Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Eight Years Ago: 

Rumi never had many friends. Actually, she didn’t have any – period.

Just because she was homeschooled didn’t make her weird. Right?

Now that she’s moved across the country to live with her mom’s friend, Celine, and actually has to go to school, she has no idea how to talk to people. Every time she’s called on in class, she starts sweating and turns bright red – so how is she supposed to make friends her age? She’d much rather spend time at the nursing home, listening to the fun grandmas tell stories about gambling in bars and running from the cops. Anything to take her mind off school. And off her mom.

Coming to California was supposed to be a semi – new start. Celine had promised Rumi’s mom she would take her in before the cancer got too bad. The only problem? Celine had moved across the country, and Rumi had no other relatives. She never wanted to spend her time worrying about her dying mother while navigating the animal kingdom that is a California public high school – but here she is.

Classes are easy enough, especially when she sits in the back where the teacher doesn’t call on her. But lunchtime is a different story. It’s a fight to the death among the quiet kids for the best table in the library – the one where no one looks at you funny for eating alone or complains about the smell of your food.

Rumi usually wins the table, but today her teacher kept her behind to say she needs to participate more if she wants her grade to go up.

Bullshit.

Looking for a new spot to eat, Rumi drifts past the band room. The hallway is empty: no one coming, no one leaving. Ghost town. Perfect.

She grabs the semi-rusty handle and yanks the door open with slight difficulty. The room is set up like an orchestra: a music stand at the front, seven rows of chairs fanning out in a half-circle. Behind the stand sits a small stage with drums, guitars, and a piano. The walls are covered in soundproof foam, making it blissfully silent. Just how she likes it.

Rumi smiles to herself and sits on the stage, leaning against the far wall. She opens her lunch and settles in on the hardwood. Just as she’s about to dive into her tteokbokki, the door swings open with a metallic creak.

In walks a tall girl with pink hair, radiating confidence and don’t-mess-with-me energy. Rumi is instantly jealous – and in awe. She wishes she could command a room like that. Instead, people barely notice her. But this girl? She turned heads and made people look away out of fear. She was beautifully dangerous.

And Rumi was infatuated.

The way the girl walked, the confidence in her step, the way she looked like she wanted to murder Rumi gave her butterflies.

Wait. Murder me?

“What are you doing in my lunch spot?”

Rumi freezes like a deer in headlights. She’s terrified – but even more in love with the sound of this girl’s voice. Low and smooth, with a feminine edge. A lesbian’s worst nightmare and best wet-dream.

“...Oh! I – well, I needed a place to, you know, eat?”

The girl stares at her. “And you couldn’t have chosen any of the other four empty rooms in this hallway?”

Rumi flushes. “No?”

The girl rolls her eyes and sits down on the floor. “Are you telling me or asking?”

Rumi watches her sit gracefully, like she’s been trained to do it all her life. The girl looks at her expectantly.

“Um. Yes?”

She sighs. “We’ll work on it.”

They sit in silence for a moment, just staring at each other.

“I’m Rumi,” she blurts, cracking under the weight of the girl’s gaze.

“Mira. And you should breathe before you pass out,” Mira says, opening her lunch.

Oh right. Breathing. That’s a thing.

They sit quietly for a while, enjoying the peace, until commotion fills the hallway – running footsteps, laughter, voices. The sounds echo against the cheap tile floors. They try to ignore it, but then the door bursts open.

Rumi jumps as a shorter girl with black hair runs inside and slams the door behind her. She leans against it, notebook in hand, gulping down air. Voices and footsteps rush past in the hall, then fade. She lets out a deep sigh of relief and turns around.

Rumi is struck again. If this many pretty girls were at public school, I should’ve enrolled years ago.

Where Mira is elegantly dangerous, this girl is charmingly wild – and somehow, that makes her the scariest one in the room. She straightens, then freezes when she sees Rumi and Mira. Mira just turns back to her food.

“You lose ’em?” Mira asks, disinterested.

The new girl clears her throat and approaches hesitantly. Up close, Rumi notices she’s flushed. Her hair started neat and tidy this morning, but now flyaways stick out at odd angles, and there’s a red mark on her cheek worse than the rest of her flushed face. Her eyes are a little glassy, but she manages a grin.

“When I’m running for my baby’s life, you sure bet I lost them.”

She plops down ungracefully, making the stage bounce.

“The name’s Zoey!”

Zoey sticks out her hand to Rumi, who takes it. “I’m Rumi, and that’s Mira.”

Mira makes a noise of acknowledgment while continuing to eat, like Zoey didn’t just scare the shit out of them.

“It’s nice to meet you both! Mind if I hang out here for a bit?” She’s already halfway through unpacking her lunch.

Rumi looks at Mira for an answer. “Um… sure. But this is Mira’s spot, not mine.”

Mira looks up at the two of them. “You already hijacked my lunch spot. What’s another one?”

Her deadpan delivery has no bite. Zoey and Rumi look at each other and shrug. Guess that’s a yes.

“I fear I’ll regret asking this,” Mira says, “but why were they chasing you?”

Zoey tenses. “They wanted my songbook.”

Rumi raises her eyebrows while Mira gives Zoey a piercing look.

“Can I see?” Rumi blurts.

Zoey’s head snaps toward her, making Rumi jump.

“I like to sing,” Rumi quickly adds, as if that explains everything.

Zoey’s mouth forms a surprised “O.” She hands Rumi a small book, opened to a doodled, lyric-filled page. Rumi takes it like it’s made of glass.

She’s always loved singing. When she was younger, her mom would take her to the bars where she and her friends performed. Rumi grew up surrounded by music and picked up a few instruments along the way. When her mom was diagnosed with cancer, Rumi would sing to her during chemo. When her mom stopped treatment, she’d sing to her before bed.

Everyone says Rumi was sent to live with Celine because her mom couldn’t take care of her anymore. But Rumi can take care of herself, her mom just didn’t want Rumi to see her slowly die.

Rumi looks at the lyrics, and instantly a melody starts swirling in her head. She hums softly, almost unconsciously.

Zoey practically launches herself at her. “How did you come up with that!?”

Rumi blinks, startled. “What?”

“You were humming a tune. Catchy,” Mira says for her.

“Oh. I didn’t even realize.” Rumi blushes and hands the notebook back. Zoey looks at her, awe-struck, then gasps dramatically.

“We should start a band!” she shouts, practically vibrating.

Mira opens her mouth to object, but Zoey barrels on. “I can play guitar,” she points at Rumi, “you can sing and make melodies and stuff,” then points at Mira, “and you can play the drums!”

Mira looks stunned. “How do you know I can play drums?”

Zoey wiggles a finger at her. “Don’t think I don’t hear you jamming out during lunch.”

Now it’s Mira’s turn to blush.

“But we still need a bassist and another singer.”

Rumi clears her throat. “I play bass.”

Zoey gasps again, like a fish tossed back into water. “Yes.”

“I didn’t agree to this,” Mira says flatly.

“You have no choice. We’re lunch besties now,” Zoey declares, digging into her food.

Mira cracks a small smile – her first of the day.

And Rumi is, for the first time, thankful she had nowhere else to sit for lunch.

***

Six Years Ago:

Over the past two years, Mira and Zoey grew on Rumi – fast. Zoey, with her chaotic charm, and Mira, with her quiet steadiness, became her anchors. It turned out the “band room” they’d been eating lunch in was actually just a storage space for the real band room on the other side of campus. When Zoey discovered this after chatting with a few band kids, she was ecstatic. Soon, the three of them were staying after school to practice. And they sounded damn good.

A few weeks of figuring each other out turned into a rhythm. Four months in, a teacher overheard them and offered a weekend gig at a local pub. They didn’t hesitate to say yes. Since then, every Friday and Saturday night, they’ve drawn loyal crowds and soaked in every moment of it.

But even as the band thrived, Rumi’s thoughts often drifted to her mom. They talked on the phone every day, and while her mom tried to sound upbeat, Rumi could hear the truth between the pauses – time was slipping away. Quietly, she began saving for a plane ticket to New York. She wanted to surprise her mom and spend real time with her while she still could.

By the start of senior year, the trio had been playing together for a year and a half. They were closer than ever, a family of their own making.

It’s 4 p.m. on a Saturday when Rumi, Zoey, and Mira arrive at the pub to set up. The place is warm and a little quirky – green walls covered in photos, mismatched glass lamps hanging from the ceiling, and big front windows that open wide in the summer to let in the breeze. The stage sits toward the back, softly lit and cozy, almost like a coffeehouse. But once 9 p.m. hits, the lights shift and the bar transforms into a buzzing, colorful club.

Onstage sits their collection of instruments: an electric piano they’ve half-taught themselves to play, acoustic and electric guitars, Mira’s drums, Rumi’s bass, and a tambourine Zoey won at a carnival. Rumi adjusts the microphones while Zoey tunes her guitar and Mira sets up the speakers. The place is still quiet, with staff moving around, prepping for opening.

“Did you know turtle sex is determined by nest temperature during incubation?” Zoey says suddenly, plucking a string with too much enthusiasm.

Mira’s mouth quirks into the smallest grin. Rumi plays along. “Is that for all turtles?”

“Nope, only some species. It’s called ‘Temperature-Dependent Sex Determination.’ But it’s most turtles.”

“Fascinating,” Mira hums, crouched in front of the speaker.

Zoey grins mischievously, strums loudly through the amp right next to Mira, and bursts out laughing when Mira jumps. Rumi just shakes her head, smiling at the familiar chaos.

She heads to the bar for a glass of water. John, the bartender, pours her one and leans in. “I’ve got a friend coming tonight – big shot music producer.”

“Oh yeah? Then what are you doing behind a bar?” Rumi teases.

John laughs. “This is my night gig. I work security at his label during the day.”

Rumi salutes playfully. “Noted. I’ll keep an eye out.”

As customers trickle in, the girls start the night with instrumentals – John’s request. Between sets, they grab quick bites from the kitchen. Zoey loves running back there to joke with the kitchen staff, claiming “the chaos reminds her of her brain.” It always makes Mira laugh, and every time, Rumi feels that familiar flutter in her chest.

Before they know it, 9 p.m. hits. The kitchen shuts down, the bar fills up, and the girls gradually switch to their full set. An hour later, the place is packed.

John slips over to Rumi after a song. “My friend’s in the back,” he whispers. “He wants to hear what you’ve got.”

Rumi nods and turns to her bandmates. “Creepy guy in the corner’s a music producer. Let’s give him a show.”

Mira smirks. Zoey practically vibrates with excitement. Rumi steps up to the mic. “Alright, everyone – if you’re just getting here, welcome. And if you’ve been here all night, buckle up. This next one’s a change of pace.”

Cheers and whoops are heard throughout the crowd. Mira taps her drumsticks together, Zoey strums a sharp chord, and the piano comes in slow and steady. Mira shakes the tambourine, and then Rumi starts to sing – her voice low, raspy, magnetic:

Something's got a hold of me lately
No, I don't know myself anymore
Feels like the walls are all closing in
And the devil's knocking at my door, whoa

The room goes still. By the next verse, the crowd is hooked.

Out of my mind, how many times
Did I tell you I'm no good at being alone?
Yeah, it's taking a toll on me, trying my best to keep
From tearing the skin off my bones, don't you know

The way she sings holds everyone captive – including Mira and Zoey. Sung by a man, it would’ve been edgy. Sung by an alto woman, it’s sensually mesmerizing.

I lose control
When you're not next to me
I'm falling apart right in front of you, can't you see?

Cheers ripple through the bar as Mira and Zoey layer harmonies behind Rumi. It’s electric.

She turns toward them, smiling into the mic as they launch into the next verse:

Problematic
Problem is I want your body like a fiend, like a bad habit
Bad habit's hard to break when I'm with you
Yeah, I know, I could do it on my own, but I want
That real full moon black magic and it takes two

Rumi sings to Zoey and Mira. Purple light bounces off Zoey’s face as she strums her guitar. She’s a free presence – completely in her own world, yet perfectly in tune with Rumi and Mira. Her wildness is contagious.

And Mira – she sits behind the drums, steady as always. Nodding along to the rhythm she creates, the heartbeat of the group: constant, grounding. But every so often, that steadiness flares into something unexpectedly, wildly beautiful.

To Rumi, they’re the most perfect people in the world. Even with their flaws and insecurities, they’re perfect in her eyes.

Something shifts in that moment – a spark between them, almost tangible. Some would say you had to be there. Others would swear the whole room felt it. Either way, it’s real.

The song ends to thunderous applause. One song turns into two, then ten. They play until three in the morning – sweaty, exhausted, and beaming.

As they pack up, a tall bald man in a gray suit approaches. One hand in his pocket, the other holding a drink. “Name’s Elijah. Producer at Pulse Studios. You girls were fantastic. I’d love to give you my card – just having one of you on my roster would be amazing.”

He hands them each a business card and leaves. But the ghost of his presence is still felt. For a beat, no one speaks.

“Did that just happen?” Rumi whispers, staring at the card.

Zoey lets out a glass-shattering squeal and pulls both girls into a tight hug. “We’re going to be famous!” she yells, bouncing on her toes. The sound of the crowd still buzzes in their ears as they weave through the bar, gathering their instruments and cases. A few lingering patrons clap them on the back as they pass. 

Outside, the cool night air hits their flushed faces. They pile their gear by the van, laughing breathlessly. John steps out the back door a moment later, grinning as he hands over their earnings. Rumi takes the envelope, splits the cash between them, her heart still pounding from the night’s high.

But the excitement is quickly overshadowed. She checks her phone – ten missed calls from Celine. Her stomach drops. She excuses herself and calls back.

“Rumi?” Celine’s voice is panicked.

“Celine? What’s wrong – ”

“Rumi. It’s your mom – ”

Everything goes silent. The rest of Celine’s words don’t land. Mira and Zoey notice and rush to her side.

“Rumi?” Mira’s voice cuts through the fog.

Rumi turns, devastated. “I need to get home. It’s an emergency.”

She rushes away from the girls, heart hammering, the world narrowing to a single point: Celine. She needs to get to Celine’s house, to hear the words clearly, to make sense of the ones that were lost beneath the high-pitched ringing in her ears.

She runs the six blocks from the pub, lungs burning, legs moving on instinct. When she bursts through the front door, Celine is at the kitchen table. Her eyes are rimmed in red, her phone resting in front of her like a weight she can’t lift. She looks up and meets Rumi’s gaze. Slowly, she shakes her head.

No. It’s too soon.

She was supposed to be okay until Rumi got there. Rumi was supposed to see her for the first time in two years. She’d finally saved enough for a ticket back to New York. She was supposed to leave tomorrow.

I was supposed to have time.

Rumi’s vision blurs as she stumbles toward Celine. She knows this isn’t Celine’s fault – that her mom made the choice to send her away – but somewhere deep inside, a quiet, furious part of her wants to blame someone. For not being there. For not getting one last moment.

They sit in silence, side by side, mourning a mother and a friend.

Her phone buzzes against the table.

Mira: Checking in.
Zoey: Everything okay, Ru?

Rumi sets the phone down without responding. She can’t. Not now.

The next few days pass in a haze. She flies to New York, back to the apartment she grew up in, back to the walls that still hold her mother’s laughter in their cracks. The girls text and call, but she doesn’t have the energy to answer.

The kitchen where they used to do homework sits quiet and cold. Her mom’s bedroom is frozen in time – an unmade bed, a nightstand half-lived-in, half-abandoned.

Rumi opens the jewelry box left for her. Inside lie both sets of wedding rings and her father’s dog tags. She stares at them, the weight of history pressing down on her chest.

She never met her father. He died in a car accident while on leave from the Army. But she knows him through her mother’s stories: the quiet listener who fell for the girl onstage. One night he’d been at the bar where her mom was performing. After her set, he asked for her number and promptly spilled his drink on her. Her mom always said that was the moment she knew – especially after he bought her a replacement shirt so ugly she shoved it into the darkest corner of her closet not having the heart to return it – or wear it.

Rumi runs her fingers over the wedding rings, her throat tightening. She wishes she had more time. Fewer regrets. She wishes she’d been home for more dinners, that she hadn’t been so far away. She wishes she’d called more.

And worst of all, she feels guilty for the quiet, desperate moments when she’d wished her mom’s suffering would just end.

Did the universe hear me? Did it listen? Did I kill mom?

She wipes her tears, sniffling, and picks up the dog tags. They’re cool against her palm, foreign and familiar all at once.

No one would care if she left. Celine didn’t even want her really. And the thought of singing again – of stepping on a stage without the sound of her mother’s voice echoing somewhere in the back of her mind – feels unbearable.

She wants to disappear.

With quiet resolve, Rumi pockets the dog tags, steps out of the apartment, and walks into the city night.

A week later, with grief still raw and clinging to her like a second skin, she boards a flight to boot camp. The world blurs at the edges, grief dulling everything it touches. Mira and Zoey flicker in her mind – two brilliant lights she once orbited, now distant stars fading behind a storm. Remembering hurts too much, so she lets the haze swallow them.

The airport hums with life, but inside, she is quiet. Dim. As if someone has turned the world’s brightness down and left her standing in the half-light. So she signs away the pieces of herself, trades home for discipline, and lets the military become the vessel for her escape.

She doesn’t look back – not because she doesn’t care, but because looking back might break her completely.

And somewhere, buried beneath the noise and numbness, a fragile thought whispers that maybe she won’t come home – and a quiet part of her is at peace with that.

Chapter Text

One Year Ago:

If you told Rumi five years ago that she’d be in a boat with five men, speeding down a random river halfway around the world at seventy miles per hour, clutching a machine gun, she’d have told you you were smoking something – and probably asked for a hit of whatever it was.

Yet here she is: heart pounding, wind whipping her shemagh against her face, still wondering if she’s completely lost her mind.

Rumi stands at the front of the boat, eyes scanning the darkness for threats. Around her are the men she’s come to trust with her life: Baby, Abby, Romance, Mystery, and Jinu.

She adjusts the wind goggles perched on top of her shemagh, draws a steadying breath, and tightens her gloved hands around the gun’s handles. God, I hope this goes smoothly.

Baby eases the boat into a small wake – a sharp contrast to the aggressive turns he made earlier, weaving around bends of shrubbery and patches of land. This mission is supposed to be simple: get in, extract the team, get out, and make no noise.

The moonlight glints off the water as they near their pickup point. Every sound – the rustle of leaves, the croak of distant frogs – feels amplified, foreign. Rumi’s chest tightens.

A tug on her kevlar pulls her back to the present. She turns to see Abby – a giant of a man with an unshakable love for the color pink – grinning down at her.

“I think I’d feel better if you held me as tight as you’re holding those handles,” he teases.

Rumi rolls her eyes at his antics, as Romance chimes in, “Hey hey hey, when we get back, I call dips on Rumi.”

Abby chuckles with Romance. “You’re all insufferable,” Rumi says, ignoring them.

Jinu walks up and stands next to Baby. “Relax, gentlemen. We all know we bat for the same team.”

Baby scoffs, steadily navigating the river. “And she still gets more play than all of us.”

Rumi smiles, “damn right.”

Mystery, who is sitting in the back, perks up behind them all. “Extraction point, twelve o’clock.”

The six of them grow silent, keeping watch as their eyes sweep the perimeter. As they near the edge of the dense canopy, Rumi spots movement. She steadies her crosshairs on the shadows ahead while the team braces. Thirty seconds later, a figure emerges from the foliage and waves them down.

“That’s our mark,” Mystery says as Baby brings the boat close enough for the three men to board.

It’s always awkward picking up a new group. Rumi’s team is a glorified taxi service for special operation teams – until things get messy. That’s the fun stuff.

When Rumi first joined the Navy, it wasn’t out of duty or ambition – she just wanted to run. Run from the memories, from the silence, from herself. But against all odds, somewhere between the chaos and the gunmetal gray mornings, she found a family.

And she was good at what she did – so good, in fact, that she was chosen to be a part of an elite unit that only works in the shadows, called the Saja Unit. A unit that is a myth among fellow soldiers, seen only at night. Never during the day.

The three men board their boat quietly, sitting in the back where Jinu pointed. No words are exchanged as Baby turns the boat around, and Rumi stays gunner. As the boat turns, she sees more movement in the treeline – and the glint of a gun in the moonlight.

Rumi reacts instantly. “Movement, three o’clock,” she alerts, pointing her crosshairs as Baby amps up the speed. Rumi stays steady at the head of the boat while the rest of her team ducks to avoid fire. 

She fires a quick burst for cover while Baby pushes the boat to top speed to get everyone out safely. The sharp twists and turns Baby executes are why he is always their first pick as captain.

The boat rounds the bend. They’re in the clear. Rumi turns to the shimmering blue waves behind them. For a second, she remembers the beaches in California, Mira and Zoey teasing her into the water. No. Stop. Bad Rumi. 

Five years of longing, of missing them – it’s still sharp.

The boat stays silent for another twenty minutes, until one of the new guys starts talking. “So this is the famous Saja Unit?” He looks at all six of them expectantly.

The guy is short but carries a lot of mass. Marine. Not a sailor. His uniform is forest green with brown sprinkled in. Similar to Rumi’s unit’s, but tonight they are in all black, making the three men stand out against their dark tactical uniforms.

The man next to him laughs. “And you have a girl on the team.”

Ah. Here we go. Sexism. Military’s number one value. Rumi has never met so many misogynists. If she had a penny for every time she was underestimated, she could buy Mira a new drum set. No. Stop.

“A girl who can kick your ass in five different ways,” Jinu pipes up in her defense.

Rumi smiles under her shemagh and turns to look out the front of the boat again.

The shorter Marine laughs. “Yeah? I’d pay to see that ass in motion.”

Abby jumps up from where he is sitting and grabs the Marine by the collar. “Say that again.” It’s not a demand – it’s a threat and a promise.

The Marine holds up his hands. “Whoa! Hey! No disrespect. I just wanted to admire a pretty face.”

Romance rolls his eyes. “You can’t even see her face, you horndog.”

The Marine smiles. “Anyone who can handle a gun like that is attractive in my book.”

“Ew,” Rumi softly says to herself, as she hears the sound of flesh meeting flesh and a yelp come from the Marine. She whips around, and her boys are all facing away from the newcomer, who is holding his nose – but she sees the faint motion of Mystery shaking out his hand.

Rumi studies them for a long moment, then slowly lifts her gaze to the night sky. The stars glimmer with a brilliance she never noticed in the City – so vast, so indifferent, so eternal. Each twinkle feels like a whisper, a reminder that her parents are watching from somewhere beyond, that Mira and Zoey are seeing the same moon, miles away, living lives she’s no longer part of.

Five years. Five long years since that phone call that shattered everything she thought she knew about her life. The week she dropped out of high school, packed her bags, and vanished into the Navy. The world she left behind has gone on without her, and she hasn’t spoken to anyone from it since.

When she’s on leave, she doesn’t go home. The streets, the rooms, the familiar voices – all of it feels like a memory that doesn’t belong to her anymore. She keeps herself on base, volunteering at local hospitals, trying to do something good in a world that keeps moving past the girl she used to be.

And still, sometimes, she wonders: what has changed back home in these five years? What would she see if she walked through her old neighborhood, if she opened the door she once called home?

Rumi is dragged out of her thoughts as the boat stops at the dock. She watches the three Marines scramble off, while her unit stays behind to tidy the boat.

“Hey Jinu. I need some help with the motor,” Abby calls, stuck behind the dual motor of the boat. 

“Coming,” Jinu makes his way to the back of the boat. 

Rumi steps off behind Mystery, Baby, and Romance, keeping an eye on Jinu and Abby as they wrestle with the hose. It’s almost painful to watch. Abby seems to agree, because with a mischievous grin, he shoves Jinu into the water. Jinu’s high-pitched scream and the splash that follows set the whole group laughing.

Jinu pops up faster than she expected. “You’re looking a little scared over there,” she jokes.

Rumi smiles, the tension in her shoulders loosening as he scrambles out of the water. “One time I saw something in there, and I don’t even know if it was from this planet. Not dying any time soon.”

Jinu flops dramatically onto the ground as the others laugh, the sound a rare bubble of lightness in their constant high-stakes lives. Rumi helps him up and falls in step behind the group, letting the warmth of their laughter chase away the lingering chill.

Jinu bumps her shoulder lightly. “You doing okay? You seem a bit off.”

“Yeah. I’m okay. It’s my mom’s birthday tomorrow…so I guess I’m just thinking,” Rumi admits, the words tasting heavy on her tongue.

Jinu hums softly, his voice carrying quiet understanding. “Well…your mom would be astonished at the badass she raised. How about a little fire tonight? To celebrate her.”

Rumi hesitates, a lump forming in her throat. The boys had discovered she could sing about a year into their time together. Pinned down, bleeding, and waiting for air support, Mystery had asked for her voice to soothe them. At first, she had refused – but once she hummed, it was as if a bridge formed between them and something lost, something warm and familiar. Since then, they’d never let her stop. It became a thread connecting her to home, to memory, to love.

Even though Rumi had promised herself she would never sing after her mom passed, the boys had found a way to honor her, letting her grief breathe in melody instead of silence, letting it turn into something shared, something alive.

“Um…okay,” she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper, yet filled with the weight of memory. Jinu jumps ahead in excitement, racing to the others as they pass through the front door of their base tent. Rumi lingers for a moment, tilting her head toward the sky. The stars twinkle brighter here than anywhere she’s ever known, and for a heartbeat, she feels her mother watching, steady and proud, her memory stitched into the night.

Then, with a deep breath, Rumi walks inside – finally home.

The base tent is open, but it has a certain cozy charm. On one side, the cots where they all sleep stretch across the floor – privacy is nonexistent, but comfort is found in the closeness.

On the other side lies the lounge area: a worn-out couch faces an old TV someone had discarded on the street, with a coffee table between them that teeters precariously if you even breathe too hard.

Next to the lounge is a makeshift kitchen: a portable hot plate, a microwave perched on a plastic table, and a temperamental refrigerator that only works reliably between 8 AM and 11 AM. At the far back are the communal bathrooms. Their unit has its own, thankfully – but with no stalls, and Rumi happens to be the only girl. Fantastic.

In this place, everything is shared – space, food, laughter, burdens. She’s the only girl, but here, she’s not different. Here, she’s family.

“Dibs on shower first,” Rumi calls, earning a groan from Jinu.

“I’m the one soaking!” he yells.

“That’s what she said,” Baby chimes in, as Mystery throws a pillow from the couch at his comment.

Rumi rolls her eyes, grabs her towel hanging on a makeshift hook near her hard but oddly comfortable cot, and heads into the bathroom.

When Rumi was first deployed, adjusting to life in the military – and recognizing the person she had become – was a struggle. Her first day with the unit, her and Baby went on a run. They started talking, and she discovered he had a tattoo gun and was a brilliant artist. Rumi decided to take advantage of that. Who was going to tell her no, when her whole family was gone?

She walks into the bathroom, fully open, the only barrier between the toilets and the showers a short wall that barely reaches just above her hips. She starts to strip, placing her clean clothes and dirty clothes on the wall to keep them from getting sprayed. She pauses for a moment to study herself in the mirror.

The baby fat from high school is gone, replaced by defined abs and sharp lines. Rumi has always been fit, but after working out with Abby, her body is toned and muscular. Tattoos run up her arms in a patchwork pattern, trailing up the base of her neck, leaving glimpses of uninked skin. And then there are the scars – silent markers of five years with the Saja Unit, each one a story, a price paid. The tattoos almost honor those scars, weaving her experiences into her skin.

For a moment, Rumi admires herself. Learning to love herself again has been a journey, one her boys have supported every step of the way. She quickly finishes her shower and heads back into the barracks – only to be met with an unusual silence. They must be outside.

Stepping around the corner, she hears laughter and the sizzle of a grill, even at 3 AM.

They really do have a weird schedule. 

There, around a fire, the boys are sitting casually, out of combat gear, in sweatpants or jeans and t-shirts, while Romance flips burgers with practiced ease.

“Ah! There she is,” Jinu shouts.

Rumi smiles and walks toward them. “Are we really cooking burgers at 3 AM?”

“It’s the best time to cook burgers!” Romance shouts over his shoulder.

She turns to smile at him. As she steps closer to the fire, Rumi notices Jinu’s guitar – the one his sister sent him. He’d told her once that his sister used to drum, that she’s the reason he ever picked up a guitar in the first place.

Rumi had tried asking about her a few times, curious what kind of person could inspire someone like Jinu. But he always dodged the question with a grin – that quiet, secret kind of smile that never quite reached his eyes.

“Maybe you’ve met her,” he’d said once, tone teasing, though Rumi couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

She’d laughed it off, tossing a pinecone off the forest floor and into the fire. “Small world, huh?”

“Smaller than you think,” Jinu murmured, strumming a few lazy chords.

“You going to sing us a song, Rumba?” Abby asks, using the nickname he gave her after they caught her always tidying up after them.

“Just give me the guitar and close your mouth,” Rumi replies. Abby mockingly puts a hand on his chest, looking offended.

Rumi takes the instrument and settles in, the worn wood warm against her hands. The others wait in silence, breaths held, as if the world itself is leaning in to listen. She begins to strum a soft, trembling tune:

I took my love, I took it down
Climbed a mountain and I turned around
And I saw my reflection in the snow-covered hills
'Til the landslide brought me down…

The firelight dances across her face and the strings, casting shadows that feel like memories. Her melody is both sad and quietly content, carrying the ache of loss but also a fragile thread of hope.

Oh, mirror in the sky, what is love?
Can the child within my heart rise above?
Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?

The boys nod along, quietly absorbing each note. They know how tightly she clings to the fragments of her past, the parts she can never reclaim. They also know, because Jinu mentioned it, that tomorrow is her mother’s birthday. The song lands heavier in that context, each line a delicate tribute.

Well, I’ve been afraid of changin’
'Cause I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I’m getting older too…

Her voice cracks on the last line, raw and unpolished, but she doesn’t stop. She doesn’t need to. This song is for her mother – a way to let grief and love coexist, to keep growing even without her. Each strum is a heartbeat, each chord a memory. 

Life moves forward, relentless, yet the ache of missing that innocent, unguarded part of herself remains, tender and persistent.

And beneath it all, there’s a quieter ache – the unfinished words to Mira and Zoey that she never found the courage to say, the way she left things hanging in the air like a door she can’t reopen. She loves them more than she ever said out loud. If they were here, she hopes they’d understand.

Rumi plays on as Mystery drifts into rhythm with soft drumming, grounding her. She allows herself a small smile – he’s always known how to be there for her without words, steady and quiet, a presence she can rely on. 

Romance appears with the burgers, carrying the scent of warmth and home, but he doesn’t pass them out yet. He sits, silent, listening – part of the circle, part of the comfort, part of the world she’s built that isn’t broken.

And if you see my reflection in the snow-covered hills
Well, the landslide will bring it down
Oh-oh, the landslide bring it down…

The song ends, and a heavy, beautiful silence settles over them. The ring of Rumi’s voice lingers in the air, warm and fragile, and no one dares disturb it – except Abby.

“Well, that was fucking depressing.”

Rumi laughs softly, and Baby nudges Abby in the shoulder. Romance takes that as his cue to start passing out the food. Everyone eats quietly, the simple act of sharing a meal enough after so many high-stress missions, words unnecessary.

As the morning unfolds, the six of them sit watching the sunrise, Mystery and Rumi trading soft melodies back and forth, like the first tentative rays of sunlight brushing over the horizon. Rumi breathes in the moment, content. For the first time in years, she feels whole. Broken, yes – but surrounded by people who have chosen life together, who are choosing each other. Damaged souls, finding refuge in one another.

Once the sun climbs fully, they take a brief nap, knowing duty could call at any moment. The day passes peacefully. Eventually, Baby ends up making dinner, having argued with Romance over what to cook – but even their bickering feels like home.

They finish their meal just as the sun dips below the horizon, painting the sky in streaks of gold and crimson. The quiet is broken by the sharp beep of a pager – an assignment.

Baby jumps to his feet and sprints out to retrieve the mission from their Commanding Officer. Rumi moves to her cot, methodical and practiced, gathering her helmet, kevlar, small first aid kit, and rifle. She pulls on her tactical pants, jacket, and shemagh, then throws her body armor on top. Gloves in hand, she slides them on and falls into step with the boys.

As they make their way toward the boat, Baby begins briefing them on the details, his voice steady but carrying the weight of the night ahead.

“Operation Iron Veil. Alpha and Bravo teams will breach the Norland Industrial Complex to seize a high-value target believed to be coordinating drone strikes.”

The team boards the boat as Jinu and Romance unhook it from the dock.

“Air support will provide overwatch, but comms are expected to be jammed within the sector. All units are to be in position by 2330 for final briefing.”

“What do they need from us?” Mystery asks.

Baby pulls a map from his pocket. “They need extraction. There’s a body of water behind the facility, and enough trees to cover us while we wait around the bend.”

“How many are we extracting?” Rumi asks, her mind immediately calculating the risk – how many could get hurt.

“Two. Sniper team. Army Spec Ops.” Baby folds the map and tucks it away.

The boat engine roars to life as Baby hits full throttle. Jinu takes the gunner post today, swapping out after every mission. Rumi stands next to Baby, gripping the bar on the control panel, steadying herself against the force of the engine. Abby grabs the same bar, his presence next to her grounding her even as the river blurs past.

“You look like the grim reaper with that thing,” he says.

Before Rumi can answer, Baby turns the wheel and carves a sharp turn; salt water slaps into Abby’s face. “That’s why I wear it.” 

Abby sputters, coughing, while Romance laughs behind him.

The ride to the bend stretches on for about an hour. When Baby eases the throttle, the unit moves with practiced quiet, preparing for a long watch. Baby crouches in the middle, the map spread on his knee; everyone forms a loose circle around him, backs turned inward, eyes on the dark perimeter.

“Sniper should be at the top of the hill northeast from our position. We wait for the signal and we go in. No one leaves this boat. Do you understand?” Baby looks up, one eye on each of them.

“Copy.” “Understood.” Answers come soft and clipped from the five.

Thirty minutes into the watch, gunshots cut the night. The radio squawks: “Saja Unit, proceed with extraction.”

Baby doesn’t hesitate – he revs the engine. The boat surges; they brace as he drives it to seventy miles per hour straight for the extraction point.

“Where the fuck are you? We’ve been made!” comes another channel.

“Sierra-Uniform en route. Hold position. Over,” Jinu responds.

“Not an option!”

The team freezes, holding their breath. This is going to get messy. As they near the extraction point, two figures emerge in the treeline – one upright, sniper-rifle slung over their shoulder; the other limp, cradled by their partner.

Baby drifts the boat to the shore, water spraying high into the night air – a moment that would have looked cinematic anywhere else.

The sniper moves to climb aboard… and a gunshot cuts through the night, sending him crashing to his knees. 

Her next actions aren’t even a thought.

Rumi’s lungs burn as she splashes through the churning water, every movement a fight against the current. Jinu is beside her, muscles taut, hauling the limp Special Ops soldier through the chaos. Bullets whip past, spitting water and mud around them, the world reduced to the sound of their ragged breathing, the slap of water, and the deafening thrum of gunfire.

Her heart hammers so violently it feels like it might burst. Fear shoots through her in sharp, cold bursts, but she forces it down the way she’s been trained to. Training keeps her moving, keeps her alive – though she can’t tell anymore if she really cares to be. 

Beneath the mechanical motions, a thought flickers: maybe, if this is the end, she’ll finally see her parents again. Maybe, if it isn’t, if she survives one more time and keeps them safe, it’ll count for something. Maybe survival – or death – will be a way to honor them. Either outcome feels like a release.

“Grab him! Now!” she shouts, her voice nearly drowned by the chaos. Jinu lunges, his hands wrapping around the soldier. Rumi joins him, together heaving the other limp body toward the boat. Every muscle screams, ribs aching with every movement, but she refuses to let go. She won’t let anyone else die if she can prevent it – not while she’s still here.

The boat rocks violently. Baby’s voice cuts through the storm: “Hurry the fuck up! Move!”

Finally, they drag the soldiers aboard. Rumi lies flat for a heartbeat, chest heaving, water dripping from her hair and clothes. Adrenaline drains from her veins, replaced by sharp, stabbing pain. She feels every rib, every muscle, screaming at her – a body still fighting to live when part of her wouldn’t mind if it stopped. 

Yet even in pain, her mind drifts upward, imagining her parents’ faces among the stars she has been able to see since leaving the City. For a fleeting second, the chaos feels almost sacred, like a doorway between worlds.

Then it comes – a deafening explosion. The world flips upside down. The force throws her around, knocking the breath from her lungs. Pain explodes through her side and legs. Her scream is ripped from her throat, lost in the roar, muffled by the ringing in her ears. Water churns around her, clawing at her, trying to drag her under.

Through the haze of pain and ringing, she sees Mystery above her, eyes wide with a mixture of panic and fierce determination. Relief glimmers through the terror in his gaze – he’s still fighting for her, even when she’s not sure she’s fighting for herself.

“-mi. Rumi. Rumi!” he cries.

“I’m here,” she rasped, coughing violently, each breath sending shards of pain through her ribs.

Mystery leans closer, hands moving with practiced urgency, tending to her as best as he can in the chaos. His face is a bloody mask of controlled fear. “We’ve got you. We’ll get you out of here,” he promises, though his voice wavers.

Rumi tries to sit, but pain explodes down her ribs and leg. Her body screams, her mind frantic. Where is everyone else? Are they alive? She can’t see through the smoke and darkness. 

And yet, in that moment, she dares to hope – maybe surviving this, maybe even escaping death this time, will bring her closer to the parents she lost, to the lives she left behind, to the peace she’s been chasing for five long years.

The world tilts violently as the roar of the helicopter cuts through the chaos, its rotors shredding the smoky air. It hovers like a ghost above the treeline – not salvation, but an echo of a life she’s no longer sure she wants. 

Blood roars in her ears; her vision swims, consciousness splintering. Part of her wants to let go, to sink beneath the water and finally stop fighting. But then the thought hits her like a blow: she’s never said goodbye to Mira and Zoey. She’ll never see their faces again if she lets go now. That flicker of regret, small and fragile, is the only thing keeping her tethered to life.

Darkness swallows her, but in the blackness, her mind holds onto that hope – the promise of survival, the weight of those depending on her, and the unspoken bond with the only people she calls family.

Her body finally gives out. The last thing she feels is Mystery’s arms locking around her, hauling her higher into the brush as gunfire fades to a dull, distant echo. Then everything goes silent.

Chapter Text

Now:

Rumi sits on the balcony of her mom’s apartment, tending to the small garden she planted this past spring. Tomatoes, peppers, and basil flourish brightly in the warm spring air. Sitting in front of the growing peppers, Rumi chooses the ones ready to be picked for her mother’s Gochujang Jjigae – one of her favorites.

The door behind her slides open, and her mom pops her head out. “I think those are enough peppers, Rum. Make sure you leave some to still grow.”

Her mother has always been meticulous about her garden, and Rumi has anything but a green thumb. After the mint incident, her mom doesn’t trust her in the tiny three-section garden alone.

Rumi smiles and turns to answer her mother. “I promise I’m being caref – ”

BANG!

Rumi shoots up from her sleep in full fight-or-flight mode. She jumps off the couch she had been napping on and spins toward the sound, heart hammering. Behind her stands Abby, equally startled by the pan he himself dropped.

Lowering her head, Rumi tries to control her breathing. Okay, Rumi, slow it down. Just a pan. You’re safe. You’ve got this.

“Sorry! I was just trying to make breakfast, and there was a spider crawling on my hand,” Abby says, sheepish.

Rumi takes a deep breath, letting it out slowly, and looks up. She walks toward him with a slight limp in her step – only noticeable to the trained eye. A door down the hall opens, and Mystery emerges, sleep in his eyes. Without a word, he sits at the counter and buries his face in his hands.

“I expect you to make me a five-star meal,” he mumbles.

Abby grins and winks. “Coming right up, babycakes.”

For the second time in her life, Rumi’s world had been ripped out from under her. When the explosion hit, everything changed forever. She doesn’t remember much – only flashes.

She remembers Mystery hovering above her, being loaded into the helicopter, the hospital they landed at, and waking up back in the country she was born in – being told that after her broken ribs healed, she would need to learn to walk again… but this time with a prosthetic.

The blast amputated her right leg from the knee down. Learning that, Rumi didn’t care. The first words out of her mouth when she woke up were, “Where’s my team?”

The doctor looked at her blankly, then moved the curtain separating her from the second person in the room. Abby lay still in the bed, bandages wrapped all around his torso. The large man had never looked so small.

Then Mystery walked in. He was banged up sporting a gash down his face, but walking and breathing – and Rumi had never felt so relieved. She asked her question again.

Mystery shared a look with the doctor. “You can head out…Rum,” he struggled with the next words, “Jinu, Baby, and Romance didn’t make it.”

The words settled heavy.

When someone you love dies suddenly, the feeling never changes. It’s as if whatever held your heart high in your chest has been cut loose, letting it plummet into an endless void. Falling blindly, never hitting the ground. Your heart becomes a lover short.

You’d think it might feel lighter without the weight it carried – but instead, it feels like ten tons.

Rumi looked at Mystery, the heartbreak they shared, and let herself cry as he held her on the hospital bed.

If hearing it the first time was bad, hearing it the second time was worse. Abby woke up a day later, asking the same questions about their unit. But this time Mystery wasn’t there, and Rumi couldn’t get the words out. It took about an hour to verbally confirm what Abby already knew. She couldn’t even get up to comfort him.

A month went by, then two.

Abby recovered well, and Rumi was slowly – but successfully – learning to walk with a prosthetic. She should be proud, but part of her wishes she had perished in that blast with the rest of her unit.

She was broken. Physically and mentally. How could Abby and Mystery look at her with brotherly love the way they do, when the Rumi they knew was left halfway around the world?

This was the second time her life had changed, and she was tired of it. Everyone she began to love seemed to die. Her track record spoke for itself. And what would Mira and Zoey think? They’d never take her back with all her damage. Hell, the thought of a large crowd made her nauseous, and any loud noise sent her jumping out of her skin, bracing for impact.

But even with these negative thoughts, she was grateful that Abby and Mystery still wanted to take her back. Trauma bonding is one thing, and they already had that – but this… this was a traumatic experience that brought them even closer together.

Once Abby was allowed to leave the hospital, he and Mystery bought a three-bedroom apartment in a quiet area of New York City. They figured, since Mystery’s brother lived there, Rumi grew up there, and Abby could flirt with someone new every week, New York would be perfect.

Rumi was still confined to the hospital for another month when they started renting the apartment. But when she finally got there, it was perfect.

The apartment was cute and up-to-date – definitely Mystery’s brother spearheading the effort. She didn’t think he gave them much of a choice.

Walking in, the walls were painted a light green, with floor-to-ceiling windows in the living room. Mystery’s brother bought them a new L-couch, dark green throw pillows and blankets, and a cute coffee table that tied the living room together. But under everything sat a colorful monstrosity of a pink rug that Abby insisted they buy.

If it was light pink, it would work. But no. It’s hot pink. And Abby was very proud.

The kitchen was filled with new appliances and a granite countertop with an island they could all sit and eat at. Down the hall were the bedrooms. Rumi’s sat at the end. She wanted the first bedroom, but the boys insisted: if a killer came in, they needed to go through them first. At that, Rumi had no words and just rolled her eyes.

On the hallway wall hung a single photo: their Unit on the boat, fully geared up. Rumi, Abby, and Mystery’s faces were blurred out, but Romance, Jinu, and Baby were clearly visible – a small tribute. Rumi passed it every day, and her chest tightened just a little, the ache now familiar, almost routine. She never stopped to stare – she couldn’t – but she also couldn’t bring herself to take it down. It was a reminder of what they lost… and of the pieces of herself that never came back with them. Some mornings, she caught herself wishing the trade had gone the other way – that it was her in the ground and not them. And then, like always, she’d force herself to keep walking.

The only downside to the apartment was that it was on the second floor. Rumi thought it would be okay at first, but once she saw the steep stairs, she cursed everyone and their mothers.

She was just getting used to walking, and now they wanted her to go up a flight of stairs? The first three months sucked, but now she was a pro – even starting to go on runs in the mornings with Abby and Mystery. 4 a.m. sharp.

And she even had a job now. Mystery’s brother, a music manager, had seen videos Mystery sent over while they were deployed. As soon as Rumi got back to the States and settled into the apartment, he waltzed in and gave the three of them the opportunity of a lifetime.

Rumi, Mystery, and Abby now worked at Soul Production, creating music for artists who already had lyrics but needed instrumentals. They had their own recording studio, and most of the work came online – thankfully, with minimal human interaction. Rumi and Mystery focused on building beats, while Abby threw in his two cents and inevitably cranked the bass too high. Occasionally, an artist did show up in person, but it was rare.

Long story short: they owed Bobby everything.

And now, one year after the explosion, Rumi stood in her kitchen, watching Abby burn eggs while her heart slowed from its earlier panic.

She had started getting panic attacks after seeing her therapist for the first time in New York and learning how to acknowledge her trauma. The boys had been with her every step of the way. The first time she had one, she tried to shut them out – literally – but Mystery ended up busting her door down. Now her door was a slightly different color and design than Mystery’s and Abby’s rooms.

Ever since then, they’d been open about their struggles and triggers. Mystery couldn’t stand the dark and needed a light on to sleep. Abby couldn’t handle loud noises – even though he loved to push the bass.

They were damaged – but damaged together.

Rumi was constantly thinking about what could have been instead of what was.

What if I had gone back to California after Mom died? Would Celine still be my guardian? Would Mira, Zoey, and I have found success in music? Would they still want me if they saw me now?

No. Obviously not.

Whenever Rumi saw herself in the mirror, she was disgusted. Even if she wanted them, she couldn’t have them. Everyone around her dies. And she wouldn’t want the people who light up a room to leave this world.

Breathe, Rumi. You’re alive. You’re here. You survived. You’re strong enough to get through today.

Abby placed the eggs in front of Rumi, dragging her out of her thoughts. She looked at the food and then at Mystery, who looked just as miserably at the eggs. They shared a look.

“I’ll get ready to pick up some food,” Rumi said, walking toward her room.

“I’ll come,” Mystery agreed, grabbing his keys.

Abby stands there, hurt. “Hey, what the fuck? I tried really hard on these!” 

Rumi emerged from her room in loose-fitting jeans and a tight T-shirt, showing off her muscles and tattoos – making people wonder what else was under her shirt.

“You did your best, Ab, but I think I need something edible.”

Abby stood there in his palm tree apron that said Kiss the Chef.

“Ugh, fine. I’ll come too.” He put the pan down and looked at his phone. “Actually, perfect timing – Bobby wants us at the studio.”

“Great. We’ll pick him up something on the way too,” Mystery said, pulling his black mask, hat, and hood over his face.

They walked down to the sidewalk. Ten seconds later, they heard a bang, keys jingling, and the heavy footsteps of Abby following them out the door of their building.

The apartment was more well-kept than most in the city. Delivery boxes that were usually strewn across the foyer were neatly categorized by apartment number. Of course – Bobby wouldn’t settle for less.

The neighborhood was perfect. Not too loud, not too quiet. Cars passed occasionally, and there was always someone strolling or walking a dog. It was starting to feel illegal living here without a pet.

Recently, Mystery had made it his mission to catch the stray black cat outside the production office. Unfortunately, they only saw it once in a while, and the chances of capture were slim.

As the three walked, Abby and Mystery flanked Rumi. At first, she got annoyed that they kept bumping into her, but after trying to maneuver Mystery into the middle, Abby physically moved her back. Since then, she quietly allowed it – it was comforting.

She observed her surroundings. The trees were a beautiful mix of brown, red, and yellow. The air carried winter’s crispness but still held summer’s lingering breeze, and the leaves lay in piles or scattered across the ground – evidence of weekend yard work. It was that awkward in-between time, when long sleeves felt too warm but shorts left you shivering.

A cafe down the road reminded Rumi of the bar where she used to perform with Mira and Zoey. The warm soothing lights reminded her of Mira, while the colorful wall designs reminded her of Zoey.

She wondered how they were now. Zoey and Mira had always been destined for great things, and she wished they were at least on the right track. She had always thought about looking them up but talked herself out of it. It’ll just make me depressed. And she was right.

About five blocks into their walk, they turned into the coffee shop. Soft lighting, abstract colorful walls, blue-tiled counter, and tables for work or eating. Best part – they opened at 5 a.m.

When they needed to get away, they came here. There was a booth in the back corner next to the emergency exit that no one bothered them at. But today, they were on the clock.

Rumi watched Mystery lean into the counter and place the order for four through his mask. After the accident, he had a nasty scar down the side of his face. A kid once pointed it out in passing. Mystery had been self-conscious ever since and started covering it as much as possible. Rumi wanted to throttle that kid – he was number one on her list.

Suddenly, there was commotion nearby. Abby helped a cafe worker pick up stirrers he’d knocked over.

Abby and spatial awareness? Never heard of it.

Rumi turned to her phone as Abby cleaned up. A group chat text came through.

Bobby: When you guys get here I have a new client to discuss.
Bobby: And whatever you’re working on is super catchy.

Rumi frowned. What song?

“Hey, what’s Bobby talking about?” she asked as Mystery brought over their breakfast sandwiches and drinks.

Abby joined them, leaving the cafe. “Oh! We were just fucking around.” He held the door open.

Rumi chuckled. “Well, whatever it is, Bobby finds it catchy.”

Mystery hummed in acknowledgment. “Yeah, we made that when you left early Friday for therapy.”

“Ah yes. The therap-of-the-p. How is that going?” Abby grabbed his drink from Mystery’s tray.

“I slept through the night until you dropped a pan this morning, so I’d say good,” Rumi said.

“Hey, it was an accident,” Abby defended.

Mystery shook his head. “A loud accident.”

“No such thing. Only happy accidents.”

Rumi smiled as they turned the corner and headed down to the subway.

While the apartment was in a perfect neighborhood, Soul Production was another story. Initially, Abby and Mystery timed the walk to work – it took an hour and a half, versus 20 minutes by subway.

The noises and crowds of the subway were a hurdle. Her therapist had told her that exposure therapy was best. It’s okay, Rumi. You can handle this. One step at a time. She couldn’t help but sense a certain joy from her therapist in the idea of forced exposure.

After navigating stairs and turnstiles, they reached the platform. People surrounded them: a woman glued to her phone, a grandma wandering, a man sleeping, a guitarist hoping for tips, and the occasional person others edged away from.

The train entered at speeds that made her heart thump, but they got on. Rumi found a corner with no one nearby.

Six stops later and a close call with Bobby’s creamer and a splash of coffee, they exited to the busy streets of downtown New York.

At 7 a.m., the city was already alive. Hot dog vendors shouted, cars honked, and the occasional middle finger rose to some poor soul trying to cross the street.

Thankfully, the studio was right in front of the subway station – or Rumi might have gone mad from the chaos. Zoey would love it here; Mira would hate it.

The entrance to the studio was nothing like you’d expect. It was lowkey – almost deliberately so. To any prying eye, you’d never guess that some of the top artists in the industry recorded their music here.

The building itself was modest, only five floors high. When you walked in, there was a plain marble lobby with a bellhop and a security guard stationed between the two elevators.

Rumi, Abby, and Mystery greeted the two men as they approached and pressed the elevator’s up arrow. The bell chimed, the doors opened, and they stepped inside. Rumi hit the button for the fifth floor, and the elevator began its slow climb.

When the doors opened, a long hallway lined with framed records stretched out in front of them. At either end were two doors – one leading to their recording studio and the other to Bobby’s office, conveniently located on the same floor.

Opening the door to their studio, they found Bobby lounging on the dark red couch next to the entrance. Across from the couch were the sound controls for the booth, which was filled with instruments, microphones, and a comfy chair on the other side. The space was roomy – about as big as their living room and kitchen combined, not including the sound booth itself.

Mystery set their food and drinks on the table in the far corner, giving his brother a nod in greeting.

“Hey, guys!” Bobby said, standing up. He was significantly shorter than Mystery, but his presence filled the room.

Their relationship was complicated. The brothers were no longer in contact with their family, and because of their large age gap, Bobby had essentially raised him. As much as he was Mystery’s brother, he was also a little bit of a father figure – and Mystery would protect him with his life.

“You like our new song, Bobby?” Abby leaned toward the sound table and pressed play on the track they’d been messing around with.

A catchy tune filled the air. It wasn’t finished, but it was the kind of song that would stick in your head for days.

“Soda Pop! How did you come up with it?” Bobby asked, already nodding along.

Mystery walked over and handed Rumi her bagel. “We just thought of Rumi and went from there.” He playfully tried to pinch her cheek, but she smacked his hand away.

“Fuck off.”

Bobby laughed, rubbing his hands together. “Okay, business time. I’ve got a new group I’m managing – they’re struggling with some songs. Great lyrics, but they can’t nail the beat or tune.” He took a sip of his coffee and hummed in satisfaction.

“You want us to make a demo so they can just record over it?” Mystery asked, plopping down in front of the controls.

“Usually I’d say yes,” Bobby said, “but they’re hands-on. They want to work with you directly. You’ll be their tenth set of producers – they just haven’t clicked with anyone yet.”

Rumi sighed. “So they’re difficult?”

“No, no, no,” Bobby said quickly, shaking his head. “They’ve just got a specific flow. They’re super nice girls. I’ve got a copy of their most recent lyrics – why don’t you play around with them today? When they come in tomorrow, you can give them some options.”

The three nodded as Bobby’s phone rang. “This is them. I’ll leave you guys to it! Lyrics are on the table – and thanks for breakfast!”

He rushed out of the room, leaving a sudden quiet in his wake.

Abby groaned. “I hate people.”

Felt, Rumi thought.

Mystery picked up the printed lyrics and flipped through the pages. “There are seven songs here. Does he expect us to work on all seven by tomorrow?”

Rumi leaned over to look. “Let’s start with two. I have some ideas.”

As the day went on, the three of them agreed, argued, and combined their different ideas for the songs. By the time the sun began to set, they decided to call it a day.

Dead on her feet, Rumi made her way home with the boys. I really hope these girls are nice.

The last time someone decided to work with them in their studio, Abby got into a shouting match and the artist stormed out – all because Rumi accidentally brought the singer the wrong coffee order. She’d like to avoid a repeat of that at all costs. At least it was a happy accident… sort of.

Rumi unlocked the door to their apartment and went straight to bed, mentally preparing herself for the two singers’ arrival tomorrow.

She woke up at 4 a.m. on the dot. Lacing up her sneakers, she stepped out of her room to find Mystery tying his shoes and Abby standing next to him in the hallway. No one spoke. In the quiet of the morning, they slipped out of the apartment and started their run.

An hour and a half later, as they turned onto their block, Abby picked up speed. Rumi saw it as a challenge and surged ahead. She reached the building first.

“That’s not fair! You have that springy leg!” Abby whined dramatically, collapsing on the dirty New York sidewalk.

“That doesn’t do shit. You just tripped on the sidewalk and don’t want to admit it,” Rumi laughed.

Abby made a sound of disagreement as Mystery slowed to a stop. “Oh, you very much did – and it was amazing.”

“Whatever.”

The three of them headed inside to get ready for the day, slipping into their usual morning motions. Routine kept them steady.

Rumi emerged from her room in black barrel jeans, a fitted black long-sleeve shirt, and a dark blue sweatshirt in hand. It was definitely going to be colder than yesterday.

On the way to the studio, they grabbed their usual food and drinks, then slipped quietly onto the subway.

There were more people than usual on the platform – about twenty in total. One exit. No one looks dangerous. You’re okay. You have Mystery and Abby with you. You won’t let anything happen to them, and they won’t let anything happen to you.

Rumi focused on steadying her breath as the train doors slid shut. No exit. There’s an emergency latch on the train. If I need it, I’ll use it.

Mystery and Abby shifted closer to her, silently recognizing her internal battle.

As soon as the train stopped at their station, Rumi practically sprinted up the stairs and onto the street. She stood off to the side, taking in a deep breath of crisp air. I did it. I’m okay.

Abby and Mystery beelined toward her, concern etched on their faces. She just nodded and continued toward the office.

They headed upstairs, the tension from earlier lingering in the air. Great. This day is off to a fucking fabulous start.

Three hours into working on the second set of lyrics, their phones chimed.

Bobby: Got the girls. Will be there in 10.

The three exchanged looks.

Mystery pulled on his mask like armor. Rumi slipped into her sweatshirt, covering the tattoos that trailed up her neck. Abby simply man-spread in his chair, trying to assert dominance.

Mystery, not missing a beat, tossed his phone square into Abby’s lap. Abby folded over in pain, the tension breaking immediately.

God, I hope this goes smoothly, Rumi.