Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It had been a long time — more than two decades — and yet Celine had kept, with all honor, the belongings of her friend, her sister by the sun that brought them both into the world. Ryu Mi-yeong…What a beautiful name, she would say, but even more so, that silly nickname: Mi-ya.  

Rumi, though she knew Celine kept a large part of her mother’s personal belongings, had never found the courage to see them. She felt indignant, impure — as if her mixed-race presence in that mausoleum of love was enough to stain it with her bastard and corrupt origin.  

That was, until the Idol Awards and its events.  

After finally accepting that she is indeed half-demon, dealing with her own existence became less exhausting. Of course, she couldn’t say she loved herself as much as she loves Mira or Zoey… but still, she accepts herself. It’s a step — small, but a start.  

• ★ •

Rumi lay on the penthouse couch where Huntrix lived, her thumb scrolling aimlessly across her phone’s display. She wasn’t thinking about anything — yet simultaneously, her mind felt crowded by unreachable conclusions, fragments adrift without context.  

This mental monotony shattered when she heard — her ears still sensitive since Gwi-ma’s defeat — the sound of the door opening. Zoey bustled in, chatting animatedly on her phone. She seemed utterly absorbed until she tapped the virtual "hang up" button, a silly laugh escaping her smiling lips.  

"I have GREAT NEWS!! —" She cut herself off, sweeping a quick glance around the room. "— IT’S FOR YOU TOO, MIRAA!"  

A grunt, almost a growl, rumbled from the choreographer’s bedroom. The door creaked open, revealing Mira craning her neck into the hallway. Her signature hairstyle was absent, but her expression radiated pure disgust for existence. "What’s up? It’s seven in the morning, damn it!" The taller woman was decidedly not a friend of daylight.  

Zoey ignored the complaint and flopped onto the sofa beside Rumi, who flinched as the maknae’s weight jolted the cushions.  

“…Hm… so?” Rumi asked, delicate as ever but firm. She couldn’t help feeling her curiosity prickle her translucent demonic marks, which traced paths across her body. As they waited for Zoey’s reply, Mira herself sank onto the opposite end of the sofa — both older members now watching Zoey, who drummed out quick, silent claps.  

“I convinced Celine to stop being stubborn and give us a week at the Jeju house!” Ever since Rumi’s fateful request to Celine… the two had drifted apart.  

Rebuilding trust had been difficult, and honestly, they still felt distant. It hurt to lose the only near-maternal bond she’d ever known, but at least things were stable now. The others had forgiven Celine too — after Mira nearly sliced her in half with her guan dao. But hey, anger happens!  

“Okay, but why did you do this, specifically?” Mira asked, crossing her arms. She looked more confused now than before hearing the news.  

“So we can relax surrounded by nature… y’know, where we trained? Where we met! Reconnect, right?” Zoey spoke as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. Rumi raised a skeptical eyebrow, while Mira furrowed hers with a you’re-only-not-weird-because-your-cuteness-compensates glare.  

“…I dunno, it seems… unnecessary? We’re fine here at home. Why go all the way to—” Rumi’s protest died under the lyricist’s pleading gaze — those huge, shimmering eyes. Damn it. Her heart couldn’t resist. Sighing in surrender, she relented: “—Okay. One week, right? Fine… I guess it’s… possible.”  

Zoey shrieked with joy, leaping up and bouncing on her toes. Mira rolled her eyes and melted deeper into the couch in mock fury. But it didn’t last. Soon, all three were inexplicably buzzing with excitement. The maknae’s enthusiasm really was contagious. 

• ★ •

The trip to the property was peaceful. Zoey seized the chance to sleep, Mira read about fashion, and Rumi… well… remained in her near-contemplative state. Her gaze stayed fixed on the window, watching urban sprawl give way to green flora, the soft sounds of fauna, and natural light.  

She grew up here, didn’t she? How could she forget. Celine always insisted it was better there — away from big cities, on their own land. A half-demon child like Rumi wouldn’t need intense stimuli in her youth during the 2000s, right? Whatever the reason, these were her memories. Not just in her mind now, but embodied in three dimensions, stitched together by time.  

Despite the scars she carried, the resentment she’d nursed, her heart whispered a melody that could tremble in her Honmoon strings — this is home.  

Bobby drove them. The manager couldn’t have been more kind or attentive. Since the Idol Awards events, he’d become fiercely protective of Huntrix. Nothing else would ever hurt his girls’ morale again! The car parked, and the three stepped out. After a brief, warm goodbye…  

"Call me if you need anything! Mrs. Celine isn’t here, so it’s just you three…" Bobby’s eyes held a fraternal gleam before he finally broke contact and drove off, leaving the property behind.  

They watched the car vanish, then turned to face the house: moss-crusted stone walls, a small water fountain… a tiny shrine and a storage shed. The nostalgia was overwhelming…  

"Now that we’re here… I CALL THE BIGGEST ROOM!" Zoey yelled, sprinting ahead like an overexcited brat. Mira’s face twisted into an almost sadistic smile.  

"Think again, pest!" The tallest took off after her.  

Rumi merely watched. How could they be so carefree? How could they not feel it — that mute sound when you enter a home you’ve never made peace with? 

Her footsteps were slow — deliberately slow. Her gaze lingered more on the damp grass beneath her feet than on the house itself. As she climbed the few wooden steps, suitcase in hand, she inhaled. The moist air, the herbal scent… it soothed her senses just enough to suppress the tears threatening to surface.  

She chose a room — her childhood room — and a soft smile touched her lips when she saw it remained almost unchanged since she’d left. The familiarity eased her nerves. Celine cared enough to preserve it. That alone eased the sting of feeling discarded.  

Afternoon faded, and night fell swiftly. The three sat outside with ramyeon cups, watching stars pierce the sky as cicadas hummed. Zoey couldn’t ignore how downcast her unnie seemed. Gently, she touched Rumi’s shoulder.  

Rumi flinched, blinking rapidly before meeting the black-haired girl’s eyes. "Wh-what is it?"  

"You’ve been… distant. Did something happen?" Zoey asked. Words caught in Rumi’s throat. The automatic reply — I’m fine — rose, then died. Seeing the concern in both girls’ eyes… her heart ached to be honest. She’d lied so much already. She couldn’t bear another.  

"...Doesn’t it feel…wrong being here?" The purple-haired girl whispered, her voice frail, stripped of its usual strength.  

"Wrong? Rumi, how? If you were uncomfortable, you should’ve said before we came!" Zoey protested. Mira chimed in, uncharacteristically trying to lighten the mood:  

"Yeah. If we indulged all Zoey’s ideas, we’d have a turtle aquarium in our penthouse by now." The maknae shot her a glare, puffing her cheeks. Rumi managed a faint chuckle, pulling both gazes back to her.  

"It’s not that… I do want to be here! I grew up here! But it feels… unjust? Invasive? Ugh! I just — can’t explain it." Emotions warred on her face — anger, fear. She gripped her temples, curling inward as translucent marks glowed soft pink — the distorted hue they knew signaled Rumi’s deepest distress.  

Her teammates pulled her into an embrace. Mira pressed a kiss to her crown.  

"Hey… don’t overthink it," Zoey murmured, rubbing Rumi’s back. "You belong here. Just breathe." She brightened suddenly. "Let’s finish eating and… watch cat videos! You love cats — it’s perfect!"  

Rumi’s lips quirked at the suggestion. Mira rolled her eyes in false disdain—though beneath it flickered gratitude for Zoey’s effort. Fine, Rumi thought. This is okay. Anything was better than drowning in the past alone.  

• ★ •

It was their first morning at the house. Mira and Zoey left early to hunt for insects — yes, insects. Zoey harbored an almost plague-like passion for local fauna, and this was peak season to witness swarming hatchlings. Deep down, Mira felt a mix of disgust and fear toward bugs — but she’d never admit it aloud…  

Meanwhile, Rumi stayed behind. Though she shared some of Zoey’s curiosity, she needed space for something… heavier.  

She wandered the halls with the familiarity only a childhood home grants — ironic, since she now wielded that same intimacy to enter a place where she’d never felt welcome.  

There it was: the small room Celine used as a shrine to her mother’s belongings. Celine had raised her, but always more for Mi-yeong’s sake than Rumi’s own. She didn’t blame her; it was the least her guardian could do for someone as precious as Mi-ya.  

Rumi had never entered, always hiding behind her demonic heritage. But now, with no more secrets left to shield… shouldn’t her late mother’s truths be unveiled too? Celine might rage later, but that was Future Rumi’s burden.  

She opened the door. Dust layered the surfaces, yet no decay or neglect tainted the air — someone had cared meticulously.  

Shelves lined two walls, crammed with her mother’s life. Rumi began sifting through memories: photos of the Sunlight Sisters — Celine, Mi-yeong, and their third member — both legendary demon hunters and the greatest K-pop group of their era… a poster dominating the wall, Mi-ya radiant at its center. Rumi smiled, love and sorrow braiding tight as she hugged the faded image, a tear slipping down her cheek.  

Her fingers brushed a neglected box tucked beneath the lowest shelf. She knelt, lifting its surprising weight. Inside lay stacks of tapes, CDs, albums, and letters — but her gaze snagged first on a loose photo resting atop them:  

Ryu Mi-yeong at Han River Park, pregnant beneath a charming sunhat. But what stole Rumi’s breath wasn’t just her mother—it was the man beside her. Tall, powerfully built yet relaxed, his careful arm circling Mi-yeong’s waist. His features mirrored Rumi’s: calm brown eyes, the same striking purple hair cropped short and rebelliously styled, paired with a tacky goatee and a goofy smile.  

…Was this her father?

Chapter Text

Her breath hitched. How… how? Celine always told her there was nothing to say about her father — that he was a monster, a violation against her mother, that everything was unplanned. 

Then what did this mean? What was this photo?  

She gripped the picture with both hands, trembling. The man looked so much like her…too much. It struck her instantly — she wasn’t as similar to her mother as she’d believed. Was this why Celine’s gaze hardened when she stared at her? Seeing his face was like seeing Rumi’s. But what the hell? They looked so happy. Her mother’s smile was radiant, his protective arm wrapped around her. Anyone would see a normal, joyful couple. No one could guess the tragedy lurking beneath — the brutal truths etched in the Honmoon’s cruel lines.  

Hesitantly, she turned to the box. Inside lay stacks of VHS tapes, floppy disks, CDs — relics of an era so distant, yet achingly genuine. A short, hollow laugh escaped her. Nothing here was funny. Only tragic. Beneath the bundled letters, she found envelopes:  

Valentines, birthdays, New Year’s Eve cards… Every silly occasion became an excuse for notes and trinkets — a purple pom-pom keychain, red-lensed men’s sunglasses. She lifted one letter. The handwriting felt… ancient. Like museum scrolls she’d seen in Jinu invitations . Her father’s hand? 

"Happy 3rd Anniversary, Mi-ya! Who says men can’t remember dates? Every day with you makes fighting my worst self worth it — just to let the best of us bloom.

May we grow, in our own way, through love. It’s all we have left in the end.

Your awkward boyfriend, Yáng Shànghuī”

Her heart skipped. A sob clawed up her throat as her gums prickled near her fangs. So this was how they spoke? This was his name — Chinese? Questions swarmed her mind. A growl built in her throat. It felt unreal…a dissonant chord against everything she’d been taught. But here it was. The truth — raw and undeniable. And the sweeter it felt… the deeper it cut.  

She set the box down with ceremonial care — a stark contrast to the emotional chaos reverberating in her core. Her hands clenched into fists almost instantly, and she felt, with a tremor of fear, nails longer than normal biting into her thin-skinned palms. She stared at the box again. Those VHS tapes and CDs… she’d need players for them. She scoured the room but found nothing. Maybe the nearby village would have some? Someone must still own these relics, or adapters for computers.  

She left the room in quick strides. Her focus was sharp, propelled not by coherent thought but by explosions of energy surging through her body — so violent they threatened to tear through muscle and skin. But who cared? She felt closer than ever… so close to the people and truths she’d never truly known.  

Rain fell now. Her traditional braid — usually so meticulously styled — had loosened, its ends plastered against her back like her soul tangled in her thoughts. She didn’t grab a raincoat or umbrella. She didn’t care about the soaking. Nothing mattered — except the killing curiosity demanding she finally define where she belonged. To find her place… it felt both near and eternally distant in her fractured existence.  

She raced down the cushioned path until her feet hit the dirt road connecting the isolated property to Jeju’s nearest village. The sunny day had turned cloud-heavy and wet — maybe Mira and Zoey were heading back now, giving up their insect hunt — but… fuck it. Her strides were unnaturally swift, like a starving stray hunting through trash, desperate for scraps to soothe its sudden hunger.  

She descended the hill, the slope doing nothing to disrupt her perfectly steady breath — a dissonant calm against the storm inside her. A golden gleam settled in her left eye as she reached the village sidewalks.  

• ★ •

Zoey was beaming, while Mira wore a small, almost shy smile. It had been a perfect morning — even cut short by the sudden downpour.  

“Your face when that butterfly landed on your shoulder?!” Zoey burst out, tears of laughter glistening in her eyes. “Priceless! You looked like you’d seen a ghost — and we literally hunt demons! Hahaha!” She doubled over again, pointing at the taller woman. Mira growled softly and swatted Zoey’s hand away.  

“Hmph. I was just… keeping my guard up. That’s all,” the redhead retorted, her irritation clearly feigned. The joy outweighed any momentary annoyance.  

“Well, we got amazing photos anyway! Can’t wait to show Rumi — and some were soooo pretty, right?! Imagine using them for, like… A CONCERT THEME?! OH MY GOD, I CAN SEE IT NOW!” Zoey bounced with excitement until Mira pulled her close, kissing her cheek. The rapper quieted, giggling softly. “Okay, okay… I get it.”  

“They were beautiful,” Mira conceded, and they fell into comfortable silence, the rain’s gentle patter a backdrop to their warmth.  

But as they neared the house, they froze: every light was off. The front door hung open like a wound.  

Wrong. Rumi hated darkness — even passing clouds made her flick lights on. And leaving the door unsecured? Unthinkable. They exchanged a glance and rushed inside. Empty. Rumi was gone.  

Panic seized them. Their leader was responsible, steady — but they knew her volatility. How she’d vanish, wander, suffer alone…  

“W-we have to find her! Where would she go?!” Mira’s voice cracked as she turned to Zoey.  

“I don’t know! Maybe down the hill? She knows this place better than we—”  

“That’s what terrifies me!” Mira’s pupils shrank to small black points in the brown immensity of her gaze. “Why did you push for this?! You know it’s not safe for her here!”  

“Don’t blame me! I just wanted us to bond! To have fun!”  

Their voices rose, sharp and desperate, blurring the world — until lightning split the sky.  

A silhouette filled the doorway.  

One eye blazed gold, its pupil a needle-thin slit. They recoiled, the strangeness of the silhouette freezing them for a split second — until recognition dawned. Rumi.  

Both sprinted toward her. She stood drenched, clutching something bundled in waterproof tarp. Her expression was utterly blank — no muscle twitched in tension or relief. Not even her eyelids fluttered. Her braid had fully unraveled, the purple strands plastered down her back like a veil of bruised twilight heralding night's approach.  

Zoey scrambled for a towel, draping it over Rumi’s shoulders and pulling her close.  

“Where were you? Y-you’re soaked through!” The black-haired girl’s voice trembled with worry and dread.  

Mira reached for the wrapped object in Rumi’s grip — but the leader reflexively jerked it tighter against herself. The redhead drew a steadying breath. Not the time for sarcasm. Or fury. “Rumi… I won’t take it. Just let go… and breathe.”  

Rumi’s brown eye finally focused. Slowly, mechanically, she peeled back the tarp’s edge.  

Not food. Nothing you'd expect Rumi to buy.  

A vintage VCR, its plastic casing yellowed with age. A stack of CD-ROM drives, cables coiled like vipers. A power strip, crusted with mud.  

Zoey frowned. “What… are these?”  

“Keys,” Rumi rasped. Her voice sounded scraped raw. “To locks she built.”  

Mira’s gaze snapped to Rumi’s face — to the golden eye still burning with borrowed hellfire. She understood instantly: While looking for Rumi, they had seen the room for Mi-yeong open…Celine’s sealed history.  

“You went to the village… for tech?” Mira’s disbelief curdled into dread. “Rumi — those tapes could be anything. Censored hunts. Classified deaths. Things that could —”  

“Ruin me?” Rumi laughed — a hollow, cracking sound. “What’s left to ruin, Mira?” She hefted the bundle, the cables slithering against the tarp. “I need to see their faces. Hear their voices. Before she… before I…”  The sentence died. Her knees gave way.  

Zoey caught her, the bundled tech thudding to the floorboards. “Okay. Okay Unnie…We’ll watch them.” She gripped Rumi’s icy hands. “Together.”  

Mira stared at the fallen VCR. A decade of dust shook loose from its vents. “Are you...sure this will work?”

“I don't know...but what am I sure of now?" Rumi asked, the words coming dry from her throat. "all that...what's left for me to do is try! It's my only way to find out the truth…”

Zoey and Mira looked at each other, but took a deep breath and gave in. There was no way to compete with a bleeding heart that was seeking its salvation — or damnation. 

• ★ • 

They cleaned everything carefully — as well as they could manage. They connected all the cables and wiring. Mira, surprisingly skilled with technology and hardware, made it work.  

“Phew… all done,” the tallest said, standing up from the organized mess of wires supporting the system that could now supposedly play the old tapes and CDs.  

They saw that the tapes and CDs started with September 4, 2002.  

Rumi leaned over and placed the first tape into the player. The tape unwound. It took a while to adjust, but she persisted until sound began to emit from the connected TV — it was working!  

The three sat in front of the TV, eyes fixed on the large OLED screen — especially Rumi. 

(“Is it recording?” A sweet female voice asked between laughter and the sound of barking.) 

(“Hold on! I’m no good with these things, damn it!” Now a deeper, animated male voice. A slight foreign accent, reminiscent of how eastern Chinese speakers might speak Korean after much practice — almost perfect. “Oh, I think it’s on! Yes! IT’S ON!!”) 

(The image then appeared. It showed a room where Mi-yeong sat, her belly visibly pregnant — though not far along given its size. Beside her, an elderly small dog lay with its head in her lap. She laughed again as footsteps moved away from the camera, until finally the person’s full body came into frame.)

(It was the same man from the photo. He sat beside the woman with long, braided black hair and wrapped his arm around her waist, kissing her cheek playfully. Mi-ya laughed, giving his chest a light swat to push him away — which only made him laugh too. She whispered something to him before their attention returned to the camera.)

(“This is our pregnancy diary… for you,”) the serene-faced woman said, her hand resting gently on her belly.  

(“Yeah… your mom loves cameras and attention. By the time you see this, you’ll already know that,”) the man teased, earning a soft elbow nudge from his partner.)

(“Huī! Stop that… don’t put silly ideas in our child’s head!” She rolled her eyes as he stuck out his tongue, scratching the dog between them.)

(“Oh please. Whatever they’re like, I’ll train them to be a great jokester, got it?” He glanced at Mi-ya’s stomach before looking back at the camera.)

(“Mmhm… sure, sure,” Mi-ya breathed deeply. “We made this so… no matter what you feel, whenever… you’ll know you were loved from the start.”)  

(“Yeah… whether you’re big or small… chubby or skinny… sharp or slow… sporty or book-smart… down-to-earth or a dreamer…” Huī’s voice softened, turning compassionate. “Even if you’re… different. Just know you matter, okay? We’ll always be with you. Always.”)

The tape ended abruptly. Just a short introduction — yet enough to shatter the three watching it.  

Mira and Zoey sat stunned. It was so sudden, so…loving. They’d never imagined Mi-ya — a demon hunter — looking so content with a man who might be a demon.  

The purple-haired girl, however, sat paralyzed. Only her translucent marks glowed soft blue, her other demonic features vanished. But anguish — hell-worthy sorrow — clawed at her heart.  

Her bandmates noticed. They pulled Rumi into a hug — a cocoon of warmth, like blankets wrapped around a sick child. The medium-height girl collapsed. Silently, as if the world had muted her. Yet her tears roared louder than crashing waves.  

“...Rumi…you— ” Mira began, her low tone rougher than usual yet threaded with unexpected tenderness — until Rumi cut her off.  

“...Celine never showed me…this.” Her voice was a frayed rope. She sat with hands locked over her thighs in a violent grip, eyes bleached by tears but still fixed on the TV’s empty screen.  

“Maybe she just… she…” Zoey fumbled for an excuse, but no justification fit. Not when the truth made Rumi’s entire life feel crueler than it already was.  

“Maybe. What?” The words slashed colder than she’d ever spoken. Neither Zoey nor Mira dared argue further. Against the conclusions crystallizing in the half-demon’s mind — whatever those thoughts might be — they had no defense. 

• ★ •

The following days unfolded similarly. Rumi spent most hours watching and rewatching recordings of her mother with her father, sometimes just her mother with the other Sunlight Sisters.  

(“Y’know, I think your mom’s the best dancer in the group — really lives up to her position!” The purple-haired man spoke from the recording, lounging on a sofa. He radiated calm, relaxed energy — a himbo’s vibe? He had his charm.) 

(“Oh, darling, don’t exaggerate,” the woman beside him replied, her hand tracing the now-significant curve of her belly, expression peaceful.) 

(“Just telling the truth!” Huī exclaimed with theatrical flair, flashing a grin — golden glints in his eyes, pointed fangs glinting. “—and she sings better than Celine, hmm?” His whisper made Mi-ya gasp, then burst into laughter.)  

Rumi chuckled softly too. She’d learned so much: Her mother was calm, centered, quick-witted, and optimistic. Her father was playful, loved sports, and always cracked dumb jokes. They’d met after a Sunlight Sisters concert where Shànghuī worked security.  

About him being a demon? None of the tapes mentioned it outright — but it was obvious. From his occasional visible marks beneath his shirt to those sharp fangs.  

The Huntrix vocalist was pulled from her thoughts by approaching footsteps. Mira stood there holding a bowl of dak kalguksu. She set it on the coffee table and handed Rumi chopsticks and a spoon.  

“You haven’t eaten today… You can’t neglect yourself,” Mira said firmly — not scolding, but anxious concern.  

Rumi eyed the soup. It smelled good, but hunger felt distant. Still, she lifted a noodle to her lips. “Thanks… I’m just… not really hungry.”  

The redhead sighed and sat beside her, watching Rumi eat slowly. She glanced at the paused recording on screen. “They seem… really nice, huh?” Her tone aimed for lightness but carried a pang of envy.  

“Yeah… they were…” Rumi stirred the broth absently. “...If they were so happy… why did she tell me that?”  

“Rumi… I know seeing this means a lot to you — and I’m not judging! But… you can’t define their whole relationship from clips— ” Mira gently touched Rumi’s shoulder. The purple-haired girl flinched, brows furrowing.  

“Then what should I do, huh?? Believe Celine?? Believe I’m just a mistake?? That I’m—I’m—” Words died in her throat. Anger and grief warred equally, paralyzing her voice. She craved silence — yet foolishly drowned herself in noise. Mira touched her again. This time, Rumi didn’t pull away. She allowed the comfort — a small refuge from her own stubborn pride.  

“I know this matters… and it’s good you’re seeing you’re not what Celine claimed… but don’t lose yourself in expectations.” The choreographer’s voice held the exact wisdom Rumi needed. “And even if you are…anyway… Zoey and I will always love you. Always…” She leaned in, kissing Rumi softly. The leader accepted it, their lips meeting tenderly.  

Their relationship was still new, undefined. Zoey and Mira had been lovers for years…but with Rumi opening up, she was being drawn into their orbit. And maybe her father was right:  

Love is all we have left in the end.

Chapter Text

(The setting was a recording studio, decked in quintessential 2000s decor. Mi-ya toyed with a nearby microphone, perched on a chair. Huī sat opposite her, his hair slightly longer than in earlier tapes. They laughed easily, relaxed and playful — until the camera’s audio clicked on, and they shifted into frame with practiced comfort.)

(" —How we met? Well… you could say it was almost… ordinary. Especially for us." The woman grinned at her partner, eyes sparkling.)

("Yeah… I’ve always liked odd jobs. Too old to care what my ‘grumpy, powerful big boss’ wants, y’know? That night, I was working security… easy chance to attack? Maybe. But I was too tired to bother." He adjusted restlessly in his chair, as if reliving the moment.)

("I was heading backstage when I saw this tall and strong guy with weird posture. Thought, ‘No way he’d strike here, surrounded by people?’ I approached, already planning how to" — she mimed thrusting a blade — "take him down." Huī just laughed.)

("See? Your mom’s insane! But what hunter isn’t? You’re all weirdos — and you call us monsters!")

("Excuse me?? It’s our job. Not my fault you chose to be the goofiest around! You're irresponsible even trying to stay alive!")

("Hey, it worked, didn’t it? Look where I am now!" Mi-ya rolled her eyes.)

("Anyway… your dad dodged me. Guess he likes taunting death? He kept showing up at my gigs — weirder jobs each time. I’d strike… he’d vanish.")

("Truth is… I made excuses to see her." Shànghuī’s voice softened. "Can’t blame me. Mi-yeong’s too beautiful." He said it like simple fact. “One meet-up led to another… We had our first date at a hanok village shrine in Seoul. No weapons, no anger, just to talk”)

("And now… here we are. With you." Mi-ya rested a hand on her belly — roughly seven months along.)

("Yeah…" Huī leaned close, his palm covering hers. "Having you… and our little Rumi—" His gaze flickered to the camera, then back to Mi-ya. "—is the greatest thing that’s ever happened to me.")

• FB: S •

The damp grass blades tangled between her fingers, cool and grounding. Her gaze remained stubbornly fixed downward — on the soil, the earth, the only elements that felt truly solid beneath her. Even as a child, when the suffocating weight of her legacy — her sin, not of deeds committed but of blood inherited — threatened to buckle her small shoulders, it was the earth that held her upright.  

“—Do you understand me clearly, Rumi?” Celine’s voice sliced through the girl’s thoughts, wrenching the teenager from her momentary refuge.  

“Y-yes, Celine,” she stammered. The hesitation in her voice drew a slow, deliberate blink from the older woman, her expression sharpening into something between scrutiny and icy satisfaction.  

“Do not stutter. It reflects poorly. Conceal the marks. Conceal any… unnatural manifestations. You must set the standard. This is the purpose for which I raised you. Understood?”

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Good.” Celine stepped smoothly beside her — then deliberately positioned herself one pace ahead. Not as a guide leading forward, but as a barrier, a containment.  

The door opened. Two girls entered:  

The first stood noticeably taller than Rumi, slender to the point of sharpness. Her features held a vulpine precision — high cheekbones, a keen gaze. Her salmon-pink hair was gathered into two neat high pigtails, the rest cascading loose except for two artfully arranged front strands framing her sculpted face.  

The second girl was petite, her build delicate yet softly curved like an oil-pastel drawing. Her large, luminous eyes held a warm olive-brown hue, perfectly complementing the scatter of freckles across her nose and cheeks. Jet-black hair was tied into two low buns, her blunt-cut fringe uneven — as if she’d chopped it herself.  

Celine’s impassive mask dissolved instantly into a polished smile — a weapon honed over relentless years. Rumi mirrored it reflexively. Do not falter. Do not let the bitterness surface. Not here. Not before these girls who would become her teammates. Not before those she was destined to lead.  

The older woman stepped forward, placing herself squarely between the two newcomers and the half-demon she privately…Well, that doesn't matter, right? She extended her hands in a shallow, formal bow. The girls returned it precisely.  

“Zoey…” Celine’s voice softened artificially as she addressed the shorter girl with the dark buns and freckles.

“…and Mira.” Her focus shifted to the fierce-featured redhead. “You have passed the final selection trials. From today, you will train alongside her—” a slight gesture toward Rumi, “—your sunbae, Rumi.”

She stepped aside.  

The three teenagers stood facing each other. Nervous energy thickened the air. A heavy silence descended, each girl mute for reasons hidden deep within herself — reasons the others could not yet begin to grasp. 

• ★ •

The training sessions during those first weeks were catastrophic. Flimsy strikes, directionless falls. All three girls were over fourteen, yet Celine seemed to prefer training children over them.  

Zoey possessed not a shred of confidence. She’d apologize after every remotely aggressive strike, perpetually terrified of making mistakes. She sought Celine’s approval for every pivot, every step.  

Mira was the opposite. She refused to acknowledge any error — even when her attack forms or dance moves threatened to dislocate joints or snap tendons.  

Rumi? She was technically the strongest, but it felt hollow. The girl moved with hesitation, haunted by the fear of her own existence. She operated like a detached limb — present but disconnected. Their souls couldn’t synchronize. The former hunter knew this was partly her fault; she’d raised Rumi in isolation, with apathy as her teacher. But it was the price paid for being born half-demon.  

Celine dragged a heavy hand down her face, a frustrated groan escaping her lips. She raised her palm. Rumi and Zoey froze mid-strike. Mira kept pummeling the training dummy until, eventually, she too stilled.  

“...Something wrong?” Rumi asked. She knew Celine’s expressions too well; the question was rhetorical.  

“Yes.” The woman strode toward them, resting a hand on Mira’s shoulder — the redhead still heaving from brutalizing the dummy. “You three… are too disconnected to train effectively. You must… learn to coexist. The failure is mine — I assumed it would work organically. So, we change the regimen.”  

“H-how?” Zoey whispered, bracing for punishment.  

“We start simply: you’ll keep your private rooms for now… but from today, you sleep together. Eat together. Spend all non-training hours together.”  

To Zoey, it sounded ordinary.  

To Rumi, it felt like a sentence.  

To Mira, it was absurd. 

“Huh?! Hold on! I’m not sacrificing my peace in this fucking hanok hellhole to bunk with Miss Bouncy-Happy and Purple-Hair Weirdo! Bullshit!” Mira shoved the dummy aside, surging to her feet.  

“Language, Mira.” Celine stepped closer, her stare impaling the girl’s fury. “This isn’t optional. You’re a trio now. The Honmoon demands it. You’ve been intertwined since birth — and you’ll stay that way until death. No arguments.” She pointed toward the house, tone glacial. “Move your belongings. Now.”  

Zoey went first — a genuine smile touching her lips for the first time in weeks. Mira rolled her eyes, lingered in defiance, then trudged after her. Rumi trailed last. Celine seized her shoulder from behind — not gently, but with grim urgency.  

“This too is training, girl. Hide. Don’t let them see you. Don’t fail.”  

Rumi’s throat tightened. She nodded.  

Celine released her, wiping her palm on her shirt — as if scrubbing off filth. 

• ★ •

“Well, guess we’re officially roommates!!” Zoey’s voice bubbled like spring water, her eyes refracting the low lamplight as they darted between Mira’s stony profile and Rumi’s rigid posture near the hanok’s paper door. Mira didn’t glance up from sharpening her practice knives. Her expression was carved granite — boredom etched into the set of her jaw, disgust in the downward tug of her lips.  

Rumi stood statue-still near the window, moonlight catching the violet strands of her braid. She looked like a child left clutching a grocery cart in a fluorescent-lit aisle — small, exposed, braced for a scolding that never came. The imminence of disaster hung on her like damp silk.  

“Ugh, whatever.” Mira’s whetstone scraped steel, a grating counterpoint. “Why’re you shrieking? It’s four walls and three beds. Not a theme park.”  

“Because it’s special!” Zoey pressed, undeterred, twisting the hem of her oversized sleep shirt. “Roommates share secrets! Do each other’s hair! When I was at the international program in—”  

“—Burbank. Yeah, yeah.” Mira slammed the knife down. “We know. Little Miss California rolls deep. Spare us the brochure.” Her eye-roll was so violent Rumi half-expected a tendon to snap.  

“...Burbank wasn’t boarding, but…” Zoey’s voice shriveled, the light in her eyes dimming like a guttered candle. Mira’s disdain was a physical weight. “...it’s just… it could be nice? Rumi?”  

The name hooked into Rumi’s consciousness, yanking her from the suffocating echo of Celine’s command: Hide. Don’t let them see. Don’t fail. The damp grass of the training yard, the phantom pressure of Celine’s grip on her shoulder — it all crowded her vision, leaving Zoey’s hopeful face blurred.  

“S-sure.” The word scraped her throat raw. “Of course.” Flat. Weightless. A leaf tossed onto the pavement.  

Mira shoved herself upright, the futon creaking protest. “Done. Daydream with Lavender Lunatic over there. I’m getting transferred.” She snatched noise-canceling headphones, drowning the room in distorted bass before slumping into her corner, a fortress of coiled tension and angry synth beats.  

Zoey flinched as if struck. The air thickened, pressing down. Her lower lip trembled, a traitorous wobble. Tears welled, hot and insistent.

Don’t. Not here. Not night one. 

Weak. 

Pathetic. 

They’ll send you back—

Warmth. Roughness. Pressure.  

A hand closed gently around her forearm. Larger than hers. Calloused palms whispering of relentless training, taut bowstrings, the grip of a sword hilt. Yet the touch was deliberate. Careful.  

Rumi had crossed the room. She knelt before Zoey, the moonlight catching the unexpected softness in eyes usually shuttered like fortress gates. A fracture in the ice.  

“Hey.” Rumi’s voice was low, a vibration felt more than heard beneath Mira’s sonic barrage. “Look at me.” Her gaze was an anchor in the sudden, silent storm of Zoey’s panic.  

“...b-but she hates —” Zoey choked, a tear escaping, tracing a hot path down her freckled cheek.  

“She doesn’t have to like the room.” Rumi’s thumb brushed Zoey’s wrist, a fleeting, grounding stroke. “You can like it. It’s okay to want… nice things.” A pause, fragile as rice paper. “And we will have fun. Learn secrets. Become…” She searched for the word, unfamiliar on her tongue, “…best friends. Yeah?”  

Zoey stared. False comfort she knew — plastic smiles, brittle reassurances that crumbled under pressure. This… this touch, this quiet intensity in Rumi’s usually guarded eyes… it felt durable. Real. A fragile bud of trust unfurled beneath the rough hand. Another tear fell, but this time, it birthed a smile — wide, toothless, utterly vulnerable, lighting her face like dawn.  

A soft puff of air escaped Rumi — almost a laugh. Surprised. Warm. “Good. Sleep now. Tomorrow…” A ghost of her own smile touched her lips. “…we plan…friend things.” Strategy. Something she understood.  

“Yes! Absolutely!” Zoey bounced up, the despair sloughed off like an old coat. She executed a quick, flustered bow. “Goodnight, Rumi!~” She scrambled into her futon, burrowing under the quilt, her breathing deepening into sleep’s rhythm within minutes.  

Rumi remained kneeling. Only when Zoey’s breaths were steady, only when Mira’s headphones emitted a faint, rhythmic thump-thump-thump, did she finally exhale. A long, silent release, expelling the specter of Celine’s expectations, the phantom sting of rejection, the gnawing fear of exposure.  

No tremors. No missteps. No weakness. 

The hunter’s creed solidified within her, cold and hard. She would be this pillar. This unwavering strength. For Zoey’s fragile hope. For the unit’s survival. For the Honmoon binding them.  

She would build towering columns of resilience. Even if the ground beneath was nothing but the crumbling bedrock of her own fractured self. 

• ★ •

The three stood rigid before Celine, awaiting orders in the cavernous training hall. The silence hummed with tension. Mira spun a throwing knife across her knuckles — shink, shink, shink — the blade catching slivers of fluorescent light. Zoey leaned forward slightly, eyes darting between the whirling steel and Mira’s impassive face.  

“You could… maybe put those away?” Zoey whispered, voice feather-light.  

Mira’s hand snapped shut, catching the blade mid-air. Her smile was a predator’s flash of teeth. “Want me to test its balance? On you?” Zoey flinched backward, colliding with Rumi’s shoulder. Mira chuckled, low and grating, resuming her lethal fidgeting.  

Celine observed them, a leaden weight settling in her chest. Dissonant. Fractured. No hunter cadre she’d known — not even the volatile Sunlight Sisters — felt this fundamentally misaligned. They were three shattered notes refusing a chord.  

“—Are we just decorative? Or do you actually have—” Mira’s complaint sliced the air, sharp as her blades.  

“Idol training begins today.” Celine’s voice, cool and precise, cut her off. “I’ve secured instructors. Vocal coaches. Choreographers. Trusted professionals.” She paused, watching Mira’s fingers still around the knife hilt. “Your regimen splits now: mornings for the fight and hunts, afternoons for the stage. Salon Three. Now.”  

A swift, synchronized bow. Mira moved first — a rare, almost imperceptible lightness in her step.  

“...Rumi?” Zoey murmured as they navigated the polished corridors, her gaze fixed on Mira’s retreating back. “She seems… different. Excited?”  

“Hm?” Rumi pulled her focus from Celine’s retreating silhouette. “Oh. Dance, maybe? Do you enjoy it?”  

“Love it!” Zoey’s hands fluttered like nervous sparrows. “Though I’m more ‘enthusiastic stumble’ than ‘graceful swan’...”  

“Then let’s not be late!” Rumi nudged her forward, a tentative smile touching her lips.  

The studio was a temple of mirrors and sprung floors. Warm-up stretches became tremors in overworked muscles. Breathing exercises scraped raw throats. And the dance drills — merciless, intricate, exhausting.  

All three held their ground, but Mira… Mira transcended.  

Her body wasn’t moving to the music — it was the music. Every extension was a lightning strike. Every pivot, a tectonic shift. Precision fused with ferocity. Murmurs rippled through the instructors — “Prodigy,” “Unnatural control,” “Watch the torque on that fouetté—” — but Mira existed in a vacuum of pure motion. Sweat darkened her rose-gold hairline, plastering strands to her temples. Her breaths came in sharp, controlled bursts. She wasn’t dancing. She was waging war on the empty air.  

Zoey and Rumi stood transfixed. It wasn’t skill alone — it was witnessing a supernova contained in human form. A comet tearing through atmosphere.  

When the final note faded, Mira doubled over, chest heaving. She grabbed her water bottle, gulping desperately. Footsteps approached. She straightened, eyes narrowing.  

“What? Come to gloat while I’m winded?”  

Zoey retreated half a step. Rumi’s hand closed around her wrist — an anchor.  

“You…” Zoey swallowed, finding steel beneath the awe. “You dance like… like fire given bones. I’ve never seen anything like it.”  

Mira’s laugh was brittle. “Save the sarcasm. We aren’t friends.”  

“It’s not sarcasm.” Zoey stepped forward, voice dropping, stripping away all uncertainty. “It’s awe. You’re…fantastic!”  

Silence. Mira lowered the bottle. Her gaze — usually dismissive, predatory — flickered with something raw. Disbelief?  

“She’s right,” Rumi added softly. “You pulled every eye. Even the instructors forgot to critique.”  

A faint, impossible flush crept up Mira’s neck. She jammed her hands into her pockets, shoulders rigid. “...Thanks?” The word sounded alien on her tongue. She wrestled with herself, the silence stretching taut.

Finally, gruffness masking vulnerability: “You… eh…Zoey? Yeah, you’re messy. Wild. Like a puppy chasing leaves.” A beat. “But… you feel it. The music. Right here.” A calloused knuckle tapped her own sternum. “That… matters more than clean lines.”  

Zoey’s eyes widened — not at the backhanded compliment, but at the effort. Mira had met sincerity with… something not cruel.  

Rumi drifted back, a quiet warmth blooming beneath her ribs. Progress. Fragile, unexpected. Like finding a single, perfect bloom pushing through cracked concrete. Even a broken clock, she thought, is right twice a day. 

• ★ •

Panic lived in her bones.  

Panic at being.  

Panic at existing.  

Panic at feeling.  

Celine had sworn demons felt nothing — so why did Rumi’s mind blaze with murderous sparks, like embers catching dry tinder?  

Mira and Zoey slept nearby. This shared room wasn’t sanctuary—it was a cage. Alone, she could crumble in silence. Now? Even that was stolen. Her throat itched to scream. Gums throbbed. Hands trembled. Hunger — real hunger — gnawed at her ribs.  

Demons feast on human souls. Demons gorge on fragile, soft, succulent flesh. Was Celine naive to think Rumi wouldn’t crave the same? Or did she know fighting it was futile? This hunger wasn’t for blood — it was for peace. For tenderness. For love. It devoured the purple-haired girl from within.  

Her nails dug into her arms — deeper than human strength allowed. Deeper than any guardian of the Honmoon, any shaman-born warrior, should fathom. Nothing justified the abomination she was.  

Her breath hitched. Think happy thoughts. Light. Joy. Anything— 

“You’re the worst thing to happen to our kind. You know that, don’t you?” Celine’s voice hissed in her memory. The day her cursed origin was laid bare.  

Rumi, the half-demon.  

Rumi, the hunter who is also prey.  

Rumi, the girl whose birth killed her mother. 

Rumi, unwanted by light or darkness.  

Rumi, disposable.  

Rumi, proof even gods make mistakes.  

Tears broke free. Why did hope make the void wider? Why couldn’t she be normal? Like her mother? Like anyone?  

The Golden Honmoon was her only beacon — a dream of standing bare-armed before the world, her true voice unleashed. But until then? She was a walking error. A thinking, regretting ghost. Acting. Repenting.  

Lost in anguish, she didn’t hear the click of the light switch.  

Didn’t feel the dip in the mattress.  

Zoey and Mira sat on her bed, haloed in sudden light. No words. No judgment. Not even from Mira. Only silence — thick as a blanket. The eyes held compassion, so unknown to the hybrid, hidden and suffering in front of them.

It drowned her deeper.  

Couldn’t they see?  

Couldn’t they smell the rot in her?  

Heaven, spare them. Spare them from this wretched thing festering beside them. 

Why?  

Rumi was the worst thing that had ever happened.  

• FB: E •

Chapter Text

Her head was heavy, but it felt safe. There was something steadying in being the anchor — a place where ships made of sorrow could finally come to shore.

Rumi breathed slowly, letting that heaviness settle into Mira’s shoulder like a tired tide. The redhead ran her fingers through Rumi’s hair in slow, absent strokes, her eyes lazily following some video playing on her phone, barely paying attention. Her attention was with Rumi — it always was.

Zoey padded over to them without a word, kissed Mira softly, then sank down beside Rumi, naturally falling into place on her other side. Rumi smiled to herself. Being in the middle like this — warm, enclosed, theirs — was something she loved more than she usually let on.

“Finally settled down, huh?” Zoey said with a small grin. “You always give me crap for being obsessive, but it’s honestly so cute how you fall headfirst into something once it gets under your skin.”

A soft, scratchy laugh escaped Rumi’s throat. Her eyelids lifted, just enough to find Zoey’s face.

“Shut up… I just… wanted to know more about them. It’s… I don’t know. It’s always been there, in the back of my mind.”

“That’s fair,” Mira replied after a moment. “But, honestly? If I had the chance to not know my parents, I think I’d take it.”

Mira shifted slightly, and Zoey reached across to tap her thigh with a knowing hand.

“What?” Mira asked, arching an eyebrow.

“Mira, don’t turn this into your tragic lone wolf monologue,” Zoey said, dramatically rolling her eyes — but she leaned closer to Rumi all the same, like instinct. “Still… yeah. I think I’d do the same.”

Silence followed. Not the soft kind, but something a little jagged around the edges. Rumi felt it — that space, that discomfort. Probably her fault. Mira and Zoey were always the ones watching her closely, holding her through the darker moments, even when she didn’t ask. She should return that. She wanted to return that — offer something gentle, lift them out of it, like they always tried to do for her.

“Well… this got real bleak, huh?” she muttered, straightening a little. She reached for their hands — Mira’s on one side, Zoey’s on the other — and held them like mooring ropes. “How about we think of something to do?”

“Like what? We’re stuck in the middle of Jeju’s countryside,” Mira grumbled. “There’s nothing but trees and those nosy old ladies down in the village.”

“We could go look at the local biota!”

“Again? Seriously?” Rumi snorted. “Sometimes I swear, if we weren’t K-pop idols, you’d be off studying bugs or something.”

“Marine biology,” Zoey corrected, holding her chin up with playful pride. She went quiet for a second, thoughtful. Then her voice softened. “But… it’s true. If we weren’t idols. Or caught up in all this demon-hunting nonsense… what do you think we’d be doing right now?”

Mira and Rumi looked at each other, briefly. It wasn’t a question they asked often. Being idols — being demon hunters — had become muscle memory, like breathing or blinking. It was the shape their lives had always taken. But time would move on. They would grow older. Fade, maybe. Be worn down by an industry that prized youth like it was currency.

“Well… I guess I’d be a fashion designer, maybe a model… or something tech-related. I like that kind of stuff,” Mira said with her usual layer of disinterest, though the honesty underneath gave her away.

“Oooh, Mira as a nerd? That actually sounds kind of cool,” the maknae teased — only to be rewarded with a magnificent middle finger from Mira. Worth it. Zoey grinned like she’d won a prize. Rumi watched their exchange with something warm and peaceful sitting in her chest, even if she herself still had no clear answer.

“...I didn’t learn much as a kid beyond what I was forced to learn,” Rumi admitted quietly, her voice softer. “So I never really pictured myself doing anything else. But… I think I’d be a cook. Or something that works with your hands.”

“Wait, really? Huh. Never pictured you doing that,” Zoey blinked, clearly surprised. “I don’t know — I figured model, maybe actress?” Mira nodded along in agreement.

“Actress, maybe. Model? Not so sure. But yeah, I like working with my hands. I used to do a lot of stuff when I was bored. These days… I guess I only draw when I’ve got nothing else to do.”

“Hold on — you draw?!” Zoey and Mira said at the same time, eyes wide.

“Yeah? Why— what about it?”

“I’ve never seen you hold a pencil, like, ever,” Mira added, her voice laced with mock betrayal.

Rumi shot her a dry, almost offended look. “I just don’t draw in front of you, okay? I do it when I can’t sleep. Or something. Geez, do I really come across as that personality-less?”

“That’s not it! It’s just— come on! You should show us!” Zoey insisted, the expression on her face veering toward mock-serious. “What happened to ‘no more secrets’? Huh?”

She poked at Rumi’s ribs to tickle her, grinning wickedly.

“Hey!! Okay! Stop! I said stop—!” Rumi squirmed under the attack, laughing in protest. Zoey only let up after a few seconds. “It’s just something kinda ordinary, alright? Everyone’s got things they keep to themselves. Not everything needs a dramatic reveal!”

“Well… yeah. Rumi’s got a point,” Mira said, even as Zoey stared at her like she'd just committed high treason. "...What?” Mira asked, narrowing her eyes.

“Don’t you dare, Mira!” Zoey pointed at her, scandalized. “You didn’t say that when you told me that in high school you used to—”

The moment Zoey started that sentence, Mira's eyes widened with horror. She shot up from the couch in a panic — accidentally knocking Rumi over in the process, since she’d been leaning on Mira’s shoulder.

“OKAY, OKAY! You know what?? I would love to play a round of Yut Nori until I’ve got permanent frown lines on my forehead—”

She stormed toward the entryway, throwing on her shoes in a flurry and heading out the door. Zoey and Rumi looked at each other for a beat, then burst into laughter — falling into each other’s arms like kids trying not to fall off a seesaw.

But when they noticed that Mira was actually serious, they scramb

led to their feet and hurried after her, still giggling as they went.

• ★ •

The walk along the worn-down sidewalk, bathed in the golden hush of late afternoon, was strangely soothing. None of the three dared to break the quiet — the kind that didn’t ask to be preserved, but simply was. Their eyes drifted across the neighborhood houses, an odd but comforting blend of old-world tradition and clean-lined modernity. It grounded them in a way.

“I think I kinda get Celine now,” Zoey said, arms gesturing wide as her voice broke the silence, gently. “Like, I need modern tech to live, obviously, but look at this place. Isn’t it way prettier than those clinic-looking houses in Seoul?”

“Ugh, totally. I hate minimalism,” Mira muttered — and somehow, she was now carrying three bottles of soju in a plastic bag?

“...Mira,” Rumi blinked. “Where did those bottles come from?”

“I bought them. You seriously didn’t notice?”

“No…?” Zoey and Rumi said in unison.

“You two are hopeless. No wonder you’re the ones who always get hurt when we’re out demon hunting,” she snorted, casually swinging the bag like it didn’t contain glass and alcohol. Zoey opened her mouth to fire back — but then all three of them felt it.

It had been a long time since they’d felt that vibration — the unmistakable hum of the honmoon. But this time, it didn’t ring in that soft, holographic shimmer it had gained after Gwi-ma’s defeat. No. It glowed sickly.

A yellow-green light. Unnatural. Wrong.

“...What the hell?” Mira breathed.

Rumi was already moving, already summoning her sword without thinking — gods, it had been a while since she’d done that.

“...The honmoon was breached. But how—? Didn’t we defeat the demons?” Zoey asked aloud, voicing the question that was already forming in all their minds.

But this wasn’t the time for questions.

Rumi raised her hand in a gesture for silence. Her gaze sharpened, every nerve alert. Her senses flared — too much. Ever since she stopped suppressing the demon part of herself, things like this were changing constantly. Shifting beneath her skin. Every instinct rang louder than before, like the world itself was speaking to her.

They moved quietly, weapons drawn, feet soft on the pavement. The street was, thankfully, empty. A sound rustled from a nearby bush.

Without hesitation, Zoey threw a shin-kal — the blade zipped through the air, landing with a sharp whistle. Something yelped. The three of them stepped closer, parting the brush carefully — and froze.

She’d hit a hydropot.

“What!?” Rumi said, stunned. Mira immediately reached over and flicked Zoey on the forehead.

“See? That’s what you get! You just killed some poor creature!” Mira scolded, and Zoey pouted.

“Oh, screw off… You would've done the same thing if you used shin-kal instead of that giant woldo.”

As always, the two of them fell into their usual, pointless argument — no real malice, just noise. Familiar.

Rumi barely heard them. Something in her mind was still calculating, still stuck on the honmoon, on the feel of her blade.

“...Wait,” she said slowly, “our weapons can’t hurt things from our world…"

She didn’t finish the thought. A loud crack echoed in the air — sharp, like a bone snapping — and then it happened. The marks on her body lit up. That same sickly, yellow-green glow. Poison-colored.

Something was very, very wrong.

• ★ •

The sound of bones cracking filled the air — sharp, unnatural, too close. The three hunters froze, their spines chilled, their eyes locking onto the body of the small mammal.

Its flesh twitched — no, it quivered, like something inside was boiling. The soft brown fur of the deer began to split open along unnatural seams. A rotting stench poured out from those ruptures, the kind that clung to your throat and made your lungs recoil. Greenish pus oozed from the wounds, thick and glistening.

Mira and Zoey staggered back a step, genuine nausea rising in their throats. Zoey even gagged, pressing her wrist against her mouth.

But Rumi… Rumi smelled something else beneath the rot. Something deeper.

Not just decay. Information.

A warning carried through chemical trace, like a code written in rot.

“—GET BACK. NOW!” she shouted, her voice low but commanding. Instinct tore through her chest like lightning.

They didn’t argue. All three stepped away fast, just as the creature’s body began to thrash violently.

It was transforming.

Grotesque sounds — stretching, ripping, splintering. Muscle fibers burst apart only to stitch themselves back together in warped patterns. The ribs cracked through the skin and curved outward, forming a jagged exoskeleton. The jaw dislocated with a sickening pop to make room for a second row of teeth, along with a thick, heavy tongue that rolled out like meat.

Its horns extended, twisted into cruel spirals. Fangs grew where no fangs had been.

“What the actual fuck—?!” Mira shouted, already slipping into a combat stance. Her knuckles were white around her weapon.

The thing before them was no longer a hydropot. It was standing. A bipedal beast, stitched together like a bastard child of demon and animal, its presence so wrong it made the air hum with static. And beneath its corrupted fur — marks.

Familiar. Poison-colored. Twisting like tattooed gas across its skin.

Rumi’s own patterns burned in response. That same sickly yellow-green in the creature sparked a reaction in her — but this time, her markings flared royal blue, piercing and cold, as if needles of ice were driving straight into her muscles.

She gasped but didn’t hesitate.

She knew. Her body knew. This was no ordinary corruption.

Whatever this was… it had crossed over. And they had a world to protect. No time for hesitation.

It was time to fight.

The beast lunged.

A blur of bone, claw, and rotted sinew crashed forward like a tidal wave of instinct and malice. Its tongue snapped like a whip, aiming straight for Zoey’s head.

But the youngest hunter was faster.

Zoey ducked low, pivoted on her heel, and flung two shin-kal from her fingers in a sharp arc. They glittered midair, catching the faintest shimmer of moonlight — like throwing stars carved from constellations. One embedded into the beast’s shoulder; the other grazed its neck, hissing as it burned through corrupted fur.

The creature shrieked, a sound like both horn and scream, and spun toward her—

Only for Mira to slam into its side, woldo swinging with brutal grace.

The pastel, starlit blade carved into the monster’s flank with a silken rip, splitting muscle and ichor in a clean stroke. She twisted the weapon, forcing a spray of blackened blood across the clearing, and leapt back before its claws could retaliate.

“You good?” Mira barked to Zoey without looking.

“Pss, Yeah,” Zoey panted, already summoning another pair of shin-kal with a flick of her fingers. Her sternum glowed faintly lavender, her energy syncing with the blades as if they were extensions of breath.

Rumi moved in silence.

While the others engaged directly, she flanked the creature, feet barely whispering against the grass. Her blade — tiger-faced, wide, the tip curved like a crescent moon — glowed with a soft, dangerous light. The patterns on the metal shifted ever so subtly, as if the constellations embedded in the steel were watching.

The moment the beast tried to pivot toward Mira again, Rumi struck.

She leapt, blade overhead, and brought it down across the monster’s back in a diagonal arc. The steel sang — not with music, but with pressure, like the sigh of a thousand stars exhaling. Her sword didn’t slice; it severed. Reality itself seemed to ripple along the edge as it passed through corrupted flesh.

A demon’s roar echoed behind her as she landed.

The creature buckled, half-collapsing with a guttering scream, black ichor boiling from the wound. Its legs spasmed, twitching violently — but it wasn’t done.

It should have fallen. Instead, it morphed. Again.

The ichor around its wounds began to congeal and harden, forming crystal-like armor over its back and arms. Not divine — no, this was bastardized mimicry. A grotesque parody of the Huntrix’ own weapons, its crystal surface glittering sickly under starlight, pulsing not with magic but hunger. Rumi’s breath caught.

“…It’s copying us.”

Zoey’s shin-kal shattered against the new armor. Mira’s next strike only scraped a glowing groove across it, barely drawing blood.

“Shit—! We need to break that defense before it learns more!” Mira shouted.

Rumi’s eyes narrowed. She gripped her blade with both hands. The markings along her arms were searing now, her heartbeat pulsing in sync with the royal-blue glow. Her connection to the realms — her heritage — surged forward, demanding action.

“Push it to the center,” she said. Her voice was calm, but something ancient stirred behind it.

Mira didn’t argue. She charged again, swinging wide to herd the monster into the open.

Zoey followed from the opposite side, her shin-kal forming a glowing cage with each throw, keeping the beast penned in.

And Rumi — Rumi stepped into the starlight. Her blade lifted. The air grew colder.

The constellations on the sword brightened, aligning. The tiger faces etched beneath them opened spectral eyes.

And then— Rumi ran.

A blur of midnight blue and silver, she dashed forward and vanished, reappearing behind the creature in a single blink. Her blade flashed in a wide crescent, carving a sigil midair — one that shimmered with an ancient roar of something celestial and wild. She spoke no spell song. Her blade was the invocation.

The sigil detonated.

A burst of cold, silent force — as if a glacier had exhaled through the void of space — slammed into the creature’s exposed side. The armor cracked. Spiderweb fractures danced across its body.

Then Mira vaulted, driving her woldo into the center of that fracture with all the weight of her momentum.

The beast howled, its form spasming, cracking, unraveling.

And Zoey — brilliant, precise, furious — flicked one final shin-kal toward the center of its skull. The blade sunk deep, flaring a soft, pinkish-white light that pulsed once… and then burst inward.

The creature collapsed. Its body twitched, shuddered… and went still.

Silence fell — broken only by the ragged breaths of the three hunters, the faint glitter of their weapons dimming now that the fight was over.

But the wrongness in the air still lingered. Something had crossed the veil. And it remembered them.

• ★ •

The weapons vanished, flickering into the ether as if they'd never existed. And all three of them dropped to their knees, not from exertion — but from something deeper.

Panic had rooted itself into their minds. Not the sudden kind. The creeping, knowing kind.

“...How did you… how did you know exactly what to do?” Mira’s voice wandered, unfocused. “That mark on the sword… how—?”

“I don’t know,” Rumi cut in, raw and honest. “I just… I just knew.”

She looked down at her hands. The royal blue glow had already faded, dissolving back into the usual translucent multicolor shimmer of her marks.

“Something’s happening,” she whispered. “Something serious. And we—”

“...don’t know anything,” Zoey finished for her, dragging her fingers through her short bangs in frustration, like it might calm the storm inside. It didn’t.

Mira let out a sudden, guttural scream and collapsed backwards into the grass, fists clenched, breath ragged. The plastic bag of soju was thrown away, the bottles inside shattering uselessly a few feet away.

“Fuck! Fucking hell! Why now!? We beat Gwi-ma! We finished the honmoon! How—how is this even happening?!” Her hands gripped her face. She was trying — really trying — to keep the fury caged inside, but it was clawing to escape. “How many things don’t we know? How many times does some shit like this just happen — and no one tells us anything?!”

Rumi laid down in the grass beside her without a word. Zoey followed. There, in the false calm that always comes after chaos, they breathed.

“...His marks weren’t like Gwi-ma’s,” Rumi muttered after a moment. “But he felt like a demon.”

“I’ve never seen a demon become an animal before,” Zoey added, voice rough, laced with disbelief. “What if… there are other kinds? Or worse— other realms?”

Mira sat up a little, frowning. “Other realms?”

“I mean… the spirit world’s probably huge, right?” Zoey said. “What are the odds Gwi-ma and his demons were the only ones out there?”

“That sounds… yeah. That’s possible,” Mira agreed, her voice quieter now, lost in thought. Then: "...But if that’s true, then why didn’t we know? Why didn’t Celine say anything?”

Celine. That name alone made a low growl rise in Rumi’s throat — involuntary, instinctive. Her partners turned toward her, startled.

The frustration in her chest had been building for weeks. It boiled now, thick and bitter in her mouth. How dare she? How could Celine lie and lie and still sleep at night like nothing happened?

“...Fuck her,” Rumi said, her tone like stone. Her hand clenched into the dirt — the same ground that had always held her up. “We’ve got real problems now.” She rose to her feet slowly, shoulders squared. The leader again. “We need to train. We need to prepare. Demons, new realms — I don’t care. The mission hasn’t changed.”

Her voice burned. Righteous. Almost mythic. The others looked up at her and nodded. She was right. Whatever came next, they’d see it through — together.

For a moment, they just sat there. Until Zoey’s wide brown eyes scanned the street and caught sight of something absurdly normal: a small group of old women across the road, carrying a Yut Nori board under one arm and chatting quietly.

It was ridiculous. And somehow, that made it perfect. A smile tugged at her lips. She nudged her two girlfriends, motioning with her chin.

“Hey… Mira. Didn’t you say you were down to play Yut Nori ‘til you turned into an old lady?”

Mira gave her a look, confused at first — but then followed Zoey’s gaze to the aunties across the street. She snorted, and a small laugh escaped.

“You’re impossible.”

Still smiling, she was the first to get up. Zoey followed. Rumi took a second longer. She looked once more to the spot where the creature had fallen. There was nothing left of it now — only a faint trace of smoke curling upward, swallowed by the dusk. She stood.

And followed.

Chapter Text

• FB: S •

he scent of freshly paved asphalt lingered in the air, mingling with the distant sound of children playing across the street. That was all Celine could register right now — the world muted except for these simple sensory notes. Her hand was tightly gripped in Mi-ya’s, the younger woman pulling her forward with her usual confident stride. She was probably saying something — her lips were definitely moving — but Celine couldn’t focus.

Her mind had been a storm for months.

Celine had always been devout — not in the religious sense, but in her loyalty to fate, to duty. She needed certainty. Needed something to believe in, something to hold onto, so she wouldn't collapse beneath the weight of her own questions.

She and Miyeong? They’d been friends since forever — since the moment they first learned each other’s names, maybe even before that. They had grown together, dreamed together, succeeded together. And when Celine discovered that the honmoon had chosen both of them to become hunters?

It was a celebration. A sign. His work. Fate’s work.

Fate had wanted them together. Fate had wanted them safe. Just the three of them: her, Miyeong, and Seori.

Of course — that was before he appeared.

Ever since she’d learned that her sister-in-arms, her closest friend — was dating a demon — there had been no peace in her bones. The kind of peace you fight for with blood and tears, only to lose it to something so much more painful than war.

Where had she failed?

Where had Fate failed?

Shànghuī. The stone in her shoe that made every step toward perfection hurt.

Every time she saw him — that unnatural-colored hair, that smug, infuriating smile, those golden, too-bright eyes…

And the marks. Demon marks. Their enemy. The thing they were meant to destroy — and now the lover of one of the two people who mattered most to her.

If this was a test, one of those cruel trials the honmoon was infamous for, then fine. She would endure it. She would pass.

Because more than she was devoted to fate, Celine was loyal to those who gave her life meaning.

“—Celine? Celi? Are you even listening to me?”

The soft, high voice tugged her gently back to reality. Mi-ya was still holding her hand — steady and warm. It was enough to pull her out of the storm, if only slightly.

“Uh— what? Ah… yes, of course. I’m listening.” Her voice betrayed her, thin and unsure. But instead of irritation, Mi-ya only laughed — light and breezy.

She was always like this.

Utterly incapable of looking at anyone with indifference. No judgment. No sharp edges. Her heart had always been a temple — always open, always forgiving.

And how could she, with hands so stained — so compromised — possibly deserve someone like that?

“I know your head’s all over the place,” Mi-ya teased, laughing again, her thumb brushing along Celine’s knuckles. “But come on — you know how packed this place gets at lunch.”

They entered the restaurant quietly, choosing a more secluded table near the back. Of course they were in disguise — sunglasses, caps, hair down — idols weren’t given much peace in public. But Mi-ya trusted this place. She said the owners were discreet.

They placed their orders, and for a moment, Celine let herself look — really look — at her best friend’s face. It made her chest ache. But she couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“...So?” she asked, her voice direct but not unkind. “What did you want to tell me?”

Mi-ya hesitated. “I… I need you to close your eyes.”

Reluctantly, Celine obeyed. She felt the light pressure of a sheet of paper placed in her hands — thin, slick, familiar. When she opened her eyes, her heart stuttered.

It was an ultrasound. Clear. Undeniable.

Mi-yeong was pregnant.

Silence stretched between them — thick, suffocating. Maybe it was seconds. Maybe minutes. Who could tell? Who even cared?

When Celine finally found the strength to push air through her chest, to force her voice up from where it had been buried beneath dread, the words that emerged weren’t what she wanted to say. But they were true.

“...His? You're… y-you’re pregnant with his child?”

Her voice trembled. So did her hands, knuckles ghost-white as she clutched the paper like it was evidence of some cruel betrayal carved in ink. She already knew the answer. Deep down, she knew. This wasn’t a shock. It was confirmation of a storm she’d been pretending wasn’t real.

But even so — she begged, quietly, inwardly, like a starving dog at the foot of a table — please, let it not be true.

Fucking Fate.

She had given so much.

She had devoted everything.

And this was what it returned?

How could you do this to me?

But Fate didn’t answer. It never did. Only Mi-yeong did.

“...Yeah. Huī’s the father. He’s the only man I’ve… you know… been with. Did you really think I’d cheat on him?”

“...No. And maybe it would’ve been better if you had.”

The words were acid on her tongue. Her voice cracked and dropped, guttural.

“Better that than being pregnant with a— with a—”

She couldn’t finish the word. Demon. It refused to leave her mouth. It didn’t need to. The thing she couldn’t say was already growing inside her friend. The mistake had a heartbeat.

“Celine, please. You need to calm down! We don’t even know yet! The child could—”

“Could what?! Could be human?! Could be safe?!”

Her voice was rising now, sharp and brittle, each word striking the table like shattered glass.

“What do you think this is, Mi-yeong?! You think this is a fairy tale?! That love makes it okay?! That this is just another goddamn test from the honmoon?! It’s not! This— this is madness!”

Mi-ya shrank back slightly, but she didn’t let go. Her fingers stayed around Celine’s wrist, warm, gentle, pleading.

“Celine… it’s still me. I’m still the same person. You don’t have to treat this like I’ve— like I’ve become something unholy.”

But that was just it. Celine didn’t know anymore. The girl in front of her looked the same. It sounded the same. But there was something between them now — something huge and living and terrifying.

A life. A child. A halfling.

A child whose bloodline was cursed in every book they'd ever studied, every battle they'd ever fought.

She pushed the ultrasound away like it had burned her.

“You don’t get it,” Celine whispered. “You don’t get what you’ve done.”

She stood. Her breath was uneven. Her thoughts were breaking into fragments.

“I need air,” she muttered, stepping back from the table, from Mi-yeong, from the paper that made it all real.

She didn’t run — not quite. But she wasn’t walking, either. The moment she hit the door, the cold air outside bit into her skin, and for a second, she welcomed it.

She wanted to scream.

She wanted to pray.

She wanted to ask Fate why — but knew she wouldn’t get an answer.

All she had now were questions, a fractured belief, and a best friend carrying the child of a demon.

Her hands fumbled toward her left pocket — cigarettes and a lighter. Was she proud of it? Not even a little. The lead vocalist of Sunlight Sisters, lighting up like some common burnout? She didn’t care. Sin for sin — hers wasn’t the worst one on the table.

She wandered off, far enough that the noise of the street dulled, and only her thoughts remained. Somewhere isolated. Quiet. Empty. She remembered the hunts.

The hybrids.

They were worse than demons. At least demons knew what they were. Hybrids pretended. Lied to themselves. Clung to some fantasy that they were useful. That they were human. She knew better. Belief could rot the mind of even the greatest king. And hers had been rotting for a long time now.

Her hand shook as she lit the cigarette. One drag in, and her stomach churned with guilt, but the pain grounded her. It was sharp. It was real. Her thoughts darkened.

If she had her way…

Gods, if she had her wa…

She’d drive her scythe through his throat. Drag it slow, all the way through his sternum. She’d silence that smile, that voice, that cursed existence.

She didn't want Shànghuī to just die. She wanted him gone. From history, from memory — from everything.

He wasn't the source of her unraveling. Her failure. Her helplessness made flesh. And now the honmoon itself was faltering —

The strings that once hummed like a divine lyre were now fraying into threads, barely holding their pattern. A tapestry forgetting how to weave itself. The golden glow that once bound them, protected them — it was flickering. Dimming.

They had weakened it. Barely a year into its full manifestation, and already the cracks were showing. How could they ever hope to kill Gwi-ma like this?

The Demon King wouldn’t yield to a team already so willing to surrender to their softness. The golden honmoon wasn’t eternal. And yet they had chipped away at it as if it were disposable. Their teachers would be disgusted.

Lost in this bitter monologue, she barely noticed her own body — didn’t feel her thumb swipe open the phone, didn’t realize she was searching for Seori until the name appeared on the screen.

The third member of their unit.

Seori had taken it better. The news. Mi-yeong’s impossible, terrifying joy. Maybe because she and Celine had always been polar opposites when it came to the youngest. Or maybe Seori just didn’t expect as much. Didn't cling as tightly.

But Celine knew the truth. The ones who love carry the burden. The ones who laugh through it tend to lose it all.

“Seori… Seori, for fuck’s sake, pick up!”

Celine’s voice was a hiss through clenched teeth as she pressed the phone tighter to her ear, flicked the cigarette to the ground, and crushed it under her boot. Her free hand shot to her waist, gripping her own hip in that anxious way she always did when the spiral started.

“Ugh… what, Celi? It’s Wednesday. You know I’ve got—”

“Mi-ya’s pregnant.”

Silence. Not confusion — silence, the kind that closes a room.

When Seori finally spoke, her voice was rough with disbelief. “Wait… seriously? Like, seriously seriously? Damn, I— I thought she’d want to tell me herself, don’t you think—?”

“Does it matter?!” Celine snapped. “She’s pregnant, Seori. Pregnant with a demon’s child. Do you understand that? That thing inside her — it’s a hybrid. It’s an abomination!”

“Celi, look, I get it, but—”

“No. You don’t get it. No one does!” Her voice broke, hot and raw. “Don’t you remember what we’ve seen? The hybrids we’ve killed? You remember the emotions, the memories that leaked when they woke up? When they snapped? They were worse than demons. Do you remember that family?”

Busan.

After a concert. After the applause had died and the lights had faded.

The honmoon had twisted — not gently like a whisper, but like a scream. A sharp tear in the world, a cry only the marked could hear. Celine remembered that night more vividly than any other.

They found it in the slums — a hybrid, malformed and starving, with horns warped through its skull. A half-child, half-creature, crouched over a lifeless little body it had once called a sibling. Its hands were stained, its mouth still moving — muttering prayers that only made it worse.

I just wanted to love them. That’s what it had said.

I just wanted to give them love. And maybe it had.

But not the kind the world could survive. She’d never forgotten that night. She never would.

Not the smell, not the sobbing, not the moment it looked up at her like it didn’t understand what it had done. Because Gwi-ma’s curse would never allow light to reach those bound in his shadow.

“...I don’t want her to go through that,” Celine whispered. “I don’t want Mi-ya to be the one who— who carries that.”

Her voice cracked again. Tears welled, hot and infuriating.

She didn’t want this to be coming from rage. She wanted it to be about love. But Seori’s voice came quiet, clear. Painful in how gentle it remained.

“I know it hurts… but it’s not something we control.” A pause. Then the words Celine hated most: “All we can do is be there for her. And if things do go wrong… then we’ll act.” A sharp, bitter laugh escaped her.

Control? She dared say the word like it meant something anymore?

Celine grit her teeth. “Control…?” she spat. “Tsk. This shit’s been out of control ever since I didn’t kill him the moment I laid eyes on him.” And then she hung up.

No goodbye. No breath between. She wouldn’t wait to hear Seori’s protests — not this time.

She wouldn’t wait at all.

Waiting had become her curse. Waiting and hoping and trusting — and where had it left her?

Alone. Furious. With her team collapsing around her, and her faith burnt to ash.

Her body moved on its own — honed by years of training, infused with strength not meant for ordinary humans. She ran like a shadow — fast, efficient, unstoppable — toward the place she knew he’d be.

She no longer owed trust to anyone. What she owed now was certainty. No more promises. Only action. She was going to confront him. And if words failed — then let it be the blade.

• ★ •

One of the honmoon’s most common weak spots. It was ironic, really — nestled right in a district full of old folks too traditional to ever warm up to new music. Their songs were good — that wasn't the issue. But no song could reach everyone.

She weaved between homes, narrow streets giving way to narrower shadows, until she reached the alley. Damp. Chilled.

But that didn’t matter. What mattered was the absence of sunlight. She didn’t want light for this conversation.

“...I know you’re listening,” she murmured, eyes scanning. “Come out.” A tremor passed through the veil. He was close. “I’m talking to you, Yáng Shànghuī. Show yourself.”

A sound rolled through the space — like smoke folding in on itself, the breath of nebulae condensing. She turned, honed senses already braced. He appeared. Not disguised. Not pretending. Not wearing his false skin.

Huī was in full demon form — black hanbok, black gat, the formal garb of Gwi-ma’s jeoseung saja. His skin was a pale, bruised lavender — like dusk over bone. The demon marks that marbled his body looked like glass splintering under pressure, jagged and dark. His eyes, those infamous golden slits — feline, knowing — were downcast.

His fangs were bared, but not in threat. Just… present. He wasn’t going to fight. He never could.

“...You don’t have to summon me like I’m some ghost in your throat,” he said softly, voice low and deep, almost too still. “You know I’d come.”

But Celine’s scowl deepened. One of her sickle-blades rose sharply, the point grazing beneath his jaw.

“Don’t you dare speak to me like we’re anything but enemies,” she spat. “You filthy thing.” Her voice cracked — then surged.

“you.....you— YOU GOT HER PREGNANT! MY MI-YA. YOU put a MONSTER inside HER!” She pressed harder — not enough to break skin, but close.

Huī tensed. A low growl curled in his throat, but he didn’t retaliate. He inhaled. Held it. Then pushed her weapon away — calmly, slowly, eyes finally meeting hers.

“...You think I wanted this?” His voice was strained now. “You think I asked for this? You think I didn’t warn her?” He stepped closer, breathing sharp. His claws, though unclenched, shimmered faintly with power he wasn’t using. Not yet. “I’m a demon, Celine. Do you really believe I would ever ask for a child? I didn’t even know I could— it was a possibility. Nothing more. And even then, I told her. I told her everything.”

“Then why did she go through with it?!” she screamed. “Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you convince her to abort!?”

The word dropped like a curse. For a second, something cracked. Not in the air — but inside him.

Huī froze. “...What?” His voice wasn’t angry. It was quiet. Shaken. It sounded like someone who’d just watched a dream slip into rot. Not because it was new. But because hearing it out loud made it real.

“Why didn’t you convince her?”bCeline’s voice echoed in the alley, sharp as flint, echoing off the damp walls. “Why didn’t you stop her? Why didn’t you make her see sense?”

Huī didn’t answer immediately. His golden eyes shimmered dimly, as if trying to dim themselves into shadow.

“You love her, don’t you?” Celine pressed, stepping closer now, her blade dropping but her tone tightening. “Then why didn’t you protect her?”

“I tried,” he said — too quiet, too late.

“You didn’t try hard enough,” she snapped. “You tried like someone who wanted to be forgiven later. You didn’t try like someone who’d fight her if you had to.”

He stiffened, fingers curling around the edge of his black sleeve. His body — all refined control and stillness — trembled just barely. The demon’s breath hitched like something inside him was fraying. “She told me she wanted it,” he whispered. “Said she felt it was something pure. That it wasn’t mine or hers, just… ours.”

“And that’s why she’s wrong.” Her voice didn’t rise this time. It dropped — hard, cold, final.

“There is no ours in this equation. Not when one half of the equation is rot. You think this is a child?” She took another step, eyes blazing. “It’s a fracture. A thing that doesn’t belong in either world, Huī. It won’t be like you. It won’t be like her. It will be a curse that doesn’t know what it is — only that it hurts.” He swallowed. “You know what happens to hybrids. Not the fantasy versions — not the children in fairy tales or the noble outcasts in poems. I’m talking about the real ones. Born wrong. Built unstable. The worst of both worlds, stitched together by cosmic cruelty. They’re born with hunger and kindness in equal measure — and those two things do not coexist.”

Huī was silent, eyes lowered. But she saw it — the twitch in his jaw, the way his foot shifted slightly backward. That was fear. Not of her. Of what she was saying.

“Do you know what hybrid souls look like?” she continued, quieter now. “I’ve seen them. In the veil. In the spaces between things. They shimmer and rot at the same time — they bleed memory, but devour love. Their auras flicker like they’re trying to burn themselves out, like their very existence is a contradiction.”

He didn’t look at her, but she knew he was listening. She softened — only slightly.

“I know you didn’t ask for this. I know this isn’t what you planned. But it’s happening. And you have to be the one to stop it.”

Huī finally spoke, his voice flat but fragile, “She said she wants to keep it. She believes… it’s something beautiful. That maybe… through this… she can redeem me.”

Celine stared. “Then that’s not a child she’s carrying. That’s a prayer. And prayers don’t live long.”

He recoiled like she’d struck him.

“She believes in you too much,” she continued, eyes narrowing. “And belief like that? It turns into tragedy. You want her to survive this? Then you have to be the one to cut the cord. You have to say the words. She won’t hear them from me. She won’t believe it if it comes from anyone else.”

Huī turned his head to the wall. She saw him blink hard — once, then again. His hands had stopped trembling, but his voice shook.

“I thought I could hold this together. That if I just stayed quiet long enough, if I stayed still, maybe the future would shift around us. Maybe I wouldn’t have to make this choice.”

He turned to her now. “But I knew what I was. I knew what she’d become if she carried this.” His voice faltered again. “I just… didn’t want to be the one to break her.”

Celine stepped back. “No,” she said. “You’ll save her.” And then, quieter — for just a moment, “She deserves to be whole. Even if it costs her this dream.”

Huī closed his eyes. He stood there for a moment — demon, boyfriend, father-to-be, executioner of a life not yet born — in utter silence. And when he opened them again, his golden irises were dull.

“…I’ll speak to her.”

It didn’t feel triumphant. It didn’t feel like a victory. It felt like surrender. And maybe that’s what love was, in the end. Not sacrifice. Just… surrender. He turned away, melting into mist, into veil. He didn’t look back.

Celine stood alone in the alley, the last echo of his presence dissolving into the wet air. Her hands unclenched. Slowly. Mechanically. The blade at her side vanished back into nothing. And though no one saw, not even the stars — She wept.

• ★ •

She looked at herself in the mirror, a wide smile stretched across her fine, precious lips.

Even with Celine’s reaction. Even against the disbelief of the world. This — this was the greatest happiness she'd ever known: to be a mother.

She remembered how it had always been one of her childhood dreams. She’d taken care of her younger siblings with such gentle affection, loved tending to them, loved giving part of herself to someone else — teaching, protecting, loving. That was what had driven her when she became an idol. That was what lit the fire in her when she became a demon hunter.

Sure, maybe she was one of those people who believed almost blindly in goodness — but what else was she supposed to cling to? If that was her gift, she'd use it. Her voice could overcome bitterness, and her footsteps were the rhythm of victory.

She hummed softly as she admired her reflection, pinning small plastic flowers into her long braid. While doing so, she felt it — a gentle ripple through the honmoon. Her smile deepened. She recognized that tremor instantly. It was her Huī.

She turned around — and there he was, standing in his truest form. Not that she ever minded. She found him beautiful, always. Strange, haunting, lovely in the way night skies are. But it wasn’t his form that made her pause.

It was his eyes. Downcast. Heavy. Dimmed. So different from the bright, starlit gleam they normally held. Her heart skipped a beat.

“Sweetheart, are you okay?” she asked, her voice light but laced with concern.

They stepped toward each other at the same time. Huī took her hands — slender, soft, warm — and cradled them between his own, running the pads of his dark fingers over the delicate knuckles. His claws grazed lightly, carefully. He always handled her as if she were a sacred thing.

“...We need to talk, Ryu.” He rarely called her by her surname. The formality alone made her uneasy.

“What happened?” Mi-ya asked again, more urgently now. A dull pressure was beginning to build behind her ribs — not pain, not yet. But something was stirring. “Huī, please, you know I hate when you get like this—”

“It’s about the child… the fetus,” he said, quietly — almost shamefully. His grip on her hands tightened, almost too much, but never crossing the line.He couldn’t hurt her. Not her. Not ever.

She didn’t understand the way his voice trembled. She didn’t understand the weight in his shoulders, the darkness settled behind his golden eyes. All she knew was that the man she loved — the one who had whispered galaxies into her ear and touched her like she was something ancient and sacred — was pulling away.

“...we can’t go through with this, love.”

It came like a blade she hadn’t seen coming. Mi-ya stared at him, blinked — once, slowly. Like her heart had been thrown underwater, like the world had lost air.

“What?” she asked.

He couldn’t even look at her. That hurt more than the words. “I’m saying,” Huī forced out, “that it’s not safe. This child… this thing inside you, it could—”

“No,” she interrupted, gentle but firm, a single syllable that landed like a vow. She stepped closer, ignoring the way his body tensed, ignoring the panic beginning to tremble at the edges of her own hands.

“Don’t call it that,” she whispered.

He flinched.

“You think I don’t know what’s at stake?” she continued, still calm. Still soft. “You think I didn’t think about it? About what could happen to me, to the child? About how the world would look at them — at us?”

Her hands reached for his chest, and this time, he didn’t pull away.

“But I love them. I love you. You think this was an accident? That I didn’t choose this, deep down?”

His jaw clenched. “Mi-ya—”

“No, listen to me,” she said. Her hands moved higher, to his cheeks, thumbs brushing the edges of his cheekbones where the faintest lines of his demonic marks flickered beneath the skin.

“You are not a mistake. This baby is not a curse. Do you think love like this doesn’t come with fire? That I didn’t know it would burn?” She swallowed the ache in her throat. “I would rather burn than live my life fearing what love gave me.”

His eyes were shimmering now. Her Huī, her impossible boy with the eyes of a cat and the heart of a star, stood there like he’d been unmade by her words.

She pressed her forehead to his. Their breaths mingled. His claws trembled at her waist but didn’t grip.

“I’m not asking you to be brave,” she whispered. “I’m just asking you not to run.”

Silence.

Then, his voice — barely a rasp, “You should hate me for even thinking of it.”

“But I don’t,” she murmured. “Because I know why. And I forgive you.”

He closed his eyes. She didn’t beg. She didn’t plead. She just held him — arms around his ribs, cheek against his shoulder, eyes closed in total, open-hearted trust.

And in that silence, he knew. There was no argument to be made. Her love didn’t shout. It didn’t demand. It simply was. Unmovable. Unyielding. Undeniable. And so, with a hollow breath, Huī collapsed to his knees and let her hold him like she was the last anchor in a world that no longer obeyed rules. Because she was. And maybe — just maybe — that would be enough.

• ★ •

He knew pain. And he knew loss. Intimately.

More than thirteen hundred years ago, he was just a young soldier under the command of General Duke Gong of Xu, fighting in the Goguryeo–Sui War. His family hadn’t cared for him — the bastard son of his mother’s betrayal. But he was strong. Physically gifted. That was all it took for the army to see him not as a disgrace, but a tool. A dirty creature from the moment of birth. Pathetic.

And yet… Shànghuī hated war.

He was artistic. Delicate, like a porcelain vase too long cradled in the hands of its potter, a blade of damask twisted improperly in the forge. He never wanted glory. And if he had wants, they were shameful. That’s what they told him. What they beat into him.

Seven days. They had been wandering in circles for seven days in that cursed region. Only thirty soldiers left. The bones of the army.

Death wasn’t coming — it was already there, seated beside them. The snow had grown deeper, heavier. It fell in thick blankets, and the cold would devour them before hunger ever got the chance. They had no idea where they were. Somewhere near Pyongyang, maybe. But no clear path forward.

Night fell as it always did: fast and merciless. Most of the men slept. Or maybe they had simply given up. Maybe sleep and surrender were the same thing, once the soul stopped fighting. Huī remained awake, back pressed against a dead tree. He didn’t trust the dark. He didn’t trust the silence.

In his chest: injustice. Neglect. That brutal, grating ache that something good should have come from all this suffering. Something earned. He had given everything. Had protected those who scorned him. Had clung to discipline, to hope. And all he had in return was a nameless death on nameless soil. The fire crackled weakly beside him. That was the only sound — until the voice came. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be.

It was deep, ancient. Smoky. The sound of a wildfire that licked through dreams. But what made it worse…

...was that it sounded exactly like him.

“Look at you. So strong, so noble. And yet even a stray dog is more loved than you. But if you let me in…I can give you that love.”

“Let me in, and all of them will leave you.”

That was the first time he heard Gwi-ma. After that, he was never the same.

At the price of abandoning his comrades — who were devoured shortly after by Gwi-ma himself — Huī made it out alone. He wandered, starving, frostbitten, to the capital of Goguryeo. There, empowered by something no longer human, he slaughtered dozens of their high-ranking warriors in a single night.

He turned the tide of a war already lost. Even if General Eulji Mundeok's brilliant strategy ultimately won the war for Goguryeo, back in the Sui Dynasty… Shànghuī was celebrated as a hero. A man who had bled until the last breath.

They gave him titles. Gold. Adoration. He was renamed Shāng Lóng — the Wounded Dragon, a living symbol of the Sui Empire’s relentless spirit.

But the wound… ah, the wound.It festered. A wound ignored, bandaged in honor and hollow praise, begins to rot. And rot, it did.

The demonic markings appeared slowly — thin lines across his back, then his chest, then his face. Like cracks in old porcelain. Like fractures in the soul. He hid them beneath silks and medals. He told himself it was just stress. A sickness. But he was sick with power. Sick with the voice that had never left him.

Each day he grew less human. And then, one night — it happened. One moment, he was in his glorious estate, its thin paper walls no match for the weight of all he carried. The next, he was standing at the edge of a great, yawning mouth — not made of flesh, but of fire. Violet. Magenta. Endless.

He looked down, and something welcomed him. Pulled him in. The abyss wasn’t empty. It had eyes. And it had always been waiting.

But the irony, of course…The irony that still haunts him…Shànghuī finally became what he already was:

A demon.

The shadow of his thoughts lingered. He had lived — or nearly so. A demon who once knew what it meant to be soft, tender flesh.

When a human offers their soul willingly to Gwi-ma, they are reborn as a jeoseung saja — not just any demon, but a reaper of the highest tier. The most refined, the most lethal. Because the sound of sorrow always echoes louder in a hollow vessel.

He wandered. Fulfilled his purpose. Reaped countless souls — human, and spirit alike. From the latter, he collected trophies: medallions, totems, tokens of his superiority. No demon ever stood for him. He stood for no one.

If Gwi-ma would not own his soul anymore, so be it — he would claim stronger ones for himself. No more crowns unless they rested upon his brow. 

He would walk among humans again, wearing mischief like a mask. He would live. Enjoy. Too proud for shame. Too empty to mourn.

Until he met Miyeong. It shouldn’t have changed him. But it did. He swore that the first time he heard her voice… it vibrated at the exact same frequency as his own. And that reminded him of something the Demon King could never strip from him: That sacred, irrevocable thread that ties the human soul to love. Now, here he was — beside her. She slept peacefully. So peacefully.

Even in sleep, she was a performer — radiant, graceful, as if the stage itself were blessed by her breath. How was it possible? That after so many lifetimes of disgrace and ruin, he would come to love someone like her?

He rested a clawed hand gently upon her stomach. She stirred, just faintly. Huī pulled back, momentarily hesitant — but returned, calmer now. He caressed her softly, her warmth seeping into the cold of his palm. She had made her decision. She would keep the child.

And if he could not change her mind…then he would protect her.

Even if it meant breaking every vow he had once made. Even if it meant becoming what he swore he’d never be again. He reached into the folds of his dark hanbok. From within, he withdrew them:

talismans — forged from the souls of monsters and lesser demons he had long ago conquered and absorbed.

It was dangerous. But it was the safest danger he could offer them. He laid the string of talismans across her abdomen. And then, quietly, he began to sing.

Hymns. Not of death, but of glory. Of protection. Of hope. Of love.

One by one, the talismans vanished. Not into the air — but into the baby. A ritual, subtle but potent. It would alter the child’s essence, render it diverse, plural — complex beyond ordinary bloodlines. No longer susceptible to Gwi-ma’s compulsion.

He whispered, the final line catching like breath against flame, "Just as the dragon bears the best that nature gave each beast…so too shall you carry the best of every soul.”

• FB: E •

Chapter Text

The week had come to an end, and with it, their trip to Jeju. They were finally back in the Huntrix penthouse — home at last. Zoey let her bags drop from her shoulders the moment they walked in.

“Ahhhh, finally! I missed this place so much! Ugh, Ms. Lee cleans this place so well, it smells like...baby cheeks in here...” the maknae groaned as she collapsed to her knees, randomly hugging one of their houseplants like she'd just returned from a years-long exile.

Mira cast a long, flat stare at her shorter girlfriend, judgment brimming in her narrow eyes. “You talk like we’ve been in captivity — we were in Jeju, because you wanted to go.”

The only answer she got was a muffled groan from the raven-haired girl, face still buried in the potted leaves.

Rumi entered after them, carrying more items now than she had left with. Boxes, bags — she had taken the most important things from her mother’s “sanctuary” — the one Celine had built.

The tension she carried had been visible for days, and her girls had noticed. As she lugged the boxes toward her room, she felt a heavier hand on her shoulder — she flinched slightly. Mira.

“What is it?” Rumi asked, her voice flatter than she meant for it to be. Mira caught it, her eyes narrowing just slightly in concern.

“Okay, you’re like a squirrel hoarding acorns for the apocalypse. Just—stop, alright? You need to rest.” Her deeper voice was gentler than usual. Rumi looked down. She had no excuse this time.

“I can’t,” she answered plainly. “I just can’t relax with all of this happening.” She glanced at the heavy box in her arms. “It’s all real now.”

Mira’s expression softened. She exhaled through her nose and reached forward, gently taking the box from her.

And just then, Rumi felt Zoey’s arms wrap around her from behind — warm, grounding. She couldn’t help but smile a little.

“Hm. Sucks for you that we’re too stubborn to listen when you tell us to back off, huh Miirr?” Zoey teased, her usual grin stretching across her face as Mira chuckled and set the box aside.

She turned back around and pulled both of them into a hug. “Yep. Learned that from our unnie, didn’t we?” Mira added, reaching up to pinch Rumi’s cheek.

Rumi groaned and rolled her eyes. “Ugh, seriously. I feel ancient every time you call me that. I’m not even six months older than you.”

“Yeah, but you’ve got the soul of an old lady. At least eighty. Easy,” Zoey said, blinking innocently up at her with those wide, mischievous eyes. Adorable — but not enough to stop Rumi from frowning in disbelief.

“Excuse me??” Rumi snapped, her arms crossed, lips already pursed like she was about to launch into a full-on scolding.

But Mira just grinned, nudging her playfully with a hip. “Come on, grandma. You’ve been pacing around like a ghost who forgot how to rest. Let’s go soak those bones before you start mumbling.”

Zoey's eyes lit up. “Ooooh! Yes! Bathhouse time!” She spun on her heel dramatically. “We’ll steam the stress out of our pores and scrub your trauma right off your back.”

Rumi blinked. “A bathhouse? Now?”

“Yes, now,” Mira said, already dragging her toward the hallway. “You haven’t let your shoulders drop since Jeju, and we’re not letting you pull an all-nighter again just to alphabetize those tapes.”

“But I was going to—”

“Nope,” Zoey said, popping the "p" as she grabbed towels and a pack of fruit jelly drinks from the fridge. “Today we cleanse, hydrate, and gossip. That’s an order from your very adorable girlfriend.”

“Both of us,” Mira added, grabbing Rumi’s wrist before she could escape.

“You two are goofy” Rumi muttered, though there was no real fight in her voice. Maybe just a sigh too deep for someone her age. She let herself be led, not because she wanted to — but because they were right. Again.

• ★ •

The steam curled lazily through the tiled bathhouse, misting over the glass and diffusing the soft, yellow lights. It was quiet, apart from the distant sounds of splashing water and the occasional hum of an electric boiler.

Rumi sat with her arms resting on the edge of the hot pool, chin tilted up slightly, eyes half-lidded. Her lavender hair was tied into a bun, though a few strands clung to her damp neck. The warmth was making her thoughts move slower — and that was a relief.

Zoey floated toward her like a lazy seal, the ends of her bangs wet and stuck to her forehead. “So... be honest. On a scale from one to ten, how emotionally violated are you right now?”

“...seven,” Rumi replied without missing a beat.

“Nice. That’s down from a nine.”

Mira appeared beside them with a bowl of fresh fruit and three cold barley teas, her red hair wrapped in a towel like some sort of spa heiress. “You know this is good for you,” she said, plopping down beside Rumi and handing her a drink.

“I didn’t say it wasn’t,” Rumi murmured, fingers curling around the cold can. “It’s just... my head won’t stop.”

Zoey leaned her chin on Rumi’s shoulder from behind. “We know.”

There was a silence, heavier than the steam.

“I keep thinking about her. About everything. My mom. The tapes. The monsters. The new ones. The yellow marks. That... thing in Jeju,” Rumi said, the words finally slipping out. “It’s like... no matter what we do, there’s always another war behind the door.”

Mira didn’t speak right away. She just reached over and tucked a strand of damp hair behind Rumi’s ear. “Maybe. But that’s not your war tonight.”

Zoey added, softly, “Tonight, your job is letting us take care of you.” Rumi’s throat tightened. She nodded, almost imperceptibly, and closed her eyes. 

The warmth of the bath should have been perfect. It had all the ingredients — steam fogging the air, the buzz of barley tea settling into their veins, skin pink from the heat. Mira leaned back with her eyes closed, humming something low and melodic under her breath. Zoey floated lazily in the water again, head tipped back, her black bangs plastered across her forehead.

And Rumi — Rumi should have felt light. But something was… off. The scent hit her first. A hint of it beneath the green herbs of the soap, the artificial sweetness of shampoo, the slight metallic edge of hot pipe water. Rumi's brow furrowed slightly. She leaned forward, as if chasing the smell. Her nostrils flared. Her eyes squinted. It was faint — not rot, not sweat, not sickness. More like… imbalance. Hormonal. Bitter at the edge. And too specific.

She inhaled again, slowly this time, her gaze drifting toward Zoey. There.

Something in Zoey’s body chemistry had shifted — something sharp, acidic, like the way old plastic warps in heat. Not recent. Not sudden. Chronic.

Polycystic ovary syndrome. Rumi didn’t know how she knew it, but she knew. The scent was unmistakable — like her body had mapped out the markers, drawn conclusions in smell. Her stomach tightened.

“Zoey…” Rumi said, her voice soft and sharp all at once. “When was the last time you took your meds?”

Zoey blinked. “Huh?”

“For your PCOS. Your meds. Your— blood sugar, your hormone balance.”

“What—?” Zoey laughed, confused. “Why are you asking that now?”

“I… I can smell it,” Rumi murmured. Her eyes narrowed further, confused by her own words. “You’re not regulating well. Something’s out of sync. Your cortisol’s spiking, and your testosterone’s off. You haven’t been sleeping.”

Mira sat up fully now, dripping water, a towel falling off her shoulder. “Rumi, what the hell are you talking about?”

“I don’t know,” Rumi admitted, her voice suddenly more strained. “I just… I know. I can smell it.”

Zoey frowned, now slightly defensive. “I’ve been taking care of myself. I just skipped, like, two doses. You always say I worry too much, and now you’re sniffing my ovaries?”

“I’m not—!” Rumi rubbed her temples, the smell now clinging like smoke. “It’s not just that. I smelled it before you even said anything. It’s like… my nose is tuned into your blood. And your hormones. It’s not normal.”

“No, it’s not,” Mira said carefully. “Rumi, you’ve never done anything like this.”

“I know! I know I haven’t!” Rumi snapped, standing up halfway in the bath. Water splashed, waves sloshing against the edges of the tile. Her breath was shaky, rattling against the walls of her chest. “But something is happening to me, Mira. I don’t know what it is. Maybe it’s the tapes, or the honmoon, or the half of me I keep trying to ignore. But I can smell it, I can feel it—” She turned to Zoey. “You’re in pain and pretending it’s fine. Your cycles are getting irregular, and you’ve been getting those headaches again, haven’t you?”

Zoey froze. Just for a second. And in that second, Rumi knew she was right.

“…Zo,” Mira said gently, brows knitting together. “Is she right?”

Zoey shifted her gaze, suddenly not looking at either of them. She lifted a shoulder, awkward, flippant, fragile. “I didn’t want to say anything. I didn’t want to ruin the trip.”

The silence that followed wasn’t disappointment — it was fear. Not of illness. But of what Rumi could do. What she could sense. What else she might be able to track if she let this grow.

Rumi sank slowly back into the bath, her arms wrapped tightly around herself. She was shivering now, despite the steam. Zoey reached for her hand under the water. Mira did too, clasping her shoulder.

And for a moment, their connection was steady again.

But Rumi could still smell the imbalance. Not just Zoey’s. The world itself — something in it — was beginning to reek.

Silence lingered in the steam until Zoey broke it with a half-hearted shrug.

“Well, I mean… at least now we’ll never buy spoiled food again?”

Mira groaned. “I mean, yeah, that’s useful, but it’s still creepy as hell.” Her voice sat somewhere between neutral, curious, and mildly alarmed. “You were fine last month. It’s been over a month since we took down Gwi-ma, and nothing like this came up before.”

“I know,” Rumi said, quieter now. “That’s what’s freaking me out. I’ve been feeling… off. Sensitive. Worse since that weird hydropot thing. It’s like… my body’s reacting to stuff that doesn’t make sense anymore.” She drifted off, the confusion curdling slowly into exhaustion.

“…Do you think you’re evolving?” Zoey’s voice cut through, uncertain but honest — like she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.

“What, are we Pokémon now?” Mira raised an eyebrow.

“I’m serious!” Zoey said, sitting up a little. “I mean… maybe that’s what this is? If even the— the honmoon—” She froze, her mouth still half-open.

Rumi and Mira both stared at her. “…What?” Rumi asked.

“N-nothing. Just… just thinking out loud.” Zoey deflated again, her fingers making idle circles in the bathwater. “Still, I guess there’s nothing we can really do about it. I mean, who would we even ask?”

“Yeah. Our mentor—” Mira practically spat the word, more bitterness in it than she’d meant to let slip. She didn’t regret it, though. “—is a non-option. And we can’t exactly go knocking on random demons’ doors. All we knew were Gwi-ma’s servants. We don’t know how these… new kinds might react.”

“We’re doomed, betas,” Zoey sighed, slipping deeper into the water like she was trying to drown in it. Her eyes barely peeked above the surface. “It’s over for us.”

The other two shot her twin looks of half-irritated judgment.

“What?” she said. “It’s not my fault loser memes are funny.”

“You do deserve your American passport,” Mira muttered.

It was almost funny — the fact that Mira was the daughter of a tech mogul, practically born in a bathtub of money, and still managed to mock capitalism like she hadn’t come out of its glossy womb.

“Oh, please,” Zoey shot back. “You have more problematic opinions than anyone here.”

“That’s exactly why I think the Democratic People’s Republic should take over everything,” Mira said, deadpan.

That, of course, was enough to trigger one of their regular debates — if one could call half-baked political jokes yelled over bathwater a debate.

Rumi just watched them, her arms draped along the rim of the bath, the smallest of smiles curling on her lips.

Even with everything starting to unravel — the strange senses, the creeping dread, the cracks she could almost hear in the air around her — this was her peace.

Her girls. Her beautiful, ridiculous, stubborn girls. Maybe the world was breaking open again, but if she had them beside her, she could survive anything. Even herself.

• ★ • 

“Oh lord, you’re seriously the softest, squishiest thing on this planet,” Zoey cooed as she snuggled deeper into the giant, slightly chubby tiger. Its fur shimmered a soft blue, its fangs were oversized, and its face looked — well — completely stupid. She sighed contentedly, still half-focused on the Nintendo Switch in her hands. “If I’d met you back when I was a trainee, my spine wouldn’t be in pieces today.”

Mira lounged on the big couch, nose buried in a book. Of the three, she was hands-down the most dedicated reader — though her taste was… eclectic. One moment she’d be reading academic essays about hyper-specific aesthetics from South America, and the next, some trashy romance novel with a shirtless man on the cover. Did she have critical standards? Questionable. Predictable? Never. The magpie wearing a tiny gat sat peacefully on her stomach, like a period at the end of her literary sentence.

Rumi sat beside Mira, the redhead’s head resting gently in her lap. She was scribbling idly in a notebook, one earbud in, listening to a random podcast. She hadn't forgotten the conversation from Jeju. If anything, she was still deeply offended. But she had no intention of starting a fight about it. Sometimes, a lazy afternoon doing nothing was a rare treasure — especially when your “everything” was saving the world.

Zoey, still half-playing, half-talking to the tiger, kept muttering little quips. “You know, I’ve been trying to find a name for you, but every single one I give you, you just ignore.” She glanced away from the screen to stare at the tiger’s goofy face.

Then, out of nowhere, Rumi spoke. “His name is Derpy.” Both girls turned to look at her in unison.

“...Okay....? Uh, but— why didn’t you say that earlier? He’s been with us for, like, two months,” Zoey asked, already forming the answer in her head. She knew what was coming.

Rumi blinked at her. Once. Twice. A few more times.

She then looked away and returned to her sketchbook. Mira, of course, wasn’t letting that go so easily.

“Don’t you dare say ‘uh, I just know,’” the redhead warned, lowering her book and mimicking Rumi’s soft, airy tone in mocking exaggeration.

Rumi rolled her eyes, of course. “Then I’d be lying. Not my fault if that’s just… how things work now.”

“Alright, lightning round! What’s the bird’s name!?” Zoey pointed dramatically at the magpie on Mira’s stomach like she was challenging her on a game show.

“Uhh— Sussie!” Rumi answered, a little too quickly.

The other two glanced down at the bird, who blinked once, puffed up slightly… and let out a soft trill. A perfect little ding! of confirmation.

“Holy shit,” Mira muttered. “Okay, so we officially have a psychic pet oracle.”

“You’re both ridiculous. Maybe Jinu told me at some point and I just… forgot.” Rumi shrugged, but there was something tight in her voice.

The mention of his name still hurt. Jinu. Even though his soul was in his sword — an almost brotherly bond, established by the same veil that had once bound him — Rumi still felt the fateful guilt of having made him sacrifice, instead of being free — flesh and soul.

She swallowed and focused on her notebook again, her lines a little shakier now. But she didn’t say anything. Because some silences were better left untouched.

Zoey glanced over from the tiger, noting the subtle shift in Rumi’s posture. She exchanged a quick look with Mira. No words were needed. They were still here. Still watching over her.

Still her girls.

• ★ •

Days had passed. The Honmoon kept screaming — new spirits, new demons, echoing louder than before. And with each one, Rumi seemed stranger. Sharper, rawer. Like her skin had been peeled off and every word, every sound, every breath of the world was hitting muscle and bone.

She might have been on hiatus from her idol life, but never from her life as a hunter. Or as a daughter. Or as a hybrid. Or as a reviled creature that didn’t quite fit anywhere. Most nights she didn’t sleep. She’d sit hunched in the dark, poring over old tapes, CDs, handwritten letters. They were her lifeline, her only stability in a time when everything felt unreal — truths cloaked in lies, and lies whispering like half-remembered dreams.

Every new attack from the spirits got worse. More chaotic. The types were strange, varied — feral and compulsive in terrifying ways. Some craved souls, sure, but others were driven by lust, or food, or violence, or a hunger for raw chaos. They weren’t organized. They weren’t loyal. They weren’t even predictable. And each hunt left the three girls more frayed, more confused.

“Urgh! Shit!” Mira groaned the moment they stepped into the penthouse, slamming herself face-down onto the couch and shouting into a pillow. Seconds later, Zoey dropped onto her back like a fallen tree, crushing her with a wheeze. “That little rat bastard.” Mira’s voice was muffled but furious.

“Yeah, chasing mouse-sized demons through a grocery store? Absolute bullshit,” Zoey muttered, sprawling like a dead starfish. The three of them had spent the day posing as pest control, hunting a spirit that had been haunting Seoul’s local corner markets. Ridiculous didn’t even begin to cover it. “The things we do to protect people… I mean, we had to lie and say we were exterminators. Imagine the footage online? ‘K-pop idols go full pest control in rat-infested mart’? Bobby’s gonna have a coronary.” Zoey sighed and flopped her head toward the hallway. “I think we deserve fried chicken and trash movies after that. What do you say, Rumi—”

But there was no answer.

Instead, Rumi just walked straight past them, holding the sleeve of her hoodie tightly in one hand. She didn’t even glance in their direction. No words. Just disappeared into her room, the door clicking shut behind her.

Mira sat up immediately. The movement jolted Zoey, who gave a half-annoyed grunt as she was pushed aside.

“...She’s shutting us out again,” Mira muttered, voice low and tense.

“Yeah,” Zoey agreed after a pause. “Although, she’s never really let us in. Not completely.”

Even in those early days after the battle at Namsan Tower — when they’d cried, confessed, held one another like they’d never let go — there had always been something buried in Rumi’s silence. Something that clung behind her words. Behind the way she’d smile a second too late or answer a question with another question.

Something hidden. And it was getting harder to ignore.

“...It’s pissing me off,” Mira said, her fists tightening until the leather couch creaked beneath her. “Who’s even telling the truth anymore? Who can we trust!? She’s just as fucked up as we are, and yet she — she thinks she can just… handle it alone?”

Zoey exhaled slowly. Her voice came out quieter, more thoughtful than usual. “Yeah, maybe… But what if she just doesn’t know how to express it?”

Mira blinked. Zoey looked down at her hands. “I mean… think about it. What if it’s not about trust? Or hiding something. What if she literally doesn’t know how to let us in?”

And that… that struck Mira in a way she didn’t expect. Because maybe, just maybe, Rumi didn’t want to hurt them. Maybe she was just so scared of what was inside her — of what it might mean, what it might become — that silence felt safer than saying it out loud. Even if that silence was tearing them apart.

Mira’s gaze faltered.

One hand drifted up to her chest, unconsciously — seeking grounding, like trying to press back a rising tide of emotion threatening to unstring the most seasoned lute. Her heart weighed heavy with every pulse from the sinus node, the atria slow to open — like her body, too, hungered for a resolution that never came.

“I just… I can’t take the lies anymore,” she whispered. “Omissions… how is that any different? No one’s so worthless they don’t deserve to be seen.”

Her voice wasn’t anger — it was prayer. A quiet mantra she had recited a thousand times in her loneliest moments, when it felt like the world might split her open.

Zoey’s gaze softened, gentle like clouds brushing the edge of a mountain before melting into mist. She moved closer, took Mira’s trembling hand in both of hers, and leaned in to kiss her — a kiss full of need, full of exhaustion, full of a love desperate to be felt after long, bruising days.

Mira, the aloof one. Mira, always in control. Mira, who didn’t yield. But in Zoey’s arms, she was like garnet — tough, yes, but when polished, gleaming with the red fire of vulnerability.

How Zoey loved her. Loved the way Mira never pretended to be anything she wasn’t. Every facet, every angle — honest, unapologetic. To witness that was a gift Zoey never took for granted.

“She’ll open up,” Zoey said softly, letting one hand drift to Mira’s cheekbone — sharp, proud, sculpted like it had been carved by conviction itself. “One day. Don’t rush her, okay? No one’s going to betray you again. No one’s going to leave you behind. Not anymore.” And then she moved into her lap, nestling there like she belonged. A quiet moan slipped out as they settled into one another, skin brushing skin in warmth, not lust. Comfort. Devotion. “I’m not going anywhere,” Zoey breathed into her neck.

Mira exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding, burying her face in Zoey’s dark hair. It smelled like sea salt, like blooming summer flowers, like the faint trace of caramel — the exact scent Mira had memorized, like the lyrics of an old love song.

“…Alright,” she whispered, placing a slow kiss on the crown of Zoey’s head. “But if I have to accept that she’s gonna keep pissing me off… then I think it’s only fair I piss her off right back.”

Zoey pulled back slightly to meet her gaze, curiosity lighting up her wide eyes. “…And what exactly are you planning?” she asked, cautious but smiling.

Mira didn’t answer with words. Her grin — half mischief, half rebellion — said more than enough.

Zoey felt the thrill down her spine. Maybe it was a terrible idea. Maybe two wrongs really didn’t make a right. But if they were going to be wrong — let it be together. Let it be worth it.

• ★ •

The door clicked shut behind her.

A sharp, splitting pain bloomed in her ribs, crushing her lungs like a fist from the inside. A choked scream died in her throat, and drool slipped down the corners of her mouth like the froth of a rabid beast. She stumbled blindly across the room, legs buckling under her weight, until she collapsed into the edge of the bed — too weak to sit, barely strong enough to crawl.

She curled inward, clutching herself, desperate for some illusion of comfort. But it never came. Only heat. And breathlessness. The sensation of being flayed from within.

She started to cry. Quietly.

It was not the kind of crying that begged for attention — no. It was the kind that made the world disappear. Her fingers clawed at the hem of her sweatshirt, yanking the fabric hard enough to tear it open across the chest. The thick cotton shredded easily under her strength. And beneath it, the faint iridescent glow.

Her marks burned like stars. Beautiful, blinding, cruel. They danced across her skin as if she carried a galaxy — but she wasn't divine. She wasn’t chosen. She was just a cursed, broken hybrid. Not a constellation. A mistake.

Her muscles pulsed violently beneath her skin. Her fine body hair stood on end like static warning of incoming disaster. Every cell, every strand of sinew, was changing — and the honmoon, the world, her very being, refused to let her breathe.

The worst part? It never stopped. Not anymore.

Every moment was this — waves of pain, evolution, mutilation. Her own body rebuilding itself without her consent. She could feel her skeletal system grinding. Ligaments reknitting. Veins writhing and shortening, mapping themselves in secret patterns. Cartilage vascularizing as if preparing for war. It was too much. Too grotesque. Too real.

Her stomach lurched. Her throat burned. Sourness flooded her mouth as she rolled over the edge of the bed and vomited, gasping as stomach acid and bright streaks of blood painted the floor beneath her. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, only to recoil.

Her fingers — clawed. The tips darkened, graying to a pale violet, her knuckles too sharp, too tense. Skin like stretched parchment over bones meant for something not-quite-human.

She groaned and let herself fall backward onto the mattress again.

Everything burned. Everything pulsed. She wanted to scream — but worse than that, she wanted silence. She wanted Zoey and Mira to stay away. If they saw her like this…

No. She couldn’t survive it. They’d never look at her the same way again. She wouldn't look at herself the same way.

The others — the recordings of demons, the hunting, the fragments left by Jinu and her past — none of them looked like this. None of them felt like this. Even the demons she’d slain in Gwi-ma’s ranks — they were victims of the great will. Trapped. But her? She wasn't a puppet, never had been. Gwi-ma had never touched her conscience, so her filth was native. 

Something about that thought sickened her — and thrilled her. The shame curled around her chest like a lover. Comforting. Disgusting. Intoxicating.

She growled — deep, guttural. It tore out of her like a threat, dragged up her throat and against her trembling tongue. Then, a soft sound. Purring. Her eyes cracked open. Blurred with tears, pain, and nausea — but she saw them. Derpy and Sussie.

The great, pudgy, blue-furred tiger crawled up onto the bed, looking equal parts stupid and celestial. He rumbled with warmth as he climbed over her chest, gentle despite his weight. And beside him, the magpie flitted down, perching near her ear. Its beak rubbed lightly against her temple, cooing, preening.

Rumi let out a strangled laugh. Even now — like this — they stayed. Even in her filth, in her shame, in the transformation she could barely comprehend… she wasn’t alone.

Her arms opened instinctively, slow and trembling, and Derpy nestled into them, his bulk pressing her down in a way that, oddly, soothed her. Grounded her. His warmth dulling the burn. His breath syncing with hers. Sussie continued to hum, like a lullaby only birds and children could sing. 

And Rumi, though still shaking, allowed herself to smile. Just a little. It wasn't peace. But it was something.

“...you’re getting worse, Rumi.”

 The calm, steady voice cut through the heaviness in the room. Jinu. Of course. Ever since he sacrificed himself to protect her from Gwi-ma’s final strike — and offered his soul to her in the process — Rumi had been able to speak with him. Occasionally. He wasn’t exactly in her, not like a possession, but anchored in her sword — bound to the part of her most attuned to the honmoon.

“Urgh... shut up. I don’t need a ghost reminding me of what I already know,” she croaked. Her voice was hoarse, dry, half-broken. Jinu just shrugged casually, leaning beside her.

“Relax. You know you can’t avoid me,” he said, teasing, as he reached over to stroke Sussie’s small feathered head. “...You’re getting better at hiding it, I’ll give you that. But honestly? That just makes it worse.”

He wasn’t wrong. Mira and Zoey thought she was doing fine — thought the worst was just the glowing marks, the occasional claws, the rare flicker of golden eyes.

But the truth? The truth was crawling under her skin like rot. And maybe it was better this way. If they knew what she really looked like in those moments, what she felt like inside… they'd be afraid. She was afraid.

“...Did you find anything useful?” she asked, a little calmer now but still coiled like a wounded thing. She tugged at the torn fabric of her hoodie, scratching at a glowing mark just beneath her collarbone, where the skin felt thicker. The area had grown subtly — her chest slightly more developed, her muscles denser, like her body was compensating for a war she didn’t understand. It made her feel wrong. Wrong and grotesque.

“...Ugh. No. Still in Korea. For now.” Jinu sighed, his form flickering faintly with each word. “At the rate you’re going, though? I’m not sure you’ll be able to stop it in time.”

Jinu didn’t belong to the spiritual plane anymore — he was a part of the realm of the dead. His connection to the physical world came only through the sword. Through her. The blade tethered him like a lifeline.

“Damn it. You really never saw anything like this before? Are you sure?” It was a question she’d asked him so many times before that even her hope sounded like fatigue now.

He shook his head slowly. “I’ve told you already. When I was under Gwi-ma’s control, I only had access to what he gave me. I saw some spirits, sure. But nothing like this. Nothing this… excessive. This hungry…They all want human souls,” Jinu added quietly.

That made Rumi growl. Her hand clenched into a tight fist and slammed into the mattress, making Derpy and Sussie flinch. She immediately pulled back, muttering a shaky apology. Her voice trembled.

“...You're so damn stubborn, Rumi,” Jinu said, watching her with something halfway between concern and exasperation. “For someone so selfless, you’re also the most prideful person I’ve ever met.”

“Oh, fuck off! I just—!” She curled further into herself, arms wrapping tightly around her sides. “I just don’t want to lose what I have left, okay? Not again… It’s already enough — she is already enough.” She thought of Celine. Of how she’d vanished, left a silence behind that still pressed against her ribs like phantom pain. “Already enough... they were already enough,” she whispered, thinking of her parents, of their voices still alive on tapes and videos, lingering in frequencies she replayed like prayer. “I only have you because you haunt me,” she added dryly. “Maybe I should’ve lost you too.”

Jinu chuckled, soft and lopsided, and moved closer to her on the bed — not to press, but to offer. His arms slipped around her in a weightless embrace.

“Yeah, well, I would’ve found a way to come back anyway. I’d haunt you right after you had sex with them. Just to be annoying.”

That earned a groan of disgust from Rumi, followed by a glare sharp enough to slice through iron. “You’re the worst.”

She reached up, lazily adjusting a loose strand from her half-undone braid, her clawed fingers trembling as they moved. Her eyes drifted from Derpy to the wide window in her bedroom, where the city buzzed with distant neon lights and the hum of life she could barely connect to anymore.

Jinu sighed. The air around her honmoon shimmered as he stood — his ghostly presence weightless, yet somehow still felt.

“Just try to rest,” he said, his voice thinner now, already beginning to fade. “Yeah, things are terrifying. And yeah, the world feels like it’s turning inside out. But not everything new is a threat. You know how to find me… just call.”

And just like that, he vanished again — his silhouette dissolving into the threads of the veil, disappearing between one beat of her heart and the next.

She inhaled. Her gaze flicked between the two spirit animals and then back to herself — her body like a shell on the verge of splitting. The ripped hoodie hanging from her shoulders, the acrid taste of blood and bile still clinging to her tongue, the dark stain of vomit beside the bed. Another growl escaped her chest — unnatural, rough, primal. It startled her, and yet…It was satisfying. Powerful. Expressive. A sound not of language, but of truth.

“I guess I should clean this up, huh?” she muttered toward the animals. They didn’t speak, not exactly, but she could feel them. Their presence rippled inside her skin like emotion — gentle, warm. They agreed. But she could also sense the nudge, the insistence, that she take care of herself too. “—Yeah, well. Can’t argue with that. A bath sounds… decent.”

Her limbs protested, but she rose. Still aching, but less fractured than before. She cleaned the floor slowly, deliberately, then pulled the sheets straight on the bed, her motions instinctive and intimate. As she did, she found herself holding onto her stuffed bear — the one Mira and Zoey had given her when they first debuted. A joke at the time. But now? Now, it was a piece of her lifeline. Her anchor on nights like this.

Later, she entered the bathroom. The soft amber lighting felt kind — neither the suffocating dark she irrationally feared, nor the clinical sting of full fluorescence. Just enough. She placed her altered hands on the marble countertop — skin grayed with lilac undertones, claws faintly retracting — and forced herself to look in the mirror, her reflection was foreign. Familiar and unfamiliar all at once.

Those iridescent markings, shifting like mother-of-pearl beneath her skin, pulsed dimly in lavender and opal. Deep, bruised circles clung beneath her eyes — one golden, pupil slit and dilated, sclera dark as coal. The other still wet from crying, its human color faded into exhaustion. Her skin, once warm beige, was now pale to the edge of translucence. A quiet purple shimmer threaded through her veins, a phantom bloom of something no longer human.

She opened her mouth slowly. Her fangs were longer now, subtly curved forward, almost like a predator whose bite could anchor deep. Between her upper premolar and canine, there was a gap — subtle, but unnatural. She frowned at it, but her thoughts were too fogged for disgust.

Her gaze dropped lower. To her frame. To what the patterns had made of her. She looked like a vessel — repaired, stitched together, and scarred by light. The muscles that once curved in soft elegance were taut, overworked, shaped by imbalance and involuntary strength. Her waist still tapered in that perfect line — an echo of the idol she'd been — but her back now pulled tight, defensive, like something that had learned to brace for pain.

Even in her disguise, she'd always been the one with the more defined body. Mira had the power, the endurance. Zoey had speed. But Rumi? Rumi carried form. It had once been part of her brand. Now, her biceps tensed without command, her abdomen carved too sharply, like something starved but unyielding. The kind of strength that doesn’t choose itself — only survives.

Who had she been? She didn’t know anymore. She only knew this: she was tired.

Dragging herself toward the shower, she stepped in. The water came on scalding — her preferred temperature now, matching the flickering heat of her marks and the burn in her bloodstream. Steam rose in great rolling waves, the droplets hitting her skin like little sparks.

She didn’t think. She didn’t speak. She simply stood there, head bowed beneath the stream.

Somewhere in the heat, her tears joined the water running down her face. And none of it mattered — because it would all go down the drain in the end.

...She didn’t hear the door open. But she heard Zoey’s voice. “—Rumi? Are you okay?”

The words came from inside the bedroom — inside. Her heart clenched violently, a sudden, acidic panic rising in her throat. Why was Zoey in her room? Why now?

Rumi’s entire body tightened as if bracing for collapse. The idea of being seen in this state — monstrous, broken, raw — made her feel like her soul had been pinned down and peeled open. She silently begged whatever god might be listening that neither of her girlfriends would dare open the goddamn bathroom door.

Stupid. She’s stupid.

She hated lies — and that’s why she hated herself. How could she still be hiding so much? Why was she still pretending?

And yet… a pathetic part of her wanted to be found. Wanted to be held. To hear Zoey’s bubbly, persistent voice trying to make her laugh, to feel Mira’s grounding presence, like the frame of a house built to keep her from falling apart. But she couldn’t let them see this. Couldn’t let them witness the grotesque mess that she had become.

She understood Derpy and Sussie more than she understood her own girlfriends. That was the truth. And maybe that was the problem.

She wasn't human anymore. Not really. In truth, she never had been — just foolish to believe she could be. Fuck you, Honmoon.

Then came the soft sound of approaching footsteps. They stopped just in front of the bathroom door.

It stayed shut. Thank the gods.

“...We know you don’t like when we come in without warning,” came Mira’s voice — steady, but unmistakably fragile. “But you’ve been in here all day. We could’ve sworn we heard you crying…” A pause. “Are you okay, Ru?”

Gods. That voice. Mira never cracked. Never let her softness bleed like this. And that made it worse. Made Rumi want to disintegrate right there beneath the steam and tile.

“...I-I’m just tired… it’s been a long week. I didn’t mean to worry you, I’m sorry,” Rumi said, forcing her voice into some imitation of calm. But it cracked. Not in sound — but in truth. Her words rang hollow, empty of rhythm. Her markings glowed like hazard lights, deep rose curling into violet, burning like shame.

She was barely holding it together. At least the door separated them. At least they couldn’t see her fall.

“It doesn’t sound like you’re okay,” Mira replied. Not cold — never that — but worn, laced with an anger too tender to sting. Frustration wrapped in concern. Like a general watching their last soldier bleed out on the battlefield.

“Do you— need help? Maybe we could just—” Zoey’s voice was closer, softer. But she didn’t finish, Rumi cut her off.

“NO!” 

It came out too fast. Too loud. And wrong. Distorted, double-toned. Echoing in the honmoon like a scream through broken glass. The walls trembled. The lights flickered slightly. Her markings pulsed red like ruptured ruby, shivering into shades of flesh and bone.

She fucked it up. Again. Whatever mask she wore cracked under the force of her own voice.

She tried to fix it, her tone trembling, small, pathetic. “I just… please. I just need some time alone. After the shower I’ll… I’ll talk to you, okay? Just… please go.”

There was silence on the other side. She could feel them, both frozen, uncertain — grappling with the truth they couldn’t see but knew. Her panic. Her decay. But they didn’t push. 

They wouldn’t. Because they loved her.

“Okay…” Zoey finally whispered. “Just… know we’re here. We’re waiting. Always. We love you.” She heard them step away, Zoey’s voice retreating with Mira’s quiet hand in hers — cool, trembling, disappointed.

Rumi exhaled. And in that breath was both relief and agony. She had driven them away — again. And there it was: the cycle. Her shame curled back around her ribs like vines. And somewhere deep inside, it thrilled her worst self to win.

Because that self believed, beyond all reason, that she didn’t deserve them.

• ★ • 

After finally managing to stabilize herself — physically, at least, if not in spirit — Rumi stepped out of the bathroom. Her markings were still overly sensitive, so she wore long, loose clothing to cover the fragile glow still pulsing beneath her skin. She moved through the room quietly. Derpy was waiting for her, faithfully. Sussie was probably off with the other girls.

She walked side by side with the tiger, leaning gently against his large body. It was a safe comfort — and gods, she needed it. When she opened the door to the living room, she found the other two girls on the couch. They stood the moment they saw her, quickly crossing the room to meet her. Rumi kept her gaze on the floor, unable to meet their eyes.

“...I—I’m sorry,” she whispered, her voice nearly lost in the space between them. She braced herself for some kind of reaction, something even mildly reproachful.

But all she received was their hands on her shoulders — gentle, grounding. The touch burned with tenderness. Her skin ached for more of it, as though starving for something she had denied herself.

“...It’s okay,” Zoey murmured, just as softly. She glanced at Mira before turning back to Rumi. “Mira made hobakjuk. You know… I figured it might be better for you than anything else right now.”

A small smile tugged at Rumi’s lips. She couldn’t deny it — after vomiting up the little that had been in her stomach, after unraveling under the weight of her own unstable body — food sounded almost insanely appealing.

“Yeah… sounds perfect,” she murmured in return.

They moved to the kitchen island. Mira served her with practiced care, setting the bowl in front of her like it was something sacred. The girls sat close on either side, not too far, not too close — just enough to remind Rumi that she was not alone.

The sweet scent — just sweet enough, Mira knew exactly how she liked it, a touch of gentleness rather than a sugar overload — drifted up from the steam. It filled her nose, wrapped around her lungs. Her chest rumbled lightly. A purr? Maybe. Whatever. She didn’t care to question it.

It was perfect. It was warm. It was delicious. And it was worth every bit of her concentration and hunger.

The other two watched her, relief softening the exhaustion on their faces. Behind all the fragility, the scars, the walls — Rumi was still there. Still fighting. Still theirs.

And that was exactly why they had to go through with the idea — whatever the cost might be later. Scars only hurt when they’re still wounds. But no wound stays open forever.

They become memories.

Chapter Text

Her hatred for mornings had begun early in life. Her hatred for the world had come even earlier.

Early. How she despised that sensation — being prematurely cast into an unhappy state before the sun had even had the full displeasure of arriving. Was it her fault? She simply couldn’t sleep.

She felt the weight of Zoey’s head, those medium-length locks in that charming black-blue hue, resting against her chest. It was a kind of comfort. If waking up early had any merit, it was for witnessing how peacefully Zoey slept — that’s how Mira thought.

She turned her arrogant face toward the ceiling. Of the three, her room was by far the most aesthetic. Legacy or reinvention—she didn’t care. She loved making the view matter more than the words. That was what motivated her to dance, to exist, to rebel. The unpredictability of movement, the anti-grammar of action. Commas were the pauses; periods, the applause — that’s how Mira thought.

Her hand gently caressed the soft swell of her corvine girlfriend’s back. But she didn’t lower her gaze. Flaws weren’t hers; she refused them. People always expected her to falter, but denial was her verb. She would never make the same pathetic mistake of believing again — that’s how Mira thought.

The sun rose with greater comfort, and soon, the other two girls in the penthouse awoke as well. A relaxed breakfast followed, everyone pushing past the strangeness of the previous day. Conversations came and went. Mira wasn’t particularly cheerful — then again, she rarely was — but her girlfriends had grown used to reading that as just part of her expression. A luxury, really, since it spared her from explaining herself if the reason behind it happened to be something else. They couldn’t tell the difference anyway.

A pleasure, that distance. Mira was a specialist at reading others, but terrible at being read. She saw herself as a dictionary of obscure words and complete entries, a bearer of meanings that seasoned the spaces between sentences and twisted interpretation. But to understand a dictionary on its own? That took time. It took desire. Linguistics is always there — but you will never unravel it completely. That was so Mira.

As she drank her coffee — just how she liked it, strong but not bitter — she listened to Rumi and Zoey’s exchange.

“You’re going to the doctor. You seem feverish all the time,” Zoey said, her voice serious — uncharacteristically so.

“...I’m not going. I already told you, I’m fine,” the purple-haired woman replied, biting into her toast with a clipped motion.

“...I’m not suggesting, Ru,” Zoey snapped, sharper now. She rarely lost her temper, but whatever this was, Rumi was testing her limits. “I’m calling Bobby. Don’t even think about making up an excuse.” She turned her eyes to Mira, who was simply observing, not interfering. “You coming with us?”

“No,” Mira replied bluntly, looking at Rumi, who shrank a little in her seat. “I’m going to take advantage of you two being out to do some… personal things. If that’s not a problem.”

Zoey thought for a moment. She always liked having structure in the day — even if she found it hard to follow. To the public, she might seem carefree, but those who lived with her knew the truth: Zoey considered everything and then some to make things work for everyone.

“Yeah. That sounds fair. Just… be careful, please,” her voice softened there, slipping back into its usual, sweet and gentle register — momentarily eclipsed by her frustration with the oldest’s stubbornness, so often childishly shy.

Mira simply nodded. Rumi might be harder than ever to live with, but she’d been right about one thing for days now: these times were becoming unbearable to endure.

• ★ •

The girls left, now she was alone at home. She breathed in deeply and turned her head slightly, just enough to find Sussie staring at her. Yes — of the two spiritual animals that had adopted them (because let’s face it, they had no choice but to love those creatures), Sussie was the one who most resembled her. That quiet, irritable disposition suited them both. Mira just turned away, and a moment later, felt the magpie perch on her shoulder. A small laugh escaped her, involuntarily. Fine — if it’s cute, it gets a pass.

She took the elevator down to the Huntrix training floors. Three whole stories, dedicated solely to that. Her goal? To dance. Honestly, even if they were on hiatus, she’d been spending more and more time imagining choreography for “What It Sounds Like.” It had already been a stroke of luck that Bobby pulled off such a miraculous PR stunt to explain away the Idol Awards disaster. She needed to make it worth it.

Her body moved with precision and determination. But there was no cohesion. The steps hit their counts, but not their meaning. Her arms moved in time, but not in truth. It was like wearing a costume that didn’t belong to her — too tight at the shoulders, too loose at the chest. She tried again. A lateral impulse, a spin on her heel, torso tilting forward, arms mirroring the tear in the melody — but the force that used to live in her gestures was diluted now. And when the bridge of the song began, her mind began to crumble too.

“—I broke into a million pieces and I can't go back...”

Mira stopped. Turned her back to the mirror, her chest heaving as she tried to force air into lungs that only echoed noise. Yes. Yes, she knew this part. A million pieces. That’s what she was made of now. Not open wounds anymore, but crooked scars, poorly stitched — on the inside. She braced her hands against the wall, resting her forehead on the cold concrete.

She thought of Rumi. Of the way she smiled and said everything was fine — when it never was. She thought of her fingers brushing Mira’s hair aside and whispering “you see me, truly” like it was a prize Mira had won. But what truth was that?

Rumi had closed off. Again. Since Jeju. Since the new demons. Since…since—

The memory was sharp: the creature bursting from the soaked ground, fetid, twisted, a child’s carcass dissolved in moss and wounds. Rumi hesitated that day. Just for a second. But Mira had seen it. A flicker of paralysis. Of fear. Then came the fight. Their strength. Their instinct. But also — the silence. The silence that began there, and stretched on for days. Spreading like mold across the walls of their relationship.

Zoey was exhausted. Physically, emotionally, spiritually. Celine gone. Bobby pretending he still had control, that he knew how to deal with the double life of his idols. And Rumi — the damn Rumi — silent. Silent like keeping secrets was the only way to protect what little was left.

And her? Mira? She wasn’t allowed to falter. She was the strong one. She had always been. The fighter. The impulsive one. The foul mouth. The energy that both frightened and protected. The one who didn’t cry. The one who danced with the world on fire.

But now — now there was only quiet inside her. Only emptiness.

She turned, one last attempt to keep going. She wanted to try another sequence, something more fluid, more emotional. She took her position. The beat returned.

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

She slid, let her arm follow the anguish in the lyrics — but suddenly, her leg felt like lead. She missed the turn. Stumbled. Fell hard, landing seated. Silence. The music kept playing, but she couldn’t hear it anymore. Only her own ragged breathing. Only the absence of fire.

“Why…” she murmured to the ceiling, “Why now, when I need myself the most, am I not here?”

A flutter of wings. Soft, almost imperceptible. Sussie. The magpie perched beside her, walking with her elegant little steps until she climbed onto Mira’s bent knee. Settled there, like she always did when she sensed a storm — not in the sky, but in the eyes of the human she had chosen.

Mira looked at her for a moment. The bird’s small, intelligent eyes reflected the studio light like liquid glass.

“I know what people think of me, Suss. I’ve always known.” She wasn’t expecting a response, but she felt the magpie’s silence like attentive listening. Her voice trembled. “But no one knows how much I had to become this. How much I made myself into this just so I wouldn’t disappear. So I wouldn’t get erased.” Sussie tilted her head. Mira closed her eyes tight. “And now…ugh…fuck! Now that I feel like I need it, I just… can’t...” The music kept playing.

“—Show me what’s underneath, I’ll find your harmony...”

She shut her eyes. What if there was no harmony? What if there was only chaos? What if what lay beneath — beneath her skin, her muscles, her rage — was just exhaustion?

She stayed there. Breathing slower. The bird warming her knee. The studio bathed in half-light.

And then, maybe out of pride, maybe out of stubbornness — or maybe from pure survival instinct — she reached out and restarted the track. Pressed the record button on the panel.

She stood up. Still shaking. But standing.

The choreography would start with the fall. With the stumble. With the moment of losing ground. She would use that. Not to pretend she was whole.

But to show, in every movement, that even broken — she still danced. And that…that was the sound of her truth.

Mira turned off the sound panel and grabbed the towel from the floor. She wiped her forehead, squinting slightly at her reflection: hair clinging to the back of her neck, skin still hot from the exertion — but her gaze… her gaze was already somewhere else. Some other time.

Sussie, perched on the clothes rack by the door, pecked lightly at the side of the black hoodie Mira threw over her head as she left. The two of them descended in silence, cutting through the empty corridors of the Huntrix headquarters, the subtle neon of the night-shift hallways reflected in the magpie’s eyes. She hadn’t told anyone on the team. She just left. Slipped on her glasses — she actually preferred them, though contacts were more practical — and began to unload her thoughts through her footsteps.

The streets of Seoul were alive — pure, mundane, real. Couples arguing at the doors of coffee shops, teenagers laughing too loudly, rideshare drivers honking into the void. And her... she was just another figure crossing into the morning with slow steps. The Han flowed in the distance, mirroring the city like a fractured, perfect ruin. Mira leaned against the rail of a pedestrian bridge and breathed. Felt the cold wind cut through her mask, sting her nose. It was good. Painful, but good.

Thinking about the mundane lives of ordinary people was both comforting and revolting — routine had once been her curse. She remembered, yes, what it was like to sit at the table with her family, all dressed in formality. Dinners at the top of the tower, cutlery lined up like soldiers. Her brother speaking enthusiastically about investments, contracts, partnerships with AI companies. And her? She’d say she was writing a story where a girl used her anger as magic — and they’d laugh. Or worse: ignore her.

“You should focus on something real, Mira.”

“Your brother’s already on the XGen project, did you know? And you… dancing?”

“You’re smart, but… you lack maturity.”

Her fists clenched inside her pockets. The truth was, she had stopped trying to be heard. She started answering with sarcasm, with disdain. Started pulling away before the contempt could reach her first. And in the end, she had proven them right: isolated, abrasive, difficult. And deep down… they were right.

She didn’t know how to express things.

Didn’t know how to say, “I’m sorry.”

Didn’t know how to say, “I just wanted to be seen."

And that — that flaw — slipped even into the relationships she cherished. With Rumi. With Zoey.

“I’m tired, Sussie,” she murmured, the bird now lightly settled on the railing, invisible to the rest of the world.

The magpie’s silence was always more eloquent than any advice. Mira leaned forward, resting her chin on her crossed arms. In the distance, she saw a couple sharing a fish cake at the corner. A delivery driver dozing on his bike. Three old women crossing the street with colorful umbrellas, even though it wasn’t raining.

No one out there knew who she was. Not the idol. Not the hunter. Not the ungrateful daughter. And that… that was a strange relief. A pause in identity.

She walked a little more, crossed two blocks, turned into an alley where neon signs flickered in blue and pink. Entered a 24-hour convenience store, grabbed a bottle of strawberry milk and a gimbap, paid without a word. Sat on the steps outside and ate in silence. As she bit into the rice and seaweed, she felt something so basic, so childish...

“I just wanted…” she began, but the sentence died on her lips.

She didn’t know what. Maybe just to exist without needing to be useful. Without needing to prove she wasn’t a mistake. The lights of Seoul trembled in her eyes.

Sussie perched on the handrail beside her, watching it all with mirror-glass eyes. And Mira... stayed there. Just breathing. For a moment, simply… being.

• FB: S •

A sudden rain fell over Seoul. The forecast said it wouldn’t last long, but even so, it made time feel like it was stretching further and further. Zoey was still curled up in her lap, the warmth of the raven-haired girl filling Mira’s cooled shell — one that stubbornly tried to sync itself with the rhythm of her heart.

“Mira — not that I have any right to say this, but this is a terrible idea right now,” Zoey said, toying with one of the two small strands of Mira’s hair that framed her face.

“You can’t keep avoiding the inevitable, you know? But… yeah, maybe you can avoid charging headfirst into it.”

“Look, I know you’re mad at Celine. I’m mad at Celine — everyone is, okay? But still… we have to give Rumi time to calm down. Doing this right away isn’t going to help.”

“Ugh… you know, sometimes seeing you like this is weird,” Mira muttered, a bit less serious now, trying to pull some humor into the discomfort. “You’re usually the most proactive one!”

“That’s because there are at least thirty ways Rumi could react to this arranged meeting. And about twenty-eight of them are bad. I’m just as impatient, but… I don’t want to be selfish.”

“She didn’t only lie to Rumi, Zoey.”

“But still, she’s the one who spent the most time with her, Mir,” Zoey said, curtly. It was a tone Mira wasn’t used to hearing from her — this sharp edge, almost scolding. It made her neurons itch like a dog with mange. Zoey must have sensed the discomfort she caused because she took a breath, softened slightly.

“...we’ll talk to Celine. We’ll bring her into a serious conversation, okay? Just... let things cool off first.”

“...Fine. I don’t exactly agree with this whole ‘do nothing and pretend it’s a strategy’ thing. But whatever.” Mira grumbled, and Zoey rolled her eyes — but with a small smile tugging at her lips.

“Do nothing? Who said anything about doing nothing?” her smile widened. “I actually have some ideas for what we can do.”

“Oh? Just one idea?” Mira raised an eyebrow, the rhythm of normality settling back between them. It felt good. Grounding. Peaceful.

Zoey laughed, tugging her girlfriend’s hand and standing from the couch. She led Mira toward the bedroom. “Actually, I’ve written four notebooks full of ideas and their respective methods of implementation.” She raised one hand to gesture while the other still held Mira’s, saying it as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

Maybe it wasn’t. But Mira didn’t care.

She didn’t care if it was normal by the world’s standards. Just the fact that it was so her — so utterly, wonderfully Zoey — was enough to mend the cracks in her heart.

And under all her bravado, she hoped — truly hoped — that it could mend Rumi’s heart too.

• FB: E •

She didn’t go back to the building. No, she definitely couldn’t go back. Her steps were hurried, determined — a sharp contrast to her thoughts, which seemed to pray for time to accelerate and for the future never to arrive.

Future. How she used to love that word — even now, when it had become a source of dread. She remembered it clearly: seventeen years old, on a break from Celine’s training to spend the end-of-year holidays with her parents — a luxury for hunters and trainees, granted by her, honestly. A brutal fight, born of disbelief. The announcement of her disinheritance. A failure doesn’t deserve a family.

We have more important things to prioritize.

She had looked at herself, deeply, in the mirror. How she had grown. No longer the quiet little girl, but the kind of girl who would bark without end. If you extend your wrist to an irritated dog — be ready to be bitten.

Kim Mi-kyeong? It felt so out of order now. Just the past — and honors didn’t have to be golden or beautiful. Oh no, they wouldn’t be. She would never honor a legacy built on the backs of the weak, money printed and molded with the blood of humbler lives. She refused. Would that be heroic, or foolish? For her? It would be both.

Maybe that’s what she felt when Celine reached out to her during that trial, freshly released from juvenile detention for the second time that year. Maybe Mira had seen in Celine something almost as fantastical as her own political visions — a version of the world where she could be a hero. A world where her actions would have meaning, where they wouldn’t be swept under the rug, like her parents always did. That’s why her future would be brilliant, radiant, golden like the bitterness she had shattered.

And she would go on shattering it. Maybe she didn’t have the ability, like her two girlfriends, to shape something from scratch — but she, carving away flakes and revealing contours, would surpass Michelangelo. Yes, exactly. She would chip away every imperfection that had made her life so jagged, the kind of sharp edges that hurt her, and the people she truly loved.

One of those sharp edges? Celine, obviously.

Back when she was still young, still under the mantle of the former Sunlight Sister, she had been Celine’s closest student. The one who admired her the most — the speeches of strength, the epic declarations, the blazing inspiration. She couldn’t deny the thrill she felt when she realized that Celine was a figure of power she couldn’t breach — and that only made her want to try harder.

And the whole discourse about demons? A relief.

Power through failure — a reason for being different, for being special because of something external? She would live for that. Knowing that maybe the fault wasn’t hers, not entirely, not this time, was deeply comforting.

The aggression? That was the temptation of demons.

The arrogance? The temptation of demons.

The rejection? The temptation of demons.

She could have been a religious fanatic — but she wasn’t kneeling, begging for forgiveness. No. She would raise her woldo and sing hymns of hope and war.

She needed to defeat her greatest thorn, the one that had grown from her untouched flesh and pointed toward everyone who stood beside her. No more lies — she wouldn’t tolerate them.

“And if words failed — then let it be the blade.” — (ch.5)

She boarded the train, hoodie well in place, Sussie comfortably tucked under the fabric at her shoulder. She had strong tracking skills, and that’s what had brought her so precisely to the location where her former mentor would be. The honmoon had been more sensitive lately than it had ever been — and how could she deny it? It had helped her feel souls, pinpoint them in the nearly infinite spectrum of colors that threaded through the energy lines of the veil.

It was one of the company’s scattered offices across Korea. She was in Daegu now, staring at the Sunlight Entertainment building. She could feel Celine’s dormant connection to the honmoon — bitter, like a one-sided marriage.

One in the afternoon. How had so much time passed already?

Lunchtime — she could very well just walk in through the front door, say a casual “hi” to the security guard and go on her way. She was fucking Mira, after all. If that company had become what it was in recent years, part of the credit was hers too — far beyond just being an idol. Maybe being a disinherited daughter did have a few perks when it came to mindset, huh? 

Still. Walking through the front door felt weak. Too simple. Too dramatic in a submissive way. She was already throwing herself into the fire — so why not do it with style? She walked discreetly to the building’s left side, which opened into a completely ignorable alley, especially thanks to the signage of the adjacent shops. She studied the windows carefully. One of them led directly into a restroom cluster, which was also accessible from the main office floor: it would be enough.

With skills forged from sheer will and dedication, she began climbing the building, using parkour. She couldn’t help but remember how silly it had once been, when she and the girls would roam the rooftops at night — dancing across buildings and trampling over foolish expectations. When Rumi or Zoey stumbled, she’d be there — laughing and teasing, of course, but always offering a hand, always doing a quick check to see if they were okay. The best part? When she fell, they’d do the same.

They were equals, each utterly their own — and they would never waste time contemplating ego when love was what held them together. That’s why she was so determined to shout, to speak — to fight.

To win, for them. Too competitive — she could only see her own future as something to be conquered. She climbed with precision, slipping in through the window that opened into the corridor of the restroom complex. The white tiled environment helped her keep her focus. She walked past the mirrors, her reflection witnessing the materialization of the massive woldo, its blade iridescent like a faceted prism.

Her steps slowed, until she chose one of the stalls and slipped inside, hiding.

She leaned softly against the wall, her ear pressed to the cold, smooth surface. She took a deep breath and began to hum — barely audible — her free hand moving with gentle gestures, a kind of dance as subtle as the volume of her voice. The honmoon shivered, and she could feel her former mentor’s presence perfectly, just on the other side of the wall. All she had to do was wait for the perfect moment — and it wasn’t far off.

When she heard the telltale vibration of the older woman approaching the restroom, she adjusted her posture bit by bit, aligning herself with the target of her “ambush.”

Not that she really intended to hurt Celine — but she loved the drama, and she wouldn’t pretend otherwise. Things had to be done memorably, after all.

A little more time passed, and then the door to the complex opened. Footsteps echoed in the almost-empty restroom — light, clipped steps. One of the faucets was turned on, water running over the marble before spiraling down the drain.

It wasn’t on purpose — definitely not — but Mira could almost swear she could hear Celine’s thoughts. They were so loud, relentless. So different from how she remembered the merciless woman who once trained her. But still — the future had to be brilliant!

And she would rip those thoughts out of her head, one by one.

• ★ •

Her hand was still on the mouse as she stared at the computer screen. Twenty years. Twenty years, and she had the nerve to message her now — feigning concern? It was a complete lack of commitment and respect.

Celine absolutely despised that.

She simply massaged her own temple before closing the tab in her browser. Inevitably, it was a conversation she would have to have — but surprise! What conversation wasn’t she postponing?

“Coward,” she whispered to herself. She liked being the model of precision, of direction. And now she was avoiding her battles like them, like the demons loved to do. A sudden ache cut through her skull at the thought. No — what a stupid thought. She was doing it for everyone’s sake.

Like everything she had always done.

She stood up from her chair and looked around her office. Photos from her golden era, from the era of her friends, the days of her glory. Her most cherished memories — she always placed them in every office she had, and they brought her comfort. Her eyes continued to scan her private hall, stopping on a shelf fixed to the wall — just like those moments were fixed in her memory. Each one of them had a sound, composing a beautiful melody. Even through the pain, being chosen by the Honmoon had been one of the most beautiful things that could’ve happened to her. Just imagine: not hearing the voice of the world — not knowing how beautifully a soul can sing?

Her gaze kept moving. From right to left, until it settled on a particular photo: Mira, Zoey, and Rumi — receiving their first AOTY. A smile tugged at her high, time-worn cheeks. They looked so radiant.

The way Mira’s smile was always sharp, piercing, stunning. Thinner, but showing off her perfect teeth, set against fuller lips. The directness that ran across her face didn’t stop it from saying: affection, happiness, pride. The hardness was there, but not like muddy stones or blades waiting to cut — it was a diamond. And what’s more beautiful than that?

Zoey’s smile, on the other hand, was so wide it could be compared to the horizon — where suns, moons, and stars are born. A guide in the darkness of bitterness. Celine could remember the day she met the girl — a rushed flight from California to Seoul, a gap between her front teeth. She was adorable. It still pained her, a little, that the ever-critical industry had encouraged her to “fix” that aesthetic divergence.

And then, her eyes shifted to Rumi. Restrained, gentle, but playful and good-humored in silhouette. The smile of someone doing good work — diligent, dedicated. Someone who knew the value of what she was building. The softness of Mi-ya…but his humor. Even terrible things could bear good fruit, if one knew how to care for them.

And she hadn’t known — Celine was fully aware of that now. She turned her face away, the movement rippling through her muscles, driven by the shame firing through her synapses. If regret could kill — well, she wouldn’t have made it to fifty, that’s for sure.

She turned as if turning at a funeral — knowing she was leaving something behind, but that whatever it was, it would never return to her. Not again. Not the same.

She was heading to the restroom, to wash her face and return to work — her great distraction. It was a good plan. It would have to be enough. Her steps weren’t rushed — she had all the time in the world. Or maybe no time left at all, which is why rushing wouldn’t help.

She simply entered and walked toward the sink. She turned on the tap, watching the water flow for a moment before finally washing her hands and face. She was distracted enough not to care about the slight tremor in the Honmoon. She didn’t recognize it — not with those colors, not with those vibrations so unlike the ones she had once idealized. In a golden future.

But one thing she did recognize clearly: the warmth of an approaching aurora at the back of her neck. What a fool — to think she could avoid this. "How long have you been here?"

The question came impassive, direct, just as the tip of the blade pulled away from her neck — not that Honmoon weapons could truly harm humans, but they could still burn, hot enough to blister.

"About twenty minutes, maybe," Mira replied, spinning the woldo gracefully before planting its iridescent blade on the ground. Her reflection now stood clearly behind Celine’s in the mirror. "Why the hell have you been ignoring all our messages!? You've been pretending we don't exist since the Idol Awards! It’s been months, for god’s sake!"

“Mira... the situation isn’t so simplistic that it can be reduced to... that.” Celine countered, still not turning fully, her eyes meeting Mira’s only through the mirror. Nothing else.

“Oh, it’s not!?” Mira’s voice cracked with incredulity. “How dare you say that!? You should be on your knees! We managed to defeat Gwi-ma, we managed to bring back hope— and more than that, to bring hope to Rumi, something you—” She pointed her long, sharp finger at the older woman before her, “you never could!”

"...And yet, demons are still appearing." The former Sunlight Sister's words hit like cold iron. Enough to contort Mira’s expression into a grimace.

"Those aren’t Gwi-ma’s." The old demon king’s name slipped from her lips like molten glass. "You know what they are... don’t you?"

Her voice had quieted, but her words cut like glass shards — small, cold, and impossible to ignore. Celine didn’t answer immediately.

The mirror no longer reflected just two women — it reflected the time they had lost, the promises broken, the abyss between what had been mission... and what had been love.

“Rumi’s sick… did you know that?” Mira’s voice cracked again. “She tries to act like we don’t notice, but we do— I do! I hear her crying, I hear her screams, her vomiting. And where are you, huh? Where’s the person who was supposed to be our anchor in the storm, our refuge in the confusion, huh??”

Silence.

“The hunts are getting harder… these…these new demons! We don’t know anything about them! And why don’t we know anything!?” Her voice was faltering, but she forced it back into steadiness.

“And you— you just disappear. You always disappear the moment the truth gets too close to you.” Celine lowered her gaze. Her reflection in the mirror, still fractured, looked older. Not from time — but from weight. "You lied to us." That made Celine raise her eyes again. A flicker of pride tried to form there — and died before it could even begin.

"You lied about what we were. What it means to be a Hunter. What does it mean, huh?"

“I...” The word came out dry. Cracked. Mira stepped forward. Not with threat — but with the anguish of someone demanding answers, even knowing they might destroy her.

“The oath? ‘We’re Hunters, voice strong. Slaying demons with our song’? It was always about killing demons and pretending it was for justice— when it was just fear dressed up as faith!?”

“Mira—”

“You told us to protect humans. But you never said from what, exactly. You never said why there were so many seals, so many songs, why so much control...why we could never ask where the demons came from. Where Gwi-ma came from.”

Mira was breathing hard now. She was trembling—not from anger, but from something older. Betrayal.

“And now he’s gone, and abomination-demons are crawling out like roaches from the gutter. Why!? I thought he was the only problem!”

Celine finally stepped forward. Her voice, at last, had lost its institutional tone. “Because demons were never the only thing that threatened us. And the existence of Gwi-ma... protected us.”

Mira stared at her. "...What?"

Celine stared back. Her eyes were dark, like a sky locked before the storm.“The golden Honmoon was never meant to destroy Gwi-ma or his kingdom… only temporary expulsions. His existence was a cork — sealing the passageway of the Honmoon from... the true danger.”

“…And why. Didn’t. We. Know that?” Mira’s hands clutched the shaft of her weapon tightly, the lines of her veil fluttering like thin branches before a storm. Her teeth clenched so hard they might have shattered.

Celine didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Mira couldn’t hold back. She lunged toward her former mentor, grabbing her by the collar of her dress shirt and forcing her to finally face her. The shock was brief — but soon Celine’s gaze returned to its usual stillness. Methodical...Regretful?

“Don’t think I’m going to let this go, Celine! I-I hate being lied to! I hate it when people aren’t strong enough to deal with the consequences!

“I WON’T FORGIVE YOU!” Damn, how much that sounded like him.

All Celine could do was nod. Let the heavens have mercy on her punishment — because she would not run from it. “...I know. But it’s better this way.” In a swift motion, Celine tore one of the rings from her finger and threw it to the ground.

A cloud of smoke — red like wildfire — filled the young Hunter’s vision. Mira staggered backward, her hands gripping the woldo again. Cracks bloomed inside her consciousness — then came a deep, oppressive laughter. The future wasn’t golden, after all. It was red.

But, look closely — Even blood carries gold.

Chapter Text

(Huī stood near the stove, in a kitchen decorated in the most elderly, kitschy, and comforting way imaginable. There was a bit of fur clinging to the line of his jaw beneath his signature goatee, and his hair — purple, a tone certainly darker than Rumi’s, as she had noticed — shimmered softly under the warm light.)

("Your mother, in the middle of one of those weird emotional episodes, started eating ice—like… ice?! Come on! Pregnancy cravings are truly terrifying," he said, stirring some kind of broth in the pot.)

(Mi-yeong wasn’t far. She was seated at the kitchen island, her gaze distant and heavy. The closer the recordings came to the due date, the more subdued she seemed. It was an imminent truth, and yet they all seemed to be quietly avoiding it — the tragic will always come, so allow yourself a little dreaming before the awakening.)

("Don’t provoke me when I can’t strike back, Huī," she said. Her voice was husky and breathless, yet her gentle, welcoming tone never left her. Her boyfriend chuckled, glancing at her before returning his focus to the cooking.)

("I can’t help it. You’re so stubborn and headstrong," he said, his words seasoned with the purest affection one could offer in a moment so domestic, so immediate. "I just hope our little Rumi doesn’t inherit your stubbornness, and if she does — well, you can already see your father has his hands full with her mother. Please, don’t give me extra work.")

(His complaint was cut short when Mi-ya threw a small spoon at him. "Ow! See? — she resorts to violence now...")

("Stop being dramatic, darling," she laughed, then tenderly caressed her pregnant belly. "But it’s true. Letting yourself be taken care of is a beautiful thing. Just don’t forget — others are waiting for you too. And even you’ll need yourself in one piece to endure what’s coming.")

(The stove was turned off. Huī took a bowl and filled it with the soup. He walked slowly toward the woman sitting nearby. She smiled, received it, and thanked him. Before she could lift the spoon, he beat her to it — gently, almost eagerly. He dipped the spoon into the bowl and, with a soft breath to cool it, lifted it toward her.)

(The tender gesture made a wide, goofy smile bloom on Mi-yeong’s lips. He whispered for her to open her mouth, and she obeyed. She tasted the soup, savoring the flavor, and answered with a slow, deliberate blink.)

("...but maybe it’s not so bad to throw everything away, if you’ve got a Huī to cook for you," she murmured.)

(A laugh came just before the gesture — she pulled him into a kiss rich with meaning. A kiss that tasted eternal, as if the moment between them would never end, even if time itself, eventually, would.)

• ★ •

She remembers when she was attending a special oceanography camp in Florida. Her small notebook clutched tightly to her chest, her heart beating fast and firm, steady. Zoey remembers it vividly — how night was falling, the city lights burning bright — too bright for the tiny sea turtles that were about to hatch.

She remembers: how she took the flashlight the instructor had given her, using it with patience — patience that mirrored the very purpose of being the light for that little turtle.

It was one of the most adorable things she had ever witnessed: the way the hatchling, fresh from its shell, began to push past its own limits and conquer them, second by second. One of the most important moments of her life. As much as she wanted to scoop it up and carry it straight to the ocean — maybe even home with her, in a sudden, impulsive thought — she knew she couldn’t. The hatchling had to make its own way. It was in those critical first steps that it would strengthen its fibers and tendons for the first time, use its lungs efficiently — and most importantly, memorize, with aching precision, the place of its birth.

It was also one of the saddest things she had ever seen: just a tiny creature, already competing with its own siblings. Its flippers slapped at the sand, searching for a rhythm it had never known and that no one could teach. There it was, alone, in the dark night — and it couldn’t even afford the privilege of following the moonlight. Too many cities. Too many lights. It might be lured by the glow of a tent and never have the chance to find the sea.

That was why she guided it with her flashlight — a small act of care to make up for the invasion humans have made. “Better them than us” didn’t sound right, but Zoey was part of the “us” too. And still, it was a hard battle — one that would never be a victory, only a delayed defeat: when that turtle grew, if it could reproduce, it would try to return to the same place it was born to lay its eggs — and it wouldn’t recognize it. Everything was changing too fast. And so, as nature would say: it’s better to discard the clutch.

So tragic. And yet so true. What a miserable existence, Zoey thinks — and still, it is so beautiful.

She can’t help but reflect on how the tiniest details make something beautiful. Even if she can’t interfere directly — even if the power of decision doesn’t belong to her — since that day, something has lived in her heart: that the world might at least listen to her. That it might allow her to intervene — a wind that cannot change the sail’s direction, but still brushes the nose of the navigator and allows him to announce the storm.

Her thoughts could fill her head until they nearly spilled out through her ears, but her gaze — at the very least — never once left the purple-haired woman sitting beside her.

Rumi wore her usual cream hoodie over a turtle-neck shirt. Her eyes were constantly downcast, insecure, as if under some threat. Who threatened her? Oh, if only Zoey knew; she would defend her girlfriend like roots shield a riverbank. The older girl fidgeted softly with her own fingers — an involuntary gesture, pure nervousness. The dark-haired woman smiled, then reached out her hand toward Rumi. A slight recoil, but with a quick exchange of glances, Rumi accepted the gesture and began to play gently with Zoey’s hands, caressing them in return.

She loved physical affection. It had even been a problem during her childhood — her parents, even miles apart, would often come to the same conclusions about her. She had felt ashamed of that trait, twisting it inward like a balloon being compressed. But when she found Rumi and Mira, she was finally allowed to be herself. And she couldn’t deny it — since Rumi had finally freed herself from the shackles of her own shame, their touch had only become better, more intimate — pure, sinful, loving, and possessive all at once. She adored paradoxes, contradictions, confusion. The kind of things many would reject in a good partner — she embraced like a devout captive.

And it was precisely because of this that she had to rescue Rumi from herself. She hadn’t managed to do it before, even with Mira by her side. And “Takedown”? Raising arms against the kindest woman who had ever existed? That had been the proof of her failure.

She could be careless about many things, liberal about countless others. But when it came to her passions — her girls? Absolutely not. Every line would be written with reverence and caution. And it was exactly because of that — this time, she was going to be there for Rumi, even if the vocalist didn’t want her to be.

“...you okay, Ru?” Her voice was so gentle—perhaps even a bit higher-pitched than usual, all out of caution.

“...a little dizzy.” No meandering, none of Rumi’s usual rhetorical loops. She was direct — and that made Zoey’s heart stutter, each beat tripling in tempo, her freckled face flushing with tension.

“...should we pull over? Are you gonna throw up or something?”

“No… just dizzy.” Her voice faltered on the last syllables. Zoey wrapped her in a gentle hug, and Rumi quickly leaned her head — the one that seemed so unbearably heavy, too much to carry — onto her girlfriend’s shoulder.

The youngest hummed softly for the rest of the ride, her warmth seeping into Rumi’s cold ears. Zoey could’ve sworn she heard faint purring vibrations coming from her girlfriend’s chest, pressed against her shoulder — but she wouldn’t comment on it now. Rumi didn’t seem well enough to understand even lighthearted teasing.

Getting to the hospital was a bit complicated: everything through the back, doing their best to avoid the press during such a delicate moment.

“I’ll talk to reception, okay? Just give me her documents,” Bobby said, and Zoey handed them over. Rumi stayed silent, now tugging at the sleeve of her hoodie. Once Bobby had taken the documents and walked off, Zoey let out a breath — thank goodness they could stay in the more private wing, even if something about that rubbed against her sense of ethics.

“...You know that…well…Mira and I, we’ve noticed, right?” Her voice came out unassuming — not mocking, just afraid of being too direct.

“...I have no intention of hiding how I feel.” Rumi replied, her gaze still unfocused.

“...And what is it, then? I mean… it doesn’t make much sense when you put it like that.”

“...What causes them.” The vocalist leaned back in the hospital chair, her eyes now drifting without resolve across the white, monotonous ceiling. Zoey moved closer, wrapping her in a hug. Her hand gently traced one of the lines in Rumi’s demonic markings, just to feel her subtly lean into the touch — love still reaching her, even through the pain.

“...You know you can trust us, sweetheart. We’re a team, after all. We’re family.”

“...I-I know, Zoey… but… ugh.” She shifted in the chair, prompting the rapper to pull back slightly. “...Demonic patterns feel like a scratch compared to… to what this is.” Her eyes turned toward her girlfriend. Her pupils were abnormally dilated, and her left iris carried a faint amber shimmer. Compassion kicked in as Zoey kissed Rumi’s cheeks gently, whispering soft, soothing murmurs. The older girl let out a sob, wrapping her arms tightly around the maknae’s slim waist.

“...I’m afraid of myself, Zoey… and it’s so… disturbing.”

“...You don’t have to carry this alone. Even if… even if you can’t talk about it, you know? Just let us see, Rumi. There’s nothing shameful about feeling broken.”

But Rumi knew Zoey was wrong.

It was shameful — horrific, confusing, bloodstained and frustrating. She felt everything, everyone — the emotions of the world screaming at her through a storm of catastrophe. An amalgam of concepts, layered into an existence manufactured like a product. A product that was sharp, foul, dangerous. Consume from a distance. If you can’t? Discard.

A few more minutes passed with the two of them holding each other, until Bobby returned with a nurse. Triage — Zoey assumed it would be quick.

She just didn’t expect it to be a small catastrophe. Okay, maybe not exactly that — but no one needed to react that angrily to a blood pressure cuff, did they?

Rumi snapped at the nurse like she was under attack. Her mood was swinging wildly. When the assessment was finally over, Rumi was left crying intensely, and the data revealed her blood pressure and temperature were dangerously high.

“We’ll have to keep her under observation with medication until she stabilizes,” the doctor told Zoey and Bobby. Zoey, for her part, barely heard it. Anguish flooded her usually sharp and attentive senses. Soon, they were given a room — maybe too spacious and complicated for something not yet considered critical? That only made the maknae’s heart twist even tighter.

“Hey, Zoey,” Bobby’s voice pulled her from her spiraling thoughts — so compassionate, almost paternal. “...Are you okay? You look really anxious.”

“...I think it’s hard not to be right now,” she answered, her voice sharper than she meant it to be. The manager nodded, placing a kind hand on her shoulder.

“You know, why don’t you go for a walk? Get some air? I’ll keep an eye on her, I promise.” He patted his own chest, face radiating a firm, grounded confidence — even if it was a fragile front. It was what Zoey needed.

“Yeah… I… I think you’re right. Thanks, Bobby,” she said, returning a smile — not entirely genuine, but convincing enough. She stood reluctantly, her eyes still fixed on Rumi, who now stared blankly at the plastic flower on the nightstand beside the hospital bed, receiving intravenous medication, an oxygen mask in place just in case — her oxygen saturation had begun to dip.

It wasn’t critical, but still, Zoey felt it deep in her bones — something’s wrong. Her Rumi, like this? Maybe human medicine couldn’t reach what was happening. But her sensitivity — her instincts — could feel it.

She stroked her girlfriend’s head lightly before stepping away, glancing back one last time before finally leaving the room

• ★ •

Hospital environments were always oppressive, no matter how well Zoey understood the reason behind their sterility. It still felt like a deep gash separating reality from imagination. Nothing there inspired her. Nothing invited reflection. Pale and straightforward — perhaps that was best, so people wouldn’t feel the worst before it was time?

Her stomach growled softly. She hadn’t eaten much that morning, too preoccupied with Rumi. Not that the situation had improved — but it would, at least that’s what she hoped. Zoey would step outside, grab a quick snack, check back to see Rumi feeling better and boom! The day might be salvaged. They’d go home, collapse onto the couch with Mira, and binge documentaries Zoey had spent hours hunting down just to match the tastes of her two girlfriends — wouldn’t they?

As she walked down the main corridor toward the exit, adjusting her mask and bucket hat, she passed an older doctor — slightly hunched — coming the other way. Completely ordinary, for a hospital. Except for one inconvenient, bone-chilling detail:

He had marks — purple ones. Gwi-ma marks.

That instantly sharpened the huntress in her. Of all the demons that had appeared in her new routine, it had been a while since she’d seen one with purple sigils. Relief mingled with dread — at least she knew what these ones could do. No unpredictable powers. No nonsense. Food could wait. She needed to deal with him now, before he harmed anyone in this hospital — especially Rumi.

She waited until the false doctor had walked a bit ahead, then started trailing him. He moved calmly, even greeting staff along the way. Unlike other demons, this one clearly had mastered human interaction. Zoey was so focused on his trail she didn’t immediately notice what wing they’d entered.

Pediatric oncology. Great. Now she’d have to kill a demon in front of already-suffering children and families.

She stayed at a safe distance, blending in with the hospital’s busyness. Her stealth skills served her well here. She watched him reach the reception desk and gather some documents and spreadsheets. Her sharp gaze caught the room number on one: 412. That was his destination. Zoey got ahead of him and slipped inside the room first, not fully registering what kind of space she’d just entered.

The air in Room 412 hung heavy and stale, saturated with the nauseating scent of antiseptic layered over something deeper, sweeter — the faint aroma of wilting flowers and unsaid farewells. Zoey passed through the doorway like smoke, her hunter’s grace rendering her silent. Sunlight filtered timidly through the open blinds.

And then, her target — the mission, the reason she’d invaded the silent fortress of the pediatric oncology ward — evaporated the moment she saw her.

A tiny figure, swallowed by the mechanical beast of a hospital bed, dwarfed by monitors that mapped erratic landscapes of a faltering life. Tubes slithered through nose and throat, taped carefully to frail arms the color of steeped tea. A halo of wires crowned a scalp sparsely dusted with the ghost of hair. She couldn’t be more than thirteen, Zoey estimated. The nearby wall displayed charts — brain and spinal tumors, invasive.

Zoey’s hand, calloused from gripping shin-kal, pens, and poetry, flew to her mouth to muffle a gasp ripped straight from her soul. The heavy air pressed down on her — dense with the weight of stolen futures. And for the first time in so long, the presence of a demon didn’t matter. There was only vulnerability — raw and profound — piercing through her armor more brutally than any claw, fang, or blade ever could.

The girl looked impossibly small, lost beneath hospital sheets, her face a terrain of hollows beneath closed lids. Zoey’s breath caught. She saw not only illness but a fierce, silent beauty in the arch of one delicate brow, the sharp curve of a cheekbone against the pillow. A wave of aching appreciation crashed over her — gratefulness for the fragile vessel clinging to life, for the quiet courage carved into every labored breath the machines forced in and out.

Her purpose unraveled. The tight knot of her hunter’s instinct loosened, replaced by a raw tenderness that choked her. Tears — hot and unexpected — burned her eyes, blurring the harsh outlines of medical equipment.

Almost without thinking, her hand hovered, then gently landed on the bed’s edge. The girl’s pulse was like warm paper, her translucent skin a delicate map of pale blue veins. Zoey assumed she was asleep. Or maybe lost in a coma, far away from pain.

But then — the girl’s eyelids fluttered. Slowly. Unbelievably. And opened.

Dark, liquid eyes — enormous in that hollowed face — locked onto Zoey’s. Not with confusion, but with startling clarity. And then, it bloomed. A smile. Not the ghost of one. Not a twitch. A real, luminous smile that transformed her gaunt features, lighting up her sunken cheeks with a glow that outshone the sterile sunlight. It crinkled the corners of those immense eyes, chasing away the shadows of pain and machines for one blazing instant.

Zoey froze. Her breath caught in her chest. Recognition sparked in those eyes, pure and untouched. Joy — brilliant and ferocious. She had never felt so profoundly grateful to be recognized by someone, even dressed in disguise.

“...Zoey... unnie...?” The voice was a thread, barely louder than the ventilator’s hush. Dry, cracked lips struggled around the tube to speak — but the happiness was unmistakable, a tangible force humming through the air, defying the silence of illness and machinery.

Zoey couldn’t possibly know — there were too many fans scattered across this mad world. But to that girl, she was everything. Her bias. She couldn’t say it, but in her weary heart echoed every thank-you meant for that idol. Every time she’d drawn strength from lyrics Zoey wrote and sang with the Huntrix. Every time she was reminded that hope was a good that neither cancer nor time could take.

Maybe the girl couldn’t say it. Maybe Zoey would never know it in full. But never had she felt the Honmoon resonate as powerfully as now. Her mind, once immersed in that singular moment of connection, was abruptly interrupted by the sound of the door creaking open. It was him — the demon doctor.

He seemed momentarily surprised, but that flicker of reaction vanished the instant he saw Zoey manifest her Honmoon blades. He took a steady breath.

"Ah... just a hunter," he said, his tone calm — unnervingly so. That, more than anything, caught her off guard. Normally, when a demon caught sight of one of the three Hunters, panic erupted — a scream, a charge, a hiss of fury. But not this one. He looked… secure. At ease. He simply stepped closer to the hospital bed, and Zoey fell into a defensive stance.

He merely lifted a hand. The girl between them — pale, weakened, overwhelmed — looked confused, but had no strength to question anything.

“There’s no need for this. Even if you kill me, others will come. Again and again. I’m just here to do my job,” he said, with disarming serenity.

“And you think I don’t know what kind of job that is?”

“Oh, I know you do. And that’s exactly why… you’ll let me do it,” he inhaled slowly.

The old man’s form shifted then, revealing the unmistakable features of a jeoseung saja. His lower canines pierced his lips, ears tapered to a point, sclera black and pupils gold like a feline’s. Lavender markings curled down his cheeks, and small horns adorned his brow. Yet, he was unlike the Gwi-ma demons she knew.

His violet and rose-colored patterns didn’t pulse like curses. They glowed — softly, serenely. His presence felt more mythic than malevolent. His gaze held no hunger, but something stranger: consideration.

He extended his hand again — claws outstretched, but his touch impossibly gentle as he pressed two fingers to the chest of the bedridden girl. Then, it emerged — her soul-thread. Zoey’s breath caught.

It was beautiful. A pale, summer-sky blue. As if made of ocean spray, cotton candy, and laughter after a perfect day at the fair. The old demon noticed Zoey’s awe. He chuckled, snapping his fingers. From his chest emerged his own thread — purple and pink, glowing in tandem with the markings on his skin. From Zoey’s own chest, a thread ignited in blue — similar to the girl’s, but wrapped in fine gold filigree. Her eyes widened.

Every being had their own soul color, she realized. Her thoughts bubbled with possibilities. The realization hit her like a song: this was the true origin of the harmony born from Honmoon. Each thread trembled with its own melody, and together they wove a symphony that was beyond comprehension — but achingly, painfully beautiful.

The old reaper gestured toward Zoey’s hand. Confused, she extended it. He guided her palm gently to rest against the girl's soul-thread.

Emotion surged through her. Victories. Failures. Joys, tastes, dreams. Frustrations. Grief. A soul so young and so vast, its complexity rivaling any tapestry Zoey had ever glimpsed in battle or memory. Then, the reaper turned to the girl — and she was no longer confused. Her face bore a quiet understanding, a calm acceptance of her destiny. The kind of bravery that would stay with Zoey for a long time.

From the black folds of his hanbok, the reaper pulled out a small blade — not a weapon of violence, but something ceremonial, like a pocket knife.

"You fought well... You will have your reward." That was all he said before he severed the thread.

The light vanished from it, and the girl’s soul departed in a sigh so gentle, so peaceful, it seemed to bless the very air. He gathered the thread delicately, wrapping it in a soft pink ribbon, and placed it in a pouch embroidered with ornate runes.

“...Where are you taking her?” Zoey asked, her voice hushed as she watched him offer a brief prayer.

“I will take her to the soul evaluation. Then I will guide her to the land of the dead. Her energy will nourish our realm, and her soul shall rest at last.”

He tilted his gat forward in a respectful bow, stepping back. “...Live well, hunter,” he said — and vanished in a puff of pink smoke. Not sulfurous like the Gwi-ma demons, but scented of fallen petals.

Zoey stared at the lifeless girl one last time. Death was still such an intense, unbearable thing to witness. But to know that now, at least, the girl could finally rest… It brought something she hadn’t expected: peace. She lowered herself, head bowed, and let a whisper rise from her lips — a promise.

“I’ll honor you, wherever I go… little one. You and every fan who believes in me.”

• ★ •

She stepped out of the room. Behind her, she could still hear the nurses and doctors rushing about. But the chaos of trying to rescue a soul that had already departed no longer registered in her senses. Her focus was entirely on the Honmoon.

She saw now how all human souls carried that same structure — a celestial blue beneath, shimmering with subtle flashes of other hues. A visual language that whispered, each one differently human. How had she never noticed this before? Neither she, nor Mira, nor Rumi? Gods, if they had, perhaps they would have fallen even deeper in love with the role they played.

She saw it now — how threads emerged from the maternity ward, fresh and light. How others, from the ICU, dimmed and disappeared. Notes of the symphony of life, rising and fading before her eyes. The privilege of witnessing the very nature of being, in its rawest and most unfiltered form.

She wandered the hospital almost aimlessly, guided only by the breathtaking sensations around her.

The harmony held so perfectly — until one note fell out of tune.

Her eyes sharpened into focus. There it was: an iridescent thread, with a bluish-violet base nearly white, suppressed by the clash of all other colors. The recognition struck her instantly — Rumi.

She quickened her pace, hurrying back toward the room where her partner was — supposedly — receiving medication. But she wasn’t there. Instead, she found Bobby at the bathroom door, practically begging.

“Rumi! Come on… I’ll have to get the doctors if you don’t open up! B-but please — just come out before it gets worse!” he pleaded, met only with a grumbling, irritated noise from inside. He was far too anxious to actually leave and get help.

Zoey approached. “What’s going on here?” Her voice made the manager sigh with relief, grabbing her arm as if she'd just saved him from drowning.

“Oh, Zoey! Oh Lord!! Rumi was taking her medication just fine, and then she suddenly got really upset. She pulled out the IV lines and ran into the bathroom. Locked herself in.”

“What? But… okay, let me—eh—” She hesitated. In Rumi’s current state, soft negotiations would be useless. This needed to be straightforward — something Rumi couldn’t ignore. If Mira were here, she would have known exactly what to do. But Zoey moved on instinct. She stepped up to the door and called out: “…If you don’t open this door, I’m going to break it down.”

“Wait, Zoey—” Bobby began, but was cut off by a hoarse, irritated voice dragging itself from behind the door.

“You wouldn’t dare,” Rumi hissed. Her disbelief and sarcasm soaked every syllable.

“You really don’t want to test that. Please, Rumi. Remember what we talked about…?” Her voice was firm, but the worry threading through it was raw, genuine. A full minute passed before a sound came — the click of the lock being undone. A soft warning followed:

“…Don’t turn on the light.” It was an unusual request. But Zoey didn’t question it. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

The bathroom was steeped in near-total darkness. Even the high windows — meant to catch sunlight and let air circulate — were shut tight, their glass muffled by towels. Whatever was happening, it was clear: she didn’t want any light in this space. And yet, the shadows were not complete. A faint glow flickered across the intricate patterns on her body... and in her left eye, which pulsed with a flickering, sinister light.

Rumi was leaning against one of the tiled walls, silent and motionless. Zoey let out a soft groan, frustration building in her chest. She had moved with all the care in the world, with the delicacy of someone approaching a wild animal or a wounded soul — and yet, her foot caught on an uneven edge of the floor and she stumbled forward. Rumi caught her.

The hands that caught her were not exactly the same ones Zoey had always known. They were larger now, unmistakably so. She felt clawed fingers wrap around her arms — long, firm, sharp at the tips — but not unkind. Even in their monstrous form, Rumi’s touch was still hers. And Zoey — how could she pull away? How could she step back from that same quiet tenderness, from that unshakable presence, from the violet-haired girl who would always be there, even now?

A low, breathless laugh broke the silence. It came from Rumi, and then from Zoey, as she found herself delicately upright again. Their eyes met — or at least, Zoey thought they did. A golden iris, glowing softly in the dark, fixed on her. The pupil was dilated in a way that made her laugh too — a strange moment of levity in a room heavy with emotion.

Carefully — still unsure of the space between them in the darkness — Zoey reached out. Slowly. Hesitantly. She didn’t want to frighten her. She didn’t want to take more than Rumi was ready to give.

But Rumi leaned in, just enough, and Zoey’s hand came to rest on her sternum. She was... taller? It seemed so. Maybe it was the uneven floor. Maybe it was the transformation. But the thought didn’t linger — the touch was the only language that mattered now.

She wouldn’t ask to see. Wouldn’t beg for the light. Whatever it was that Rumi feared showing, whatever hid in the shadows of her altered body — Zoey would never demand to witness it. She just wanted Rumi to know: I’m here. No matter what.

Her hand slowly moved up Rumi’s chest, fingertips brushing skin that felt warmer than usual. Her fingers reached her neck and then traced up again — gently — toward her chin. Rumi followed the motion with that single glowing eye, saying nothing. Near the demon eye, the markings on her skin glowed in a soft pink — unlike the rest of her marks, which shimmered in shifting iridescence.

Zoey paused. The skin there... felt thicker. Not calloused, not rough — but as if it had been reforged. She moved lower, to the curve of Rumi’s cheek — there, the skin was smooth again, familiar. But near the orbit of that eye, the texture changed once more. It wasn’t like the demons they’d fought before — the ones from Gwi-ma, with their strange, fragile, almost membranous flesh.

No. This was something else. And Zoey’s hand stayed steady. Her thumb rested gently at the edge of the eye socket, not pressing, not probing — just resting there. A silent promise. She could feel Rumi’s breath — slow, controlled, but not entirely steady. Something trembled beneath, like the surface of a lake rippling before the storm breaks.

“Rumi,” Zoey whispered, her voice nearly inaudible in the quiet, “you’re scaring yourself more than you’re scaring me.”

A pause. Then, just barely, Rumi’s body moved. Not away. Closer. The warmth of her breath touched Zoey’s cheek, and when she spoke, it was low, hoarse, and laced with something older than fear.

“I don’t know what I am when this happens,” she said. “It’s like... I split. Like I can feel her inside me. Someone different. Watching. Wanting.”

Zoey nodded, even though she knew Rumi couldn’t see her. Her fingers drifted back down, brushing the collarbone, then coming to rest gently over her heart. “And yet,” she said softly, “you still caught me when I fell.”

A silence stretched between them, dense and sacred.

“You didn’t push me away. You caught me. You were the only one left when I needed someone, weren’t you?”

Rumi let out a shaky breath — somewhere between a laugh and a sob. “I could’ve hurt you. I wanted to hurt something. Not you, not really, but it’s... it’s like there’s a scream buried so deep I don’t even know where it starts. It just grows. And when it gets too much, I…”

“You come here. You hide. You bury the light.” Zoey gave a soft, breathy laugh, now gently tracing the glowing pink line along Rumi’s lower eyelid. “I thought you were the one who got all nervous in the dark and loved basking in the sun…”

“I can’t stand the light,” Rumi admitted. “Not when I’m like this. Not when I feel like this. It makes everything too real.”

Zoey stepped forward until their bodies touched softly, until she could feel the trembling weight of Rumi against her chest. Her hand slid up to the back of Rumi’s neck, fingers tangling in violet strands — warmer than usual, almost feverish. “You don’t have to bear this alone.”

Rumi didn’t respond, but the way her arms slowly, carefully wrapped around Zoey said enough. The claws were still there — dangerous, capable — but her embrace was hesitant, as if afraid of breaking something fragile.

Zoey pressed her forehead to Rumi’s. “I know you’re afraid of yourself. But you don’t scare me.”

“I want to believe that,” Rumi murmured. “And maybe I don’t scare you… but I know what I’m capable of. Of this, and worse. And in the middle of that... feeling... I’m too lost to even explain what’s happening. I can’t show what I don’t even understand—”

“You don’t have to know everything, Ru,” Zoey said, voice thick with emotion. “Even if someone else is there, even if this changes your skin, your breath, your eyes — you’re still Rumi. You’re still mine. And I won’t let you forget that. If you can’t bear the light in you… then let me be it. If you can’t stand it… I’ll do it for you.”

Her words were gentle, direct — and with them, the hug deepened. No more words came after. They ceded to a silence no longer suffocating, but necessary. Still. Deep. Like the eye of a storm.

Rumi’s claws retracted slightly — not completely, but enough. Her body, still changed, softened around Zoey. The eye still glowed — but now, in its golden light, there was something more. Recognition. Grief. Hope.

Zoey didn’t need to see her fully to know she was still there. Still fighting. And for now, that was enough.

• ★ • 

It took a while before Rumi felt comfortable enough to deem herself “normal” again and turn the lights back on. After receiving a properly embellished scolding from the doctors and staying in until her condition stabilized? Even more time. Luckily, they had arrived early — very early, actually — and now, at eleven o’clock, they were both starving.

Upon arriving at the penthouse, they quickly noticed Mira’s absence. Only a flicker of peace settled in once they recalled her earlier warning: that she would be heading out to deal with some personal matters. Not that her immediate exits ever sat entirely well with them — but still, each of them had their own lives to lead. Before the three of them were one, and that alone was reason enough to respect and support one another.

They could cook — and, truth be told, Zoey adored Rumi’s cooking. It had such a singular, homemade flavor that could only be explained by her having grown up with countryside techniques. But… laziness prevailed. A morning spent at the hospital dealing with emotional meltdowns is enough to drain anyone. They surrendered to the salvation of the lazy and the weary: delivery.

When the food arrived and they both sat down to eat, Rumi seemed a little distant, her gaze unfocused. Before Zoey could even ask what was on her mind, the older girl spoke on her own.

"You know… it’s been a few days that I’ve been thinking about this, but…" she blushed faintly, inhaling deeply to summon her courage, “...I think I’m going to cut my hair.”

That simple sentence nearly made Zoey choke on the bite she was chewing.

“Wait, what?! You—You?? Cut your hair!? Rumi, are we sure they discharged us from the hospital too early?”

The comment was surprised, but laced with amusement. Rumi’s response came in the form of a light smack on her shoulder, the vocalist rolling her eyes at the maknae’s dramatics.

“I know I’ve never done it before but… I think I want to change things up a bit. I mean, maybe not in some drastic way… but I’d like to feel my head lighter.”

Zoey’s eyes lit up with genuine, sparkling excitement. She wolfed down her remaining food and then immediately pulled Rumi from her seat — before the poor girl could even finish her lunch properly.

“Wha—where are you taking me?!”

“To my favorite salon! You’re gonna love it! I’ve known the stylist for ages and — oh my god — I’ve imagined you with different hairstyles so many times, I have like, a million suggestions!! First the bathhouse, now this?? I’m living my childhood dreams!”

“We didn’t even know each other when we were kids,” Rumi noted dryly, already resigned to the fact that she was being dragged into yet another unplanned experience.

“Stop being such a killjoy! Come on!” Zoey exclaimed, even more animated than before.

It was in these moments that everything felt right — and no matter how many walls they had to climb, together, they could reach even the top of the world.

Chapter Text

• FB: S •

Whoever believes that just three women — in the prime of their youth until health betrays them — can wholly control the demons is naive. True, Honmoon allows only three sacred voices to wield its power, blessing them from the moment they step into the world. But even so, shamans still walk among us. They may not be able to kill demons or pierce the veil that drapes hope over the world while hiding it from the dark — but they can banish, they can protect.

To be born a hunter, the Honmoon demands much: You must, without exception, descend from one of the three original huntresses. You must be born with the female system — at least predominantly. You must be born in perfect health, and at night. These are rules, specific and stringently upheld traditions. The Honmoon had never chosen wrong… not until that night.

The air in the Temple of the Huntresses hung heavy as wet wool, saturated with the sweet-rotten scent of unruly cherry blossoms. They bloomed in mid-March — too early, even for Jeju compared to the mainland — petals like thin blades coating the stone steps. A bad omen. Just as Rumi was early. March fifteenth. Beneath the low ceiling of the inner sanctuary, far from human hospitals incapable of holding what was unfolding, Mi-yeong’s screams were not just sounds, but warnings. Specters of agony that reverberated against the carved walls of lore, the safety candles flickering in terrified rhythm.

Celine and Seori were the anchors. Huī had been barred from witnessing the birth. Mi-ya, once imposing, was now an archipelago of pain. Her braid — that silhouette that once shimmered with strength and grace — was undone into wet black strands stuck to a face turned ghostly. Her fingers, knuckled white from the strain, crushed Seori and Celine’s hands with a grip that threatened bone. Seori murmured mantras of love and compassion, her face a mask of silent tears and fractured resolve. Celine… Celine was a statue of ice. Paralyzed by sacred terror, she offered her hand like a block of wood to be shattered, her silver eyes fixed on the vortex of suffering between Mi-ya’s legs.

The high priestess — an elder whose face was a map of time's own battle scars — plunged her gloved hands into sacred herbs in a steaming cauldron. Conventional medicine would never contain something coming into the world so wrongly. Her assistants, their young faces drawn tight with fear, attempted to reach the child.

“Dilation… unstable,” one of them hissed, voice trembling. “Opens… closes… like a mouth refusing entry.” Mi-ya’s cervix was a fortress convulsing, waging war against the creature that insisted on being born. Her body, in primal instinct, knew. It knew that what struggled to emerge wasn’t just her daughter, but her sin.

When the amniotic sac finally burst, it wasn’t a flow — it was a jet of acidic vapor and dark amber. A high-pitched hiss filled the air as it splashed onto the nearest assistant’s exposed skin, leaving red, steaming marks like burns from forbidden alchemy. The high priestess did not flinch. Her eyes, older than the roots of the world, narrowed. “She’s close. Keep pushing, Ryu.”

Mi-ya arched her back in a scream that sounded less like the divine voice of a Huntress and more like the howl of dignity in mourning. The Honmoon — the sacred energy that flowed through the three Huntresses and the temple — buckled. The sacred carvings in the walls pulsed with a choked, dull light. The air thickened, hard to breathe, as if space itself recoiled in disgust. And in that vacuum of power, that heavy silence before rupture, Rumi’s head finally crowned.

It was not a gentle arrival. It was a violent expulsion, accompanied by a dry snap in the air. Mi-ya collapsed backward, a ragged breath escaping blue lips, her eyes rolling in utter exhaustion. The high priestess, summoning strength born of desperation, pulled the small body into the world.

The silence that followed was more terrifying than any scream. Rumi was not breathing.

She lay in the priestess’s strong arms, wrapped in the remains of a dark, viscous membrane that hissed faintly against the temple’s air. Her skin was of a supernatural pallor, almost translucent, stained deep purple at the extremities — plum-black lips, fingertips dipped in ink, a gradient of shadow climbing up slender forearms. Her hair, surprisingly fine, was a wet cascade of deep lilac — a color that did not belong to the natural world. Unnatural. Hypnotic. Tiny dark protrusions emerged from her delicate forehead, just past the hairline.

But it was the markings that held the gaze. Delicate patterns, complex as fractals or cracks in fine glass, laced across her fragile skin. They shimmered like prismatic lightning, mother-of-pearl pulsing softly, as though lightning were trapped beneath the surface. They weren’t wounds. They were sigils — openings in her body where her spirit’s radiance bled through.

And then came the cry. Not the fragile whimper of a newborn, but a sharp, shrill wail that sliced the heavy air like a blade of crystal. A sound too large for such tiny lungs. A lament stripped of humanity, a pure frequency that extinguished all candles at once and set the carvings humming.

As Rumi’s cry echoed, the suffocated Honmoon, the heavy air, the dull light… all reconfigured. A golden current — warm, visible like threads of liquid sunlight — rose from the stone floor, cloaking the infant in pure energy. A low chorus, its origin unknowable yet present everywhere, harmonious and mighty, filled the temple, responding to her cry. The cherry blossom petals scattered on the ground shivered and lifted, swirling in a soft spiral around the birthing bed.

The terror in Celine’s expression did not fade. It transformed — into reverence. Into awe, laced with a thread of unadulterated horror.

“The blessing…” Seori whispered, stunned, as the Honmoon surged through her like never before — cleansed, revitalized by the child’s presence.

The high priestess held Rumi with a mix of dread and wonder. The baby’s violet-tinged skin seemed to drink in the Honmoon’s golden light, her iridescent markings glowing brighter. The cry had softened into a low murmur, her eyes — still shut — appearing to follow the flow of sacred energy.

Celine looked at the little abomination, wrapped in the golden mantle of the holiest power their world knew. Her hands, still throbbing from Mi-ya’s crushing grip, tingled. This was no mere demon born under a rogue moon. This — this creature, with abyssal blood and falling-star skin, marked by lightning and crowned in lilac shadow — had been born under the explicit, radiant, and undeniable blessing of the Honmoon. She was not merely accepted.

She was claimed. Designated.

The next generation of Huntresses began there, wrapped in paradox and divine light, as Mi-ya, spent and slipping between the edges of death and her most disturbing triumph, panted on the brink of the void.

The high priestess lifted the child, now wreathed in the Honmoon’s golden flame, toward the faint light filtering through the cracks.

“Rumi,” she declared, her voice weighed with centuries. The name echoed not on the stone walls, but in the very foundations of the power that upheld them. 

The world had changed. And only three women — and now a child marked by abyss and grace — knew the price and the promise of this new dawn.

If Celine had to describe her days since that night, there was only one word she would use: frustrating.

By some twisted miracle, Mi-ya was still alive. But that small victory came with an unbearable cost. The once-vibrant woman was now a pale shadow of herself, gaunt and worn. She couldn’t walk without a crutch, her every movement slow, trembling, drained of the radiant vitality that had always made Mi-ya herself. It was as though the very marrow of her spirit had been hollowed out. And for Celine, the cruelest part was knowing exactly why.

That child. The abomination. The deformity she hadn’t been able to kill — because she was a hunter. Because hunters were forbidden from interfering with the sacred cycle of lineage. Slaughtering that cursed thing — which felt like the only sane option — would have disrupted the next generation of demon hunters entirely. A generation in training might take twenty years to mature. Without Rumi, that timeline would stretch to over thirty. And the Honmoon? It couldn’t afford that kind of delay. But of course, it didn’t care. The Honmoon didn’t suffer consequences. The Honmoon didn’t bleed. The Honmoon, she thought bitterly, was a fool.

It had made the decision. It had forced her to bear witness.

Huī hadn’t shown up since the child’s birth — and truth be told, Celine was fine with that. It might sound monstrous, but when had she ever been anything else? The absence of that demon brought her a grim, private satisfaction. After all, he had started all of this. Let him stay gone. Let Mi-ya rot in the ruins of her choices. She’d lain with a demon. Let her now live with the consequences — even if those consequences were cruel beyond reason.

The child was demanding. Always hungry. Always wailing. Always clinging to her mother’s breast with desperate, insatiable need. Her little body was nearly skin and bone, stripped of the softness babies were supposed to have. Her cries had an edge that cut through the silence like a blade — not the cries of a girl. Not even close. She needed too much. More than any child had the right to ask.

And yet, Mi-yeong looked at her with reverence, as though she were some divine gift. The other hunters, even the old shamans, preferred to believe it was a spell — some enchantment clouding her mind. Because how else could she look upon that thing with such awe?

To Mi-ya, Rumi was perfect. Beautiful. The most extraordinary child she had ever seen.

Celine hated the way her chest twisted when she looked at the girl. Those eyes — one glimmering gold, with a narrow, vertical pupil and a sclera tinged with smoky black; the other a deep, human brown, almost normal… almost. But the sclera there, too, was yellowed, and Celine could swear that on certain days, when the light hit just right, that eye’s pupil split like a serpent’s.

And then there was the tail. A small, twitching thing, dangling from the end of her spine — a final grotesque flourish, as if fate wanted to be sure there was no doubt she was malformed. Unholy.

But her demeanor… that was Mi-ya’s. Sweet. Radiant. Inexplicably tender. Even precious, though Celine refused to say the word aloud.

“…Where the hell is that damned teether?” she growled under her breath. Mi-ya was finally resting — barely holding on, but breathing — and while she slept, Celine and Seori took turns watching over the demon-spawn.

At five months, Rumi had already grown eight teeth: two central incisors on the bottom, two on the top — and skipped the lateral ones entirely in favor of growing fangs. The baby constantly gnawed on things, and at the moment, that thing happened to be Celine’s ear.

“Ah— ow! Shit!” Celine yelped, pulling the child away. Her grip was firm, not gentle. She looked into Rumi’s strange little face with unmistakable irritation. “Don’t do that, you little freak.”

The baby blinked, completely unbothered, her ridiculous mismatched eyes wide and uncomprehending. Her tiny lips were parted in the aftermath of her attack, and the barest trace of drool clung to her chin. She looked… proud of herself. Or maybe she was just hungry again.

Celine stared at her for a moment longer, lips curled in disgust — and then, against her will, something tugged at the edge of her mouth. A smile, soft and reluctant, almost invisible. She didn’t even feel it form.

“…Stupid thing,” she muttered. But her arms didn’t let go.

• ★ •

The days bled together like watercolors on drenched paper. Morning — if it could even be called that — began long before the sky paled into its gracious blue. Long before the monks finished their chants. Long before Mi-yeong could sit up without vomiting from the pain.

And always with the same sound: Rumi's howling. She never cooed. Not even once. Her cries weren’t sharp and fleeting like those of normal babies. They were long and trembling, like mourning stitched into the skin of childhood. No one said it aloud, but her wails made everyone grit their teeth — even Seori, who had more patience than the other two sisters combined.

"Go back to sleep," Seori would whisper hoarsely to Mi-ya, brushing the damp hair from her friend’s forehead as the woman stirred, alarmed. "I'll take care of her."

And she would. Seori, the calmest and most methodical of the three, would cradle the child against her chest as she wandered the temple's dark halls, whispering in old tongues — songs barely remembered from the mountain forests, prayers stolen from her own mother's dying breath. Rumi would calm down, but only slightly — still tense, still on edge.

Celine woke shortly after, dragged out of sleep by the silence that followed the storm. She never managed to sleep more than four hours in a row. And like clockwork, she'd be found in the kitchen courtyard, boiling water for Mi-ya's tonic and muttering curses at the mortar.

"None of this is natural," she grumbled to herself. "This isn’t how it’s supposed to be." Her hands prepared the brew as her mind prepared insults — anything to keep herself from climbing to the tallest building in Korea and jumping off it.

By midmorning, there would be more crying, more feeding, a few precious moments of rest — until the baby started biting again. She bit everything. Wood, fabric, skin. And when her gums bled, the blood came out darker than it should have — like ink steeped in rust. Her tiny hands — far too small — gripped everything with such force, as if she were anchoring herself to keep from slipping into madness.

Mi-yeong, too weak to do more than watch, still smiled through it all. She lay on her cot, voice hoarse but gentle, whispering stories to Rumi even when the girl was busy gnawing at her own fingers.

When she sang, it was the only time Rumi seemed fully at peace. Even with her ridiculous demon-baby voice, she’d hum along in a garbled babble. Peace — real, quiet peace — was the only thing that existed in those moments. The Honmoon — in all its defiance, after all its blasphemies — shimmered brightly, its iridescence bleeding into hers.

“My little Rumi—” Mi-ya murmured, kissing the child’s pale forehead, “my little, beautiful star.”

Her voice echoed with such gratitude and life, so different from the state of her body now.

Celine hated that tone. That soft, blind hope clinging to dreams.

That blasphemous worship.

• ★ •

In the afternoon, after putting the baby to sleep — if they were lucky — Celine made her way to the sanctuary chamber, where the shamans still refused to meet her eyes.

The air inside was thick with incense and lingering echoes.

Talismans fluttered in rows above, and bowls of ash cooled beneath an ancestral mural where it was said the first demon hunters had been chosen.

Three elders sat in silence around a low, circular altar. Celine knelt before them and exhaled deeply, wiping the sweat from her brow with a cloth stained with breast milk and blood.

“We need to talk,” she began. “And don’t you dare tell me to wait again.”

One of the shamans — Su-ryeon, ancient and irritable — arched an eyebrow.

“About the child?”

“Yes. About the child. About Rumi.”

“She isn’t your responsibility, Celine.”

“She is if I’m the only one in this room with a spine.” The others remained silent, waiting.

Celine clenched her jaw. She exhaled through her teeth. “She’s not like the others. I don’t know what she is. But she doesn’t carry the Gwi-ma’s presence. I’ve seen dozens of half-breeds. All of them had it. That… thick, rotting air around them. The pull. You know the one. Like the world itself holding its breath around them.”

Byung-shil nodded slightly. He knew.

“Rumi doesn’t have it. There’s no corruption. No veil. She cries like she’s haunted, not possessed. Her aura is strange —nnot human, but not… demonic either. It doesn’t flow. It’s just… heavy.”

The youngest shaman leaned forward. “That might be more dangerous, not less.”

“I know,” Celine shot back. “But it also means we don’t know what the hell we’re dealing with. And pretending we do — shoving talismans in her bed or rigging traps under her crib — isn’t going to help.”

A pause.

“We don’t know, and we can’t predict how a child who is both Hunter and demon might react,” Su-ryeon said in a low tone. It sounded perfectly composed, but underneath, the tension was visible.

Celine stood. “I’ve been trained since I could think — I fix problems. And this won’t be the one I run from.”

By nightfall, they would all gather again, the Sisters of the Sunlight.

Seori would return with herbs.

Mi-ya would struggle to sit upright, cradling her daughter against her frail chest. And Celine — furious, exhausted, but dependable — would be the one to pull the blanket over the two of them, adjusting Mi-ya’s grip when her hands trembled too much to hold the child close.

Once, after Rumi had fallen asleep with her tiny hand wrapped around Celine’s thumb, Seori whispered with strange softness,“She trusts you.”

Celine didn’t reply. She didn’t say how sometimes, in the dark, when Rumi’s golden eye opened and stared at her — unblinking, unknowable — she felt as though the child could see every inch of her. Even the parts she didn’t want seen. Even the parts that still remembered what it meant to be afraid.

She was really doing this, wasn’t she?

Pulling herself away from sacred ground. Drifting farther and farther from the Willows — the First Willow, the zero-point of the Honmoon, the ancestral root from which all the world’s protection pulsed like veins from a beating heart. She was moving beyond its reach. Beyond the safety of consecrated earth. All for him.

She had sworn never to see him again. Had wished — fiercely, desperately — that his face would disappear from memory. And yet there she was, for what must have been the fifth consecutive day, clawing at the thin edges of the veil, begging for his presence like some desperate, broken thing. Her voice — once a force feared by many — now echoed hollow through the trees, raw and brittle. And still, Huī did not come.

Only filth responded to her summons. Lesser demons. Ravenous. Bloodthirsty. Mindless. Each one a reminder of what she despised. Of what she was meant to destroy. She slaughtered them with ease, with even less thought — demon was demon — but none of them were him.

She let out a long, exhausted sigh, already surrendering to the weight of her failure. Her shoulders sagged as she turned from the unstable spot in the veil — the place where the world unraveled like old cloth. Her boots dragged softly across the soil, as if her frustration had finally begun to seep into her bones.

And then… a sound. Not a growl, not a hiss. Not the laughter of something cruel. A cough. Deep. Hoarse. Wet.

She froze. Then, turning to see what poor wretch dared to linger, she saw him — collapsed to his knees, barely upright, bracing himself on trembling arms.

Huī.

He was gasping, his entire body shuddering violently. With every cough, a thick molten fluid spilled from his mouth — luminous and violet, unnatural, bubbling as it hit the earth. Not blood — demons didn’t bleed — but essence. What spilled from them when their limits were pushed too far.

His clothes hung in tatters, scorched at the edges, blackened with soot and ash. His skin, typically untouched by rot or dirt, was scattered with burns and empty, dry wounds, deep and jagged. He was broken in ways she had never seen before.

And no matter how much Celine claimed to hate him, to want him dead… she knew exactly what this meant. He had disobeyed Gwi-ma. And for him to suffer this kind of punishment, there could be only one reason: Mi-yeong.

Her breath caught in her chest. She ran to him without thinking, her instincts betraying her pride. Dropping to her knees, she skidded against the soil and you pulled his arm over her shoulder, helping him sit up straight.

“What happened?” she demanded, sharp and fast. There was no real empathy in her tone. Not yet. But — for the first time — there was also no venom. No mockery. No accusation. Only the stripped voice of a woman too tired to hate with her usual blaze.

For a moment, Huī didn’t answer. He only wheezed, the shimmer of his essence flickering weakly at the corners of his mouth. Celine held him firmly. Just enough.

Huī’s breathing was ragged, each exhale brushing against some internal wound too deep to name. His head sagged forward, the purple of his hair matted with ash and sweat, his voice a thin rasp of gravel when it finally came.

“I… I protected her, Celine… I changed her,” he said hoarsely. “Rumi…won’t… she won’t…”

Celine’s stomach twisted. She stared at him, stunned. “...what are you talking about, you filthy bastard?”

Huī shivered, turning his head slightly, though his golden eyes remained downcast. “Gwi-ma… he doesn’t have control over Rumi… not unless she lets him… and I… I know she won’t.”

Celine stiffened, rising to her feet. She wanted to pace, frantic, but instead she stared down at the weakened demon before her. “She was born a monster, Huī. Not even a demon would come out like that.”

And he — ever the audacious fool — laughed. “...that’s the point, Celi.”

The words echoed through Celine’s precise mind like the first click of long-dormant gears. And then, connection.

“You tampered with her soul?” she asked, breathless. He only gave her a smug little grin. She gasped — nearly screamed — spitting the words like venom. “FUCK! You—YOU’RE INSANE, THAT—SHE…!—”

“She’s mine,” Huī interrupted. Not with defiance, but something older. “And I knew… if I left her untouched, she would become his. Entirely. There’d be no turning back. She’d be his voice, his blade, his heir. I felt it… the honmoon… she’s a hunter… a hunter in his hands? Have you imagined that?” His voice cracked on the last word.

Celine’s jaw clenched, so tightly it hurt. “You think I understand any of this demon logic? I don’t. I shouldn’t.”

“She would’ve been hollow,” Huī continued, now barely a whisper. “A perfect vessel for his will. And you wouldn’t even know until it was too late.”

“Don’t twist this like you’re some kind of martyr,” she growled. “You’re just trying to bury your old messes by planting new ones.”

Huī gave a bitter laugh that dissolved into another fit of coughing, more of that glowing essence spilling from his lips. “It’s the only thing I’ve ever known how to do.”

For a moment, Celine was silent. Her pulse throbbed behind her eyes. Wind whispered across the torn veil, and distant temple bells rang faintly in the mountains behind them. She didn’t know what to say. She wanted to scream. She wanted to walk away. She wanted to kill him — and she wanted to believe him.

Instead, she looked over her shoulder, toward where she had come from. Back to the Willows. Back to Mi-ya.

She blinked once. Then again. Her eyes went wide. “...Shit.”

She stepped away from Huī abruptly, holding her breath. “I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have left her alone.” Her voice cracked. “If Gwi-ma punished you, then he knows. He knows what you did. And he’ll go through her to undo it.”

Huī’s voice, hollow and distant, echoed behind her “I tried to protect her the only way I could.”

Celine turned to look at him once more. He looked like something disintegrating from within — splintered, scorched, and vanishing.

“Then let’s pray your way was enough,” she muttered, but didn’t wait for an answer. She gathered what strength she had left — and ran.

• ★ •

The ground was the only thing he could bear to look at.

Beneath him, it cracked and dripped with molten threads — blistered obsidian and gold. All around him, the world glowed with a sickly, intoxicating pink: a poisoned sky, a place of corrupted spirit. The very air stank of rot and devotion, of devoured prayers turned inside out.

There was no horizon here. No direction. Only Him.

Huī stood — just barely — before the roaring, endless maw of flame. Gwi-ma rose like a monument to hunger, his voice not a sound, but an eruption. He did not speak like mortals. He declared, dragging syllables like chains through a thousand stolen throats. Around him, spirits screamed, their forms writhing through the infernal flames like silk in the wind.

“So… you had a child, didn’t you… And not only that — you polluted her soul with other spirits. Diluted My mark to keep her out of My reach.” The flames pulsed with a perverse amusement, fed by the very souls they devoured.

“I must admit, Yáng Shànghuī… it’s pitiful. That someone once so clever now lacks the good sense to realize what he’s losing by being so… utterly useless.”

Huī knelt, fists pressed to stone scorched by heat, shoulders heaving with silent rage. The stench of burnt essence still rose from his back, where fire had licked him to raw flesh.

“I protected her,” he said at last, his voice hoarse but steady. “In every way I could. You would’ve devoured her whole — turned her into a blade without a handle. I gave her a chance.”

“A chance?” Gwi-ma’s laugh erupted like a molten avalanche, choking and searing. “You think yourself a savior, hm? Poor little soldier… you disillusioned her.”

The fire swirled upward, forming a veil of smoke — and behind it, images bled into clarity, alive and pulsing with cruel intent:

He saw Mi-ya, hunched and wasting away, her skin pale and damp, her breath shallow. Her limbs trembled with weakness. Her eyes — once full of defiance — were sunken, glimmering, and unsteady.

Then Rumi. Still a baby. Still so small. Her limbs spasmed, malformed. Her skin dark in some places, iridescent in others, her tiny mouth letting out sounds not quite human — like something struggling to become flesh.

“Even when you try to do right, Huī,” Gwi-ma’s voice cracked like a boulder splitting beneath a mountain “you fail… That is why you are here.”

The flames surged, and the pain came next.

Not in waves — but all at once. As though he were being undone from the inside out. His spirit was torn from his form in strands, his essence crushed, twisted, reshaped, and restored — only to be broken again. Time lost all meaning. There were no days. No nights. Only endurance. He felt the pulse of Gwi-ma’s wrath in his bones, the way mortals feel the tide in their lungs when drowning.

Five months. That long without even a sense of self. He could only crawl when Gwi-ma deemed it convenient to use him. And now, at last, he understood why.

He had been released.

Not out of mercy.

Not to escape.

But as a distraction.

Gwi-ma had waited for the moment Celine wandered too far, for the Sisters of the Sunlight to be separated. For the veil to tremble, for Mi-ya to be exposed. And Rumi — his daughter — part of his very being — Left unprotected.

Somewhere beyond the thin veil of the world, as Celine ran and Huī bled, Gwi-ma was already moving.

Moving to kill what Huī had so desperately tried to save.

• ★ • 

Her steps were uneven — uncoordinated — but far too desperate, far too fast to stumble. Her body moved with the rhythm of war: breath ragged, pulse pounding, fear transmuted into motion. Her heart thundered against her ribs, a furious percussion that clenched her chest until it ached. The thin fascia of her muscles tightened, trembling beneath the weight of a panic that came unbidden, without warning or permission.

Celine’s blades were already summoned. They hummed faintly with spiritual energy, resonating with her fury. Her grip was firm, unwavering — so different from the storm inside her mind. She couldn’t recall drawing them. Her hands had moved faster than thought. Faster than memory.

As she neared the outer sanctum, a foul stench hit her — the stench of scorched flesh, bitter incense, and blood drying into the temple’s dust. Her stomach turned. Bodies littered the ground: shamans in ceremonial robes, folded at broken angles from wounds — or worse. Some still moved weakly. Others… didn’t.

Celine swallowed hard, rage and fear clashing in her throat. Gwi-ma hadn’t sent scouts to harvest souls — he had sent soldiers, capable of destroying them. Of extinguishing the radiance of the Three.

She forced herself not to stop. Not to grieve. Not now. Not when that thing could already be inside. Not when they were still in danger. Each step across the stone was a blade against her resolve.

A scream pierced the chaos. Not a scream of fear, but a cry of resistance — guttural, sharp, enough to jolt her from her spiraling thoughts. Celine’s head snapped toward the sound — she knew that voice.

She bolted forward, weaving through the shockwaves of spiritual energy and snarling demons. The temple was a battlefield now — its sacred halls stained with blood and fire, its silence shattered by the song of war. She leapt over a collapsing talisman seal, passed two hunters dragging a wounded shaman, and reached the source of the scream.

Seori stood beneath a shattered beam in the south wing, her axe gleaming in precise, deadly arcs. Her jaw was clenched, blood streaking her temple, but her stance was unyielding. Every movement deliberate, merciless — a wall of determination holding back the tide.

Next to her, panting but upright, stood Mi-yeong.

Her face was pale, her left leg barely holding her weight, but her bow was drawn tight, its string trembling with radiant power. She moved like a storm rooted in a dying tree — fierce, frayed, and sacred. Every arrow she loosed crackled with firelight, her pain burning into purpose.

And behind her, tucked into the curve of a broken altar, was Rumi.

The child screamed, tiny fists pressed to her eyes, wailing with that eerie force that made even the stone tremble. Her cries weren’t just sound — they cracked the air like pressure venting from the fault lines of the world.

Celine’s feet hit the ground harder now. She reached them just in time to cut down a demon lunging for Mi-ya’s blind spot. She didn’t speak — she just acted. Her body moved on instinct, as if her very being had always been shaped for this moment: to kill anything that dared touch her.

But then, the air changed.

Subtly, at first. The light dimmed — not like a cloud passing overhead, but as if the world itself blinked. The edges of things blurred. Demons that had snarled moments before froze in place, still as mannequins, glassy-eyed. The floor shifted. Not violently. Silently. Like dreams when you start to realize they aren’t real.

Celine blinked. And Seori wasn’t beside her anymore.

No — there she was. Across the room? Further back? No, she was ahead again. Her axe drawn. Or was it a sword? Mi-ya gasped. Or did she laugh? Rumi’s scream warped, stuttered, reversed. Everything frayed at the seams.

Celine’s blades pulsed once. Her soul strained, as if pulled in two directions. Something was inside her mind, slipping between her thoughts like wet fingers sliding over silk.

A demon stepped forward. Not like the others. Not ravenous. Not grotesque. This one smiled.

Its face was smooth, almost featureless — but its eyes shone like shattered mirrors, and sickly symbols shimmered across its body. It wore the silhouette of a monk’s robe, but the colors bled wrong, and its shadow moved on its own.

“Dear Huntresses…” it whispered, in many voices and none. “Let’s see how brightly you shine when you no longer recognize yourselves.”

And then… Celine turned, just in time to see Mi-ya’s arrow aimed at her. Or was it Seori? She couldn’t tell — her own senses lacked depth, like reflections of herself. The illusionist had taken root.

It wasn’t just clouding their eyes. It was inverting their memories, turning their bonds against them.

And Celine knew, with a pang of dread in her gut: This was not a battle to win with strength. It was a battle to remember who they were. Trust would be the only anchor to keep them steady — to let the sun rise again, even in the darkest night.

It was in the fog of uncertainty that the music began — a hum at first. Low, breathless, nearly drowned by the chaos. Celine’s voice faltered as she clung to the melody — the one Mi-ya had taught them long ago in the sacred dormitory under the training wing’s roof. A harmony woven from childhood, trust, and nights where their hearts had never known anything but wholeness.

A lullaby, more prayer than performance. At first, it was only Mi-ya’s voice. Then Seori joined. Broken. Bleeding from the mouth, but still singing. And when Celine trusted again, she joined them too.

Their voices sliced through the illusions like threads of gold through black silk. Slowly, the world began to realign. The floor solidified again. The torches returned to their posts. The shapes of demons became distinct, their vile essence once more separate from friends and kin.

Even Rumi’s crying softened. Still loud, still terrified, but no longer distorted. Celine could feel it in her blood — the spell was breaking.

But fear has its own kind of magic. And hers had been growing for years. A flicker of doubt. A slip in breath control. Her note wavered — only a semitone, but enough.

The world stuttered. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw movement. A silhouette, tall, slow, cruel, just beyond the crumbling mirage. Her breath caught.

Huī. No longer broken. No longer kneeling. No longer the desperate, ragged thing that had begged for her help hours ago.

He was smiling. A curved dagger gleamed in his hand.

“No,” Celine whispered. “No... no... NO!” Too late.

In one elegant, almost ceremonial motion, Huī stepped through the veil and drew the blade across Seori’s arm. It sliced clean through flesh and bone. A scream ripped the sky.

Her hand fell — the axe with it — crashing to the ground like the final bell before collapse. The music stopped. Seori’s voice fell silent. Mi-ya staggered.

And Celine shattered. Everything inside her broke, drowned in the roar of loss, fury, betrayal. All those years trying to believe. All those years wondering if Huī’s grief had been real. If his love for humanity — for Mi-yeong — had ever meant anything.

He had taken so much from her. Now, he took Seori.

She moved before she thought. The longer blade — the silver-edged one that always struck true — fully extended, shining with divine light.

She lunged. A flawless strike. Her soul behind it. Her grief behind it. Her love behind it.

Straight into his gut. The blade met no resistance. It sank in like it had been waiting all this time.

Huī’s eyes widened.

But then… the illusion crumbled. With a breath, the veil shattered like glass under a scream. The demon’s magic gave way, and the world snapped back into place like a spine aligning.

And what Celine saw wasn’t Huī…it was Mi-ya.

Her eyes wide with shock.

Her lips trembling, breath rattling around the blade now buried in her stomach.

A sick sound escaped her throat.

“Ce...line?”

The blade throbbed inside her. Celine’s hand trembled.

No. No. No.

“No, no, no, no, Mi-ya.” She didn’t release the weapon — if anything, she gripped it tighter, trying to hold her together with it.

Her knees nearly gave, but she wouldn’t fall — not while Mi-ya still stood.

Celine began to cry. She had to survive. God, she had to! She had a daughter to care for! A whole life ahead! She had so much. Her mouth moved, but the words wouldn’t come. She had so much left to say before the end.

As if she understood Celine’s confusion — and maybe she truly did, after all they had lived together — Mi-ya weakly lifted a hand. Her pale thumb gently brushed a cut along Celine’s high cheekbone.

The Honmoon pulsed gold. Its most radiant, most brilliant, most alive moments always came when a huntress was leaving, mission fulfilled. Honmoon would see all of them as victorious, even if they failed to save it. It loved them anyway.

And in a miracle — in a defiance no demon could ever claim — that song, the one where it all began, rose again.

“...어둠을 밝히려…” Mi-ya began. Celine, moved only by faith, continued… “굳건한 이 소리…”

“세상을…” Even in agony, Seori joined them, her voice breaking. “...고치리라…”

All three sang in unison. And the veil? It had never shone so gold.

The demons around them vanished, and the darkness that surrounded them melted away — leaving only one thing in radiant clarity: Mi-ya, at the edge of life and death… smiling.

They laid Mi-ya down gently, settling her in a seated position against the scorched wall of the temple. Her skin was pale — almost translucent — and her breath came short and shallow, thin as paper. Yet her eyes, still open, held that same impossible softness. That calm. That warmth that refused to fade, even as her soul flickered like a candle burning down to the wick.

Seori, her severed arm hastily wrapped in talismans and bandages, turned and ran — a limping blur — shouting with what little strength remained in her lungs.

“Shamans! Someone! Please — help us! We need you!”

Her voice echoed through the shattered corridors like a prayer cast into a burning sky. Whether anyone remained to hear her, she did not know. But she had to try.

Celine stayed behind. She didn’t dare move. Her knees had buckled the moment she let go of Mi-ya, and now she remained kneeling before her, the bloodied sword still loosely held in her trembling hand. It fell with a dull clatter to the floor beside her. Her gaze was locked, empty. As if she had fallen into some private pit of guilt too deep for words.

Mi-ya stirred slightly, holding her breath. She blinked slowly, then turned her eyes toward Celine. The same eyes as always — looking at her without judgment, even now. As if nothing had changed. As if she hadn’t just been struck down by the woman she loved.

“…B-bring me… Rumi,” she whispered, barely audible.

Celine choked. Her throat tightened as tears welled again. But she nodded, wordless. She would do anything for her. Anything, especially now. If this was the end… Mi-ya wouldn’t meet it alone. She would be drenched in love — just as she had lived, just as she had been a mother.

Mi-ya let her head rest weakly against the stone, and when Celine returned — with the child in her arms, still unconscious under the weight of her own power — Mi-ya smiled.

“…you came back quickly,” she murmured, her eyes trembling.

Celine placed Rumi in her lap, carefully adjusting the child’s arms so she could rest gently against Mi-ya’s chest. The little girl’s breathing was shallow, but steady. Somehow, she was still alive. Still there. A miracle clinging between death and dawn. Mi-ya exhaled, shaky but serene.

“I… I always thought it would be lonelier,” she murmured. “But you’re here. And Seori… Seori was here too. I don’t think I ever told you… how much I loved all of it. Every minute.”

Her fingers rose, stroking Celine’s hair the way she used to when they were teenagers, sneaking back into the dorms after curfew. “Even the hard days. Even when we fought. Or trained. Or were too exhausted to speak. After the shows… Seori’s wild plans…”

A breathless laugh slipped from her lips. “I loved it. All of it. And I wouldn’t trade a single moment… not even the end. Not even this.”

Celine covered her face with both hands, her shoulders trembling.

“It’s my fault,” she gasped. “Mi-ya, this is… I failed. I let the harmony break. I… I lost focus…”

“No.” Mi-ya reached out, her fingers brushing the side of Celine’s cheek, then holding her. “No, you didn’t. You sang. You always sing, Celine. You carry things no one else can.”

“But I…”

“Shhh.” Mi-ya’s voice was almost mist now. “You did everything right. You… only did what they told you to…”

And then the shadows around them shifted. Not illusion — not this time. He stepped into the circle of flickering light that surrounded their final meeting. Huī. The real Huī.

He looked nothing like the trickster version they had seen before. He was hunched. Demon essence leaked from gashes that seemed to unravel his form. His body was more wounded than flesh could be, his face gaunt, eyes sunken. His limbs trembled as he knelt beside Mi-ya and Celine.

“I came…” he said hoarsely. “I… tried to arrive sooner. I couldn’t… Gwi-ma kept me bound…”

He reached out a trembling hand and let it rest on Mi-ya’s. Not as a threat. Not as a thief. But as something entirely different. “Mi-yeong,” he whispered. “May I…?” She nodded. Barely.

Huī looked at Celine, his eyes no longer cruel, no longer timeless — but mortal. Devastatingly human. “This is the last thing I can give her,” he said. “To take her soul gently… before Gwi-ma can claim it. Before the void swallows her whole.”

Then, drawing his reaper’s knife, he cut Mi-ya’s thread — a thread golden, graceful, warm and luminous… he held it close, then looked — truly looked — for the first time, at his daughter.

Rumi stirred slightly, snuggling closer to her mother’s chest, unaware that she had already departed.

And Huī… he bowed his head.

“I’m dying,” he said, more to the wind than to them. “He tore pieces from me. Fed them to the veil… I couldn’t save her… or you. I couldn’t…”

Celine met his eyes. Empty. Shining with tears. She understood what he was asking.

“…finish what you started,” Huī whispered. “You knew I was a mistake. A mistake between you… and fate. You tried to stop it once. Finish it now.”

Celine’s hands moved on their own. Not from hatred. From love. For Mi-ya. For Rumi. For peace.

She raised her blade. One silent, painless strike — straight through the lung. Huī closed his eyes. There was no resistance.

He collapsed softly beside Mi-ya, exhaling in unison with the woman he had loved.

Rumi now lay atop them both, her small body cradled between theirs.

Celine knelt, trembling, her blade still weeping light. Her eyes fixed on the two figures at her feet — guardians, lovers, once enemies, once kin — now still.

She reached out and kissed each of their foreheads.

“For all the love you gave her,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “For all the love I couldn’t give in time.”

And then something strange happened.

The wind in the temple, still heavy with soot and incense, shimmered. Threads—thin, one a cherry blossom pink like the petals strewn across the ground, one blue and gold like the purest spring river—began to rise from their bodies. Soul. Freed. Unchained. Not taken, not devoured.

But free.

They floated upward like strands of spider silk catching the dawn, weaving gently into each other. A braid of light. Together, they drifted—beyond the shattered roof of the temple, beyond the burning trees, beyond the mortal world. To the beyond. Together…

• ★ •

Fans had long suspected that the disbandment of the greatest K-pop group of their generation was only a matter of time. It was understandable — the members were aging, and one of them had even gotten pregnant. It would’ve been an elegant exit. They would’ve left the stage as legends, not as tragedies. As icons, not as martyrs.

But no one expected this. No one expected the news to come through a car radio announcement or a vague, last-minute fan blog post 

That Seori had lost a hand.

That Mi-ya was dead. Dead.

Oh, poor Celine! And Rumi? The child! What cruel fate had chosen the Sunlight Sisters — those radiant goddesses who filled the world with love and light — to become mere victims of sorrow?

The public mourned them like saints. The news cycle romanticized their downfall — painting them as fallen angels, bright stars swallowed too soon by the sky. And the masses, ever hungry for tragedies they could consume, cried. Posted. Moved on.

But none of them knew the truth. None of them saw the stones soaked in blood. None of them felt Mi-ya’s body go cold.

Celine did.

And she accepted the official story — because it was clean. It was easy. A tragic car accident. A freak event. The golden idols, caught in fate’s cruelty.

The world would never know what really happened. That Mi-ya didn’t die as a victim of circumstance, but as a heroine — foolish, reckless, idealistic to the very end. And yet, in that foolishness, in that reckless love, she saved everything. Everyone.

Celine sat in silence, her back against the wall of the baby’s room in her old apartment, now devoid of light and laughter. The world outside had already moved on, but in here, the air still pulsed with remnants of loss. She held Rumi close to her chest — the baby barely moved now, her breath warm but shallow.

Seori sat across from her, pale but steady, her left sleeve pinned and empty. Her remaining hand — trembling, but gentle — traced soft circles across Rumi’s round cheek.

“…Are you sure you want to raise her, Celine?” she asked quietly, her voice raw from too many sleepless nights. “You know you don’t have to do this alone.”

Celine didn’t answer right away. Her eyes remained fixed on Rumi’s face — the child looked so normal now. So human. Ever since the Honmoon shone golden and disappeared, everything had started to change.

The glowing symbols on her arms had faded into soft lavender stains, more like birthmarks than demonic sigils. Her iridescent aura had thinned, retreating into her flesh. Only her violet curls and insatiable hunger hinted at what she truly was.

“…The demonic traits are gone… mostly,” Celine murmured. “You’ve noticed too, haven’t you?”

Seori nodded. “I have. And maybe that’s good. Maybe she can be… just a child.”

“No,” said Celine, sharply. “No, she can’t be just anything. Not with her lineage. Not with what she carries.”

Seori frowned. “Celine…”

“The Honmoon was golden. Golden, Seori. That means the evil inside her retreated — or vanished. If it vanished, then this is our only chance. We can’t afford to waste it.”

“What are you saying?”

Celine looked up, her voice cold and resolute. “I’m saying I’ll raise her. I’ll train her. From the beginning. As a hunter. Not just any hunter — the perfect one. She has the soul of a demon. She needs to learn how to slay one. And if that means her own… so be it. She’ll lead the next generation…”

The words rang like steel between them.

Seori leaned back slightly, shaking her head. “Celine… she’s a baby. She barely breathes. You can’t speak of her like she’s a weapon.”

“…She is a weapon.”

“She’s a child!”

“A child born of a cursed bloodline — one that killed Mi-ya, Seori. Or did you forget what we saw?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything,” Seori shot back. “I lost a damn hand, remember? I remember everything. Including the way Mi-ya held her. The way she loved her.”

Celine’s jaw tightened, her grip around the baby growing firmer.

“Don’t,” she warned. “Don’t speak of her like that. Not in that tone.”

“She was my friend too!” Seori shouted, her voice breaking. “She meant everything to me, Celine. Don’t act like you’re the only one grieving!”

Celine stood abruptly, holding Rumi against her shoulder. The baby whimpered softly at the sudden motion.

“You think I want this?” she hissed. “You think I want to raise her alone, train her like a soldier, ruin her childhood before it even begins? I don’t. But someone has to. Someone has to make sure what happened to Mi-ya never happens again.”

Seori stared at her, breathing heavily. “You’re turning her into a monument. Into a gravestone for your guilt.”

“And what would you do?” Celine snapped. “Give her lullabies and stuffed animals? Let her grow up pretending she’s not the daughter of a demon and a martyr? She’ll die if we go soft. I won’t let that happen.”

The silence that followed was thick. Finally, Seori stood up slowly. She stepped toward Celine and looked down at the child in her arms.

“I’m not leaving,” she said, softer now. “Even if you push me. Even if you raise her to be a… I don’t know, an avenger. I’ll still be here.”

“I don’t need—”

“I don’t care what you think you need,” Seori interrupted. “I’m not leaving. She’s not yours alone to protect. She’s ours. And I won’t let your fear destroy her before the world even tries to.”

Celine said nothing. But her arms tightened around Rumi.

The baby stirred. A tiny hand, still faintly golden in the sunlight coming through the window, reached out blindly — and found Seori’s chest.

Even now, with her family shattered around her, Rumi sought connection. Love. Safety.

Exactly what they were now fighting to give her.

Celine’s voice, when it returned, was a whisper. “…You’re right.”

Seori blinked. “…What?”

“I’m afraid,” Celine admitted, pressing her forehead to the child’s. “More than I’ve ever been. But if you’re with me… maybe she won’t become what we fear.”

Seori almost smiled, but that fragile hope died when Celine continued.

“That maybe will become a certainty. This girl is an anomaly… and anomalies must be contained. I can’t, Seori. You were wrong to embrace Mi-yeong and Shànghuī. I was wrong to believe in both of you… I won’t make that mistake again.”

Seori didn’t respond right away. She stood there, halfway to Celine, as if she’d just been struck. As if she didn’t recognize the woman in front of her. Her eyes searched Celine’s, and what she saw there made them burn.

“You… still believe she was a mistake,” she said at last, in a faint, broken whisper. “Even after everything Mi-ya did. Even after what… hell, even what Huī sacrificed.”

“They loved wrong, Seori,” Celine replied, with a coldness that even hurt herself. “And now we’re burying the wreckage. I’m just trying to make sure we’re not next.”

“We’re not the ones burying anything,” Seori said, her voice rising. “You are. You’re taking everything beautiful, everything that survived, and twisting it into a damn weapon!”

“Because the world out there will try to kill her the moment they know what she is!” Celine exploded, tears finally spilling from her eyes. “You think what happened to Mi-ya was rare? An exception? It wasn’t. It’ll happen again. It will. And if I have to harden my heart, sacrifice every ounce of tenderness, of humanity, so Rumi lives — then so be it!”

“You’re doing to her what was done to you,” Seori said bitterly. “Only now, with more justification. With more pride.”

Silence.

Celine took a long breath, as if preparing to argue — but no words came. She just looked away.

Rumi stirred again, this time letting out a sharper whimper. Tiny tears streaked her round cheeks, a subtle sob echoing in the still room.

Seori stepped closer, gently reached out, and brushed a violet curl from the baby’s sweaty forehead.

“You don’t have to repeat the cycle, Celi,” she said softly. “Mi-ya wanted to break it. With all the foolish hope in her heart, she believed it could be done. Don’t turn what’s left of her into a tomb.”

“It’s not a tomb,” Celine murmured, weary. “It’s a legacy.”

Seori closed her eyes, and tears slipped out. “You always confuse the two.”

Celine said nothing.

They stayed like that for a long time — the two women who remained, torn between love and survival. Between grief and promise. Between pain and purpose.

Outside, the day went on. The news had moved to another cycle, the fans already seeking a new tragedy to consume. But in that dim room, time had yet to move forward.

Finally, Seori broke the silence one last time.

“If you’re going to do this… raise Rumi as a hunter… then let it be out of love. Not as punishment. Not as penance. Let it be because you love her. Because if it’s not for love, Celine… then it’s just another curse.”

She turned, walking slowly toward the door. “I’ll be back tomorrow,” she said, without looking back. “And I’ll bring the blanket Mi-ya embroidered. The purple one, with the constellations and the little tiger… she used to tell me it was Rumi’s favorite.”

The door shut softly. Celine stood still, feeling the baby grow heavier against her chest. The golden hour light bathed the room — golden like the last gleam of the Honmoon.

She looked down at Rumi. The tiny hand, still half-open, clutched a loose thread of her shirt.

“…You’re all that’s left,” she whispered. And for the first time, the thin thread of fear gave way to something else.

The beginning of a promise.

A fragile start to tenderness.

Or maybe… just what was left of love.

She closed her eyes. “I’ll train you. I’ll protect you. But more than anything… I swear I’ll love you. Even if I fail. Even if you hate me someday.”

On the other side of the door, Seori listened in silence. As she walked away — she wept, alone in the hallway.

• ★ •

In her early years, Rumi was everything a child could be — and more.

She was sweet. Playful. Curious. Her smile was so unburdened it disarmed even the most rigid monks of the temple, and she greeted people at events Celine took her to with perfect grace. Her laughter was light, like the distant echo of a song everyone felt they had once known and somehow forgotten. She was attentive, quick, obedient, sensitive to silences and sad smiles. She had a habit of sitting beside Celine while she trained alone, mimicking the movements with a wooden staff twice her size. When she got something wrong, she would apologize with a seriousness unsettling in someone only five years old.

She dreamed big. She was always telling stories to her stuffed animals — most of them about a girl strong as a sword, saving the world to make her mother proud. Sometimes she drew. Almost always, her drawings showed three figures holding hands: one with purple hair like hers, one in a white dress with golden wings, and the last with dark eyes and a straight posture. “That’s me, Mommy, and you, Celine,” she’d say, pointing with a smile so wide it barely fit her face.

But Celine never smiled back. She never could.

There was something like a wall inside her, invisible but insurmountable — something between her heart and that child. She did everything that was necessary: cared for her, fed her, protected her. She trained Rumi with disciplined precision and meticulous attention. But there were no hugs without stiffness, no kisses without purpose, no gesture of affection that wasn’t laced with tension.

And the more Rumi tried — to learn, to obey, to please — the harsher the training became. The sharper the commands. The quieter the nights.

Seori still visited in those early years. She brought sweets hidden in her sleeves, storybooks, and old songs she’d whisper with Rumi before bed. She smiled, ruffled her hair, helped soothe the bruises on her knees with herbal salves and promises that everything would be alright.

But with time, the visits grew fewer and farther between.

Each time she returned, Rumi was stronger, faster with her strikes and weapons — and quieter. More withdrawn. More cautious with her affections. The girl’s eyes still lit up at the sight of Seori, but there was something new in them: a restlessness, like someone searching for shelter and unsure if it still existed.

And Seori... Seori couldn’t take it.

Seeing how Celine spoke to Rumi — all cutting commands and praise that sounded more like field reports — made her tremble inside. Seeing how the girl lowered her head at every critique, how her small shoulders already bore the weight of a world that never should’ve been placed on her — it made Seori sick. But more than that — it made her ashamed. Because she did nothing.

She said she’d come back, said she’d write, said she’d take Rumi out for the day. But deep down, she knew: she was running. Running from the helplessness of not being able to stop it. Running from the horror of watching the cycle start again.

Sometimes, she dreamed of Mi-ya.

Dreamed of her soft but resolute voice, saying they had to protect the girl, not forge her into a weapon. Dreamed of Shànghuī’s eyes — old and desperate — begging them to give Rumi a different fate than his.

But Celine didn’t hear any of it. To her, every gesture Rumi made was a reminder: of the mistake. Of the loss. Of the threat waiting underneath it all.

And so she trained her. Always more. Always earlier. Always harder.

And Rumi... Rumi endured. Rumi loved. Because Rumi believed that one day, if she was perfect enough, she’d earn that smile she longed for.

But it never came. And when Rumi cried — in secret, in the corner of her room, where no one could see — she always bit down on her own hand to keep from making a sound.

Because she knew: weakness wasn’t allowed.

Not for monsters.

Not for hunters.

Not for girls made of both.

• ★ •

On a certain day, Celine noticed that Rumi was behaving more strangely than usual — and for someone whose very existence was already strange by nature, that was saying something. The child was trembling, anxious. Even though she executed every command with precision, something impure threaded through her movements, dripping like the venom of a serpent. At the end of the sparring session, Rumi — breathless, but still moving with calculated grace — knelt down, her gaze lowered, not daring to look directly at her mentor.

Celine frowned, a deep wrinkle cutting across her brow — heavens, stress struck her too quickly sometimes. She approached, placing both hands on the girl’s back.

“What are you feeling?”

The eight-year-old shifted uncomfortably in place. “I-it’s nothing… I-I—”

“Don’t you dare lie to me.”

Celine cut her off sharply, and Rumi flinched in response. But then came an unconscious gesture — one that raised all of Celine’s inner alarms. The way the girl with violet hair tugged instinctively at her sleeve. To most, it could have meant anything. But not to Celine. To her, it meant only one thing: the patterns.

The movement was nearly imperceptible. Rumi’s small hand, trembling like a leaf under hostile winds, slid toward her sleeve — pulling it discreetly, trying to cover something. But not out of fear. Not out of guilt. It was automatic. Reflexive. As if she’d done it before. Many times.

Celine froze.

She took a step forward and knelt before the girl. Her cold fingers gripped the frail wrist firmly, and before Rumi could react, she yanked the sleeve upward.

And there they were: the patterns.

Like roots drawn in charcoal, pink and violet lines crept toward her shoulder, sharpening as they reached the bicep — some still pulsing with a sickly hue. But what truly made Celine’s heart lurch in panic wasn’t just the markings.

It was the sudden flash of gold in the child’s left eye. A flicker. Brief. But unmistakable. And devastating. She recoiled as if struck by hellfire.

“No…”

The whisper barely escaped her, acidic, more a convulsion of the soul than a word. Rumi, startled, tried to speak — but the look she received from her mentor silenced her instantly. There was no room left for words. Only for judgment.

Celine stood slowly, eyes locked on the daughter of another woman — seeing not a child, but a cursed riddle.

“You… you’ll never be able to, will you?”

Rumi opened her lips, but no sound emerged.

“Even after everything,” Celine continued, her voice low and deliberate now, each syllable carved like a blade. “After all these years. All the training. All the pain. Even now… there’s still poison in you.”

Rumi lowered her head.

“You’re the only thing Mi-ya left behind. And somehow… the worst thing she gave us.”

These words weren’t laced with rage.

They came laced with disgust. With choking frustration. With the disillusionment of someone who believed she could fix a primordial mistake — only to realize that maybe, the mistake was all there ever was.

Celine began pacing in circles, as though searching inside herself for logic, a reason, any justification to erase what she had just witnessed.

“I tried,” she muttered. “God, I tried. I tore pieces of myself out to give you a chance. I trained you like one of ours. I stole your childhood with my own hands to save you from what you are. And still…”

She stopped, looking straight into Rumi’s eyes.

“…the rot is still there.”

Rumi did not cry.

She only breathed. Deeply. Her chest heaving, as if battling back a sob that was never allowed to exist. And Celine — even in the face of such raw vulnerability — did not waver.

“You are the mistake,” she declared, finally. “It doesn’t matter how hard you try. You were born a fracture. And you’ll keep breaking everything around you until there’s nothing left.”

Silence fell like dirty snow.

And Rumi… Rumi could only whisper:

“I’m sorry…”

But Celine had already turned away, her heart poisoned by the sight of that golden glow — a sign that their time was running out. A grim omen that no, two wrongs would not make anything right.

“...Go to your room. Don’t you dare come out until they recede again.”

The mentor’s voice was sharp. All Rumi could do was bow quickly and leave — running, not just from Celine, but from the growing awareness that her presence was a disappointment no matter how invisible she tried to be.

• ★ •

The crushed grass beneath her feet was the only sensation that kept her grounded amid the storm of revolts. Revolts of the world, revolts of the heart. Celine regretted her tone — but she simply couldn’t not have had it.

How ridiculous, how mediocre. She had pushed away her best — her only — friend left. And the daughter of the woman she had loved, perhaps beyond what friendship could contain? She treated her like filth.

Rumi was such an incredible, loving child. Why couldn’t she just… do it? Fulfill what was needed? Out of duty. But that same duty had betrayed her so many times before. And yet there she was: loyal to the end. Not willingly, though.

Her steps halted just a few paces before the grave. The tombstone of Ryu Mi-yeong. Painful and pathetic. Far too real. And sometimes, things would be far more satisfying, far more honest, if they remained a lie — a dream.

Everything went with her. The hope for a glorious finale to their careers. The golden shimmer of the Honmoon enduring in the sky. The two of them growing old together, discovering real passions — not demonic, not illusions. Finding new hobbies, forgetting old ones. Watching the sunset together in their twilight years. Shit, was it too foolish to have dreamed of that? To have wanted it?

She no longer recognized herself: she had always been sharp, dedicated, strong. But she had a kind soul — fuck, she had! She knew how to feel compassion. So where was it now? Seori was so right, but she refused to admit it.

Only she had felt it that deeply. It was her. The pain — hers!

She knelt before the grave. She hadn’t cleaned it in days. She’d been too furious, too bitter toward Mi-ya to honor her in eternal rest.

Angry that she had left her in this humiliating condition. Mi-ya, who knew how much Celine hated to bow, to yield. And now all she could think of was the cursed — and wonderful — child she was raising. Her fault.

Everything had been so perfect, everything had seemed to converge toward redemption. And then, Rumi faltered: a growl here, a flare of markings there, a golden eye in certain flashes. There was never the possibility that Celine could believe — not in faith — that the child could be entirely human. She only wanted to fool herself again. She’d always done that, so why not now?

“…it’s your fault.”

The words came like poisoned breath, bitter, soaked in everything she hadn’t managed to say while Mi-ya still breathed. Celine bit her lower lip hard, trying to contain the fury — but it was useless. The grave was there, unmoving, silent, like all things that refuse to answer.

She placed her hands on the soil, feeling the rawness of reality. Dampness, dust, dead leaves. No magic. No comfort.

“You left me with her, Mi-ya.” Her voice trembled.

“You left me with everything. With the child. With the guilt. With the cursed promise. With this love that… that never made sense, but consumed me all the same.”

She folded in on herself, her knees sinking into the ground.

“You thought I was strong, didn’t you? That I’d handle it. Always the one who handles it. Always the one left to clean the blood, to hold what’s falling. Always the one who carries the heavy things, because ‘Celine can take it.’”

She spat the words.

“Well, I can’t anymore, Mi-ya.”

Her body shuddered with a dry, torn sob. She forced herself to breathe, but air entered her lungs like blades.

“I hate you for that. I hate you because you left. Because you left me here, alone, with this child who is half you and half… hell.”

Her hands trembled on the tombstone.

“She’s incredible, you know? She’s so smart. So sensitive. She has a laugh that… for a moment made me believe things could be good again. But she also has that, Mi-ya. That thing you refused to see. The shimmer. The curse. The inheritance of monsters you swore you could love.”

Celine bowed her head. Her shoulders drooped, as if too tired to uphold the posture of a hunter anymore. As if the whole armor had cracked — and now she was bare, before the grave.

“She didn’t deserve what I did to her. But I didn’t deserve what you did to me either.”

The wind blew gently, carrying the scent of damp earth, the distant sound of birds, and the lives that moved on — unaware of the weight Celine poured into that cold ground.

“I just wanted to see you grow old. Wanted to see you learn new recipes and mess them up. Wanted to hear you complain about your back. I wanted… fuck, I even wanted to argue with you about politics because you were terrible at economics, damn it! I wanted us old and foolish, with the Honmoon shining like gold in the sky and maybe our kids asking stupid questions only children ask...”

She closed her eyes. “But you died. And everything died with you.”

Silence fell like a final heartbeat. Celine rose, slowly, her hands dirty, her eyes hollow. She looked at the tombstone one last time. And there, in that moment, she understood:

In the end, everything was gone — with her. Everything Celine believed herself to be had died there. In a dream.

• FB: E • 

Chapter Text

It was like steam filling the senses when you step into a sauna. But the expected comfort wasn’t there — no, what a foolish comparison. It was more like watching the sun drain every drop of water from the earth, sucking out hope itself. The setting was not ideal, but honestly, when had anything been? Let the fools rise, it’s courage that remains, isn’t it?

Mira could only cling to the present. What the hell had Celine done? Another one of her lies? The more time passed, the more Mira hated her — and damn it, that was exactly what her former mentor wanted her to feel.

Her grip tightened violently around the golden hilt of her woldo — her gok-do — a material anchor. Her surroundings faded, replaced entirely by red. The ground became like cool black rock under the eruption of a volcano. The horizon bled in reds and smoky flames, like those that consume a virgin forest of one’s traumas.

Nothing felt right — yet nothing felt overtly threatening either. She’d faced far darker things, fallen for much deeper deceptions. But it was the dissonance between the tension in the air and the face of the problem that made her nauseous just standing there.

Whatever you are, just show yourself already, so I can be done with this, Mira thought.

And as if the world — if it even was a world — could hear her threat, the igneous stones beneath her feet stirred. A viscous basalt-like fluid seeped into the gaps of her shoes. The flow gathered, dragging itself toward a single point, beginning to take shape — an amalgam.

The amorphous mass didn’t last long. What had been liquid disgust became visualized contempt. It layered like tar, stacking inconsistently, as if always unstable but never collapsing.

First a tower, then the suggestion of a gaunt abdomen. Then ribcage — grotesquely wide, each bone clearly delineated beneath a skin of shadow. The amalgam's chest broadened, puffed out, then gave way to arms absurdly powerful compared to its withered middle.

The neck? Even less human. The trapezius muscles stretched nearly the full width of its shoulders. Long and tapering as it rose toward the skull — but never close to resembling anything humanoid. The neck muscles merged seamlessly into the back of the head. And from there grew seven horns: one small and frontal, just before the brow; two longer ones slightly off-center, tilting outward; two where ears might have been; and two more flanking the hinge of its jaw.

Its face, in contrast to the rest of the body, was white — reminiscent of a seonbi hahoe mask, but with a grotesquely exaggerated smile, and four fangs jutting from the lips.

Once its form had fully manifested, crimson lines ignited across the blackened surface of its body like flame-trails etched into skin. The tips of its eight fingers burned red, and on the ends of the two longest horns, twin flames flickered in the same scarlet tone.

Mira was stunned — not quite terrified, but deeply shaken by the sight. She stood frozen before the towering being, only a few meters between them. And yet, it cast no shadow upon her, didn’t feel oppressive.

The creature leaned forward, its face tilting toward the redhead. There was no way to know whether its gaze was truly fixed on her — the eyes behind the mask were pitch-black.

“…So many years away from air, from living fantasies. Breathing only what wisdom passed through… and now, to open vision and find… a mere hunter? Hm… Perhaps the days of glory always return…” The voice wasn’t deep, but it held undeniable power — genderless, and hauntingly enchanting.

Mira tightened her grip on the woldo, the metal hissing faintly in the heat that surrounded her — or was it radiating from her own body? What stood before her was far more than just an enemy. It didn’t seem in a hurry. It didn’t even seem to want her dead.

And that was the most unsettling part.

“What the hell are you…? You’re not real,” she murmured, her voice lower than she would have liked. “This… none of this is real.”

The creature didn’t move, but its laughter reached her. It wasn’t a sound that rang in the ears — it slid straight down her spine.

It was deeply disturbing to see something laugh, to appear so expressive, when all its face amounted to was a mask.

“Reality,” the being said, tilting its head to the side with that carved-on smile, “is a word for those afraid of losing control. And you, Mira… you never really had it, did you?”

A spasm seized her somewhere between her stomach and her memory. Hearing her name from that voice was far too intimate. Far too familiar. The wound was open.

“You’re just another one,” it went on, straightening up with slow, deliberate movements, as though invisible strings pulled its joints. “A red spark trying to shine beneath the weight of grief. Of legacy. Of lies.”

Mira clenched her jaw.

“You don’t know me!” she shot back, drawing into a tighter stance before the creature. “You only know I’m a hunter because of my weapon! Don’t act like… like you’ve got the upper hand!” Never, in a real fight, would she speak like this — like a child arguing. Something in this place intoxicated her, dragging out her worst self — the immaturity.

“Oh?” The demon’s tone was almost… amused. “Celine thought that about herself, too… swore she was unreachable to foul spirits. Until she saw everything she was crumble with time. Until she felt every choice corrode more than life itself — corrode the soul. And you? Poor child with the gleaming soul… trapped in the choices of your parents… of your mentor. Your family? But what about you? Have you accepted yourself as the ugly duckling yet?”

A burst of hot wind escaped the seonbi mask’s gaping maw, like steam from a geyser.

“Beneath all this delicious mess… is the stench that would turn my stomach — if I had one. All for the truth? You, who would live to fulfill a few lies… is truth really what you want?”

She felt the blow before it came. Not physical — but something pierced into her mind, as if a warm, viscous veil was being draped over her memories. A pressure behind her eyes, as if she might cry without even realizing.

“Don’t toy with me… damn it, you’re just talking crap… but…” she spat, stepping back. “Speak. Now.”

The demon didn’t walk. It flowed. It moved like smoke that had weight, making the earth groan beneath it. Its claws traced the ground lightly, yet left flaming scars in the stone. And still, nothing around them collapsed. Everything here was far too static for chaos — like a dream frozen mid-breath.

“She trained you… poor Huntrix… to hunt demons,” the being said, now close enough for Mira to feel its heat like a living furnace. “But it was only to flee from her own. To run from past burdens, from sweet grudges, from bitter love. That includes you — and the feeling of saving you from an unworthy family.”

The redhead’s thoughts stalled. She spun the woldo and planted its base firmly on the ground, feeling the Honmoon ripple faintly.

“If you think words are going to break me, you’re already too late.”

The laughter returned, lower now, almost a whisper.

“No, Mira. I’m here to remind you. Of everything you lost. Of everything you are losing now. Of what is, in truth, the end of love.”

Mira’s eyes went wide. For a second — just one — she was a child again.

In the academy gymnasium. She had just performed in an event to promote the reforestation of the school’s green belt. In her young mind, it was a special day. When she saw her parents, she ran to them.

She hadn’t expected praise — not exactly — just the recognition that she had done well.What she received instead was a slap.

A damned slap.

The reason? She had danced too close to a little Black immigrant girl — one of Mira’s closest friends. But her parents hated her. Born-and-bred Korean nationalists and racists. That stain on their patriotism made it all seem unforgivable.

It was one of the first days she realized: having too much heart to welcome others was dangerous. That she should leave space only for herself.

But she kept growing — growing only to suffocate inside herself. A curse.

Her thoughts drifted like breezes, and the demon felt them. Because that was what it did.

“Your parents betrayed your love before you even learned what it was. You leapt from branch to branch like a little treetop creature until you found a refuge. But, what a shame. It was fake. A cage you were captured in without seeing — and cannot break free from.” Finally, it bent down to meet Mira’s gaze. And spoke as though breathing straight into her: “You can think whatever you like of yourself, Kim Mi-kyeong… but you’re still the same foolish child running from pain. And you can’t heal it — not alone.”

From the depths of its black eyes, tiny red flames smoldered, locking with Mira’s brown ones.

She wanted to retreat, to cry.

She wasn’t stupid in a fight—so why was she being stupid now?

But it all felt so genuine.

Perhaps the most honest fight of her life.

The demon straightened once more.

A resigned, satisfied laugh escaped at the sight of the hunter’s state.

“It’s time to knock you off that impossible pedestal you built for yourself. And let you meet the ground… where you’ve always belonged.”

A swift, precise gesture. Mira barely managed to bring her weapon up before the demon’s massive hand slammed her down, the rocks shattering beneath her feet. The crash thundered through the air, a cloud of dust and old traumas rising together.

• ★ •

The impact didn’t come as physical pain — at least, not at first. It was like plunging backward into a thick lake, a warm liquid that pulled every fiber of her body downward. Mira couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think — only sink. The sound of the world’s collapse fell silent, replaced by an almost liquid stillness, where the only thing left was… to see.

She landed in what seemed to be an ancient field, beneath a sky of jade and ash-gray clouds. The wind blew heavy, as if it carried the memories of centuries. It did not seem like the human world, but neither did it bear the infernal harshness told in the hunters’ stories.

“Where am I?” she asked herself. She felt something materialize behind her. When she turned, it was the same demon as before — but now of a stature comparable to a human’s. Before she could summon her weapon and strike, he raised his palm in a placid gesture.

“Spare yourself, girl. You couldn’t defeat me even if I wanted you to. Not here…”

“And why not?” Mira tried to touch him, but it was she who was intangible. The hunter stepped back in trembling unease, but before she had the chance to panic, he interrupted again.

“No — and before you ask — you’re not dead. This is only a vision,” the spirit said in a calm tone, and she couldn’t help but feel strangely embarrassed by it.

“Right…” Her voice carried no confidence, but she didn’t have many options at the moment. “So why did you bring me here?”

“Look ahead, and you’ll find out.” Almost as if by magic — and it probably was — Mira realized she didn’t have full control of her own body here. She turned again, her gaze falling upon the breathtaking scene.

Between hills dotted with pine trees bent by time, walked a man clad in black. His face bore the likeness of a lion with pale fur, tinted faintly violet, as though reflecting amethyst. His head was covered by a worn hat, his hands gripping a staff of polished wood. His steps were methodical, deliberate, and the bells at his waist chimed softly.

“Who is that — a demon of Gwi-ma… Rumi’s father?”

“No… that is Gwi-ma himself. A humble reaper, before all else…” The voice sent a shiver down the redhead’s spine. That demon — small and unassuming — was the same demon king who set souls ablaze, shattered minds, and ruined histories.

But that story had already been won. And its ending — at least for her — had been “happily,” but without the “ever after.”

The reaper who wandered was not yet a monster. He was a jeoseung saja — a gatherer of lost souls, a guide who led the dead to the other side. His eyes were calm, tired, and yet within them glimmered a restless spark: the yearning for something beyond an eternity of service.

Time accelerated before Mira’s eyes.

The huntress watched the Saja walk through villages ravaged by famine, carrying dead children in his arms, hearing prayers he could never answer.

“So many souls in my hands… carried away to feed sovereigns who never even look upon them…” The demon’s voice was far too gentle, too merciful — and yet fierce. It was the mission of the reapers, however: to separate the souls from their energy. For no energy is produced in the worlds beyond the physical — only in the material. It was the energy of life that fed all realms.

He, a jeoseung saja, was meant to nourish the spiritual world and guide the souls of the living — like hemoglobin in a body. And yet the weight of impotence grew with every vision his wretched duty forced him to witness.

Until hatred took root — hatred for the fact that the energy of life was never truly shared, never warmly given. Existence itself was an eternal struggle between hunger and satiation. He wanted to sate everyone. For all to feel that the work of the reapers could be done together, united.

Tired of being only an instrument — and with years of experience behind him — he thought, I could, I should be the one to guide! Surely it must be so! He had met more humans than any of the Four Sovereigns could in their lifetimes.

He knew how to care for souls better than anyone. What began as a mere suspicion became an unshakable command within him. Once he had wandered only the fields, answering the calls of souls; now he was climbing the tallest hill in the far East. Once he had stood before fragile humans and weary animals — now he looked upon Cheongryong, sleeping before him. Defenseless.

Even without ever having seen such a being, Mira seemed to know deep in her mind — this was an immense creature, yet of a blue so gentle it seemed like condensed sky. Its scales reflected light like deep waters, and its eyes would be like the most honest sun.

One of the Sovereigns, ruler of the East… a being no spirit could ever hope to defeat…except for those to whom the gods had given the ability to touch, strike, and cut souls. The Saja saw in the dragon a power capable of altering destiny, of breaking the cycle. For all his existence, he had offered reverence — until, in exhaustion, he offered betrayal.

On a night when the moon hid itself, he watched the dragon sleep, approached beneath its serene breath — and with his ceremonial blade, carved deep into the celestial throat.

There was no blood — only light.

The eruption of soul-threads: the most intense navy blue imaginable wrapped in the gold reserved only for divinity, bursting like a ball of yarn under unbearable tension.

The dragon did not roar. It only looked at him, to its final breath, with sadness — and that was what broke him completely. That was when everything spun beyond control.

Kindness became greed.

Love became a promise.

And hatred became a tool.

Whatever plans he had to help would come to pass — but not as he had imagined. Would he be Gwi-ma himself, after all?

The celestial explosion of Cheongryong enveloped and pierced the body of the simple Saja. The reaper’s soul warped, and where once there had been compassion, a searing void was born. His body swelled, twisting into a wall of muscle, shadow, and horns. The staff became claws; the gat dissolved into the air.

Gwi-ma was not born of pure hatred — but of a love corrupted by hunger for control.

The world around them shook. Mira tried to blink herself out of the vision, but Gwi-ma’s voice echoed — now not as an enemy, but as a memory carved into the very air:

“I too was shaped by the burden of protecting. But… who decides what is worth protecting?”

Time seemed to race even faster: the Four Sovereigns were soon discovered to be mortal before the blades of a Saja.

The spiritual world collapsed into famine; its realms oppressed. Soon, all colors were replaced by the deadly pink and purple of Gwi-ma. Countless spirits tortured and slain. False demonic amalgams summoned by the one named King of Demons.

The spiritual world was oppressed — devoured.

“…this… is…” Mira whispered, staggering back after all she had been forced to witness.

“…the story of how a fool conquers the world? Yes… you might say that… but…”

The seven-horned spirit laughed, his massive hand clamping painfully on the redhead’s shoulder, hot like a coal just extinguished. “Our little walk isn’t over yet.”

The Creature’s hand clamped over Mira’s shoulder like a claw. Before she could react, something sharp — neither nail nor blade, but pain itself condensed into form — pierced through her flesh. The force flung her against the floor of spiritual stone, the breath wrenched from her lungs as if the air itself had been devoured.

The world went dark.

And when the light returned, there was no warm rush of blood through her shoulder. No familiar weight of her own body. There was… another weight. Another rhythm of breath. Another sound — finer, steadier — of a heart that was not her own.

Mira rose slowly. Beside her, a tranquil lake mirrored a clear sky where clouds drifted in lazy procession. She leaned toward it — and almost recoiled at what she saw. In the reflection, it was not her own face that stared back, but that of a young woman with straight black hair bound by a golden ribbon, eyes of pure celestial blue, rimmed by the golden shimmer of the soul’s thread. Her garments were ceremonial, light in fabric but adorned with metal plates etched in runes.

She knew this sight… not from study, but from the whispered, half-forbidden stories of the First Three Huntresses.

Behind her, two figures approached along the shore — women as beautiful and commanding as goddesses. The three bore the same mark upon their foreheads: a golden circle interlaced with three blue lines. Daughters of celestial princes and warriors bound to singing shamans. Their soul-threads were unlike any other: a deep, clear blue encircled with gold, as though they carried within themselves the eternal sunrise.

The air around them hummed with glory and purpose. They laughed, walking together not as soldiers, but as sisters — children of the same oath. Their duty was not born of hatred toward monsters. Gwi-ma did not yet exist. Their mission was older: to keep the spiritual world from drawing more energy than the physical could give, to preserve the balance so that neither realm withered while the other flourished.

The water’s surface shivered.

Time raced past Mira’s eyes like leaves swept by the wind. Centuries collapsed into seconds:

The Joseon era raised its Confucian walls, smothering the old shamanic ways. Rituals fell silent. The chants of shamans were discredited, and with them, the power that once sustained the huntresses. Without strong spiritual protection, demons grew bolder, stronger.

The huntresses, now isolated, saw their original purpose dissolve into secrecy and mistrust. Balance was forgotten. The sacred duty to protect was slowly rewritten into a doctrine of hate: every demon, every spirit was branded an enemy. Respect and dialogue died, replaced by sharpened blades and oaths of extermination.

The Honmoon — the gateway only huntresses could seal — ceased to mark the boundary of respect and instead became the threshold of contempt. It fed solely on bitter, wounded human souls, fragile as spider-silk, woven together by the shamans’ songs. And though those songs still rang clear and strong in sound, they were empty in meaning. They no longer danced what they sang.

And at the heart of this transformation, Mira felt a pain in her chest that was more than physical. It was the grief of something sacred being twisted… the same grief that had once shaped Gwi-ma.

The water before her clouded, as though some ancient shadow stirred beneath its surface.

She sank to her knees, eyes shut, letting the tears fall freely. They weren’t the tears of someone seeking comfort — they were the bleeding of something deep inside her.

When she opened her eyes again, there was no lake’s reflection, no trace of gold — only the cold void of black stone. And behind her, the seven-horned Spirit, unmoving, like a living mountain.

“...it’s… so much… so much,” she whispered, voice hoarse and stripped of the strength that had always marked her. “Has it all… always been this fake? Damn it… what the hell have I ever done right?!”

Her cry tore through the emptiness like a blade thrown into the dark. Her one good hand struck the rock floor, sending up dry sparks.

“You’re not to blame for being the child of fearful people, Mira,” the creature said, moving slowly around her until it stood before her. Then it rose again to its colossal height, the shadow of its horns covering all the space around them. “But that only makes you… a frightened little rat, just like them.”

She lifted her gaze. There was nothing in her eyes — no faith, no rage, no reason. Only the weight of someone who had seen too much.

“...what’s your name?” she asked plainly, like someone who had nothing left to lose.

The creature laughed — that muffled laugh, thick with pain and disdain. “Well, well… finally asking the right questions, huh? Fine… you can call me…” His hand reached to one of his own horns, as if touching it could help him find a memory buried deep in the past. “…Chilgak. Just Chilgak.”

“...why the hell am I here? And where the fuck is Celine?”

The laughter stopped. Chilgak leaned down until his heavy, hot breath was almost against her face. “I… was an ancient spirit. Back then… there wasn’t this blind hatred. But the huntresses… oh, they were creative in their cruelties. I was enslaved, bound by seals and oaths, forced to serve as a scribe — to record every pact, every execution, every name erased from life. And when they wanted to be sure a novice was ready for the outside world…”

A slow smile spread across his face, revealing blade-like fangs. “…I was the final test. Not to kill — but to break. To crush what was fragile and leave only the steel behind.”

Mira drew a long breath, saying nothing.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve felt… this. The taste of measuring someone, of weighing their soul… and seeing if it sinks.” The red light in his eyes flared, hungry and alive. “And guess what, huntress… I’ve missed it.”

The ground shuddered under Chilgak’s advance. Stones split like brittle bones, and shadows rose around him like coiling serpents.

Mira, her shoulder throbbing, pulled the woldo in a clean arc, the blade catching the strange light of the place.

“—Then test me, damn it.”

The air thickened with every crawl Chilgak made. The cracking stones mingled with the heavy thud of his presence, as if the very ground itself tried to flee from him. The dim light bent and twisted, swallowed by the mass of shadows that was his body. The red veins beneath his black skin pulsed slowly, like a heartbeat, while the flickering flames atop his two longest horns cast trembling reflections on his white seonbi mask.

Mira did not flinch. Her woldo’s blade shimmered, the wide arc drawing a clear line in the gloom. She inhaled deeply, feeling the weight of her weapon — and of her own wounded body. Chilgak smiled behind the mask, savoring every moment.

The first clash came like thunder. Her blade sliced the air but struck only one of the shadowy tendrils spilling from the colossal form. The dark mass coiled around the hilt, trying to wrench the weapon from her grasp. Mira twisted her wrist and yanked hard, freeing the blade and carving a brief shining rift in the shadow — one that sealed instantly, like water swallowing a stone.

Chilgak laughed. “You move like one desperate to survive... but look into my eyes and tell me you’re not afraid.”

He advanced. There was nowhere to run — he slid forward, the formless base of his body gliding soundlessly over the stones, until his size loomed over her like a living wall. One immense arm descended — not to strike, but to press. Mira dodged just in time, feeling the impact slam the ground, sending shards like daggers flying around her.

She countered with a sweeping lateral cut, aiming between shoulder and neck. The blade connected, but it was like slicing through dense smoke — the resistance was there but gave way and closed again as if nothing had been wounded.

“Strength without foundation...” Chilgak murmured, then grabbed.

From behind her, shadow rose like a thick tentacle, wrapping around her right arm before she could react. The grip was immediate and relentless. Mira let out a low cry; the woldo nearly slipped from her fingers.

“That arm... the one you trust most, isn’t it?” he said, pulling her close. His white mask was mere centimeters from her face, the empty black eyes glowing faintly with flame behind the slits. “Let’s see how you fight when it won’t obey.”

The twist came slow and cruel. First, the forearm forced beyond its natural angle; then, a quick snap — the sickening crack of bones breaking — the ulna and radius crossing and splintering like dry twigs. The skin stayed unbroken, muscles intact, but the arm’s shape contorted grotesquely. The pain stabbed sharp, reaching all the way to her spine.

Mira gasped, knees buckling for a moment, but she did not fall. Chilgak released her, leaving the arm dangling, useless.

“Now we’re talking...” he said, stepping back, shadows swirling around him. “Show me what’s left.”

Her gaze rose, cold and steady. Her left hand gripped the woldo firmly, adjusting her hold to compensate for the imbalance. She spun her body, bringing the blade down in a gleaming arc that seemed to rip through the very veil of shadows surrounding them. Chilgak did not block — the shadow reacted like a stormy sea, whipping back at her with lashings of darkness.

Their fight became an uneven dance: Mira striking with one arm, each blow sharper and more precise than the last; Chilgak weaving, parrying with living shadow, countering only to test, to find her weaknesses.

And with every move, His smile seemed to grow wider and wider — an illusion, the mask not doing enough to hide his true expression.

Mira felt the crushing weight of night settle deep inside her body. Her right arm, twisted and useless, throbbed with a sharp pain that drained her with every breath. Yet her spirit refused to bow. With her left hand, she gripped the woldo firmly and struck again — short, precise blows seeking cracks, fissures in that living mass of shadow.

Chilgak moved with the darkness like a sinister conductor, dodging her attacks with the same fluidity as night swallowing the horizon. He wasn’t seeking death, but torment: every parried strike a taunt, a test to gauge her resilience.

Then, in an unexpected motion, the shadow composing his form spread like viscous smoke, curling around Mira’s ankles and climbing swiftly — relentless — like black fingers trying to drag her into the abyss.

She fought back, lifting her body, but the force that held her was cold and profound — not merely physical, but existential. A void sucking everything: warmth, energy, hope.

Her breath caught in her throat as she was pulled toward the floor of black stone, shadows wrapping around her in an embrace both prison and solace.

Her vision began to fail, the world blurring into lights and distant echoes. The beat of her own heart seemed muffled, sinking alongside her.

But even on the brink of surrender, something inside Mira refused to die. A faint spark, flickering and persistent — a silent scream, a promise made to herself.

She struggled, shaking her body, drawing strength from pain itself. The shadow sought to engulf her form, but her fingers clawed the earth like roots, anchoring her being to reality.

Chilgak watched, his yellow eyes gleaming with a cruel mix of curiosity and delight. “Have you seen the bottom of the well, hunter?” His voice was a whisper that echoed deep in her chest. “That’s where everything falls apart.”

Mira clenched her teeth, summoning her last reserves of strength. The fight was far from over. She had too many legacies to restore.

• ★ •

“I can’t believe I’m actually telling this idea to you,” Rumi muttered as the experienced hands of the hairstylist gently unraveled her usual high braid — that single braid that started tight at the hairline and flowed all the way down her long purple hair, nearly as tall as she was. The stylist’s touch was firm yet kind, but each tug drew from the girl a quiet, subtle resistance.

“Awww, I know deep down you’re loving this,” Zoey teased, peeking at her girlfriend with a smile that blended lightness and affection against the deep frown stamped on Rumi’s face — a frown Zoey secretly knew was almost a natural expression of focus, not displeasure.

The hairstylist, humble and patient in a way only years of practice can grant, asked, “So, Rumi-nim… how much do you want to cut? What length are you thinking?”

Rumi fell silent for a moment, glancing at Zoey, who shot her an encouraging look, then at herself — her face torn between doubt and a sudden urge for change. She took a deep breath, summoning the courage that, despite the fear of the unknown, was already tickling her chest.

“…I think… maybe about three fingers above the middle of my back? Around… the shoulder blades?” Her voice was low, lacking its usual confidence.

Zoey raised a surprised eyebrow.

“Wow… that’s a pretty drastic cut for hair that long, huh? But it’s safe — still long enough for fancy hairstyles.”

Rumi smiled shyly, biting her lower lip.

“Yeah… I think I need to shed some of the weight it’s been carrying. You know? After so many years with the same braid, it feels like I need something new.”

The hairstylist smiled, pleased with the decision, and began the process. Scissors and fingers danced precisely through the lilac waves falling softly to the salon floor, each strand releasing with a nearly liberating sound.

When the cut reached exactly the height of her shoulder blades, Rumi felt a sudden lightness take over. The transformation was more than physical — as if years of expectations, secrets, and silences were being cut away along with the strands.

After trimming to the perfect length, the stylist moved to the front sections. Rumi wanted to keep the essence of her identity — that braid, her symbol — but allowed for a looser, more organic version. The strands were subtly swept to the right side, creating a soft, wavy frame around her face — a new kind of femininity, delicate yet faithfully hers.

She looked into the mirror and laughed — a light, unexpected, and pleasant laugh. It was a sweet, perfect blend: the rebellious waves reminiscent of her father’s hair, paired with her mother’s styling.

Though she had never truly lived with them, Rumi was, in that moment, a living memory of the love that had bound them — a love she now carried with her, not as heavy chains, but in loose, free strands dancing to the rhythm of her own soul.

After breaking eye contact with the mirror, her gaze found Zoey, flushed, holding her phone with no attempt at discretion. A sweet laugh escaped her lips.

“So… do you like what you see?” Rumi lowered her voice an octave, just enough to watch her shorter girlfriend shiver and draw closer, almost enchanted, to Rumi.

“Ah… I always love the view when I see you… but today it’s special… a you that’s even more… yourself.” Zoey cupped Rumi’s cheek, swiftly wiping away any teasing attitude the purplette might have had. Now it was Rumi’s turn to blush, her iridescent patterns flickering toward warm yellow — like the moment itself.

She felt the deep urge to just push Zoey away and kiss her, to… damn, take her completely as her own. But the maknae pulled back quickly — a playful gleam on her innocent face, as if to say, A good puppy has to obey, even outside the house.

And that made the vocalist swallow hard. Yeah, the hair might have changed — but the fact that Mira and Zoey would be her downfall? Oh no, that was still the same.

• ★ •

Rumi and Zoey stepped out of the hair salon with light footsteps and shy smiles, hidden beneath berets and dark sunglasses — their usual shield against curious glances. Though off-duty, they were still too well known to move about freely. The city buzzed with energy, but for them, in that moment, everything felt almost calm, almost like a well-earned breath.

“Want to get ice cream?” Zoey suggested, already guiding Rumi toward the corner stand — a small cart shaded by a striped umbrella, with that sweet scent that brought back childhood afternoons.

Rumi walked slowly, savoring the new lightness of her hair swinging in the breeze, the fresh feeling of freedom in every movement. “I really want ice cream,” she replied with a smile that seemed to brighten the day.

In line, Rumi didn’t hold back. She chose her scoops — chocolate, matcha, and strawberry — two of each, her favorite combination. Zoey glanced at the generous portion and raised an eyebrow, laughing. “Rumi, you always eat more ice cream than we usually do — and that’s saying a lot!”

Rumi smiled shyly, licking a matcha scoop. “Ice cream is the lightest and sweetest thing I know. Today, I deserve it… well, the second sweetest thing.”

“And what’s the first?”

“Obviously you,” she answered, with more adoration than teasing, prompting both to share a warm laugh.

They sat on a nearby bench, watching the rhythms of Seoul’s streets — the ebb and flow of people, children’s carefree laughter, the clear sky of a hot day. Normalcy tasted strange after so many days cramped with training, worries, and secrets.

Zoey subtly took Rumi’s hand, fingers intertwining gently. “You know… I could be mean and deny you this today… but I’ve wanted to do this for a while…” She leaned in and pressed a soft, but confident kiss to Rumi’s lips.

Rumi smiled, returning the tenderness, and for a brief moment, the whole world seemed to hush just for them.

But the calm didn’t last.

Suddenly, a small birdlike shadow leapt swiftly onto the table, six eyes gleaming intensely, its gat on its head askew, feathers bristling. They recognized Sussie immediately — but not her posture.

She chirped, eyes trembling with worry, her fur almost vibrating with a strange energy they instantly felt.

Zoey furrowed her brow, glancing urgently at Rumi. The Honmoon’s aura surrounding them flickered — thin and alarming.

“Something’s happening,” Rumi whispered, rising to watch Sussie twitch on her tiny paws, desperate to convey something urgent but without clear words.

Zoey murmured a connection word — an ancient prayer, a spiritual link — and then the meaning became clear to both.

“Mira’s in danger,” Zoey said, voice steady but edged with the worry she couldn’t hide.

The clock read just past two in the afternoon, and what had seemed a simple day of ice cream and laughter swiftly turned into urgent reality.

Rumi grasped Zoey’s hand, eyes blazing with determination. “Let’s go. Now.”

• ★ •

Each sensation Mira felt in that moment seemed no longer her own. The shadow consuming her was an inevitable fate — the invisible corrosion of her very essence, as if unseen worms gnawed from within. But that dark land did not truly exist there; it was only the decay of logic, the silent abandonment of all she was and could be.

Her heart still beat — stubbornly pulsing against oblivion. Death would not come just yet, but eternal forgetfulness seemed crueler, an offering unmade to the god she belonged to. Everything felt destined for an end. It was right, just even, to simply yield to entropy and fade away, to let her dreams dissolve into silence.

Then — a flicker.

A thin thread of light began to glow within her — a thread of soul, fragile yet unyielding. Pale blue, pure and steady, with pulses of soft pinks and reds weaving beneath a delicate golden mesh, the very same that adorned the hunters and the sacred. The thread shimmered in Mira’s chest, pushing back the shadows that devoured her.

She felt a subtle resurgence, still broken, her right forearm throbbing with battle’s pain, but a new strength grew. In a surge of life, she pressed her hands to her abdomen, gathering the little energy left. With effort, she raised her head.

And then she saw.

There they were — the two who carried her soul with fierce tenderness: Zoey and Rumi, united against Chilgak, the seven-horned shadow who seemed to defy fate itself. Their attacks were fierce, gleaming with determination.

A laugh escaped Mira’s lips — a light sound full of renewal.

“Fuck these dark thoughts,” she murmured to herself, feeling the flame of life blaze stronger. “I still have loves to defend.”

Yes, she was not like those hunters who one day abandoned their creeds and oaths. Mira would sing them louder and stronger than ever, alongside her companions, her lovers — her family.

Because with the Huntrix, there is no lack — only the unbreakable will to fight.

The air vibrated around them, a subtle field of energy where light and shadow clashed without cease. The three moved in perfect harmony — as if sharing one single pulse of life, one breath against the void Chilgak embodied.

Rumi advanced with her broad blade — a saingeom that seemed a stellar extension. The dokkaebi patterns etched into the steel gleamed like an ancestral dance, whispering ancient and potent stories. The blade was wide, curved at the tip like a celestial claw. She wielded it with calculated grace, every strike a balance of strength and beauty.

Chilgak smiled — a cruel, almost mocking curl of lips. With a strike that seemed to touch Rumi’s very essence, he toyed with the half-demon within her, stirring shadows still dormant in her soul. Her sword bled both light and darkness at once, and though Rumi staggered, she did not fall. This gave the youngest of the group room to push forward.

Zoey danced around the monster with cutting precision. The shin-kal — small, sharp blades, cultural imprints in throwable form — glimmered like iridescent silver meteors. Every movement was an elegant trace of fatality, thrown and returned like star-dust pulled by gravity to the raven-haired girl with near-supernatural agility. Zoey struck at the vital points of the shadow, trying to rip through the dark mass that regenerated with every moment.

Mira stood firm, her woldo — the gok-do with a golden hilt and iridescent blade — was an extension of her will itself. Each move was an invitation to resist, a dance of light against the weight of darkness. The blade seemed to reflect a starry sky, constellations flowing in soft blues and violets.

“Don’t let the light falter,” she whispered to her companions, the Honmoon’s glow pulsing along the woldo’s hilt, strengthening them. Light was their mission — the reason they existed. They would never allow the darkness of this land to swallow the world.

Chilgak surged forward, a wall of flaming shadows, his claws scratching the ground, leaving trails of burning red embers. But every attack was met by the golden, iridescent blades of the Huntrix — together, they formed a shield pulsing with hope.

Even wounded, Rumi swung the saingeom in a wide arc, sending sparks flying against the shadow. Zoey slipped between the monster’s legs, driving her shin-kal into the obscure flesh, while Mira struck with precise blows, the light shattering the darkness.

It was more than a battle — it was a promise. A declaration that no matter how deep the darkness, the light would never cease to shine as long as they stood.

Rumi held her stance, gripping the saingeom with both hands — the weight of the broad blade demanded absolute control. With a swift step, she executed a full spin, the edge of the sword shimmering as it sliced the air with a sharp whistle. The blade tore through Chilgak’s right arm, forcing the shadow to emit a sound of disgust, but the monster bent backward just in time to avoid a strike that could have ended the fight.

Zoey seized the opening, gliding forward at low height like a streak of silver, propelled by the tips of her feet. The shin-kal, balanced between her fingers with the dexterity of a violinist, were released in rapid succession — three, five, seven — aimed at the creature’s joints: elbows, knees, even the base of its horns. Each blade struck true and detonated in a burst of spiritual light, forcing Chilgak to recoil, its shadow-flesh sizzling as though set aflame.

At the center, Mira felt the gok-do’s energy vibrate through her hands. It was a long, curved, razor-sharp blade, flexible enough to demand broad steps and sweeping turns. She swung in a powerful diagonal cut, the strike casting starlight across the dark battlefield. The blade met resistance, but it carved a path for a follow-up lateral slash, sending ripples of shadow scattering.

Chilgak countered with a monstrous movement: raising one arm, it drove forward in a brutal charge, its horned, flame-clad hand burning like a forge. Mira dropped low, rolling backward, then used the momentum to deliver a downward strike — a quick, brutal blow that bit into the creature’s collarbone with a hollow, searing sound.

Rumi took advantage of the distraction, launching herself into an acrobatic leap, pulling her long braid back to create a disorienting blur in the monster’s vision. She landed with the saingeom poised for a short, lethal strike at Chilgak’s neck. The blade connected, but part of the shadow peeled away, dissipating to avoid the full force of the cut — turning the fight into a relentless contest of precision against evasion.

Not to be outdone, Zoey hurled another flurry of shin-kal in rapid succession, slicing through the air and tearing away fragments of shadow that quickly regenerated. She then sprinted to the opposite side, sliding between the monster’s legs before whipping around with a sweeping kick that nearly toppled it.

Mira felt the fatigue crash into her, her right forearm throbbing from the sustained impact of the battle, but she refused to yield. She spun the woldo — not with perfect mastery, but with enough control to conjure a vortex of light, momentarily shielding the three hunters in a shimmering barrier of energy. In that fleeting gap, they struck together: Rumi with a spinning saingeom slash, Zoey with a somersault that loosed diagonal shin-kal midair, and Mira with a horizontal cut that cleaved the shadow in two.

Chilgak let out a roar of burning shadow — enraged, but far from defeated. The fight raged on, that deadly dance of light and darkness stretching longer and sharper — and the Huntrix knew: the fate of the physical world hung on the tireless gleam of their blades.

The creature smiled — or at least the seonbi mask seemed to twist into a cruel, almost obscene grin, as if savoring the very torment it provoked. Suddenly, its form began to shift. Four new arms burst from its torso, each emerging like black serpents — flexible, terrifying — bringing its total to six limbs that moved with a demon’s unnatural synchronicity. The mouth of the mask split in a grotesque tear, revealing a tongue that unfurled slowly, thin and long as an ancient scroll, rippling through the air as though it had a will of its own.

The air around them pulsed with a rhythmic tension — Chilgak had begun to chant, a guttural, measured voice that echoed across the black rocks and the empty void surrounding them.

“Zoey… like a slug choking inside its own shell. Too trapped, always contained, drowning in the fear of what you could become. Never free to fly — only to crawl…” The words sliced through the silence like invisible blades, and Zoey clenched her fists, her eyes blazing with fury and pain.

“And you, Mira…” Chilgak’s voice deepened, taking on a metallic echo — denser, heavier. “Cyclical, hypocritical — a perfect mirror of those who created and betrayed you. The eternal replica of the unfaithful son, caught between duty and resentment, unable to break the cycle. An echo screaming, yet never heard…” Mira felt the weight of every word crushing her soul, her chest tightening until it hurt.

The voice then dropped into a cutting whisper, cold enough to freeze the blood. “And Rumi… ah, the flaw of existence. An error woven from shadows and corrupted light — the pseudo-daughter of the woman who murdered your parents. Celine, the guardian who killed, who betrayed, who condemned…”

The words shattered the silence, reverberating like thunder inside the minds of Mira, Zoey, and Rumi.

Rumi shuddered, her grip on the saingeom’s hilt trembling. The psychological strike was deadlier than any blade. Zoey’s eyes met hers, finding in them a silent understanding, a plea to endure.

Mira closed her eyes, feeling the sludge of those accusations trying to drown her. But somewhere inside, a flame held — the flame of the Huntrix, of loves that could not be erased. Because no matter how much Chilgak tried to corrode her soul, he did not have the power to destroy what truly mattered.

And with a roar that was equal parts pain and resolve, the three readied themselves for the next blow — more united than ever, knowing this battle was not only against a shadow, but against the truths that haunted their hearts.

Rumi struck first — the wide blade of her saingeom flaring with dokkaebi patterns that seemed to writhe under her fury. Each blow came fast and heavy, as though she sought to shatter the air itself. Her eyes burned — not only with rage, but with the wound carved by Chilgak’s words. A wound she would not let heal until the creature’s life was ripped away.

Zoey, feeling Rumi’s fury spill over, found her own rhythm. Her shin-kal flew in perfect arcs, severing shadows before they could close in. Mira, her woldo spinning in iridescent circles, guarded their flanks — each sweeping strike rolling forward like tides against the black waves.

The sound of battle was steel against steel, laced with the sinister rustle of Chilgak, who now seemed to delight in their intensity. His six arms moved like independent blades, defending and striking with near-impossible speed. But Rumi’s hatred drew them together, their movements bound into one breath, one heartbeat — as though the whole world had shrunk to the space between their bodies and the monster.

Zoey saw it first — a red point pulsing in Chilgak’s shadowy chest, like a beacon of living flesh. She didn’t need to speak. Mira had seen it too, and Rumi… Rumi was already running toward it.

The three fell into perfect alignment for the final strike: Zoey unleashed a flurry of shin-kal, tearing open his guard; Mira swept the woldo wide, forcing two of Chilgak’s arms away; and Rumi, leaping as though she could split the air itself, drove her blade straight into the pulsing point.

Everything froze.

A single heartbeat of absolute silence — then the world erupted in flame.

Golden and scarlet fire consumed everything, devouring shadows, erasing sound, air, and the very ground beneath them. It felt as though an unseen force was yanking their bodies away.

• ★ •

When they opened their eyes, they were back in the normal world. The afternoon sun warmed their skin, and the breeze carried the scent of streets and life. No wounds. No pain. Even Mira’s arm, once broken, was whole again.

But when she curled her fingers, she felt something new — in the center of her right palm, a small, perfect red mark, shaped like a heart. A strange warmth pulsed from it, faint but constant.

Mira exhaled slowly and let a half-smile curl her lips, hiding the hand in her pocket.

Not now, she thought.

Not now.

Chapter Text

(This day, unlike the warm settings they usually chose for recording memories, felt cold — almost monochromatic, with a silence that seemed to seep into the walls. Mi-yeong sat upright, her eyes as gentle as ever, though distant. Her father was absent from the recording, and no reason for it had been mentioned.)

(The dark-eyed woman remained silent for a few moments. Only seconds, yet through the lens, they stretched into hours. When she finally spoke, her voice was lower, downcast — perhaps the heaviest tone in all the tapes Rumi had ever seen.)

(“You know…” she began, with a pause weighted down by something unspoken, “I hope you don’t come to know this feeling too soon. But… a feeling that will inevitably find you is grief. Losing someone — not by choice, but… sometimes, through complicity.”)

(There was something ironic, almost cruel, in watching her greatest loss speak about losses. A painful, metalinguistic echo.)

(“It’s a sudden change,” she went on. “You blame God and the world when it happens. Then… the blame turns inward. I know what that’s like. I know too well how that thought violates you… like a thief in the night, breaking the door open and stealing away your most precious treasure.”)

(For a brief instant, Mi-yeong lowered her gaze. She drew a deep breath, with a strain that seemed to weigh down the air. But soon she lifted her head again, regaining her composure.)

(“Then comes the hatred… and the hurt. Nothing feels truly fair. But, hey… you’re still here, you know? That feeling of loss will never leave, and you’ll never fill the space it left behind. But don’t think that a shadow means eternal darkness.”)

(Another pause followed — short, but as dense as the rest.)

(“You will still have a whole life ahead of you. You will leave your mark on people and places, just as those you’ve lost did on you. Don’t let grief drown you. It is forever, but, in the end, life grows around it. It doesn’t vanish… but it doesn’t have to stop you.”)

• ★ •

When Celine saw the wall of red clouds rise around her former pupil, she turned and ran. An act of absolute cowardice — but she was not the one to give any answers. Chilgak would be. It was his job, after all.

She slipped out through the back doors of the building. She always carried escape routes engraved in her mind, invisible maps to flee from any commitment. Left. Then right, past the street beside the noodle shop. Find the house marked with plate 05. From there, head northeast.

Insist. Keep going. Avoid.

They will find you. Be ready for that.

Her steps multiplied until they lost all measure, until there was no longer a city — only movement. Soon, Jeju. A refuge for the few — those who knew the demons and yet still protected an ungrateful world.

She passed her home without so much as a glance inside. She went straight to the sanctuary, the inscriptions in hangeul and the local tongue carved into the gate like scars of time. Here, with every stone, every curve of the path, the stories of centuries took shape beneath her feet.

She walked until she saw it — the oldest Dangsan in the world, its trunk wide as a living wall, its roots embracing the earth with the strength of an eternal vow. At its heart, veiled by the sacred cloth, lay the center of the Honmoon. Around it, like silent sentinels, rested the headstones of the hunters’ cemetery.

And Celine, without hesitation, went to one of them. Mi-yeong’s. It was the only one that would hear her without silencing her with a slap — even in death, she knew she would never be ignored.

She knelt before the cold stone, fingers brushing the carved name.

Regret came heavy, warm, suffocating.

Regret for having seen her own blindness far too late. Regret for having let her pupils suffer so much. Regret for never knowing how to love Rumi as she should have.

“I swear, Mi-ya… I loved her so much.” Her voice faltered, and the next words came out like a naked confession. “But damn it… what am I good at, if not hurting everything I touch?”

The silence that followed was absolute, broken only by the rustling of leaves high in the canopy. She had ruined everything. And she knew it. That was why she was ready to mark. To incite.

It was time for consequences.

“I just wanted…” Celine’s breath came out rough, as if it had to tear through her own throat to escape. “I just wanted them never to falter in the face of monsters the way we did. Never to taste the metallic tang of fear that my generation knew, never to feel betrayal running between them. No — damn it — I just! I just wanted to give them what we never had! That’s what always drove me! The best for the world, for you! Seori, for me!” Her fingers dug into the earth before the gravestone, nails sinking into the damp soil.

“Everything I did…” she swallowed hard, her voice hardening but never finding true firmness, “was an attempt to keep alive what I was taught. Discipline. Vigilance. Strength… But I—” a short, hoarse laugh escaped her, thick with self-disgust, “—I only managed to teach contempt, didn’t I? You always said I was too bitter to see where the sweetness of things lay. That ridiculous joke of giving… a Strawberry Shortcake doll, wasn’t it? You and Seori laughed back then… but I still have that damn thing… I still remember.”

Her gaze lifted to the Dangsan’s canopy, as if searching there for the judgment of all ages.

“And that contempt, that bitterness, Mi-ya… it destroyed Gwi-ma. Like… God, my girls are fierce, machines… weapons? But that’s where… THAT’S WHERE I… I WENT WRONG!” she gasped, thick tears pooling on her cheeks, some settling even on her lips, salting her mouth. “It was the one thing they should never have done — all it took was making the Honmoon golden… it would vanish for enough years that her marks would never stir again, like when you died! Then we’d train the next generation… and there would be peace.”

She choked on the lie — her marks might never disappear… but Rumi wouldn’t see them until she was… like every hunter before her, surpassed.

“But I taught with discord, I taught them to feel revulsion for the spirit world.

I ripped stability from the world as if it were a fragile web. I opened breaches that will never close. And why? Because I’ve always been too intense, too reckless. Because I never knew how to measure my own hand.”

The wind blew colder, and the Honmoon seemed to shudder around her, as if her words had reached into its very fibers.

“I ruined everything. And the worst part… is that now I don’t know if fighting to mend it is redemption… or just another way to prolong my guilt.” 

• FB: S •

The night was dense, carrying the kind of silence that isn’t empty — but full of breaths, rustles, and the muffled sound of blades turning in the air. Zoey moved carefully within the marked ground, each step measured, each rotation of the shin-kal glinting beneath the moon’s pale light. It was perception training: to learn to sense before seeing, to listen before reacting. She went ahead, Mira following behind. Rumi was also in practice, but farther from the pair.

“Do you think we should go back already?” Mira spoke in a low voice, her gaze never leaving the surroundings.

They were training perception with the aid of other shamans from the temple. Even so, there could always be a demon lurking.

“Ah, well, I guess so! Lee-nim said we shouldn’t go too far, and I think we’re almost at the edge of the area, so it doesn’t really make sense for us to—” Her thought was cut short by a strange ripple in the aura of the place. A shiver crawled up her neck — that fine, cutting cold that betrays a non-human presence. Her fingers clenched tighter around the blade and, in a single reflex, she hurled the weapon. The iridescent shin-kal cut through the air with a sharp, fleeting whistle. The sound that followed was not a demon’s growl. It was a gasp of pain.

“…Rumi?!” Zoey rushed toward the figure collapsed a few meters ahead. The blade had lodged into the girl’s shoulder, the magic light pulsing in the wound as if trying to seal and burn it at once.

Zoey swallowed hard. She couldn’t explain it — she couldn’t even understand it. “I… I felt… it seemed like…” The words withered in her mouth as she called out, urgently, “Mira! Help here!”

Mira came running, not hesitating to lift Rumi into her arms. Her weight seemed almost irrelevant in that moment. There was no time for discussion or blame — no, that could be lethal for a hunter (even if this wound was exactly that level. After all, weapons shouldn't hurt them! Was it Zoey's imbalance??). They set off at once toward the house, toward Celine, who was waiting in the main training hall.

Zoey barely finished explaining, her voice cracking in her justification. Mira left to fetch supplies, leaving only Celine and Rumi. 

The silence was heavy. Celine looked at the wound, then at the girl’s face.

“You should know how to protect yourself better,” she said at last, her voice low, but carrying a coldness that was not just discipline. “One day, this will kill you. That’s what they’re being trained for, after all.”

Rumi tried to hold her gaze, but there was too much pain to maintain her posture.

Celine drew in a deep breath — and then, when her eyes caught the girl’s left one — that eye where the golden gleam burned, alien, an inheritance impossible to ignore — her teeth sank into her lip, twisting to keep the words trapped in her throat, twisting her very tongue to make it possible — but Celine was not strong. The coldness broke. Tears fell, silent.

She ran a hand over her face, as though trying to erase what she felt.

“…Why did you have to be like this?” she murmured, almost to herself. “If you weren’t… maybe… maybe I could…” Her voice broke off. The sentence never finished. Celine recomposed herself quickly, as if nothing had happened, returning to the task of tending the wound.

Her hands trembled more than necessary to stop bleeding — not from fear of the injury, but from the sight that met her every time she looked at that child: a distorted reflection of everything she feared, everything she wished to destroy.

“Ah… I don’t think you understand,” she said, her voice nearly faltering as she applied the salve over the cut. “I only wanted you all… to never waver. To be stronger than we ever were. To never taste the metallic bite of fear my generation tasted, to never feel betrayal running between you. No… I only—I only wanted to give you what we never had.”

Rumi’s eyes lowered, fixed on the floor.

There was shame there, yes — but also something deeper: a bitter, almost automatic acceptance that any affection from Celine would always come poisoned with revulsion.

“But I…” Celine stopped. A short, dry laugh escaped her, stripped of humor. “I teach the only way I know. And the only thing I know how to teach… is contempt.”

The cloth she had been using to wipe away the blood was too stained now. She threw it aside, as if that could end the conversation. But the weight of her own confession still lingered in the air.

Rumi did not answer. There were no words that fit that distance. No apology. No accusation. Only a knot lodged in her throat and the metallic taste of being something that should never have existed.

Celine, unsteady, almost said something more — but the sound died before it was born. She drew a deep breath, turned her face away, and finished the bandaging with quick, almost impersonal movements.

In the end, nothing was left. No forgiveness. No hatred. No instruction.  Only silence.

For in prayer, there will always be both adoration and the recognition that sin is among us — intrinsic within us.

• FB: E •

Zoey adjusted herself on the floor, tapping the tip of her shin-kal against the wooden boards as if trying to force rhythm into something that had no music. Her nervous smile fractured quickly, her gaze locking hard on Mira.

“So— Mir…” she repeated, this time less playful, more cutting. “Start explaining.”

Mira lifted her eyes slowly, as though the act itself were painful. Loose strands, escaped from her usual tied-up style, hung across her forehead, veiling part of a face far too weary for someone her age — even for an idol. She drew in a deep breath, but when her voice finally came, it was almost a whisper.

“I… went after Celine. I wanted answers…” Zoey’s brow furrowed, preparing for some unusual excuse from her girlfriend, but Mira pressed on before she could interrupt. “I know I said we’d do it together, I know. But — fuck! I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t feel I could trust her… and I was right.”

The silence that followed was so thick that the creak of the floorboards hit like thunder. “When she met me, she didn’t even try to explain! She just—” Mira covered her eyes with one hand, as if the memory itself stung. “She just threw down what looked like a ring, and… a mist closed in around me.” Her fists tightened.

“…By the… spirit?” Zoey asked, reluctantly.

Mira hesitated, lips trembling before shaping the name. “...His name is Chilgak. And… yeah. It’s obvious it was him, especially since he managed to draw you to him as well.”

Zoey gave a short, almost mechanical nod. Rumi remained still, turned away, her nails dragging against the floor in slow, repetitive arcs. The sound was grating, like steel being sharpened on stone.

Zoey tried to laugh, but it broke midway. “Of course— because it wasn’t enough that we’re already hunted by every bizarre species spat out of the fifth layer of hell. No. Now you also went and walked straight into a demon’s trap who — surprise! — works with Celine?” She shook her head, the laughter collapsing into something brittle. “So? What did he do? What did he show you?”

Mira closed her eyes, the weight of memory tightening her shoulders. “Answers. To so many things. To my questions that I’d never even dared speak aloud.” She swallowed hard. “He showed me the origin of Gwi-ma and…”

“Wait, wait — Gwi-ma? Seriously? And? What was it?!” Zoey leaned in, sharp eyes glinting, hooked on every word.

“…He showed me that Gwi-ma was just an ordinary saja-daemon… who slew one of the Sovereigns and stole his soul. From what I understood, those Sovereigns control the spiritual realm… they distribute its energy.”

“Oh right— because energy only exists in production here, in the physical,” Zoey added, almost instinctively.

“Exactly. That’s why they hunt us — living beings. Material vessels. With the death of a Sovereign, everything was overturned. The spirit realm was starved, collapsing in on itself, and now it’s desperate, clawing to overcome the famine Gwi-ma left behind.” Mira shifted closer, lowering herself beside Zoey. “Because Gwi-ma grew so powerful, he practically barred other species of demons from escaping into this world… but now that he’s gone… well, that explains what we’re dealing with now.”

Zoey stomped her foot against the floor, rising in a burst of energy — not strength, but indignation. “That’s it? That’s all? Chilgak— he showed you nothing else?”

The redhead paused. The history of Gwi-ma was heavy, yes. But what gnawed at her most was the distortion of their lineage, the corruption of what they had been made to believe.

“Well… he also took me back. To see the original hunters. Before Gwi-ma ever existed. Back when they — when we — were guardians of balance, entrusted to help sustain the world. And the Honmoon was joyous then, radiant, open… but all of it was lost after the oppression, the ignorance, the hatred of demons. The veil turned from gate into prison.” Mira’s voice softened, pained, steady yet burdened. “And it was that hatred that poisoned us… we learned everything wrong, Zo. And now we’re paying for a mistake we never even knew we’d inherited.”

The words hit like a quiet avalanche.

Zoey’s breath caught. She tried to reply, but the knot in her throat rose faster than language. She leaned against her taller girlfriend’s shoulder. Mira’s hand instinctively slid into the black silk of her hair, stroking it gently. So many things seemed on the brink of being spoken.

Yet the air itself thickened. It wasn’t just heavy — it was fluid. It clogged their lungs, acrid like the filthiest water, yet odorless as the purest spring.

While they tried, with every ounce of will, to empty themselves, Rumi filled. Condensed, rigid where she stood, her only movement the slow, relentless scratching of her fingers against the floorboards. And no one dared to break her silence.

Zoey’s breathing came fast, her feet tapping against the wood in a childish rhythm, as though some mechanical comfort might be found in the dry impact. She sought Mira’s presence with her eyes, but found only a statue: her girlfriend remained lethargic, the weight of her own confession pressed so heavy on her shoulders it seemed to have drained her of the very spine that held her together.

“...So that’s it.” Zoey murmured, breaking the stillness. Her voice sounded older, dragged down, as though she had aged months in the span of minutes. “The hunters’ honor is nothing but a façade, and Celine…” A breath of laughter broke from her, cracked, strangled, half sob and half fury. “She’s still the only one who can give us answers. The only one who can lead us… after everything she’s done.”

The words burned on her tongue, spat like venom.

“This irony is cursed,” she added, covering her face with one hand, trying to hide the tears that threatened to spill. “We hate her, but we need her now more than ever. How are you supposed to survive a joke like that, huh?”

Mira lifted her gaze, but found no strength to deny it. She only nodded in silence, a knot lodged in her chest — the kind that can’t be untied with hands, the kind that tightens from the inside out, hurting like something you never chose to swallow.

Then came the sound that cut through the room — a laugh. Low. Dry. Scraped raw. Rumi.

She didn’t turn. She simply let it escape, each syllable a splinter driven into their flesh.

“...Funny…” Her voice echoed in the office, steady — far too steady for someone who looked ready to collapse. “Chilgak said she was the one who killed my parents.”

Zoey froze, her heart surging as if a blade had pierced her chest. Mira paled, her courage draining from her skin along with its color.

“Ruru… he must’ve said that just to get under our skin, you know how demons are…” Zoey tried, her voice trembling. But the sharp crack of Rumi’s nails against the wood answered her before she could finish.

Demons this. Demons that. Always the demons. Always someone else to bear the blame — including her.

Rumi tilted her head slightly, as if speaking to a ghost beside her. “And what if he was right? Hm?” Her words dripped irony, but underneath lay a raw, bleeding pain, more unbearable than anger itself. “You said it yourself, Mira — the demon was honest. He showed you things that made sense.”

Finally, she turned.

Her left eye burned gold in the half-light, a live coal. The human one beside it flickered amber — two verdicts in one face, two judges fighting for the same soul

“Tell me, then.” The laughter died, replaced by something bitter, glacial. “Would he lie… about that?”

Zoey wanted to answer, wanted to scream “yes,” to rip certainty out of her throat and throw it in Rumi’s face. But her mouth opened and nothing came. For the first time, her compulsion to speak broke in two, leaving her with silence.

Mira pressed her right palm against her side, feeling the throb of the small red mark. As though Chilgak still lingered there, laughing beneath her skin, prodding the doubt now coursing through her veins.

And the silence that fell wasn’t discomfort anymore. It was accusation.

Rumi didn’t wait for their answer. The silence already said everything. It weighed heavy enough to be bitter confirmation.

Her nails withdrew slowly, but the tension in her shoulders remained taut. She breathed deep — the first true, loud sound she had made in what felt like forever. Then she stood, her steps firm, slow, like one walking the edge of an abyss.

“You don’t need to answer.” Her voice came cold, distant, almost detached. “It’s not from your mouths — or from any damned demon — that I want to hear it.”

Zoey was the first to react, stumbling on her own urgency, a hand outstretched as though she might grasp her shadow in the air.

“Rumi… don’t. Don’t go now. I— I can’t let you leave, I—” Her voice cracked, pleading, broken, as though even she didn’t believe her own words.

Rumi paused at the door, head bowed. The dry laugh returned, short, cruel — a slash that sounded like a choked sob in disguise.

“You can’t let me? You won’t?” Her tone was acid, corroding. “Aww… I didn’t think I’d need… permission.” She murmured without turning. “And what would you do to stop me, hm? Throw one of your blades? Sing to the Honmoon so it’ll play nice?”

The sadism dripped heavy. Zoey’s stomach turned; Mira swallowed hard — it was as though their hearts had skipped a beat, leaving them hollow, trembling.

“You can’t talk to Zoey like that, you stubborn head! She’s trying to help you!” Mira burst, but the red mark on her palm throbbed hotter, alive, as though her own body was reminding her of Chilgak’s pact, of the burden she herself didn’t understand.

The metallic click of the doorknob resounded like a final sentence. Rumi was gone.

The room was left cruelly empty. The space she had occupied felt larger than her own presence, as though she had taken with her not just the air, but their courage, their future, their hope.

Zoey collapsed to her knees, tears spilling hot and fast, blurring her sight. The scream came muffled, trapped in her throat. She struck the floor once, twice, three times, until her knuckles reddened and burned.

“Shit, Mira… what the fuck is happening? That didn’t sound like Rumi… but it feels so wrong to chase her! FUCK!”

Mira gave no answer.

Her eyes stayed fixed on the closed door, as if staring hard enough might tear it open, might drag Rumi back through sheer will alone. But nothing came. Only silence.

And Rumi’s silence still lingered there — louder than any scream, choking them both to the bone.

• FB: S •

A week after the great scandal — the fiasco at the Idol Awards, the brutal fight at Namsan Tower — the world stubbornly tried to resume its flow. The voracious media turned tragedy into spectacle, with endless headlines and analyses. For the public, it was nothing more than another extravagance in the pop scene, a drama to feed hearts enamored with illusion. But no one, besides them, knew what had truly happened that night. No one could grasp that the world had been saved — naive, unknowing — from its own desperate need for salvation.

For the three hunters, that week was less about survival and more about endurance.

Zoey tried to keep her usual energy, but her laughter sounded forced, her jokes stumbled into silence, and even her phone — once incapable of resting — seemed to reject calls. Mira, still dazed, carried on her shoulders the weight of what they could never tell anyone: that the line between the stage and hell was thin, and they had crossed it. Take down — in the end, they were the ones who fell. They stood again, but their knees still bled.

And Rumi…

Rumi hardly left her room. Those walls had become both prison and refuge, a bubble where she could finally allow herself to collapse unseen. Since exposing herself before the world — with the mother-of-pearl patterns on her skin burning under the spotlights, an impossible truth that could never be erased — nothing remained in her but exhaustion. The same courage that had lifted her before Gwi-ma now abandoned her, leaving her curled in wrinkled sheets, unable to meet the others’ eyes. They used to say death was merciful, and she felt half-vegetative, like each breath was borrowed from the next.

There was also Jinu. The only one — a demon, yet a man — who understood her, who offered a twisted, but real sense of belonging. Losing him was like watching the last bridge between her and any notion of home collapse. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard his voice, rough yet patient, and the void of his absence became unbearable.

In the first days, Mira knocked countless times at her door. She called her name softly, then firmly, then wordlessly — pressing her forehead against the cold wood. Zoey tried to wrestle a sound from the room, tossing in nervous jokes, “Ruru, you’re gonna mold in there, you know?”, or even half-sung improvised songs, as if melody might pierce through the thickness of the darkness her friend had sunk into.

But invariably, nothing came. Only the faint creak of the bed, sometimes the rhythmic scrape of nails dragging across the desk or floor. A secret language of pain they already knew by heart.

Zoey sometimes cried in the hallway when Mira finally gave up, whispering through sobs, “...do you think… she won’t want to keep going, Mimi? With us? I’m scared she hurt so much she doesn’t even want to try… to heal…”

Mira never answered. She only held her partner’s hand, eyes fixed on the closed door — as if staring not at a room, but at an abyss.

Rumi’s room was drowned in a penumbra so dense it seemed almost liquid, as though darkness had weight. The curtains remained drawn, refusing entry to the light of Seoul; the only gleam came from the patterns etched across her skin. They were no longer mere marks — far too alive for someone who was meant to embody grief. Each time her reflection appeared in the wardrobe mirror, disgust rose like bile. Her body betrayed what she was, and no sheet could ever cover it enough.

She spent endless hours unmoving, lying on her side, listening to her own heart hammering too fast. At other times, her nails — growing faster than they should — scraped against the wood of the desk or the headboard. Each sound was a reminder: there was no going back. The exposure, before thousands, perhaps millions, could never be undone.

And then came the memory. Jinu.

The first who had looked at her without horror. The only one who, upon seeing the shimmer in her skin, understood — it was a mirror; he saw himself, and loved… as though it were… beautiful.

“I don’t think you’re a mistake.” The memory of his voice burned her raw. And when she remembered how she had lost him, the absence throbbed like an open wound.

The days bled into one another. She no longer knew if it was morning or night when she heard the first sound outside. Footsteps. The soft knock on her door.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice. Always delicate, as if afraid of hurting her even further. No reply.

Then Zoey — humming some ridiculous tune, improvised on the spot.

Rumi even smiled, though the smile never crossed her lips. She held it down until it dissolved into bitterness.

But one night — which one, she could not tell; it was impossible to perceive the difference — when silence seemed to have sealed the pact between her and her room, the sound came different. Not a voice. A sob. A muffled weeping.

Mira.

Rumi’s eyes flew open. The patterns across her skin flared like stirred embers, lighting violently. It couldn’t be real. Mira did not cry like that — at least, not for her.

She rose in a rush, bare feet against the cold floor. Her hand hovered over the doorknob, then froze. Pride and shame clashed inside her like caged beasts. I can’t open it. I can’t let them see me like this.

But the sound came again. A longer sob, swallowed down, as if Mira were trying to conceal her grief even there in the lonely corridor.

Rumi shut her eyes. And then she realized: she couldn’t bear it. Mira’s crying pierced through everything that had kept her standing. Worse than the headlines, worse than the camera flashes, worse than the memory of Jinu.

The doorknob turned, slow. The door opened just enough for the corridor’s light to invade the room’s gloom. The patterns on Rumi’s skin burned brighter, exposing her.

Mira lifted her face, eyes swollen, and choked at the sight. Zoey, leaning against the wall behind, pressed her lips tight, as though terrified of shattering the fragile moment with words.

Rumi said nothing. She simply stood there, chest heaving, as if she had just crossed a battlefield. The iridescences pulsed, revealing the totality of her contradiction.

For the first time in days, silence was not a prison. It was the fragile thread still binding them together.

For an instant, the open door seemed a precarious portal: on one side, the prison-cell of her room; on the other, the corridor of faltering breaths. Rumi remained frozen, half inside, half out, as though she lacked the courage to choose. The glow of her patterns spilled through the gap, casting Mira and Zoey in aurora-like reflections — an intimate spectacle, yet carved in pain.

Mira wiped her face in haste, as if she could erase her vulnerability. The impulse was to run to Rumi, take her hands, prove there was no fear. But her body betrayed her heart: she stayed rooted, holding her gaze, afraid that any sudden movement would drive Rumi back into the dark.

It was Zoey who moved. Always Zoey — impatient with silences, unable to endure the pause between pain and gesture.

In a single stride, she crossed the emptiness, as though no abyss existed, and seized Rumi by the shoulders. The shock of contact made the patterns flare, rippling outward like waves over black water.

The urge to recoil flared in the eldest girl’s body. But the slightest contraction only tightened Zoey’s hold. “You’re not leaving this time… not anymore… never again…” was all Zoey could manage to whisper, in the rawest truth of her feelings.

Her right arm reached back, pulling Mira with her, leaving no room for refusal, dragging her into the embrace. Their bodies collided awkwardly: Rumi stiff as stone, Mira hesitant like opposite poles forced together, Zoey burning like fire. Yet when they finally aligned, the gesture took on another weight.

The embrace was not comfort. It was exorcism. It was resistance against the void each carried.

Mira’s face rested against Rumi’s shoulder, and she trembled at the uneven heat radiating from the patterns — not from fear, but reverence. It was like touching something sacred and forbidden at once. Zoey, crushed between them, sobbed and laughed at once, the sound of someone knowing they were doing something both wrong and absolutely right.

And then, at last, Rumi yielded. First in her chest, releasing a heavy breath. Then in her arms, which slowly returned the hold. Her ragged nails dug into the fabric of Zoey’s shirt, as if they feared to wound — or as if they had finally accepted they no longer needed to defend.

In that moment, they were not hunters. Not heroines, nor abominations, nor idols. They were simply three lives stubbornly entwined against the weight of the world.

In the hushed corridor, the walls bore witness to the wordless pact. And in that instant, Rumi allowed herself to breathe without feeling as if she were stealing the world’s precious oxygen. She, too, belonged to the world, after all.

• FB: E •

The doorknob clicked shut behind her with a metallic snap that seemed to echo through every bone in Rumi’s body. For an instant, her hand lingered there, suspended, almost as if she could undo the gesture. One twist would be enough to retreat, to return to the room, to lose herself once more in the shadows and leave Mira and Zoey to their own collapse.

And she almost did. Almost.

But giving in — wouldn’t that be selfish? Just another display of the demon gnawing at her from within, always eager to isolate, to tear bonds apart like the merciless sea that chews a ship until it rips the helm away.

But… when, truly, had she ever been selfish?

Selfish for hiding her identity? No. She had convinced herself — it was protection. Protecting her companions, her bandmates, her girlfriends... The word burned, strange and raw, like a gulp of strong wine swallowed in one go. And it felt on the verge of spoiling before it could ripen into its sweetest form. She didn’t want to lose the love she had fought so hard to earn — but wasn’t it in her nature to ruin things?

Protect. Fulfill her purpose. That was why she had been born. The Honmoon had chosen her, entrusted her with the burden. Like the lamb that surrenders to the wolf, because only the wolf knows the sharpness of its own fangs — and for that very reason, can drive other predators away.

The hesitation dissolved in a breath. Her feet surged forward, heavy, while her heart throbbed too slowly, each beat like a fist unfurling inside her veins. Strong enough to make it feel as though she were bleeding through her pores.

And perhaps she was.

Not in human red, but in iridescence that crawled across her skin. The patterns — once pale — now stained in cascading hues that plunged into rose, into crimson, as if her heart had decided to project itself outward, engraving her body like a wound in bloom.

Celine.

She could have hidden anywhere. Run, shed her skin, vanish as she always did. But Rumi knew what lay behind the trainer’s mask. Even chaos bears patterns, and hers always led to the same place: where her own contradiction became unbearable.

Her mother’s grave. Once, Rumi had almost found it sweet — this ritual return, this gesture of a disciple seeking strength in ashes. But now it seemed like a repulsive charade. Mourning before one’s own victim wasn’t redemption; it was a hollow cleansing. A theater act to soothe her own conscience.

Soul.

She could smell soul.

If there was any use for the damned demonic fragment she had inherited, it was this: to extract, to scent, to rip the truth from anyone hiding behind prayers or silence.

She shut her eyes. And her body vibrated, thrumming like a string stretched to its breaking point. She stayed like that until something resonated back — a recognizable frequency, as if the universe itself had whispered in reply.

And then she saw it.

A thread, thin as breath, pale blue — almost a murky cyan, like the stagnant waters of a choked river. Around it, a worn, faded gold that strained to mask the rot beneath.

Celine. Exactly as she had foreseen.

The thread stretched across the space, not merely visible: it had scent, it had sound, it had weight. A trace that reeked of oxidized iron, that hissed in dissonant notes, that slithered like torn silk.

And Rumi’s stomach lurched, as though she were being devoured by it. Before she even realized, she was already running. Her feet chased the trail with the urgency of a huntress who no longer needed reason to find what she sought. Only the raw commitment to what had always existed in her core.

She left Daegu shortly before five, when sunlight was already spilling in long golden lines across the streets. The hood pulled high hid half her face, damp strands of hair clinging to her forehead, the braid — now shorter — tucked inside her sweatshirt, breath shallow. Those who crossed her path moved aside, though there seemed no reason for it: just another passenger, hurried steps, ticket scanned at the automatic gate.

But what the eyes didn’t see, the skin could feel. The air pulsed around her, charged as if with too much static. Children fell silent as she passed. Adults gripped the handrail tighter, without knowing why.

On the train, the seat by the window felt like a prison. The glass reflected a distorted silhouette: an ordinary girl in a hood — and behind her, something that didn’t fit. The pupil of her left eye, in rare flashes when the shadow of the hood shifted, tapered into a golden slit. The marks on her skin didn’t blaze bright enough for the humans surrounding her, but to her — to the self inside — they felt blinding. The only thing piercing through that inner glare was the thread she was following.

Images came, unwanted. Celine correcting her stance, steadying her arm for a strike.

Celine shoving her to the ground: “Get up. Faster.” Celine, cold as marble — yet constant.

And then the cut: the memory that refused to leave, Chilgak’s words echoing at the back of her mind—

“She killed my parents.”

With every stop, with every lurch of the train, her human shell unraveled further. The idol, the hunter, the adopted daughter, the teammate — each layer coming undone. What remained was the beast-child, the one who never cried when she should have, the one who always swallowed sobs until they strangled her.

On the ferry, the sea wind found the same lowered hood. She didn’t take it off, but the salt scraping her lips made her grind her teeth. The ocean mirrored the sunset like an open wound, purple and gold. The horizon was a blade.

Celine.

The killer.

...The mentor.

The only one who had ever given her a reason to live — and the same who had torn away the first.

Her fingers trembled against the railing, nails lengthening in secret, scoring fine lines into the metal. Beneath the edge of the hood, her left eye burned with molten gold, a beacon of everything she had tried to deny.

Rumi didn’t speak. Not yet. But the scream was already forming in her throat, heavy as if the entire sea were collapsing inside her.

Jeju’s soil had barely tasted her feet before she shot toward the island’s interior. The thread pulsed before her eyes like a serpent of light — thicker now, fiercer — and the iridescent fissures in her skin throbbed in rhythm with her heart. Everything felt right. Everything felt wrong.

Each step was a rupture. The scent of the city vanished, swallowed by a breath of damp pine, ancient earth, and dead incense. The ridges along her arms stretched, burning against the fabric. A low branch snagged her hoodie; the sound of tearing split the silence like a scream. She didn’t stop. Left the trapped fabric behind like sloughed-off skin.

Her nails clawed the earth as she pushed up steep slopes. Her feet, warped by the surge, rejected the shoes. The base of her spine burned, cracking like a bone condemned to outgrow its cage of flesh. Her body groaned like waterlogged wood about to give way. She begged no mercy. Pain was stimulus. Pain was language. Pain was ego — or what was left of it.

Not even that. Not even a demon can wound her as deeply as she can.

The horizon dissolved. In its place, the closing forest swallowed her like a wound stitching itself shut around an intruder. As the light thinned, the temples emerged, veiled in moss and shadow. Symbols she had known since childhood. Altars where blood — human and not — had been honored and betrayed. Every stone a scar carved into the world.

The house where she had grown up rose in the distance, austere, the roof still intact. Her heart faltered — for an instant. But she didn’t stop. None of it mattered. The rooms where she cried alone, the corridors where she learned to kill — they had died long before she understood what life was.

The thread thickened, a noose strangling her vision. It led her to where she had always known it would end: the graveyard.

An open field, girded by low walls of black stone, the ground strewn with pale leaves that whispered like bones. The silence there wasn’t silence; it was a body. Here lay every generation of hunters. Here rested the mother she had never known. Here knelt, bowed over the gravestone, the one she had come for.

Celine.

A prayer slid from the woman’s lips, almost undone by the wind. A murmur that sounded more like a curse than a blessing.

Rumi stopped. She did not move closer. Not yet. Not now. She remained in the shadows, as she had always been taught to remain. As every demon learns: instinct stalks before it strikes.

Her claws dug into the sodden ground. Her left eye blazed gold beneath the torn edge of her hood. Her breath was an erratic engine, slow and frantic all at once, as though time itself could not decide whether to sprint or freeze.

There, concealed, she watched the woman who had given her a reason to live — and to hate.

• ★ •

The cold wind — last breath of day before surrendering to night — slithered between the gravestones and scraped against Celine’s exposed skin. It combed through her hair like the fingers of ancient specters, carrying the metallic scent of stone and wet earth. Her knees ached against the unyielding ground — but when had the pain begun? She didn’t know. Or didn’t care. Pain was all she deserved. If there was any penance for someone like her, it was this: endure until her bones begged for mercy.

Her hands remained clasped, as cold as stone, knuckles whitening beneath the pressure. Her voice, when it surfaced, wasn’t a prayer — it was smoke. Dissolving into the air like cheap incense, profane yet somehow still functional. A murmur that sounded more like a shattered spell, trying to bind together something that had never been whole.

Because everything in her, she thought, could be reduced to the ability to disappoint.

What a curse. What a cruel curse. To teach the burden and watch it bloom. That was what she had given her poor girl: the inheritance of the lash, the merciless conviction that survival is possible only by becoming a blade.

And then — as always happened when she hovered on the edge of breaking — the memory returned. Scalding, like iron fresh from the forge.

Rumi. Seven years old. The hanok steeped in the dim light of sunset, the air still thick with the scent of oil that polished the blades. That child, her eyes swollen from a stifled cry, her small hands far too steady for her age.

Celine could still feel the air vibrate when the saingeom was born. The iridescent blade erupting from her palm as though it had always been there, hidden in her blood — alive, throbbing, etched with constellations that burned along its shimmering groove. Ancient symbols no human should bear, and yet the child held it as if it were an extension of her soul.

She was perfect.

Gods… she almost wept that day. Almost. The pride struck so violently, so searing, that for an instant she wanted to seize that child in her arms, crush her in an embrace and whisper: You are everything. You are the hunter I dreamed of. I did something right. I… did something right.

But all that escaped was a touch too light, a gesture too cold. An embrace devoid of warmth, fractured by the wall of fear she herself had built. And shallow words, weightless, bloodless:

“Good work, Rumi.” Nothing more.

Because beneath it all, the bitter taste roared louder. The loathing of demons. Of everything carrying their mark. And even as she saw the humanity blazing in that child — even as she sensed that pure heart burning to please her — still, she refused to surrender to tenderness.

That was where the flaw took root. That was where everything began to collapse.

Now, kneeling before her mother’s gravestone, Celine felt the edge of that memory slicing her from the inside out. As if the saingeom — that same blade Rumi once called forth — were now driving through her flesh.

And there lay the truth she never dared to voice: she had not only failed as a mentor. She had failed as something she once longed to be — perhaps a mother, perhaps redemption. But she had always chosen steel over skin, the blade over affection.

And because of that, she thought, the girl had grown up learning the same: that love is weakness, that trust is a breach, that everything must be sharpened to survive.

The wind swelled, carrying dead leaves like the remains of summers long buried. The shadow of night crept in, slow and relentless, draping the gravestones in mourning that would never end.

Celine did not sense the presence in the dark. Did not see the faint shimmer of crimson patterns bleeding across the skin of the creature she had once dreamed of calling—

daughter.

The wind shifted first. It carried with it a shiver that wasn’t cold, but instinct. A chill that climbed Celine’s spine like the blade of a scythe forgotten in flesh.

Something alive fractured the monotony of death. Not the soft, ordinary hum of human life — but something jagged, pulsing, like a breath that does not belong to this world. A life that knows death from the inside out.

Celine lifted her eyes slowly, still kneeling, and everything remained still: gravestones aligned like stone soldiers, trees contorted against the night sky, clouds dense enough to swallow the last trace of light. Silence. Too much silence.

Until she saw it.

Not a body. Not a defined shape. Only crimson flashes threading like thin rivers across a distant shadow, as though the air itself bore bleeding cracks. At times, a spark — an organic pulse, almost alive. And then — the final blow: a golden eye, vivid, slit through the center like a beast’s, burning beneath the black canopy. A beacon in the dark. A warning.

Celine jerked upright, muscles protesting the hours spent kneeling. For her, kneeling had always been worse than fighting. Her hand slid along her waist and found the handle of the scythe — an old companion, its curved blade still sharp out of sheer stubbornness, refusing to be rendered useless.

She raised it with effort, shoulders taut, the blade catching the faint lunar light. Her mind knew: useless against demons. But her heart roared something else: I will not die on my knees. Not for these worms.

Then came the sound. At first, a low rumble, a muffled growl tangled in the wind. Then, the cruellest form of music: laughter. A broken laugh, wavering, scraping the ears like twisted metal.

And when the creature spoke, the night itself seemed to recoil.

The voice slid out, drawn and distorted, as though seeping through fractures in space. Each word made the Honmoon hum in the distance — a sharp, aching timbre, like a lament, answering something that should never have existed. Yet beneath that distortion… something familiar. A cadence, a tone Celine knew better than her own breath.

Rumi’s voice.

“Why…?” The first word sounded like iron tearing silk. The laughter returned, low, restrained, before breaking into a whisper that made the ground beneath Celine’s feet feel colder still:

“…why do you come here, knowing this is where your greatest guilt lives?”

Celine stepped back, the scythe trembling in her hands, her breath heavy and indecent against the cemetery’s silence. The reply she meant to give died in her throat — crushed by the sound that followed.

“...that spirit you sent to attack Mira…” The voice slid through the trees like smoke, low and ragged, yet carrying a fractured melody. “He told me something interesting, you know?”

It was a tone impossible to place. High and low at once, as though the air itself were breathing with it. The sound was everywhere, yet every syllable felt whispered into the bone of Celine’s jaw. “I wish I had learned that differently. In gentler words… not with my life being challenged.”

Crimson lights crawled along the tree trunks like exposed nerves — quivering, serpentine, answering the contained rage. And Celine followed that motion, almost hypnotized — even knowing the thing it belonged to was no longer daughter, nor disciple.

“You killed them, Celine.”

Each word was an invisible blade sliding through the ex-hunter’s rib cage. A rough sound, almost a moan, escaped her throat unbidden.

“You always told me the mistake was me. Always. No matter how many times I tried… tried to prove it wasn’t true.”

“Rumi… it doesn’t have to be this way…” Her voice broke, parched.

The laugh came — low, fractured, almost an inverted sob.

“And in the end, it was true.” A silence fell over the gravestones, heavy, almost physical. “I was your mistake. I was your problem. You always told me I’d never stop being… an anomaly until the Honmoon turned gold.”

The name, spat with ferocity, made the sacred veil shudder in the distance, as if the very world recoiled in shame.

“R-Rumi…” Celine’s voice dwindled to a breath. And then, she stepped out from the shadows.

Celine’s stomach turned inside out. What she saw was not a strange body — it was a cruel fusion of everything she feared and everything she loved. Something the gods themselves wouldn’t dare to dream. A creature born from the violence of fate, yet bearing traces of the girl she once held in her arms.

Rumi advanced slowly, and the torn twilight bled enough light to reveal her form.

The body looked built for war and illness at once. The silhouette wavered between raw virility and a feverish fragility — muscles strung too tight to seem natural, ribs ghosting beneath pallid skin, almost lilac, like a corpse steeped in weak wine. Hands and feet elongated, bony, ending in blackened, cracked extremities with discreet claws — echoes of a predator’s hunger.

The black blouse clung to flesh like a burden, torn at the shoulders by the brutal surge of anatomy. Her legs, now too long, bore remnants of tight sweatpants — fabric clinging like miserable outlines against a new hierarchy of body.

Her face was a decree of disorder. The bridge of her nose darkened, flowing into a forehead where two short horns jutted upward, fusing black and magenta in a venomous gradient. Her ears, elongated and pointed, warped human harmony; their twisted helix tinged in deep violet.

And the eyes — the same ones Celine had seen in the child bathed by the Honmoon — were now verdicts. The right still human, a searing amber weighed down by inheritance. The left, no: a shard of molten gold, slit-pupiled like a blade, framed in black sclera. Violet markings tore across the lower skin like mystical bruises, framing a gaze burning like fever.

The mouth was punishment: widened, carved by a second set of canines curving outward, tearing the lips into an eternal smile without joy. Yellowed teeth clashed against an amber tongue — bifurcated, swaying slow, predatory.

Behind her, a profane appendage: a long tail, sprouting in lilac  fur — almost feline — then ceding to magenta hide, pulsing, veined, studded with three iridescent spines. The tip unfurled into dusky lilac plumes — beautiful, repulsive, venom flowering in shadow.

And upon her skin, the patterns. Glowing, alive, burning in crimson and bleeding pink, streaking veins of light across the flesh. Every line declared: this is not human. This is an alarm.

Celine tried to breathe — and failed. Because within that anomaly still echoed something small. The infant she had pulled from Mi-yeong’s weakened arms, who once cried into her fragile palms, the one she promised — though silently — to protect.

The scythe quaked. Not from fear of death. But from the brutal recognition: the one who would end her now was the same life she had killed before it ever drew breath.

The movement came first from Rumi — then a sound corroded the sky. The crack burst like a muffled thunderclap — not in the heavens, but in the ground that groaned beneath the impact of the two. Scythe and claws collided in the air, spitting black sparks that scattered like living embers.

The shock hurled Celine backward, her heels carving furrows into the damp earth. Her heart pounded like an ancient drum, every beat reverberating in the void around her. She swung the scythe up, blocking a second strike that crashed with doubled strength. Rumi’s claws tore through the air with a cutting scream, leaving a violet streak that seemed to scorch the night itself.

Rumi did not move like a human. Her body was a breaking tide, a sequence of feline yet feverish motions, pulsing with iridescent patterns that danced beneath pallid flesh. Her hands now bore long, curved claws that gleamed beneath the wavering light of the Honmoon. A blow came down with brutal force — the scythe rose to parry, but those living blades ripped sparks from the shaft, almost wrenching the weapon from her grasp.

The warped smile split Rumi’s demonic face, canines bared in a wet glint. A thread of saliva fell, trembling as she arched her body, ready to spring again.

Celine retreated one step. Two. And that was enough to feel the claws graze her thigh — not a deep cut, but enough to make the flesh burn as if bathed in an invisible acid.

She gasped — and in that instant, Rumi’s voice exploded.

“Why did you have to teach me like this?!” The phrase was not merely a scream; it was a roar that seemed to shake the very veil. “Why did you pretend to love me so much, huh!? Why didn’t you kill me too?!”

Another strike. Violent. The claws screeched against the scythe, the shrill sound slicing her ears like blades grinding on stone.

“Why did you have to lie to me…” The face drew so close that Celine could see golden veins snaking through the black sclera of the left eye. That hot breath reeked of metal and venom. “WHY!?”

The final cry came with a downward blow so brutal it split the earth between them as if the ground were flesh. Shards of gravestones flew like shattered bones. The Honmoon quivered in panic, stained with magenta — drops blooming across its sacred fabric, though neither of them saw.

Celine staggered, crashing to one knee, the scythe locked in her trembling grip. The weight of Rumi’s body almost crushed her — those taut muscles vibrating against her blade. The claws shredded the shaft, ripping splinters loose.

Rumi bore down, her face contorted between hate and hurt, that slit-pupil eye burning in its feverish gold. The tail lashed behind her, whipping through tombstones and leaving gouges like a beast’s claw marks.

“You…” Celine tried to speak, but the word died as another claw came down, scoring a trench a breath from her ear. A dry scream tore from her throat.

Rumi tilted her head, almost brushing her forehead against the sweat-matted strands of the ex-hunter’s hair. Her voice came so low it felt intimate — yet cut like a blade:

“… why couldn’t you just hate me?”

The pressure vanished in an instant. Rumi recoiled only to twist her body and unleash another lateral strike — too fast for a creature so deformed. Celine rolled back at the last second, feeling the claws slice the air inches from her throat.

She staggered to her feet, boots sinking into soil drenched in shadows. A brutal thought flashed in her mind: I will not leave this place alive.

But her hands never released the scythe. Never.

• ★ •

The forest seemed to have swallowed its own light when Zoey and Mira passed through the last gate. The air was dense, saturated with the scent of pine — and something that tasted like rusted iron. Each step thundered against the silence, and every shadow seemed to stare back.

But they weren’t following footprints—they were following a thread.

The thread of a soul, visible only to those who dared to gaze beyond the membrane of the world. A liquid trace, pulsing, winding across the ground and coiling around tree trunks: a soft iridescence wrapped in gold, veined with magenta streaks — as if the light itself were rotting. It vibrated so painfully out of tune with the other souls composing the Honmoon that it was almost unbearable.

Zoey narrowed her eyes, her hand tightening on the hilts of her daggers. “It’s getting worse.” Her voice came low, grave. Every magenta flicker seemed to throb in sync with her own heartbeat. “Rumi’s thread is distorted… did we already come too late?” No matter how drastic, how alarming this was — her poise as a hunter was the only thing holding her back from drowning in despair.

Mira didn’t answer. Her lips pressed into a thin line, her gloved fingers trembling slightly as they clutched the crucifix hidden beneath her coat. This wasn’t just a rescue — it was a plunge into the eye of an ancient storm. And at its center was Rumi.

The thread thickened, almost solid, as they broke through the last barrier of trees.
And then they saw.

The clearing torn open by battle looked like a wound in the forest. Shattered gravestones lay scattered like bones, trees scored with long, deep gashes, and the earth exhaled a damp vapor tinged with violet. At the center, two figures clashed like beasts: Celine, on her knees, spent, her scythe split into two jagged halves — and Rumi, arched over her, her body blazing with iridescent veins, glowing like embers beneath the skin.

Zoey felt the air tear from her lungs.
This wasn’t the Rumi she knew.

Her face was a mask of anguish and fury, muscles drawn tight like cords on the verge of snapping, her tail lashing the air with feral violence. Her claws gleamed with venom and light — and one hovered just inches from Celine’s throat.

Time stopped. Mira moved first, a step forward—but Zoey was faster.

In one swift motion, she drew a shin-kal and hurled it with lethal force. The blade flashed like a brief star before it tore through the air.

The strike hit home — not flesh, but instinct. The dagger bit into the soil beside the raised hand, jolting the trajectory of the claw that would have torn Celine’s throat open. A metallic crack split the clearing, echoing like a muffled thunderclap.

Rumi froze. Slowly, her head turned — and for the first time, they saw those eyes.

The right, human, quivering as if begging for something the lips would never speak.
The left, a golden furnace, slit-pupiled, ringed with living shadows.

When her voice came, it was the sound of something broken long ago “You…”

Zoey was already crouched, another blade dancing between her fingers, her body coiled like a spring. Mira stepped into place beside her, each stride resolute, strands of her hair shivering in the wind swollen with power.

“Let her go, Rumi.” Mira’s words fell like a prayer — and a sentence.

For an instant, the three of them stood frozen. Only the soul-thread moved, writhing like a living organism, coiling around Rumi’s feet like a starving serpent. And then the air split with a roar.

Rumi rose, the shadow around her body dilating like a second, living skin. Steam burst from her nostrils in sharp jets, pulsing to the rhythm of her rage. Her left eye burned with slitted gold, the right nearly black — and between the two, there was no balance, only war.

She lunged with a dry leap, cutting through the air like a living blade. Mira barely had time to raise the hoe — the wood groaned under the impact of the claw, nearly splintering in two. The force hurled Mira back several paces, the air exploding from her lungs.

“Rumi!” Zoey shouted, running at an angle, the harvest knife glinting weakly against the flare of those claws. The strike she managed wasn’t deep, but enough to distract — if only for a second. A second that cost dearly: Rumi spun and slammed her shoulder into her, hurling her against the stones, the metallic taste of blood flooding her mouth.

The forest was silent, save for ragged breathing and the low, almost animal snarl rising from Rumi.

“Rumi, listen!” Mira forced the words out, voice taut, body throbbing. She stood with the hoe raised like a spear, though her eyes pleaded. “She’s a wretch. I know! But Celine is the only one who understands what’s happening to you!”

The hybrid froze for a fraction of a second. A mistake. Zoey seized the moment, driving a quick strike at her thigh — but the blade hit only dirt when Rumi vaulted over her, twisting midair with feline precision. Her tail swept out, slamming into Mira’s shoulder, spinning her before she crashed to her knees.

“Without her…” Zoey spat blood, breath tearing her throat, her eyes locked on the golden blaze burning in the shadows. “Without her, we can’t save you!”

A roar answered. Not words. Not comprehension. Only pure rage ripping the world apart. Rumi charged again, aiming for Zoey — fast, brutal, claws descending like living scythes. Zoey rolled aside, feeling the organic blade gouge the ground where she’d been, splitting the earth in twin furrows.

Mira struck back, the hoe arcing for her ribs. The blow landed, but it was like striking molten stone: Rumi merely turned her head, the golden eye flashing with an almost divine violence, and seized the shaft in one hand. She squeezed until the wood burst into splinters.

“Don’t do this!” Mira screamed, her voice now ragged with desperation. “We need her! Not for her… but for you!”

For an instant — a flicker, infinitesimal — something trembled in Rumi’s gaze. The raised claw wavered in the air, the vapor ebbing. And then a magenta flare tore through her skin, as if rage itself had remembered its name, and she spun with a roar so dense it seemed to shove the wind away.

Zoey barely had time to lift the knife before the next strike came. It aimed for her chest, but Mira yanked her back and threw herself forward, letting the creature’s weight crash onto her instead, saving Zoey from being cornered.

The forest seemed to shrink beneath that roar. The silhouette of her short, forward-curving horns sharpened against the crimson glow crawling across her, and each step split the ground with iridescent cracks. A purple blaze raced through her veins like living fire — and then, from hands dripping with toxic light, the blade emerged.

It wasn’t the Saingeom Mira knew. This sword was something else — deeper, older. Its edge burned in searing pink, the once-golden inlays now blackened like jewels sunk in pitch. At its core, a glow pulsed like a blind eye. A whisper leaked from it, as though the souls it had reaped still howled inside.

“No… Rumi…” Mira stumbled back, feet snagging on roots. The shattered hoe was nothing now but a memory in her grip.

The strike came like lightning — diagonal, loaded with pure, lethal intent. Mira raised an arm instinctively, knowing it was futile. Time stretched cruelly: she saw the pink gleam scythe the air, felt death’s cold breath drawing near, almost sweet.

And then — a rip of light.

The Honmoon quivered. A piercing sound split everything, like broken bells crying through the void. Zoey was on her knees, palms pressed to the soil, and from the space between them erupted a white beam, almost solid, twisting upward like ribbons of living silk. It wasn’t a trick — it was the veil itself, wrenched into the world, every filament thrumming with ancient syllables that screamed against the flesh of reality.

The strips of light lashed forward like serpents, coiling around Rumi’s arm before the blade could finish its arc. A thunderclap shook the clearing. The strike veered, gouging a deep trench in the ground, stones and roots flung like shattered bones.

Rumi roared, and the roar was no longer human. It carried dead tongues, echoes of the underworld, making the distant gravestones tremble as if clawing to escape the earth. She pulled against the bindings, but each struggle made the Honmoon’s cords tighten, searing her flesh with white-and-iridescent sigils that hissed against demon skin.

“I don’t know how…!” Zoey cried, her voice raw with strain, blood streaming from her nose, veins bulging at her neck. “But I’m not letting you touch her, Rumi!”

The veil raged like a living storm. Light detonated in the air, gold and lilac motes falling like ash, and for an instant, it felt as if the entire forest lay inside the Honmoon.

Rumi shuddered, the blade still clutched in her hand, the golden eye flickering between fury and something deeper — a flash of fear? Or pain? Her claws sank into the dirt. A scream erupted, so rending it seemed to tear cracks into the sky.

The ribbons pulled — and with a dry, cracking snap, the sword slipped from her grasp, planting itself in the soil with a hollow thud that sounded like mourning.

The ribbons of the Honmoon groaned like living fibers on the verge of snapping. Rumi arched her back, every muscle seized by spasms that no longer seemed human. The ground beneath her burned in iridescent scars, tainted by a venomous magenta that pulsed like corrupted blood.

Zoey clenched her teeth, struggling to keep the bindings intact, but the energy slipped between her fingers like scalding smoke. The veil was already weeping tears — narrow fissures from which a liquid darkness dripped, thick as ink defying gravity.

When the drops stretched and grew teeth, the graveyard ceased to be a place for the dead. It filled with guttural voices and golden eyes, creatures swarming in masses — small and crawling at first, then twisted, human-sized, and soon towering over the tombs. The air turned heavy, saturated with sulfur and rotting flesh.

“No… no, no, no—! Fuck, now!?” Zoey gasped, sweat and blood streaking her lips, just as she felt the last ribbon give way.

Mira didn’t think. She surged forward, summoning her weapon in a white tear of light. The Gok-do gleamed like a newborn moon, its curved blade catching the reflection of the unstable veil above. She spun it in a wide arc, cleaving the first creature bold enough to leap. Its entrails evaporated in violet smoke — but more came, dozens, their fangs gnashing.

“Zoey!” she shouted, blocking another lunge with a downward slash that cracked the earth.

Zoey answered with a swift gesture, conjuring the Shin-kal. Three spectral blades materialized between her fingers, small and silver, runes burning in white-blue flame. She hurled them without hesitation — the blades twisted in impossible arcs, slicing throats, embedding in eyes. Each strike burst into golden sparks, but the shadows kept coming. And behind them, Rumi.

No more feral roars. Only breath — heavy, contained, like an animal poised to strike. Her eyes — one black marbled with amber, the other pure molten gold. Patterns seared across her skin like liquid embers. With each flicker, the Honmoon’s fissure yawned wider.

And then she saw them. Saw both — Mira, posture shattered, arms trembling yet unbroken before the impossible. Zoey, exhausted, heels dug in, the spectral knives dwindling in her grip. She saw — and something inside her snapped.

The magenta streaks bled into another hue — pink first, then the original iridescence, like light filtering through water. The ribbons binding her didn’t tear; they dissolved, surrendering to the change.

With a crack, Rumi fell to her knees. Not like a beast — but like someone remembering who they were. The claws burned. A blade bloomed from them — the true Saingeom, pure, constellations etched into its surface, dokkaebi patterns whispering along its length, a core burning with clean, azure light.

One step. Then another. Until she stood between the two hunters.

The first demon lunging for Zoey had its skull split by an arc of light, the blade sketching constellations in the air. Another, leaping for Mira, was severed before it touched the ground.

Rumi moved like a storm — demonic ferocity fused with hunter’s precision. Every strike was a silent plea: I didn’t want this. I didn’t want to lose you. The Saingeom shimmered in a frenzy of colors, every reflection searing the darkness.

Mira answered, strength rekindled, spinning the Gok-do with renewed force. Zoey summoned her final wave of Shin-kal, guiding them like fragments of the Honmoon itself. The field became a brutal ballet — blade, light, screams.

When the last creature fell and the rift sealed with a thunderous crack, only the golden mist remained, drifting like snow over the three of them.

Zoey collapsed to her knees, laughing and sobbing at once. Mira dropped the Gok-do, lungs heaving as if she had just clawed her way from the depths.

And Rumi stood there — motionless, the living blade still in her grasp. Her horns hadn’t vanished. Her fangs still gleamed. But her gaze — that gaze was human. And tired. And heavy with fear for what she might become.

Everything felt still, safe, for a breath — two — between the ragged inhalations of the broken hunters. It seemed as if it was over. But Rumi’s keen ears caught a sound that shouldn’t have been there.

Something crawled along the edge of the clearing, dragging itself toward where no eyes watched. One demon hadn’t been pulled back into the rift. Its flesh, mottled with black stains, gleamed like molten obsidian; four shattered limbs still driving it forward, still starving. Its eyes — two unhappy orbs — fixed on a single, helpless prey.

Celine.

She lay crumpled at the roots of the Dangsan, arms smeared with dust and blood, fingers still clawed around the useless scythe. She drank air in fractured gulps, every muscle screaming to flee, yet she didn’t move. There was nowhere left to run — no god left to beg.

The demon vaulted toward her in an arched leap. And for a moment, Celine saw no claws, no fangs. She saw destiny. The price for everything she had done. A fair price.

But it never touched her.

Because something — someone — tore through the air between them. An iridescent flare, too hot to be mere light, too cold to be just a blade. The impact made the earth quake, the Dangsan’s trunk shudder as if recalling ancient vows.

The demon hit the ground in two halves, its body unraveling into smoke beneath the breath of the wind.

Rumi was there.

Standing, her breath a staccato of spasms, skin still alight with searing patterns. Horns curved like crescent hooks, and her eyes… her eyes were both abyss and sky. Gold blazed beneath the fury, but something else burned deeper. Something a beast should never hold.

Pity.

Yes — pity. And that hurt more than any wound Celine had ever borne.

The Saingeom was driven into the earth, throbbing as though it had a heart of its own, its blade slick with the smoke of matter trespassing into the tangible. Rumi’s hand shook, but she did not strike. She did not speak. She only stared at Celine like someone demanding answers — without the strength to hear them.

The wind dragged the metallic stench of battle, laced with the bittersweet scent of the Honmoon’s closing ribbons. Above them, the golden mist fell like spectral snow upon the ruins.

Words blistered in Celine’s throat, but none came. Only the weight: she had made this. She had broken that girl.

And Rumi, still watching her, seemed to know exactly what haunted her mentor’s mind.

Celine didn’t look away. Not this time. Her gaze locked onto the creature before her — exotic, almost unbearable to sustain, because she had never done so before. Not even when Rumi was just a human girl, with small hands and eyes gleaming with hope. Never. And now, she was making her debut in the worst possible stage: before the most demonic form the young woman had ever assumed.

“...Rumi, I…” her voice came out rough, breaking like a brittle branch. “I’m sorry.”

The words slid into the air, low, almost too fragile to survive the storm. Her black hair fell in disarray over her face, like a curtain drawn for the sake of belated shame. For an instant, Celine lowered her eyes, as if recoiling before her own impotence. She thought silence would be the answer — that the absence of sound would become the final sentence.

But then, a growl — low, ragged, carrying a snarl that vibrated from the depths of the throat. A sound that wasn’t just hatred, but something far more brittle, disguised beneath fury.

Celine lifted her gaze. Met Rumi’s eyes.

There was nothing of the child left there. No trace of the girl she had once held in her arms, trained, dreamed of seeing grow. Only a living void, throbbing, painted in the hues of pain.

“Ah…” Rumi’s voice cleaved the space like a blade “…I know you’re sorry, Celine.”

The tone was strangely doubled: the demonic resonance still whispered beneath, an acoustic shadow clinging to the syllables. But that wasn’t what wounded — it was the weight of lucidity.

“You feel so much…” her head tilted slightly, claws still gleaming with iridescent reflections “that you can’t do anything. You do nothing.”

A silence settled between them, so heavy that even the ribbons of the Honmoon seemed to quiver in its grip.

Rumi took a slow step, and each word that followed fell like a deliberate strike:

“Because you feel too much, you have no certainties. Because you have no certainties, you can’t forgive me…” her eyes burned with an intense gold, a slit of light in the abyss “…and you can’t heal a single thing you’ve done.”

Another step. The warped blade in her hand vibrated as if reacting to the rancor that pulsed through her.

“So… what’s left?” her voice softened, cruel and lyrical all at once “What’s left is what you’ve always done: nothing.”

For a moment, it seemed Rumi would strike. Every muscle in her body trembled with tension, the twisted blade shivering by her side, spitting venomous reflections. But instead, her shoulders sagged. A small gesture, almost imperceptible — a private collapse only the most attentive eyes would catch.

She turned slowly, her golden eyes now bearing another kind of wound: raw emotions, stripped of mask. Shame, exhausted fury… and something deeper, more ancient, begging for a language that didn’t exist.

But nothing was said.

Rumi lifted her head for one last glance at Mira and Zoey. They felt her presence like a blade grazing skin — not because of hatred, but because of the raw vulnerability that spilled for an instant. Then came the crack: a fissure ripped open in reality beneath her feet.

Rose-colored clouds erupted, violent, staining the air with the feverish haze of the Saja. The scent that spread was too sweet not to hurt, like petals in decay, like mourning dressed as beauty. Amid the smoke, fragments of golden light flickered — and then nothing. Rumi was gone.

Silence fell over the grove like a suffocating shroud, heavy with everything that had gone unsaid. Mira drew a long breath, feeling her heart hammer against her ribs. Zoey spun the shin-kal between her fingers, nervous, the spiritual blade still trembling.

“Shit…” Zoey was the first to shatter the stillness, her voice dry “She’s still out of her mind.”

Mira kept her eyes on the trail in the air, as if trying to read the answers written there. Her hand gripped the gok-do’s shaft so hard her knuckles whitened, but the weight wasn’t in the weapon — it was in the urgency blazing in her eyes.

Celine dragged herself to the Dangsan tree, exhausted, her face shadowed and wet with sweat — or perhaps tears, no one could tell. She wavered not between life and death, but between two agonies that bled into each other.

“You…” her voice was barely a breath “don’t understand.”

Zoey crouched in front of her, eyes flashing with a mix of anger and disbelief.

“Then explain it, Celine! Because the way it looks…” she bit off the words, swallowing her fury “it seems like you always knew this would happen.”

Celine closed her eyes, a sigh collapsing from the depths of her chest. When she opened them again, her gaze bore the shadow of someone carrying more truths than anyone should.

“It’s true…I—I always knew that…this…would happen,” the phrase died midway, like a body dropping into the void. “But now’s not the time to explain… is it?”

Mira stepped forward, her voice steady, yet heavy with pain.

“You’re right. Now’s not the time… because we’re going after her.”

She extended a hand to Zoey, who rose with a sharp motion. They exchanged a brief glance — and in it was everything: fear, guilt, urgency. Without another word, the hunters took off, chasing the trail of the golden thread — now marred by magenta flashes tearing the night like open wounds.

Behind them, Celine remained still, sinking beneath the weight of all she had never known how to mend.

• ★ •

The penthouse was steeped in an unsettling dusk, as if the place had forgotten it once held laughter and voices. Only the city below insisted on living — an ocean of pulsing lights, neon flares burning against the skin of the night like open wounds.

Rumi stood before the wide window, hands gripping the cold ledge, feeling the weight of glass between her and the world. Her golden eyes reflected fragments of the metropolis, but there was no brightness in them — only storm-laden depths.

In that reflection lay something that hurt more than any physical wound: a face she knew, yet now felt foreign. A bitter curve on the lips, a shadow coiled around the irises — marks that hadn’t been there before. She tried to hold her own gaze… and failed.

She turned away, her steps heavy as they carved through the silence toward the bedroom. The walls seemed to watch her, accomplices to what she wished she could forget. In the bathroom, she flicked on the light — and there, there was no escape.

The mirror returned the truth raw and unfiltered: revulsion, stripped bare. Every line of her face was an accusation, a voiceless scream. The blade of her own stare sliced her open from the inside.

Rumi braced her trembling hands against the sink. Drew in a breath, but the air came harsh, tainted with recent memories: Celine’s scythe raised in desperation, her own claws slashing toward the throat of the woman who had created her, who — in some twisted way — had tried to protect her. Her adoptive mother, fuck.

A bitter laugh slipped out, so short it sounded like a broken sob.

As if that weren’t enough, other images surged up: Mira, gok-do flashing as it split through shadows, and Zoey — Zoey, who always smiled for her — hurling the shin-kal with shaking hands. They had tried to save Celine, tried to save her, and Rumi had repaid them with violence.

Traitor. Savage. Worse than the monsters she hunted. Worse than the demons she claimed to hate.

Rumi shut her eyes, pressing her temples until pain bloomed behind them. Shame coursed through her veins like poison, burning fiercer than any scar. The silence of the bathroom seemed to mock her.

Finally, she lifted her gaze to the mirror one last time. The image staring back was a sentence: a divided creature, a body that no longer knew where it belonged — to the light they tried to teach her, or to the abyss that had always called her by name. And in that moment, Rumi wished she could vanish. Dissolve like smoke. Like dead petals swept away by the wind.

The door creaked when Mira pushed it open with care. The low light swallowed the furniture, the air heavy with a silence that seemed to have weight. Nothing resembled the vibrant home the Huntrix once shared — only a shadow of life, severed by the distant glow of Seoul’s lights filtering through the windows.

Zoey slipped in behind her, her steps so soft they barely brushed the floor. The iridescent thread — the fragile anchor that had guided them — was now fading into almost imperceptible smudges, as if it, too, wished to hide.

“Rumi…?” Mira’s voice came out low, hesitant, as though the name itself could shatter what was left of the night.

No answer. Only the city breathing beyond the glass.

They searched the living room, then the bedroom, until they heard it — a broken sound, like breath caught between sobs. The bathroom light bled through the crack in the door, too cold, too sterile.

When they entered, time seemed to halt.

Rumi was on the floor, slumped against the wall. The mirror above the sink lay in shards — splinters of glass reflecting fragments of a face that no longer wished to be seen. Her fingertips were bleeding, a thin line running down, unnoticed. Knees drawn close, head bowed, breath stumbling like a storm-tossed tide.

For a heartbeat, none of them moved. The weight of shame, of exhaustion, of battles fought and lost — it all pulsed there, between the three of them.

Mira was the first to kneel, slow, soundless. Zoey followed a breath later. No words. Nothing that could stitch those wounds with hollow phrases. Only hands, settling on Rumi’s shoulders — warm, steady, present.

She flinched at the touch, an instinctive spark of wildness still burning in her veins. But she didn’t pull away. She stayed, breathing in ragged bursts, encircled by two presences that did not judge her — not now.

Outside, the city roared on, indifferent. In here, there was only them. The ones who remained.

They were not heroines. They never were.

Just survivors.

Chapter Text

• FB: S •

Tending to plants had always been one of her refuges. When her schedule didn’t suffocate her with commitments, or when there weren’t urgent hunts against demons raging around her, it was among leaves and flowers that Mi-ya found a rare kind of silence. Now, with so much free time — time forced upon her, imposed by a pregnancy that drained her strength with merciless persistence — that pastime had become almost vital. Not intentional, but as welcome as a sip of fresh water in the height of summer.

She moved slowly, pruning dry tips with a delicacy that was almost ritualistic. With every cut, she hummed softly, as though offering the plants a blessing, a promise that life would carry on even through decay. The honmoon, subtle as a translucent veil, circled her body with a warm presence; it heated her heavy belly like a watchful father, ready to lift the child should she fall and scrape her knee. That invisible mantle reminded her that despite the aches and fragility, there was still beauty and grace in waiting. It was her greatest gift: to feel and to welcome the small blessings of the world.

It was then she noticed a shadow approaching. Not a threat, but a familiar weight. Huī stopped at the threshold of the garden, his shoulders rigid, his gaze dark as though he carried a storm he didn’t know how to calm. The contrast between her — so fragile, so serene in her domestic occupation — and him, burdened with tension and silence, was painful to see.

Mi-ya raised her eyes to him and smiled, but the gesture couldn’t hide the weariness that hardened her features. Seven months along, and every week seemed to rob her of something: breath, energy, even the glow of her skin. Huī knew it. And the guilt gnawing at him was plain. Not because she had chosen the path of life, but because it was his life now draining hers.

He took a step forward, hesitant, as though approaching her was a risk, and his breath sounded almost like a muffled growl. Mi-ya only turned back to the plants, fragile hands caressing leaves like one cradling a secret. The garden thrived, but each day he felt as though it was flourishing at her expense.

Huī drew a deep breath, his hand clenching at his side as if holding back words that no longer fit inside him. The air between them grew taut, as if the garden itself sensed the weight of what was about to be said.

“Mi-ya…” his voice came rough, broken. “We have to… start preparing for her birth now… you know that, don’t you? It’s getting closer…”

She stopped, the pruning shears suspended midair, and lifted her eyes to him. There was no surprise in them, only a quiet weariness, like someone who had long since learned to live with secrets.

“Of course I know. The pre- and postnatal basics,” her answer came low, steady.

Huī stepped closer, as though that word had struck him. Wasn’t it enough? Wasn’t it enough that she knew and still accepted? His throat burned.

“No, Mi… look, I mean— ugh.” He rubbed his eyes, the very conversation scraping him raw. “You know she’ll hardly… hm, look human…”

“Well… that’s something we can think about. It was your idea to use the… talismans.”

“I had to do that!” his voice almost shook. “To free her from Gwi-ma! If I hadn’t infused the talismans… she wouldn’t have survived, and you wouldn’t have carried her this far. But… but…” he shut his eyes, fighting against the confession searing his tongue. “I can’t control how this will affect her body. Her mind. What she will be…”

The silence that followed was cruel. Only the birdsong and the faint rustling of leaves in the wind filled the space.

Mi-ya drew a deep breath and turned back to the pot before her. Her hand trembled as it stroked the petals of a budding flower, so small and promising.

“You speak of her as though she were a burden…” she said at last, gentle yet firm. “But to me, she will always be a promise. Different or not.”

Huī bit his lip, his chest tightening. He looked at her, but at the same time saw the shadow of Gwi-ma still looming like an inevitable threat.

“And if that difference is her doom?” the words slipped from him, almost in supplication. “And if I’ve put inside her something worse than what I tried to keep out?”

Mi-ya smiled, and that smile broke his heart. A weary smile, but impenetrable, as if she had long since chosen what to believe.

“Then…” she set down the shears, resting her hand on her rounded belly, “you won’t carry that burden alone. There are two of us, after all.”

Huī stepped forward sharply but didn’t dare touch her. Her serenity was a wall that kept him from collapsing.

“This guilt isn’t yours, Mi-ya!” Huī burst out, his voice tight, as though shouting against his own chains.

She didn’t flinch. She only laid her hand on her belly, caressing its curve with tired tenderness.

“I chose to go on with this pregnancy,” she said, firm yet so soft it seemed impossible to deny. “I know it will be difficult… a child half demon… half… so many things… But I feel she’ll be alright. Our little girl is strong… I can feel it.”

Huī squeezed his eyes shut, as though trying to erase the dark future he envisioned. “But— damn it, Mi-ya. Your companions, your career, you—”

She silenced him with a sharp look that disarmed him completely.

“Would you think our daughter a monstrosity just because she’s different?”

The silence fell heavy. Huī opened his mouth, but the answer fought its way out. His chest heaved, contradiction throbbing between love and fear. “…no.” he whispered at last. “I don’t have that right.”

Mi-ya shook her head, a fragile smile breaking free, as if forgiving yet another hesitation.

“It’s not about rights… it’s about…” she breathed deeply, searching for the words. “It’s about loving the path we’ve chosen, without romanticizing it. I understand our recklessness now… better than before. But none of it makes me see Rumi as a burden, or as proof of a mistake.” Her voice softened, and for a moment it seemed she spoke more to herself than to him. “I only feel she will be my child. More or less human… I will love her. Always.”

The words pierced Huī like a blade and a balm at once. He stepped forward, hesitated, and finally let his hand drop, almost brushing hers. The honmoon, which until then had only enfolded Mi-ya, seemed to expand around them both, as if silently bearing witness to their promise.

• FB: E •

It was like moving a shadow made of pain: slow, heavy, unmoving on the inside. Every gesture to pull Rumi out of that bathroom was a silent battle against something invisible — not against her, but against everything corroding her from within. And, paradoxically, there was no real resistance. Only a raw fear, so dense it seemed to take form.

It was not fear of them. Not anymore. Mira and Zoey had already proven enough — with lowered weapons, with embraces that burned sharper than blades — that they loved her, that they would stay beside her even when the light wasn’t enough.

But Rumi didn’t believe in herself. She didn’t believe in what she held beneath her skin. Each emotion crawled like burning worms, needling the fabric of her body, as if at any moment it could tear open and something worse would emerge — more impure, more grotesque than anything she had shown before. A monster that would make her current form seem almost innocent.

And still, the voice never came. Nothing to say “don’t touch me” or “leave” or anything else that might raise walls. Damn it… those hands, firm and gentle on her shoulders — that was a refuge she hadn’t realized she’d been denying for so long.

Now she was on the living room sofa. The city lights bled into the penthouse, violet and blue cutting through the glass. Rumi leaned forward, her muscles taut like cords about to snap. Her hands — large, dark, deformed by the power she despised — dug into her own biceps, trying to hold onto something solid. But what? She didn’t know. She felt like a building raised on sand, all architecture shaped for beauty, while ignoring the foundation that held it up.

Across from her, Mira and Zoey watched in silence. They tried, but could not find in her the Rumi they knew — the one who led them, who laughed with her eyes before any joke was spoken, who danced even when the world threatened to collapse.

Now there was only this creature who seemed larger than the room, not by body but by the weight of silence. A silence filled with screams.

Mira’s fists pressed tight in her lap. Every line of tension across Rumi’s frame sliced through her like invisible blades. To see her broken this way hurt in a way no battle had ever managed.

Zoey turned her eyes away for a moment, because staring at that raw anguish was like staring at a shattered mirror — a reflection of what they themselves might become if the war never ended. But she forced herself back. Because deep down, she knew that if she didn’t, Rumi would sink even further.

The leader. The lover. The friend. All of it compressed into a body trembling as if it wished to vanish.

And both of them knew: there was no spell, no Honmoon, no weapon in their arsenal that could heal this. Only presence. Only love. Only the warm weight of hands that, even fragile, refused to let go.

• ★ •

Zoey was the first to lean closer. Her voice came low, trying to reach a safe space inside the dense silence that had risen there:

“Rumi… darling… you… uh… can you hear me?”

No immediate reaction, until finally a small, almost shy nod stirred from the hybrid. A step — tiny, but real. Zoey let out a breath, glancing at Mira. The redhead lifted a thumb, a crooked smile tugging her lips, a gesture of support that said: keep going, you’ve got this.

The maknae drew a deep breath. Adjusted herself in the seat, as if that movement could give her some steadiness. Her hands fidgeted, restless, too nervous to mask. Twice she opened her mouth, words collapsing before they could be born. Then she felt Mira’s long, slender hands wrap around hers — firm, warm. A small gesture, but one that said everything. Mira always knew how to read the spaces — even the broken ones.

Anchored, Zoey finally let her tongue move, her voice steady enough to break the weight of the room:

“...You know that… well, we have to talk. And talk seriously.”

She didn’t avert her gaze. Not once. Not even when Rumi nodded again, slow, strained with effort.

“You think you can do that now?”

Silence reigned again for a few beats. Rumi clutched her arms tighter, muscles drawn like wires about to tear. She seemed to measure herself, searching for a breath she didn’t have. Her heterochromatic eyes wandered across the penthouse, fleeing, before inevitably circling back to them. That wounded, lost look — so unlike the leader who carried worlds on her shoulders.

At last, her lips moved, bitten before the first word,

“...I don’t think I can… but…” Her voice came deeper, hoarse with a strange rasp. “I-I feel like I need to. So… I’ll try.”

Zoey nearly smiled, but restrained herself. Only nodded, slow. The sound of that voice, with those curved canines shaping her mouth, carried something unsettling — a reminder that nothing here was simple.

She drew in a breath and dared the next question, lowering her tone, like someone approaching a dangerous edge:

“This… form, Rumi. Since when has this been happening to you?”

The hybrid’s shoulders sagged, as if the question had touched something she’d been trying to hold down. The answer came slow, heavy:

“Since… since the Idol Awards.” A pause, far too long. “I think… it started showing up then. Subtle. At first… just one trait or another. Changes I could hide.”

Her fingers dug into her arms, claws grazing her dark skin. The tension in her voice carried a weight of shame.

“I… thought I had control. I always did… until now.” Her eyes strayed to the window, where her monstrous reflection glimmered distorted. “But… even wanting it so badly… I can’t get back. I can’t focus enough to… to be human again.”

Her head lowered, as if the weight of her words was heavier than any battle she’d fought. The silence that followed pressed against the air, until Zoey glanced at Mira, seeking strength to go further.

“...It must be just a passing sensation, Ru... don’t despair so much.” Mira spoke at last, her voice tender but firm, as though trying to hold up a floor that was collapsing under all of them.

Rumi flinched, her face muscles drawing her lips back to expose more of those curved fangs. A low growl vibrated in her throat before her reply came, rough, cutting:

“No... you don’t understand.”

Zoey inhaled sharply, swallowing hesitation. Her tongue tested the words, stumbling at first:

“Rumi... I know we don’t—” She stopped, pressing her palms together, rearranging the phrases in her mind, as if each word could be a thread to stitch that rift. “That we can’t really know... but we can always overco—”

There was no chance to finish. Rumi’s voice cut through the room, low, but carrying something that made the air heavy:

“...Like this… I feel… free.”

Both held their breath. But Rumi seemed too deep within herself to notice. Her fingers opened, easing the grip on her arms. She stared at her hands — long, misshapen, black claws catching a sickly gleam in the soft light of the room.

“Like this…” The tone wavered, yet there was raw truth in those pauses. “I realize that… forcing myself to look human… was never natural. It was never me.”

The phrase dropped like a blade — dry, merciless. The gears spun in the hunters’ minds, colliding against memories, against everything they thought they knew.

Zoey was the first to react, a whisper escaping as though torn from her:

“...Rumi… what are you trying to say?”

The hybrid raised her eyes, a feverish gleam within them — something that blended pain and desire, shame and anger. When she spoke, there was no scream, but every syllable rang as confession and sentence:

“That… the more I fight to turn back… the more I feel like I’m betraying the only part of me that’s real.”

The silence that followed was not just silence. It was an abyss yawning open in the middle of that room, where nothing seemed solid. Mira tightened her hold on Zoey’s fingers, not daring to speak. Because maybe, for the first time, even she had no answer.

But the mere thought of having an answer wasn’t enough for that moment. Mira cleared her throat, the dryness scratching against her voice, and her eyes fell in passing upon the small red stain — the fateful red stain — on the palm of her hand. It was nearly nothing, an insignificant wound, and yet, as she stared at it, a strange thread of courage and clarity seemed to seep into her mind. The cause of that mark brought her no comfort, no pride — yet it mattered less than the effect it carried.

She let that sensation guide her, foolish or not, as though she could shape her voice into something greater than herself.

“Maybe it’s because you… are truly like this.” The frankness cut through the air like a blade. Mira held Rumi’s gaze, refusing to look away. “Maybe the new Honmoon only allowed what was always there to come to the surface, you know? Made you stop hiding what had always been inside you.”

Zoey turned immediately to the redhead, surprised. Then, slowly, she nodded, letting the simple but inescapable logic sink in. It made sense. It was almost comforting to think that way.

But for Rumi, there was no comfort at all. The words struck her skin like a shock. The purplette recoiled even further, folding inward upon herself. Shoulders hunched, chest heaving in shallow sobs. Anxiety consumed her like fire beneath her skin, every muscle trembling against the very idea of accepting it as truth.

“S-so then…” Her voice faltered, broken, her eyes averting, pupils trembling. “…you’re saying… that I… that this…” Her claws touched her own chest, lightly scraping the hardened skin of her demon form. “…is me? The feeling of being like this is… so good and… s-so wrong.”

Silence followed. Only the hum of the air conditioner filled the room, too fragile against the weight of those words.

Zoey opened her mouth, but no sound came. Mira, still holding onto the courage she didn’t know how to name, stepped closer. But with every inch she advanced, the panic in Rumi’s eyes deepened, like a child cornered by her own fate.

The hybrid’s body folded forward, and a confession tore from her in a ragged murmur:

“If this is true… then I’ll never go back. Never again.”

Zoey drew in a steadying breath, her trembling fingers still entwined with Mira’s. For an instant, she too felt crushed beneath the weight of those words — but she could not let the leader sink. Not when there was still so much holding her here.

Softly, she leaned forward. “Rumi… listen to me, really listen now.” Her voice was calm, firm, like ground that would not give way. “This isn’t something bad. It’s just… what it is. You’ve always been you, no matter the form. And if… being like this… makes you finally feel free, then why fight it? Why call a curse what might, in truth, be your very self?”

Rumi lifted her eyes slowly, unable to hide the fear quivering in them. Yet there was also a flicker of attention there — Zoey had pierced through the curtain of despair.

“And… look…” the maknae continued, adjusting herself on the sofa, “maybe you can still disguise yourself as human. It’s just a matter of… relearning. You’ve always known how to hide, how to control when you had to. Now… it’s just harder because that meeting with Celine shook you too deeply. It stirred everything. Your memories, your anger, your pain. It’s too much all at once.”

She extended her hand, hesitant but steady enough to leave it near the hybrid’s arm. “You haven’t lost anything, Ru. You just need to breathe… you just need time. And we’ll give you that time. Mira and I are here. Always.”

Silence filled the room once more, but it was no longer suffocating. Rumi’s breathing was still unsteady, but her claws had ceased digging so furiously into her skin.

Mira, quiet until then, watched the purplette with eyes clouded in tears. And for the first time since they had found her collapsed in the bathroom, she felt there might be a chance to pull their leader back from the abyss she was throwing herself into. But brute force would never be enough — no. She needed Rumi to reach out with her own hand, firmly, so that she could, in turn, pull her back with strength.

Rumi did not answer with words. But her tail, once rigid and striking the floor in nervous intervals, slowly began to lose its tension. The movement slackened, until it curled around her own leg, as though seeking protection. Her ears, once pricked and restless, surrendered as well — lowering, swaying with a vulnerability that no mask could conceal.

Mira noticed it first. She drew a deep breath and sought Zoey’s eyes, sharing a brief instant of silent understanding. The maknae understood. Both leaned closer to the hybrid, their voices nearly overlapping — not to pressure, but to encircle Rumi with an unbreakable tenderness.

“Hey… we love you, you know that, right?” Mira’s voice was so soft it felt like a blanket. “Nothing changes that. Not today, not tomorrow, not ever.”

Zoey followed, her hands finally touching the side of Rumi’s arm in a gentle gesture. “You’re ours, Rumi. Not out of duty, but because we chose you. We’ll always choose you… after all, you wanted to be our girlfriend — so deal with the consequences!” the raven-haired girl teased, her smile serene, a tender caress to Rumi’s unsteady mind.

The words fell like balm. Rumi did not look at them directly — the weight of shame still pressed down on her neck. But her breathing softened, and a solitary tear slid down the edge of her face, too quick to be caught by her fangs.

It was Mira who broke the following silence, steering the energy toward something practical, something tangible: “Look… you’re still in those torn clothes. You must be uncomfortable, aren’t you?”

Zoey caught on, adding with a cautious smile, “How about we help you change? Just a clean hoodie, nothing fancy. Doesn’t have to be complicated. Just… leaving this weight behind, at least a little.”

Neither of them said anything more — they didn’t demand an answer. They only stayed there, waiting for Rumi to allow herself a gesture, no matter how small, that would confirm she was still with them.

“...I don’t think any of my clothes will fit me now.” Rumi’s voice came almost as a whisper, hoarse, dragging. “My body’s… well… it’s — different.” Every pause carried her insecurity, and deep down, a disgust that revealed itself even when she tried to mask it.

Zoey didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she once again stretched out her hand, moving with deliberate slowness, respecting the leader’s space. Her fingers rested on Rumi’s bicep — now broad, with the muscle of her torso stretched and rigid. The maknae let her palm glide slowly down the arm, feeling the thickened forearm, the uneven, denser skin as it descended into the darker regions. There was a strange texture there, almost like leather, streaked with deep shades of violet.

When she reached the bend of the elbow, her fingers brushed against a patch of lilac fur, rising in discreet tufts, not spreading far beyond that area. Zoey paused there, observing. It was a detail that loomed large in Rumi’s insecurity, but to her eyes… it was something else. A symbol. Not monstrosity, but a unique signature — a language of the body that was indeed demonic and spiritual, yet also undeniably alive.

“It’s not ugly,” Zoey said, almost without thinking. The words escaped her like a secret. “It’s… truly different, an ‘exotic’ anatomical proportion, but… hey… I don’t think it’s bad at all. Actually, you’re… kind of cute like this.”

Rumi flinched — not in fear, but in shock at the phrase. Her ears twitched, tense, as though uncertain whether to flee or to let the compliment in. Her tail, once curled tight against her leg, thumped once against the sofa cushion, nervous, betraying the inner battle raging within her.

Mira, who had been watching in silence, leaned forward as well. She stretched out her hand and laid it softly upon the other, darker hand tipped with claws. Unlike Zoey, she didn’t explore or study. She simply held it. Firmly. As if to say: you don’t need to hide from me.

“Maybe you won’t fit into your old clothes anymore…” Mira murmured, locking eyes with the heterochromatic gaze of their leader. “But that’s not a problem. We can find something that fits you now. For now, you can wear some of my bigger ones. Later, we’ll go buy some that fit.”

And there it was — the word that made Rumi’s chest falter. Now. Not the promise of the future. Not the memory of the past. The present. She, in that body, in that state, was no aberration nor burden — she was a version still worthy of love.

• ★ •

The steam was beginning to overtake the bathroom, blurring glass and steel alike. The water fell heavy and unbroken, like a weighted mantle that not only cleansed but muffled all sound, creating a bubble where the entire world seemed suspended.

Rumi stood beneath the shower, shoulders hunched, brow lowered. Her enlarged body, all muscle and animal lines, looked even more disproportionate in that intimate space. Droplets ran down the lilac hairs at her elbows, tracing her spine to her tail, dripping from its heavy length, falling from her claws. Every detail betrayed the form she dreaded showing — the feelings essential to her, yet never quite belonging to her.

Zoey entered first, carrying the timidity the situation demanded but trying to mask it with small gestures of normalcy: placing the towel on the rack, adjusting the liquid soap. Mira followed, taller, her presence firm. Together they approached her, the way one might approach a precipice — not from fear, but with the reverence of those who understand how much courage this moment demands.

“Hey, Ru…” Zoey called softly, her voice nearly drowned by the water’s roar. “We’re here, okay?”

Rumi didn’t answer. She only turned her face slightly, letting the water reveal a flash of fangs and her heterochromatic eyes. Her tail twitched, nervous, like a whip held back. Mira stepped forward then, wanting to reassure her at once, to say neither of them was uncomfortable with her presence, that her body was — at the end — just another body, not grotesque, yet—

“I know what you must be thinking,” Rumi rasped, her voice rough, sanded raw. “That I’m like this… uneasy… because of the body.” She paused, her fingers digging into her own flesh as though she might claw something out of herself. “Yeah… a little. But it’s not just that.”

Mira moved closer, now standing directly before the purplette — and even with her height, she had to lift her gaze upward to meet those eyes, the form towering now at more than seven feet.

“Then what is it?” she asked, simple, but brimming with care.

Rumi drew a breath so deep her broad chest trembled. And there, within the steam, before the two girls she loved most, the truth came out bare:

“I attacked you. With hatred.” The words clung to the air, heavy. Rumi shut her eyes, jaw clenched, as though confessing an unforgivable crime. “I tried to kill my own mentor… the closest thing I ever had to a mother. I attacked you — my… my girlfriends… my only friends. I became worse than the… the d-demons we hunt.”

Zoey swallowed hard, her chest tightening. Mira didn’t flinch, didn’t look away. She lifted a hand, resting it against Rumi’s soaked arm, steady, feeling the dense skin, letting her fingers trail over palpable muscle fibers, raised veins, faintly glowing patterns.

“You snapped,” Mira said, almost whispering, but with conviction. “It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t you — not truly.”

Zoey added then, her voice shaky but clear: “And even if it had been conscious, Rumi… you didn’t lose us. We’re still here. And we’ll stay. We know you. We know you never act without meaning… even when you’re being a brat.”

Silence fell again, broken only by the water’s rhythm. Rumi gave the smallest smile at Zoey’s joke, but faltered — yet she didn’t recoil from Mira’s touch. Her ears flicked, restless, and her tail tapped once against the tiled wall, hesitant. It was a confession in its own right: despite the shame, she wanted to believe them.

Mira and Zoey said no more. They only stayed there, beneath the shower, letting the warmth of water and touch speak in place of words.

The penthouse’s central bathroom was broad, its light marble reflecting the golden glow of the lamps. The glass stall was wide enough to fit the three of them comfortably, yet Rumi’s vast presence filled it like a living wall.

Zoey took the initiative. “Tigress… lean down a bit, please… actually more, I’m tiny,” she laughed, and the hybrid obeyed at once.

The maknae took the shampoo, squeezed some into her palms, and stretching up on her toes, began to spread it through the leader’s long purple hair. Her nimble fingers vanished in the dense mane, parting strands, massaging the scalp with tender care.

Rumi stiffened at first, her whole body taut. But slowly the tension loosened. Her eyelids grew heavy, and a deep exhale slipped out. It was strange — nearly unbearable — to surrender like this, after all the hatred she had turned inward. But the touch was so gentle, so honest, it was impossible not to yield.

Mira, meanwhile, stood at her side, helping to lather her arms and broad torso, her hands sliding foam over dense, roughened skin, cleansing between carved muscles, trying as much to wash away the strain in her body. Her movements were firm, yet brimming with affection, as if reaffirming with each stroke: You’re still our Rumi.

Then Zoey, distracted, let her fingers slip a little lower, grazing near the pointed ear. Without realizing it, she brushed the base where lilac fur thickened along the sideburns.

The effect was instant.

Rumi let out a low breath, almost a sob — and then came the sound. A deep, guttural purr, vibrating from her chest. At first, she seemed startled by it, straightening as if caught. But instinct overruled. Within seconds, she tilted her head toward the touch, seeking more, her eyes half-closed, undone.

Zoey’s eyes widened, then softened into a conspiratorial smile. “...Are you… purring?” she asked, amused, but tender.

Mira let out a stifled giggle. “I think she is.”

“I… I’m not…” Rumi tried to protest, her voice rough, but the resonance in her chest betrayed her. Her tail now swayed lazily, brushing against Mira’s and Zoey’s legs, as though searching for contact.

Zoey leaned closer, resting her chin on the hybrid’s soaked arm, her hand still tangled in her hair. “It’s beautiful, Ru. Don’t be ashamed.”

Rumi’s face flushed, the blush visible even beneath her darkened skin. But this time, she didn’t retreat. She only closed her eyes fully, letting the purr swell and fill the space — a primal sound, yet paradoxically serene, reverberating between the three of them.

Over Rumi’s shoulder, Mira and Zoey exchanged a look: complicity, tenderness, a silent vow that they would do everything to keep this woman — this being she was — at peace.

The water kept falling, washing away foam, sweat, ancient blood. But more than that, it washed away guilt.

When at last the shower was turned off, the bathroom was thick with vapor rising like white veils. Rumi’s purr still hummed faintly, woven with heavy breaths, until Mira pulled a large towel over her leader’s broad shoulders, guiding her out of the stall. Zoey was already rubbing her hair dry with another cloth, laughing to herself at how unruly it looked, so unlike the ever-perfect mane Rumi kept.

In the bedroom, they searched for something to dress her in. Rumi, shy, clutched the towel against her body, lacking the courage to meet their eyes.

“We’ll sort this now,” Mira declared, determined, rifling through her drawer until she found what she sought. She held up a black hoodie, its hood lined in soft pink, the sleeves not long but not short either, with a tiny teddy bear embroidered over the chest pocket, paired with loose gray shorts.

Zoey covered her mouth, stifling laughter. “The teddy-bear hoodie? Mira, seriously? You got that from one of our collabs, didn’t you?”

“It’s the biggest one I have,” the redhead retorted, brow raised.

They dressed her together. First the shorts — which barely reached mid-thigh on Rumi’s strong legs — then the hoodie, stretched tight across her shoulders and arms, seams straining. Zipping it up wasn’t so hard until her chest — where it refused to close entirely, but it was decent enough.

Rumi’s expression was an odd mix of frustration, confusion, shyness — and contentment, bathed in the love her girlfriends were showering her with. Her pupils were comically dilated, her ears tilted, her tail quivering.

Zoey burst into quiet giggles, careful not to wound the leader’s pride. “You look… so cute, Ru. Like, ridiculously cute.”

Rumi dropped her gaze, fangs bared in embarrassed grimace, the flush staining her violet skin. “I look… like a joke…” she muttered, voice low and unsure.

“No.” The word came firm from Mira’s lips. She stepped closer, tugging the hood until Rumi had to bow her head down. Their eyes met, and the redhead didn’t waver. “You look… you know, as silly as Derpy right now… just another little demon for us to love, hm?”

Before Rumi could react, Mira closed the distance and pressed a gentle kiss to her lips. A swift touch, delicate, yet weighted. Then, with a soft laugh, she kissed the tip of Rumi’s nose, her free hand caressing slowly at the base of her horns, a gesture of tenderness bordering on reverence.

The hybrid’s tail thumped against the floor, nervous, unable to mask the shy pleasure she felt. The purr returned, low, involuntary, humming in her chest.

Zoey, watching close, leaned against Rumi’s shoulder, laughing warmly. “You two are gonna kill me with sweetness…”

Rumi closed her eyes, surrendering between them. For the first time in so long, she didn’t feel like a burden — only someone cherished, wrapped in love, even inside a too-tight hoodie with a teddy bear stitched to the chest.

Mira pulled back a little, just enough to take in the sight of her demonic girlfriend in front of her, the smile impossible to abandon from her face.

“We should order one of these hoodies in your size,” Mira murmured, twirling the tip of the hood between her fingers. “But instead of a teddy bear… what do you think, Zoey? A tiger? Or maybe a little dragon?”

Zoey tilted her head, studying the hybrid trying to shrink her shoulders into fabric that clearly didn’t fit. “Hmmm… tough call. Both suit this big silly oaf.”

“Hey!” Rumi lifted her chin, eyes widening slightly — but the reaction only made the two of them laugh.

“Easy there, big love,” Mira teased, tugging on the hood again, forcing the hybrid to tilt her head. The redhead’s lips trailed down to the line of Rumi’s jaw, where she left a slow, lingering kiss. The involuntary shiver that rippled through the leader betrayed how that simple attention unraveled her. “We’re just trying to spoil you… pamper you. You can’t deny it. You love being treated like our little princess… and you know it better than anyone.” Mira purred the last words, her hand curling around her girlfriend’s tail — giving it a slight tug. Nothing harsh, just a subtle imposition of dominance. And Rumi loved it.

The moan that broke from her throat, her long yellow tongue grazing her teeth, did nothing to hide the truth.

Zoey, sitting sideways on the bed beside Rumi, couldn’t resist sliding her palm across the hem of the hoodie that barely covered Rumi’s defined waist. Her fingers traced the fine lilac line of hair descending from her navel, stroking slowly, almost as if it were casual affection — though the mischievous smile at the corner of her lips betrayed otherwise.

“Oh, Rumi… you could be the demon queen herself and still never imagine the things this look of yours makes me think of,” she teased, her voice melodic and playful in a way only she could manage.

Rumi nearly choked on her breath, bringing a hand to her face, trying in vain to hide entirely — impossible, with ears and horns sticking out. “Zoey!”

“What?” she answered, feigning innocence far too perfect to be real, her fingers still wandering lazily. “I’m only telling the truth. You’re way too cute. Cute and… hot. Damn, if I’d known this was what Celine had been hiding, I would’ve gone after you myself much sooner.” Each line from Zoey left Rumi more and more flustered, overwhelmed by the teasing.

Mira laughed, resting her chin on the hybrid’s broad shoulder. “Look at you, unnie… you’ve gone from Seoul’s most determined idol to… hm, the group’s good girl.”

And hearing “good girl” directed at her — Rumi’s body trembled, trying to suppress the smile tugging at her cold, violet lips.

“You’re insufferable,” she muttered, though her tail betrayed the truth — curling nervously around Mira’s arm, looser and looser, giving herself away with every twitch.

“Yeah, yeah… we are.” Mira heard Zoey’s yawn, then Rumi’s soon after. She shook her head lightly, charmed by the sweetness and playfulness her two girls carried with them. “That’s enough for today, don’t you think?” she said, voice softer now, almost an invitation to rest. She smoothed out the crumpled hoodie against Rumi’s chest and added gently: “Come on, big girl. Let’s go to bed.”

Zoey nodded, still leaning against the hybrid’s abdomen, while Rumi only sighed deeply, as if surrendering to the gesture was a relief. They rose together — Mira first, taking the leader’s huge hand, Zoey right after, flipping the hood over Rumi’s head, where it fell comically thanks to the size and her horns.

They left Mira’s room for Rumi’s, the one with the most space, especially the balcony. It seemed like the sensible choice, Zoey had pointed out, in case the hybrid felt uneasy.

Rumi hesitated at the edge, but Zoey shoved her unceremoniously, laughing under her breath. “Lie down already, oaf.”

The hybrid obeyed. She stretched across the mattress, her long limbs claiming almost all of it, though leaving enough space for the other two to nestle in. Mira curled up on one side, arm draped over Rumi’s muscular torso, absentmindedly stroking the base of one horn. Zoey tucked herself against the other side, face nestled into the warmth and firmness of Rumi’s chest.

Soon, Rumi was wrapping them both in her arms — massive, fortress-like, yet offering safety instead of intimidation. It was as if she had been born for this: shielding them against the whole world.

That deep, rumbling purr returned, wrapping them in its guttural mantra. Mira closed her eyes, smiling. Zoey exhaled long and slow, as if she were exactly where she belonged.

And Rumi, despite her initial hesitation, gave in. She let sleep come while she felt the heat of both pressed to her, as if they were part of her own body.

In that moment, there were no hunters, no hybrid, no heroes or survivors. Only three hearts, beating together, beneath the same blanket.

• ★ •

The soft morning light seeped through the cracks in the curtains, bathing the room in a gentle golden glow. Rumi was still purring softly, her chest rising and falling in a heavy, rhythmic sway. Zoey, awake for a few minutes, savored the silence. She lay on her side, her hand slipping into the black hoodie the hybrid wore, fingers tracing lazy lines across the firm, warm chest.

With each glide, she felt the low vibration of the purr trapped in Rumi’s throat.

“You should sleep a little longer,” the raven-haired girl murmured, unhurried, as if caressing were her only duty.

Rumi’s heterochromatic eyes opened slowly, still hazy. She blinked, puzzled by the absence of a body beside her. “…Mira?” Her voice came out hoarse.

“She’s out making breakfast,” Zoey replied, fingers still roaming over the exposed abdomen under the hoodie’s short hem.

Rumi’s eyes widened, her expression teetering between surprise and sleepy indignation. “What? No! Breakfast is mine— I’m the one who makes it!”

Zoey couldn’t hold back a muffled laugh. “Rumi, you nearly crushed us last night just stretching… you’re not in any condition to handle a frying pan right now.”

The purplette huffed, turning her face into the pillow with a flick of her tail. “I cook better than her.”

“Ah-ah.” Zoey pressed lightly against her girlfriend’s chest, like holding a stubborn little cat. “Sorry to say it, but no. She cooks way better than you.”

The offended glare Rumi threw could have toppled walls — but it was pure theater.

“Treachery. In my own home.” She sighed dramatically, as if the world had abandoned her. “And you still have the nerve to say that to my face.”

Zoey burst into a full laugh, hand gliding lightly along the neck and jawline of the hybrid. “You look so cute when you pout, you know that?”

Rumi tried to maintain her drama, but her feline ears betrayed her, twitching upward reflexively. She turned her face, hiding half of her expression in the pillow, murmuring with mock irritation: “I’m serious, Zoey…”

But the purr returned, deep and resonant, confirming otherwise.

Zoey laughed again, shaking her shoulders as if she couldn’t contain her amusement. “Okay, Queen of Pouting. Since you’re awake, let’s get going.”

Before getting up, she leaned in slightly to nudge the purplette’s nose — which retracted instantly, accompanied by an indignant grunt.

“Zoey!”

“What? Feeling extra whiny, hm?” Zoey smirked mischievously before stepping back, feet hitting the cold floor as she slid into her turtle slippers.

Rumi followed her with wide eyes, still sprawled on the sheets, the oversized hoodie riding up to her chest with the lazy rise and fall of her breath. Her tail tapped lightly against the mattress, a subtle confession: she complained, but didn’t want the moment to end.

“…Don’t take too long,” she murmured, voice thick with sleep and a thread of neediness.

Zoey turned slightly on her way to the bathroom, winking at her girlfriend. “Oh Ru, I’m just going to the bathroom. Stay there, purring and being cute… I’ll be right back.”

The soft click of the door closing echoed, leaving Rumi alone in the room, hugging the enormous pillow. Even while maintaining her pouty facade, the hybrid couldn’t suppress a small smile forming on her lips.

A few minutes later, Zoey returned from the bathroom, her hair still damp from the wet hands she had run across her face. She found Rumi just as she’d left her: sitting on the mattress, arms wrapped around the pillow like it was a throne, tail lazily snaking across the sheets.

“Get up, Queen of Pouting,” Zoey sang, tugging gently at the purple-tipped ear, eliciting a soft growl from the elder hybrid.

Rumi huffed, but finally gave in, rising with a heavy, exaggerated motion, as though she were being forced into the waking world. Zoey held her hand — claws and all — and together they made their way to the kitchen.

The aroma reached them before they even turned the corridor corner: freshly cooked rice, the savory scent of doenjang jjigae bubbling on the stove, and the crackle of sesame oil in a skillet. There, Mira stood in front of the marble counter, hair pinned in a messy bun, stirring a pot as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Good morning, sleepyheads.” She flashed a quick smile before turning to arrange a plate of banchan: kimchi, seasoned seaweed, rolled eggs sliced into perfect strips.

Zoey exaggerated a sigh, feigning awe. “Look at that… now this is a proper breakfast. See, Rumi? You cook well, I won’t lie, but Mira makes everything look so… perfect!”

Rumi arched her brows, scandalized. “I could make everything just as abundant and neat as Mira, okay? I just… don’t see the need!”

Mira chuckled softly without even turning, arranging the dishes. “Alright, Rumi, but a bit of organization never hurts when it comes to eating.”

The purplette crossed her enormous arms over her chest, throwing a pout so caricatured that Zoey barely contained her laughter, clutching her belly to keep from doubling over.

“You two are totally ganging up on me, huh? I’m the oldest here — I should be respected, and yet look how you treat me…”

Mira placed the dishes on the table, then, slipping behind the hybrid, rose onto her tiptoes to plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Oh, of course, big unnie. Now help me get everything on the table.”

The way Rumi’s pupils dilated was comically extreme, making Zoey laugh freely — after all, the vocalist was prone to gay panic. She ignored the hybrid’s mock outrage and started helping to arrange the dishes, just as Mira had requested. It was tricky; Rumi still hadn’t fully grasped the size and strength of her own hands. But it worked.

The three settled at the table, Mira serving balanced portions onto the plates as she always did, while Zoey arranged the jeotgarak before starting. Rumi, however, didn’t wait more than two seconds: she dove straight into the steaming rice and stew, devouring each portion as if it were her first meal in days.

The speed with which her jeotgarak plunged and rose again, carrying bites of banchan and rolled eggs to her mouth, drew giggles from Zoey. Even Mira, trying to maintain a serious composure, had to hide a smile as she watched the fabric of Rumi’s clothes stretch and ripple with the hybrid’s frantic movements.

“Rumi, for goodness’ sake—” Zoey almost choked on laughter. “Slow down, you’re going to swallow the bowl whole.”

The purplette lifted her eyes, mouth still full, pointing at her own plate as if to justify: hungry, obviously. A guttural sound escaped her throat, part growl, part involuntary purr, as she swallowed another generous portion.

“I know we always eat a lot,” Mira said, amused, serving her more rice, “but you’re breaking records today.”

“It’s just… my body’s asking for it,” Rumi murmured, finally pausing for a moment to take a deep breath before continuing. “I feel like I’ll never be full.”

Zoey watched her for a moment, tilting her head, a slight smile lingering on her lips. But as the scene repeated — Rumi devouring without pause, her muscles relaxing only slightly after each portion — the maknae bit the inside of her cheek, thoughtful.

Then, she asked without preamble, though cautiously:

“Ru… you know, you’re half demon. And… demons feed on souls, right? Have you ever… felt the need for that?”

A subtle weight fell over the table. Mira lifted her eyes immediately to Zoey, but did not reprimand her — she also wanted to hear the answer.

Rumi paused mid-motion, jeotgarak suspended above the bowl. Her heterochromatic gaze wavered, shifting from one to the other before settling on her own fingers — now still.

“I… I don’t know?” she murmured, staring at the ceiling as if the answer might be somewhere up there, among the lights of the penthouse. “I admit my hunger feels constant, but… soul? I don’t even know what it would feel like to crave that!”

Zoey furrowed her brow, thinking for a few seconds. “Like… you feel the absence of something you can’t name? Or is it just a sense of emptiness?”

Rumi shrugged, but a small smile escaped. “Maybe it’s just hunger. But if it were… soul… I guess I’d notice, right?”

Mira, always curious, leaned forward, fingers resting lightly on the table as she spoke. “You know, maybe it’s a half-demon thing. You produce some spiritual energy naturally. Like… you don’t need to feed on souls to survive, but you still feel that constant hunger. A kind of internal balance.”

Zoey raised an eyebrow, half-smiling wryly. “Wow… Mira, you know way too much. Did you take some sort of course in Korean daemonology or something?” She laughed softly, still thoughtful, eyes fixed on the leader as she chewed slowly. “But… if that’s true… it means you can sustain yourself without hurting anyone. That’s… kind of reassuring, actually. Puts a big gap between you and… what we hunt.”

Rumi let out a short chuckle, a mix of sarcasm and relief. “Well… it’s… good to hear that.” She lifted her gaze, more directly at the two, as if she needed the confirmation. “But I swear… sometimes it’s… weird, feeling this hunger without knowing if I’ll, I don’t know, explode or just keep existing.”

Mira laid her hand over hers, firm and warm. “We’ll figure it out together, Ru. You don’t have to be afraid… at least not alone.”

Zoey nodded, and for a moment the silence was filled only by the sound of spoons, chopsticks, and the soft morning light illuminating the penthouse. Rumi seemed to absorb each gesture, each word, like anchors.

Zoey suddenly stopped eating, chopsticks frozen midair. “Rumi… I… I’m going to do something to test, okay?”

“Uh… okay?” The hybrid averted her gaze for a moment, wary but curious.

Zoey extended her hand carefully, eyes narrowing in concentration. A soft glow began to emanate from her palm, pulsing in blue and gold tones, reflecting in the morning light. Slowly, a small pool of luminescent liquid formed on her hand, almost floating, as if obeying her will.

Mira frowned, leaning forward. “Zoey… is that safe? What exactly are you doing?”

Zoey smiled with a touch of nervousness. “I… don’t know exactly. But since I’ve practiced Honmoon more, I’ve been able to shape this spiritual energy in different ways. I’m not sure how it fully works, but… watch.” She gestured to the pool of energy.

Rumi’s eyes widened. Heterochromatic, dilated, fixed on the liquid. A thin thread of saliva escaped her longer fangs, and her whole body seemed to react instinctively, tense and anxious. The spiritual hunger, that diffuse need she’d always felt, awakened almost physically.

The presence of the liquid made every muscle in Rumi vibrate, as if her own energy were being enchanted toward the small luminescent pool. She swallowed hard, breathing heavier, almost hypnotically.

Mira leaned in again, this time more gently, trying to gauge Rumi’s reaction. “See? I think you can perceive it now. You don’t need to feed on complete spirits to feel… this partial satiation. It’s… just a small portion, but enough for your half-demon nature.”

Rumi blinked several times, fingers curling over the hoodie. Fascination and desire rippled through her body. “Hm… so… that’s what you were talking about before?” Her voice was low, almost reverent. “I… don’t depend on it, but… my body still wants it… even if just a little.”

Zoey nodded, leaning carefully closer. “Exactly. This is just a part of you. Nothing has to be painful or dangerous… from what we can tell, anyway. We’re kind of thrown into this mess together, huh?”

Rumi drew a deep breath, her gaze finally softening a little, as if for the first time she could accept even this side of herself, strange and wild, as not an absolute mistake. Just a part of who she was. Fierce, hungry. Being this way didn’t feel so bad — under these conditions.

The blue-gold liquid still shimmered, pulsing gently in Zoey’s palm, reflecting in Rumi’s golden iris. For a moment, all tension seemed suspended — the hybrid leader contemplated her own nature without guilt, only curiosity and need.

Zoey tilted her hand toward Rumi, the glowing pool resting lightly in her palm. “You’re not consuming my energy core, it’s not lethal… come on. Taste.”

Rumi hesitated, body tense, tail swishing slightly, spine hairs raised. Her slitted golden eye gleamed with a mix of hunger and caution, as if each fiber of her being struggled between desire and restraint. For a moment, her more human side whispered to recoil, to reject the offer. But the demonic side asked for confirmation, to yield.

Then, something in Zoey’s calm, steady posture — the gentle touch of her thumb on the back of her hand, the look that said you won’t hurt me — made the hybrid take a deep breath. A nearly imperceptible motion, her body leaning slightly toward the energy.

Rumi brought her lips to the luminescent pool, and the first drop touched her tongue. A shiver ran through her whole body, iridescent patterns on her chest and arms pulsing softly in response. The taste was strange, sweet, and vibrant, as if every molecule carried the essence of spiritual vitality, but without threat.

Zoey held firm, keeping her hand steady, while Rumi swallowed a few more drops, growing more confident with each one. The human eye reflected fascination, the golden slit softened slightly, as if recognizing that this small ingestion wasn’t a transgression, but a balance. It was so good, so calming. Even the pull of hunger receded, replaced by the intrinsic need to satisfy herself, reassured that it was safe.

“See?” Zoey murmured, a gentle smile forming. “It doesn’t hurt. Just helps… a little, so you feel… you know, complete.”

Rumi closed her eyes, breathing deeply, shoulders relaxing gradually. Perhaps, honestly, it was the first time she felt this — the perfect reconciliation with her own nature. The fear of losing control was still there, but something stronger now: the sense that she could be cared for, even in her demonic form.

Beside her, Mira watched silently, a mix of relief and tenderness, satisfied to see the leader finally accepting a bit of care without resistance. The morning air seemed lighter, filled with the soft glow of the energy and the calm rhythm of Rumi’s breathing.

• ★ •

The room was heavy, a pile of documents and proposals scattered across the table, almost daring any attempt at focus. Their comeback was approaching, and there was still so much to do. Even the thought of calling Bobby, negotiating deadlines with the agency, and postponing commitments made Rumi’s stomach twist — a physical discomfort verging on nausea. A gunshot would have hurt less.

Though she still couldn’t fully assume her human form, Rumi moved with enough naturalness that it almost went unnoticed. Mira and Zoey, attentive, smiled subtly, pleased with this point.

“Uh… these products from this brand look so boring… I can’t see anything that matches our vibe here!” Zoey pointed at one of the shoe proposals.

“Yeah, I agree… the collaboration with Adidas turned out great, but this one… uh…” Mira added, hand on her cheek as she looked at the proposal and designs with frustration. “Samsung also sent a proposal. Sometimes I regret agreeing with Rumi to review everything ourselves instead of letting a specialized team handle it.”

“I call that quality control,” the leader replied quickly.

“They could’ve done it too,” Mira shot back, only to receive an eye-roll from the vocalist.

Monotony returned to dominate the room, each sigh and flick of paper reinforcing the tension. But then, the Honmoon glowed brighter — first pink, then orange — signaling a newly opened drop. The three rose automatically, attention drawn to the instability.

Rumi moved, ready to stand fully, but was stopped by the firm arms of Mira and Zoey.

“What, girls? I—”

Her question died at the touch of Mira’s slender finger on her lips.

“Baby… we know it’s important, and you always help — how you help… but…” Mira’s voice was calm, yet loaded with affectionate authority. She left the sentence hanging, and Zoey completed it:

“You’re not stable. We’ve seen how your anger reacts in this form. You could end up hurting yourself or someone else. It doesn’t look dramatic, but orange-patterned demons can be tricky.”

Rumi exhaled deeply, frustration dancing across her shoulders. She wanted to protest, to insist she could handle it. But the genuine concern in their eyes, Mira’s firm yet caring touch, and Zoey’s attentive gaze had their effect.

“Okay, but I can’t just sit here, right?” she murmured, her voice still carrying resistance.

Zoey smiled and slid a tablet across the table to her, opening a beat-making program. “Look, you don’t need to leave the house. Just check out the suggestions I made with the DJ yesterday. It’s work, but safe… you can work with the music without overexerting yourself.”

Mira nodded, resting a hand on Rumi’s shoulder. “Exactly. It’s quick, it’s necessary. You still help with the comeback, but without exposing yourself right now. Meanwhile, we’ll handle the drop on the Honmoon!”

Rumi looked at the tablet, and for a moment, anxiety and guilt gave way to genuine interest. The mind of the workaholic started focusing on the beats, the rhythms, the patterns Zoey had created, and the orange glow of the Honmoon gradually stabilized.

“Okay… okay,” Rumi murmured softly, sliding her hand over the tablet’s screen. “But only because you two… insisted.”

Zoey laughed quietly, and Mira gave a crooked smile. “Yeah, baby… you always end up giving in to us.”

Rumi didn’t reply with words, but the slight tilt of her head, the relaxed shoulders, and her gaze finally concentrated on the music were enough for the two of them to know: she was temporarily safe, and no triggers were present to ignite her anger.

• ★ •

The night in Seoul rushed forward with the urgency of neon lights, but Mira and Zoey moved like shadows between alleys and side streets. The alert from the newly opened drop still pulsed at the edge of their senses, and the thread of Honmoon energy guided them: a shimmering rose streaked with orange flares, pointing to the sexual demon approaching one of the city’s “adult” establishments — a sophisticated, legal brothel, yet still fertile ground for spiritual predators.

Zoey shot Mira a look, laced with dark humor. “Seriously… do they always have to attack in places like these?”

Mira rolled her eyes, the crooked smile surfacing. “Of course, Zo. Nothing better for orange-pattern demons than brutal sex and corpses in bed. Ugh. We should be paid extra for fighting this kind of shit.”

Zoey chuckled under her breath.

“Or at least get a discount here, since we’re about to save everyone inside.”

The laugh was brief, almost cut short by the tension thickening in the air. The energy thread leapt point to point, and both girls felt their hair stand on end as the subtle scent of demonic lust reached them before the creature itself appeared. Sexual demons were distinct: ethereal, almost human in outline, yet vibrating with a pulse that stirred the blood of everyone nearby.

“Look… if I didn’t know better, I’d say he was just out looking for fun,” Zoey muttered, one brow raised. “But no — he’s after life energy. Fucked up and perverted.”

Mira drew a deep breath, gripping her gok-do firmly. “Crazy and insane. But that’s the kind of demon that keeps us sharp. Eccentricity is part of the Honmoon’s design. No madness, no defense. Hate to say it, but the weirder they are, the more fun the fight.”

Both of them laughed once more before falling back into focus, eyes locked on the disguised demon.

The building loomed ahead. Red lights flickered, shadows shifted, and the aura of the demon was already spreading through the perimeter. The two crouched low, coordinating their steps. Zoey quietly released two shin-kal, small spirit blades that floated silently, preparing the trap before the creature could claim any victims.

“Remember lesson number one?” Mira whispered, her smirk sharp.

“Read that lesson on the first day of training,” Zoey murmured back. “Madness and danger — sure. But no wasting time worrying about the poor bastards inside.”

The Honmoon’s vibration pulsed harder, reacting to the drop. The creature hadn’t sensed them yet. Patience and precision — the game had begun. Every step, every breath had weight. They had to strike without drawing attention, protect the humans, and most of all, not waste precious time — Rumi still needed to stay safe, focused on her own control, and the beats Zoey had left for her.

“Let’s go, Zo. Quick and clean,” Mira murmured, slipping to the side of the building’s entrance, ready.

Zoey nodded, her shin-kal hovering before her, mind sharpened.“Let’s finish this fast so I can go home and show you the mega compilation of turtles I found.”

And so, the fight began — silent, precise, laced with dark humor, a lethal choreography only demon hunters half-insane could pull off.

They slipped inside from the side.

The brothel bathroom was almost a hall, rectangular, white-tiled, mirrors lining every wall. The stench of cleaning chemicals mixed with the demon’s aura, thick enough to choke. Mira and Zoey advanced carefully, gok-do and shin-kal raised, tracking every flicker of shadow. The sexual demon writhed in the reflections, its glowing orange patterns mirrored across the tiles.

“This is so wrong…” Zoey muttered, adjusting her stance. “But at the same time… so right.”

“He skipped the rooms for the bathroom — perfect,” Mira answered, hurling the gok-do with precision. It slashed through the demon’s aura, earning a guttural groan, fragments of energy scattering in sparks. “Exactly what we needed. Saves us the audience.”

The bathroom door slammed shut. The butt of a woldo hit the tiles, and corrupted orange eyes turned toward them. The fight burst into motion.

Every strike, every dodge was like choreography. Shin-kal and gok-do carved through the air, forcing the demon back. Its movements were erratic, sensual, almost human — slipping past blades, lunging toward the nearest exit.

Then more drops opened, spilling smaller demons into the space. The first waves fell easily, especially once the two hunters sang, the Honmoon amplifying their strength.

But then came the shift — a metallic scrape, the smell of blood. Zoey winced as pain sliced her shoulder, a claw having slipped past her guard. Mira froze for a fraction of a second, tension skyrocketing, when a new demon emerged from one of the tears — massive, faster, sharper, and far more cunning. Its dark aura pulsed so violently the mirrored walls seemed to ripple as though alive.

“Shit… this is getting too big,” Mira muttered, gripping her gok-do tighter. She swung at the hulking demon, but it dodged, ramming her back with an elbow. Its eyes immediately fixed on the youngest — Zoey — its clawed fingers elongating into metal-like talons.

Zoey staggered back, but suddenly — Rumi’s iridescent thread of energy surged, hot and overwhelming, flooding both hunters’ minds. She felt Zoey’s pain, the urgency, the danger. And without warning, Rumi’s demonic form materialized in a storm of smoke.

The bathroom blazed with hues of blue, violet, and rose, iridescent patterns burning across her massive, muscular frame. She charged with a guttural roar, wielding the heavy blade she’d claimed at the Idol Awards — a sword etched with dokkaebi laminal patterns, glowing in shades of violet and deep gold. It belonged to her body, every strike natural, lethal, brutal.

The larger demon didn’t even have time to adjust. Rumi spun, cutting with surgical precision, her blade cleaving through shadows, her movements primal yet controlled. Mira and Zoey covered the smaller demons while Rumi went straight for the giant. Every slash and sweep lit the mirrors with constellations of distorted light, the room vibrating with the clash.

Still shaken but awestruck, Zoey muttered, almost to herself “Wow… that sword — damn, it suits her demonic form way more than her human one. Like she was born to fight like this.”

Mira only nodded, wide-eyed, captivated.

Rumi roared again, fury and power amplifying each strike. The larger demon stood no chance; her blade tore, crushed, and ripped it apart until its form finally collapsed, dissolving into burning orange sparks.

Silence fell over the bathroom, broken only by ragged breaths. Mira and Zoey met each other’s gaze — shock still there, but relief stronger. Rumi stood still, chest heaving, her monstrous body aglow with shifting iridescence, sword in hand. Yet her eyes found theirs — not wild, but protective.

Zoey exhaled, a relieved smile tugging at her lips. “Well… the demons here might’ve been compulsive about sex… but I doubt any of them were hornier than me watching Rumi fight like that.”

Her grin widened — cut short by Mira smacking the back of her head.

Rumi huffed out a shy, breathless laugh. She blinked slowly at them — a wordless, powerful gesture. Even in her savagery, she had boundaries. Especially when it came to them.

The air was still heavy, the silence broken only by the dry echo of footsteps in the hallway — until someone began to force the stuck bathroom handle.

“Hey! Open the fuck up! Who’s the genius that locks the bathroom when it’s in use?!” A drunk, irritable voice rang out from the other side, accompanied by increasingly impatient pounding.

Zoey reacted instantly: she hurled two shin-kal at the lights, plunging the place into sudden dusk. Glass burst in sharp little cracks, muffling the noise of the creature that had just dissolved. Mira moved just as fast, grabbing Rumi and the maknae by the arms, pulling both of them close.

Before the man could break the door down, Rumi drew a deep breath, closed her eyes — and their world vanished.

The sensation was vertiginous. Like plummeting into free fall, whipped by invisible gusts, stomachs twisting, until — suddenly — the impact of arrival flooded through every cell. The three materialized in their living room, wrapped in its quiet, still taut, as though the shadows of the brothel still clung to them.

Zoey blinked several times, trying to steady herself. “…I didn’t know Rumi could teleport us together.” Her voice carried a mixture of wonder and disbelief.

Rumi, chest rising unevenly, turned to them slowly. “Neither did I… Mira?”

The redhead looked just as startled, one brow arched as if trying to rationalize the impossible. “…Call it intuition, I guess. Or very well-aimed panic.”

Zoey gave a nervous laugh. “Stylish panic, though. Way better than being stuck with some creep banging on the door.

“He had the right, he was a client. We were the ones who broke in,” Rumi muttered, but her gaze shifted almost immediately. Her iridescent eyes narrowed as they fell on Zoey’s shoulder — the torn sleeve, the cut still bleeding faintly. Then they flicked to the bruise already blooming on Mira’s arm, courtesy of the larger demon’s elbow.

A low growl slipped from Rumi’s throat — frustrated, seething with impotent fury. Without asking, she stepped forward, spreading her claws carefully, as though the mere sight of their wounds was unbearable.

“Rumi, it’s fine. I can take care of it my—” Zoey began, only to be cut short by the weight of the hybrid’s gaze.

“Don’t even try,” Rumi said, already crouching to open the massive first aid kit she kept tucked away in the corner of the wide central room. A double life demanded she always be prepared — and still, the urgency in her hands as she fumbled with boxes and bottles gave her away.

It was almost comical to watch. The elongated claws made simple tasks — opening clasps, pulling gauze without tearing it — awkward, and her tall frame seemed oversized for such delicate gestures. Yet there was an absurd devotion in every movement. Rumi dabbed antiseptic, cleaned Zoey’s cut with a gentleness that jarred against the demonic shape of her fingers, and sealed the bandage as though the skin beneath might shatter from too much pressure.

Mira, perched on the sofa with her arm exposed, watched in silence. The contrast between Rumi’s ferocity minutes earlier — tearing through a demon without mercy — and the tenderness with which she now tended them tugged something unexpected inside her chest.

Zoey, meanwhile, bit her lip to keep from laughing. “You get all fidgety when it’s us, huh? Like… devoted wife mode, but Kaiju edition?”

“Zoey.” Mira’s voice carried warning, though her crooked smile betrayed the laugh she was swallowing.

Rumi sighed deeply, pretending not to hear, but her pointed ears betrayed the blush rising through her pale skin. “Neither of you knows how to sit still. If it were up to me — no demon hunts, none of this — I’d have you both wrapped in protection bubbles twenty-four seven.”

“And miss out on all the fun?” Zoey raised an eyebrow, her shoulder now neatly dressed. “Not happening.”

Rumi finished securing the bandage, and even when it was done, her fingers lingered against Zoey’s skin — as if confirming it was truly all right mattered as much as breathing. Then she turned to Mira, tending to the bruise, massaging it slowly to ease the impact.

The room’s quiet was broken only by the rustle of bottles and bandages, but the weight it carried was the opposite of a battlefield: a home. Fragile, yes — threatened by the world’s endless instability. But there is always a neutral ground. And theirs was here, a truce carved into their conscience.

After tending to the wounds, the tension seemed to dissolve like candle smoke. Rumi put the first-aid kit back in the corner of the room, took a deep breath, and forced herself to sit in front of the open laptop on the table. Battles could wait — the world of music never could.

“If we tweak this section and make the chorus hit harder, it might work better,” Rumi said, fingers gliding over the keyboard. Clumsy in her demon form, yet there was an almost mathematical precision in how she layered each sound.

Zoey, half-lying on the sofa, rested her head against her girlfriend’s chest. Her notebook lay open, though she doodled more hearts than actual notes. The pen twirled between her fingers as her gaze followed Rumi’s movements — watching her attentive keystrokes, the way her hands floated in the air before landing on each click.

It took Rumi a few moments to notice the maknae’s curious silence. Then she glanced down.

“Zoey… are you actually taking notes or just drawing?”

“I’m taking notes,” Zoey replied lazily, not lifting her head. “It’s just that my handwriting is more… artistic than useful.”

Rumi arched an eyebrow and leaned slightly to peek at the notebook. “Artistic, huh? Looks more like a cat got run over.”

Zoey laughed, burying her face in Rumi’s chest. “Doesn’t matter. I’m way more interested in your hands than my handwriting.”

Her words came soft, lazy, but left Rumi momentarily unsure of what to do. Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, hesitant. A warm heat crept to her ears — a reaction only Zoey could provoke so effortlessly.

Before the tension could deepen, Mira’s phone buzzed loudly. The redhead answered almost immediately, pacing back and forth in the hallway as she spoke with the head of the dance team, her voice firm yet polite. It was a habit: she could never talk on the phone without walking in circles.

Only Zoey and Rumi remained in the room, bathed in the glow of the laptop and the gentle looped beat. The maknae stayed pressed against her girlfriend, feeling the calm rhythm of her heartbeat beneath the skin. And Rumi, despite her leader’s posture, was acutely aware that Zoey’s interest wasn’t in the chorus — it was in her.

Rumi exhaled, trying to return to work. “If you keep looking at me like that, you’re going to distract me.”

“But that’s the whole point.” Zoey smiled lazily, tapping her pen against the notebook. “You get so serious in work mode. Someone has to remind you that you’re human too.”

“I’m half-human, at most,” Rumi corrected, though the subtle smile that escaped her betrayed her.

Zoey laughed softly, taking Rumi’s hand as if claiming something precious. Her thumb traced slowly over the palm, feeling the gentle roughness of her skin, the contours of bones and tendons poised for power. “Okay, okay… but it’s totally mine.”

Rumi blinked, surprised by the confidence in that claim, but let the maknae play with her fingers. There was something almost reverent in how Zoey explored each curve, as if mapping her entirely.

“You talk like you bought a rare artifact,” Rumi murmured, trying to sound playful, her voice betraying a rough undertone.

Zoey lifted her lazy gaze, half-lidded eyes sparkling with mischief. “No… better than that. It’s my private treasure.”

The silence that followed carried more weight than any words. Rumi’s heart raced; she could feel Zoey’s warmth spreading through her hand, creeping up her arm. Mira had been right — her hunger never truly extinguished. But it wasn’t just spiritual energy. It was this too. This touch, this look, this desire.

Zoey pulled her hand up to her cheek, pressing it against her skin. The contrast between delicate flesh and the firm outline of Rumi’s claws sent a shiver up the maknae’s spine. She closed her eyes briefly, surrendering.

“You’re more careful than you think,” she whispered, leaning closer, lips dangerously near Rumi’s.

Rumi hesitated — fear of hurting her, fear of losing control. But when Zoey’s eyes cracked open, silently pleading, the leader gave in. She moved slowly; the kiss began tentative, a test.

Zoey didn’t stop. A second later, her hand cupped the back of Rumi’s neck, pulling her closer, and the kiss deepened — warm, urgent. Rumi returned it, careful yet no less intense. Every touch from Zoey demanded more; every sigh seemed to ignite the air.

Rumi’s free hand hovered, hesitating over her girlfriend’s waist, exploring forbidden territory. Zoey arched slightly, encouraging her, fingers abandoning the notebook to grip her shirt.

The looped music from the laptop continued, but now it was mere background to the rhythm of quickened breaths, the soft clash of teeth, the heat pooling on every inch of touched skin.

Zoey laughed against Rumi’s lips, breathless, barely pulling back. “See? Music wasn’t supposed to be the focus today…”

Rumi pressed her forehead against hers, trying to catch her breath. “You… always know how to disarm me.”

Zoey bit her lower lip lightly, mischievous. “Maybe I just know what you really need.”

No longer content with merely holding Rumi’s hand, Zoey’s touches became bold yet delicate, gliding along strong arms, exploring shoulders, reaching her chest. With each movement, Rumi’s breathing grew heavier, learning to bear the hunger of feeling.

Zoey seized the vulnerability — or rather, transformed it into strength. Without asking, without ceremony, she settled into Rumi’s lap, adjusting naturally yet provocatively. Her body fit perfectly against the leader’s, as if molded for it.

Rumi struggled for air. Zoey’s weight, the closeness, her scent — all overwhelming. Her gaze instinctively traced the maknae’s curves, following the subtle hip movements brushing against her. A soft, almost unconscious rhythm, yet enough to ignite every spark of self-control.

“Zoey…” she murmured, hoarse, a fragile warning she no longer had the strength to uphold.

The younger leaned in to kiss Rumi’s shoulder, moving from exposed skin to jawline, leaving marks of desire and tenderness. By the time she reached her lips, the kiss was no longer tentative — it was deep, hungry. Her tongue dared to probe, brushing against Rumi’s fangs deliberately, acknowledging danger while wanting it.

Rumi groaned softly, pressing her hands to Zoey’s waist, but kept control. Not yet. It was too early.

And then Zoey arched her hips slightly and… felt something. Something that shouldn’t have been there, nudging gently between her legs. She paused the kiss for a second, eyes wide in surprise.

“Rumi… is that your tail?”

The question was genuine, even innocent, but Rumi’s reaction revealed everything. She froze, eyes dilated, breath caught. Discreetly, the tail lay to the side, proving the notion impossible. The sudden blush on her cheeks and the trembling jaw gave away more than any explanation could.

Zoey took a few seconds to piece it together. When she did, a wide, mischievous grin spread across her face. She bit her lower lip lightly, stifling a laugh that escaped in an almost diabolical tone.

“Ahhh…” she purred, dragging the syllable with satisfaction. “So that’s what I think it is…”

Rumi brought a hand to her face, mortified, embarrassment almost tangible. But Zoey showed no mercy. She threw her head back, laughing, and shouted down the hallway:

“MIRAAAAA! Looks like our girlfriend has a few more delicious little demon surprises for us!”

The room quivered with tension and anticipation. Rumi wanted to disappear into thin air, but Zoey, teasing to the last, settled even more suggestively in her lap, ready to savor every second of the leader’s embarrassment.

Chapter Text

I want to be very direct about this story in particular — especially since it’s the biggest one I’ve ever written.

I’m feeling a bit discouraged with it. Not with the plot — not at all. Honestly, this has been one of the best storylines I’ve ever created. It speaks so much about me, my background, my tastes, and the way I see the world, all through something already as exciting as K-Pop Demon Hunters.

The problem is, I’ve been disappointed with my own writing. Rereading it, I feel like at some point the flow became tiresome. Maybe even boring to follow, easy to put down halfway.

I also feel like the story hasn’t left much room for interaction with you, the readers. And I don’t like that. I’ve been filling the chapters with so much information that there’s little space left for the “whys.”

Because of this, I’ll be taking a break from the story — even more than I already had, honestly — until I can reorganize my thoughts. On top of that, my new semester at university just started, and that’s taking a lot of my time and focus too.

No, I’m not giving up. I might take years, but I never abandon a story once I start it. Especially not this one, which already has the plot almost entirely outlined.

So, while I’m making this announcement, I’d really love to hear from those of you following: is there anything you think I should reevaluate? Or explore more deeply?

At first, I only started using AO3 to store my stories so they wouldn’t just sit in my documents. But over time, I began to really enjoy seeing them being read and appreciated. I’m insanely insecure, so this has been a way for me to see at least some value in the things I love to do.

Your feedback would help me a lot. This break won’t last long — probably just through the month of October.

When I return, this chapter will be deleted and the story will continue normally with Chapter 13.

Thank you so much for reading. Hugs,

Lean