Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He didn't know what was going to happen to him.
Honestly, he had no idea. He had thrown himself in front of Rumi without a second thought.
It wasn’t a calculated decision, but he didn’t regret it. At least this way he could atone—if only a little.
Give some sort of meaning to his vile existence, a man who had never done anything good.
Though it was a pitiful sacrifice for all his sins.

Rumi deserved it—after all, she had given him back his soul.
Unfortunately, he would never get to enjoy that freedom. So what?
Maybe he was the master of his own fate for less than two minutes, but it was worth it.
He had made his first truly independent decision in four hundred years.
He chose to repay her, to sacrifice himself.
He shielded her from Gwi-ma and gave her his soul, which she could use to strengthen the honmoon—though he wasn’t sure how much worth his pathetic soul actually held.

It was hard for him to say what happened next. At some point, he lost consciousness.
He would’ve preferred it to stay that way.
An ending would’ve been a merciful savior from a four-hundred-year life full of wickedness.
Regaining consciousness meant the terrifying possibility of returning to the demon realm.
That would also explain the all-consuming pain in his body, which grew sharper with every second.
Along with it came faint, unintelligible noises—meaningless static in his ears.
He didn’t bother trying to make sense of it.
The pain was too overwhelming, barely allowing him to form a coherent thought.

In what could’ve been either seconds or years, the static grew louder. Screams, crashing, sounds of a fight.
He wanted so badly to stop existing.
The noise bored into his skull, like someone was smashing it from the inside.
He tried to cover his ears with his hands, but he couldn’t move.
His whole body was heavy, and everything around him unbearably loud.

Then someone started poking his shoulder, intensifying the pain.
He could’ve sworn someone was calling his name.
Was it Gwi-ma, come to torment and punish him for his betrayal?
Most likely.

So he stubbornly refused to open his eyes.
He planned to pretend to sleep for as long as he possibly could.
But the voice didn’t let up—too melodic, too smooth to belong to the demon king.
In his scrambled mind, he tried to match the voice to someone familiar.
He gave up when another jab sent a wave of agony shooting through his shoulder.

Slowly, with great effort, he opened his eyes.
And instead of the furious demon he had expected, standing over him was… Rumi?
He blinked several times in confusion, trying to clear the fog from his vision.
She leaned over him, her face full of worry.
She was saying something—he could hear her voice, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand the words.
It was still so loud.

He shifted his gaze from Rumi’s face to their surroundings.
Broken glass lay scattered everywhere, shattered spotlights, metal wires.
His eyes stopped on two figures standing behind Rumi.
Both looked unsure of what to do.
One—the one with pink hair—was holding a lowered weapon.

—Rumi’s friends—he realized.
He desperately tried to remember their names.
Mira and Zoey?

“Jinu?”
Again, Rumi’s voice calling his name.
At that moment, the clarity of all the voices around him hit him like a truck.
Dozens of panicked people behind him were shouting all kinds of things.

“Is this part of the performance?”
“Was that supposed to happen?”
“Should we call an ambulance?”

Many shouted his name or asked if this was part of the plan.
He even caught a few love declarations from the crowd.
Mira—the pink-haired one—stepped away from where she had been standing to calm the furious fans.
She said something about how it was all planned.
Zoey joined her, talking about the prearranged collaboration between Saja Boys and Huntrix.
Rumi was still looking at him.

And Jinu?
He had no idea what was going on.
His brain couldn’t connect the dots.
The last thing he remembered was Rumi leading him off stage.
Then he lost consciousness again.

Chapter Text

He was not in the same place where he had lost consciousness. That was the first thing he understood right after waking up. He didn’t even need to open his eyes to realize it. Too many things indicated it to even try to argue with it.
First of all: it was calm, silence surrounded him, interrupted only occasionally by the sounds of soft footsteps or quiet hums, which, as he had learned during one of his first days in the modern world, were merely the sounds of technology working in the background.
He hated them. On the first day of carrying out his brilliant plan to form a boyband—or rather, on the first night to be precise—he couldn’t stand it. He felt like cutting off his own ears. Although, he seemed to be the only one bothered by it. He couldn’t understand back then how people nowadays tolerated that omnipresent noise.
He got used to it after a few days. Ultimately, it was so trivial compared to the eternally present, hateful voice of Gwi-ma in his mind, which had been drilling into his brain for centuries.
So yes, the scenery he was in now was quiet, certainly quieter than the loud and unbearable scene that vaguely flickered in the flashes of his memory.
Secondly: the smell was different too. The air smelled of something sweet. A bit like the taste of the soda that inspired him to write the song "Soda Pop". Wait, can a smell even be compared to a taste?
Anyway, it was a huge contrast to the earlier smell of scorched metal, sweat, blood, and the overwhelming scent of sulfur and burnt flesh that always accompanied the appearance of the demon king.
Another difference was the pain. It still wasn’t perfect, but it wasn’t as bad as before. At least he was no longer tormented by shards of broken glass and metal digging into his already battered body. He had nothing to complain about when thinking how every inch of his skin used to burn and every muscle collapsed in on itself.
Now he was lying on something incredibly soft. Something like a sofa on steroids. In the demon world, they didn’t have sofas—or really anything comfortable. Back in his time, he had been a pauper who could barely afford the minimum amount of food, and not always even that, let alone comfort.
The first time he experienced something as wonderful as a sofa was a few weeks ago. The same day he encountered the hum of technology. The modern world was so strange. He had never imagined anything like it, and now his body was sinking into delicate fabric. He wanted to drown in that comfort and fall back asleep.
He was so tired. That was another surprise. As a demon, he didn’t need to sleep. In the demon realm, there was no division between day and night. It was always just dark purple light in which one could barely see anything.
He had never thought about sleep. He was convinced he had irreversibly lost the ability to sleep and, honestly, had never dwelled on it.
Besides, even if sleep had become his ambition, Gwi-ma wouldn’t have let him sleep. Sleep would be an undeserved escape from reality and accusatory voices.
Why did he feel like this now? It was so strange. His whole body felt heavy, but surprisingly it wasn’t unpleasant. He wanted to lose himself in it.
What benefit could one possibly get from sleep? How unnatural it is to just stop functioning for a few hours.—That’s so stupid—he thought, barely staying conscious.
He was almost drifting off when suddenly his peace was interrupted by a loud bang. Well, it wasn’t that loud, but in the surrounding silence it sounded much clearer—enough for all drowsiness to vanish instantly, replaced by instinctual panic.
Not even a second had passed before he was already sitting up stiffly with eyes wide open, scanning everything around him, trying to find the source of the sound. He didn’t recognize this place—he certainly had never been here.
The room was spacious. Hard to say whether because of actual size or the fact that one entire curved wall was a window. Probably both.
The room was dimly lit, the only source of light being a small lamp on a black coffee table. That incredibly comfortable surface he was lying on turned out to be a couch. Large and white—in fact, there were two of them. Both facing the table.
And under his feet, a carelessly thrown blanket? He paused for a moment at the sight, realizing it must have been he who had knocked the blanket off.
But where was he, why was he covered by a blanket and… he remembered he still hadn’t found what had woken him.
He didn’t need to keep looking—the answer came faster than he expected.
“Oops! Sorry! I didn’t mean to wake you.” He turned toward the voice coming from behind his back.
A girl with short black hair tied into two buns was standing there… Zoey.
The expression on her face was simultaneously embarrassed, apologetic, and terrified. A combination of emotions he had never seen on anyone before. Her eyes were wide open and staring at him like he was a ghost, while her mouth formed a tense and stiff smile.
If only Jinu could see himself from the outside, he would realize he looked far more ridiculous and worse than her.
His bulging eyes were staring at her without even blinking. His face was the image of pure terror and confusion. His entire body tense and stiff, and the usually perfectly styled idol hair now disheveled in all directions.
“I’m such a klutz, I always drop something.” She broke the silence with a nervous laugh, then quickly bent down to pick up the phone lying on the floor, undoubtedly the cause of the sudden noise.
Jinu didn’t say anything, still staring at her, but now he blinked slowly.
In his defense, it’s hard to blame him. His last clear memory was throwing himself to shield Rumi. Everything after that was just flashes of awareness, noise, and immense pain.
And now he woke up in a completely unfamiliar place, and the first person he saw was one of the hunters, with whom he had never even spoken, and who, by all his expectations, should already be charging at him with a sword—or whatever weapon she had.
And speaking of pain… it made itself known again the moment the adrenaline dropped a bit.
Zoey, feeling increasingly awkward and unsure of what to do, took a step back and called out:
“Girls! He’s awake!”
It didn’t take long before Rumi and Mira appeared in the room, which he assumed must have been a living room.
Rumi scanned him carefully with her eyes as soon as she entered, then walked over in a few determined steps and grabbed his face—so gently he barely felt it. Her fingers hastily studied his skin.
Surprised by this action, the boy jerked his head back to avoid her touch.
It wasn’t that he was afraid of her—as a four-hundred-year-old demon, very few things scared or disturbed him… or at least that’s what he told himself.
He was sure most people wouldn’t be happy if someone suddenly started touching their face.
The girl didn’t seem particularly concerned by his reaction. She kept assessing his condition, even going as far as shining her phone flashlight into his eyes—to his rather minimal delight.
Again, he yanked his face away from her hands and glared at her.
Planning to say something—like asking what was going on—but before he could open his mouth, Mira spoke first, who until now had only been watching him from the side.
“Try anything, demon boy, and I’ll personally send you back to where you came from,” she said in a firm, bored tone.
“Mira!” Rumi raised her voice, offended. She was more disturbed by the threat than the person it was aimed at, who didn’t seem bothered.
In fact, he didn’t even pay attention, more focused on trying to understand the situation he was in.
“Did you already forget he was our enemy and tried to destroy honmoon, like—” she made a theatrical pause, pretending to think “—five hours ago!”
“And then he saved me.”
Mira had no reply to that. She couldn’t deny it—if not for the demon boy, Rumi might not even be here anymore, and along with her, honmoon would be gone and the world would’ve sunk into darkness.
Which didn’t change the fact that she had more than enough reason not to trust him.
From what Rumi told them, he had already betrayed her once—that’s first. Second, he was a demon.
Mira could accept Rumi’s demonic roots—but that was Rumi. A girl she had known for years, like a sister.
Besides, she had been raised as a hunter.
And Jinu was unpredictable. He might look harmless now, but how could they be sure he wouldn’t change his mind, or that it wasn’t a trap?
Her ostracism was merely a healthy dose of caution, for which no one had the right to judge her—especially since she had spent the last hours keeping him alive.
Her stress hadn’t subsided even after spending a lot of time near him.
At least back then he was unconscious and at their mercy.
Now no one knew what to expect.
“Oh come on, Mira, look at him. Right now, he looks rather pathetic and helpless, and doesn’t seem like he’ll be able to stand up on his own anytime soon, let alone attack someone.”
The until-now quiet Zoey looked at her friend with a pleading face.
Hearing this, Jinu, who had been sitting confused all this time, looked at Zoey, wondering if he should be offended—he wasn’t pathetic, and certainly not helpless.
Or rather thankful for her “defense of him”?
Mira responded with a defeated sigh.
Jinu, already fed up with being treated like he wasn’t there—or worse, like a dog —finally spoke up, drawing the girls’ attention, who seemed to have forgotten he was even present.
“Can someone tell me what’s going on?”
He hadn’t expected that saying a single sentence would be so difficult—his voice was rough and hoarse.
Barely making it through the syllables without breaking.
Rumi knelt before him again. Her eyes softened when she looked at him, and a tired smile appeared on her lips. He didn’t like that she looked at him with pity. He didn’t want pity and certainly didn’t deserve it.
“How do you feel?” she asked quietly.
He wasn’t sure how to answer. Every muscle hurt, and his throat felt like sandpaper, but other than that, everything was fine.
Most importantly, he wasn’t in the demon world. Which undoubtedly compensated for all the discomforts. He didn’t hear Gwi-ma’s voice. Realizing that should have put him in a state of euphoria, if only he weren’t so tired.
“It’s not bad,” he rasped. Speaking was too painful to make the effort for anything more specific. And even if it wasn’t, he wouldn’t know what else to say.
Rumi’s only reaction was a gentle nod.
Zoey, who no longer had a trace of her earlier shyness, also moved toward him but didn’t come as close as Rumi. She stopped a meter away and smiled widely.
“Man, you have no idea how much you scared us. We were about to call an ambulance.” Her tone was casual, and there was a hint of laughter in it. It eased the tense atmosphere a little.
Even Mira’s face took on a less sour expression. “You can’t imagine Rumi’s panic when it turned out you had a concussion.” Her voice still sounded indifferent.
Rumi’s cheeks turned a bright pink. “You panicked too!” she said accusingly.
“Only when you started throwing up. Having demon vomit on the floor wasn’t my dream,” she replied coldly and gave Jinu a meaningful look, whose only wish at that moment was to cease existing. If Rumi’s cheeks were pink, his were the color of a ripe tomato.
“You can’t complain,” Zoey turned to her friend with feigned indignation and pointed at her accusingly. “You weren’t the one who had to clean it up.”
“Maybe not, but I had to wash and change him. My eyes will never recover from that sight. Believe me, I would have preferred cleaning.”
Only then did the boy realize he was wearing different clothes. His black performance robe had been replaced by loose gray pajama pants and a purple oversized hoodie.
Panic and shame rang in his mind. He felt the remnants of his dignity slipping away with every sentence Mira and Zoey spoke. Rumi was merciful enough not to talk about it. Which was a relief, though not a big one. The anecdotes from her friends were enough to make him want to collapse in on himself.
“Forty degrees of fever!”
“You started thrashing when we were carrying you, and we had to restrain you.”
“You screamed in your sleep.”
“You’re wearing my clothes.”
He looked at his feet, unsure of what to do with all this. He had never felt such humiliation. And more importantly, what they were saying didn’t make sense. That is, except for the part about the clothes, which he was trying hard to forget. He was a demon; he didn’t sleep, didn’t get fevers, and definitely didn’t vomit. That just didn’t happen.
This new knowledge embarrassed him as much as it terrified him.
Rumi looked at him with understanding. Then she stood up from the couch.
“Well, I think that’s enough for today.” She yawned theatrically. “It’s been a long day. You must be tired.” She addressed him directly. It wasn’t a question but more a statement of fact. “I’ll take you to the bedroom.”
He had no intention of arguing. He was tired, everything hurt, he had so many questions and so few answers. All he wanted was to close his eyes and never open them again.
She reached out to help him up. He hesitated before taking her hand.
His sore body reminded him of itself as soon as he stood upright.
His legs felt like jelly. They immediately refused to cooperate, and he could barely take a step without stumbling. Rumi grabbed his arm before he could fall to the floor.
He didn’t pay attention to her. He looked at his legs in shock. He could barely control them.
Another new thing that filled him with unease. His body had never failed before, not in four hundred years. The only pain and weakness he had ever felt came from Gwi-ma. His breathing quickened. Something was clearly wrong with him. He swallowed the dryness in his throat. Everything’s wrong since that damn sacrifice. Couldn’t he have just disappeared?
“Jinu?” Rumi said gently, trying to focus his attention. She didn’t succeed; the only response was a slight movement of his head.
“Are you okay?” She wasn’t blind and clearly knew he wasn’t, but she didn’t know what else to do. He turned toward her and looked at her with a vacant stare, while also searching her face for answers.
She only smiled and held him tighter, helping him walk. They didn’t say a word to each other the entire way.
Rumi returned to the living room after about ten minutes and sat next to the girls on the couch.
Mira tilted her head back, resting it on the headrest.
“What will we tell Celine?” she suddenly asked in a tired voice after a moment of silence.
“For now, nothing.” She herself didn’t seem convinced by her own statement.
“You can’t hide anything from her. What do you think her reaction will be to...”
“I’ll think of something,” Rumi interrupted her.
“What about Bobbi? How do we explain it to him?”
“We’ll worry about that tomorrow.”
“I’m in,” Zoey agreed.

Chapter Text

He woke up in the room Rumi had led him to the night before. The room was nice, spacious. Light beige walls, a window that stretched across the entire wall—or almost the entire wall. Unless the glass door, probably leading to a balcony, also counted as a window. Grey curtains hung in the windows. There was another glass door, this one smaller and sliding, through which he could see an empty room with hangers. Probably a closet. Next to it, another door—likely the bathroom.
There was a simple white desk with a glass top, a mirror standing next to the wardrobe, and a double bed in the center. And on that bed sat him.

Rumi had told him it was the guest room when she left him there. She had also said a few other things he couldn’t recall, because he wasn’t listening. He felt a bit ashamed for letting her attempt at conversation go unanswered, but he’d been too preoccupied… with everything else.

He had gotten up some time ago. Maybe an hour? He didn’t know—there was no way to check the time.
Waking up was something he’d probably never get used to. Or no—sleeping was what he wouldn’t get used to. The act itself was rather pleasant, or at least not unpleasant. The problem wasn’t the act, but everything around it.

He didn’t like the thought of being unconscious for so long. It meant vulnerability and loss of alertness. And that was something he could not afford.
Even back when he was still human, sleep had been an undesirable state. First, it took away valuable time he could’ve used to work. Second, anyone could sneak up on him while he slept—attack him, rob him, or kill him.

Even after centuries, he still remembered the most significant incident.
He had just been trying to earn some money for his family, playing his bipa. It had been the most fruitful day in a long time. The money he earned would’ve fed them for several days!
If only he hadn’t fallen asleep sitting under that damned tree.
When he woke up, he was being carried by a stranger. Panic-stricken, he tried to break free, tried to scream, but the man covered his mouth with a hand and held him with shocking strength.
Eventually, he managed to escape.
He found the instrument the next day, leaning against the same tree. He had gone there with his sister—he had been too terrified to go alone.
How pathetic, hiding behind a girl younger than himself whom he was supposed to protect.
She had always been much stronger and braver than him.
Before his pact with Gwi-ma, sleep had only ever meant uncertainty and fear. Afterward, it became a shameful reminder of the betrayal he had committed.
He fell asleep with a full stomach and warm bedding while they starved in the cold and poverty.

Besides, the state before falling asleep was unbelievably strange.
His first two “episodes” of sleep had come suddenly, more like passing out than anything else. The first time, when he threw himself in front of Rumi, his consciousness had just vanished without warning.
The second time, on that stage, he remembered closing his eyes, but again—he simply drifted away.
It wasn’t until last night that he truly experienced the moments before sleep.
Weird visions, patches of color, disjointed thoughts—all forming a mixture of calm, melancholy, and unease. A tingling sensation, limbs growing heavier, and that unnatural pull to just close his eyes.
Yes, sleep was definitely not going to become his favorite activity anytime soon.
Not to mention the fact that he shouldn’t be sleeping at all.

That thought broke through his calm reflection.
Something was happening to him.
The sleep, the trembling legs yesterday, the girls said he had a fever and threw up.
He quickly regretted remembering that part as a wave of secondhand embarrassment washed over him. He wanted to forget it already.
Doesn’t matter. He pushed the shame aside. There were more important things than wounded pride right now.
He was breaking.
All these ailments—yes, sleep included—shouldn’t even be possible.
But what could he even do about it? He pulled his legs close to himself and rested his chin on his knees with a long, resigned sigh.
He suddenly froze when he felt a slight stomach cramp, accompanied by a quiet sound. Something like a buzzing? It took him longer than it should have to realize what it meant, but once he did, he threw himself down, banging his head against the mattress, and the pillow muffled a frustrated scream.

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“So you’re telling me you’re demon hunters who sing to strengthen the magical barrier between worlds?” Bobby looked at them like they were crazy, hoping they’d deny it and say it was a joke. To his great horror, they just nodded.
He wanted to say more, to laugh, but their faces were deadly serious, and the story they shared surprisingly fit together with yesterday’s ‘incident’ during the Idol Awards. When they invited him to explain everything, he expected anything but that.

In the past hour, he’d learned a lot—too much for his taste.
And yet, there they stood—his girls, still the same. He knew what a good manager must do, and he was the best of the best.

He took a deep breath. Although he still didn’t fully believe it, he began crafting a plan he’d started thinking of as soon as the initial shock passed. That’s what his job was: quick thinking regardless of how absurd the situation. Some would call it a professional kink; he preferred the term flexibility.

“We tell the media and fans that the whole thing was a planned collaboration between Hutrix and Saja Boys. Just like you told them yesterday.” He gave Mira a knowing look. “Your scar signs, childhood lightning strike.” This time he addressed Rumi. “We’ll make it a story about accepting imperfection. Everything else is special effects. One unexpected and unplanned incident was the injury of one of the Saja Boys members. Jinu is somewhere abroad, away from the media, and the boy band is taking a break to support their leader. We’ll bribe the scriptwriters to keep quiet.” He said it almost in one breath, not realizing he was pacing until he leaned on the counter.

“Any questions?”

The girls slowly shook their heads.
“Thanks, Bobby. You always save us from trouble.” Rumi ran up and threw her arms around his neck. Behind her came Zoey, tears of emotion already streaming down her face, and the much more composed Mira. Bobby smiled gently at them. They looked so tired.

“I’ll handle everything. In a week no one will remember this. Now, you should rest. I don’t know about you, but this whole demon business has me starving. I’ll make something to eat, and you should go freshen up a bit.” He paused, lost in thought. “What about… you know… him?”
“He’s sleeping upstairs.” Mira replied, wiping her face with her hands. Zoey frowned and looked at her friends.
“Still? It’s already two PM.”

“I’ll go check if everything’s alright.” Rumi said, already leaving the kitchen.

“Wake him up for food if he’s sleeping! Damn it, if the first demon in my life doesn’t get to experience my incapacitating culinary skills!” Bobby’s shout caught up with her in the hallway, along with the clattering of pans and pots banging together.

Rumi smiled to herself. Bobby was handling it much better than they might have expected. She couldn’t imagine what they’d do without him—their band would probably have fallen apart after the first small scandal. At least the media was off their backs now. Now it was just… everything else.
And by everything else, she meant Celine. Obviously, Rumi didn’t want to talk to her—not after yesterday. The resentment was still too fresh. She couldn’t, with a clear conscience, say she hated her aunt. Even if she made her feel like a mistake, even if she made her hide the marks, and not even after pulling a gun on her. Rumi wanted to be furious, but she couldn’t. Deep down, she knew Celine loved her too. After all, she raised her—she was like the mother she never knew. Everything she did was out of fear and care. And her intentions were good.
“Hell is paved with good intentions,” the ironic part of her mind interjected.
She didn’t want to ignore the woman on purpose, but why did Celine have to keep calling her? The moment she thought about it, as if on cue, her phone rang for probably the hundredth time that day.

Rumi stubbornly rejected every call. Her patience was wearing thin. An irritated groan escaped her lips.
Not even considering her own dislike of her aunt, she couldn’t answer for one more reason: Celine would demand explanations that Rumi couldn’t give her. She absolutely could not find out about Jinu. Not now, and preferably never. She would kill him immediately. Or maybe send him back to the demon realm? Now she wasn’t even sure if demons—whom she’d been trained to kill since she could walk—could actually die. Doesn’t matter, both options were bad. She promised him that if he helped her, he’d stay on this side. Maybe that wasn’t the plan, but he did help her. And she wasn’t the kind to break promises.

She looked at the door leading to his room. She felt a slight unease thinking about what she might find inside, which, to be honest, was rather irrational. What could really be wrong since they were in her apartment? Would the fever worsen and his brain’s white matter die? Unlikely. She breathed a sigh of relief. “But no, impossible.”
At that thought, she quickened her pace, though it didn’t really matter since she was already standing at his door, so it only saved her maybe half a second. And she would have been faster if she hadn’t decided to just stand there for a few minutes.

She grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open abruptly. Before her eyes appeared… a quite ordinary sight. No blood, no dead demons, nothing shocking.
Jinu sat hunched on the bed, staring at her with raised eyebrows. Her relief quickly turned into awkwardness as she realized how it must look from his perspective.

“You’re awake,” she stated as a fact.
He looked at her like she was an idiot.

“How did you tell?” His voice was a stark contrast to his posture—still hoarse, sounding like nails scraping a chalkboard. His appearance was just as telling: dark circles under his eyes, messy hair, sickly pale skin. Altogether, it painted a rather pitiful and miserable picture.
Almost all the concern she’d felt until then vanished, replaced by bitterness. (The remaining part wondered if his fever had gone up.)
She had spent several hours tending to him when he was unconscious and barely opening his eyes. It was easy to forget what he was like on an ordinary day. She wanted to ask how he felt, but it wouldn’t make sense—he wouldn’t tell the truth anyway.

“Well, at least have some breakfast.” Rumi’s voice showed no particular emotion, sounding rather calm.
Jinu’s posture shifted from indifferent to defensive; he tensed his shoulders and clenched his jaw, pressing his lips into a thin line. His gaze looked almost offended by the statement.
“I’m a demon. I don’t need food,” he spat the word food with disgust, as if someone had personally massacred his family with an axe. (Which, ignoring the axe part, might not have been far from the truth.)

If Rumi was surprised by this information, she gave no sign of it. She just sighed, irritated, lacking the energy to deal with it.
“But can you eat? .”

“There’s no point in eating if I don’t have to. A pointless action.”

“Apparently, you don’t have to sleep either, but my latest observation says otherwise.”

“I was pretending to sleep.”

“Would you let Mira dress you if you were awake?”
At that suggestion, his face turned scarlet. He had no way to argue. Not because he didn’t want to, but every word would only embarrass him more. Although, of course, he would never admit to such a pathetic feeling as embarrassment.
Demons felt constant shame, but this was something different.

He turned away, offended. He had undoubtedly lost the argument, but still refused to admit defeat.
Rumi’s shoulders dropped slightly in resignation.

“Listen. Go downstairs. Eat with us, at least out of politeness. You don’t have to eat much. I’m sure eating won’t kill you if drinking doesn’t.”
She paused briefly, frowning.

“By the way, you owe me five grape juice.”
A slight smile appeared on Jinu’s face, which he tried hard to suppress. However, his determination to stay offended quickly faded. He looked down at his feet, now wearing a wide but slightly crooked smile. His eyes shyly wandered toward where she was standing.

“You should be more careful when you walk .”
Rumi quietly snorted with laughter—if you could call it that, when someone just lets out a sharper exhale through their nose than usual. She didn’t have the strength for a real laugh. She wouldn’t be able to laugh when his voice sounded… so broken.
“Well, anyway. Bobby has probably already jumped into cooking.”
She reached out her hand toward him as a sign of peace.
“Who’s Bobby?”
The boy jerked suddenly, focusing on her face. Just the members of Huntrix scared him enough. He didn’t need any more potential enemies in this already unfamiliar house.

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So, as it turned out, Bobby was a man who looked about thirty years old. According to Jinu, he wasn’t very tall, but he wasn’t particularly short either.
He had some stupid ugly thing on his face that was supposed to be a mustache, but it was just a few scattered hairs. He smiled, supposedly, but his smile didn’t reach his eyes and, on top of that, it was so shaky that it surpassed even an old suspension bridge in poor condition with no maintenance. Either he spent 400 years underground and mostly forgot what human body language looks like, or this “Bobby” was up to something.
And on top of that, he was nice. Too nice and too polite. Another red flag.
Since he entered the room, he kept throwing “hidden” glances at him. He was constantly smiling at him, which only got on Jinu’s nerves. And he was very familiar with the girls. Which made sense, since Rumi said something about him being their manager.

Jinu observed him carefully too. He didn’t care whether Bobby noticed or not. Every move the man made caused his pupils to narrow.
Bobby pretended not to see it, although his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down like an elevator.
He placed plates of food in front of everyone, then sat down next to Zoey.
They talked about something and laughed. Jinu didn’t recognize half the words and didn’t pay much attention anyway. He understood the cooking part and tried hard to stay alert, but then the conversation shifted to some abstract concepts and words that didn’t even exist — or at least didn’t exist in his time.
Basically, it was incredibly boring. Lying on the bed was a more exciting activity. He was sure he would fall asleep from boredom soon. (If the obvious fact of being a demon didn’t exclude that possibility. The previous three times were just meaningless exceptions.)
He looked at his plate. Food…

Yuck. There was a fried egg and some unidentified yellowish mush. It didn’t look like anything familiar.
Disgust showed on his face. The worst part of the whole situation was the betrayal by his own body. At the smell, which he thought was awful, his stomach reacted with increased cramps and rumbling.
He had no intention of eating. He was a demon, for God’s sake, and definitely didn’t need that.
“Why aren’t you eating?” Zoey looked at him with concern, and Rumi with anger.

“I don’t want to, it’s disgusting.” He answered briefly. He didn’t intend to elaborate. He was already sitting here against his will.
If looks could kill, he would already be dead. Only Bobby didn’t look like he was about to stab him.
“You will eat.”

There was no room for discussion in Mira’s voice. He wanted to argue, but she alarmingly tightened her grip around the knife, which scared him a little. Not eating the mush would be a stupid reason to go back to hell. He knew far nobler ones. That poor excuse for food wasn’t worth it.

Slowly, he took the fork in his hand. He scooped a bit of the mush. He looked at it like it was the most filthy and disgusting monstrosity in the world. His hand trembled. Everyone’s eyes were on him as if he were an animal in a cage — a cheap spectacle for the mindless crowd’s amusement. Their looks were worse than the mush itself.
He swallowed. The sooner he ate it, the better for him. Just this once and never again. He brought it to his mouth.
He wanted to choke, to vomit. It should have been impossible to swallow. As horrible as it looked. Poison on his tongue.
But nothing happened. No great pain. And isn’t it strange that he would have preferred such a scenario?
And to his surprise and simultaneous disappointment, the mush was actually quite good. Soft and warm, but not in a bad way. It gently wrapped around taste buds that hadn’t been used in a long time. A pleasant goo. Too pleasant.

It took him a moment to remember how to eat.
He forgot to chew and swallowed without much thought.

The hot mass irritated his throat. His eyes widened slightly, but it still didn’t hurt. The feeling of food in his mouth was strange. So unnatural. Even in life, he hadn’t eaten much, except during the time he spent as a court musician, and he barely remembered that period — everything blurred and marked by the voice of the demon king. That whole time felt more like a fever dream than an actual event.
When he finally swallowed the first bite, he felt something unusual. A strange sensation in his head, like tingling. So pleasant that he wanted to feel it again. What was it? Several conflicting feelings mixed inside him. Rationally, he wanted to throw the plate against the wall, spit out what he’d just eaten, and never return to the matter of eating again. So why was some invisible force pushing him to eat more, to reach for another bite? Why did he feel some kind of deeply rooted satisfaction?

On top of that, it calmed the gnawing pain in his stomach, which he had earlier reluctantly interpreted as a familiar hunger pain. Ungrateful and treacherous body. Demons don’t need to eat. He wasn’t going to indulge in food. He didn’t deserve it. How could he enjoy such decadent pleasure? They starved to death while he stuffed himself.
He didn’t even notice when half the dish disappeared from the plate. It took a moment, but he fell into a routine and did it automatically, no longer needing to remind himself what to do or biting his tongue every five seconds. He took food with the fork, put it in his mouth, chewed, swallowed.
It was silly, and he would never even admit it to himself, especially not to himself, but learning this made him a little proud. How irrational it was to feel triumph over such a simple act. Like someone being proud of having learned to breathe. What nonsense.

“Not so disgusting, huh?” — He was so focused on eating that he almost jumped when Mira spoke to him. He looked at her with daggers, which had the opposite effect, and the girl snorted with laughter.
“Glad you liked it.” — Bobby chimed in with that fake, sweet smile that could fool millions, but not Jinu. Still, he could play that strange politeness game, so he smiled back and replied with a voice that annoyingly sounded melodic, like a broken gramophone — “Thank you for the meal.” — He bowed his head humbly.
For a moment, the man’s eyes showed confusion before he burst into hearty laughter.
“Why so formal? No need to be so official.” — He smiled wider. That damn smile made Jinu’s entire being tremble inside. This guy was dangerous and clever. It’d be better to keep away from him. He was the one who cooked the food that ruined his immortal body and did something to his brain, causing addictive tingling. And what if he poisoned it?

That thought terrified him deeply. No one would suspect anything for the next few hours. He wouldn’t die physically — he wasn’t capable — he’d be sent to the demon realm (which considering his recent betrayal might be worse than death), but the girls… they would die an eternal death, not even knowing they could have prevented it. But honestly, why should he care about them? Let’s hope he didn’t poison them because he really didn’t want to find out what punishment Gwi-Ma had prepared for him.

The girls continued talking to Bobby about something, but honestly, it was so boring that even watching rocks would be more exciting. He wanted to leave, go back to the guest room and… well, he didn’t really know what, because with the whole Saja Boys situation over, he had no purpose anymore, but it was definitely a more interesting activity than sitting here with them.
Another stupid thing: he wasn’t sure if he could get up from the table. Absurd. He should just get up without asking anyone for permission. For God’s sake! He could do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. So why did getting up from the table feel wrong? Why did he feel like he should ask first? Screw it.

He got up quickly and abruptly. This act drew everyone’s eyes to him. An awkward silence fell. Jinu felt awkwardly tall. A strange feeling, like he didn’t belong in the room because he was too big, yet simultaneously wanting to shrink into himself.
Really weird.
“I’m going…” — He croaked uncertainly, gesturing vaguely in the direction of the stairs.

Chapter Text

“I'm going...” He croaked uncertainly, pointing in the vague direction of the stairs. This only doubled the intensity of their stares. They weren't looking at him crookedly or hostile, but the confusion in their eyes was so clear that he felt even more stupid. He should do something, say something.

The whole situation was caused by his strange behavior. Only... he was at a loss for words.

He should move. He stood there like an idiot, painfully aware of every passing second, which only made the awkwardness worse. For the first time in his life, he felt frozen, on the verge of continuing his speech and explaining where he was going. He wanted to say it, but no matter how much he wanted to, he couldn't open his damn mouth. He growled at himself internally. What the hell was wrong with him? Was he broken again? Oh my God, he was broken!

His thoughts were spinning. His gaze was theoretically focused on the girls and Bobbi, but he had long since stopped seeing them—or at least focusing on them. The whole moment lasted about twenty seconds, and that was a few seconds ago at most.
He was suddenly snapped out of his stupor by Zoey's voice. She asked, still confused,

"To the bathroom?"

Jinu looked at her and blinked, needing a pitifully long moment to figure out where he was and what she was talking about. He swallowed the dryness in his throat before answering.

"No, to the room." He pointed toward the stairs again, though rather unconsciously. To the boy's horror, the awkward silence did not end. The girls nodded slightly. Quite synchronously, he registered unconsciously.

He took this as permission to leave. At the same time, he was disgusted with himself for having waited for permission in the first place. He had been humiliated in a single day through his own fault—who else could he blame?

He moved away from the spot where he had been crookedly standing for the last few minutes, one leg tangled in the chair and the other a step away. This position resembled his clumsy attempt to leave. He left the room without looking back.

Considering that just a moment ago he had looked like a lost puppy, he walked with exceptional pride and confidence. His steps were steady and measured, and his back was straight. Rumi watched him leave, feeling slightly uneasy. It was difficult to explain. His presence in their home was unexpected, to say the least.

Just twenty-four hours ago, he was her enemy—the one who had betrayed and deceived her—and now she was sitting at the same table with him. All of this—him and the whole mess with the Idol Awards—was giving her a headache. It was as if someone had condensed a month's worth of events into a single day.

Of course, she forgave him as soon as he rushed to save her. All her anger evaporated in that moment. She believed again that he could be good, that all their conversations were more than just a game. He allowed her to believe again that there was much more to him than meets the eye.

It's just so strange, Jinu looks so out of place in their apartment.

And on top of that, nothing has been resolved. So many things to deal with. No wonder she was exhausted. Mira and Zoey must have felt the same way. Not to mention Bobby, who got caught up in everything very suddenly, without any preparation for the whole thing with Honmoon and the demons.

Jinu also looked uncertain. It was the first time she had seen him so unsettled. Although she had only met him a few weeks ago and didn't know much about him, she was also worried about him.

He was there because of her, and she was responsible for him. She would be responsible for everything he did and everything that happened to him. She wanted to be sure of his loyalty and kindness, but she couldn't be. Subconsciously, his presence stressed her out. She wondered what he might be capable of. The irrational half-percent chance that this was all a scam was still a possibility.

She should watch him, just as a precaution.

“Do you think he's okay?” Zoey's concerned voice broke the silence.

"Think about everything that's happened since yesterday. None of us are okay." Mira's tone was harsher than she intended. Zoey didn't mind, paying attention only to her friend's words.

"I mean, do you think his fever is back? He looked like he was about to pass out." She looked at both her friends and Bobby in turn.

"I don't know," Rumi replied, putting a forkful of food in her mouth. "I'll go check on him later, although I don't think he'll be happy about it." Her words were a bit slurred, but that's to be expected when talking with your mouth full.

"You should rest. I can take care of this,” Bobby interjected. His face wore the familiar smile of a manager who could handle anything. Without him, they would have died long ago. Rumi's eyes softened with gratitude.

"Thank you, Bobby, but I don't know if that's a good idea." She couldn't help but notice how suspiciously Jinu was staring at the man. It was obvious that he didn't trust him. He barely trusted her, even though she had known him the longest.

She didn't feel like testing the demon's trust. They weren't known for being open to others, unless it was their souls.

"He needs some clothes," Mira said suddenly. "He can't wear those women's pants all the time. I'd also like to get my shirt back someday."

Hearing this, Zoey jumped up from her chair with excitement. "That means we can pick out clothes for him!" A high-pitched squeal escaped her lips. "It's like dressing up a doll, only a living one!" Her enthusiasm made Mira and Rumi laugh. "Can we take him shopping today?"

"Ummm, about that." Bobby silenced Zoey's lively speach. "We have to convince the media that he's abroad after the accident at the concert. He can't just show up at a mall with members of a rival band. It would cause an even bigger media storm. It would be best if he didn't leave here for a while."

Zoey's face fell, but she quickly returned to her usual happy expression. "In that case, we'll buy him clothes ourselves!"

"One of us should stay. I don't know about you, but I don't trust him that much." She paused to think for a moment. "Actually, I don't trust him at all." Mira looked meaningfully at Rumi. She didn't want to watch over him. Most of all, she didn't want to miss the opportunity to pick out his clothes.

"I'll stay," Rumi replied almost instinctively while putting the plates in the dishwasher.

Zoey jumped up from her chair at lightning speed and pulled on Mira's sleeve.

"Let's go now!" Mira got up after her, feigning irritation. To some, Zoey might seem a bit much, but no one lightened the mood like she did.

After the girls left, Rumi and Bobby sat in the kitchen for a while, talking about various things. About half an hour later, Bobby announced that he was going to explain the previous day's events to the press. He told Rumi to call him if she needed anything.

Meanwhile, in the guest room, Jinu sat on an obscenely comfortable bed. He hadn't noticed before just how soft it was. Softer than the sofa in the living room, even. The fluffiness of the mattress and bedding began to irritate him. What he had previously considered wonderful now irritated him.

For a split second, he longed for the rice straw mat he had slept on his whole life. However, he quickly dismissed this desire when he remembered how hard and uncomfortable it was, and how it offered no protection from the winter cold coming up from the floor. His family was too poor to have ondol heating, which made winters almost impossible to survive. He, his mother, and his sister slept in many layers of clothing, huddled together.

Except for that one time when their mother fell ill. She didn't want to sleep with them for fear of infecting them. Those were the worst two weeks of his life. He was seventeen and his sister was twelve. He watched his sick mother writhe in pain on the cold floor. She was hungry, emaciated, and on the verge of death. He was sure she would die. She didn't stand a chance.

He hardly slept at all, busy trying to earn money and keep his mother alive. Somehow, he managed to do so with his limited medical knowledge and no access to medication. He made her a compress for her hot forehead by soaking an old, tattered rag in cold water. He covered her with all the clothes he had and slept in just a thin shirt and pants. He gave her as much food as he could and gave her his portions. It was still an incredibly small amount.

During this time, he lost consciousness many times from exhaustion and hunger. Still, he had to save his mother. It might have been more humane to let her die then than to live such a life, but he couldn't let her go. Selfishly, he did not let her go. He had always been selfish.

Back then, he would have given anything for an extra blanket, let alone a warm room and a soft mattress.

So this bed was definitely better, despite the strange feeling of sinking into it and the growing pain in his back. His whole body was eager to do something, anything.

He would gladly get up and do something, but he didn't have anything to do. He couldn't think of anything to do except sit.

Boredom is such an absurd feeling! He should be grateful that he doesn't have anything to do. Everyone should be grateful for boredom.

During his life, he was rarely bored. There were too many worries, and every moment that didn't require action was a rare opportunity to sleep.

He should be happy. So why does it irritate him so much now?

Everything was absurd now anyway. It started with his presence in the hunters' apartment and continued through pain, sleep, and hunger. Now, he was faced with boredom. Yesterday, he was supposed to conquer the world for Gwi-ma and erase his memories. Now, he was sitting here, because of some great luck, broken and pitifully human.

He looked around the room once more and did not change his opinion. The room was pretty, too pretty for his standards and too, how should he put it, sterile. Clean to the point of nausea. There was no detail he could focus on; at home, before going to sleep, he would sometimes stare at the cracks in the clay walls. Scratches winding their way into chaotic patterns. Of course, he only did this when it wasn't dark enough yet, when the hearth hadn't gone out. They couldn't leave him there all night, it would be foolish in a thatched cottage. With the fire, all light and, unfortunately, heat went out. He got used to nights in complete darkness.

Nowadays, the world seemed to have forgotten what darkness was. What a surprise it was for him to see so many lights when he first arrived here with the boys. It didn't seem to make as big an impression on them as it did on him. Maybe on Abbie and Romans, but still not as much as on him. Romans was older than him. -

If demons could count years that way. One of the elements of their existence was the lack of development. They never aged, they never died. Forever frozen in time in a world that was moving forward. - However, he led the life of a high-born nobleman for whom lighting was a natural thing . In Abby's time, lamps were not as common as they are today, yet they were still a natural part of the environment.

For Jinu, the enormity of light, billboards, advertisements on buildings, and screens was so new, so mesmerizing, and at the same time incomprehensible.

He rolled over onto his other side, awkwardly denting one of the absurdly numerous pillows with his elbow. By numerous, he means exactly six. Who needs six pillows? It's not like you can sleep on all of them at once. He glanced at it sideways, as if the inanimate object could understand his irritation. He frowned at the inscription on it: “I am beautiful,” and snorted skeptically; in his opinion, this pillow was not pretty at all. A blue and orange gradient with red polka dots? It was probably the ugliest pillow he had ever seen.

He lay on his back, took the pillow in both hands, and held it over his face.
Slowly, he turned it over, and his eyes fell on another inscription: “Family is not an important thing, IT'S EVERYTHING.”

Great, now the pillow was lecturing him. He got out of bed, still holding it. Okay, he knew he had done wrong. He had regretted it every day for four hundred years. But none ugly, know-it-all pillow that thought it was a guru of life and beauty standards was going to comment on his decisions.
He quickly approached the door behind which, according to his earlier interpretation, was a wardrobe.

He reached for the handle and opened it so vigorously that the black frame creaked, threatening to break the glass. He took one step inside and threw the pillow to the far end of the room. Then he closed the door with the same force with which he had opened it.

At that moment, he heard a quiet knock on the door. Exactly three knocks, followed by a voice that was undoubtedly Rumi's.

“Can I come in?” He looked toward the sound and replied without thinking.

“Yes!” Why did she even ask? It was her house, after all.

The door opened slowly, revealing her in all her glory.

She looked funny, her lips puffed out, her eyelids raised slightly above normal, dressed in loose three-quarter pants with a print of teddy bears and trains. She looked at him with her eyebrows slightly raised, as if in consternation. He also raised his eyebrows, looking at her questioningly. He didn't realize that to an outsider, he would look even more ridiculous than she did.

He stood by the closet door in ill-fitting clothes with tousled hair and a nonchalant expression that clashed with his current appearance. Pale purple bruises, a bandage on his cheek, and a hoarse voice only emphasized the contrast.

Rumi entered the room and stopped by the bed, giving him a fleeting glance before turning away and beginning to lay something out on the nightstand. He hadn't noticed her carrying anything before.

“What is it?” He tilted his head slightly to look at the objects. It was a futile effort, as he couldn't see anything anyway because her braid was blocking his view. Who walks around the house with a braid? Or rather, who wants to make such a long and elaborate braid every morning? Did she sleep in it? Wasn't it uncomfortable? Did she undo it for a bath? Wait... how did she wash her hair if she didn't undo it? Does she even wash it?

Her answer interrupted his much-needed musings on her hairstyle.

“A thermometer, paracetamol, and a bottle of water to drink,” she replied, ignoring him, focused on pulling the small device out of the plastic box.

“What for?” Most people would find this obvious, but Jinu really didn't understand, nor did he know what a thermometer was.

“I came to check your temperature. You had a really high fever yesterday.” She finally turned to face him. He didn't look convinced, but rather offended.

“Demons don't get fevers,” he stated as if it were an obvious fact. His words dripped with condescension, as if he were lecturing a child on the laws of nature.

Rumi rolled her eyes. She didn't feel like dealing with his pride and strange behavior.

“Mhhh, just like they don't eat or sleep?” she muttered under her breath.

“Those were exceptions! And I only ate it out of politeness!” He crossed his arms angrily, pulling up the sleeves of his small T-shirt.

“Whatever you say.” She rubbed her temple with her fingers in a gesture of resignation. “Can you sit down?” She gestured toward the bed.

To her utter surprise, Jinu slowly slid to the floor with a quiet thud, right where he was standing. She blinked slowly, wondering if he was that stupid or if he was doing it to spite her.

“I meant for you to sit on the bed.” She clarified her request, leaving no room for misunderstanding.

“What difference does it make, here or there?” Surprisingly, there was no malice in his tone, only a genuine question.

“It will be more comfortable on the bed,” she replied, clinging to what remained of her composure and common sense.

“I'm comfortable here,” Jinu looked at her innocently. She almost fell for his claim of pure intentions, but he was betrayed by the provocative gleam in his eye and the smile of satisfaction he tried to hide behind a mask of confusion. It became obvious to her that he was provoking her on purpose.

“You're not going to sit on the floor.” Rumi raised her voice slightly in barely concealed irritation, still trying not to lose her composure. That was probably what he was counting on.

“Why?” His question was so simple that it threw her off balance for a moment. She couldn't explain why she couldn't. No words sounded convincing to her. All she had was “it's not proper” or “because i said that .”

“Because it's weird.” She said it with all the confidence she could muster, even though she knew it was a poor answer. She sounded like Celine explaining to her that she couldn't do something without an explanation. It always annoyed her when she was a child.

“It's not my fault you have such a comfortable floor.” He dramatically turned his head in a gesture of indignation, closing his eyes.

“Okay, just- ” she gave in. “Just don't move.”

“You mean I can sit here?” His eyes lit up with a million stars and he had the smile of someone who had won the lottery, not someone who had been allowed to sit on the ground. Overall, he now presented a rather grotesque picture. Pale, beaten, sitting on the floor, grinning. It was hard to miss how waxy his skin looked, how sunken his cheeks seemed. She really started to worry about him; he definitely had a fever.

She didn't bother to answer. She simply walked over to him and stood towering over him. She held out her hand with the device toward him. It took him a moment to realize that he was supposed to take it.

So that's what the thermometer looked like. Its name suggested its function, just as Rumi's words suggested that it would check his temperature. Still, Jinu looked at it closely. This small cuboid with a metal tip and a tiny black screen was supposed to be capable of measuring temperature? He had seen many more impressive technological achievements during his short career as an idol, but he still couldn't help but be amazed.

He looked up, and Rumi was watching him expectantly. She looked as if she was waiting for him to do something. He suddenly felt extremely stupid. He was ashamed to admit it, but he had no idea how to use it.

His eyes widened involuntarily in embarrassment. Pride prevented him from asking, but his eyes kept darting between her and the thermometer.

Thankfully, Rumi understood the problem almost immediately.

“Put it under your arm with the metal part and press the button.” She pointed to a small button below the screen. Jinu nodded and followed her instructions.

The metal felt unpleasantly cold against his skin, causing him to shiver slightly.

“What now?” he asked expectantly.

“We wait until it beeps... Don't move,” she added after a moment, seeing him change the position of his hands.

He wondered when it would happen. Taking his temperature turned out to be more boring than he had thought. He didn't know what he had expected, but probably something more explosive. He had agreed to it only out of boredom, and it turned out that it didn't kill her at all.

Plus, it quickly became apparent that insisting on sitting on the floor might not have been such a great plan. Not that it was particularly bad, but it wasn't the best idea he'd ever had either.

He could at least sit closer to the wall and lean his back against it.

Literally thirty centimeters further away would have prevented the discomfort associated with having to maintain an upright posture. However, it was a trivial problem and a reason for discomfort compared to what he had gone through in hell. In other words, he had been worse off.

And Rumi was standing over him, which was becoming increasingly awkward. He didn't like someone looking down on him.

They sat like that—that is, he sat. She stood with her arms folded—in silence, for God knows how long—which was about half a minute.- Then a quiet sound came from the device. Jinu turned his head toward Rumi, waiting for further instructions.

“Take it out and read the result,” she said in a bored voice, stating the obvious, which was not so obvious to him.

He pulled out the thermometer very slowly and gently, afraid that he would break something if he did it too quickly.

“Thirty-eight point one,” he said automatically, not even trying to figure out what the number meant. After a moment, he added in a more confused voice, “Is that good or bad?”

"Bad. Go to bed." He swallowed nervously. He had no intention of arguing. Her agitated tone frightened him a little. His only experience with illness was fighting for his life in pain. In his day, illness usually meant death, at least for the poor.

Was he dying? His sudden need to eat and sleep must have something to do with it. He was broken. It would be a lie to say he wasn't afraid.

He slowly got up and walked over to the bed. Rumi followed him uncertainly. Her gaze followed him anxiously, as if he were about to collapse at any moment. It would probably annoy him if he weren't so worried.

He was slowly beginning to think that he was doomed to this bed. How ironic, he had wanted so badly to find a reason to get up, and when he found one, he returned after only a few minutes.

Once he was seated, she handed him a bottle of water and two white pills.
"Swallow them and drink this," she instructed. He looked at the pills suspiciously but obeyed anyway.
The water washed away the dryness in his throat that he had been ignoring. He hadn't drunk anything since the performance. It was a tragically short time compared to the long periods he had spent without any liquid in his mouth.

“How are you feeling?” What a ridiculous question. How was he supposed to answer that? How was he feeling in relation to what? His supposed fever? What had happened? Where he was? What answer did she expect?

“Never better.” He forced a bright smile that made his facial muscles ache. Rumi nodded, and silence fell between them, broken only by the rhythmic tapping of her fingers on the bed frame.

“Hey?” he asked, playing with his hands. In response, he heard only a noncommittal “mhhhhh,” which he took as a sign to continue.

“What was that? You know, that food mush.” He had never seen it before, even during his stay at the palace. The girl looked at him in surprise, and a spark of laughter appeared in her eyes.

“Potato puree.” That didn't clarify much and raised another question, “What is a potato?”, but he pretended to understand everything.

“And what's this? I mean, these little forks.” For some reason, hearing this, Rumi burst out laughing.

- A fork. It would be uncomfortable to eat puree with chopsticks. He still had no idea why it amused her so much, but it seemed as if his question had dispelled the tense atmosphere, so it didn't matter.

He sank deeper into the warm duvet and turned sideways toward her so that he was now looking at her face.

“Mira and Zoey went to buy you some clothes. When they come back, you can take a bath and get changed.”

“Sure,” he mumbled into his pillow.

“You should rest.” With those words, she left, leaving him alone in this perfect, clean room.

He focused his gaze on the wall. So smooth. He really missed that old cracked clay.

He closed his eyes and fell asleep at that very moment.