Apple Cider

by Hauntinglybansheee

Summary:

Ha-eun doesn’t hunt demons. She doesn’t sing either. But somehow, she’s ended up dancing center stage with Huntrix, the world’s fiercest girl group and deadliest demon slayers.

The crowd calls her their “bunny,” sweet, silent, soft. They cheer for her smile that she shows her adoring fans, undermining the strength behind it. She’s not a hunter, just the heartbeat between the chaos for her older sister Mira and the girls that became her family.

But when a baby-faced demon with storm eyes that seem to go deep into her soul and a liking to soda just as much as she does, crashes into her life, Ha-eun finds herself caught in a story she was never meant to star in.

Chapter 1: Bulletproof ... I wish I was

The elevator glided upward in silence, glass walls revealing a glittering Seoul skyline as raindrops traced streaks down the surface like falling stars. There Ha-eun stood like a broken doll, lip gloss smudged, mascara bleeding down the hollows of her cheeks, the tailored cut of her coat doing nothing to hold in the tremble of her shoulders.

Bobby said nothing, though he kept glancing at her like she might bolt. His suit was wrinkled, his coffee forgotten, and in his other hand, he held her suitcase, a pale lavender number with gold trim and a tiny stuffed bunny clipped to the zipper.

When the elevator doors whispered open onto one of the topmost floors, she hesitated. Polished marble stretched out before her, flawless and cold. Recessed lights glowed like starlight overhead.

"She doesn't even like me," she said quietly. "I was... more like our brother." Her voice caught. “Maybe I should just go.”

Bobby exhaled, long-suffering. “Honey, you called me crying at three in the morning wearing a wig and hiding in a jjimjilbang. You’re already here.”

She blinked. Then laughed. Then cried harder.

The door ahead was intimidating, as within it held a history too deep to name. Her older sister. She raised her hand and knocked with trembling fingers.

The door clicked open and there Mira stood in the doorway, barefoot, dressed in black joggers and a cropped hoodie with a hole at the cuff. Her pink hair was loose, tangled slightly at the ends like she’d just woken up from a nap or a nightmare, and her eyes, those same sharp eyes they shared, narrowed with unreadable emotion.

She didn’t speak.

Didn’t move.

Just looked at her little sister like she was something fragile washed up on a familiar shore. Something she hadn’t expected to see again.

“I didn’t know who else to call,” the girl mumbled, eyes flicking to the floor. Her hand clutched her own elbow like a makeshift anchor. “I tried being perfect and they still-” she stopped herself. Swallowed. “I didn’t want to do it anymore.”

Still, Mira said nothing. But her jaw clenched. Her gaze softened, barely.

Then she stepped aside. Wordlessly. Slowly. The universal gesture that meant: you can come in, if you want.

The apartment behind her was pristine but strange, cold lighting, thick curtains drawn over the view of the city, floor cushions in muted jewel tones, very colourful. So unlike home.

She walked past Mira, her limbs leaden with exhaustion and regret. Mira closed the door. Clicked the lock into place.

"You look like shit," Mira said finally, voice low. Hoarse. "And that coat is ugly."

A wet, hiccuping laugh escaped her. “Thanks. You haven’t changed.”

Mira didn’t answer right away. She just stared at her for a moment longer. Then, softly, like pulling a thorn from her throat-

“You still like a whole lotta honey in your tea?”

The girl nodded.

“Good,” Mira muttered. “Sit down before you pass out.”

Ha-eun hesitated for a second, then shuffled over to the pristine white couch and perched on the edge like it might bite her. Her shoulders were stiff, hands tangled nervously in her lap as she tried not to look too lost.

Across the room, Mira moved toward the kitchen, setting a kettle on the stove with more force than necessary. Ha-eun watched her in silence, a lump growing in her throat. Even Mira’s movements that are usually so fluid, so effortless, seemed tight. Like she was bracing for impact.

Bobby shifted uncomfortably, clearly feeling the tension radiating between the two sisters like static. With a small, awkward cough, he cleared his throat.

“Well, as lovely as it was to meet you, Ha-eun, I think this is my cue to not be here,” he said, forcing a light chuckle as he rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll, uh… let you two catch up.”

He gave them both a quick, polite wave—half-sincere, half-please-don’t-cry-again—and slipped out the door before either of them could stop him.

The room went back to silence, save for the wheeze of the kettle boiling rapidly. Ha-eun cleared her throat awkwardly, her sniffles unfortunately quite loud only fuelling the tension in the room.

Mira looked over in her direction with a defeated look in her eyes, as if not knowing what how to deal with her little sister being in her home. Not used to the feeling after the years spent apart.

The room fell quiet again, save for the soft wheeze of the kettle as it boiled, louder than it had any right to be. Ha-eun sniffled, trying, and failing, to keep it discreet, the sound embarrassingly loud in the stillness.

Mira didn’t move right away. She just glanced over, her expression unreadable, but her eyes held something strange. Like she wasn’t quite sure how her little sister ended up here. Or how she felt about it.

Then, pop.

The kettle clicked off with a sharp hiss of steam. And right on cue-

The hallway door burst open.

“Ugh, Mira, if you left the kettle on again and burned the-"

Zoey froze mid-rant, one fuzzy slipper halfway off her foot, her dark space buns slightly crooked like she'd just rolled out of bed. Her eyes landed on Ha-eun. Then widened. Dramatically.

"...Wait. Is that Ha-eun?"

Mira’s head tilted back in exasperation. “Zoey,” she warned.

But Zoey was already gasping like she’d walked in on a scandal. “Oh my god, you didn’t tell me your sister was actually hot. Like I knew she was a model but damn- hi!” She waved, completely unfazed by the tension thick enough to slice with a sword. “I thought you two were mortal enemies or something?”

Ha-eun blinked, startled before giving an awkward wave and hesitant smile. Mira groaned.

“Zoey, leave.”

“I just got here!”

“You can leave again.”

“But the kettle-"

“Now.”

With an exaggerated sigh, Zoey threw her hands up. “Fine. But I’m getting my tea first. This family reunion is making me emotionally dehydrated.” She shuffled toward the kettle, seemingly to he completely unfazed by the emotional warzone surrounding her.

A soft giggle slipped from Ha-eun’s throat before she could stop it. She clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide, her manicured nails pressing gently into her cheek as if surprised the sound had escaped her at all.

Zoey glanced back at the sound, a small, fond smile tugging at her lips. She didn’t say anything, just turned again and began pouring hot water over the tea leaves with a quiet hum, as if her presence hadn’t just cracked the tension wide open.

Mira, meanwhile, still looked vaguely annoyed by Zoey’s intrusion, but there was something else in her face now too. Something softer. A subtle shift in her expression, barely there, but it held a kind of warmth Ha-eun hadn’t seen directed at her once since she arrived.

And it stung.
Not in a dramatic, soul-wrenching way. No, this was quieter. Like the ache of a bruise just beneath the skin.

Zoey took a slow sip from her mug, clearly in no rush to leave. She leaned against the counter, eyes flicking between the two sisters with all the subtlety of a reality show producer waiting for the tears to start.

“So,” she said, entirely too casual, “this gonna be a cry-it-out kind of thing or more of a repressed silence with tea sort of vibe?”

Mira didn’t answer.

“Right,” Zoey continued, unbothered. “I'm just saying, if someone doesn’t emotionally explode in the next ten minutes, I’m going to start asking very invasive questions. Like, ‘Did your parent's kick you out?’ or—”

“Zoey,” Mira cut in, sharp but exhausted.

“Okay, okay.” She held up one hand in surrender, the other still clutched around her mug. “Message received. I’ll leave you two to your dramatic indie film scene.”

As she shuffled toward the door, she paused by Ha-eun and leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "It'll be okay, she's a softie on the inside.”

Then, with a wink and a whisper of slippered feet, she disappeared down the hall, leaving only the faint sound of tea sloshing in her mug and the heavy quiet she’d stirred in her wake.

For a moment, neither of them moved. The kettle had long gone silent. The city buzzed somewhere far below them.

Mira finally exhaled, slow and steady, and walked over to set a cup in front of Ha-eun.

She didn’t sit. Not yet.

“…Why now?” she asked, voice low. Not accusing. Not angry. Just tired. And maybe a little afraid of the answer.

Ha-eun didn’t answer right away. She traced the rim of the teacup with her thumb, carefully avoiding her sister’s gaze.

“I didn’t want to come here,” she said finally, voice low and almost too even. “I didn’t want to ask you for anything.”

Mira said nothing. The silence felt expectant.

Ha-eun inhaled slowly. Kept her back straight. Kept her composure like it was the last thing she had left.

“They made me study medicine,” she said. “Told me I could keep modeling if I kept my grades up. Told me it was all part of the brand—smart, beautiful, perfect. So I played along.”

A pause. Her hand tightened slightly around the teacup.

“I failed my midterms on purpose.”

She said it like it wasn’t the most reckless, terrifying thing she’d ever done.

“They were just numbers, but I knew what they meant to them. I knew what would happen if I gave them a reason.” A faint, humorless smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “And they didn’t disappoint.”

There’s a flicker of memory behind her eyes: her father standing in the doorway, silent, seething. Her mother crying, not with concern, but with fury. The words “You’ve ruined everything” echoing like a curse.

“I didn’t pack. Just left.” Her voice was flat now. “I had a wig on from a shoot and heels I could barely walk in. I figured Bobby would either pick me up or ignore me. He showed up.”

Another pause.

“I came here because I didn’t know where else to go. That’s all.”

She finally looked up, and though her eyes were glassy, no tears fell.

She couldn't let them, not infront of her.

Mira let out a shaky breath, her head dropping slightly as she pinched the bridge of her nose. For a moment, she stayed like that, still. Silent. Then, slowly, she looked up.

Her eyes had a soft shine to them now. Not quite tears, but close. A kind of glint Ha-eun had barely ever seen before, not on Mira.

Ha-eun stiffened, breath catching in her throat. It was a small thing, barely a crack in her sister’s perfectly composed shell, but to her, it meant everything.

“…I wouldn’t be able to turn you away, Ha-eun.”

Mira’s voice was scratchy, like the words didn’t belong in her mouth. Like speaking them aloud cost her something. “Not even if I wanted to.”

A silence settled between them again,
heavier, but not as suffocating. More like something sacred.

Then-

Creeeaaak.

Both sisters turned their heads just in time to see a very obvious head of lavender-dyed hair disappear around the hallway corner.

“Zoey,” Mira said flatly.

There was a pause. Then, in the most unconvincing voice possible: “I'm not here.”

Mira rubbed her temples. “Do you want me to exorcise you?”

Zoey popped her head fully back into view, grinning sheepishly. “I was just… emotionally supervising.” She threw Ha-eun a thumbs up. “You’re doing amazing, sweetie.”

Before Mira could reply, the front door burst open with a dramatic gust of wind and noise.

Rumi stumbled in, arms overloaded with grocery bags, a packet of instant tteokbokki clenched between her teeth.

She spotted the two sisters sitting on the couch, Zoey halfway in the hallway with a mug of tea and a guilty face.

The food packet dropped from her mouth and hit the floor with a loud smack.

Rumi groaned. “What’d I miss this time?”

Chapter 2: Little Lies

Summary:

Backstage cheers and glowing praise mask deeper tensions beneath the surface of Huntrix’s biggest moment yet. As exhaustion and secrets simmer just out of sight, Ha-eun senses something’s dangerously off — especially when the group’s star begins to falter at a critical rehearsal. With the pressure mounting and whispers of a mysterious “Honmoon” weighing heavily, Ha-eun finds herself caught between loyalty, doubt, and a growing unease that nothing will ever be the same.

A year later

 

Outside the venue was chaos in technicolor, lightsticks waving like fireflies, giant LED signs blinking with fan slogans, and teens in head-to-toe Huntrix merch shrieking like they were about to be raptured.

A crowd of people swam around the entrance while a girl in huntrix merch screams into the camera practically levitating while holding a sign up in the air.
“Let’s go, Huntrix!”

Nearby, a cluster of friends in matching Mira t-shirts chanted in unison.
"Mira’s my favorite, she’s the visual and lead dancer, obviously.”

One of them leaned in with serious intent.
“Apparently, she was like, the black sheep of her family?”

“Which makes no sense, because she’s literally perfect,” added another. “Like, who else wears a sleeping bag to the Met Gala and makes it fashion?”

“She’s our role model. She’s the best. Love her.”

A new wave of screams rang out. This time, it was for Zoey.

“She’s the rapper, and lyricist,” another chimed in.
A fanboy adjusted his headband. “She grew up in Burbank, USA. I don’t know where that is, but I wanna go.”

“She’s the cutest maknae until she raps,” said a girl clutching a Zoey plushie.
“And then she gets terrifying,” her friend whispered. “Like, pray for your soul scary.”

More shrieking.
“We love Rumi!”
“Her voice? Literal angel.”
“Her mom was a Sunlight Sister, right? Died when she was a baby. But Celine raised her and built Huntrix around her.”

And then-

“Ha-eun!!!”

A camera caught a group of teens holding glittery signs that read “HA-EUN IS OUR QUEEN” and “BUNNY WITH CAT EYES.”

“She’s not even a singer but she OWNS that stage,” a girl gushed, eyes glittering.
“Model to dancing with THE Huntrix? We love a double slay. And her and Mira onstage together? Iconic sisters. Their chemistry is insane.”

“Someone said she’s too quiet to be an idol?” a fan scoffed, clutching a glittery banner. “Like, hello? That’s what makes her so powerful. You never see her coming- she’s like a soft breeze and then BAM. Legend.”

“She almost never sings with the others since she’s just their dancer,” another added, “but when she looks at the camera? BOOM. Mother. Like- tiny, gorgeous mother.”

A group of younger fans in Ha-eun bunny ears sat cross-legged on the concrete, surrounded by snacks, phone charms, and enough photocards to start a small museum.

“I just wanna wrap her in a blanket and spoon-feed her strawberries,” one whispered reverently, eyes wide.

“She’s my baby!” another squealed. “Like, have you seen her blink? It’s the cutest thing I’ve ever seen.”

“If anyone dares to say a mean word to her, I will start a war,” declared a third, clutching her Ha-eun keychain like it was a holy relic.

The camera cut to a pair of older fans sipping matcha under the shade of a lightstick umbrella. One rolled their eyes, but smiled.

"I love her,” they said, “but most fans don’t realize she was walking runways before she could drive. She’s not a baby, she just looks like one.”

“Exactly,” the other agreed, nodding. “People act like she needs bubble wrap, but did you see that subtle death glare she gave when that fan grabbed her ankle mid-performance? I felt blessed. Like religious.”

 

Backstage was a storm of activity- tech crews darting around with headsets, dancers stretching in side halls, lightboards flashing with last-minute cues. In the middle of it all stood Bobby, sweating through his button-up as he paced in circles, phone clutched in one hand and a half-spilled cup of iced coffee in the other. Beside him, calm as a still pond, was Ha-eun.

She was already in full stagewear, black boots, a silver cropped jacket over mesh layers, and her hair swept back into a soft ponytail. She leaned against a case of stage equipment, sipping from a thermos like she hadn’t just helped Bobby wrangle three stylists and a fog machine into submission.

"You should breathe," she said mildly, eyes flicking up from her phone with a smirk creeping onto her lips. "You're doing that panicky fish thing again."

“I am breathing,” Bobby huffed, tugging at his collar. “Through my nose, like a professional manager who is definitely not losing it in front of fifty thousand fans.”

Ha-eun raised a single brow, a quirk to her lips. “You tried to yell at a fog machine, Bobby.”

"It wasn’t working!" he hissed. Then he sighed, shoulders deflating. “Okay, okay, I’m pulling it together. Just.. just do me a favor. Please don't wander off, okay? I need at least one competent person backstage before the girls get here.”

Ha-eun gave a small nod and mock salute. “Copy that. Emotionally stable and ready for deployment.” then laughs softly at herself.

“God, I love you,” Bobby muttered, already dialing his phone. “Okay. Time to check in on the chaos squad.”

He tapped the screen. The FaceTime call rang once, twice, and then Huntrix popped onto the screen, crammed together mid-flight, surrounded by open ramen cups and bubble tea.

“Hi, Bobby!” they chorused in unison, faces squished into frame.

“Yeah, hi! Um, what are you doing?” Bobby asked, already looking like he regretted it.

“About to eat our pre-show ramyeon,” Rumi replied cheerfully, holding up her cup.

“Pre-show?” Bobby spluttered. “What about the show-show? Hey, that’s my phone!”

From offscreen, a gaggle of shrieking fans leaned in with wild eyes. “We love you!”

The girls beamed. “Oh, we love you too!”

Mira and Rumi got teary-eyed immediately. “That’s so sweet,” Mira sniffled.

Then a fanboy barged in front of the screen, proudly lifting his shirt to show off a massive tattoo. “Yo! I just got this!”

Zoey’s mouth opened in horror. “Uh…”

Rumi gave a diplomatic thumbs-up. Mira deadpanned, “Sick.”

Ha-eun is just glad she's wearing a hood to cover herself.

“Gimme that!” Bobby yanked the phone back, red-faced. “Why are you so late?!”

“Late?” Zoey blinked innocently.

“Fifty thousand fans are waiting for you!” Bobby ranted. “They made cute signs and everything! How can you be late?! I wish you were here!”

From behind him, Ha-eun leaned in so she was visible on screen, lifting her hood so it doesn't cover her eyes. She offered a small wave and a lopsided smile. “He's right, you know. The signs are very cute.”

“Ha-eun!” Rumi gasped. “You look amazing!”

“She’s such a professional,” Mira said mock-admiringly. “We should be taking notes.”

“I told them to eat before,” Ha-eun said, tilting her head slightly toward Bobby with a smirk. “But nobody listens to the backup dancer.”

“You’re not just a dancer,” Zoey argued. “You’re the responsible one.”

"Barely." Ha-eun mumbles under her breath with a devious smile just barely showing.

“Exactly!” Bobby said, waving a hand toward Ha-eun. “Ha-eun gets it. She’s here. She’s ready. She didn’t try to microwave seafood on a plane.”

“That happened once,” Mira grumbled.

Rumi just smiled. “Don’t worry, Bobby. We’ll be there in three.”

“You better,” he said, then took a dramatic gulp of Ha-eun’s tea without asking.

She didn’t even blink, her grin turning fond. “You’re welcome.”

Bobby turned to Ha-eun with a serious expression, his phone still buzzing with backstage chaos. “Listen,” he said, his voice low, “I need you to stall. Just a minute or two. The crowd’s already screaming. It’ll buy us time before Huntrix parachute in from wherever-the-hell they are.”

Ha-eun raised a brow. “I don’t sing.”

“You don’t need to sing,” Bobby said, already pushing her gently toward the tunnel. “Just go out there. Do your thing. Dance. Stare into the front row like you're about to kiss someone. They love that.”

She sighed, the weight of this nonsense pressing down like a familiar coat. “One minute. Then I vanish.”

Bobby grinned, almost reverent. “Godspeed, warrior.”

 

As Ha-eun stepped into the tunnel, the sound hit her like a tidal wave made of thunder and devotion. Tens of thousands of voices cried her name as soon as they spotted her despite their confusion, “HA-EUN! HA-EUN!” with the fervor of worship. Pink bunny lightsticks bobbed like stars in a rolling galaxy, and hand-painted signs with her name shimmered through the haze.

She nodded once to the stage manager. Rolled her shoulders. And walked out into the storm like she’d been born in it.

The roar swallowed her whole.

No mic. No beat. Just her.

Ha-eun moved.

She turned slow, deliberate, the hem of her outfit slicing through light and smoke like a weapon unsheathed. One boot slid forward. Hips angled, arms curved through space with precision that felt ancient. Every motion was language, grace cut with threat, softness coiled around violence. Fluid and sharp. Silk and steel. She smiled, then winked. She gave them gravity.

The crowd froze. Breathless. Caught in the gravitational pull of her control. She held still for just a second, just long enough to make silence feel sacred.

Then someone screamed, “It’s them!”

BOOM.

An explosion split the air overhead.

Light cracked across the ceiling like lightning. Smoke burst in fumes. Glittering color fell like rain as three figures dropped through it all, boots hitting the stage with impossible glamor and force.

Huntrix had arrived.

Ha-eun barely flinched. She pivoted mid-dance, stepping out of the spotlight like she was passing a torch in motion.

Then came their voices.

Her girls.

"Knocking you out like a lullaby! Hear that sound ringing in your mind! Better sit down for the show!"

The crowd detonated.

Mira landed with a thud, already in motion, her mic gripped like a blade.

Rumi’s voice soared through the fog like a spell: “’Cause I’m gonna show you!”

Mira’s voice cracked through bass: “I’m gonna show you!”

Zoey’s voice drove through the beat like thunder: “I’m gonna show you!”

Then, together, Huntrix sang. “How it’s done, done, done!”

Even in the wings, Ha-eun kept dancing, syncing her body with the rhythm as if wired directly into the music’s bloodstream. The crowd screamed louder as something shifted. On stage, shadows twitched. Glamor flickered.

People.. in costume?

They hit the stage like corrupted stagehands, snarling through glitter and synths. One tumbled near the barricade, claws scraping metal.

“Cool costume!” a fan laughed, not realizing the danger.

Mira didn’t miss a beat.

“I don’t talk, I bite! Full of venom!” she spat, tearing through her verse and another guy in costume in one fluid motion, mic stand crashing into the poor guys skull.

Offstage, Ha-eun twirled into a spin-kick that sent a third guy in costume (?) flying into a speaker tower with a bone-splintering crack, going with the charade. She winced but never broke rhythm.

Mira pressed forward, breath hot and controlled. “Spittin’ facts! You know that’s how it’s done, done, done!”

Then Zoey exploded into her rap, her voice razor-sharp, electric. “Okay, I know I ramble, but when shootin’ my words, I go Rambo! Took blood, sweat and tears to look natural! That’s how it’s done, done, done!”

In smoke, Ha-eun gave one last spin, her silhouette slashing through fog and laser light, then vanished like smoke into the dark. Her part was done.

And now it was theirs.

She paused just behind the curtain, breathing hard, gaze locked on the chaos of beauty unfolding before her.

Rumi's voice soared like it was woven from magic and steel, “Hear our voice unwavering till our song defeats the night. Making fear afraid to breathe till the dark meets the light!”

The girls surged forward together, flawless and fierce, blending combat and choreography with terrifying grace. Blood and glitter painted the stage. Their harmony hit like war drums. Smoke swirled. Lights flashed like lightning. And still, the crowd screamed, still thinking this was part of the show.

Ha-eun’s breath caught.

She watched, wide-eyed, as her girls lit the stage on fire, not just with vocals, not just with power, but with love and fury. She felt it swell in her throat, that electric ache of belonging.

Huntrix, united, hit the final chorus with violent joy.

“How it’s done, done, done! Run, run, we run the town! Whole world playing our sound! Turnin’ up, it’s goin’ down! Huntrix show this how it’s done, done, done! We hunt you down, down, down! We got you now, now, now! We show you how, how, how! Huntrix don’t miss how it’s done, done, done!”

The final note hit like a thunderclap.

Smoke coiled around their boots. Their pose struck like lightning frozen in time, bodies bruised, faces fierce, glowing like divine beings who’d just descended from orbit.

And the crowd, the crowd went feral.

Phones up. Tears falling. Confetti flung like offerings. Ha-eun slipped into the side elevator with a grin tugging at her lips, breath still catching from the adrenaline. Her muscles hummed. Her boots clicked softly against the floor. She didn’t need the spotlight now, just some water and a quiet hallway.

 

The elevator doors whispered open, and she stepped out into backstage calm. A few crew members were already milling around, giddy from the high of a perfect show. Bobby stood a little off-center, scrolling through his phone like it owed him money.

Bobby looked up from his phone and lit up like a marquee the second he spotted her. “There she is, my little storm cloud,” he beamed, striding over and gently pinching her cheeks like a proud dad at a school play.

Ha-eun blinked at him, mildly betrayed. “I was aiming for graceful thunder, actually.”

Despite the theatrics, her cheeks pinked. Praise still caught her off guard, especially when it felt real.

“Mm, well, the thunder made me cry,” Bobby said, He finally let her go with a hand to his chest, giving her space like a man who knew better than to linger too long. Ha-eun didn’t like being touched, not usually, but Bobby?

Bobby was different. He was warm, theatrical, overbearing in the best way, and oddly safe. Aside from Huntrix, he was the only one she didn’t feel like setting herself on fire just for breathing near her.

"You killed it out there. And by killed it, I mean absolutely emotionally devastated the third row.”

She grinned. “They started chanting before I even moved. I think I scared a few of them.” Her sharp eyes had a shine to them filled with exhilaration.

“They love it,” he said, handing her a cold water bottle like it was a bouquet. “You blink and the fan cams get thirty thousand likes.”

Ha-eun took the bottle with a soft “Thanks, Bobby,” and tilted it toward him in mock salute.

“Where’re the others?” he asked, glancing toward the elevator she hadn’t used.

“Very close behind. I'm sure they have to finish off a dramatic final move, especially Mira.”

He chuckled. “Of course she does. Drama runs in the blood.”

“I take offense to that,” Ha-eun said mildly, sipping her water. “I’m the subtle sister.”

“You’re the sneakier one,” Bobby corrected. “Go lean somewhere and look effortlessly stunning while doing it, you deserve the rest."

"Already on it boss." Ha-eun says with a chuckle, plopping onto a travel case with her legs crossed.

She mumbles a polite thank you and a beaming smile at one of the backstage crew that hands her a towel, stunning the poor girl out of her wits.

The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding, Bobby running to the door before it could even open, holding his hands on his hips with a wide grin like a dramatic game show host, surrounded by staff with matching smiles.

“Did someone say water?” he bellowed.

A chorus of smiles followed as Huntrix, still glitter-dusted and bruised from their demon-slaying concert finale, lit up at the sight of him. “Hi, Bobby!” they chimed in unison, voices hoarse but joyful.

“Water! Now!” Bobby declared dramatically, A sea of crew members burst into cheers, already holding out an unreasonable number of water bottles like a hydration cult. Ha-eun, still seated on the travel case with a towel around her neck and half a protein bar in her mouth, raised a brow.

“What a way to end a world tour! That finale with the guy in the demon suit exploding into confetti?” He gestured wildly, nearly knocking over a lighting rig.

“Iconic,” a nearby crew member agreed.

“So chill,” added another, dabbing their forehead with a rag.

Mira cocked a brow, swagger practically dripping from her voice. “Yeah. ‘Special effects.’”

Ha-eun hopped off the case, quickly following behind watching the chaos play out with tired fondness.

Bobby was too busy tapping furiously at his phone. “This is gonna break the bank,” he muttered, eyes going wide. “Ooh, but look at these social numbers! Off. The. Charts!” He spun his phone around to show them a chart with the huntrix numbers going up by a scary amount.

Ha-eun blinked at it, mildly horrified with a mix of pride.

“And to celebrate,” Bobby went on, puffing out his chest, “I booked you all a week-long staycation at the fanciest, most exclusive relaxation resort in all of Korea. Nothing but robes, pools, and overpriced juice.”

Mira didn’t miss a beat. “Sorry, Bobby. We already have plans.”

He blinked, confused. “What plans?”

“We got the hottest ticket in town,” Zoey chimed in, eyes sparkling.

“Incredible seats,” Mira added.

Then together they pointed dramatically toward the door and chanted in perfect harmony: “To our couch! Couch! Couch!”

Ha-eun giggling as Zoey wrapped her arms around her chanting with a wild shine in her eyes.

Rumi, ever the peacemaker, placed a gentle hand on Bobby’s shoulder. “You should go, Bobby. This tour’s been grueling for all of us, and you’ve been running on caffeine and blind faith for six months straight. You deserve some rest.”

“Me? Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly,” Bobby said with theatrical modesty. Then he clapped his hands. “Just kidding. Robe me. I’m a 34 short.”

He wheeled around and disappeared down the hallway, probably already texting someone about cucumber water and hot stone massages.

“See you in a couple weeks, girls!” he called.

“Bye, Bobby!” Huntrix and Ha-eun shouted in unison, waving.

Ha-eun raised her water bottle in a lazy salute and took another long sip. Honestly, couch sounded like paradise. No stage, no spotlight, just her, a blanket, and the sweet hum of doing absolutely nothing.

Her moment of peace was cut short when Zoey squeezed her tighter, wrapping her in a bone-crushing hug. Ha-eun let out an unflattering wheeze, blushing as she awkwardly patted Zoey’s back while the girl rattled off rapid-fire praise like a sugar-high cheerleader. The rest of Huntrix watched with knowing grins, amusement dancing in their eyes.

“Two weeks of vacation,” Mira sighed, slinging an arm around the Zoey and Ha-eun bundle like she’d earned a medal.

“Yes. Vacation,” Rumi echoed, her voice calm but her fingers twiddling together with a look of innocent evil that absolutely wasn’t innocent.

Ha-eun caught the look and raised a brow, lips twitching before shrugging it off with a relaxed sigh.

 

Couch..

 

Wrapped in fluffy white robes and with towels coiled like princess crowns on their heads, the girls walked on their way to get ready for their couch like it was a portal to another dimension. Mira stretched out dramatically, arms above her head.

“Mmm. I can’t wait to eat kimbap and stare at the ceiling,” she sighed like she’d trained her whole life for this moment.

“I made a playlist,” Zoey announced proudly from Mira's side “Seven hundred two-second turtle clips. All turtles. All the time.”

“Sounds painfully boring,” Mira said, eyes already closing. “I’m so in.”

Ha-eun, tucked between them with a plate of snacks wrapped in her arms, snorted quietly and took another bite. “I feel like that’s actually going to spiritually heal us.”

From behind the rest of the girls, Rumi let out a quiet hum. “Let’s do this,” she whispered to herself.

No one noticed her tapping away on her phone. No one saw the glint in her eyes, not yet.

Mira and Zoey ran over to get their snacks chanting, "Couch! Couch! Couch!" as Ha-eun already plopped herself down onto the piece of furniture

Once all the girls settled onto the couch Rumi rose, eerily, slowly, from behind the couch like a ghost with a plan, still fully dressed in her performance outfit.

Mira cracked one eye open.

“Hey. Have a good break?” Rumi drawls mischievously with a wide grin.

Ha-eun raised an eyebrow. “Why do you look like you’re about to debut again?”

“Rumi…” Zoey trailed off, eyes wide. “No.”

“Did you—?” Mira bolted upright. “You didn’t.”

Rumi smiled sweetly. “It’s time.”

“You announced it?” Mira gasped. “Already?!”

“The promo starts tomorrow!” Zoey cried.

“Tonight?!” they shouted in unison.

Ha-eun slowly put down her kimbap, with a wistful sigh as if the action physically hurt her to do.

“Rumi, no!” Mira yelped.

“But the pajamas—!” Zoey mourned. “No, no!”

“Noooo!” Mira groaned into the air, head tilted back with dread.

Then, like fate had it on a timer, the door burst open and Bobby came striding in like he, himself, just saved the music industry. “Girls, you won’t believe this!”

Mira didn’t even look up. “Bobby!”

“No more relaxy time,” Zoey whimpered beside her.

Completely immune to their agony, Bobby raised his phone like it was a golden goblet. “Your new single is on fire! Everyone’s listening to it!”

“YAY!” the Huntrix girls shouted, almost jumping up and down. A major mood switch from their prior devastation.

Ha-eun blinked slowly, leaned forward, and turned on the TV. “I will personally haunt every one of you if I don’t finish this turtle documentary.”

She had exactly three seconds of peace.

YANK.

“You fu- unhand me, villain!” she cried as Mira grabbed her by the robe and started dragging her off the couch. Her arms flailed, reaching for a pillow like it could save her soul. “You godforsaken troglodytes!”

The couch, once her salvation, watched silently as she was hauled away.

Betrayal, thy name is couch.

"Time to go promo!" Bobby borderline sang as he spun around, the girls giggling to themselves with excitement.

 

Millions of fans were already streaming Huntrix’s new single, Golden, their voices echoing through the streets as they screamed lyrics back to their screens. The girls, now seated under the sun for a live interview, looked as glowing as ever, even if their schedules were packed tighter than their suitcases. And right beside them, as always, was their number one supporter: Ha-eun.

“Do you see my head bopping right now?” the interviewer said with a laugh in her voice, casually gesturing toward the camera crew. “Tell us more about that new single!”

Behind the barricades, a sea of fans held up signs and phones, their cheers filling the background like a second soundtrack.

“Golden… it’s the story of us,” Mira said, her voice soft as she glanced at the others. Their matching smiles were quiet and sure, but Ha-eun’s sparkled with a warm, private pride.

“It’s about who we are, and where we’re going next,” Rumi added, her hands folded neatly in her lap, voice calm and certain.

“And our first live performance is tonight!” Zoey practically bounced in her seat, eyes wide, energy contagious. The crowd behind them roared in response.

“It’s the beginning of a new chapter,” Rumi said, her smile deepening as she turned to the crowd. “For us, and for the world. We can’t wait to show you what’s next.”

Then the interviewer turned, a curious smile directed at the girl beside them. “And Ha-eun, we spotted you in the music video. That scene with you embracing your sister? So many of us cried. It was beautiful.”

Ha-eun’s eyes widened just a bit, but she quickly recovered with a grin. “Tears? Already? We’re saving heartbreak for the next comeback.”

Laughter rippled through the crowd and crew alike. The interviewer smiled, leaning in slightly.

“So… will we see you on stage tonight?”

Ha-eun paused for dramatic effect, then broke into a cheeky grin, nodding emphatically. The fans screamed, some chanting her name as she waved with both hands, a flush creeping up her cheeks.

Behind her, the Huntrix girls beamed, proud, supportive, and clearly as hyped as the crowd.

 

The changing room looked like a hurricane had tried on every glittery outfit and then emotionally collapsed. Costumes, makeup bags, abandoned water bottles, chaos in all directions. Ha-eun sat cross-legged on a bench, lazily peeling a mandarin, hair still wrapped in a curling rolls.

“I’m not saying my sports bra tried to kill me,” Zoey announced as she yanked the cursed item over her head, and onto her body, “but I am saying it was plotting something.”

“It’s because you tried to dance in it while eating hotteok again,” Ha-eun muttered, popping a mandarin slice into her mouth. “Gravity is your nemesis.”

Zoey gasped and turned dramatically toward Mira. “She’s bullying me again.”

Mira, slumped in front of the mirror and taping up her fingers, didn’t look up. “Good. Maybe she’ll knock some logic into your head.”

Ha-eun raised her hand for a high-five. Mira met it without hesitation. The sound? Immaculate.

“I am literally the only light in this group,” Zoey said, now flopping across Ha-eun’s lap like a tragic Victorian ghost. “Do you hear this slander?”

“No,” Ha-eun said, poking her in the cheek. “I turned off my Zoey notifications. They were draining my battery.”

“You wound me,” Zoey groaned, rolling onto the floor like a gremlin.

“You wound yourself every time you try to do a high kick in jeans,” Mira said, finally standing to stretch.

Ha-eun let out a quiet snort, glancing at her sister. “She’s not wrong. I had secondhand hamstring pain.”

Zoey sat up, pouting but not really mad. “You two are literally built in the same factory, I swear. Like, ‘MiraBot 2.0 but she cries at Pixar movies.’”

Mira snorted. Ha-eun just looked smug.

“Well, I’m off to find Rumi before she sneaks caffeine again,” Zoey said as she grabbed her phone. “If she shows up levitating again, I’m quitting.”

She grabbed a rogue grape off the bench on her way out. “Bye, crusty twins!”

“Bye, liability,” both girls called after her, deadpan.

The door clicked shut behind Zoey, leaving a quiet that settled heavier than expected. Mira was still taping her fingers, slower now. Ha-eun watched her in the mirror.

“She’s not wrong, y’know,” Ha-eun said after a moment. “You and I… we’re not exactly sunshine.”

Mira let out a low hum. “Sunshine’s overrated.”

“I dunno,” Ha-eun shrugged, unwrapping another mandarin. “I think we just burn different. You’re like... fire that scorches the earth. I’m more like... that weird electric zap you get when you touch a doorknob.”

“That is the worst metaphor I’ve ever heard.”

“Thanks. It’s accurate.”

They both smiled.

Then Ha-eun added, quieter, “A year ago, I didn’t think you’d even let me in here. Now I’m peeling fruit in your dressing room like I belong.”

Mira didn’t say anything right away. Just folded up the tape neatly. Finally, she looked at her sister through the mirror.

“You always belonged. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

Ha-eun blinked. “...Gross.”

Mira rolled her eyes. “Don’t make it weird.”

“You made it weird!”

“No, you did!”

Ha-eun threw a mandarin slice at her. Mira caught it without looking and ate it.

“Okay, that was kind of cool.”

They didn’t hug. They didn’t cry. But the air was lighter somehow, just two sisters, finally moving in the same rhythm.

 

On a compact rehearsal stage bathed in gold-filtered lighting, the girls moved in perfect unison. Their limbs flowed like silk, every step, spin, and snap matching the rising tune of Golden pulsing through the monitors. Rumi took center as she slid effortlessly into her verse, voice gliding over the instrumental with precise, rhythmic grace.

Behind them, the backdrop shimmered, a strange but striking hexagonal display glowing faintly like alchemy in motion. The girls wore matching rehearsal fits: sleek, minimal, yet sharp enough to mirror the edge in their choreography. Off to the side, Bobby mimicked their dance with wild, committed energy, flailing like a wind-up toy with too much caffeine. Ha-eun caught sight of him in her periphery and fought the twitch of a grin, keeping herself anchored in the routine. Her movements were fluid, sharp where needed, soft in the in-betweens. A quiet echo to the Huntrix girls, perfectly attuned but never overstepping.

“We're going up, up, up, it's our moment!
You know together we're glowing.
Gonna be, gonna be golden! Oh!
Up, up, up with our voices.
Yeongwonhi kkaejil su eopneun...”

The melody soared, their voices layering like light catching crystal edges—different textures, same brilliance. Ha-eun’s chest lifted, pride blooming quietly across her face. Their harmony wasn’t just sound. It was soul.

“Now I'm shining like I'm born to b-”

Rumi’s line fractured suddenly. She stopped mid-verse, one hand flying instinctively to her throat.

The choreography stuttered. All heads snapped toward her.

Ha-eun froze mid-turn, concern tightening her brow. She stepped toward Rumi without hesitation, her hand reaching out just as Mira did the same. Zoey’s eyes were wide with unease, her bounce muted.

“Huh?” Bobby's voice cracked the silence, eyes wide with alarm as his arms dropped to his sides.

“You okay?” Mira asked, voice steady but laced with uncertainty. Ha-eun gave a firm, silent nod in agreement, eyes scanning Rumi’s expression for clues. She didn’t like what she found.

Mira’s hand slipped off Rumi’s arm with hesitance. Rumi quickly pulled herself upright again, brushing off the moment with a strained smile.

“Yeah! Yeah. Let’s take it again, from the top.”

Ha-eun let her hand fall slowly, reluctance in every movement. Her eyes lingered on Rumi’s profile, watching the slight tremble in her shoulders as she reset her stance. A dry swallow worked down her throat, unease beginning to crack through her practiced calm.

“I'm done hiding. Now I'm shining like I'm born to—”

Rumi faltered again. The note never landed. Instead, a rasping cough stole her voice.

“Rumi…” Ha-eun said, more carefully this time. Her voice was quiet, but not timid. She chewed at her thumbnail, an old, nervous habit, as she took a half step forward. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

Bobby’s panic kicked in like a fire drill. “Yeah, you okay? Do you need some water?”

“I just need five,” Rumi snapped abruptly, already turning on her heel. “I’m gonna take five.”

The words trailed behind her as she darted off the stage.

“Five minutes?! We go live in ten!” one of the camera operators shouted, voice pinched with disbelief.

“Um—okay, okay. I can handle this,” Bobby said, trying to regulate his own breathing. “I’m not having a nervous breakdown. Visualize. Visualize there are not 10,000 fans at the door screaming and sounding scary.”

Ha-eun could definitely hear the fans screaming. A full ocean of voices outside, each wave of sound louder than the last. Her chest felt tight, but her feet were already moving. She glanced once at the exit Rumi had vanished through, then without waiting, ran after her.

The moment her sneakers hit the hallway floor, Ha-eun picked up speed. She didn’t care that her hair was still frizzing from sweat or that her lungs burned. All she cared about was finding Rumi.

 

Dinner sat untouched on the table, the girls hunched around it in a loose circle. The warm lights above did nothing to cut the weight in the room. Silver chopsticks sat idle. Bowls of rice grew cold.

No one ate.

“I… I’m sorry about the show,” Rumi said at last, her voice barely above a whisper. Her shoulders slumped inward, and her eyes didn’t rise from the table. There was a defeat in them that made something twist inside Ha-eun’s chest.

She hated seeing Rumi like this.

“Rumi, it’s okay,” Zoey said gently, her voice like a soft breeze trying to clear the smoke. “I’m sure everything will be fine. Bobby can handle it.”

Her phone lit up mid-sentence. She picked it up with a sigh and put it on speaker.

“Girls, I can’t handle this!” Bobby’s voice exploded through the line like a kettle blowing steam. “There’s thousands of disappointed fans, and the network is losing their minds-” he paused, then barked something away from the mic, “Okay, this is why you pay me three percent! Back off! My girls will sing when they’re ready.”

His tone snapped into protective steel by the end, and despite everything, Ha-eun couldn’t help but smile. The Bobby Effect: Always in your corner.

The line disconnected with a beep that felt strangely final.

“It’s okay,” Mira said after a moment. Her voice was flat, like usual, but there was a softness under it, too. A slight crack in her cool. “We can reschedule the live show. Few days, max.”

Rumi looked like she wanted to believe that, but her hands curled into fists in her lap.

“I-I don’t know if that’s going to be possible.” She swallowed hard. “My voice… it’s in trouble.”

Ha-eun straightened in her seat, brows pulling together.

“In trouble?” Mira echoed, blinking. “Then why did you push up the Golden release?”

“Because we’re so close,” Rumi said quietly, but there was something urgent in it. Her gaze flicked from girl to girl. “And it’s so important.”

That sentence sat wrong in Ha-eun’s ears. Too vague. Too loaded. Her throat tightened.

“Close to what?” she asked, softer now. Her eyes flicked across their faces, searching, watching how the three seemed to freeze, almost perfectly still. Like they'd just been caught hiding something they swore they wouldn’t.

Zoey gave a short, awkward laugh. “Uh- oh! Nothing! Haha! Just y’know... normal idol stuff?”

Mira shot her a look. Not subtle. Not amused.

Rumi leaned forward, too quickly. “Just… reaching our fans,” she said, voice high and brittle. “That’s all.”

But it wasn’t. And they all knew it.

Ha-eun blinked. The air in her lungs felt tight, like the room was shrinking inch by inch. Their smiles were too rehearsed. Their eyes weren’t meeting hers.

Something in her cracked a little.

She forced a laugh, the sound dry. “Right. Of course.”

Standing, she brushed invisible dust off her pants and shoved her chair back slowly.

“Well,” she said, voice light but a little too careful, “I’m beat. Probably gonna head to bed early. Hope your throat feels better, Rumi.”

She smiled, thin and polite, and started to walk. No one stopped her.

“Oh- ! Alright! Have a nice sleep!” Zoey called after her, voice catching in the air.

The door clicked shut behind Ha-eun just a bit too loud. Not quite a slam. Just loud enough to be heard.

Inside the room, the silence returned like a wave. The girls looked at each other with a mixture of doubt and concern.

 

Ha-eun lay on her bed, arms splayed out beside her like she was trying to anchor herself to the mattress. The ceiling stared back at her, blank and impassive. She tried to match its stillness. Breathe in. Breathe out. Don’t overthink. Don’t spiral.

Rumi’s voice, she reminded herself. Focus on that.

What could she do to help? Maybe research vocal rest techniques? Throat soaks? Something herbal? She could make tea. Rumi liked jasmine, no- wait. Ginseng. Ginseng was for energy- Right?

She turned her head toward the nightstand but didn’t move. Her chest felt too heavy to lift. Her thoughts buzzed like static.

From beyond her door, a muffled voice broke through.

“…Okay, how do we handle this? What do we tell the fans? Maybe we should call Celine?”

Zoey.

There was a pause, then Mira’s voice, lower and edged with frustration: “We know what she’d say, Zoey.”

A beat.

Then both of them, eerily in sync:
“We are Hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen.”

Ha-eun blinked. Her stomach sank like a stone in water.

Hunters? The word echoed, weird and wrong in her ears.

“Whoa,” Mira said with dry amusement. “You sound exactly like her.”

“Yeah, that’s how she says it,” Zoey replied, voice tight with amusement in her tone.

A soft thud. Footsteps, then another voice, Rumi’s. Weary but steady.

“No. No way. It’s our most important show. It’s when we strengthen the Honmoon for the entire year. We can’t skip it. Not when I’m so close.”

Ha-eun sat up slowly, the quiet dread in her chest coiling tighter. Honmoon?

She padded silently to the door, pressing her ear gently against the cool surface.

Zoey again, softer this time, reassuring: “Hey, we’ll get through this. We can get through anything. Together.”

Ha-eun’s breath caught.

They were all out there, talking in quiet crisis mode. Whispering about something… something big. Something she clearly wasn’t supposed to know. Her heart thudded louder, syncing with the ringing in her ears.

She stood there in the silence that followed, forehead pressed lightly to the door.

 

And suddenly, lying back down didn’t feel like peace anymore.

Notes:

HEYY GUYS this isn't my best work but I'm just honestly having fun don't fret baby WILL make an appearance next chapter this chapter is mainly to show you an understanding on how the girls relationship with Ha-eun have grown! And yes she doesn't know about the demon hunter business, she has just be taught by them "self defence" so she can hold her own until her girls show up if anything bad were to happen.. winks

Chapter 3: Soda Pop

Summary:

A casual day out turns into anything but. Secrets surface, truths are tested, and a strange boy group with unsettling charm takes center stage. Ha-eun thought her life was getting weirder—she had no idea.

Notes:

Heyyy guys sorry was abit late to this got an ear infection haha but here it iss!!

The room was still and silent as Ha-eun stirred awake, her lashes flickering in the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Golden sunbeams painted warm stripes across her blanket, catching gently on her skin. She let out a quiet yawn, one hand rubbing at her eyes while the other stretched lazily toward the ceiling before flopping back down onto the bed with a sigh.

For a few precious seconds, there was peace.

Then the memories of last night crept in, muffled whispers, strange words, the heavy silence when she left the room. Her chest tightened, a cluster of unease pressing against the calm.

“Wakey wakey!”

A voice chimed right by her ear.

"What the fuck-"

Ha-eun jolted upright, hair sticking in all directions, heart nearly leaping out of her chest. Her eyes locked onto-

Zoey.

Perched at the foot of her bed like an overeager cat, blinking at her with a sheepish grin.

PLUNK—

Mira dropped onto the mattress beside her, expression as unreadable as ever but with the faintest tug of amusement at the corners of her mouth. Before Ha-eun could even process that, a third weight flung itself onto the other side.

“Morninggg..” Rumi chirped, grinning wide enough to split the sun.

Ha-eun blinked at them, bleary and vaguely alarmed. “Are you guys trying to kill me?”

“Don’t be dramatic,” Zoey said sweetly, then immediately added, “We’re kidnapping you.”

Mira crossed her legs. “Sort of.”

“I- what?” Ha-eun rasped, her voice still foggy with sleep.

Rumi tilted her head. “You’ve been officially voted Most Likely to Need a Makeover By Breakfast.”

Zoey nodded. “Unanimous decision.”

Ha-eun squinted. “I thought I was doing okay?”

“You are,” Mira said, brushing imaginary lint from Ha-eun’s sleeve. “But you’re still wearing socks and hair ties from three years ago. We’re taking you shopping.”

“And dyeing your hair,” Zoey added cheerfully.

Ha-eun blinked. “Wait, seriously?”

“Super serious,” Rumi grinned, nudging her. “You’re part of the squad. It’s tradition.”

"It's long overdue." Mira chimed in.

Ha-eun stared at them. Part of her wanted to protest. Another part, quieter, more giddy, just kind of wanted to go with it.

“…What colour?” she asked cautiously.

“Not purple,” Rumi said quickly. “That’s mine.”

“Pink’s off limits too,” Mira said without inflection.

“Black is mine. Non-negotiable,” Zoey declared, flicking at her space buns with dramatic flair. She paused, then pouted. “I know you already have black, but c’mon!” Her hands came together in a mock prayer. “Don’t make me beg.”

“We were thinking you could choose,” Rumi offered gently. “Something that feels you. But also fresh. New.”

“I think anything you pick will look great,” Zoey added, her eyes twinkling. “Besides… we have to go out to help Rumi with her little problem anyway!”

There was a pause. Ha-eun looked between them, three wildly different girls with one chaotic brain cell between them, and despite herself, a reluctant laugh bubbled up from her chest. She let herself collapse back onto the mattress.

“Fine,” she mumbled into her pillow. “I surrender.”

A chorus of cheers erupted immediately.

Zoey didn’t hesitate. She launched herself at Ha-eun like a missile, arms wide.

“Oof- Zoey!” Ha-eun groaned, laughter spilling out as she scrunched her nose and tried to shove her off. “Get off me, you little shit-”

“You love me!” Zoey sang, clinging tighter.

Mira just sighed from the corner. “This is why we can’t have nice things.”

Rumi giggled, flopping down beside them and grinning like the star she is.

For a brief moment, the weight on Ha-eun’s chest lightened. Just a little.

 

The girls were already weighed down with bags, a half-dozen crinkly shopping totes swinging from elbows and wrists, crammed with clothes they absolutely did not need but absolutely had to have. Zoey twirled a pair of tiny sunglasses between her fingers and Rumi, despite her lingering exhaustion, had perked up just enough to impulse-buy two new beanies.

“I’m just saying,” Zoey was saying, nudging Ha-eun with her elbow, “You rocked in those boots. Like, effortlessly.”

Ha-eun let out a quiet chuckle. “You made me buy them.”

“Exactly,” Zoey beamed. “That’s sisterhood.”

Mira raised a brow. “Sisterhood is peer pressure now?”

“Always has been.”

"True."

Rumi snorted. “Can we just get the hair dye before Zoey starts talking about blood oaths again?”

“Great idea,” Mira said dryly. “Hair. Then cafe, then we can go see that doctor.”

They turned the corner and entered a tucked-away beauty store, the kind with cracked linoleum floors and shelves that leaned slightly to one side. The wall of dyes stretched out in a rainbow, some colours vibrant and chaotic, others soft and barely-there.

The girls spread out, Mira inspecting labels with clinical precision, Zoey running her fingers along the boxes with dramatic flair, and Rumi lingering near the naturals with a strange, quiet look in her eyes.

Ha-eun trailed slowly toward the bottom rows. Her fingers brushed over dusty pinks and bold silvers, then paused.

A warm, sunlit blonde.

And right next to it, nearly hidden behind a stack of half-folded shelf signs, a small collection of teal. It was bright, but not loud. Cool. Curious. Balanced. A wind passed through her.

Peekaboo style, maybe. Something just for her.

She pulled both boxes off the shelf and stared at them for a moment. A quiet kind of certainty settled in her chest.

“This,” she said softly, holding them up.

Mira looked over and gave a small nod of approval. “Good contrast.”

Zoey’s face lit up. “Oooh! Blonde and teal?! Oh my God. That’s perfect.”

Rumi leaned against the cart, a small smile tugging at her lips. “It really suits you, Ha-eun.”

Ha-eun shrugged, but the blush rising in her cheeks gave her away. “Just felt right.”

As Zoey loaded the dye into their basket and declared it her “reborn era,” none of them noticed the small, strange hum that passed through the fluorescent lights overhead, like the universe had quietly tilted its head, curious.

 

The café was the kind of place that smelled like burnt sugar and old dreams. Sunlight pooled through the wide front windows, dancing across chipped teacups and wilted napkin flowers. Indie ballads trickled from a scratchy speaker behind the counter, half drowned out by the soft murmur of conversations and the hiss of the espresso machine.

The girls had claimed a lopsided corner booth, half-shadowed and cramped, but warm. Cups of half-melted iced lattes, tiny dessert forks, and a mountain of napkins littered the table like confetti.

Ha-eun sat among them, her arms wrapped around a lukewarm taro boba Zoey had shoved into her hands like it was an olive branch. She hadn’t taken a sip yet.

“This feels… weirdly illegal,” she muttered, eyeing the drink.

“It’s not illegal,” Zoey chirped, as she balanced two spoons on her nose. “It’s called ambiance. Where else can you get office people with existential dread with a side of caramel waffles?”

Ha-eun raised a brow. “Sounds like hell.”

“Same thing,” Rumi grinned, nudging a ramekin of honeyed rice cake toward her. “We’re here because you need an intervention.”

“Or an initiation,” Mira said dryly, sipping her coffee like it was a secret.

“Or a brain transplant,” Zoey added cheerfully. “Still deciding.”

Ha-eun blinked. “What are you even talking about? I probably know more than you on whatever you're trying to ‘educate’ me about.”

“She’s getting cocky,” Zoey whispered to Mira.

“It’s begun,” Mira sighed, eyes closing like she was praying for patience.

“Next she’ll be finishing our—”

“—sentences,” Ha-eun said flatly.

All three of them groaned.

Rumi tossed her chopsticks dramatically onto the plate. “Too late. She’s fully infected.”

Ha-eun gave them a soft laugh. One of those small, instinctive things that almost surprised her. This was what it felt like to be on the inside of something. Surrounded. Not observed. Not judged. Just… part of the noise.

Still, even as the warmth curled through her chest, something else flickered at the edges. A thread of tension. Unease.

So she said it.

Casually. Quietly. Like tossing a pebble into a calm lake.

“So. Just curious… what’s a Honmoon?”

The room didn’t fall silent. The café kept humming with strangers and soft music and coffee machines. But their booth? Their booth stopped breathing.

Zoey’s mouth dropped open mid-sip. Mira’s grip on her coffee stiffened. Rumi blinked like she’d been hit with a brick.

“…What?” Rumi asked, too still.

Ha-eun sipped her drink, slow and steady, like she hadn’t just detonated a conversational grenade. “Maybe I misheard. But I could’ve sworn I heard that last night. Along with something about being… Hunters?”

Zoey visibly recoiled. Mira looked murderous—for all of one second, before panic set in. Rumi muttered something under her breath that might have been “dammit” or “kill me now.”

“How do you know that word?” Mira asked, low and sharp.

Ha-eun set her drink down. “You guys aren’t exactly subtle. Paper-thin walls.”

There was a beat of silence. Too loud in its quiet.

“And what do you think we’ve been hiding?” Rumi asked, voice even.

“I dunno,” Ha-eun said, head tilted slightly. “A girl group that hunt things wasn’t my first guess, what is it that you hunt anyway?”

Ha-eun paused for a moment, "Boy groups with no rhythm? Fans? Ghosts?"

Zoey let out a strangled laugh and dropped her head to the table. “Okay! Fine! You win! Secrets exposed! Identities ruined!”

“She knows, Zoey,” Rumi muttered.

“She knows what, Rumi?” Ha-eun prompted.

Mira stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back with a tired exhale. “We hunt demons.”

Ha-eun blinked. “…Like emotional demons? Regret? Debt? Old crushes that you can't forget no matter how hard you try?”

Rumi blinked at the last part, shaking her head with a small smile, “No,” she said. “Like, horns. Fangs, smells like decays, multiple eyes. Real demons.”

Zoey straightened up and added, solemnly:
“There’ve always been Hunters. Generation to generation. We’re the current ones, It's in Rumi’s blood. The sunlight sisters were hunters too.”

Then she struck a dramatic pose and intoned:
“We are Hunters. Voices strong. Your faults and fears must never be seen.”

“That sounded rehearsed,” Ha-eun said.

“Because it is,” Mira muttered.

"I bet Celine chants that in her sleep,” Zoey said bitterly.

Ha-eun blinked. Then, after a pause:

“…Okay.”

“Okay?!” three voices chorused at once.

“You’re not… like, horrified?” Mira asked, frowning.

“I mean,” Ha-eun said, glancing at them. “You want to bleach my hair in our kitchen with a salad bowl and prayer. Demon hunting isn’t even top five on my list of concerns."

She paused for a moment, "The health of my hair however is a different story.”

Zoey let out a whoop and nearly knocked her cup over. “SEE? I told you! She’s one of us!" Her eyes widened comically, looking to the other girls.

"Wait. Is that a good thing? I dont think thats a good thing.”

Rumi blinked at Ha-eun. “But if you knew something was up, why didn’t you say anything?”

Ha-eun looked down at her drink. Her voice was quieter now. “Because I didn’t want to force it. And I only found out last night.”

She hesitated. Her throat tightened before she added, “And I thought you’d tell me when you were ready. I guess… that wasn’t anytime soon.”

That hit.

All three girls stilled, as if realizing at the same time that they’d made her wait. Made her wonder. Doubt. Alone.

“We were scared,” Mira said finally, and her voice was softer than usual. Not sarcastic. Not guarded.

“Of me?” Ha-eun asked, voice faltering.

“No,” Rumi said. “Of dragging you into our world. Of putting you in danger.”

“Of you walking away,” Zoey admitted.

Ha-eun looked around the table. Their faces were tense, vulnerable in a way they rarely showed—Mira’s jaw tight, Zoey worrying her sleeve, Rumi blinking just a little too much.

And something inside her eased.

“…I’m not going anywhere,” she said.

Three heads snapped toward her.

She looked them in the eyes. “If demons come for you guys, they’re gonna have to get through me first. I'll kick em with my boots.”

Zoey let out a tearful, squeaky shriek.

Rumi made a soft, choked sound and immediately shoved another spoonful of dessert into her mouth like it might absorb her feelings.

And Mira—stoic, unshakeable Mira—swallowed hard and immediately looked away. Her eyes glistened. She blinked like her life depended on it.

“Don’t,” she said hoarsely. “Don’t say anything. I’m not crying. It’s just—” She waved vaguely. “The café has…dust. Or something.”

Ha-eun smiled.

A real smile. The kind that crept up slowly, curling at the corners of her lips and settling in her chest like warmth after winter.

For the first time in a long time, she wasn’t bracing for the next blow.

She was… exactly where she needed to be.

 

The girls look up at the entrance of the doctor's office, "Doctor Han". Ha-eun squinted up at it all, then dropped her head into her hands with a sigh of pure disbelief. This had Zoey written all over it.

Ha-eun squinted up at it all, then dropped her head into her hands with a sigh of pure disbelief. This had Zoey written all over it.

"Yep, just as legit as I expected," Mira said flatly, arms crossed.

"First the relationship-fixer tonic, then that alleyway detour, and now a poster that looks like it was printed in 2005. Very trustworthy." Ha-eun muttered, her arms flailing in a dramatic sweep like a magician revealing a magic trick no one asked for.

"Earthy and herby, smells legit to me," Rumi chimed in, giving a half-hearted shrug as she stepped closer to the door.

“Yay!” Zoey exclaimed, clapping her hands and latching onto Rumi with a grin. "That's the spirit!" With zero hesitation, she dragged her inside like a game show host revealing a grand prize.

Ha-eun raised an eyebrow at Mira, who met her gaze with a slow, miserable blink.

“Ugh, hurry before someone sees us,” Mira groaned, already moving.

Ha-eun followed, rolling her eyes with a breathy, almost-laugh. “I swear, if I leave with a curse instead of Rumi's cure, I’m blaming all of you.”

The girls were all crammed inside the office, pictures littering the pale walls. Ha-eun stood near the back, arms folded tight across her chest, scanning the room like it might bite her. Her lips twitched as she caught Rumi’s eye and arched a single brow, impossibly high, pure judgment. Then, slowly, she turned to Zoey, the same brow still hovering as she kept the deadpan stare alive.

Zoey, ever the beacon of misplaced enthusiasm, sparkled like a K-Drama poster girl, flashing double thumbs up like she was giving Ha-eun front-row tickets to the concert of the century.

Rumi gave a slow, resigned smile and returned the thumbs-up in kind. The absurdity of it all made Ha-eun snort out loud, before she quickly masked it with a cough into her sleeve.

Then he appeared.

Doctor Han strolled in like he was walking onto a TED Talk stage, hands clasped behind his back, glasses three sizes too large for his face slipping down the bridge of his nose. Ha-eun turned her head slightly, thumb subtly hitching in his direction as she gave Mira a look that screamed, 'You’re seeing this, right?'

Mira met her gaze with an expression that could only be described as existential dread.

Still, the girls moved on instinct, rising to their feet as the doctor approached.

“Rumi Nim! Sit, sit, you need no introduction,” he said, voice thin and reedy, like a flute someone forgot to tune. “So, a problem with your voice?”

“Yes!” Zoey blurted, practically bouncing. “So we need one of your awesome tonics, something that will work super fast!”

“Okay, let me see…” he muttered. Rumi opened her mouth obediently, “Ah-”

“Ah-ah-ah,” he cut in abruptly, raising a hand and pressing a firm palm to her shoulder. “In order to heal the part, we must understand the whole.”

Ha-eun let out a sigh so deep it could’ve been used to cool the room.

Of course.

And then- oh no, the man was grunting. She side-eyed him from her post near the wall, bracing for whatever unhinged diagnosis was about to erupt.

“I see… I see… I see!” he proclaimed, pacing. “No. Actually, I don’t see. Very strange. You have lots of walls up.”

Ha-eun blinked.

'What the fuck was that.' She thought to herself in disbelief.

Zoey looked like she’d just witnessed an oracle descend from the heavens. “Woah! He’s so good, right?” she squealed, grabbing Mira’s arm like a kid at a zoo for the first time.

Or.. just like Zoey at a zoo.

“So many walls,” Doctor Han muttered again, motioning vaguely in the air. Rumi scoffed.

“Walls? I don’t have any walls.”

“Uh- yeah you do,” Mira said, flipping a random magazine she'd somehow found. “He is kind of good.”

Ha-eun recoiled slightly, eyes narrowing in mock betrayal as her nose scrunched in disgust.

“I’m just trying to stay focused!” Rumi shot back, defensive now.

Doctor Han leaned forward, stroking his chin as he peered into Rumi’s very soul. “Focus is good. But focusing on one part leads to ignoring other parts, making you feel separated. Isolated.”

Zoey shot her hand into the air like she was in school, grinning wide. “Oh! Oh! Emotionally closed off?”

Ha-eun had to bite her knuckle to keep from laughing, hiding the smile behind a faux cough.

“Yes! Yes!” Doctor Han praised, nodding.

“She’s also a workaholic…” Mira added.

“Doesn’t know how to relax…” Ha-eun chimed in, deadpan.

“I know how to relax!” Rumi cried, looking thoroughly wronged.

“I bet she refuses to go to the bathhouse with you,” Doctor Han pointed dramatically.

Huh.

Okay… the man might have a point.

“Oh my gosh! Yes!” Zoey gasped.

“How did you even-” Rumi blinked.

“Dude. We’ve been trying to get her to the bathhouse since-” Zoey started.

“Forever!” Zoey and Mira chorused.

Laughter filled the room, warm and contagious. Rumi, however, still looked miserable.

“How is this helpful?!” she whined pathetically at the girls.

“It’s helping me a lot,” Mira and Ha-eun said in a synchronised monotonous display, lips quirked at the corners.

Zoey clasped her hands like she’d just witnessed a miracle. “I can’t believe you got all that wisdom just from looking at her!”

Doctor Han hummed again, eyes glinting. “Hm. I see…”

He turned- this time, his stare landing squarely on Zoey. The action making Ha-eun's eyes almost turn to slits.

“Wait, why are you looking at me?” she asked, suddenly pale.

“Eagerness to please. Maybe a little too eager…”

“What?!” Zoey laughed nervously. “I’m not like that! You guys would tell me if I was really like that, right?!”

A round of uncertain “Uhm…” echoed across the room.

Then, the doctor turned once more. This time, toward Ha-eun.

She stiffened, jaw tightening, gaze flicking up with daggers drawn. She swept him with a look, sharp and cool, as if she could will him to lose interest by sheer force of indifference.

But she wasn't Mira.

His gaze stayed. Longer than anyone else’s. Focused, dissecting, but not unkind. Something shifted behind his eyes, like he’d just flipped to the right page in a book only he could read. His head tilted slightly, brow furrowing, not in confusion, but recognition.

“Hm…” he murmured, stepping closer. His voice was low, weightless, but it landed heavy.

“You carry things you haven’t said.”
A pause.
“Things you don’t say because you’re afraid they’ll change what you already have. Or worse, take it away.”

Something in her stomach twisted sharply. Her throat closed around nothing.

Her lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Her breathing had a shake in her chest, jagged and dry, as if her body didn’t quite know how to respond. She didn’t look at the others. Couldn’t. Her eyes were fixed somewhere vague, low, safe. Her cheeks flushed a deep red, embarrassment flooding her senses.

“You make yourself small sometimes,” he continued, his voice gentling like he was approaching a wounded animal. “So you don’t take up too much space. So you don’t… shake things loose.”

Her arms folded tighter, nails digging into her sleeves. She didn’t speak. Didn't move. If she stayed still, maybe the earth beneath her wouldn’t shift the way his words just had.

Then, abruptly, like he'd just remembered something obvious.

“Apple cider.”

His hand lifted, finger pointing lightly at her forehead.

“Your favourite, right?”

She blinked, startled, not by what he said, but how he said it. Like it was a fact, like it was common knowledge. Her mind froze in confusion, trying to piece together how he could possibly know something so small. So irrelevant. So hers.

He smiled faintly. “Might want to stock up.”

Another pause, more knowing this time.

“I have a feeling someone else in your orbit is craving the exact same thing.”

Her breath caught for real now. Her heart gave a sudden, unsteady lurch behind her ribs, and for a moment, just one beat, it felt like gravity had shifted. Like the floor tilted beneath her.

She laughed—sort of. A scoff, sharp and forced, as she tried to scrape the heat off her face with bravado.

“That’s great and all, but I never asked for the fortune cookie treatment.”

But her voice was wrong. Too light. Too carefully unbothered. It didn’t land the way she wanted it to.

Doctor Han just hummed again, low and thoughtful, like the final note of a riddle he already knew the answer to. Then he turned away, drifting toward Mira as if none of it had ever happened.

But Ha-eun didn’t move.

She sat there, shoulders pulled tight like thread wound too close to snapping, heart hammering in the kind of rhythm that didn't belong to fear or panic, but rather like someone played with her nerves like a jump rope.

She didn’t even hear what he said to Mira. Didn't register Zoey’s excited squeal or the shift in the room.

Because she was still stuck.

Stuck on the words he’d said. Stuck on the things she didn’t want anyone to see.
Stuck on the strange, impossible thought that maybe, just maybe, he’d seen right through her.

Worse.

Someone else might, too.

Zoey leaned toward her, whispering gently, “Whoa. You good?”

Ha-eun gave a stiff nod. The kind of nod that begged people to stop asking questions.

She didn’t say a word.

Her eyes stung.

She didn’t know how to answer.

 

Outside Doctor Han’s office, the air was thick with summer heat and the sharp tang of herbal medicine still clinging to Ha-eun’s nostrils. She blinked against the sunlight, slightly disoriented—her head still swimming from the strange incense and quiet intensity of Doctor Han’s energy. She could barely process what had just happened in there. The man hadn’t even spoken much, but it felt like he’d looked straight through her skin and into her bones.

Meanwhile, Mira and Zoey were bouncing on their heels like they’d just come out of a convenience store with ice cream instead of a centuries-old herbalist's clinic.

“We got the tonics! We got the tonics!” Mira and Zoey chanted in unison, shaking the delicate brown bottles like victory trophies.

“Yay! Once your voice is fixed,” Zoey beamed at Rumi, “we can get back to the important stuff—like the fans.”

Rumi rolled her eyes, but a smile tugged at her lips. Ha-eun just stood there, slightly behind them, arms folded tightly as she tried to shake off the fog that clung to her thoughts. Everything had been moving so fast lately—new people, new truths, new secrets—and now there was this weird feeling in her chest, like Doctor Han had pulled something loose in her without telling her what.

Voices echoed from around the corner, just loud enough to be worrying.

"Fans!" Zoey yelped, yanking her yellow bucket hat over her eyes like it was a shield.

“We can’t let them see us!” Mira hissed.

The group scrambled into position, awkwardly huddling behind Rumi like she was the last tree in a forest. Ha-eun, caught in the shuffle, ducked low and stayed out of view.

"Be cool. Look normal," Mira whispered like she was directing a spy movie.

Ha-eun stayed crouched behind her sister’s hoodie, watching with a deadpan expression as Zoey and Mira peeked out—only to instantly fall into a swoon.

Their faces melted into goofy grins, eyes shining like they’d been hit by Cupid’s entire arsenal.

Ha-eun raised a brow.

She adjusted her position just enough to glimpse through the curtain of Rumi’s oversized hoodie. Her gaze briefly landed on the boy with the giant abs—shirt straining like it was about to give up— oh yep there it goes. She clocked Mira and Zoey’s matching expressions of thirst and had to bite her lip to keep from laughing.

'Okay, he’s hot, sure, but calm down' she thought, rolling her eyes.

Then she looked past him.

And—not to be dramatic—her whole world slipped sideways.

He stood at the end of the line—just slightly behind the others, tall and narrow-shouldered, the kind of presence that didn’t announce itself but still rearranged the air around it. A quiet storm in soft, mismatched colors.

His hair was the color of a dream, light teal, like sky dragged through seafoam, soft strands falling lazily over his brow. His skin was moonlight pale. And his eyes, dear god, his eyes, were the same color as his hair, flicking disinterestedly from place to place like nothing in the world could quite hold his attention.

He wore a slouchy sweater, dusty pink stitched with uneven shapes in lavender and faded mauve. It hung from him like it wasn’t made to fit but rather chosen for the way it made him look like he floated in and out of the world. No flash, no force. Just… there.

Effortless.
Unbothered.
Completely, stupidly beautiful.

Ha-eun’s heart launched into her throat so fast it nearly choked her. Her lungs forgot their job. Her skin prickled with heat. The edges of the world blurred, sound dipped out like someone had pulled a plug.

It was like being caught in the stillness between lightning and thunder.

And he hadn’t even looked at her yet.

Then—

BAM.

Rumi jolted forward with a sharp gasp, shoulder clipped by one of the boys. She stumbled, and in a second too fast to process, she tipped straight into Ha-eun, knocking them both off balance.

The box of tonics flew from Rumi’s arms in a chaotic arc. Packets clattered to the pavement. Mira and Zoey shrieked like the apocalypse had arrived.

Ha-eun hit the ground hard, palms scraping the cement, pain flaring in her elbow, but she didn’t care.

Because when she looked up,

He was already watching her.

His eyes, those impossible, sea-glass eyes, were locked onto hers.

And time collapsed.

The street noise, the startled voices, the impact of the fall, all of it vanished beneath the thunderous silence between them. The kind that made her feel like the world had tilted its axis just slightly, and only she noticed.

Now up close, she could see that his face was all soft edges—one might even say baby-faced—but the term felt almost inadequate. It didn’t diminish him; if anything, it made the contrast sharper. That quiet, delicate symmetry should’ve dulled his presence, made him blend in. But somehow, it worked. It suited him in a way that made you look twice. Like he was carved from something gentler, but carried the kind of stillness that made people lean in without realizing it.

He didn’t move. Didn’t flinch.
He just… looked.

Unbothered. Aloof. Like he was only half-there.

But beneath the stillness, behind the long lashes and sleepy gaze, there was something else. Something alive. A flicker, small, subtle, but there.

A crack in the armor.

Like maybe, just maybe, he had felt the wind shift between them. Like he’d noticed her before the fall. And now, wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

Then-

He tilted his head slightly. Not mocking. Not curious.
But calculated.
And smirked.

Just the barest twitch of his lips.
Quiet. Slow. Infuriatingly smug.
Like he knew exactly what he was doing. And knew it was working.

Ha-eun’s stomach flipped so hard it nearly evacuated her soul. Her mouth parted with no sound, and her cheeks flushed so hot it felt like her skin might burn through her sweater. Her thoughts scrambled, bumping into each other like marbles spilling across tile.

Around them, the other boys had shifted focus, all staring at Rumi, because she was the one who’d obviously fallen. Ha-eun was collateral.

But he didn’t look away.

Not yet.

And that was the part that killed her.

Then, the spell shattered like thin glass. One of the boys, sharp-jawed, dead-eyed, looked down at Rumi and glared, brushing invisible dust from his shoulder like she’d contaminated him.

“Watch yourself.”

Ha-eun’s jaw dropped.

The sheer audacity. The nerve. It yanked her halfway back to earth. But her mind was still caught somewhere between fury and fascination, her heart thrashing behind her ribs like a trapped bird.

And then, just like that, the boys turned and walked off, like they hadn’t scattered an entire box of Rumi's tonics across the pavement, like he—

They. Hadn’t just ruptured reality.

Ha-eun blinked hard, still on the ground. Breathless.

"What… the… fuck?" she mumbled to no one in particular, blinking again like she could clear him from her vision. But she could still feel the heat of that look lingering in her skin, like electricity that hadn’t grounded yet.

Beside her, Rumi erupted.

“Watch my- watch yourself!” she shouted after them, springing up like she was ready to throw hands. “The nerve- look at this mess!”

The packets were everywhere, scattered like confetti at a funeral. Mira and Zoey dropped to help without a second thought.

Ha-eun didn’t move right away. She sat half-upright, legs folded beneath her, palm stinging, heart pounding. Her eyes darted toward the alley’s mouth.

No teal hair in sight.

She inhaled slowly through her nose.

Rumi muttered darkly as she stuffed tonics back into the box, “We are never talking about that again.”

Zoey snapped her fingers. “Agreed. They’re not even that cute,” she said with an edge, helping Rumi along with Mira.

“They’re so bleh,” Rumi added with a dramatic hair flip.

“So—” Zoey gagged loudly, sticking her tongue out.

“So—” Mira leaned in, miming exaggerated retching noises.

“They’re—” Zoey tried again, but dissolved into laughter with the others, stumbling across the alley in a chorus of fake dry-heaving.

Ha-eun giggled, breath finally returning to her chest as she climbed to her feet and dusted off her knees.

Not that she’d been affected.
Not at all.

Mira clutched her chest with mock horror. “I’m gonna throw up.”

Ha-eun almost believed her. But before she could respond, Rumi paused mid-bit, her expression twisting.

“Wait… what is that?”

They all fell still.

A beat passed. And then, faint but rising, a distant melody drifted into the alleyway.

No one said a word, sharing glances.

Charging to the edge of the alley, they skidded to a stop, wide-eyed and breathless. Purple smoke curled into the square like a stage effect, the music swelling louder and louder.

Zoey tugged her bucket hat low over her forehead. Mira adjusted her glasses, sharp-eyed and serious, while simultaneously yanking Rumi’s hoodie up like she was warding off a plague. Ha-eun followed their lead, pulling her jacket over her head just in time to see Zoey yank too hard on Rumi’s hood—causing her to stumble forward with a squawk.

“Sorry!” Zoey winced, trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly.

Rumi grumbled and immediately took the lead, eyes narrowed and sharp as glass. The others followed, heads ducked, steps cautious as smoke curled around their legs like fingers. The fog was thick—part stage effect, part supernatural mist—and just ahead, figures began to move within it.

Then the lights hit.

A flash of neon cut through the haze, and the shapes exploded into motion. Music blasted over the speakers, sickly sweet and sinfully polished.

Oh.

Oh God, no.

“Don’t want you, need you. Yeah, I need you to fill me up! Masigo maysyeo bwa do…” crooned the dark-haired lead, finger-gunning into the crowd as his backup dancers twisted behind him.

“It’s those stupid jerks again!” Rumi growled, fists clenched.

“Got a feeling that, oh yeah. You could be everything that I need! Taste so sweet—”

“These guys are a boy band?!” she cried, equal parts outrage and betrayal. Beside her, Ha-eun just stared, lips parted, trying to wrap her brain around what she was seeing. Matching outfits. Synchronized dance moves. Very attractive assholes.

It was like a K-pop fever dream dipped in sacrilege.

“Makes me want more,” the ringleader purred, stepping aside as the guy with the bangs covering his face took center, his movements sharp and deliberate. Then came the twin pink-haired boys, full of smug chaos.

“Lookin’ like snacks!”

“‘Cause you got it like that!”

“Take a big bite, want another bite! Neoui modeungeol nan wonhae!”

On the massive screen behind them, a slow-mo clip played of the lead boy slurping down a glowing pouch of liquid. The camera lingered on his jawline. A handful of middle-aged ladies in the crowd lost their minds.

Ha-eun made a face.

“Did he—” she started.

“One, two, three, four, five, six,” Rumi muttered beside her, counting with growing horror. Her gasp was dramatic and genuine. “That jerk stole one of my pouches!”

“Can’t let go, no, no, not tonight—”

Ha-eun wasn’t going to admit it. She refused to admit it. But the guy with his eyes hidden behind bangs? His vocals weren’t bad. In fact… they were good. Really good. Annoyingly good.

Then came another voice, lower, smoother—almost like honey left too long in the sun.

“Jigeum dangiang nal. Bwa shigan eobtjana.”

That one—tall, dark hair, sharp jaw—had the kind of stage presence that dared people to look away.

“Neon naegeoya imi algo itjana.”

Ha-eun raised a brow as the boy with heart-shaped hair delivered the next line. His voice was surprisingly clean—almost delicate.

“Okay that twink does have a nice voice,” she muttered without thinking.

Mira snapped her head around so fast it was a miracle she didn’t get whiplash. Her expression was full of betrayal.

“What? I didn’t say I liked them,” Ha-eun grumbled. “I just said the voice is good.”

“I’m watching you,” Mira hissed.

The chorus hit like a sugar rush—bright, fizzy, and impossible to ignore.

"You're all I can think of. Every drop I drink up. You're my soda pop. My little soda pop. Cool me down, you're so hot. Pour me up, I won't stop! You're my soda pop!"

The plaza vibrated with energy as the boys moved in perfect sync, their sharp choreography slicing through the air like they were built for this—glamour, spectacle, seduction.

Zoey, without realizing it, started to sway. Her arms followed the beat, her head bobbed just slightly—until she noticed Rumi and Mira staring daggers at her. She froze like a kid caught stealing snacks, one foot still mid-step. “What?” she mouthed, trying to play innocent.

Rumi narrowed her eyes. “It is annoyingly catchy, though.”

Mira huffed. “It’s infectious.”

As the boys finished the chorus, they leaned forward dramatically and blew glittering finger-hearts into the crowd. The hearts sparkled unnaturally, floating toward screaming fans like tiny magical missiles. Mira instinctively reached out and grabbed one from mid-air, holding it up with a look of disbelief.

“They can make hearts out of thin air?”

Both Rumi and Mira said in perfect unison: “They’re demons!”

Zoey exclaimed with energy. “Magicians-! Demons. Obviously demons.”

Ha-eun blinked slowly from her spot just behind them, arms crossed, expression torn between wariness and baffled judgment. “Wait, they’re demons?” she said, voice flat with disbelief. “I thought demons were supposed to be… you know. Ugly.” Her gaze drifted toward the stage again. “These guys look like a cologne commercial with too much budget and no shame.”

That earned a sharp snort from Rumi and an audible eye-roll from Mira.

Then the beat changed.

Something shifted.

The teal haired boy from earlier moved into the front, smaller than the others, sharp in motion—like he’d been carved to cut. The one with the baby face, the long lashes, the deceptively soft features. His lips parted—and that voice came out.

“Make me wanna flip the top! Han mogume, you hit the spot! Every little drip and drop, fizz and pop. Soreum doda. It’s gettin’ hot.”

It was deep.

Shockingly deep.

It rattled through Ha-eun’s chest like the subwoofers had aimed straight for her ribcage.

She blinked, hard. Her eyes locked on him without meaning to—like something inside her had yanked the focus knob. The rap rolled out of him like a spell, low and tight and messy. He wasn’t just rapping; he was hunting, circling the crowd with velvet menace wrapped in bubblegum gloss.

Her stomach did something unpleasant. A twist. Like recognition, only… wrong.

Zoey let out a high-pitched squeak. “Dang, they’re good.”

“Incredible,” Rumi muttered, her expression flickering between awe and rage. “But a demon boy band? Why?”

“I don’t care,” Mira snapped. “A demon’s a demon. We kill them.”

“Not here. Too public,” Rumi said, jaw tight.

“What if they try to kill these people?” Mira countered, already halfway to drawing something deadly.

“It doesn’t look like they’re gonna hurt anyone,” Zoey said cautiously, gesturing toward the plaza stage where the spectacle continued to unfold.

The lead boy—still oozing charisma like it was something weaponized—slid toward a hotdog stand with the smoothness of someone who had never tripped over a cord in his life. He flashed a wink at a blushing fan before expertly squeezing a perfect swirl of mustard onto a girls hotdog. Meanwhile, the rest of the boys had scattered like glitter, handing out shiny gift bags to children, generally acting like the world’s most unsettlingly perfect dream boyfriends.

Ha-eun let out a breathy laugh, eyebrows raised. “What the hell…”

“They almost seem like… nice demons?” Zoey offered, voice tinged with hesitation, like she couldn’t quite believe the words herself.

“Demons are never nice!” Rumi and Mira shouted at the same time, scandalized beyond belief. Without another word, they took off toward the boys' fan giveaways like women on a mission from heaven, stomping on the nearest gift bags with enough force to knock over a table. Zoey scrambled after them, the girls shouting, “No! Don’t eat that! No, don’t touch that!”

Ha-eun remained frozen, cheeks burning with secondhand embarrassment. She covered her face with both hands. “Oh my god,” she muttered into her palms, peeking through her fingers like she could will herself invisible.

And then the stage shifted.

With a hiss of hydraulics, the platform the boys stood on began to rise into the air. A cascade of glitter and colored light burst from the base, turning the scene into something between a music video and a fever dream. Every surface gleamed unnaturally.

Ha-eun looked up with an incredulous expression, jaw slack.

“Come on, fill me up,” the lead singer crooned.

“Just can’t get enough! You’re all I can think of… Every drop I drink up…” the others echoed, harmonizing like the end of the world was supposed to come with bubblegum lyrics and choreographed winks.

Rumi elbowed her way through the crowd. “They’re coming after the fans—we have to stop this!”

“Pour me up, I won’t stop! You’re my soda pop!” the boys chorused, voices like honey and chaos.

“Gotta drink every drop!” they shouted in unison.

Then, with a puff of glittering pink smoke and one last exaggerated finger heart from the baby-faced one, they were gone.

“My little soda pop!” the recorded echo trailed off.

The crowd burst into cheers and excited chatter. A man nearby clapped like he’d just seen the best performance of his lifetime. “That was incredible!”

A woman swooned, “I liked that…”

Zoey, slightly breathless, pointed toward where the boys had vanished. “To be fair, that’s also something a magician would do.”

Rumi, fuming, proclaimed, “Oh, those are demons. And we’re gonna kill them.”

Mira nodded, determination all over her face. “Let’s get battle-ready.”

Ha-eun, deadpan and exhausted, let out the most tired sigh known to mankind.

“…Can we please dye my hair first?"

 

"... Wait can I come?"

Notes:

Okay sorry if this one wasn't that good! Got abit of writers block for most of it but on the brightside we met baby!! Oh and if Ha-eun’s character sorta seems to be changing in and out that's just kinda her personality with people shes comfortable with she's actually a shy person lol and Ha-eun is like her sister, matching hair with her demon yknow ANYWAYS HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!

Chapter 4: In your eyes

Summary:

Tensions rise as Ha-eun is drawn deeper into the world of demons, secrets and new truths. Between a scalding memory from the past and a steamy clash in the present, she’s forced to confront truths she’s not ready for—and powers she doesn’t yet understand. But when the city begins to fracture and the stakes hit home, one thing becomes clear: Ha-eun’s not just along for the ride anymore.

Notes:

Omfg hi guys so sorry I was at my Nanna's wake uhm this is abit of a late update but IM HERE NOW I HOPE YOU ENJOYED BECAUSE I LOWKEY FORGOT SOME PARTS OF THE MOVIE SO UH ITS A LITTLE OFF TRACK AT MOMENTS BUT ITS RELATIVELY THERE!!

The sound of water.

 

Not rushing. Not pounding. Just a warm, slow trickle over porcelain. Ha-eun blinked at the bathroom tile as the light shifted, a little too bright on one side. Her scalp tingled. Not from pain. Just… from being touched.

 

“Okay, almost done,” Rumi’s voice murmured gently from behind her, carefully working the dye from her roots with a low, circular motion. “Tell me if the water gets too hot, yeah?”

 

Ha-eun hummed in reply. A small, bunny-soft noise. Enough to mean it’s okay without having to shape the words.

 

Zoey sat cross-legged on the counter beside them, humming tunelessly, tapping a brush on her thigh like a drumstick. “This color’s gonna look insane with the leather. You’re gonna break a hundred hearts tonight. Maybe more.”

 

Ha-eun didn’t respond. She let the voices ripple over her like steam.

 

 

 

Then—

 

 

 

The bathroom, pristine. White marble counters. Soft gold fixtures. A row of matching luxury skincare products like soldiers on parade. Silent. Perfect.

 

So perfect, the echo of Ha-eun’s breathing felt like a sin.

 

She sat obediently on the lacquered stool, spine straight, hands folded in her lap like a porcelain doll. Her wrist ached where her mother’s grip had dug in earlier—dull, purple blooming under the sleeve of her pajamas. But she didn’t move.

 

Good girls didn’t complain.

 

Behind her, the sound of the fridge door opening. Then closing.

 

The click of heels against the tile.

 

A metal bowl clinked against the sink’s edge.

 

Then: cold.

 

Freezing water dumped over her head without warning.

 

She flinched—but only a little. A sharp intake of breath. Her eyes stayed open.

 

“You embarrassed us,” her mother’s voice snapped, quiet but edged with disgust. “At dinner. That pout. Do you think guests don’t notice these things?”

 

Ha-eun didn’t answer.

 

Another pour. Colder this time. The water clung to her scalp like ice and slid down her neck in cruel streaks. Her teeth chattered. She squeezed her fingers together tighter, nails digging into her palm, grounding herself.

 

A shadow appeared in the doorway. Small, hesitant.

 

Mira.

 

About ten years old. In fluffy slippers, gripping the hallway wall with both hands like she’d just crept out of bed.

 

She didn’t say anything. Just stood there, watching.

 

Their mother’s eyes flicked up. “Back to bed.”

 

Mira didn’t move.

 

Their father’s voice came from the study, muffled but sharp: “Mira. Now.”

 

And Mira vanished like smoke.

 

Ha-eun sat still, water soaking her shoulders, the hem of her pajamas dripping onto the tile.

 

"No one likes a girl who looks weak.” Her mother whispered.

 

A final splash.

 

Then the bowl was dropped in the sink with a clang, and the footsteps faded away.

 

She was left alone with her reflection, the only sound within the house was her own quiet humming, the tune trembling as she stared at herself.

 

Her hair stuck to her cheeks in wet ribbons. Her lips were blue. Her eyes—

 

Blank.

 

She sat there a long time, staring. 

 

Then quietly reached up, and smoothed her pajama sleeve back down over her wrist.

 

Perfect.

 

Like always.

 

 

 

 

 

The warmth returns. Her lips are a tinted red instead of a pale blue. Rumi is still massaging her scalp, slow and cautious, avoiding her temples where her skin flushes more easily. Ha-eun swallows, unsure if the ache in her chest is memory or gratitude.

 

“...You okay?” Rumi asks softly.

 

Ha-eun opens her eyes. “Yeah. Just thinking.” Her voice is flat, but not unfriendly. She doesn’t know how else to say thank you for being gentle with me even when I don’t ask for it.

 

Zoey holds up a towel like a cape. “Okay, let’s reveal the masterpiece!”

 

They lift her head, wrap her hair, and spin her toward the mirror.

 

She blinks.

 

The girl staring back isn’t the same one from the past. Not even close. Her cheeks are flushed pink, but her eyes—those are alive.

 

Ha-eun sat in front of the mirror, her chin tilted up, freshly dyed hair a soft storm of cool teal that caressed her neck underneath a sunlit-blonde that caught the overhead light like glinting waves as Rumi started to slowly blow dry her hair.

 

"Okay, but why do I look like a cyberpunk cotton candy?" Ha-eun muttered, squinting at her reflection as Zoey leaned in with a tiny eyeliner wand.

 

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Zoey replied, tongue sticking out slightly as she focused. “You’re hot cotton candy. Weaponized sugar.”

 

"Weaponized cavities," Rumi said from behind, gently twisting a section of Ha-eun’s hair and pinning it up into a sleek half-up style. “We should be calling you Sweet-n-Snarky™.”

 

“Please trademark that,” Mira said, arms crossed as she leaned against the wall, already fully dressed in her fitted tactical black with violet piping and steel-toe stompers. “I want it on a mug.”

 

“I hate it here,” Ha-eun muttered, though her lips curled despite herself.

 

The room smelled faintly of hair dye, eyeliner, and something like peach bubblegum. The other girls were already dressed and ready, shadows of purple and black swirling like stylized armor over their sleek suits. Ha-eun’s own outfit mirrored theirs—tight-fitting, matte black with glossy violet trims—but with a personal twist: subtle ribbon accents laced up her sleeves and across her sides like corset ties, and her collar was lower, with bunny-ear charm earrings dangling from her ears in defiance of the gloom.

 

"Are you sure you wanna come tonight?" Mira asked gently, voice calm but steady. "It's not just for show. It’s dangerous. And we’re not exactly... easing you in.”

 

“Easing in?” Ha-eun scoffed, raising an eyebrow. “You guys pulled me into a cursed recording studio and accidentally introduced me to a demon boy band with more abs than morals. This is easing in.”

 

Rumi snorted. “She’s got a point.”

 

“Besides,” Ha-eun added, more quietly this time, “you’re not exactly leaving me out of it anymore.”

 

The girls fell silent for a beat. Zoey stepped back, inspecting her winged eyeliner handiwork with a proud nod. “You’re so annoying. I love it.”

 

“Thanks,” Ha-eun said dryly, then leaned closer to the mirror, tracing her own reflection. “Do I look like I know what I’m doing?”

 

“No,” Rumi answered immediately.

 

Zoey followed with, “Absolutely not.”

 

“But you look hot doing it,” Mira said, voice lighter, teasing. “That counts for at least sixty percent of this job.”

 

“Great. All I have to do is fake the rest.”

 

Still, as the laughter faded into soft hums and final touch-ups, a quiet warmth bloomed in Ha-eun’s chest. A buzz—not loud or showy, but constant, like an old song playing from another room. The girls were here. She was with them. Not in the background. Not just tagging along. Not anymore.

 

Her thoughts drifted against her will, uninvited, to a teal-haired boy with too-pretty lips and a voice that had shocked something loose in her spine. Stupid voice. Stupid bone structure. Stupid... whatever.

 

She blew out a sharp breath.

 

Rumi glanced at her through the mirror, towel-drying the ends of Ha-eun’s freshly rinsed hair. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Ha-eun said, blinking slowly. “Just mentally preparing to humiliate myself in public combat against glittery demons. Normal stuff.”

 

Zoey snickered as she uncapped a bottle of foundation. “You’ll be fine. If anything goes wrong, just blink three times and we’ll come body slam them.”

 

“Comforting,” Ha-eun muttered. She leaned into the chair a bit, letting herself relax. Then added, “I mean, I’ve been training. With you guys. I’m not totally helpless.”

 

Rumi paused. “You mean the drills?”

 

“Yeah,” Ha-eun said, squinting at them through the mirror. “All those sessions. With the knives and the shadow targets. I figured it was, like… really aggressive Pilates. Or a weird bonding ritual.”

 

Mira, passing behind them with her boots in hand, burst out laughing. “You thought we were just teaching you fitness?”

 

“Well, I didn’t think you were training me to fight actual demons,” Ha-eun said. “You said it was for… safety.”

 

“Yeah,” Zoey said, straight-faced. “Demon safety.”

 

“We’ve been training you for combat this whole time,” Rumi said, not unkindly. “You’re not as raw as you think.”

 

Ha-eun stared at them, stunned. “Wait. So I’m—? I’m trained?”

 

“Baby-trained,” Zoey offered, patting her on the head. “Like a combat toddler.”

 

“Oh, great,” Ha-eun groaned. “This is just like when I did archery when i was younger and thought it was for hand-eye coordination.”

 

They all laughed, even Rumi — which wasn't a common occurrence these past few days.

 

Ha-eun huffed, but the corner of her mouth curled into a reluctant smile. Not wide. Not dramatic.

 

Just enough.

 

Zoey then suddenly pulled something from beneath a wrapped cloth. “Okay, close your eyes.”

 

Ha-eun blinked. “Why?”

 

“Just do it. It’s tradition,” Mira said.

 

“What tradition?”

 

“Our tradition,” Rumi mumbled.

 

With a small sigh, Ha-eun obeyed. She felt the weight placed in her hands before she heard Zoey say, softly, “Okay. Open.”

 

The bow glinted in the light—dark wood kissed with mother-of-pearl shimmer. It felt warm, somehow, like it had been waiting for her.

 

She stared. “You… made this?”

 

“We didn’t make it,” Zoey said. “We just… kept it safe. It’s been bound to you since the day you moved in.”

 

Mira nodded. “Rumi carved the frame, I think i helped with the whole binding to you process, Zoey picked out the string herself and well... Celine made it possible surprisingly.”

 

Rumi wouldn’t meet her eyes. “We thought… maybe one day you'd need it.”

 

Ha-eun’s voice cracked slightly. “And if I never did?”

 

“Then we’d keep it anyway,” Zoey shrugged. “It’s yours. It always was.”

 

She gripped it tighter. It felt like breathing—like music humming through her bones.

 

“And you’ll figure out how to use it,” Mira added. “It’s long-range, but with your humming thing? It might hit harder than you think.”

 

Rumi smirked. “Just don’t shoot me by accident.”

 

“I make no promises,” Ha-eun muttered, but her throat was tight.

 

 

 

 

 

The stage lights of the variety show blazed like miniature suns, bouncing off the glossy tiles of the studio floor as the intro chorus blasted over the speakers:

 

“Play! Play! Play! Play! Play! Play! Play! Play! Play Games With Us!”

 

Cut to: chaos.

 

“Welcome back to Who Can Chug the Most Hot Sauce?!” the host boomed, arms raised theatrically. The crowd shrieked, cameras sweeping over their excited faces.

 

Backstage, hidden behind the towering curtains and suspended above on the catwalk, the Huntrix crouched like avenging shadows in a cartoonish disguise of black PVC and menace. Ha-eun followed behind them more hesitantly, gripping the ladder rails a little too tight, her boots clicking softly on the metal. Her teal-and-blonde hair was pinned up but swayed slightly with every tiny movement—she could feel the vibrations of the crowd below through the soles of her boots. Every sound, every flash of light, every movement seemed amplified. Too many stimuli. But she stayed close, mirroring the other girls as best she could.

 

“Once they come off stage,” Rumi whispered, eyes narrowed at the scene below, “we jump them. And these boys’ll be…”

 

“Done, done, done,” the girls finished together in wicked unison, grins spreading as they slinked across the high beam for a better view. They looked like something out of a glam-noir action anime. Ha-eun followed, crouching low, trying not to shake the entire catwalk with her nervous steps.

 

Below them, the show was well underway. On stage, the Saja Boys were mid-challenge—lined up in matching bibs like oversized toddlers at a cursed daycare, each one chugging flaming hot sauce from disturbingly oversized baby bottles. The audience lost it every time someone gagged or sputtered, foam fingers waving in the air.

 

One by one, the boys dropped. The dark-haired one with sharp jawline keeled over dramatically. The one with bangs covering his eyes had a tear roll down his cheek and fell sideways. The matching pink-haired twins collapsed in agony.

 

The variety show host was sweating bullets. “That’s one flaming-hot Jinu! And Abby is down! Mystery is history!” he shouted with glee. “Looks like Romance is out due to heartburn?”

 

Only two remained: the frantic co-host, red in the face, and the teal-haired demon boy Ha-eun had seen before.

 

Her breath hitched slightly. He was calm—too calm. While the co-host sputtered and wheezed, this one just tilted his head, eyes half-lidded and lazy, like he’d been drinking lukewarm tea instead of liquid lava.

 

It was weirdly attractive. Disgustingly so.

 

Ha-eun blinked. No. Absolutely not. She rubbed her temples.

 

“I think I have third-degree embarrassment just watching this,” she whispered under her breath.

 

Below, the co-host finally gave in, throwing down his bottle in dramatic defeat.

 

“So spicy! So spicy!” he cried, waving his hands.

 

The announcer grinned. “He can’t take it! Baby Saja is the winner!!”

 

The teal-haired boy pulled the bottle out of his mouth, tossed it aside with a practiced flick of his wrist, and said, deadpan and bone-dry;

 

“Goo goo, ga ga.”

 

Ha-eun stared.

 

“What the actual hell is wrong with him,” she whispered.

 

And wait— Baby? That's his name?

 

“Come on. Wrap it up,” Rumi muttered through clenched teeth, barely hiding the sharp edge of her impatience as she kept her eyes locked on the stage below.

 

But the variety show host was having the time of his life. “Hard to say goodbye when we’re having fun!” he beamed, sweat dripping down his forehead in glossy waves.

 

“So hard,” his co-host added solemnly, nodding in agreement like it was a eulogy.

 

Then the lead Saja Boy—Jinu, Ha-eun had heard someone call him—stepped forward again with a suspiciously charming glint in his eyes. “Then why say goodbye,” he purred, “when we have extra special guests coming up?”

 

Rumi froze. “What is he doing?” she hissed, voice tight with panic.

 

The stage lights swiveled. A blinding white spotlight slammed upward, cutting through the rafters where the girls were hiding.

 

“Please welcome… Huntrix!” Jinu’s voice echoed through the arena with smug satisfaction.

 

Ha-eun’s entire body stiffened as every head in the audience turned up toward them. Her stomach dropped straight through the metal grating beneath her boots. She barely had time to blink before the shrieking began.

 

A chubby fanboy in the second row jumped to his feet with all the enthusiasm of a man possessed. “I LOVE YOU, HUNTRIX!” he cried, yanking off his Saja Boys tee to reveal a Huntrix one underneath. Probably custom-made.

 

Rumi, ever the professional, swallowed her horror and dropped into stage mode with a strained smile. “We just wanted to stop by and, uh, congratulate our hoobaes on their big debut and—”

 

“And of course…” Jinu interrupted smoothly, raising a mic with flair, “Play. Games. With. Us!”

 

The crowd exploded.

 

“Bring out the slides!” he commanded.

 

“Slide! Slide! Slide!” the audience began chanting, like it was a battle cry.

 

“Oh no,” Rumi breathed, paling as the back of the stage rolled open and—Ha-eun couldn’t believe her eyes—a giant, multi-lane slide was wheeled in by the other Saja Boys. Conveniently sized for four.

 

It ended in a massive plastic ball pit, which jiggled ominously under the lights.

 

“Nope,” Ha-eun said flatly, already wanting to back up a step. “I’m not a carnival attraction.”

 

Her fingernails dug into her palms.

 

Her ears twitched—or they would have, if she had any visible ones—at the blaring sound of the audience.

 

“Is this... hazing?” she asked under her breath, flattening her expression as the other girls had equally horrified expressions placed on their faces.

 

"Oh no. We couldn’t possibly…” Rumi tried to decline politely, hands up, already backing away.

 

But the audience didn’t care. “In the balls! In the balls!” they chanted louder and louder, like a cult possessed by slapstick.

 

Rumi froze. “...Sure. For the fans,” she mumbled like she was accepting a death sentence.

 

The girls climbed onto the neon plastic slide, which looked even more absurd when paired with their tight leather suits. Four stylish warriors. One cursed tunnel. What could possibly go wrong?

 

Answer: Everything.

 

The moment they launched themselves down, the sound was instant and terrible—squealing, high-pitched, and never-ending. It echoed through the entire venue like tortured balloons being murdered.

 

“The leather has betrayed us!” Zoey whisper-yelled as they descended, her voice shrill over the screeching.

 

The audience cringed and covered their ears. One man flung his popcorn into the air like he was being attacked. The Saja Boys—lined up just above the pit—flinched in sync.

 

Baby winced the hardest, his hands flying up to his ears like the noise physically hurt. His head ducked as though that could save him from the squeaky audio hellscape.

 

And yet—when Ha-eun crash-landed at the bottom, awkward and red-faced—he was the first to look.

 

She was still gathering herself, blinking through the multicolored blur of plastic balls, when she felt it—his eyes on her. Not a casual glance. A gaze so fixated, the kind that made her stomach twist weirdly, even as she fought to get to her feet with some kind of dignity.

 

Mismatched hair flopping over her eyes, she swayed a bit—then stumbled. Her hands sank into the pit again. Embarrassing.

 

He was still watching.

 

Not smirking yet. Just… watching. Silent, unreadable, his hands lowering from his ears slowly. He tilted his head. Curious.

 

Nope. Absolutely not.

 

She ducked her head and muttered, “I hate this. I hate this so much.”

 

His eyes tracked the movement like he was studying her. No—like he recognized her.

 

Her heart thumped so hard she could almost hear it.

 

“And the rest of the Huntrix is in the balls!” the variety host bellowed, oblivious to the chaos inside her mind.

 

From above, the Saja Boys now all looked down into the pit with matching smirks, arms crossed and faces far too pleased.

 

“Well, this was fun,” Rumi said stiffly, clearly desperate to leave, the girls all out of the ballpit besides Ha-eun.

 

“It was truly an honor to share the stage with you,” Jinu replied.

 

“Oh my god, so hot,” a fangirl screamed.

 

“And respectful!” another sobbed.

 

The girls froze, horrified.

 

Ha-eun muttered from the pit, “This is not the PR we wanted.”

 

Trying to salvage it, they bowed.

 

“Oh no, the honor is ours,” Rumi forced through clenched teeth.

 

“No, it was ours,” Jinu said again, bowing even deeper.

 

“Ours,” the Huntrix repeated, bowing.

 

“Ours,” the Saja Boys echoed.

 

“Ours. Ours.”

 

Back and forth. Down and down. A full spiral of politeness warfare.

 

Ha-eun, still in the pit, tried to rise with grace—but her foot slid on a ball and she wobbled again. Her cheeks flushed in horror. When she looked up, Baby was watching her. Still half bent in a bow but head turned towards her, his hair flopping infront his face. The smirk was gone now, but his stare hadn’t moved. It didn’t feel judgmental. She didn't know what exactly it meant.

 

Something tightened in her chest.

 

Stop it. Stop it right now, she warned herself. He’s literally wearing eyeliner and calling himself Baby. Be serious.

 

But her brain, unhelpful as ever, was already writing poetry about deep voices and pink smoke and sharp sea-glass eyes.

 

“Ours,” The girls exclaimed again, and then—

 

Crack.

 

“Oh—my back!” she groaned as her spine betrayed her.

 

The moment snapped as the curtains were dropped behind them. The boys were already moving, exiting stage left with not so smooth and practised ease.

 

“Go! Go!” Rumi hissed, and Ha-eun bolted from the pit like it had caught fire.

 

They burst out the back of the building, sprinting down the alley just in time to catch the final glimpse of the Saja Boys vanishing into a bathhouse. The door swung closed behind the last member—Abby, carrying Baby piggyback like he was a VIP toddler.

 

“They’re going in!” Rumi barked.

 

“We’re following?” Ha-eun wheezed, still recovering from launching herself out of that ballpit. “Can we not just text them? Or politely duel in the parking lot?”

 

“Weapons,” Mira ordered.

 

Zoey clapped her hands like a toddler on Christmas morning. “We finally get to go to the bathhouse with Rumi!”

 

 

 

 

They pushed inside with stealth that was only slightly undermined by leather creaking and adrenaline-fuelled heartbeats.

 

Mira stopped short. “…Men’s,” she drawled.

 

The groan that followed was collective and existential.

 

Of course.

 

Too late now.

 

They were already inside when a voice sliced clean through the mist.

 

“Wow,” Jinu drawled, standing near one of the steaming pools like he owned the place, casually flanked by the other Saja Boys, stylish chaos, and no concern whatsoever. “Did you really follow us in here?”

 

From beside him, Abby cocked his head. “I knew they would. That one's always looking at me.”

 

He nodded toward Zoey.

 

“No, we’re not!—AHHH!”

 

Zoey and Mira screamed simultaneously, but it was pure theatre. In the next beat, they snapped into formation like seasoned performers hitting a choreographed drop. Zoey’s dual blades hissed into life, glowing neon blue. Mira’s shimmering woldo spun to her hand with a whisper of wind, her stance instantly honed and razor-sharp.

 

“You think we’re just gonna let you steal our fans? You’ll have to fight us for them,” Rumi declared, stepping forward. Her hands clenched tightly around her sword, its edge pulsing faintly with firelight.

 

“Keep your hands off our Honmoon,” Zoey said, voice flat and deadly serious.

 

Jinu held up his hands in mock innocence. “Relax. We’re not here to fight.”

 

He turned casually, moving toward the center bath—where the water had begun to churn. The surface bubbled, then frothed. Unnatural. Angry.

 

“They are.”

 

From the depths, something tore its way upward.

 

Slender, shrieking, drenched in black water—water demons slithered from the pool, clawed limbs scraping across tile, eyes glowing with soulless hunger. Their bodies twisted unnaturally, like corrupted ballerinas mid-pose.

 

“Water demons,” Rumi deadpanned.

 

Mira scowled. “Oh great. My favorite.”

 

Jinu didn’t blink. “Get rid of the Hunters,” he told the creatures coolly. “Then you can eat all the souls you want.”

 

Zoey leaned toward Rumi, blades still raised. “Don’t let this turn you off bathhouses. It’s usually really fun and relaxing.”

 

Jinu turned to leave—but immediately slipped on a demon. “Oh! Oh jeez—slippery—”

 

Rumi didn’t hesitate.

 

She launched forward like a shot, sparks practically trailing behind her as she sprinted down the corridor after him, a blur of vengeance in motion.

 

“Go, go, go!” Zoey barked, slashing clean through the first demon. Mira moved beside her without missing a step, chakram spinning.

 

Ha-eun took off after Rumi, adrenaline coiled tight in her chest. Her feet pounded against the wet tile, heart thundering. But the bathhouse was a maze of steam and sound. Screams echoed, distant and distorted.

 

“Rumi!” she called out—but there was no answer.

 

She veered left. Empty. Another turn—just more mist.

 

Her breath stuttered. Muscles tensed.

 

She rounded a corner at a dead sprint—only to skid to a halt.

 

Steam curled from the pools in heavy ribbons, casting the tiled room in a soft, golden haze. Water lapped quietly against the marble edges. No screams. No chaos.

 

Just him.

 

Leaning lazily against a support column near the water’s edge, pink sweater damp at the hem, his hands in his pockets like he hadn’t just been summoning water demons minutes ago.

 

Baby.

 

He looked like a daydream that had taken a wrong turn into a nightmare—soft pastels, tousled aquamarine tufts of hair sticking to his forehead, a smirk made of something both honey and venom. His earrings caught the light, glinting like little warnings.

 

“Oh no,” he said mildly. “They sent you?”

 

Ha-eun’s body coiled instantly. “Where are the others?”

 

He tilted his head like a curious cat. “Why? You miss them already?”

 

Her fists clenched. “I’m not in the mood.”

 

“Sure you are,” he said, pushing off the column. “You came looking for a fight, didn’t you?”

 

She exhaled sharply through her nose, grounding herself. “Not with you.”

 

His grin widened—boyish, infuriating. “But I’m the fun one.”

 

And then he moved.

 

Fast.

 

She dodged on instinct, his hand grazing the air where her wrist had been. She pivoted, swung low, her foot sweeping out to catch his ankle. He jumped, light on his feet, and spun behind her in the same motion.

 

She turned in time to catch his arm—but it was like trying to stop a current. He twisted free, laughing softly.

 

“You’re nimble,” he mused. “Like a bunny.”

 

She snarled. “Call me that again and I swear—”

 

“Bunny,” he sing-songed, eyes sparkling. “So jumpy.”

 

She charged.

 

Her fists flew—sharp, fast, erratic. She struck at his side, his shoulder, the edge of his jaw. One hit landed squarely on his ribs and he staggered a half-step.

 

That felt good.

 

“You wanna play, then play,” she snapped. “Or are you just here to annoy me?”

 

He ducked her next swing with ease, dodging backwards with a gleam in his eye. “Why not both?”

 

She hated him. She hated the way he moved like he was dancing. She hated how easy he made it look. She hated the pink sweater. She hated how he was smiling even now, like this was entertainment.

 

And under all of that—

 

She hated that she couldn’t stop watching him.

 

He came at her again and they clashed—closer this time. She ducked under his arm, tried to elbow him in the side, but he was already behind her.

 

“You really don’t know, do you?” he muttered near her ear.

 

She spun around. “Know what?”

 

He caught her wrist, twisted, and before she could react, her back hit the wall with a muted thud. Steam clung to the tile behind her. He leaned in—not pressing hard, just enough to hold her still, breathing barely disrupted.

 

Up close, he smelled faintly of something sugary and toxic—burnt vanilla and blackcurrant paired with something just a little wrong. His breath ghosted across her cheek.

 

She didn’t move. Couldn’t.

 

“I haven’t felt this strong in years,” he said, almost to himself. A blink of wonder passed through his eyes.

 

“What are you talking about?” she snapped.

 

His gaze dropped to her lips, then flicked back to her eyes.

 

“You hum when you fight,” he said softly. “You don’t hear it. But I felt it.”

 

Her stomach twisted. “What—?”

 

“You pulse,” he whispered, more fascinated than mocking now. “Little waves. Like rhythm. Like you’re syncing up with the world and pushing it out again.”

 

She shook her head. “You’re making this up.”

 

“I would.” he said with a grin, “But I’m not. You're enticing." He purrs, the way he said it. It didn't sound like a compliment at all. It made her stomach twist.

 

She stared at him like he was speaking a different language. “That’s not— I didn’t—”

 

He stepped back slowly, letting her go. “You’re not strong enough yet. But you will be.”

 

She sagged forward, breath catching.

 

He lingered a second longer, eyes dragging over her one last time like he was trying to memorize something.

 

“See you soon, bunny,” he said, and then with a wink—

 

He vanished into the steam, leaving only an air of pink mist and her racing heartbeat behind.

 

Ha-eun blinked. The spot where he’d stood was empty, save for the lingering echo of his presence.

 

She barely had time to register the strange flutter in her chest before she heard it—

 

“HA-EUN!”

“RUMI!”

 

The cries sliced through the chaos like sirens.

 

Her body reacted before her mind could. She spun around, eyes wide, pulse pounding. Her boots slapped against the slick tile as she tore through the mist.

 

'Stupid, stupid,' she thought. 'You let yourself get distracted—'

 

As she burst back into the fray, the shadows writhed ahead. The water demons had multiplied, their bodies pulsing like drowned silk, snarling as they advanced toward the others.

 

Zoey slashed through one with her glowing twin blades, Mira's woldo spinning like silver lightning, and Rumi—her sword was cutting through demons like cake, her breath labored.

 

Too many.

Not enough time.

And she was unarmed.

 

Her heart leapt into her throat.

 

The bow.

 

Her hand snapped outward, palm shaking. “C’mon—c’mon—”

 

It appeared in a shimmer of soul-light and smoke, solid and warm in her grip. The pulse in her chest aligned with the sudden hum of the bow’s string. As if it recognized her panic. Her focus.

 

She didn’t think—just moved.

 

Ha-eun nocked a phantom arrow and drew, humming instinctively under her breath. A clear, low note thrummed from her chest into the string. The spectral bolt that shimmered to life pulsed with soft teal.

 

She loosed.

 

The bolt slammed into a demon’s chest with a shockwave that sent water rippling outward. It howled, disintegrating into mist.

 

Her hands shook from the impact, but she didn’t stop.

 

Another bolt. Another breath. Another clean hit. The bow responded like a living thing, syncing with her heartbeat, feeding off the emotion thrumming under her skin.

 

She danced around a swipe of claws, slid under a lunging demon, rolled and fired again—barely dodging a blast of corrupted steam that singed her shoulder.

 

Pain flared sharp. Her breaths came fast. Her limbs burned.

 

But still—she moved. Nimble. Precise. Like a heartbeat that refused to quit.

 

Zoey landed beside her for a beat, blades slicing clean through two of the creatures. “You’re actually doing it,” she breathed, almost impressed.

 

“Guess I’m a quick learner,” Ha-eun huffed, blood trickling from a cut above her brow.

 

They moved together, like a rhythm rediscovered—Rumi slicing from the left, Mira sweeping the right, and Ha-eun firing into the heart of the pack, soft hums steadying her aim.

 

But when the last demon finally shrieked and melted into steam, the room fell into thick, wet silence. The mist thinned just enough to show the destruction—scorch marks, shattered tile, clawed grooves in the floor.

 

Ha-eun collapsed against a column, panting hard. Her arms trembled. Her shoulder ached. Her knee was bleeding. Nothing serious. But everything hurt.

 

Still, she smiled—barely.

 

And then—

 

“Hey! This is the men's bathhouse! Get out of here!”

 

The voice came from somewhere near the entrance. An older man, towel-clad, horrified.

 

All three girls looked at each other.

 

And then gagged in unison.

 

“Ugh—we’re going, we’re going!”

 

Zoey grabbed Ha-eun’s arm while Mira pulled Rumi, and they bolted through the steam, laughter and pain trailing behind them like smoke.

 

 

 

 

Back at the apartment, the girls were sprawled across the living room in oversized pajamas, mismatched socks, and more bandaids than skin. They stood in front of the wide glass windows, staring out at the Seoul skyline. It should’ve glowed golden, but now it shimmered with fractured veins of pink light, as if someone had slashed the city open and let neon bleed through.

 

“How do we go from gold to this?” Rumi muttered, her arms crossed, eyes sharp with something too tired to be anger.

 

Zoey’s gaze swept the horizon. “Look at all the weak spots. We've never seen the Honmoon like this before.”

 

“Gwi-Ma must know we’re close to sealing it,” Rumi said. “So he sends a demon boy band?”

 

“Well,” Mira sighed, “it’s working.”

 

Zoey scoffed under her breath. “Don’t worry. Soda Pop is just a fad. These boys will be old news by next week. You'll see.” a smile that she gives them seems like it’s supposed to be reassuring only comes off as a grimace.

 

Ha-eun stepped closer to the window, squinting. “Wait… what are you guys talking about?”

 

Three heads turned toward her. She blinked, confused. “I just see the city. Lights. Billboards. That dumb collagen pancake ad again. What weak spots?”

 

Zoey crossed over and stood beside her, voice gentle. “You’re still seeing with your eyes, rookie.”

 

Ha-eun gave her a look. “What else am I supposed to see with? My nose?”

 

“Try again,” Zoey said, smiling faintly. “But this time, don’t look. Feel. Deep in your chest. Like when you summoned your bow. Remember that rhythm?”

 

Something in Zoey’s voice struck her. Ha-eun hesitated… then shut her eyes.

 

One breath. Another. Under her skin, the city thrummed—not a noise, not a sound. A pulse. Steady. Familiar. Like her heartbeat had found a second, subtler rhythm. When she opened her eyes again—

 

Pink cracks. Wounds in the skyline. Glowing threads that spiderwebbed across rooftops and down streets, as though the world had been overlaid with magic only she had never known how to see.

 

“Whoa,” she whispered.

 

Zoey nodded. “There it is.”

 

“Welcome to the real world, bunbun,” Mira said behind her, just as a knock came at the door.

 

“Girls?” Bobby’s voice called.

 

Panic hit like a reflex. Without a word, the girls moved—transforming with idol-level precision. Makeup swiped across bruises, Zoey flipped her hoodie inside out, Mira twirled her woldo away in a shimmer of light, Rumi and Ha-eun fixed each other up with hurried ferocity.

 

Polished smiles replaced the fatigue. Injuries were erased. They looked perfect.

 

“Hi, Bobby!” they chimed in eerie unison.

 

Bobby stepped closer with a grim look, holding up his phone. “It’s worse than we thought. The Saja Boys have gone completely viral after that variety show. They’ve already got a name for their fandom.”

 

Ha-eun stood still, heart beating just slightly off-sync with the others.

 

Because now, for the first time, she could see it.

 

And she couldn’t unsee it.

 

The conversation around her blurred—Bobby's voice was a low hum, something about press schedules, netizen reactions, a sudden spike in search trends. Mira made a noise that sounded like a groan and a laugh, and Zoey muttered something snarky “it is catchy.” But Ha-eun didn’t catch a word of it, not even the screams beside her.

 

She stood frozen, eyes still on the city beyond the glass. The glowing cracks in the skyline pulsed faintly in time with her heartbeat, like the world had a song of its own she’d never noticed before. It felt like standing at the edge of a great stage, curtain just about to rise.

 

A gentle tap on her shoulder broke the trance.

 

She turned to find Rumi beside her, a few strands of damp hair still stuck to her cheek, a bandaid half peeled off her jaw, and a knowing smirk curling her lips.

 

“You okay?” Rumi asked, soft but teasing.

 

Ha-eun nodded slowly, still a little breathless. “Yeah. Just… seeing.”

 

Rumi grinned. “Good. ’Cause we’re about to crush those demons.”

 

Ha-eun blinked. “Wait, how?”

 

“With a hot new single, obviously,” Rumi said with mock-seriousness, flipping her braid over her shoulder carelessly. “The Idol Awards are in a few months. Time to weaponize everything we have.”

 

Ha-eun stared at her, stunned. It was like the past few weeks had suddenly collapsed inward, compressing into a single point inside her chest. The fights, the secrets, the bathhouse, Baby’s eyes—everything blurred into white noise around Rumi’s smile.

 

Her soul felt warm and fractured at once.

 

She gave a small smile and nodded, slow but certain.

 

“Let’s show those assholes not to mess with my girls,” Ha-eun said quietly—but firmly. The words grounded her. Planted her.

 

Rumi’s smirk softened into something genuine, her eyes crinkling in a way Ha-eun hadn’t seen in days.

 

And in that moment, Ha-eun made a silent vow.

 

She wouldn't let anything happen to these girls. Not Mira’s quiet protection, not Zoey’s fierce loyalty, not Rumi’s fire.

 

Not even sugar-coated insults from a pretty demon could sway her.

 

Not even her weak limbs.

 

Not even her own fear.

 

Not if she could help it.

 

But as the laughter rose again around her and she let herself lean back into the warmth of it, a sound echoed in her head—

 

 

“Why can’t you just be considerate?”

Her mother’s voice. Icy. Exhausted. Loathing.

The memory struck like a piano chord, uninvited.

 

She was ten. Still damp from standing outside in the cold after being locked out for saying the wrong thing. Her father hadn’t looked up from his drink. Her mother hadn’t even looked at her.

 

She’d learned to laugh small. Cry silent. Apologize before she knew what for.

 

And even now—surrounded by light, by warmth, by people who wanted her—

Some part of her still flinched. Still waited to be thrown away.

 

Ha-eun blinked the memory away, clenching her hands until her nails pressed into her palms. Then she exhaled slow.

 

 

 

Not this time.

 

 

 

Not anymore.

 

Notes:

So.. new little update for those who didn't pick up on it Ha-eun has some major C-PTSD (Complex post traumatic stress disorder) and RSD (Rejection sensitivity dysphoria)!! Uh don't hate me guys I had to make her a little tragic yknow.. anyways if she seems a little too used to demon combat she really isn't baby was lowkey going easy on her and she was kinda getting carried with the whole water demons part. And also if it doesnt seem like it THIS WILL BE A SLOW BURN there just will be alot of tension for ages and ive changed the timeline abit so this will go over the span of like about 4-5 months and it will mostly be centric to Ha-eun (that includes her relationships like with baby and the girls, bobby and some interactions with the other saja boys), most of the chapters after the next chapter will be not following the movie scene by scene because it is a fast movie and i intend this fic to have quite alot of chapters however this will remain a mostly canon compliant fic haha anyways hope that makes sense, sorry for the yap and Hope you liked it!! I had fun and this is honestly so self indulgent.

Chapter 5: If looks could kill

Summary:

Between strange dreams that won't stop echoing, late-night run ins at a vending machine, and awkwardly humming through songwriting stress, Ha-eun’s week is already offbeat. Then the Saja Boys crash Huntrix’s fan-sign—and suddenly things get louder, weirder, and way too close for comfort.

Notes:

OMG HI GUYS SO SO SORRY FOR THE LATE UPDATE I WAS AT SCHOOL CAMP AND THEN I GOT SICK IMMEDIATELY AFTERWARDS I'm still sick but I thought I'd atleast feed yall with something hope you guys like it!!

The apartment glowed with soft lamplight, casting a cozy warmth that starkly contrasted the dread circling their shared mission. Snack wrappers, scribbled lyrics, and empty soda cans littered the coffee table. The scent of instant tteokbokki and cherry lip balm hung in the air.

 

Ha-eun lay sprawled across a nest of floor cushions, her head resting on a Kuromi plushie she’d long since claimed as emotional support. Her mismatched hair was pulled into two lazy pigtails, and her oversized hoodie looked like it had swallowed her whole. A bored pout tugged at her lips as she stared at the ceiling fan spinning in slow, lazy circles.

 

She sighed dramatically. “We are so screwed.”

 

On the couch above her, Rumi was slouched with her guitar across her lap, absentmindedly plucking a string that sounded increasingly more dismal the longer she stared at the untouched notebook beside her.

 

At the table, Mira and Zoey gave songwriting another shot.

 

"You'll never beat us. Your plan will never work. We're gonna—"

 

The discordant harmony that followed was so bad it made Ha-eun wince hard enough to scrunch her whole face. Even Kuromi looked traumatized.

 

The girls groaned in sync, cutting themselves off. Zoey slumped forward, smacking her forehead into the keyboard like it had personally betrayed her. Mira shoved her face into her hands and let out a long, muffled scream into her palms.

 

“This song sucks!” Zoey whined into the keys, face pressed into plastic.

 

“We only have to write the best diss track ever to crush the Idol Awards, or there’ll be a demon apocalypse, oh but it gets even better— It's only in a few months!” Mira deadpanned, throwing herself backward onto a nearby beanbag like the melodramatic heroine in a tragic drama. “No pressure at all.” She punctuated the moment by expertly throwing three darts at the wall, each one landing perfectly on a photo of Jinu’s smirking face.

 

Ha-eun glanced over at the collage of Saja Boys faces they’d mockingly pinned to their wall. It looked like a chaotic mood board of bad decisions. Sticky notes were scattered everywhere—"Ur so not hot," scribbled in aggressive bubble letters, next to another that contradicted it with a reluctant "That doesn't work they r hot" in lowercase.

 

“You guys are lacking alot of fire,” Ha-eun muttered from her pillow, voice muffled. “It doesn’t sound passionate at all.”

 

Zoey suddenly crawled toward the wall with unnerving intensity, eyes locked on a particularly glossy poster of Mystery. “Yeah! We gotta get up close and insult their stupid faces! Their nasty, disgusting, not beautiful perfectly dewy, symmetrical, shimmering…”

 

Her tone turned reverent. Ha-eun stared. Was she drooling?

 

“Okay, enough! I’m taking these down!” Mira snapped, storming over to the wall with the precision of a general. She yanked a poster off. “Just like how we’re gonna take down these boys!”

 

“Take down?” Rumi paused, sitting up straighter as something clicked. “Takedown! That’s the song! It’s a takedown!”

 

The sudden electricity in the room jolted Ha-eun to sitting upright, the Kuromi plushie falling from her lap. The girls converged on Rumi, the energy shifting instantly from defeated to inspired.

 

Zoey gasped, her eyes sparkling like a kid who just discovered sugar for the first time. “So sweet, so easy on the eyes, but hideous on the inside,” she sang, hands animated as she wiggled her fingers with dramatic flair.

 

“Nice.” Mira nodded approvingly, arms crossed.

 

“You like it?!” Zoey beamed.

 

“Whole life spreading lies, but you can’t hide,” Mira added, voice picking up momentum.

 

“Baby, nice try,” Rumi finished with a pointed smirk.

 

Ha-eun blinked, watching them like they’d just performed a tiny musical miracle. She rose to her knees, eyes wide. “Wait.. That's actually sounding kinda fire.”

 

Zoey turned toward her, starry-eyed. “Right?! It’s petty, it's punchy—”

 

“It’s personal,” Mira finished.

 

Rumi opened her mouth, about to add another line—only to cough, harsh and sudden. The excitement hiccupped. The sound making Ha-eun stumble up and over to her.

 

“Sorry, guys,” she rasped, rubbing at her throat.

 

“No, take it easy,” Zoey said softly, immediately by her side, rubbing her arm.

 

“Yeah, rest that voice for Idol Awards,” Mira added, concern softening her usual sarcasm.

 

Ha-eun watched Rumi with something tightening in her chest, her hand lifting to caress her cheek soothingly. The action making the girl smile warmly.

 

 

 

 

Ha-eun stepped out of the corner shop with a quiet sigh, a small plastic bag swinging from her wrist, its contents rustling softly—some canned coffee, gum, and a bag of onion rings she didn’t even remember picking up.

 

The streets were mostly empty, lit only by flickering streetlamps and the soft, blue glow of distant signs. Everything smelled like asphalt and night rain. It had been almost three weeks since the bathhouse, but her body still buzzed sometimes—phantom aches and the ghost of adrenaline threading her nerves. She hadn’t told the others, but lately, the city didn’t feel safe. Not even on the quiet nights, but honestly they might just say the same.

 

She turned the corner too fast, her thoughts spiraling, her feet carrying her on autopilot—

 

And walked directly into someone.

 

Her balance gave out with a startled yelp, but arms caught her before she hit the ground—an annoyingly solid grip and a blur of lavender.

 

Her heart leapt up to her throat. For a second, she froze in place.

 

So did he.

 

"...You," came the stunned, disgusted drawl. Then, as if his brain short-circuited from the shock, Baby instinctively let go.

 

Ha-eun hit the ground with an indignant little “ow!”

 

“You’re kidding,” she mumbled, quickly scrambling to her feet. “Did you seriously just—?”

 

“Ugh,” he groaned, dusting himself off with a sharp sigh almost as if she was the problem.

 

She dusted herself off, not meeting his eyes. “Wow. Drops me and acts like I’m the inconvenience. Very chivalrous.”

 

He stuffed his hands in his hoodie pockets. “Didn’t realize it was you. You should wear a sign or something.”

 

“‘Beware: Danger’? You first.”

 

He rolled his eyes. "You're packed full of sugar tonight.”

 

Ha-eun crossed her arms, trying to squash the fluster bubbling under her ribs. Why was he even here? 

 

They stood beneath the flickering lamplight, tension thick in the air. She finally glanced up, catching a clearer look at him—his hoodie drawn low, baggy jeans hanging off his frame, none of the glitter or gloss from the stage. He looked less like the demon that fought her in the bathhouse and even less like the soft Idol persona and more like some moody drop-out.

 

And still, her stomach did this weird little flip.

 

No. Nope. Absolutely not. Not now.

 

Not ever.

 

“…What are you doing here?” he asked, voice flat.

 

“I—live here?” she said, almost defensively, hugging her bag closer to her chest.

 

He tilted his head. “Right. Of course.” The flush of his cheeks betrayed his masking of the slight embarrassment that was clearly bubbling inside him. Can demons even feel embarrassed?

 

She narrowed her eyes. “What about you?”

 

“I don’t live here,” he said, flipping his coin into the air. “I was just getting a drink.” 

 

She raised a brow, scanning the street. “Where’s the drink?”

 

He scowled faintly. “I already had one, i just got distracted.”

 

“Loitering?”

 

“By whatever’s happening with your face right now.”

 

Her ears went warm. “Oh, I’m sorry—is my face interrupting your street corner brooding?”

 

“Only mildly.”

 

She turned away slightly, trying to hide her fluster behind a scoff.

 

They were way too close now. She could smell him—something warm and oddly nostalgic, like his normal musk from what she could tell—but this time instead of the sickly sweet scent from their last encounter, he almost smelt distantly of cinnamon gum and apple cider—? It made her even more annoyed, for no reason she could explain.

 

He tilted his head slightly, his smirk growing larger as the distance between them grows smaller. "Y'know I've been thinking about you and your little tune— have you been practising for me, bunny?”

 

Her heart skipped a beat.

 

Swallowing a lump in her throat, she smiled sweetly. “Choke on a breath mint, i think you need one.”

 

Lies.

 

He laughed—low and surprised—and then caught himself, eyes narrowing again like she’d tricked him into it.

 

Ha-eun took a step back, trying to reel herself in. Her hand tightened around the bag handle. “Look, I’m tired. I fought your kind already tonight, and I don’t have the patience to spar with a walking glitter stick.”

 

His eyes sparkled. “Walking glitter stick?”

 

“Goodnight, Saja Boy,” she muttered, brushing past him, clutching her bag like it might ground her.

 

He didn’t stop her. Just flipped his coin again, the sound sharp in the quiet.

 

“…You dropped your gum,” he called lazily.

 

She didn’t turn. “I didn’t want it after your face breathed near it.”

 

A pause. Then he chuckled, low and reluctant, the sound fading as she walked away.

 

 

 

 

 

The apartment buzzed with late-night chaos.

 

Fairy lights draped over the curtain rods bathed the room in a soft pastel glow. Empty bowls littered the low table, surrounded by glitter-streaked face mask wrappers and the sugary wreckage of half-eaten sweets. Zoey and Mira were in the middle of what could only be described as a "who can hit the most glass-shattering high note while balancing on one foot" competition. They shrieked with abandon, Mira’s voice cracking like a dying goose, while Zoey hit something so pitchy Ha-eun instinctively winced.

 

Rumi sat on the couch behind them, lazily plucking at her guitar. It wasn’t quite a melody— just soft, unfinished chords weaving in and out like her thoughts. Her fingers didn’t move as quickly as they used to, and there was a faint hollowness in her eyes that hadn’t fully left since the bathhouse fight.

 

Ha-eun lounged on the rug, arms wrapped around her a pillow like it was a lifeline. Her cheek was smushed into its round shape, eyes unfocused as she watched the girls scream and sparkle and bicker. The warmth in the room was infectious, like a bubble she didn’t quite know how to stay inside.

 

Ha-eun hated how often her thoughts circled back to him. Not because she liked him—God, no—but because his face kept popping up like a bad advertisement. All cocky half-smiles, like he knew something she didn’t. All cryptic words bundled up into a baby-faced, gorgeous demon. It wasn’t even that he was charming. He wasn’t. Not at all. 

 

“You’re one of us, forever,” Mira announced dramatically, clapping a sticky hand to Ha-eun’s forehead like she was anointing her. Zoey giggled and chanted something about bunny initiations.

 

Ha-eun laughed, too loud, too quickly. “Guess I’m doomed then,” she said, voice thin.

 

No one noticed the way her hands trembled when she reached for her water. Her smile stayed glued on until she turned her back to them and stepped into the kitchen.

 

She stared at the faucet as the water ran, palms braced against the sink.

 

She could still hear the faint shimmer of Rumi’s guitar, the laughter from the others. She should’ve felt safe. She should’ve felt… home.

 

Instead, her thoughts swirled like smoke: “You don’t belong anywhere.” “You’re just pretending.” “How long before they get sick of you?”

 

Her breath caught in her throat. She blinked hard, forcing back the pressure behind her eyes. Her heartbeat thundered—not from fear, but from a deep, familiar ache clawing up her spine.

 

“I’m just getting air,” she mumbled to no one and stepped out onto the balcony.

 

The city was quieter than expected—streets humming gently with life, cool air brushing her skin like an old friend. She closed her eyes and inhaled, trying to ground herself.

 

A soft shuffle behind her made her turn.

 

Rumi stood in the doorway, a hoodie thrown on over her pajamas, guitar left behind.

 

“We’re out of honey sticks,” she said casually. “Come with me?”

 

Ha-eun blinked. Then nodded.

 

 

 

 

They walked side by side beneath soft city lights, the night air folding around them like a blanket. Ha-eun didn’t speak. Rumi didn’t push. They passed late-night cafés and vending machines glowing in neon. Somewhere, far off, a busker played lo-fi guitar under a streetlamp.

 

Rumi glanced at her. “You ever feel like… you’re just pretending to be okay? Like you have to, or else you’ll lose everything?”

 

Ha-eun didn’t answer at first.

 

Then, “Yeah,” she said. “All the time.”

 

The honesty in her voice felt heavier than the silence.

 

“I used to think I only mattered when I could sing,” Rumi added. “When that went quiet... I didn’t know what was left of me.”

 

Ha-eun’s throat tightened.

 

Rumi looked at her, eyes soft. “You don’t have to pretend with us, Bun. We already like the real you.”

 

It hit Ha-eun so suddenly she had to stop walking. Her eyes burned.

 

She didn’t cry.

 

But she did smile. Small. Fragile. Real.

 

 

 

 

They returned a little later with a bag full of tea, honey sticks, and some random matcha-flavored candies Zoey liked. Neither explained where they’d gone. Mira just raised an eyebrow and passed them both fluffy blankets. Zoey wordlessly slid a chocolate bar toward Ha-eun with a tiny wink.

 

No one said it out loud.

 

But the warmth that wrapped around them wasn’t just from the blankets anymore.

 

 

 

 

The dream was soft at first—like silk slipping over skin.

 

Ha-eun stood ankle-deep in still, ink-dark water. The world around her pulsed, breathing with an unseen rhythm. Her reflection didn’t move with her. It watched her, head tilted slightly, as if it knew something she didn’t.

 

Then came the sound.

 

Not music—not quite. It was a low, endless humming. A lullaby trapped in her bones. She could feel it in her ribs, in her fingertips, in the space behind her eyes. It wasn’t coming from outside her. It was inside.

 

Alive.

 

A shadowy figure stood just out of reach. Tall, soaked in pink-tinged mist. His voice reached her like a ripple across the water.

 

"You're so close," the voice whispered, suddenly close and teasing in her ear. "i can almost taste it."

 

"Come to me."

 

She tried to move toward him—toward the voice—but her feet were rooted in place. The water shimmered red for a split second, and she felt her chest tighten.

 

She gasped awake.

 

The apartment was dark and quiet, save for the blinking light on the air conditioner. But the heaviness from the dream hadn't faded—it clung to her skin like mist. Her hands trembled slightly as she pushed the blanket aside and stood.

 

Drawn like a thread was tugging her, she padded barefoot to the balcony.

 

The city glowed faintly under a soft haze, Seoul’s skyline glittering in the distance. And without thinking, without even knowing why—she started to hum.

 

The sound was low. Gentle. Aimless at first, but then… it shifted.

 

Became intentional.

 

Her fingers curled around the cool metal railing as her eyes fluttered shut, letting the hum carry out into the night air. It wasn’t a song. It was a feeling. An echo. And in the brief moment she gave in, she felt something stir—something warm, ancient, and curious within her.

 

She didn’t notice Zoey behind her at first.

 

The door creaked open just slightly, and Zoey froze in the threshold, her body bathed in moonlight. Her hoodie sleeves covered her hands, and she held a half-eaten granola bar like a lifeline. But it was Ha-eun’s humming that made her pause—like she'd stumbled into something sacred.

 

Zoey watched for a long beat, her usual smirk nowhere to be found.

 

“…You okay?” she asked finally, her voice soft.

 

Ha-eun startled, the hum cutting off. She turned, blinking like she’d just been yanked from deep water.

 

“I…” She hesitated. “Couldn’t sleep.”

 

Zoey stepped onto the balcony, joining her at the rail. “Yeah. I figured.”

 

They stood together for a moment in the silence, the air between them thick with something unspoken. Zoey glanced sideways at her, eyes unusually focused.

 

“What were you humming just now?” she asked casually, though her voice was laced with curiosity.

 

“I don’t know.” Ha-eun’s voice was honest. Small. “I just… felt it.”

 

Zoey didn’t push. She simply nodded, passing her the granola bar, already half-eaten. “Here, you look abit pale."

 

Ha-eun accepted it without complaint, quietly grateful.

 

And as they stood together in the moonlight, Zoey watched her with something unreadable in her expression.

 

 

 

 

The stage lights glared hot as the Idol Awards host’s voice rang out in real time. “This week’s winner is ‘Soda Pop’ by the Saja Boys!”

 

Beneath the shimmer of confetti and camera flashes, the Huntrix girls stood frozen in place, bouquets cradled like weapons. Their expressions? Murderous. Mira’s jaw clenched. Zoey’s fake smile twitched. Rumi, ever poised, narrowed her eyes into tiny crescent moons of silent rage. Even Ha-eun looked like she was trying not to gag onstage, clutching her own bouquet like it was a shield.

 

Across from them, the Saja Boys posed charmingly, eyes twinkling and teeth gleaming. The crowd erupted in cheers as they raised their trophy. Baby didn’t even look at them—until the last second, when his eyes flicked to Ha-eun and he smirked.

 

Mira barely held back a growl.

 

 

 

 

Later that night the vending machine buzzed faintly on the edge of the alleyway, flickering with a dying backlight like a warning. Ha-eun stood in front of it, arms folded, staring through the glass without actually seeing anything.

 

That damn dream still clung to her skin like humidity. That voice. That humming. You're so close. It made her feel like she was being followed by something she couldn't name.

 

She rubbed her arms. Shook her head.

 

Then—

 

“You again?”

 

His voice slithered in from behind, low and too familiar.

 

She didn’t jump, but it was close.

 

Spinning on her heel, Ha-eun glared. “Is there a tracker in my shoe or are you just this annoying on purpose?”

 

Baby stood there like he’d stepped out of a pastel dream. A dark pink hoodie this time, pink-tinted shades pushed up into his soft hair, pastel purple jeans that pool around his chunky sneakers. He looked flawless. Smug. Infuriating.

 

“I was here first,” he said, strolling up beside her. “And annoying’s a bit harsh. I prefer... persistent.”

 

“Oh, you’re something, all right.”

 

“You sound flustered,” he noted, leaning in slightly, just enough to test her balance.

 

She narrowed her eyes. “I had a weird night.”

 

“Nightmares?” he asked, casual, almost knowing.

 

She paused. Blinked.

 

Something in his tone hooked under her ribs.

 

“I never said anything about a nightmare,” she said slowly.

 

His lips quirked. “Didn’t you?”

 

She frowned. “What is wrong with you?”

 

“Me?” He shrugged, punching a code into the machine. “You’re the one humming in her sleep.”

 

She froze.

 

“What—?”

 

Baby didn't look at her, just waited for the machine to rattle. “You were humming. Loud enough to wake a floor.”

 

She felt heat crawl up the back of her neck. “I—I wasn’t. How would you even know? Watching me in my sleep now?"

 

“No.” He looked at her now, eyes unreadable. "I can just feel you."

 

The declaration made her heart skip a beat in her chest, his behaviour making her head hurt from whiplash.

 

The drink didn’t fall.

 

He kicked the machine.

 

She winced. “Wow. So elegant.”

 

“You wanna try, then?” he snapped, voice edged. That softness was gone again. Replaced by that simmering undercurrent she’d only seen in flashes—like he was one breath away from either walking away or snapping entirely.

 

Ha-eun stepped past him, slapped the side of the vending machine with one clean motion. The drink fell.

 

She turned, not hiding her smirk. “Try less kicking. More finesse.”

 

He looked at the bottle. Then at her. And there it was again—that look. Like she was an equation he couldn’t quite solve. Like her existence was both a challenge and a taunt.

 

“I don’t like you,” he said abruptly.

 

Her stomach flipped. She ignored it.

 

“Good,” she snapped back. “I’d be concerned if you did.”

 

He stepped closer. Too close. That damn sickly sweet scent of his wrapped around her like a trap.

 

“But you do think about me,” he murmured, voice low and teasing. “Even dreamed about me, apparently.”

 

She flinched.

 

Her face went warm.

 

She hated that.

 

“I’ve thought about kicking you down a stairwell,” she said coldly.

 

He leaned in, lips brushing the edge of a smirk. “I’d let you.”

 

Something in his eyes flickered—something raw and amused and hungry. She remembered the mist in her dream. The voice. The shadow standing in the water.

 

“Come to me.”

 

She shivered, just barely.

 

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she muttered, backing away half a step.

 

Baby tilted his head. “Who says it’s a game?”

 

“I mean—what is this?” she said, voice pitched with frustration. “Like why are you here again? The weird comments? The—you?”

 

He took a sip from the drink she freed for him. Eyes never leaving hers.

 

“It’s cute when you spiral,” he said, too softly.

 

“Stop being cryptic.”

 

“Stop being interesting,” he countered.

 

They stood there, tension thick in the air like static, until she finally shook her head and turned.

 

“I’m late,” she muttered.

 

“See you at the competition bunny.”

 

Her steps halted. "I've told you not to call me that.”

 

“But it suits you,” he said with a shrug, already walking in the other direction. “Small, feisty, twitchy when you’re mad.”

 

“I’m armed and i will use it.” she warned.

 

“You say that like it’s a threat.”

 

 

 

Later that week, the same host’s voice echoed again—but this time the tone had changed.

 

“This week’s winner is ‘Golden’ by Huntrix!”

 

The girls, now dressed in shimmering performance outfits and cradling glittering bouquets, smiled brightly as the spotlight bathed them. They didn’t say a word—just turned their heads slowly toward the Saja Boys and smirked.

 

Ha-eun stood between Zoey and Rumi, bouquet clutched to her chest, barely containing her glee. Her lip was still split from their last fight, but her eyes sparkled with stubborn pride. 

 

 

 

 

The girls sat at the fan-signing booth, energy humming beneath the surface as fans buzzed outside like a swarm waiting to erupt. Bobby clapped his hands in a desperate attempt to rally morale.

 

"All right, team! I know everything’s been all Saja, Saja, Saja, but we’re gonna turn it into Huntrix, Huntrix, Huntrix!” he cheered, voice strained but optimistic. “These fans slept on the sidewalk overnight!”

 

“Happy fans, happy Honmoon,” the girls whispered in near-perfect unison, exchanging small smiles.

 

"Let’s bring them in!” Bobby called out.

 

The doors opened, fans piling in and five human-sized lumps waddled into view—wrapped head to toe in sleeping bags like overzealous caterpillars.

 

"Welcome! Hey, single file! No pushing!" Bobby urged.

 

One sleeping bag creature shuffled up to the table.

 

"And who should I make this out to?" Rumi asked, a practiced smile on her face.

 

"To our biggest fans," came a muffled, familiar voice.

 

The Saja Boys dramatically unzipped and flung their sleeping bags off, all in poses that made Ha-eun almost roll her eyes into the back of her head if she wasn't as shocked.

 

A wave of shrieking fans hit the walls like a tidal wave.

 

"It’s the Saja Boys!" someone cried.

 

"It's an honour!" Bobby exclaims, tight-lipped Bobby turns to the staff, eyes wild. "Table. Now."

 

The second table was dragged out with all the grace of a street brawl. Fans scurried to form a new line, practically splitting the room.

 

“We lose half the fans...?” Rumi murmured, face falling.

 

She stood abruptly. “The Saja Boys will sit with us!”

 

"What!? Rumi!" Mira whisper-yelled, aghast.

 

Ha-eun nodded in agreement, her face— a mixture of horror and disbelief.

 

"Rumi, what are you doing?" Zoey hissed.

 

“Genius…” Bobby choked out, eyes misty.

 

Tables shoved together. Sharpies flying. Screams overlapping. The new seating order was a chaotic miracle: Romance, Mira, Abby, Mystery, Zoey, Ha-eun, Baby, Jinu, Rumi.

 

Baby slid into his seat with an annoyingly gentle fwump, adjusting the sleeves of his oversized pastel lemon cardigan layered over a pale blue mesh tee. He looked almost too soft, like a literal marshmallow come to life, complete with muted tones, cloud-colored sneakers, and delicate silver rings. His hair—still that shining teal—was tousled just so, a little messy but obviously styled.

 

Ha-eun tried not to look at him as he let his arm rest on her chair.

 

Her hand inched toward her water bottle. Calm. Casual. Nonchalant.

 

Until she noticed him lazily sipping from it.

 

Her water bottle.

 

“…Seriously?” she asked, flat.

 

Baby glanced over, unbothered. “What? Sharing is caring.”

 

“You didn’t even ask.”

 

“I saw it just sitting there. It looked lonely.” He smiled, that same soft menace behind his lashes.

 

Her nostrils flared. She grabbed it back and wiped the rim with the inside of her hoodie sleeve like she was scrubbing off disease.

 

“Hm. We keep meeting like this,” Romance purred to Mira with his chin in his palm, his dark eyes glinting with playful heat. Mira visibly recoiled.

 

“I am not sitting with no Saja Boy!” Zoey started to growl—right as Mystery slipped into the seat beside her, quiet and unreadable.

 

Zoey blinked. Then smiled, biting her lip. “Whassup.”

 

Romance gazed at Mira with a borderline smitten look on his smug face. Abby handed a fan a signed sketch of his own abs. Mystery said nothing but smirked faintly.

 

Meanwhile, Ha-eun finally dared to glance sideways—and immediately regretted it. Baby was watching her with his chin tilted slightly, lips pursed like he was holding back some secret.

 

“That shade of teal in your hair’s… bold,” he mused casually.

 

She turned sharply toward him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I mean, it suits you. But it’s kind of... familiar, isn’t it?” His tone was light, nonchalant. But there was something in his eyes—something smug.

 

She narrowed hers. “I didn’t copy your hair.”

 

He raised a brow, smirk creeping in like fog. “Who said anything about copying?”

 

“You’re implying it.”

 

“Am I?” he said, batting his lashes innocently.

 

“I got the dye before I even met you,” she muttered, already on edge. “It was a coincidence.”

 

“That’s what people always say before fate gets involved,” he replied under his breath, tapping his pen rhythmically on the table.

 

Before she could respond, a fan came bounding toward them—glittery shirt, heart-shaped sunglasses, and trembling hands cradling what looked like a small piece of fanart treasure.

 

“Oh my GOD—you two are like, destiny!” the fan shrieked, nearly vibrating with excitement. “I KNEW it! I knew you were soulmates when Ha-eun dyed her hair right after Saja’s debut!”

 

Ha-eun blinked. “Wait wha—”

 

“It’s your teal!” the fan exclaimed, pointing between them. “It’s like, exactly the same! I mean, look!” She held up a shirt with a lovingly hand-drawn cartoon—Baby sitting cross-legged while Ha-eun braided his hair, both of them blushing furiously. There were little hearts. Sparkles. Their names written in cursive with a big glittery soulmates?! across the top.

 

“I—what is—,” Ha-eun stammered, horror creeping up her neck.

 

“Can you guys sign it? Please? Right under the heart!”

 

Baby made a strangled sound next to her. His cheeks were visibly pink now, and his mouth hung slightly open like he’d just walked into a prank show.

 

Ha-eun stared at the shirt, then at him, then back at the shirt.

 

“I—this isn’t—okay. Of course,” she whispered, grabbing her pen like it was a dagger.

 

They both signed it—quick, awkward, and very much not making eye contact. The fan squealed and skipped away, probably to tweet about the “confirmed chemistry.”

 

Silence.

 

Then, from the corner of her eye, she saw him shift.

 

Baby leaned in—slow, deliberate. His voice dropped.

 

“…You know,” he murmured, voice dipped in honey, “I haven't actually noticed how dead-on the colour is to mine. It’s almost eerie.”

 

She inhaled sharply. “Shut up.”

 

“I’m serious. The shade’s uncanny. It’s like you printed a reference photo.”

 

“I didn’t. Okay, so what? I got the dye the day you debuted, it was before I even saw you!"

 

“Oh, so right before we debuted.” He drawled, his tone smug as his eyes.

 

“Coincidence!” she hissed, glaring at him. “Why are you like this?!”

 

“I’m just saying,” he said with a shrug, smirking now. “Some people seem to think it’s fate.”

 

“You’re not fate,” she snapped. “You’re infuriating.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, hands behind his head. “And yet, we’re on a shirt together. That means something—”

 

She made a low, strangled sound.

 

"It means literally nothing!" She hissed, her face flushed a traitorous pink. 

 

"Oh didn’t you hear it? Meant to beee—" His tone dropping into a sing song before a harsh whack lands on his thigh. "Fu— Ow."

 

“I hate this table,” she muttered under her breath.

 

“I love this table,” he grinned, eyes twinkling. 

 

They both turned back to sign more fan merch, but Ha-eun’s hand was shaking slightly, and Baby looked way too pleased with himself as he pops an all too familiar looking gum into his mouth.

 

Meanwhile, Mira was threatening to gouge Abby’s eyes out with a Sharpie, Romance was blowing kissy faces, Zoey was hitting Mystery with a pen for barking at a fan, and Rumi muttered something unintelligible as Jinu leaned closer, deadpan and patient.

 

Ha-eun didn’t bury her face in her hands.

 

But only because she was too busy pretending Baby didn’t smell like sugar and smugness— no she doesn't care that that's not a scent.

 

All of a sudden, Rumi shot to her feet, both hands raised like she was announcing a rockstar.

“Isn’t he great? Woo! Jinu, everybody! Yeah, Jinu!”

 

The crowd erupted with screams.

 

Mira turned slowly toward her, suspicion darkening her features. “‘Woo, Jinu’?”

 

“Jinu! Jinu!” Fans began chanting his name like a holy mantra.

 

Bouquets rained down like confetti—some aimed at the Saja Boys, others toward Huntrix, and at least one striking Ha-eun squarely in the arm. She winced, batting it off.

 

Baby caught a bouquet one-handed, grinned, and immediately launched into an exaggerated aegyo pose for the crowd. His cheeks puffed out. He held the flowers under his chin like a blushing prince. Ha-eun visibly recoiled, her eye twitching.

 

Then Jinu stood up with the energy of someone about to flee a crime scene.

 

“Unfortunately,” he said, stiffly, “the Saja Boys have to run. Thank you, everyone.”

 

The screams intensified, fans waving and sobbing as the boys exited the room.

 

Bobby furiously scrolled through his phone, eyes wide as the fans slowly piled out.

 

“The internet loves this,” he gasped, flashing the screen at the girls. “And the internet is never wrong!”

 

Poorly drawn fanart accompanied by— Edited photos. Hashtags. Chaos.

 

“Rujinu! That’s genius,” Bobby shouted, pointing. “Zoeystery! Where do they come up with this?!”

 

“Miro-mabby?” Mira choked, face contorting in horror. 

 

“Aw, you’re so cute together!” Zoey cooed, reaching over to pinch Mira’s cheek.

 

Mira growled like a cornered cat.

 

“KIT?” Ha-eun squawked, eyes scanning a fan post of her and Baby wrapped in a cartoon swaddle. “How did they even come up with—?”

 

Zoey squinted, leaned closer to the post. “Yeah, that is kinda weird—wait…” Her eyes widened in sudden realization. She turned to Ha-eun with a devilish grin spreading across her face.

 

“Hold on. Your nickname is bunny. His name is Baby. And what’s a baby bunny?”

 

Ha-eun stared at her.

“No.”

“Yes.”

“Absolutely not.”

“…It’s a kit,” Zoey finished, beaming.

 

Ha-eun made a sound like a dying microwave. “I’m going to burn the internet down.”

 

Zoey giggled. “Too late. We're trending.”

 

Ha-eun slammed her head onto the table.

 

 

 

 

The dream began with water again.

 

This time it was moving.

 

Waves lapped against her calves, warm and too red in the moonlight. The sky above was purple-black, a bruise stretching across the world. Mist rolled low over the surface, and the humming had already started—low and rhythmic, pulsing like breath, like heartbeat, like something alive crawling beneath her skin.

 

It knows me. That was her first thought.

 

She looked down.

 

Her reflection was missing.

 

Instead, someone else was standing beside her—no footsteps, no sound, just there. Close. Too close. A silhouette steeped in pink mist and barely-there light. Tall. Familiar. But still too dark to see.

 

She didn’t move.

 

Didn’t breathe.

 

Fingers brushed along her shoulder. Light. Careful. The barest whisper of touch, like a thought made physical.

 

“I knew you’d come back,” the voice murmured, soft and syrup-smooth in her ear.

 

She stiffened, turning—but the figure didn’t move. Just stood there, impossible to make out. But he (?) was watching her. She could feel it. Deep and hungry.

 

The humming swelled, weaving under his words like a second voice.

 

She could feel it again—in her ribs, her throat, her wrists. Like her blood was singing.

 

He stepped closer.

 

She didn’t step away.

 

“You hear it, don’t you?” he asked. Not really a question. His hand hovered over her jaw, not touching, just… waiting. “The harmony. The pull.”

 

Her breath hitched.

 

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered.

 

“You don’t have to.” His voice was velvet now. “Just let it happen.”

 

The back of his fingers skimmed her cheek. A touch that felt more like a claim than affection. Her knees nearly buckled.

 

“You’re trembling,” he said with something like delight.

 

“I’m not,” she tried to argue, but it came out breathless.

 

The water rippled around them. The humming grew louder. It was everywhere. In her bones. In the air between them. Like a current drawing her closer. Like gravity had changed direction and he was the new center of it.

 

“The feeling you give me…” he murmured. “It’s—exhilarating.”

 

Her heart stuttered. The sound of it echoed too loud, like it didn’t belong to her.

 

“I shouldn’t be here,” she said. But she didn’t move. She couldn’t.

 

His hand hovered again—this time above her chest, like he could feel the echoing hum inside her.

 

“You already are.”

 

He leaned in, and—

 

The water around her exploded into ripples. His eyes—suddenly visible—were bright amber, almost gold, glowing like something not-quite-human. The air choked with humming. It surged, sharp now, almost painful.

 

“Come to me,” he whispered again, voice splitting around her head like it came from everywhere and nowhere at once.

 

She gasped.

 

The dream shattered.

 

She woke up in the dark, drenched in sweat, chest rising too fast. Her fingers clenched the sheets.

 

The humming was gone.

 

But the feeling wasn’t.

 

The whispers lingered in her mind like smoke.

Notes:

Soo.. #Kit? Anyways I know baby seems kinda stalkerish but guys HES NOT TRUST!! You'll know when you know!! Oh and yeah I gave him some more outfits since it stretches over awhile now<3

Chapter 6: A burning hill

Summary:

Ha-eun wakes from a dream she doesn’t fully understand—too soft to be safe, too dark to be a comfort. Still, she feels... lighter. As Huntrix resumes practice, Bobby arrives with news

Tension brews— within Ha-eun. A hallway run-in with Baby ends in stolen cider and a shift in their usual sharp rhythm. But the day fractures when the past calls. The words cut deep. And by the time Mira finds her, Ha-eun is no longer holding it together.

Notes:

OMG HI GUYS I GOT ABIT OF WRITERS BLOCK ADMITTEDLY SO THIS ENDED UP BEING SORT OF A FILLER CHAPTER SORRY

The morning light filtered in through the windows in slow, golden streaks. It caught in the steam curling from mugs, softened the clutter of sheet music and leftover takeout boxes, and landed gently on Ha-eun’s face like a hand she hadn’t asked for.

 

She sat on the floor of the living room, knees drawn to her chest, a blanket draped around her shoulders. She hadn’t bothered with real clothes yet—just a hoodie and old sleep shorts that weren’t technically hers.

 

Her tea had gone cold.

 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Rumi’s voice was low, not startling. She stood in the kitchen, still in her pajamas too, baby hairs forming a tousled halo around her face.

 

Ha-eun shook her head. “Didn’t dream well.”

 

Rumi gave a half-smile like she understood. “Dreams don’t always mean something, you know.”

 

Ha-eun tilted her head. “I thought you said they always mean something.”

 

“I said that to Zoey to freak her out,” Rumi said, grabbing two mugs and pouring hot water into both. “But yeah. Sometimes they do.”

 

She crossed the room and handed Ha-eun one, steam fogging up her glasses.

 

“Chamomile, with a whole lotta honey.” she said. “I remembered you like it.”

 

Ha-eun blinked, a strange warmth spreading through her chest. “Thanks.”

 

They sat in silence for a while. No music, no chatter. Just the soft clink of Rumi’s spoon stirring sugar and the low whir of a fan somewhere deeper in the dorm.

 

Ha-eun glanced at her. “Did you always want this?”

 

Rumi looked over. “What?”

 

“The idol stuff. The hunting. All of it.”

 

There was a long pause, like Rumi had to translate the question into something answerable.

 

“I think I wanted to be seen,” she said eventually. “And then I was seen. And sometimes I wish I could be invisible again... but that doesn’t mean i don't love what i do.”

 

Ha-eun didn’t respond. But she sipped the tea slowly.

 

Rumi watched her over the rim of her mug. “You’re always quiet in the mornings, more than your usual.”

 

“I have to remember who I am first,” Ha-eun said, almost smiling. “Takes a minute.”

 

That got a laugh out of Rumi. Soft, but real. “Makes sense. I need three hours of silence before I speak to a human being.”

 

They sat there, slowly becoming people again under the early light. The dorm was still sleeping around them, but the air had shifted—like something unspoken had passed between them and settled.

 

“You’ll be okay, you know,” Rumi said, voice quieter. “Even if the dreams don’t stop.”

 

Ha-eun didn’t ask how she knew.

 

She just nodded.

 

 

 

The mirror’s glare caught on Mira’s cheekbone as she landed a clean spin, sweat trailing down her temple. Rumi paused mid-move to adjust her footing, Zoey thumped to the floor in a deliberately over-dramatic collapse, and Ha-eun—half-tucked in the corner, tying her shoelace with a small frown—blinked at the distant thud that echoed faintly through the floorboards.

 

Thud. Thud. Muffled laughter. Music, maybe?

 

She paused, brow twitching. “You guys hear that?”

 

Mira stilled, head tilting slightly. “Barely.”

 

“Could be another group moving in,” Rumi said, reaching for her water bottle. “This building rotates groups like it’s speed dating.”

 

“Could also be a ghost,” Zoey offered jokingly, still flat on the floor. “Or rats. Giant ones.”

 

Before anyone could reply, the door swung open with a loud thump against the wall. Bobby stood there, slightly out of breath, tablet in hand, and wearing an expression like he’d just walked in on a breakup.

 

“...Okay. So,” he began, “I’ve got some news.”

 

“No,” Mira said immediately.

 

“You don’t even know what it is yet,” Bobby huffed.

 

“Don’t need to,” she said. “It’s never good when you say it like that.”

 

Bobby stepped in, holding his tablet like a shield. And following behind him—

 

A man. Tall. Mid-forties, maybe. Black and silver hair swept back, immaculately styled. He wore a muted grey suit, so well-cut it probably cost just about Ha-eun’s entire wardrobe, and a calm, unreadable expression that didn’t quite reach his unnervingly still eyes. He didn’t smile. But he wasn’t unfriendly either. Just present.

 

Ha-eun felt her spine straighten instinctively.

 

“This is… Mr. Song,” Bobby said. “The Saja Boys’ new manager.”

 

“You’re joking,” Rumi said flatly.

 

“Nope.” Bobby tapped the tablet. “Effective immediately.”

 

The room stilled.

 

“I wasn’t aware they had a manager,” Mira said slowly, eyes narrowed.

 

“They didn’t,” Mr. Song said, voice smooth. Deep. Almost too perfectly even. “Until recently.”

 

“We’re sharing a floor with them now?” Zoey asked, sitting up. “Like actually?”

 

“Unfortunately, yes,” Bobby muttered. “Turns out the room at the end of the hall was vacant, and someone on the label decided this would be ‘efficient’.”

 

“Efficient?” Mira echoed.

 

“They mean chaotic,” Zoey said.

 

Rumi crossed her arms. “How long?”

 

“A month minimum, more accurately three.” Mr. Song replied evenly. “Could be extended depending on upcoming schedules.”

 

“And we’re supposed to just… coexist?” Mira raised an eyebrow.

 

“That is the general idea,” he said. “There’s a shared common area down the hall. Vending machine, lounge seats. Both groups are expected to clean up after themselves.”

 

“Great,” Zoey said under her breath. “Can’t wait."

 

Ha-eun stayed quiet, eyes flicking between Mira and Mr. Song. Her fingers fidgeted slightly with the cap of her apple cider bottle. She didn’t like how still he was. Or how neutral. Her instincts were humming again, not loud but low. Like tension in a bowstring.

 

But nothing to prove. Nothing to act on. Just… a feeling.

 

“Well,” Bobby cleared his throat. “That’s that. Surprise co-tenancy. Let’s all play nice, yeah?”

 

Mira’s look said she’d rather kiss a live wire, but she nodded anyway. Zoey groaned. Rumi shrugged. Ha-eun gave the barest tilt of her head.

 

Mr. Song offered a polite bow of the head, murmured, “We’ll do our best not to interfere,” and exited without further small talk, his steps unnervingly silent despite polished dress shoes.

 

"Well that's a whole load of bullshit." Ha-eun muttered, arms crossed with a grim look of disdain ghosting her features.

 

Once he was gone, Mira turned immediately to Bobby.

 

“Are you out of your mind?” she hissed.

 

“It's not like I booked them here!” Bobby protested. “I just found out five minutes ago and sprinted!”

 

“Could’ve sent a text,” Rumi grumbled.

 

“Didn’t want you to think it was a prank,” he said, tone bordering on frantic. “Look, I’ll be handling all communications. If they get in the way, you let me know. But for now—just ignore them. Focus.”

 

A crash echoed faintly down the hall. Male voices cackled. A yell bellowed. Presumably, Jinu.

 

“Super easy to ignore,” Zoey said dryly.

 

Ha-eun still hadn’t spoken. She finally took a small sip of cider, gaze fixed on the floor. Her voice was quiet but steady.

 

“Was that really their manager?”

 

Bobby hesitated. “Looks like it. New development, that’s all I know.”

 

Zoey muttered under her breath, “Or an ancient one.”

 

Ha-eun exhaled through her nose, the slightest sigh curling past her lips as she shrugged the lingering unease off her shoulders like a coat she refused to wear. “Well,” she said, brushing invisible dust off her leggings, “I’m out of cider.”

 

Mira, now sprawled across the practice floor like a felled tree, cracked one eye open. “Do you ever not drink that shit?”

 

“Nope,” Ha-eun said, popping the p with a lazy smirk. She bounced to her feet, already halfway to the door with the light skip of someone very much choosing joy.

 

“Can you at least get me a bar?” Rumi called after her, still seated and not planning to move.

 

“Get it yourself!” Ha-eun shouted back over her shoulder, her giggle trailing behind her like a ribbon.

 

A loud groan echoed down the hall, followed by a dramatic, “Traitor!”

 

Ha-eun didn’t slow down. Just grinned, the corners of her eyes crinkling, as the vending machine came into view. Ha-eun finally stood in front of the vending machine, arms crossed, eyes narrowing in grim evaluation. 

 

Her reflection stared back in the plexiglass: sleep-soft cheeks, jaw locked. She barely moved, except for the faint twitch of her fingers against her elbow.

 

One item sat behind the clear screen. Apple cider.

 

Her favourite brand too.

 

She tapped the button, just once.

 

The machine made a noise like a wheezing exhale and whirred to life.

 

She took a small breath, not relief exactly—but close.

 

Just as the bottle thudded into the tray, a low voice murmured behind her:

 

“Didn’t peg you for the type.”

 

She startled—just a flinch—but it annoyed her anyway.

 

Baby Saja leaned against the wall like he’d materialized from the shadows on purpose. Hoodie unzipped, white tank top underneath, chain glinting faintly under the fluorescents. His hair was damp, he probably just come from rehearsal— and there was something careless about the way he slouched—casual, deliberate, watching her like she was a trick of light.

 

“You following me?” she asked, tone flat.

 

His lips curled. “I could ask you the same thing.”

 

“This is a booked space. That we have booked." A glare.

 

“Same. Isn’t that cute? Roommates, sort of.”

 

She bent down, grabbed the cider, cracked the cap open with a soft hiss. “Please don’t make that word taboo."

 

“Aw. Bunny bites.”

 

That made her eyes flick to him—sharp, reflexive. He smiled wider, like he’d been waiting for it.

 

Her posture stiffened, back slightly arched like she was ready to bolt. Still, she took a slow sip of her drink, gaze flicking down the hallway as if willing it to fill with literally anyone else.

 

“You always this twitchy?” he asked after a beat.

 

“Only when I’m cornered by demons with untraceable motives.”

 

“You think I’m untraceable?”

 

“Untrustworthy,” she corrected, calm. “But I guess both apply.”

 

He chuckled—quiet, rough-edged. “You ever relax?”

 

She paused, then with a roll of her eyes— “When you stop talking.”

 

Baby tilted his head. “You’re kind of mean, you know that?”

 

She glanced at him. “You’re kind of nosy.”

 

“Nosy,” he repeated, like he was tasting the word. “That’s cute. You could just admit you like the attention.”

 

Her smile was tiny—barely a ghost of one. “You’re confusing me with someone else.”

 

“No,” he said. “I think you just don’t know what to do with it.”

 

His voice dropped when he said that—low, too low. It moved differently, like it scraped against her spine on the way down. She took another sip, but the cider suddenly felt too sweet, too cold.

 

“Did you actually need something?” she asked.

 

He didn’t answer immediately. Just stepped closer, slow enough not to startle her. She didn’t back away, but she stilled.

 

“Song said the machine was finally stocked—which who I'm sure you've met by now—I figured I’d check if the rumors were true.” he said, gaze slipping to the drink in her hand.

 

“Rumors confirmed,” she said. “Go away.”

 

But he didn’t. Of course he didn’t.

 

Without asking, he plucked the bottle from her hand.

 

Ha-eun blinked. “Hey—”

 

“My favourite,” he mused, reading the label. “I knew you were hiding a sweet tooth.”

 

She moved to grab it back, but he easily shifted it behind his back. She didn’t fight hard—not really. Just frowned, brow knitting.

 

His grin was lazy, eyes shining like he’d won something.

 

“Give it back,” she said.

 

“Make me.”

 

“You’re infuriating.”

 

“You’re adorable when you’re mad.”

 

“I’m not mad,” she said. “I’m tired. And I liked that drink.”

 

“You should probably stock up next time then, Doctor's orders." he said, mock-serious.

 

She paused, the reference catching her off guard. Her expression faltered—just a flicker—but he saw it. Something unreadable passed between them then.

 

He handed the bottle back.

 

She took it, careful not to let their fingers touch.

 

“You really don’t know when to stop,” she murmured.

 

He leaned in just slightly, enough for his voice to scrape the edge of her ear. “And you’re pretending you don’t like it.”

 

Then he turned and walked away without waiting for a comeback.

 

She stood there a moment, clutching her drink like it was a shield, heart thumping too loud in her chest.

 

She took another sip.

 

Still cold.

 

Still sweet.

 

Still hers.

 

 

The rooftop of the studio wasn’t technically a practice space, but Ha-eun had quietly claimed it as hers.

 

A folding target leaned against the wall. The wind tugged lightly at the corners of the painted bullseye. The sky above was a deep, early blue, clouds scattered like pulled wool.

 

She exhaled slowly, pulling back the bowstring. The tension sang across her fingers. Her arms ached—not from effort, but from the memory of effort.

 

Thwip.

 

The arrow embedded just off-center.

 

She narrowed her eyes. Not good enough.

 

Another arrow. Another breath. Her stance shifted, spine straight, weight balanced.

 

Thwip.

 

Closer.

 

She let her body move on instinct—this part wasn’t hard. Not anymore. The repetition, the quiet violence of precision, it had been carved into her early. It felt… easy, even when it hurt.

 

But then—

 

A tremor bloomed in her fingers.

 

Not from fatigue. From memory.

 

From pain that didn’t belong to now.

 

She lowered the bow, chest tight.

 

Suddenly, she was twelve years old again, standing in a freezing private studio that smelled like lacquer and too-clean air. Her arms burned. Her fingers—raw and red—trembled around a wooden bow far too big for her size. The instructor said nothing. Her mother stood behind him, watching. Always watching.

 

“Again,” her mother’s voice snapped, quiet but sharp enough to draw blood. “Your form collapsed. You want to embarrass me?”

 

She had wanted to cry. But crying wasn’t part of the schedule.

 

“Again,” her mother repeated.

 

Pain flared in her fingers. She’d torn the skin on her thumb two days ago, and the bandages had slipped under the glove. Every pull of the string felt like peeling back the layers of her hand.

 

No one offered to stop. No one asked why she was shaking.

 

Back in the present, Ha-eun flexed her hand slowly. The bow creaked faintly in her grip.

 

The scar tissue on her fingers had faded into pink scratches, but sometimes she still felt it—like something old and unfinished had burrowed beneath the skin.

 

She shook it off.

 

Drew another arrow.

 

Lined up the shot.

 

Thwip.

 

Bullseye.

 

Her jaw tightened.

 

She didn’t smile.

 

She wasn’t sure she could when the ache lingered like that—old ghosts hiding in calluses. But she didn’t stop either. She kept going, arrow after arrow, until her arms began to tremble for real.

 

Until she could pretend it was just the rooftop wind biting at her hands.

 

And not the echo of her mother’s voice still hanging in her chest.

 

“Okay, I've never been this turned on and frightened in my entire life."

 

Ha-eun didn't flinch, but she lowered the bow slowly and glanced over her shoulder. Zoey stood a few feet back, holding two iced coffees like peace offerings. She’d clearly been there long enough to watch. Probably too long.

 

“Didn’t peg you for the stealthy type,” Ha-eun said, voice dry.

 

Zoey grinned. “Honey, I practically glide.”

 

She waltzed forward, one iced coffee extended. “You looked like you were about to puncture some law of physics, i never know how you do it.”

 

Ha-eun accepted the drink without a word, though her mouth twitched—half-smile, half-exhale.

 

Zoey plopped down beside the folding target with no regard for grace. “So this is where you disappear to. Aesthetic. Mysterious. Sexy.”

 

“I needed the air.”

 

“Mira says that too when she wants to avoid group practice,” Zoey said, sipping dramatically. “But you look like you’re about to monologue about vengeance and some deep-rooted trauma.”

 

At that, Ha-eun looked away.

 

Zoey noticed. Her voice softened just slightly, the teasing edge folding inward. “Hey. You okay?”

 

Ha-eun studied the skyline. She didn’t want to lie, but honesty felt heavy in her mouth. Eventually, she nodded. “Just... stuff.”

 

Zoey waited.

 

“My mom taught me archery,” Ha-eun offered, fingers brushing over the bowstring. “Strictly. Intense training. No breaks. No praise. Just... ‘again.’ All the time.”

 

Zoey whistled under her breath, the corners of her mouth tugging into a sympathetic frown. “Damn.”

 

“I liked it, I think. At first.” A pause. “Not so much later.”

 

They sat in a brief stillness, not awkward—just... held.

 

Then Zoey nudged her lightly with an elbow. “Well, for what it’s worth? You’re kind of a badass with that thing.”

 

Ha-eun allowed a small, real smile. “Thanks.”

 

“And for future reference,” Zoey added, tilting her head, “if you ever wanna shoot arrows at a drawing of your mother’s face, I’m available Tuesdays.”

 

Ha-eun laughed. A real one this time. Short, surprised, but unguarded.

 

Zoey stood and brushed off her pants. “C’mon. We’ve got five minutes before Rumi realizes we’re missing and sends a search party."

 

Ha-eun followed, bow in one hand, coffee in the other. The rooftop wind followed too, a little gentler now.

 

She still felt the ache in her fingers. But it wasn’t that phantom pain anymore. It was present. Real. Something she chose.

 

And somehow, that made it bearable.

 

 

 

The kitchen table was littered with snack wrappers and empty ramen bowls, and someone had thrown on a random variety show in the background, volume low. Zoey was halfway through a story about a someone who passed out holding her hand when Ha-eun’s phone vibrated on the table.

 

Just once.

 

But it felt like the whole room shook.

 

She didn’t look at it right away—just stiffened slightly, eyes fixed on the condensation on her water glass. But her heart kicked up behind her ribs like it was trying to claw out.

 

Then the second buzz.

 

Then the third.

 

Slow. Calculated. Like it was being sent with purpose.

 

Her hand moved on its own, flipping the phone just enough to glance at the screen.

 

Mother

 

No emoji. No heart. No saved photo. Just the name. Clean and precise.

 

The world dimmed around the edges.

 

Her vision tunneled.

 

Her lungs forgot how to breathe properly. She could hear everything at once and nothing at all. The scrape of chopsticks, Rumi’s low laugh, Mira's hum under her breath—like it was coming through a thick pane of glass. Her body had gone cold. Her fingertips tingled.

 

A fourth buzz.

 

Then a fifth.

 

“Hey,” Mira said gently, noticing the shift. “You okay?”

 

“I—I have to—” Ha-eun stood too fast, her chair scraping loud against the floor. “I need a sec.”

 

She didn’t wait for questions. Just grabbed her phone and fled down the hall.

 

The bathroom door slammed shut behind her. Lock clicked.

 

Only then did her knees give out.

 

She dropped to the tiled floor, phone gripped like a weapon. Her hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

 

Breathe. Just breathe.

 

But the name still sat on the screen, unwavering.

 

She wanted to throw the phone. She wanted to disappear. She wanted to cry but the tears were stuck somewhere in her throat like shards of glass.

 

The sixth buzz.

 

She answered.

 

"...Hello."

 

There was a pause, and then that voice—crisp, smooth, detached. A voice that had once coached her breathing through archery drills and scolded her for crying when her fingers bled.

 

“You took your time.”

 

Ha-eun didn’t respond.

 

“You’re still with them, then.”

 

Still with her, was what she meant.

 

“I’m not calling to lecture,” her mother continued, tone falsely light. “I’m calling to give you clarity. And options. Since you seem to have no idea what you’re doing with your life.”

 

Ha-eun stared at the tile grout. “If this is about money again, I don’t—”

 

“Ha-eun,” her mother cut in. “Don’t interrupt me. You’re not a child anymore.”

 

Funny. She always said that right before treating her like one.

 

“You have one final opportunity to return. The board will still accept you if you begin coursework again by next semester. I’ve spoken to the administration myself.”

 

Ha-eun’s stomach twisted.

 

“I’ve also made arrangements for your travel back. Business class, of course. If you take this seriously, your name will be reinstated in the family trust. I can’t keep defending your choices. You’ve made enough of a spectacle of yourself. Dancing like some orphaned stray.”

 

Ha-eun pressed a hand to her mouth. She could barely get air.

 

“And Mira,” her mother added, her voice cooling further. “Don’t think I’ve forgotten her influence. She may be past saving, but you—well. You always had potential. You were supposed to be the redemption.”

 

Ha-eun flinched so hard she nearly dropped the phone.

 

“She’s your daughter,” she whispered.

 

“She’s a disgrace,” came the reply. “And you will be too if you don’t stop following her into irrelevance. This is your last chance. Choose properly, or you are out of the family. For good.”

 

Click.

 

The call ended.

 

Ha-eun stared at the screen, the words Call Ended mocking her. The silence in the bathroom roared louder than the voice ever had. Her whole body shook—so much she didn’t realize tears had started falling until her breath broke with a soft, strangled sound.

 

Then came the knock.

 

“Ha-eun?”

 

Mira’s voice—low, calm, but taut with worry.

 

She didn’t answer.

 

Another knock. Firmer.

 

“I’m unlocking it.”

 

A key clicked. Mira stepped in, immediately kneeling beside her.

 

Ha-eun was curled into herself, arms wrapped tight around her knees, phone abandoned on the floor. She didn’t look up.

 

Mira didn’t speak.

 

She just pulled her close—arms strong, steady. Ha-eun resisted for half a second. Then all the fight drained out of her like water through cracks.

 

And she sobbed.

 

Ugly, full-body sobs. All the things she’d held in for years—disappointment, fear, guilt, shame—they poured out in silence and gasps.

 

Mira didn’t tell her to stop. Didn’t say it would be okay. She just held her tighter.

 

“I’m sorry,” Ha-eun whispered at last. “I’m sorry for being weak.”

 

“Don’t you dare,” Mira said softly. “You were never weak.”

 

They stayed like that a long time.

 

And for the first time in years, Ha-eun let someone hold her without apology.

 

"I need some air."

 

 

 

The city air didn’t taste clean, but it tasted like out. Like metal and dust and cheap perfume leaking out of club windows five blocks over. Like other people’s lives happening just out of reach.

 

Ha-eun wrapped her arms around herself and leaned into the railing of her favourite rooftop. The concrete pressed cold against her bare legs. She hadn’t even put on a jacket—just left, phone facedown on her nightstand like it might poison her if she touched it again.

 

The wind toyed with her hair. She didn’t fight it.

 

Below, traffic crawled like blood through veins.

 

The door creaked behind her. Footsteps—light, too casual.

 

She didn’t turn.

 

“Didn’t peg you for the rooftop brooding type,” came that unmistakable voice. Mocking by default.

 

Ha-eun exhaled slowly, not looking at him. “Go away, Saja boy.”

 

“Now that’s just rude.” He strolled over like they were about to start round five thousand of some long-running snark battle. “You're far too pretty for all that scowling y'know? Wrinkles are starting to show.”

 

No answer.

 

He stopped beside her, leaning on the same railing, trying to catch her eye. She stared straight ahead, like the skyline might offer some kind of salvation.

 

He watched her for a beat. Then frowned.

 

“You’re not gonna throw a jab back?”

 

Still nothing.

 

Baby tilted his head, squinting at her. The usual fire in her face—tight-lipped amusement, that ‘I’m tolerating you and that’s generous’ glint—wasn’t there.

 

Her jaw was locked. Her shoulders stiff. Even her breath felt deliberate, like she had to remind herself how to keep going.

 

“…You alright?” he trailed off, quieter now. Hesitant.

 

“I said go away.”

 

It wasn’t sharp. Not biting. Just thin. Like something threadbare, barely holding together.

 

He leaned in slightly, trying to read her expression. “I didn’t mean to— I was just fucking around.”

 

“I know,” she said. And that was somehow worse.

 

Because she didn’t say it like it meant anything. Just a dull fact.

 

He pushed off the railing, pacing once, twice, clearly unsure what to do with his hands. “Alright, you’re freaking me out. You’re usually, I dunno—more homicidal when I show up.”

 

That got a flicker from her. Not a smile, not even a smirk, but something almost like recognition.

 

And then she turned to him, finally. Her eyes were red around the edges. Not crying anymore, but not far from it either.

 

“Don’t you ever just get tired?”

 

He blinked.

 

“Tired of pretending it’s all a joke? Tired of being on all the time?”

 

The question wasn’t really for him. It was barely for herself. Just something that fell out.

 

“…Yeah,” he said after a moment. Not his usual voice—lower, more careful. “Yeah, sometimes.”

 

Ha-eun nodded once and looked away again.

 

Baby hesitated, hands in his pockets now. “You don’t have to tell me what happened. But—if you’re up here hiding, then I guess you kinda already did.”

 

She didn’t answer. She doesn't even know why he's still here.

 

“I’m not… good at the whole ‘being there’ thing,” he admitted, almost sheepish. “I’m more of a distraction.”

 

She gave a brittle laugh—just one breath of it, small and bitter. “You’re good at that.”

 

They stood in silence for a while after that. Just the sound of wind and sirens and the thud of someone’s bass-heavy playlist three buildings over.

 

He didn’t try to fill it.

 

Eventually, she said, “You should go.”

 

He nodded. “Yeah.”

 

But he didn’t move right away.

 

He looked at her like he wanted to say something else—anything at all—but thought better of it.

 

Instead, he took a step back. “If you ever wanna get distracted… like really distracted, I’m your guy.”

 

A casual smirk looked like it was trying to rest on his face but it just kept faltering into a tight-lipped grin.

 

Ha-eun turned her face toward him—not with a glare, not with a quip, just a look that said: Not tonight.

 

Baby offered a small, awkward smile. And this time, when he left, he didn’t say anything clever.

 

He just vanished into a familiar trail of pink smoke.

 

And Ha-eun stayed, watching the lights flicker on and off in the windows below, her hand pressed over her chest like she could hold herself together if she just stayed still long enough.

 

She didn’t mean to fall asleep.

 

The rooftop was still, the city humming quietly beneath her. A pale breeze rolled across the concrete like a hush, rustling a forgotten snack wrapper and tugging at the ends of her hoodie. Somewhere, a car door slammed. A siren wailed far off.

 

Ha-eun sat with her knees pulled up, arms wrapped around them, head resting against her folded arms.

 

Eyes closed. Not quite asleep. Not quite awake.

 

The quiet had become a weight. One she was too tired to shake off.

 

When the hum came, she was already slipping.

 

 

 

The sky in the dream was violet. Dusky, endless. The kind of color that blooms right before night swallows everything.

 

She was lying on her side, curled in the shallows of a warm black lake.

 

The water shimmered gently beneath her, holding her up like a cradle. There was no ground beneath it. No shore. Just water. Just her. And the hum—low and familiar—coursing gently through her bones.

 

She didn’t feel afraid.

 

Not at first.

 

A presence stirred behind her.

 

She felt it. Not looming. Not reaching. Just there. Like someone had been waiting. Not hunting her. Waiting for her to need it.

 

She didn’t turn to look.

 

But the touch came. Soft. Careful. A hand brushing a strand of hair from her damp cheek.

 

Warm fingers against her temple. A thumb trailing gently down to the edge of her jaw. Soothing. Like someone had seen the way her mother once gripped her face when she cried, and was trying to rewrite it—gently.

 

Her breath caught.

 

The hum deepened, threading into her ribs, grounding her heartbeat.

 

The presence shifted closer. She could feel the shape of it now. Kneeling. Watching. Hands cupping the side of her face with reverence, like she might break if touched the wrong way.

 

And it knew. She could feel it—this thing, this figure, whatever it was—it knew what had happened that day. The call. The dread. The cracked center of her.

 

Its hands moved down her shoulders, trailing along the memory of old scars. The phantom sting of welts that had long since healed. Its touch didn’t hurt. It only settled there. Like acknowledgment. Like an apology.

 

A voice—not a whisper, not quite words—murmured just beneath her ear. Felt, not heard.

 

You are not what they said you were.

 

Her fingers curled involuntarily. She wanted to sit up. To see its face. To ask how it knew.

 

But her body didn’t move.

 

The lake rose slightly, lapping at her waist like warm breath.

 

And then—barely—its forehead rested against hers. Their noses nearly brushed. No kiss. No demand. Just presence.

 

Just closeness.

 

As if to say: you don’t have to speak to be seen.

 

Ha-eun’s eyes prickled.

 

She blinked.

 

And then—

 

 

She woke to the cold feeling of the rooftop, to the soft pink of dawn breaking.

 

Her breath came sharp. Her skin clammy with early morning dew.

 

She sat up slowly, hugging her knees to her chest, her body still carrying the ghost of hands that weren’t there.

 

The hum was gone now.

 

But the feeling wasn’t.

 

Not fear. Not quite. But something darker than comfort. Something that knew her too well—and didn’t need to ask permission to care.

 

She rubbed at her face with trembling hands.

 

She wasn’t sure if she wanted it to never come back.

 

Or if she’d fall asleep again just to feel it once more.

Notes:

So erm.. abit of a sad chapter but.. forced proximity LETS GO?? New managers and bitchy mothers, what a run. Anyways Mira and Ha-eun's mother biting the curb? That'd be nice. And yes there will be more Saja Boys appearances after this chapter!! It wont be just baby haha BUT HOPE YALL LIKED THIS CHAPTER!!

Chapter 7: All wound up

Summary:

The plan was simple: get close to her, draw out the power, report back to Gwi-Ma. Easy. But As Gwi-Ma tightens his grip and Jinu starts asking the wrong questions, Baby finds himself slipping deeper into something he was never supposed to feel all while something ancient stirs.

Notes:

Hi yall.. it's been abit.. my bad guys 😀 BUT WE GOT A BABY POV CHAPTER!! This is mostly just as a treat if anything but this chapter we follow Baby from chapter 3 till 5 to give a little insight on some lore and his view on Ha-eun!!

The ground wasn’t solid. It shimmered beneath his sneakers like glass holding back an ocean of flame, veins of molten violet and rose pulsing just below the surface. The air crackled, thick with smoke and sugar and the sharp scent of burning lacquer.

 

Above, spires of black stone jutted out like claws into the yawning void. Gwi-Ma’s realm was less a place and more a presence — ancient, endless, alive.

 

And at its burning core, coiled in purple-pink fire, loomed the demon himself — Gwi-Ma, a mass of flickering heat and jagged white teeth, suspended in the air like a god too old for language. His flames licked outward, casting warped shadows that hissed against the walls.

 

“You’re late,” the demon purred, voice like silk on smoldering coals.

 

Baby’s grin curled immediately — bright, almost boyish. He bounded forward a few steps, not too close to the fire, hands still stuffed into the pockets of his pink bathhouse-damp jacket.

 

"She’s waking up,” he said, practically vibrating. There was a flush to his cheeks that hadn’t been there in years — a spark in his eyes that bordered on manic.

 

Gwi-Ma’s flame pulsed.

 

“And?”

 

The inferno twisted, then formed shapes — hazy, disjointed: Ha-eun, ducking a blow; her strike landing sharp against his ribs; her face half-shadowed, eyes sparking with something feral.

 

Baby watched it all, head tilted, lips parting in something more breathless than amused.

 

“She doesn’t know what she is,” he said, almost giddy. “But her body does.”

 

Off to the side, where the fire didn’t quite reach, Song Ji-taek lingered like a shadow in a tailored suit. His posture was perfect, expression unreadable — but his eyes followed Baby with quiet tension. Even he could tell the boy was high on something he didn’t fully understand.

 

Gwi-Ma chuckled low. “So the bunny has teeth.”

 

“And rhythm,” Baby said, grinning wider.

 

The flames swirled, violet veins bursting brighter. Gwi-Ma’s amusement deepened.

 

“Perfect.”

 

Ji-taek’s voice was calm, but pointed.

 

“She’s volatile.”

 

“No,” Gwi-Ma said smoothly. “She’s malleable.”

 

The fire dimmed — not in heat, but in color, pooling darker around his voice like the room itself was listening.

 

“She’s still frightened,” Ji-taek said. “Still attached to the girls. And she’s that hunter's blood.”

 

That struck.

 

The heat snapped — a hiss through the air like glass fracturing under pressure.

 

“I know whose blood she shares,” Gwi-Ma said sharply, every word dipped in threat.

 

Baby didn’t flinch. He just rocked slightly on his heels, that manic glint still dancing in his eyes. This was the kind of room people didn’t breathe in — but he was breathing like he’d just been born.

 

“You made her feel it?” Gwi-Ma asked.

 

Baby’s grin faltered slightly — not from fear, but something harder to place. Reverence, maybe.

 

"She made me feel it,” he said, voice lighter again. “For a second I was—”

 

His fingers twitched inside his pockets. The steam. The hum. That jolt in his bones that had felt so stupidly real.

 

“Stronger,” he finished. “Like she kickstarted something.”

 

Gwi-Ma’s teeth glinted through the fire.

 

“Excellent.”

 

Ji-taek didn’t look at him, but Baby could feel the weight of his stare.

 

“So what do you want me to do?” Baby asked, stepping forward with the kind of brightness that felt almost cruel.

 

“Charm her. Confuse her. Make her trust you before she understands why she shouldn’t.”

 

"That won’t last,” Ji-taek said, more to Gwi-Ma than to Baby. “She’ll see through it.”

 

“She doesn’t need to stay fooled,” Gwi-Ma replied, fire snapping. “She just needs to choose us before she realizes she’s made the choice.”

 

Baby laughed under his breath, like it was all a game. Like he was already planning how he’d do it. He turned half a circle, imagining the next time he’d see her — what he’d say. What she’d look like when she cracked.

 

“And when she’s strong enough?” he asked, still smiling.

 

The flames leaned in — Gwi-Ma’s voice was heat incarnate.

 

“We harvest.”

 

It hit the air like a curse. Ancient. Inevitable.

 

Ji-taek’s gaze dropped. Baby didn’t.

 

He was still glowing — still burning with something wicked and new. His fingers twitched again.

 

He could still feel her hum.

 

“Sooner or later,” Gwi-Ma murmured, sinking deeper into his flame, “she’ll hum for you again. So listen.”

 

The fire roared behind him, shadows rising. Baby took a step back, his grin slowly fading to something quieter — not soft, but charged.

 

He didn’t look back as he left the chamber.

 

But as he passed into the warped dark, that hum followed —

like a hook caught in his chest,

plucking just beneath his heartbeat.

 

 

 

The apartment is dim, lit only by the flicker of the TV. Baby’s sprawled sideways across the couch like a housecat that pays rent, legs dangling off one side, head tipped against a cushion. A half-finished bag of spicy shrimp chips rests on his stomach, crumbs littering the pink hem of his oversized tee.

 

The drama playing is clearly losing him. Something Joseon-era, courtesans and poetry and about sixteen too many plotlines.

 

He squints.

 

“Wait… is she her sister, or her boss?” he mutters. “Or both? What the fuck is happening.”

 

The couch dips beside him.

 

“Gwi-Ma told me about the girl,” Jinu says, voice calm, like he’s talking about the weather.

 

Baby doesn’t look over. Pops another chip in his mouth. Chews.

 

“Cool.”

 

“She hit you?” Jinu adds, still mild.

 

That earns him a glance. One brow arched.

 

“Not like that,” Baby says. “Wasn’t for show. Every strike had a rhythm. Like she was drumming. Like… percussion with purpose.”

 

Jinu hums. Doesn’t look surprised.

 

“So you felt it.”

 

Now Baby turns his head, attention narrowing.

 

“You saying you’ve felt that before?”

 

“No.” Jinu’s gaze stays on the screen. “I’m saying very few ever do.”

 

A silence drapes over them. Not heavy—watchful. The TV keeps playing in the background, some weepy hanbok monologue, but it’s just noise now.

 

“She synced with me,” Baby mutters. “Instant. No lag, no hesitation. Like her body already knew mine.”

 

Jinu finally looks over.

 

“And that didn’t freak you out?”

 

Baby snorts. “Nah. It felt—”

 

He stops. The word alive hangs in his throat, too earnest to say out loud.

 

Instead:

“— electric.”

 

Jinu’s eyes linger a little longer.

 

“You know what Gongmyeong means, right?”

 

Baby rolls his head back with a groan. “Yes, hyung. Jeez. She’s a magical radio. I get it.”

 

“It’s not a gimmick,” Jinu says, tone sharpening. “Gongmyeong isn’t surface. It’s marrow-deep. You amplify people like that, it’s not just power—it’s memory. Muscle. Soul. Frequency. Let someone sync with you like that, even once, it rewires something.”

 

Baby lifts the chip bag and shoves a handful into his mouth.

 

“Still sounds hot.”

 

“I’m serious.”

 

“So am I.” He smirks, licking chili dust off his thumb. “Fuckin’ wired after that fight. Didn’t sleep for two nights.”

 

“She didn’t even know what she was doing,” Jinu says.

 

“Exactly.” Baby sits up a little now, energy rising. “It was pure. Untouched. No mental bullshit, no ‘training’—just instinct. Like she was made to do it.”

 

Jinu leans forward slightly, arms on his knees.

 

“You don’t amplify without consequences,” he says quietly. “It’s not just a stage trick. It’s chemistry. It's the ability to harmonize with another’s essence — body, power, or spirit — and amplify it through emotional and rhythmic synchrony."

 

Baby snorts. “Thanks for the pep talk.”

 

“I’m not pep-talking,” Jinu replies. “I’m warning you.”

 

A pause.

 

“She’s dangerous,” he continues. “Not because of what she can do—because of what she doesn’t know she’s doing. That kind of raw resonance? It bends people. Twists the rules. You could fall in love without even knowing it’s not real. Just feedback.”

 

Baby goes still. His fingers tap the chip bag. One-two-three.

 

Then:

 

“She won’t be in the dark forever.”

 

“She won’t,” Jinu agrees. “But until then? You’re playing with a loaded gun.”

 

“You think she’s a weapon?”

 

“I think,” Jinu says slowly, “Gwi-Ma wants her to be.”

 

That gets Baby’s full attention.

 

He turns. Eyes sharp now.

 

“You think he’s grooming her?”

 

“I think,” Jinu says, “he’s grooming you.”

 

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut skin.

 

Then Jinu adds, casually brutal:

“Don’t you think it’s weird he picked you for this? You’re not exactly known for your diplomacy.”

 

Baby gives a weak crooked grin. “Piss off.”

 

“Just saying,” Jinu shrugs. “When the old man hands you a pretty girl and a mystery to unravel, you should ask what he’s really fishing for.”

 

“She’s still figuring it out,” Baby mutters. “She doesn’t know what she is.”

 

“That’s the most dangerous kind of power there is.”

 

Another pause.

 

“Fire in a locked room.”

 

Baby exhales slowly. Then says, almost to himself:

“She won’t stay locked up for long.”

 

Jinu gives him a long look. Not unkind. Just… knowing.

 

“Just don’t forget who’s holding the match.”

 

Baby’s smirk returns, but it’s got a crack in it now.

 

“Don’t worry about me, hyung,” he says. “I’m flameproof.”

 

“Sure,” Jinu replies dryly. “That’s why your bangs keep singeing off.”

 

Baby flicks a chip at him.

 

Jinu catches it in his mouth without blinking.

 

 

 

“Did you seriously steal that top from our wardrobe again?” Romance asked, his head on a leopard-print cushion he definitely bought himself.

 

“It’s not stealing if you are the brand,” Abby replied without looking away from his reflection. “Besides, they dress me for free because I make the clothes look alive.”

 

“You make them look desperate,” Mystery said, eyes still on his sketchpad.

 

“Desperate for me, maybe,” Abby grinned, adjusting the collar of his sleeveless mesh shirt.

 

“You’re literally doing a bicep curl with your own reflection,” Baby muttered.

 

Abby kissed his own shoulder.

 

Romance sighed dreamily. “He’s a himbo, Baby, let him live.”

 

“I am living,” Abby said.

 

“Tragically,” Mystery deadpanned.

 

Baby didn’t laugh. He was chewing slowly, staring through the TV more than at it.

 

Romance rolled over onto his stomach with a dramatic flop. “Ugh, why is it so tense in here? Did one of you die again? I’m feeling a vibe.”

 

Mystery finally looked up. “Maybe it’s Baby’s mood. He’s doing that thing again.”

 

“What thing?”

 

“The silent spiral.”

 

“Ohhhh,” Romance blinked. “Like when he got stabbed and kept smiling for two hours?”

 

“Yeah,” Mystery said. “Except quieter.”

 

Baby popped another chip in his mouth. He wasn’t really tasting it.

 

Romance crept up to the couch like a nosy cat. “Alright. Spill. You look like someone kissed your soul and then dropkicked it.”

 

“I’m fine.”

 

“You’re twitching.”

 

“I always twitch.”

 

“Not like this,” Abby said, finally stepping away from the mirror. “Usually you bounce. Now you’re… brooding.”

 

“I’m not brooding,” Baby said flatly. “That’s Jinu’s thing. I’m the cute one.”

 

“Objectively false,” Abby said.

 

“Debatable,” Mystery murmured.

 

Romance gasped. “He is brooding. He’s got melancholy eyes. Oh my god.”

 

“I will suffocate you with this cushion,” Baby said without heat.

 

“Do it,” Romance grinned. “That’s how I wanna go.”

 

But Baby had stopped listening.

 

His eyes were on the screen again, though the TV was just noise — something brightly animated and pointless.

 

He saw fire.

 

Not real fire. Not Gwi-Ma’s.

 

But the glint of teal through steam, skin against tile, a hum behind his teeth that wasn’t his.

 

A feeling like being cracked open and poured full of light.

 

How sentimental.

Gwi-Ma’s voice slithered in, dry and amused.

Fantasizing already? Over a girl who doesn’t even know what she is?

A pause.

You’re slipping.

 

His fingers twitched.

 

“...Baby?”

 

He blinked.

 

Romance was waving a chip in front of his face like bait.

 

“You blacked out for like twenty seconds.”

 

“Did not.”

 

“You were gone, bro.”

 

“Fine. I was thinking.”

 

“That’s new,” Mystery said.

 

Romance sat back with a suspicious squint. “Thinking about what?”

 

Baby didn’t answer. He picked up another chip, but didn’t eat it. Just rolled it between his fingers.

 

The hum had lingered longer than it should’ve.

 

Still hadn’t left.

 

He didn’t like that.

 

He really, really didn’t like that.

 

"Shit."

 

 

 

The alleyway near the store was empty, the vending machine humming like it always did—cheap plastic and neon glow. He flipped the coin in his palm once, twice, watching it glint in the light. Still humming under his breath from the buzz that hadn’t quite faded since the dream. Since her.

 

And then—

 

Thud.

 

Something crashed right into him like it wanted to.

 

Baby’s hand shot out automatically, fingers catching her waist before her spine could meet concrete. His other hand instinctively grabbed the back of her bag—he didn’t even think.

 

And for one suspended second—

That hum was back. Quiet. Delicate. But it was there.

 

His chest lit up like it had been waiting.

 

Then his eyes focused.

 

Her.

 

Of course.

 

“…You,” he said, and it came out more like a complaint than a greeting—like the universe had just handed him a rotting cherry on top of an already-too-sweet cake.

 

And like an idiot—like someone spooked—he let go.

 

She hit the ground with a soft, offended thud.

 

“Seriously?” she snapped.

 

He wiped his palms on his hoodie, frowning like she was the one that’d ruined his day. “Ugh.”

 

She scrambled up with a glare, brushing herself off. “Wow. Drops me and acts like I’m the inconvenience. Very chivalrous.”

 

“I didn’t realize it was you,” he replied, shoving his hands in his pockets and looking off to the side like he had somewhere better to be. “You should wear a sign or something.”

 

“‘Beware: Danger’? You first.”

 

He rolled his eyes. “You’re packed full of sugar tonight.”

 

But it wasn’t sweet.

 

It was sharp. She was all grit and teeth.

 

He almost liked it.

 

He blinked slowly, letting his gaze scan her in the half-light. Her cheeks were flushed. Bag hugged to her chest like a shield. She wore one of those soft sets she seemed to favor—dove-gray wide-leg pants cinched at the waist, a pale blue cropped cardigan layered over a semi-sheer top that shimmered faintly in the light under a baggy hoodie swallowing her frame. Nothing flashy. Nothing loud. But somehow, on her, it hit like a signal flare.

 

There was that flicker again—that pull. Even now, she was glowing with something invisible to anyone else.

 

She crossed her arms. “What are you even doing here?”

 

He stared at her blankly. “I was getting a drink.”

 

She looked around.

 

He didn’t have one.

 

She raised a brow. “Where’s the drink?”

 

He clicked his tongue. “I already had one. I just… got distracted.”

 

By her. Obviously.

 

He almost smirked at the thought, but reined it in.

 

“Loitering?” she pressed.

 

“By whatever’s happening with your face right now.”

 

She flushed deeper. Victory. He loved that.

 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” she shot back. “Is my face interrupting your street corner brooding?”

 

“Only mildly.”

 

He could smell her now. Not perfume—her.

Faint, like snow had a scent. Something caught between sage and skin. And there it was again—beneath it all, that hum. Not audible. Just… present. Like her soul wouldn’t shut up around him.

 

His grin curled. “Y’know, I’ve been thinking about you and your little tune—have you been practicing for me, bunny?”

 

He said it like a joke, but his pulse surged.

He didn’t know why he wanted her to touch his skin again.

 

Maybe just to feel that again. To ride the edge of it. Which was strange, he has never craved touch before.

 

Her expression cracked—just slightly. He caught it.

 

Then she recovered, with a sugary, venom-laced smile.

 

“Choke on a breath mint. I think you need one.”

 

Liar.

 

He laughed. Surprised, sharp. Real.

 

Then instantly regretted it.

 

She looked at him like she’d won. And maybe she had.

 

Her tone shifted. “Look, I’m tired. I fought your kind already tonight, and I don’t have the patience to spar with a walking glitter stick.”

 

He cocked his head. “Walking glitter stick?”

 

“Goodnight, Saja Boy.”

 

She brushed past him, clutching her bag like it could keep her grounded. He let her go.

 

Didn’t chase. Didn’t smirk.

 

Just flipped his coin again and watched it spin.

 

“…You dropped your gum,” he said, his tone lazy.

 

She didn’t turn. “I didn’t want it after your face breathed near it.”

 

The sound that slipped out of him wasn’t quite a laugh this time. It was lower. Smoother. Quiet.

 

She was humming in his blood again.

 

And he was going to keep tasting it until he figured out why. 

 

 

 

The mist in Gwi-Ma’s realm never cleared, not really. It pulsed with heat, laced with copper and magma, curling up his legs as Baby sat cross-legged on the scorched obsidian. His eyes were half-lidded, fingers brushing the floor like he was feeling for a heartbeat.

 

But it wasn’t his heartbeat he was searching for.

 

It was hers.

 

The first time it happened, he thought it was an accident — a spark lit too close to his skin. When he caught her in the alleyway, how the sting burned as their skin finally touched. How it still burned. That moment in the bathhouse where her fingers brushed his ribs and something in his spine sang.

 

Not just pain. Not just thrill.

Power.

 

He hadn’t felt like that since the first time Gwi-Ma touched his soul and left claw marks.

 

Now he was chasing it. Greedy for it.

 

“Show me,” he whispered, eyes slipping shut.

 

And something... opened.

 

He slipped sideways into the dream like sliding between skin and silk. Wet and dark and breathing. It was her dream — he could feel it. The water, the quiet, the taste of fear just beginning to ripen.

 

There she was.

 

Ankle-deep in black. Staring at her reflection like she didn’t trust it.

 

Good. She shouldn’t.

 

He didn’t step closer. Not yet. He wanted to watch.

 

The hum was already there — like she’d summoned it herself, drawn him in with her body before her mind even caught on. He could feel it throbbing through her like blood in a bruise.

 

She doesn’t even know what she is.

 

The thought made his lip curl. Not in pity. In want.

 

He moved through the mist, letting it part around him. Letting her feel him. His voice dragged itself across the dream’s skin.

 

“You’re so close,” he murmured, low and amused. “I can almost taste it.”

 

He watched her react — eyes wide, chest rising.

 

God, she was humming back. Her body wanted him. Before her mind ever would.

 

“Come to me,” he said.

 

It wasn’t a plea. It was a command. A test.

 

She tried. He felt her try. Muscles flexing, breath catching. But the dream wouldn't let her. Or maybe he wouldn’t.

 

Either way, she stayed.

 

Frozen in that pulse between fear and longing. A doll on the verge of cracking open.

 

Then the water shimmered red — just a flicker — and her soul bucked like it had teeth.

 

She gasped awake.

 

Baby opened his eyes in the real world with a sharp inhale.

 

The taste of her still coated the back of his throat.

 

His hands were shaking.

 

Not with fear.

 

With hunger.

 

He dragged his nails down the side of his neck, grounding himself, even as his breath came faster.

 

She was calling out for him. Again.

 

And this time, he hadn’t even touched her.

 

He exhaled through his teeth, tipping his head back, feeling the heat of Gwi-Ma’s realm wrap around him like smoke and silk.

 

“I could snap her in half,” he said aloud, to no one.

 

But he didn’t move.

 

Didn’t leave.

 

Because what kind of fool kills the drug before the high?

 

 

 

 

The vending machine buzzed like it was dying.

 

Flickering. Humming. Useless.

 

Kind of like him.

 

Baby leaned his shoulder against the alley wall, flipping the coin again just to feel the weight of it. Familiar. Solid. Something to anchor him while everything else turned weird.

 

The stage lights had barely faded from his vision, and he was still hearing the host’s voice in his skull—“Soda Pop by the Saja Boys!” God. What a joke.

 

They’d won. Again. And he’d looked right at her across the stage when the trophy went up. Couldn’t help it.

 

Her face had been priceless. That bouquet looked like she wanted to drive it through his eye socket.

 

He liked that.

 

He liked a lot of things lately that didn’t make sense.

 

Like the fact that even now—standing in this shitty alley, vending machine humming its last rites—he could feel her coming before she stepped into view.

 

She wasn’t light on her feet like she thought. She stormed through the world like she had something to prove.

 

And then there she was.

 

Frozen in front of the glass like the machine had asked her a riddle and she was failing it.

 

He didn’t speak right away. Just watched the tension coil in her shoulders. The way she rubbed her arms like something was clinging to her skin.

 

He knew the feeling.

 

That dream had not left him alone.

 

It hadn’t been a dream, though—not for him.

 

He’d reached out, felt the humming, the heat—felt her breath catch when his voice brushed her spine. She’d tried to move toward him. She wanted to.

 

Almost.

 

Almost was enough to drive him crazy.

 

Pathetic.

 

Gwi-Ma’s voice crackled like old paper in his skull. You’re starting to believe your own fantasy.

 

Baby’s fingers tightened around the coin.

 

She blushed and glared and ran, and you think it means something.

A snort, poisonous and gleeful.

You really are your mother’s son. Soft. Stupid. Starved for attention.

 

He didn’t answer. He never did.

 

She’s a means to an end. A spark to light the fuse. Don’t confuse that with fire.

 

Baby kept his eyes on her. The vending machine hummed louder.

 

Go on, Romeo. Say something clever.

 

“You again?”

 

His voice came out smooth. Almost smug.

 

She turned like a blade unsheathed. “Is there a tracker in my shoe or are you just this annoying on purpose?”

 

He smiled lazily, already loving this. “I was here first. And annoying’s a bit harsh. I prefer… persistent.”

 

God, her face. The way she bristled.

She was so easy to rile, and so infuriatingly present. The air changed around her. Got warmer. Got real.

 

“Oh, you’re something all right.”

 

“You sound flustered,” he said, stepping closer just enough to make her step back. Her reaction was perfect—controlled, but sharp.

 

“I had a weird night.”

 

“Nightmares?” Voice low. Casual.

 

The moment she paused, he knew he’d hit a vein.

 

“I never said anything about a nightmare.”

 

Didn’t she? Shit.

 

His smirk came easy. “Didn’t you?”

 

She looked off-balance for once. He liked it too much. Watching her work to steady herself, to keep up—like this wasn’t already a rigged game.

 

“What is wrong with you?”

 

“Me?” he murmured, tapping the machine. “You’re the one humming in her sleep.”

 

That stopped her. Completely.

 

She went still. Quiet. Then: “What—?”

 

He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. Not when her expression felt like it was unraveling something inside him. “You were humming. Loud enough to wake a floor.”

 

A lie. But not really.

 

He had heard it.

Felt it. Through the air. Through his skin. He’d woken up with it tangled in his ribs like it had been part of him once.

 

She was panicking now. Trying not to show it. “I—I wasn’t. How would you even know? Watching me in my sleep now?”

 

“No.” He turned, met her eyes. “I can just feel you.”

 

True. And he hated how true it was.

 

She flinched, just slightly. It thrilled him.

 

The machine didn’t spit out the drink.

 

He kicked it. Hard.

 

“Wow. So elegant,” she muttered.

 

He snapped, voice sharp. “You wanna try, then?”

 

It came out too raw. Too real. He wasn’t mad at her. Not exactly. Just—

 

He didn’t know.

 

He didn’t like feeling things.

 

She stepped in, slapped the machine like it owed her money. The drink fell instantly.

 

She turned, all smug and fire. “Try less kicking. More finesse.”

 

He stared at the bottle. Then at her.

 

She glowed. Not literally. Not yet. But close. She had that shimmer—like she was lit from inside and none of it was for him.

 

He wanted it to be for him.

 

He wanted her quiet. Still. Open.

 

He wanted her humming with his hands around her throat.

 

“I don’t like you,” he said abruptly.

 

It slipped out too fast.

 

She blinked. Like something had shifted in the air.

 

“Good,” she said. “I’d be concerned if you did.”

 

“But you do think about me,” he said, too quiet. Too honest.

His voice dropped. “Even dreamed about me, apparently.”

 

She flinched again. Eyes wide, then narrowing into fury.

 

“I’ve thought about kicking you down a stairwell.”

 

He leaned in, smirk lazy. “I’d let you.”

 

God. He would.

Let her push him. Hurt him. Pin him. It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.

 

He’d felt the pull in the dream—her skin humming against his voice. He was supposed to want her gone. He did want her gone.

 

But also—

 

He wanted to burn with her.

 

“I don’t know what game you’re playing,” she muttered, stepping back, like that would help. “But whatever it is, you’re not good at it.”

 

“Who says it’s a game?”

 

Her frustration cracked out. “Like why are you here again? The weird comments? The—you?”

 

She couldn’t even finish it.

 

He opened the drink. Took a sip.

 

Didn’t break eye contact. “It’s cute when you spiral.”

 

“Stop being cryptic.”

 

“Stop being interesting.”

 

That shut her up.

 

Only for a second.

 

She shook her head. Turned. “I’m late.”

 

He watched her go. Then:

“See you at the competition, bunny.”

 

She halted. “I told you not to call me that.”

 

“But it suits you,” he said, already walking away, grinning to himself. “Small, feisty, twitchy when you’re mad.”

 

“I’m armed,” she snapped.

 

“You say that like it’s a threat.”

 

He didn’t look back.

 

Didn’t need to.

 

She was already etched behind his eyes, humming in the back of his throat like a song he hadn’t meant to write.

 

And she’d dream of him again.

 

No doubt.

 

 

 

 

“You’re fucking insane,” Baby muttered, hugging his hoodie tighter around his shoulders as wind whipped down the street.

 

“I’m a genius,” Jinu corrected, as he unfolded his fold-out camping chair with the dignity of a monarch ascending a throne. “There’s a difference.”

 

“You’re sitting in a chair,” Abby hissed from the concrete, swaddled in a dull grey sleeping bag like an overgrown worm. “We’re sleeping on actual pavement. This is abuse.”

 

“I told you to bring your own,” Jinu said, settling in with a sigh of pure smugness. “Can’t help it if I’m the only one who came prepared.”

 

Romance stuck a glittery star sticker to his cheek, already wrapped up in a rainbow blanket. “Prepared? You brought ONE chair and a box of gluten-free protein bars.”

 

“Exactly,” Jinu said, nodding like this was a TED Talk. “Discipline. Commitment. Priorities.”

 

Baby, who was currently trying to fold his limbs into a discount sleeping bag two sizes too small, shot him a look. “You mean desperation.”

 

“It’s not desperation,” Jinu sniffed, fluffing his neck pillow. “It’s tact."

 

Mystery sighed audibly from his place in the shadows, flipping a page in the dog-eared book he somehow brought without bringing a blanket.

 

Romance peeked over his cocoon. “I can’t feel my legs. Are my legs still there?”

 

“No one cares about your legs,” Baby muttered, flattening himself like a tragic seal. “My ass is actually fusing to the sidewalk.”

 

Abby groaned. “This is embarrassing. We’re idols. We have fans. We have schedules.”

 

“We have NO DIGNITY,” Romance wailed into his sleeve. “My spine is gone. It’s gone. I’m going to die out here and they’re going to find my body frozen into a perfect death dab.”

 

“It’s not even cold,” Jinu muttered, sipping his lukewarm lemon barley water like royalty.

 

Baby sat up, jabbing a finger toward him. “You’ve got a heat pad in your seat. I saw you tape it on.”

 

“I earned that heat pad,” Jinu said, flipping his scarf dramatically.

 

“You literally swiped it from the kitchen!” Baby barked.

 

“Strategic resource management!”

 

“Strategic my a—”

 

Mystery, still unmoving, calmly said: “If you two start wrestling on the sidewalk, I’m leaving and telling Gwi-Ma that you all cried.”

 

Everyone went quiet.

 

Then Romance perked up. “Wait, wait, Mira. Should I, like, write a poem on my hand or something?”

 

“No one wants your hand poem,” Abby said flatly. “She’s gonna pull your teeth out and call security.”

 

“I’m gonna call security,” Baby muttered, pulling the sleeping bag over his head.

 

Jinu looked up at the pre-dawn sky, adjusting his plush neck pillow. “Mark my words. When this all works out… you’re all gonna regret mocking my chair.”

 

A pause.

 

Romance leaned toward Mystery. “Do you think Zoey likes poems? You might be able to win her over."

 

“I think i would like to be left alone,” Mystery replied.

 

Somewhere down the block, the staff unlocked the venue door.

 

They all froze.

 

Jinu stood. The rest groaned.

 

And the war began.

 

 

 

A voice rang out like a circus bell.

 

Baby groaned inwardly as the doors opened and the Saja Boys waddled in like five tragically deluded caterpillars. Human-sized lumps in sleeping bags. Jinu’s idea, obviously. Something about “breaking the fourth wall of fanservice.” Whatever that meant.

 

Baby adjusted the sleeves of his cardigan and resigned himself to public humiliation.

 

They zipped off the sleeping bags all at once—because of course they did. Jinu had choreographed the unzipping like it was a stage cue.

 

Cue the pose.

 

For fuck sake.

 

Screams bounced off the walls. Phones rose like weapons. Bobby looked like he was going to pass out.

 

“Table. Now,” Bobby barked, practically foaming at the mouth.

 

A second table was dragged out like it owed someone money. Fans scrambled, the line splitting like Moses parting the Red Sea.

 

“The Saja Boys will sit with us!” Rumi declared.

 

He blinked. Okay. That wasn’t on the schedule.

 

Mira’s reaction was immediate and visceral. Zoey hissed something sharp. Ha-eun—Ha-eun just blinked, that wide-eyed disbelief that was already becoming a pattern with her.

 

Interesting.

 

He slid into the chair beside her, slow and deliberate. Gave it a little bounce just for drama.

 

Arm over the back of her seat. Subtle. Strategic.

 

She didn’t look at him.

 

Good.

 

It meant he had her attention.

 

He reached for the water bottle on the table—hers, clearly—and took a sip without asking. Cold. Crisp.

 

“…Seriously?”

 

Her voice was like a blade wrapped in boredom.

 

“What? Sharing is caring.”

 

He didn’t even glance at her. Just smiled lazily.

 

She snatched it back like it was contaminated and wiped the rim with her hoodie.

 

He bit back a grin. Oh yeah. That got her.

 

Romance was already laying it on thick with the pink haired girl—Mira?, Abby had sketched his own abs again, and the girl with space buns seemed to be freaking out at the fact that Mystery was next to her.

 

But Baby?

 

He had one goal: rattle the bunny.

 

He leaned back slightly, pretending to sign a photo, and let his eyes drift to the side.

 

The teal strands in her hair caught the light.

 

“That shade of teal in your hair’s… bold,” he said, casually.

 

He saw the exact second she took the bait.

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

“I mean, it suits you. But it’s kind of… familiar, isn’t it?”

 

There it was. That edge in her tone. That little muscle that twitched near her jaw.

 

He kept his expression neutral, but inside, he was practically buzzing.

 

“I didn’t copy your hair.”

 

“Who said anything about copying?”

 

“You’re implying it.”

 

“Am I?” he asked, blinking slowly like a saint. “I’m just observing.”

 

“I got the dye before I even met you,” she muttered.

 

“That’s what people always say before fate gets involved,” he replied, tapping his pen in rhythm.

 

God, she was so easy to antagonize. Like poking a bear with a stick, except the bear had eyeliner and rage issues.

 

Then it happened.

 

A fan bounded up—glitter shirt, heart-shaped sunglasses, high on whatever brand of delusion made fandoms float.

 

“OH MY GOD—you two are like, destiny!”

 

…What?

 

“I KNEW it! I knew you were soulmates when Ha-eun dyed her hair right after Saja’s debut!”

 

He blinked. Once.

 

Then saw the shirt.

 

And froze.

 

Cartoon him. Cartoon her. Hair-braiding. Blushing. Glittery soulmates text.

 

His non-existent soul briefly left his body.

 

Just briefly.

 

“I—what is—”

 

“Can you guys sign it? Please? Right under the heart!”

 

His mouth was open. Slightly. Just enough to taste the raw embarrassment in the air.

 

His hand moved on autopilot. Signed his name before his brain even came back online. He didn’t dare look at Ha-eun, but he could feel the heat coming off her like a sunlamp set to kill.

 

The fan squealed and disappeared.

 

He sat there for a second, processing.

 

Then: mask back on. Voice lower. Smile sharpened.

 

“…You know,” he said, leaning in, “I haven't actually noticed how dead-on the colour is to mine. It’s almost eerie.”

 

“Shut up.”

 

"I’m serious. The shade’s uncanny. It’s like you printed a reference photo."

 

“I didn’t. Okay, so what? I got the dye the day you debuted, it was before I even saw you!”

 

“Oh, so right before we debuted.”

 

“Coincidence!” she hissed.

 

“Why are you like this?!”

 

“I’m just saying,” he shrugged, cocky as hell now, “some people seem to think it’s fate.”

 

“You’re not fate,” she snapped. “You’re infuriating.”

 

He leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms behind his head like this was the most comfortable he’d ever been in his life.

 

“And yet, we’re on a shirt together. That means something—”

 

WHACK.

 

Pain flared in his thigh.

 

“Fu— Ow.”

 

“I hate this table,” she muttered.

 

“I love this table,” he grinned.

 

God, that was fun.

 

He popped a stick of gum into his mouth—her gum, that she dropped—and let the sugar melt across his tongue while signing more fan merch. He didn’t look at her. He didn’t have to. Her hand was shaking slightly, and that was enough.

 

Victory tasted like mint.

 

Around them, chaos.

 

Mira threatening Abby. Romance doing duck lips. Zoey smacking Mystery for fucking barking? Rumi muttering something incomprehensible while Jinu stared at her like she was an equation he’d just solved.

 

Then Rumi suddenly stood, arms raised like a magician.

 

“Isn’t he great? Woo! Jinu, everybody! Yeah, Jinu!”

 

Baby blinked. Slowly turned his head.

 

“‘Woo, Jinu’?” Mira echoed, voice dark with suspicion.

 

The crowd took the bait. Screams erupted. Bouquets flew.

 

One hit Ha-eun in the arm. She looked personally betrayed.

 

Baby caught one mid-air and didn’t miss a beat—straight into an exaggerated aegyo pose. Flowers under his chin. Cheeks puffed. The whole deal.

 

Ha-eun’s soul visibly recoiled.

 

Perfect.

 

Then Jinu stood up like a man fleeing a crime scene.

 

“Unfortunately, the Saja Boys have to run. Thank you, everyone.”

 

More screams. More sobbing.

 

They left the table.

 

And as Baby trailed behind the others, he risked one glance back.

 

Ha-eun still hadn’t recovered.

 

He smiled.

 

God, she made this fun.

 

 

 

The dream began in smoke.

 

Not his, though. Hers.

 

That was the difference this time.

 

Gwi-Ma’s realm is all sharp edges and velvet shadows—always the same, always waiting. But tonight, the veil opened before Baby even asked, the way a mouth parts for breath. He slipped in like a thought, sliding through folds of smoke and dark until the edges began to ripple.

 

Warmth met him first. Then water. And her.

 

The hum was already there. Low. Primal. Like breath drawn from bone. Like a bassline under skin.

 

He smiled.

 

“There you are.”

 

She stood in the shallows, bathed in that eerie, blood-warmed moonlight, her silhouette small and still against the purple-black sky. Mist curled at her ankles. Her reflection was missing. But her soul? Loud.

 

He didn’t bother with footsteps. Just appeared, close enough to feel the air shiver between them.

 

God, she was sensitive.

 

The way her whole body stilled when he brushed her shoulder, the way she held her breath like a prayer. He almost laughed—almost. But there was something sacred about it. Fragile. Wired. Like touching a raw nerve.

 

“I knew you’d come back,” he murmured, letting the words hum in her ear.

 

And she did. Not with logic, not with intention—but with instinct. Same way she’d fought him. Same way she’d synced. Like her soul recognized him before her brain could protest.

 

She feels it, he thought, and it thrilled him.

 

Because he felt it too.

 

Not just the Gongmyeong hum—that ancient current licking at his ribs like static fire—but her. Her rhythm. Her pull. It was a full-body sensation, like being played like an instrument tuned just for her.

 

She turned, slowly. Didn’t run. Didn’t scream. Just looked up at him, like she already knew who he was, even if she hadn’t seen his face yet.

 

“You hear it, don’t you?” he asked. No need to play coy. She was already vibrating at the same frequency.

 

He watched her lips part. Watched the confusion war with curiosity.

 

“I don’t know what this is,” she whispered.

 

He nearly laughed.

Not cruel. Not mocking. Just—god, she really didn’t know.

 

“You don’t have to,” he said, voice soft as silk. “Just let it happen.”

 

And she did. Just a little. The tiniest tremor in her stance. The barest lean toward his hand when he reached for her cheek but didn’t touch.

 

“You’re trembling.”

 

Delighted. That’s what he felt. Not just because he was getting under her skin—but because he could feel her resonating with him.

 

She tried to deny it. Brave little thing.

 

“I’m not.”

 

Liar.

 

He stepped in further. Closer than close. The humming thickened like fog. Wrapped around their ankles. Pulled tight at his ribs.

 

His hand hovered over her chest now, heat rising between them.

 

He didn’t even need to touch her.

She was already reacting.

 

“The feeling you give me…” he said, truthfully, “It’s—exhilarating.”

 

And it was.

God, it was.

He’d felt hunger before. Lust. Obsession. But this—this was something else.

 

This was harmony.

 

This was power.

 

She said she shouldn’t be here. But her body betrayed her. She hadn’t moved an inch.

 

“You already are.”

 

And he meant it in more ways than one.

 

She was already inside his head. Already under his skin. Already part of the song vibrating through his goddamn veins.

 

Mine, something whispered in the back of his skull.

He ignored it.

 

Then he leaned in—and the world split.

 

The humming surged. The water thrashed. Her energy exploded against his, ripping through the dream like a wire pulled too tight.

 

Her eyes widened.

 

She saw him.

 

Really saw him.

 

And fuck—

He hadn’t meant for her to see that part. Not yet. Not the amber eyes. Not the way the glamour cracked when he got too close.

 

“Come to me,” he whispered anyway, trying to pull it back under control, to lean into the collapse.

 

But she gasped—

 

And the dream broke.

 

He woke up alone.

 

A laugh echoed. Mocking.

Notes:

So.. the lore thickens? Baby is a power hungry male manipulator (probably with some deep-rooted mommy issues he can barely remember) and Ha-eun my poor girl is falling straight into his evil trap 💔 but still hope you liked this chapter haha