. So why? Why were you suffering for it?

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The place was silent, save for the sound of wood clashing with the air. you tightened your grip on the blade, breath steady, posture perfect. you had trained for this moment since you could walk. every scar, every bruise, every sleepless night spent studying demon sigils and training your ass off until you passed out—every moment had led to this.

Today, your mother would name her successor. She stood on the stone dais. In front of her, stood Mira, Zoey, and… Rumi.

“Now,” Celine began, voice as sharp and commanding as ever, “I name the next leader of the Huntrix.” You straightened, excitement blooming in your chest.

This was it. After everything, it would finally happen, your dream would finally—

“Rumi.” A single word. A single name. But it was enough to make your entire world tilt sideways.

Applause erupted. Zoey squealed and clapped Rumi on the back, Mira nodded approvingly. And you— you just stood there. frozen. Not sure what to believe.

Your hands clenched at your sides. your throat tightened, your voice cracking silently with a phantom pain. You could already feel the familiar burn—another reminder that even the voice you’d once been praised for, the one that could sing demons into fear, was slipping away.

You turned away before anyone could see your expression. before the tears could betray you. you hated it, hated that at the back of your mind, you expected it. afterall, you can’t even sing.

You were nine when it first happened.

The training hall was empty, lit only by the slight glow of lanterns. you were alone, barefoot on the cold stone floor, wooden blade in hand, humming softly to yourself as you practiced the form your mom had taught you last week.

You liked to sing while you trained. it helped you keep your rhythm, helped you feel strong. your mother always said you had a gift. a rare one. a voice that could protect the lives of many.

So you sang. you spun, kicked, and struck your sword into the air. your fingers burned from gripping the hilt too tightly. your arms tremble after holding perfect form for hours now. but you kept going. If you stopped, you’d feel the disappointment again—the subtle sighs, the sharp glances, the way she looked at you when you failed.

You didn’t want to see that look anymore. you raised your voice with the next sweep of your arm, pushing the note higher, stronger—

But it cracked. startled, you froze.

You blinked, coughed, and tried again. the sound faltered. Something felt wrong. your voice—it wasn’t coming out right. It was raspy, tight. like something was gripping your throat from the inside. as if even sound itself was disappointed at you.

Your heart pounded. you tried humming again, softer this time, but it scraped out like broken glass. your hand flew to your throat. nothing hurt, not really—but something was off.

“What…?” you whispered. The sound barely came out.

Panic fluttered in your chest. You ran to the corner mirror, the tall one your mom used, to correct your stances. You opened your mouth, stared at your reflection. Nothing looked different.

But you knew something had changed. Because if your voice was gone—then what were you good for?

She knew.

Celine knew immediately. You could almost see the panic in her eyes— after realizing that she may have just wasted her time training you. “Keep your voice intact. Visit the doctor every week. I don’t need a daughter who can’t even sing. Don’t even use your voice unless it’s for singing. Understood?” She said sternly. You almost couldn’t recognize her. Almost as if, she no longer looked at you like you were her daughter. As if you were just a stranger to her.

“But I—“ You tried to speak, but a slap cut you off. “What did I tell you? Don’t speak!” Your mom shouts. At first, it was accidental, at least that’s what she claimed. But it started to happen more often. Every time you dared utter a word outside of singing? A slap would greet your face.

After seeing the others retreat to their rooms, your legs moved before you could think. carrying you toward the inner chamber. the place where your mother went when she didn’t want to be disturbed. The place that was supposed to be off-limits.

You pushed the door open anyway.

Celine stood near the center, her back to you, methodically polishing her glaive. She didn’t even look up. your fists clenched. “Why her?” You asked, but she simply replied with a— “I didn’t give you permission to talk.” unbothered by your presence.

“Why her, Mom?” you asked again, voice sharp. Too sharp. “Why not me?”

Celine turned slowly, tapping the table with her newly polished finger. “You know why.” Her words made you laugh—bitter and cracked. “No. I dont. I’ve done everything. everything. I’ve trained longer than all of them combined. I know the moves by heart. I bled for this every single day—”

“You think that’s enough?” she snapped, and for once, you saw it—that flicker of something in her eyes. Disappointment. Frustration. Maybe even pity. You hated it. “This isn’t about how hard you train. It’s about what people need in a leader.”

“And you think that’s her?” you barked, voice rising without your permission. You felt it falter at the end, like a knife scraping the edge of your throat. Your hand flew to your throat instinctively, wincing.

Celine’s eyes narrowed. “Control your voice.”

“I can’t,” you hissed. “Not anymore.” A slap met your face. Again. The silence that followed was heavier than any scream. “We’re done here.” she said flatly. Like it meant nothing. she turned her back to you again.

You blinked. “That’s it?”

“I don’t have time for tantrums, yn. If you want to earn your place, you’ll have to do better. You can’t lead without a voice.” The words hit harder than any blade. You opened your mouth to say something—to beg, to scream—but nothing came out. Maybe you blamed your throat, or maybe, you just didn’t know what to say.

You backed away from the door, heart pounding. your vision blurred. You didn’t even remember leaving the room.

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The sun was bright, casting a shadow across your face. You stood at the far edge of their training ground, arms folded, and eyes locked on Rumi as she struggled through a weapon disarm drill. Celine’s strict training was nearly impossible to master on the first try— if at all, but of course, Rumi was pushing through with a smile.

Your brows furrowed slightly. Her footwork was off. Her grip was too tight. You wanted to help— “you’re staring again,” Mira muttered under her breath, circling you. “What is it this time? Is her form not perfect enough for your standards?”

You didn’t reply. Not that you could.

Your eyes flicked away instead, biting the inside of your cheek. There was no point. Celine had made it clear, If it's not for singing, then you can’t use your voice at all.

It wasn’t worth the punishment again. Especially not the beating.

“You know, just because you’re Celine’s daughter and all doesn’t make you cooler than the rest of us,” Zoey chimed in, her tone light but there was a hint of something else. Disdain? You couldn’t really tell, you could only assume.

“Like, we get it, you’re strong, you’re cool, but you don’t have to act like we’re beneath you or something.” She shrugged, saying it so lightly, as if her words didn’t feel like a hundred swords to your heart.

You looked at them, startled, a dozen words ready to leap out of your mouth. That’s not it. I can’t. I’m not trying to be—

But they stuck in your throat like thorns. You just gave a small shake of your head and turned away. They took it as you dismissing them once more. “What a bitch” Mira mumbled, earning a jab from Zoey. “You know, you can talk to us, right?” Zoey said, lighter this time. But you don’t reply.

Zoey wiped ash from her forehead and exhaled. “Gosh, I thought that thing was never gonna die.” You stood a few meters away.

Rumi jogged up beside you, panting. “Hey, are you okay? That thing knocked you pretty hard.” There she goes again, god. How could you hate her when she’s so.. kind? You nodded once, curtly, and walked away.

She stepped back. “…Right. Thanks for helping, I guess.” Rumi said under her breath. Behind her, Mira rolled her eyes. “Typical. no thank yous, no words, no nothing. just her doing her main character thing again.”

Rumi stared at you for a whole minute. “Yeah,” she said softly, uncertain. “I guess that’s just how she is.” Rumi sighed, watching you walk away.

Later that evening, she brought out her phone, she opted to message you instead.

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