Chapter 1: Contents
Chapter Text
This is where I'd be adding the contents so that it's easy for you to track the characters' and their stories.
CONTENTS:
1. Kiss Me Before You Kill Me
(=^･ω･^=) Mystery x Zoey
What if the blade never strikes?
What if, in the dead heat of battle, Zoey misses — and everything changes?
One moment she's supposed to end him.
The next… they're both trapped. Together. All night.
2. Turned Down, Turned On
(=^･ω･^=) Abby x Zoey
What if two were left behind...
But one saw opportunity in the heartbreak?
When Abby approaches Zoey, there’s a smile on his face,
But something sharper behind his eyes.
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by Yukina
3. Where the Monster Bloomed Softly
(=^･ω･^=) Jinu x Rumi
Rumi thought she was falling for Jinu.
The quiet bond, the gentle smiles, the way he seemed to understand her like no one else ever could.
But what if it was never real?
When love is the greatest weapon of all, who's really in control?
4. The Bait I Fell For
(=^･ω･^=) Abby x Zoey
Abby has a plan—make Mira jealous, make her want him.
And Zoey? She’s the perfect piece to play.
But somewhere between the stolen glances, fake laughs, and staged chemistry…
He's not sure who he’s trying to fool anymore—Mira, Zoey, or himself.
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by Lulu
5. Practice Makes Us Perfect
(=^･ω･^=) Abby x Baby
Baby Saja has to learn to act out a romantic confession for an MV shoot,
But he’s terrible at anything lovey-dovey.
Abby offers to help him practice... multiple times.
With every “fake” practice confession, things start to feel more and more real.
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by Moonzy_zZz
6. Three Hearts, One Bed
(=^･ω･^=) Mira x Zoey x Rumi
Tension simmers between glances, laughter lingers too long, and every touch feels heavier than the last.
Zoey and Mira feel it. Rumi? Still adorably, hopelessly clueless.
But that innocence only fuels the fire—
And neither Mira nor Zoey are sure how long they can hold back.
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by IFellFoilSick
7. Fury, Fangs And Fanservice
(=^･ω･^=) Romance x Mira
Every photo is a lie.
Every moment a game of survival.
Because if she slips — even once —
the world will see more than just a scandal.
8. Thorns Beneath The Offering
(=^･ω･^=) Jinu x Rumi
Rumi trusted him. Let him in.
But all he wanted was to turn the world against her.
He tried to destroy her image.
But he might’ve created something far more dangerous instead.
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by ImCleor
9. What He Didn't Mean To Break
(=^･ω･^=) Jinu x Mystery
During dance practice, tensions run high—but Jinu snaps. One more comment. One more push too far.
He says Mystery’s performance isn’t enough. But what cuts deeper is how he says it.
Now Mystery’s gone quiet. Missing. And the studio feels colder without him in it.
But what can he do when his drive for perfection breaks the one person who mattered the most?
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by Jinustery please.
10. Cursed By The Celestials
(=^･ω･^=) Abby x Zoey
What if the hunter fell for the very creature he was sworn to kill?
Now the Gods themselves stand in their way, their union cursed before it can even begin.
To love her is to defy them. To leave her is to destroy himself.
When destiny demands blood, will love dare to take its place?
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by Liliana
11. Enemies with Benefits
(=^･ω･^=) Romance x Mira
Romance hides his truth behind a charming smile — a demon living among those who would end him.
Mira carries hers like a blade — a demon hunter sworn to protect her world from his kind.
In the shadows, their love begins to take root, foreign but familiar.
But secrets are heavy, and sooner or later, they’ll have to face the ones who think they know them best.
(=＾● ⋏ ●＾=) Requested by cembree
12. Comfort In The Devil’s Den
(=^･ω･^=) Jinu x Abby
One demon pushes himself past the breaking point, chasing the impossible demands of the king.
Every order obeyed, every task completed—no matter the cost to himself.
Then, through the chaos, another demon steps forward. No commands. No bargains.
Just a quiet offer—a steady presence, a shoulder to bear the weight he can’t set down.
13. Hands On The Merchandise
(=^･ω･^=) Abby x Mira
Mira and Abby — two idols, one simmering rivalry.
But now they’re trapped together, cameras rolling, selling a dream neither of them believe in.
The problem? Abby’s shirtless for the shoot. And Mira’s supposed to act indifferent.
But, what if the person she can’t stand… is the one she can’t stop looking at?
Chapter Text
The world had become a symphony of ruin.
Above the Seoul Hyperdome, the sky bled.
Ribbons of violet and crimson lightning shredded through the heavens like veins torn from the sky’s own flesh — bleeding starlight and shadow with every lash. These were not weather patterns, nor stage effects. This was reality unravelling, synchronized to the unholy pulse of the Saja Boys' cursed anthem — each beat a nail into the coffin of the old world.
The dome itself, once the crown jewel of South Korea's technological prowess, now resembled a cathedral possessed. Its once-pristine glass panels quivered under unseen pressure, groaning like the ribs of a creature too long chained.
The air inside had thickened to the point of resistance — like moving through honey infused with static and incense, each breath an ordeal. It shimmered with dark glamour, a veil of magic laced with buried memories and old griefs, suffocating and seductive.
Fog slithered across the stage like a living organism, not quite smoke, not quite mist — something in between. It curled in lazy spirals around the speakers, the lights, the dancers who were no longer dancers but puppets. It bore a golden tint, though sickly — like sunlight filtered through poison. And woven within it, subtle and shifting, were veins of spectral violet that moved of their own accord, like parasitic threads seeking a host.
Above, rings of energy pulsed in rhythmic waves — not halos, but warped spirals, twisting downward like descending nooses.
The temperature inside the dome had become a schizophrenic rhythm in itself, searing heat followed by piercing cold, in alternating bursts that made every heartbeat feel like a countdown. The world was holding its breath, and it would not exhale again until something — someone — was unmade.
Below, the crowd had long since ceased to be an audience. They were now a congregation of the bewitched, stripped of will, shackled by sound.
Once a sea of euphoria and glowsticks, the fans now swayed as one, a human tide possessed by rhythm and dread. Their eyes were milk-glass — white and wide, irises swallowed by the fog of glamor. Mouths hung open as if mid-song, yet no sound emerged except the occasional, bone-chilling murmur of lyrics they could not have known.
No one screamed.
No one ran.
The spell was too deep. The ritual had begun.
The stage had changed — no longer a performance space, but an altar carved from the bones of forgotten demons. The metallic platform beneath the Saja Boys now glowed with ancient runes, not etched, but grown, like fungal glyphs blooming from rot. They pulsed with a dark, rhythmic bioluminescence — words from a language that predated voice. The lights no longer illuminated; they witnessed.
At their feet, the floor had turned to something unnatural. Not glass. Not stone. But a liquid obsidian mirror, swirling with images of memories but not their own — flashes of fear, of confessions, of faces screaming just beyond the surface. Every step they took rippled across it, sending tremors through a thousand fractured reflections. It was like watching time drown.
From the center of the stage, gilded mist rose like exhaled sin. It twined and twisted around the boys, caught in their gravity, spiralling upward like a dragon stirred from slumber. With every note they sang, with every movement of their feet, the mist thickened — as if responding to their command. It was not mist. It was breath. And something was waking.
The boys themselves were already changing. The veil had begun to tear. Hair now shimmered with unnatural sheen, catching the spectral light like silk dipped in oil. Their hanboks had become fluid, like shadows stitched together by a dream gone wrong. Their auras pulsed outward, visible to the naked eye — cascading halos of ruin and temptation, intertwining, feeding the altar, feeding the air, feeding the spell.
And the crowd, the poor, entranced crowd, drank it all in like nectar. Their souls flickered like candle flames in a storm, drawn upward toward the swirling rings of power above, where fate and glamour spun in cruel tandem.
It was no longer a concert.
It was an offering.
And the world was beginning to forget what mercy felt like.
The glamour dropped like a shroud torn from the heavens, silent yet seismic in its rupture. No longer did Jinu, Abby, Mystery, Baby, and Romance resemble idols merely graced by fame and sequins. That illusion had died in the violet flash of a pulse that stilled the crowd’s breath. Their human forms had fully sloughed away, disintegrating like paper soaked in ink, leaving behind only the truth — guttural, ancient, and terrible.
They stood now in their true forms — demonic royalty birthed from forgotten nightmares and forbidden histories. The fog around them thickened as if the very air recoiled, yet could not escape. The lights of the Hyperdome flickered erratically, unsure whether to worship them or flee their wrath.
Jinu’s silhouette was the first to fully emerge, all elegance carved in obsidian. His skin gleamed like volcanic glass, marked by serpentine sigils pulsing faintly in crimson beneath the surface. His eyes — once a calm almond brown — now radiated an unnatural gold, slitted like a predator’s. He moved like liquid ruin, each step a dance of death cloaked in princely arrogance. His hanbok, now saturated with shadow, shimmered like living ink, stitched with spectral patterns that crawled and twisted on their own accord.
Abby followed, and with him came the scent of scorched roses and sulphur. His limbs had elongated slightly, joints moving with both ethereal grace and uncanny jerkiness. His fingers ended in claws like polished obsidian, delicate yet fatal. A faint red mist curled around him, escaping from his eyes, his mouth — some remnant of a curse half-whispered. His hanbok shimmered between soft pink and deep gore, blooming like a wound each time he spun. Where his shadow touched the ground, cracks appeared, too symmetrical to be natural, as if reality itself protested his presence.
Mystery’s transformation was perhaps the most jarring — he did not shimmer with flame or fog, but with silence. His form was tall, skeletal in structure but swathed in grace. His face bore three sets of eyes, all open, all unblinking, and each weeping slow trails of black ichor that burned away as they fell. His feet didn’t touch the floor. His hanbok floated around him like it was stitched from vaccum, embroidered with constellations that no human eye had ever seen. From his back, tendrils of song unravelled — vibrations made flesh — pulling at the thoughts of the audience, coaxing secrets and sins to the surface like breath on glass.
Baby’s transformation was visceral — his youthful charm corrupted into a cruel mockery. His grin split far too wide, his teeth now rows upon rows of needle-fangs, twitching as if hungry. His skin was a smooth, glistening grey, and his limbs occasionally crackled with static magic, making the air hum discordantly. As he twirled, a shadow creature unfurled from beneath his hanbok — a second self, tethered by hatred, coiled like a snake. He sang as he moved, and every note cracked something in the crowd — be it bone, resolve, or sanity.
And then, Romance. He emerged last, the climax of this grotesque unveiling. A towering presence cloaked in velvet darkness, his form wrapped in tendrils of light that burned too hot to be holy. His face bore no mouth, but when he whispered, everyone heard it in their hearts. His fingers were crowned with bloodred rings — each forged from a soul he had once seduced and devoured. His hanbok dragged behind him like funeral drapery, whispering names in a thousand tongues. Where he stepped, flowers of black fire bloomed and faded, leaving only scorched ground and trembling awe.
Together, they stood in a loose straight line, the rhythm of the music warping to suit their will. The beat pulsed like a heartbeat too slow to be human, too loud to ignore. Their aura was intoxicating — beauty laced with venom, reverence strangled by dread.
The crowd — once cheering fans intoxicated by idol worship — fell eerily still, locked in a trance. Some cried. Some screamed. Some simply stood and watched, their eyes clouded in violet fog. Every note, every sway of the demons’ hips, sucked life from the watchers, draining warmth and will alike.
Their nails caught the stage lights like shards of midnight. Their fangs glinted when they laughed — rich, melodic, and cruel. And as the last layer of glamour disintegrated entirely, they looked upon the audience — not with pity, but hunger.
They were no longer performers.
They were the storm.
The truth.
And they had been beautiful all along.
Even in their damnation.
Their final song began — not with a bang, but a breath. A whisper laced with velvet poison.
“Your Idol.”
Its first note shimmered across the air like a falling star dipped in blood and stardust. A soft, trembling chord on a phantom piano echoed from the depths of the stage, and the entire Hyperdome seemed to hold its breath. Then came the beat — slow, deliberate, like the pacing of a predator just outside the range of firelight.
It was not just a performance.
It was an invocation.
The music slithered into every corner of the arena; a siren’s call made of velvet chains. Each lyric was threaded with hypnotic magic, ancient and precise, crafted to pull on the tenderest fibres of human longing. It knew where to press. It knew what to sing. Loneliness, love, desire, shame — it sang to every wound like it could heal them, and instead, it emptied them.
Every note of “Your Idol” was a hook, and every harmony a noose. With each pulse of the melody, the trance deepened.
Eyes glassed over. Shoulders relaxed. Heads tilted upward, dreamlike. The crowd swayed in time — slow, gentle, as if under moonlight rather than doomlight. Tens of thousands, breathing in rhythm, moving like one single being with a shared, hollow pulse.
It was beautiful.
It was monstrous.
Because beneath the euphoria, something hungry stirred.
The spell was elegant — flawless. There was no violence. No pain. Only the illusion of warmth. Joy. Devotion. A perfect love letter to their gods, signed in surrender. But that was the trap. The joy was not theirs. The devotion was not holy. It was hollowed out. The music didn’t bless them. It fed on them.
Soul-light flickered from bodies like moth wings dusted in flame. It rose invisibly, funneled into the air, absorbed by the growing ritual circle beneath the stage. The more the audience adored, the more their essence was taken. And no one could stop singing.
Above it all, the Honmoon barrier strained. What had once been a solid dome of spiritual energy — transparent and blazing like tempered glass — now pulsed with cracks of soft white lightning. Each faultline a fracture in the divide between realms. It flickered now, like a bulb about to go out, each spark a scream from the world beyond.
If it shattered, the veil between worlds would fall.
Backstage, cloaked in shadows that seemed to kneel around him, stood Gwi-Ma — the ancient demon king.
His presence was not loud. It did not need to be. It was commanding, a gravity that bent the very shadows inward. His eyes glowed like molten garnets, watching the stage with the quiet amusement of a god who had waited far too long for his throne. The magic of the Saja Boys sang to him like a choir of children — obedient, flawless, cruel. A spectral crown shimmered above his brow, forged not from metal, but from dread itself.
He did not need to act. Not yet. He had already won — the stage, the spell, the collapse of the Honmoon — they were his symphony, and “Your Idol” was the final movement.
Out in the crowd, Mira and Zoey stood together, or rather, drifted — trapped within the trance like pearls in amber.
Their faces, once fierce and defiant, had softened. Their pupils dilated. Limbs moved slowly, dreamily. Every muscle slackened under the illusion of peace. Their hands twitched but could not resist. With every beat, they drifted closer to the stage, their feet dragged forward by invisible threads — marionettes beneath a velvet sky.
Somewhere deep within them, the real girls still screamed. But no one could hear them over the lullaby.
The spell was not simply magical — it was psychological, emotional. It worked through memories. Mira’s grief, Zoey’s guilt, the secret fears they never voiced — they were being rewritten, glossed over with golden light and false promise. It was seduction on a cosmic scale, and the two hunters were helpless within its tide.
A single tear slid down Zoey’s cheek — she didn’t know why. A strand of her soul had just been taken.
The stage flared brighter now, a ring of symbols encircling the Saja Boys’ feet like an ancient seal resurrected from bone and flame. The black mirror floor began to fracture — beneath it, a chasm of stars and fire and screaming opened, and something massive stirred in the depths.
The boys danced, perfectly in sync, faces serene and smiling, even as their eyes burned like eclipses. Their shadows stretched unnaturally long, fingers warping into claws across the reflective stage, fangs occasionally glinting between lyrics.
They looked divine.
They were divine.
And the crowd loved them for it. Even as their souls were unmade.
The final chorus soared, bright and terrible.
The barrier gave another crack.
And from the shadows, Gwi-Ma began to smile.
The end was not coming.
It was already here.
Then —
A single, clear note sliced through the corrupted music like the first drop of rain in a drought.
Pure.
Unfiltered.
True.
It hung in the air like a bell tolling in a ruined cathedral. The cursed harmony of “Your Idol” stumbled — just for a moment — but it was enough. The illusion cracked.
All eyes turned.
Rumi.
She stepped forward from the shadows, each footfall delicate but unshaking, the world parting before her like ash before wind.
She wore her old Huntr/x uniform, but it was no longer just the tactical gear of a demon slayer. It had changed — fused with a haunting regality. Her jacket shimmered with onyx threads; her concert boots etched with glowing runes. A soft cape of layered sheer fabric floated behind her, whispering like silk dipped in shadow.
But it was her presence that silenced the dome.
Her eyes burned — not with corruption, but with clarity so sharp it could wound. Beneath her skin, luminous ethereal markings flickered — veins of power, long dormant, now fully awakened. They crawled across her arms and throat like constellations stitched by fate. She stood tall, trembling only slightly, her fingers white-knuckled around her sword.
And then, she sang.
Not the polished, rehearsed choreography of idols or sirens. No digital harmony. No glamor. It was raw — a confession in melody. The notes wavered like her breath, filled with heartbreak and strength, vulnerability and fire. Her voice cracked on the first verse, but she didn’t stop. Because the cracks were where the truth bled through.
She sang of fear — the kind that clings to your ribs like rot.
Of betrayal — the kind that slices deeper when it comes with a smile.
Of love — flawed and desperate, but real.
And of forgiveness — the hardest note of all.
It struck the crowd like lightning.
The trance did not shatter all at once. It fractured, delicate and explosive.
First in Zoey. Her knees buckled, eyes blinking fast. The fog inside her mind recoiled from Rumi’s voice like a wounded thing. Her breath came back in a gasp, like surfacing from drowning. Her Shin-kal appeared with a crack of thunder, blades glowing in triplicate — spinning in an orbit of electric grace, like stars forged for war.
Then Mira. Her eyes widened, pupils dilating with awareness. Her hands shot to her temples, as if peeling back a mask. With a scream born from pain and clarity, her blade erupted to life, a ribbon of pink-white flame cleaving the air. The edge of it hummed — not just with magic, but with purpose. It was the blade that could cut through illusions, through the lies of power. It knew its name again.
Around them, the front rows began to awaken. One by one, the spell unraveled — fans collapsed in tears, others screamed, others simply stared at the stage in horror, realizing how close they had drifted to spiritual annihilation.
Gwi-Ma roared.
The sound wasn't just loud — it was felt. Bones vibrated. Lights shattered. The floor itself groaned beneath his fury.
He stepped from the darkness like a nightmare breaking through skin. His form twisted and surged as it emerged — part man, part demon king. Antlers of bone and shadow curled from his skull like a crown wrought from ancient hunger. His torso glistened with skin that cracked and bled black light, and from his mouth — now a vertical chasm of teeth — emerged a guttural growl that turned the air to ash.
The sky above the Hyperdome split. A spiral vortex tore open in the heavens — a wound in space filled with screaming souls, pulled in slow orbit like a halo of the damned. Stars flickered and blinked out. Reality itself began to warp around him.
But Huntr/x was ready.
For the first time since the fall, they were together. Not broken. Not betrayed. Not lost.
Together.
Rumi’s voice lifted higher, no longer just song but weaponized truth. Each verse hurled like a hammer into the faltering Honmoon barrier above. The glassy dome, once flickering and fragile, now began to pulse again — its rhythm syncing with her melody. Where Gwi-Ma sought to collapse the world, she sang it back to life.
The stage warped.
No longer a set. No longer a performance. It fractured, breaking apart into floating platforms of obsidian and light, suspended in a void of swirling neon. The altar became a battlefield. Columns of shattered speakers floated alongside pieces of the catwalk, now jagged and glowing.
The arena's architecture warped with the will of the fight. A throne of light crumbled. A spotlight became a spear. LED panels flared and exploded into shards of flying magic.
Floating platforms spiralled like fractured glass in a gravity storm. The choreography became combat — turns into evasions, pirouettes into slashes. Every twist, every kick from Huntr/x now carried a blast of color-coded magic — Zoey’s blue, Mira’s pink-white, Rumi’s gold threaded with ghostly violet.
Music notes became blades, clefs of pure light arcing through the air, slicing through demon-spawn as they emerged from the rift. Each impact echoed like a drumbeat, every strike part of a new symphony — one of resistance, not ruin.
In the stands, chaos reigned. Some fans still screamed, others stumbled away in panic, while the half-awakened wept in the aisles. But none could deny the glory of the fight. This was no longer entertainment.
It was war, painted in colors the soul could bleed.
Lavender despair seeped from Gwi-Ma’s wings as he surged forward.
Neon blue defiance lit the arcs of Zoey’s blade strikes.
Blood red rage erupted from the ground with each stomp of Mira’s foot.
And Rumi — bathed in shimmering golden truth — floated above them all, singing her soul into the breach.
The final battle had begun.
And Huntr/x fought as one again.
The boys were in full demonic glory now — no longer hiding behind silk and fanservice, but revealed in their terrifying splendor.
Their hanboks, once flowing with grace, now cracked like charred silk, lined with glowing runes. Their bodies pulsed with old power — the kind that made even shadows shiver. Fangs gleamed, claws glistened, and their eyes — each set ablaze in a different hue of destruction — locked onto the oncoming hunters with wrath and thrill.
The air rippled around them as they leapt in unison, carving arcs through the Pantone mist and neon storm, their forms sleek as wolves and sharp as obsidian.
And leading the charge against them came Zoey — a blur of fury and ferocity.
She cut through the distorted haze of the battlefield, the glow of her Shin-kal blades lighting up the gloom with a fierce silver-blue blaze. Her breath was steady. Her grip, unyielding. She wasn’t running — she was hunting.
And her target was Mystery.
He stood across the platform like a prince sculpted from sin. His hair, longer now, moved like ink underwater. His lean frame vibrated with restrained violence, and as he saw her approach, his lips curved — part fang, part fondness. He dropped into a stance; his elongated nails poised like daggers.
“Come closer, sweetheart,” he said, voice like velvet laced with knives. “I’ve missed you.”
Zoey’s response came not in words, but motion. She lunged, all three Shin-kal blades bared like a blooming trident, her body a flash of celestial blue.
Mystery met her charge with a low, delighted laugh. He sent a mass of shadows rippling toward her, a tidal wave of ink and screams, eager to drown her resolve.
But she twisted mid-air — her left blade parrying the shadow, her right leg snapping out. The kick landed under his jaw with a crack, sending a burst of violet sparks exploding across the stage like fireworks spun from pain.
Mystery staggered back, laughing as he wiped the dark ichor from the corner of his lip. His eyes glinted, even as the bruise bloomed.
“You hit like a lovesick fan-letter.”
Zoey landed in a crouch, blades humming, her grin just as wicked.
“And you talk too much for a dead man,” she said. “Try barking again, like the other day. I miss that.”
He chuckled softly, and for a moment, he didn’t strike. He watched her. Really watched her. In the middle of this crumbling reality, Mystery's heart still ached — with want, with confusion, with something disturbingly close to longing.
She lunged again, but his feet shifted backward — not from fear, but hesitation.
Her blades nearly met his chest, but he vaulted away. And just as he moved, a rare moment happened — his long bangs, usually concealing the best of his face, parted in the wind of their battle. The light caught him fully. His eyes, previously hidden, were a deep, haunting violet, rimmed in gold, brimming with old sadness and strange affection.
Zoey froze for a second.
"...Oh no," she breathed. “You’re just my type.”
Then she tilted her head, voice turning sing-song.
“Oh well~”
She twirled the Shin-kal blades again and dashed forward. But this time, Mystery didn’t step back.
He raised his hand instead, fingers carving a symbol in the air. Reality tore itself open with a screech. A portal bloomed behind him, its centre a pulsing heart of crimson fire and shadow. It hissed like a predator exhaling, ready to consume.
“Oops,” he said, tilting his head. “Did I forget to mention I’m taking you with me?”
Zoey skidded to a halt — but it was too late. The platform beneath her shifted, slanted toward the vortex. The gravitational pull of the portal tugged at her limbs, at her soul. She could feel herself being dragged, her boots scraping sparks from the glassy floor.
In a last-ditch effort, she hurled all three blades forward, trying to carve a path free.
But Mystery was faster.
He caught her wrists, hands firm but careful. The air sparked where their skin met — heat and charge, fury and tension. He looked down at her, eyes no longer cruel, but soft.
“I never wanted to fight you,” he whispered.
“And yet here we are,” she growled. “Let me go.”
“I can’t,” he said gently, “You’re the only song I can still hear.”
And then, the portal took them.
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! I hope you enjoyed it <3
P.S.: 🔞 in the next chapter ;)
Chapter Text
The black hole howled, folding in on itself like a dying star. And in a final burst of red light, both of them vanished into the void, leaving behind only the echo of Zoey’s spinning blades, still crackling in the air — like the residue of a dance that had turned into a fall.
The platform where they once stood was now empty. But the war raged on.
And somewhere in the void beyond time and stage lights, Zoey and Mystery were far from done.
Darkness fell with a strange kind of softness — like velvet drawn across the eyes.
For a moment, Zoey felt suspended in nothing. No weight. No time. Just the lingering warmth of Mystery’s grip and the lingering sting of her own hesitation.
Then — impact.
The void spat them out into an unfamiliar room. Not just unfamiliar… but wrong. The air carried the faint scent of incense, leather, and something more ancient, something primal — him.
Zoey’s eyes adjusted fast, her hunter instincts kicking in despite the daze. The room was lavish yet cold, built of deep reds, black wood, and flickering candlelight that cast shadows across the walls like dancing phantoms. There was a low table with cracked porcelain cups, costumes hung in twisted elegance, and a massive bed that looked carved from midnight itself.
She didn’t need to ask.
She knew.
This was Mystery’s room — in whatever realm the Saja Boys called home before the concert turned into a death rite.
Zoey struggled immediately, trying to wriggle out of his grip. “Let me go!” she hissed, though part of her burnt hotter with every second she stayed close to him.
He held her firm, his grip like silk wrapped around steel. "Sorry, Zoey," he said softly, "I really did try to talk you out of it. But you just had to rebel. That’s your charm though, isn't it?"
“Shut up, you filthy demon! I have nothing to do with you!” she snapped, even as her breath betrayed her resolve.
Mystery’s mouth curled into a familiar smirk — equal parts seductive and sharp. “Filthy, huh?” he echoed. “Funny. I recall you didn’t mind getting dirty… Especially when the filth was me.”
Her cheeks ignited with color. “That was a momentary lapse of judgment!”
"And a very enjoyable one," he said smoothly.
Before she could argue, he flicked his fingers, summoning demonic chains from the shadows. They slithered like sentient silk, curling around her wrists and ankles with a fluid snap, pinning her gently but securely to the soft velvet bedspread. The chains were warm, unnervingly comfortable — as if they’d been waiting for her.
“You’re enjoying this too much,” she growled, trying to wrestle herself free, but the magic held firm.
“Not as much as I will, in a moment.” Mystery replied, moving to the edge of the bed with theatrical flair. He pulled off his Gat — his wide-brimmed hat — and tossed it aside, his silver hair falling across his cheek in soft waves.
Zoey lay sprawled across the bed, her wrists and ankles bound in shimmering, obsidian chains that pulsed with a slow, rhythmic glow — like a heartbeat. They weren’t just restraints. They were alive, tightening just enough to remind her of their presence whenever she struggled.
He began to remove his Jeogori slowly, almost lazily, eyes fixed on her. “So… tell me. Do you know what your fearless leader is?” he asked. “Rumi, the oh-so-noble Huntr/x frontwoman…”
Zoey narrowed her eyes, guarded. “What are you talking about?”
Mystery gave a low chuckle, his voice like velvet wrapped around fire. “Half-demon, Zoey. She’s got shadows in her blood, and patterns in her skin. Didn’t you ever wonder why her she never goes to the bath-house with you?”
Zoey hesitated, her breath catching — not just at his words, but at the slow, deliberate way he was stripping down, piece by piece.
His Jeogori hit the floor.
Her gaze did not move.
His torso was lit like moonlight over onyx — lean, sculpted, not overwhelmingly muscular but carved in all the right places. Every movement made candlelight dance over his skin. There were old scars along his ribs, and tattoos that shimmered with runic magic, glowing faintly with every breath he took.
Zoey’s breath hitched.
"Like what you see, darling?" Mystery purred, running a hand down his own chest, his nails grazing just hard enough to leave faint pink trails.
Zoey clenched her jaw. "I’ve seen better."
"Liar," he chuckled, stepping closer. The mattress dipped under his weight as he climbed onto the bed, straddling her hips. His thighs caged her in, warm and unyielding. "Your pulse is racing. Your pupils are blown. And you are still lying to me?”
Zoey bit her lip and looked away, but Mystery wasn’t having that. A whisper of shadow magic cupped her chin and turned her face back to him, gently but firmly. His eyes burned — black as sin, bright as hellfire.
“I prefer eye contact,” he said, almost mockingly, but there was something real under his teasing.
"Plus," he chided. "If you don’t want me, say it. But you’ll have to mean it."
Zoey swallowed. "I don’t — "
Mystery leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. "Try again."
Her blush deepened as she tried to look anywhere else but at his smoldering gaze — or the way his bare torso was only inches from her. The tension was thick enough to cut with a blade, and yet neither of them made the next move.
“What… are you doing?” she asked breathlessly.
Mystery leaned closer, the space between them disappearing like smoke in wind. “For starters? Wiping the image of Abby’s abs from your pretty little head.” He winked. “Can’t have that haunting you now, can we?”
Zoey snorted despite herself. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And here you are, blushing on my bed.”
“You tied me to your bed!”
“And yet you haven’t told me to stop.”
She opened her mouth — then closed it.
His smile softened for just a moment. “Zoey,” he said quietly, reaching out to brush a strand of hair from her face, “you’re the only being that ever made me question all of this.”
The chains hummed lightly, responding to his touch. There was power in this moment — not domination, but a dangerous intimacy, like two blades dancing at the edge of bloodshed and desire.
Zoey exhaled slowly, her voice almost a whisper. “You’re dangerous.”
“I know,” Mystery replied, voice low. “But you still look at me like I’m worth the risk.”
The room was electric, pulsing with the kind of tension that always came before the storm.
His mouth found hers in a bruising kiss, all teeth and tongue and hunger. Zoey moaned into it, her body arching against the chains despite herself. Mystery growled, his hands sliding under her shirt, pushing it up until the cool air hit her bare skin.
"Look at you," he breathed, pulling back just enough to admire the flush spreading across her chest. "So pretty when you’re desperate."
Zoey’s hips jerked involuntarily. "Fuck you."
Mystery laughed, low and dark. "Oh, darling. That’s exactly the plan."
His free hand slid between them, palming her breast through the fabric of her top. His thumb circled her nipple, rough, teasing, and Zoey couldn’t suppress the shudder that wracked her body.
"That’s what I thought," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe. "You don’t hate me. You hate how much you want this."
The air between them was electric — charged with the kind of tension that could only be forged in the aftermath of battle, when adrenaline still thrummed beneath the skin and the body sought release in the most primal way possible.
Zoey’s breath came in ragged gasps as Mystery’s lips crashed against hers, not with the practiced precision of an idol, but with the raw, untamed hunger of a demon starved.
His kiss was relentless.
Claiming.
Devouring.
He tasted like sin and starlight.
His tongue swept into her mouth, hot and demanding, tangling with hers in a slick, filthy dance that left her dizzy. She could taste the metallic tang of blood — his or hers, she didn’t know — mingling with something darker, something inherently him. The scent of sandalwood and smoke clung to his skin, intoxicating, overwhelming, as his hands roamed her body with possessive certainty.
His lips left hers only to trail lower.
His mouth trailed down her throat, teeth scraping against the delicate column of her neck before sinking in just enough to make her gasp. The sharp sting melted into pleasure as he soothed the mark with his tongue, savouring the way her pulse fluttered beneath his touch.
"Mine," he growled against her skin, the vibration sending a shiver down her spine.
One hand slid up her torso, fingers skimming the curve of her breast before closing around her nipple, rolling the already hardened peak between his thumb and forefinger. She arched into his touch, a whimper escaping her as he pinched — just shy of pain, just enough to make her thighs clench.
The other hand made quick work of her concert outfit, wanting it gone already. The fabric tore under his claws with obscene ease. Cool air kissed her bare skin, but it was nothing compared to the heat of his gaze as he leaned back, drinking in the sight of her — naked, trembling, his.
She was exquisite.
Mystery pulled back just enough to drink in the sight of her. His gaze was molten, dark with an intensity that made her thighs clench.
The soft swell of her breasts, the dip of her waist, the way her hips flared just enough for his hands to grip. The faint glow of her soul-light, barely contained beneath her skin, pulsing in time with her racing heart. And between her flushed thighs —
The slick, glistening evidence of her need.
Mystery’s tongue dragged over his fangs, his eyes darkening with feral hunger.
"Fuck, look at you," he murmured, voice rough. "All that fire, all that fight — reduced to this. Just a pretty little thing waiting for me to ruin her."
Zoey’s retort died on her lips as he was on her again, his lips claiming hers in a kiss that was filthy in its desperation. Their mouths moved in a messy, sloppy rhythm, tongues tangling, saliva smearing across their lips and chins. She could feel the heat of him pressed against her, the hard length of his cock straining against the confines of his Baji.
Then his hand was between her legs.
A single, torturously slow stroke through her folds, fingers tracing the slick heat between her thighs with a reverence that bordered on worship.
"Tell me," he breathed, his lips brushing hers, "tell me you want this."
She didn’t hesitate.
"Yes."
His fingers pushed inside, stretching her with deliberate, maddening care. She gasped at the intrusion, her walls fluttering around him, already aching for more. He took his time — tortured her with it — letting her feel every inch of his long, thick fingers as they pushed deeper into her.
"So tight," he groaned, curling his fingers just so, dragging a choked moan from her throat. "But you can take more, can’t you? You want more."
Zoey’s nails dug into his shoulders as he added a third finger, the stretch bordering on unbearable — but Gods, the fullness, the way her body yielded to him, the slick, filthy sound of his fingers moving in and out of her —
"Mystery — "
His name spilled from her lips like a prayer, ragged and broken.
He smirked, his breath hot against her ear. "Tell me what you want, Zoey."
She didn’t need to answer.
Her body shuddered around his fingers, her walls fluttering as if begging for something more.
Mystery didn’t make her wait.
He watched her unravel with rapt fascination, his free hand shoving his Baji down just enough to free his cock — thick, heavy, the tip already glistening, aching for her.
Zoey’s breath caught at the sight.
He was perfect.
All hard lines and flushed skin, the tip glistening with precum.
"This," he purred, dragging the head through her soaked folds, "is what you really want, isn’t it?"
Zoey could only nod, her voice stolen by the sheer need coiling in her belly.
Mystery smirked.
In one fluid motion, he hooked her legs over his arms and pushed inside.
The stretch was exquisite.
Zoey’s back arched off the bed as he filled her, inch by agonizing inch, until there was no space left between them.
The room was bathed in the dim, flickering glow of neon bleeding through the curtains — pale violet and crimson painting their tangled bodies in shades of lust and shadow. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, salt, and the musk of their desire laced with the electric tang of magic.
Zoey’s back arched as Mystery’s hands roamed her body, his touch both possessive and reverent. His fingers traced the curve of her waist, dipped into the hollow of her throat, skated down the trembling plane of her stomach before gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. She gasped, her nails biting into his shoulders as he filled her again and again, harder, his length dragging against her inner walls in a way that made her vision blur.
“Mystery — ” His name spilled from her lips like devotion, like a curse.
He chuckled, low and wicked, his breath hot against her skin as he leaned down to capture her nipple between his teeth. A sharp bite, just shy of pain, before his tongue soothed the sting, swirling around the peak until she whimpered. His hands never stilled — kneading her thighs, palming her ass, squeezing the soft flesh as he drove into her with relentless precision.
“You feel so good,” he murmured against her collarbone, his voice rough with hunger. “So tight, so warm… like you were made for me.”
Zoey’s breath hitched as one of his hands slid between their bodies, his thumb finding her clit in slow, torturous circles. Pleasure coiled tight in her belly, white-hot and unbearable, and she rocked against him, desperate for more.
“Fuck — faster,” she begged, her voice breaking.
Mystery groaned, his hips snapping forward in response, each thrust deeper, harder, until the bedframe creaked beneath them. His lips crashed against hers in a searing kiss, all teeth and tongue and barely restrained violence. She could taste herself on him, could taste the dark, metallic hint of his demonic nature — like pomegranate seeds and blood.
Then, suddenly, his movements slowed down.
His thrusts gentled, became almost sweet, and he nuzzled into the curve of her neck, pressing feather-light kisses along her pulse point.
“Zoey… baby?” His voice was softer now, almost hesitant.
She blinked up at him, dazed, her fingers threading through his hair. “Yeah?”
His golden eyes burned into hers, glowing faintly in the dim light. “I know you’ll kill me the moment I set you free,” he admitted, his thumb brushing her lower lip. “And I will set you free. I’d never trap you… not really.”
A pause. A breath.
“But what if I plant myself in you before that?”
Zoey stilled beneath him. “Plant yourself in me?” she echoed, her brow furrowing. “What do you mean?”
Mystery sighed, his lips trailing up to her ear, his teeth grazing the delicate helix before he sucked lightly, drawing a shiver from her.
“You know how your precious Rumi is half-demon?” he murmured, his voice a velvet purr. “What if we made one of our own? A little half-demon, just for us?”
His hips rolled against hers in a slow, deliberate grind, emphasizing his words. “My blood in your veins. My power in your womb. Even after I’m gone… you’d carry a piece of me forever.”
Zoey’s breath caught.
The idea was madness.
It was sinful.
And yet —
— her body clenched around him, betraying her in a way that made Mystery’s smirk widen.
“Think about it, baby,” he whispered, his fingers tracing the curve of her hip possessively. “A child with your fire… and my darkness.”
Then his mouth was on hers again, swallowing her gasp as he thrust deep, claiming, marking, ruining —
— and Zoey could do nothing but cling to him, lost in the storm of pleasure and the terrifying, intoxicating promise of his words.
"Alright," Zoey murmured, her voice barely above a whisper, trembling with anticipation. "Let’s… make a baby…"
The words sent a thrill through her, electric and forbidden, and she squealed inwardly, her body already alight with need.
Mystery’s lips curled into a smirk, his luminescent eyes — those pools of liquid shadow — locking onto hers with predatory intensity. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. His body was his language, and right now, it was telling her exactly what he intended to do.
He moved with deliberate, devastating precision, his hips rolling against hers in a rhythm that was both merciless and reverent. Every thrust was a claim, every withdrawal a tease, building the tension between them to an unbearable peak. Zoey gasped, her nails digging into the muscles of his back, her legs wrapping tighter around him as if she could fuse their bodies together.
Zoey’s back arched as he pinned her beneath him, her body a canvas for his devotion — each kiss, each bite, a brand of his obsession. The lipstick stains she’d left on his skin earlier now smeared between them, crimson streaks marking where her mouth had worshipped him. He revelled in the sight, in the way her breath hitched when his fingers tangled in her hair, tugging just enough to make her whimper.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a velvet growl against her throat. "Taking me so deep, like you were made for it."
And she was.
Every thrust carved her open, reshaping her from the inside out, his cock a relentless force that left no part of her untouched. The angle was brutal, perfect — each snap of his hips driving the thick length of him against her cervix, the swollen tip kissing that sacred, sensitive threshold with every stroke. She gasped, her nails scoring down his back as her legs trembled, weak and pliant beneath the unyielding rhythm of his body.
"Mystery — " His name spilled from her lips like an invocation, broken and breathless.
He answered with a deep, guttural groan, his fingers tightening on her hips as he angled himself just so, hitting a spot inside her that made her vision whiten at the edges.
"There — !" she cried out, her back arching off the bed.
He didn’t relent. If anything, he drove into her harder, his pace becoming rougher, more possessive.
"You feel that?" he growled, his voice rough with need. "That’s where I’m going to put my child in you."
The filthy promise sent a fresh wave of heat crashing through her, and Zoey came undone, her body convulsing around him as pleasure ripped through her in relentless waves.
The impact of her orgasm was violent and all-consuming. Her vision whited out, her voice stolen by the sheer force of it, her body bowing beneath his as he wrecked her in maddening thrusts.
But Mystery wasn’t done.
Far from it.
He didn’t slow. Didn’t stop.
He fucked her through it, his own release building with every slick, sinful slide of her cunt around him.
Before she could even catch her breath, he was bending her onto her stomach, one large hand pressing between her shoulder blades to bend her forward, her hips raised in shameless offering.
"W-Wait — !" Zoey’s protest was half-hearted, her body already thrumming with renewed need.
Mystery silenced her with two fingers shoved deep into her mouth, his grip firm as he coated them in her saliva. She gagged around them, her lips stretched obscenely, her eyes watering — but the humiliation only made her wetter.
"You wanted this," he reminded her, his voice a dark caress. "You asked for my baby. Now take it."
And then he was inside her again, deeper than before, his cock stretching her to the limit as he folded her into the mating press. The angle was brutal, perfect, his pelvis grinding against her with every thrust, ensuring she felt every inch of him.
"Mine," he snarled, his hips barrelling against hers with a maniac intensity. "Mine, mine, mine — "
Zoey’s moans were muffled around his fingers, her body trembling as he fucked her with single-minded intensity.
Mystery’s long hair — usually perfectly styled — was now a wild, sweat-damp cascade, falling into his face as he moved above her. With a rough sound of frustration, he dragged his free hand through the dark strands, pushing them back and exposing the full, devastating beauty of his face.
Zoey’s breath caught.
The sigils on his skin glowed faintly in the low light, pulsing with his heartbeat, and something inside her ached at the sight.
She reached for him, her fingers trembling as she cupped his jaw, pulling him down into a messy, open-mouthed kiss. When they broke apart, she didn’t stop — instead, she peppered his face with dozens of light, adoring kisses, her lips leaving smudges of her lipstick across his cheekbones, his forehead, the bridge of his nose.
"Mine," she whispered between kisses.
Mystery’s grip on her tightened, his thrusts growing erratic.
"Yours," he agreed hoarsely.
The air was thick with the scent of sex — musky, primal, intoxicating. The dim glow of the city beyond the curtains painted their entangled bodies in streaks of neon and shadow, every movement a deliberate dance of pleasure and possession.
Zoey’s back arched as Mystery’s hands roamed her body, his touch both worship and punishment. His fingers traced the delicate curve of her spine before gripping her hips, yanking her back against him with a roughness that made her gasp. The sound was swallowed by his mouth as he claimed her lips again, his kiss deep and devouring, his tongue sliding against hers in a mimicry of what his cock was doing to her lower lips.
"Look at you," he murmured against her skin, his voice a velvet growl that sent shivers down her spine. "Taking me so fucking well."
His hips snapped forward, burying himself to the hilt, and Zoey’s nails dug into the sheets, her breath hitching as he stretched her impossibly full. Every thrust was a revelation, the thick length of him dragging against her inner walls with ruthless precision, the swollen head of his cock kissing her deepest, most untouched places.
And she was.
Every thrust carved her open, reshaping her from the inside out, his cock a relentless force that left no part of her untouched. The angle was brutal, perfect — each snap of his hips driving the thick length of him against her cervix, the swollen tip kissing that sacred, sensitive threshold with every stroke. She gasped, her nails scoring down his back as her legs trembled, weak and pliant beneath the unyielding rhythm of his body.
"Mystery — " she whimpered, her voice breaking as he angled himself just right, hitting that sweet, sensitive spot inside her with unerring accuracy.
"Say my name again," he demanded, his fingers tightening in her hair, pulling just enough to sting. "Let me hear how much you love this."
She moaned, the sound raw and unfiltered, as he set a punishing pace, his pelvis slapping against the curve of her ass with every deep, unforgiving stroke. The room was filled with the lewd, wet sounds of their coupling, the slick glide of her arousal coating him, making every movement obscenely smooth.
“Mystery! You feel… so good…”
His free hand wandered over her body, possessive and demanding. He pinched her nipples, rolling the stiff peaks between his fingers until she writhed, then moved lower, his palm skimming over the flat plane of her stomach before dipping between her thighs.
"Fuck," he groaned as he found her clit, swollen and throbbing under his touch. He didn’t tease. Didn’t coax.
He claimed.
A rough pinch — sharp enough to make her cry out — before his fingers closed around the swollen bud, squeezing in time with his thrusts. Pleasure laced with pain shot through her, white-hot and electric, and she sobbed his name as her walls fluttered around him, desperate and clenching.
Zoey cried out, her body jerking as pleasure-pain lanced through her, sharp and bright.
"You like that, don’t you?" he taunted, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "My little human, so desperate for me to ruin her."
He didn’t let up, his fingers working her clit with cruel precision, squeezing and pressing in time with his thrusts, each movement calculated to push her higher, closer to the edge.
Zoey’s vision blurred, her thighs trembling as the coil of pleasure inside her wound tighter and tighter. She was so close, teetering on the precipice, her body taut like a bowstring about to snap.
But he stopped. Suddenly.
Zoey looked at him, confused, but all he did was snuggle into her neck.
Now, buried deep inside her, Mystery moved with slow, deliberate thrusts, each one dragging against her inner walls in a way that made her toes curl. His cock — thick, inhumanly hot, veined with the same dark sigils that marked his skin — stretched her exquisitely.
Zoey’s nails dug into his back, her breath coming in ragged pants.
"Fa-faster," she begged, her voice breaking.
Mystery smirked, his fangs glinting in the dim light. "No."
He kept his pace agonizingly slow, relishing every hitch of her breath, every desperate whimper she tried to bite back. His hands gripped her hips, holding her still as he ground into her, the head of his cock pressing against that sweet, spongy spot inside her that made her vision blur.
"You’ll take what I give you," he purred. "And you’ll thank me for it."
Zoey sobbed, her body trembling on the edge, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter in her belly.
Then — he snapped.
His control shattered as he fucked into her with brutal, punishing strokes, his hips slapping against hers in a rhythm that left them both gasping. Zoey’s back arched off the bed, her mouth falling open in a silent scream as her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave.
"That’s it," Mystery purred, his breath hot against her ear. "Cum for me. Let me feel you fall apart on my cock."
And just like that, she shattered.
Her orgasm crashed over her like a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Her walls clenched around him, pulsing rhythmically, milking his length as pleasure wracked her body in relentless waves.
Mystery growled, his own release surging forward, spurred on by the way she squeezed him so perfectly. He buried himself to the hilt, his hips stuttering as he spilled inside her, thick ropes of demonic seed flooding her womb, hotter than blood, marking her, claiming her in the most primal way possible.
He groaned, low and guttural, as he ground himself deep, ensuring every drop was sealed inside her. The thought of it — of his seed taking root, of her body swelling with the proof of their union — sent a dark thrill through him.
"Mine," he snarled, his voice guttural with possession as he ground himself against her, ensuring every last drop was deep where it belonged. "Even if you kill me tomorrow — you’ll carry this. You’ll carry me."
Zoey shuddered beneath him, her body still convulsing with aftershocks as his cum flooded her, so much that it dripped between her thighs when he finally pulled out.
Mystery collapsed beside her, his chest heaving. His claws traced idle patterns over her stomach, already imagining the swell of life that would soon grow there.
"How does my demonic seed feel, my little human?"
His voice was a velvet purr, laced with dark amusement — but beneath it thrummed something deeper. Satisfaction. The kind that came from a hunger finally sated, a conquest irrevocably claimed.
Zoey exhaled, her chest rising and falling in uneven rhythms, her lips parted around unsteady breaths. For a moment, she didn’t answer. Then —
She turned her head, her eyes half-lidded, her lips swollen from his kisses, and replied with a small, breathless smile.
"It was so good…" she whispered, her voice hoarse. "...that I don’t know how to kill you anymore."
Mystery laughed, low and dangerous, before pulling her against him.
For now — she was his.
And that was enough.
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! I hope you enjoyed it <3
Let me know how it was and if I have to work on my narration or the plot itself (and also if the 🔞 got a bit too much)
Chapter 4: Turned Down, Turned On
Summary:
Requested by Yukina ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚
I hope you like how it unfolds :D
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Mira adjusted her sunglasses and mask for the fifth time, even though they hadn’t slipped. It was more out of habit than necessity now—a nervous twitch that betrayed her usually unshakable composure.
The fluorescent lights overhead flickered faintly as she scanned the aisle, her gaze catching on the glint of the refrigerated section across from them. Her hoodie was zipped up to her chin despite the store’s air conditioning being far too effective, but she didn’t care.
No one could see Mira of Huntri/x today. She was invisible. Untraceable. Or so she hoped.
Zoey, on the other hand, walked with a bounce in her step, one sneaker slightly untied, chewing her gum with a soft snap every few seconds. Her bucket hat was tilted slightly to the side, giving her a casual, almost careless look that only the truly camera-ready could pull off without trying.
Her voice was low but animated as she babbled on about how they could try making kimchi pancakes next week, maybe pair it with makgeolli if they found the good kind.
As they turned into the condiments aisle, Mira paused in front of the kimchi display, peering down at the tubs with a critical eye. “You know,” she said, voice muffled behind her mask, “I still think nothing beats a steaming bowl of kimchi jjigae on a rainy day. Spicy, sour, and it hugs your insides.”
Zoey scoffed lightly, adjusting her bucket hat. “Basic choice. It’s literally comfort food 101. If we’re ranking soul-healing meals, samgyeopsal wins. Hands down.”
“You just like grilling things,” Mira shot back.
“And you don’t?” Zoey grinned. “You get that scary sparkle in your eyes when the fat starts popping on the pan.”
Mira tilted her head like she was considering it. “Okay, fair. But tteokbokki still reigns supreme. Spicy, chewy, addictive—like us.”
Zoey clutched a tub of rice cakes dramatically. “Are you saying we’re human tteokbokki?”
Mira nodded solemnly. “Sticky, fiery, unforgettable.”
They both laughed.
Zoey turned the corner of her mouth thoughtfully, shifting the tub in her hands. “I was also thinking… maybe our next concept could reflect that, too.”
Mira raised an eyebrow. “You mean food-themed?”
Zoey rolled her eyes. “No! I mean something warm. Bold but comforting. Like, we’ve done the high-gloss, girlboss, electro-pop thing for the past three comebacks. What if we scaled it back?”
“Scaled back how?” Mira asked, now turning to examine jars of fermented soybean paste.
“I’m thinking R&B-inspired… lo-fi textures, layered harmonies, lyrics that bite if you read too deep. Like—like a late-night city walk in the rain. That kind of vibe.”
Mira hummed. “You want soft but sharp.”
“Exactly,” Zoey nodded. “Something they’ll think is chill until they realize it’s about burnout and heartbreak. Subtle aggression wrapped in velvet.”
Mira gave her a side glance, amused. “You’ve been writing lyrics again.”
“Guilty.”
They moved further down the aisle. Mira picked up a bottle of sesame oil and turned it in her hand. “Alright. Velvet rage album. Soul food as the theme of our hiatus. I can live with that.”
Zoey grabbed the gochujang shelf ahead of her. “You know what else you can live with?”
Mira glanced at her.
“Tteokbokki. Again. Tonight.”
“Fine,” Mira said, voice low. “But I’m not sharing the cheese topping.”
Zoey smirked. “You always say that.”
Mira grunted, but her lips twitched beneath her mask. She hated to admit it, but this low-key grocery run was kind of… nice.
That is, until it wasn’t.
Zoey’s fingers had just grazed the cold glass of a gochujang bottle when another hand reached for it at the same time—long, pale fingers with chipped dark nail polish. A hand that seemed familiar the moment their skin made contact.
“Ah—sorry!” Zoey said quickly, reflexively pulling back and grabbing the other bottle behind it instead. She looked up out of politeness, smile halfway to her lips.
And froze.
Abby.
Abby of Saja Boys.
Abby who is a demon in reality but he’s pretending to be a human idol to steal souls.
The world tilted for a second.
Zoey gripped the gochujang bottle tighter, her knuckles turning white, as if anchoring herself to the moment.
Abby hadn’t said a word. He hadn’t needed to. Her expression was unreadable—smooth, aloof, and almost amused in that subtle, maddening way he always had.
His dyed pink hair was tousled messily, as if he didn’t care at all. No disguise, no beanie, no fear. It was as if he wanted to be recognized. As if the idea of being caught in public didn’t matter.
And then, behind Abby, they emerged.
Mystery—hood over his head, hands tucked in his bomber jacket, chewing something slowly like he had all the time in the world. His gaze barely passed over Zoey, unreadable behind those low-lidded eyes. As if none of this mattered.
Baby—mint mop of curls peeking from under a beanie, earbuds in, nodding along to some silent rhythm. He didn’t even look their way. He might as well have been shopping for frozen dumplings instead of walking straight into enemy territory.
And Romance.
Romance, who Mira had once described as a wolf who knew exactly how pretty his teeth looked when he smiled.
He stood a little off to the side, one hand loosely holding a bottle of water, the other in his jacket pocket.
His gaze found Mira instantly, and his lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. Something hungrier. He tilted his head slightly, like he was asking her a silent question only she could hear. He didn’t blink.
Mira’s entire body stiffened beside Zoey. The air turned to glass.
Zoey glanced at Mira; saw the way her eyes had narrowed to slits beneath the sunglasses. Her fingers were curled into fists at her sides, thumb twitching as if itching to flick the safety off a gun. Her breath was slow, measured, controlled.
But Mira didn’t explode. Not in public. Not when cameras could be watching. But Zoey had seen this exact posture in the practice room the night Mira punched a hole in the mirror after reading that headline about Saja Boys outselling Huntri/x’s last album.
"Mira," Zoey whispered carefully, clutching the gochujang tighter, as if it could protect them.
But Mira didn’t answer. Her gaze was locked on Romance, who hadn’t stopped watching her. The tension between them stretched taut and silent like a violin string seconds before it snaps.
Zoey could feel the storm building beneath Mira’s stillness—the rivalry between them as Demons and Demon Hunters. The fact that they are also rival KPop bands didn’t help the situation either.
Abby didn’t move. He stood with one hand on his hip, the other still halfway outstretched like he hadn’t quite pulled it back after touching Zoey’s. He wasn’t smirking, not exactly—but her lips were quirked, eyes curious, as if wondering what Zoey or Mira would do next.
Zoey looked between them all—the unbothered shadows of Saja Boys, scattered like ghosts among the aisle. They didn't look threatening. They didn't need to. They were wolves in a supermarket, with teeth tucked behind polite smiles and apathy sharp enough to cut.
Mira took a single step forward.
Zoey’s pulse jumped. She caught Mira's sleeve without thinking, the thick hoodie fabric clutched in her hand like a lifeline. "Not here," she said, barely audible, but Mira heard it.
Romance raised an eyebrow, as if to say,
Are you holding her back now? Cute.
Mira’s jaw flexed under her mask. Her body was still rigid; her feet planted like she was daring the earth to shift beneath her. But she didn’t move again. She didn’t lunge, didn’t speak, didn’t throw the bottle of soy sauce Zoey knew she had tucked under her arm.
The silence between the two groups crackled.
Then Mystery moved. Slowly. Casually. He passed behind Abby and brushed past Baby, walking down the aisle like he hadn't even seen Mira or Zoey. As if they were just strangers in a store. As if this was nothing.
Baby followed after him, still bobbing his head to his invisible music. No glances. No pause. Not a care in the world.
Abby gave Mira and Zoey one last glance—measured, complex, almost... predatory? Then he turned and walked after them, his tight shirt swaying behind him.
Romance was the last to leave. He walked backward for a few steps, eyes still locked on Mira’s. He smiled. A real smile this time—taunting and beautiful and cold.
Then he disappeared around the corner.
Only when they were gone did Mira exhale.
Zoey realized her hand was still on Mira’s sleeve. She let go, slowly, feeling the tension still radiating off her leader’s body like heatwaves. Mira didn’t say a word. She stared at the gochujang shelf like it had personally offended her.
“You okay?” Zoey asked gently.
Mira gave a stiff nod. Her voice was razor-thin when she finally said, “We’re cooking this tonight.”
Zoey blinked. “Tteokbokki?”
“No,” Mira said, her eyes still on the shelf. “War.”
…..
Zoey walked a step behind Mira, balancing a basket overflowing with rice cakes, fish cakes, green onions, anchovy broth packets, and the ever-controversial cheese topping Mira claimed she wouldn’t share. The weight of the groceries wasn’t much, but her mind—oh, her mind felt heavier than ever.
Mira was radiating silence in front of her, stiff with the kind of restrained fury that only years in the idol industry could teach you to hide beneath the surface. Her sunglasses had been pushed up slightly, as if her glare alone could’ve melted Romance into a pile of glittery goo.
But Zoey wasn’t thinking about Romance.
She was thinking about him.
Mystery.
The most elusive of the Saja Boys. The one who barely spoke in interviews, the one who didn’t need to smile to own every stage, the one who had never—not once—pushed his bangs out of his face.
Zoey’s fingers tightened around the basket handle, the ache in her palm grounding her. Goddammit.
She hated this. Hated that she couldn’t stop thinking about the way his hood sat low on his forehead, shadows cast over his features. Hated that she noticed the tips of his purple hair peeking out—lush, velvety strands that shifted ever so slightly with each step he took.
She hated that when he’d walked past her just now, his shoulder brushing hers ever so slightly, her breath had caught in her throat like a teenager watching a drama kiss scene.
There’d been nothing in his expression. Nothing.
And yet somehow, everything.
That stillness. That quiet confidence that didn’t beg for attention because it didn’t need to. He was magnetic in the way black holes were—silent, vast, consuming. Zoey had felt it pull her in, just for a second. Just long enough to hate herself.
Because she wasn’t just a fan. She wasn’t a civilian.
She was a demon hunter.
And Mystery… wasn’t just an idol.
He was a full-blooded demon in human skin. Every Saja Boy was. That wasn’t a secret. It was the whole goddamn problem.
They all knew he was dangerous. Not the loud kind like Baby, who acted like a toddler but his words cut through the delusion of sasaengs, or Romance, who weaponized his smirk. Mystery didn’t need noise. He was a razor in velvet.
And Zoey—fool that she was—wanted to know what his eyes looked like.
No one had seen them. Not even in leaked photos, not even in fancams. There were rumors, of course—ridiculous ones. That if he looked you in the eyes, you’d forget your name. That his gaze could paralyze or seduce or kill. Some fans said he was blind. Others swore he was hiding something worse.
But Zoey didn’t care about the urban legends. She just wanted to see. Just once. She wanted to know if his eyes were the same shade of plum as his hair or if they burned red like all the old stories said demons did.
And that terrified her.
Because she shouldn’t want to know that. She shouldn’t be wondering what it would feel like if he looked at her. She shouldn’t be thinking about his lashes, or the way he tilted his head when he was pretending not to notice anyone. She shouldn’t be curious.
She wasn’t supposed to want him to see her.
And yet… when she glanced back down the aisle just before they turned the corner to the checkout, she found herself searching for that shape in the shadows. That hood. That slow gait. That calm, infuriating indifference that made her want to either punch him or—
No. No.
She shook her head as they reached the self-checkout kiosk. Mira began scanning the items without a word. The machine beeped rhythmically, almost too loud in the silence between them.
Zoey set down her basket and tried to focus on the mundane again. Rice cakes. Broth packets. Sauce. The normalcy of craving spicy food and messy fingers and a night in sweatpants, watching dramas on mute while they brainstormed lyrics for their next comeback.
But her thoughts were stained now. Tinted in violet.
She would never tell anyone. Not even Rumi, who had always been more observant than she let on. Not even Mira, who would have Mystery’s head on a pike the second she found out.
She would bury it. Like every other feeling a demon hunter wasn’t supposed to have.
Because even if Mystery never looked at her…
She had already seen too much.
And she couldn’t stop wondering what else was hidden behind that fringe of silence and shadow.
…..
The scent of disinfectant and fermented garlic clung to the fluorescent-lit air like a bad joke.
Abby stood with one hand lazily gripping the cart handle, the other resting in the pocket of his oversized coat. He had three packs of instant noodles, two bottles of Sprite, and a bag of chili powder thrown in like some half-hearted attempt at blending in.
It was absurd.
The whole thing.
All of it.
A demon in a grocery store.
He glanced sideways at Mystery, who was silently chewing gum beside the canned tuna, pretending to contemplate labels he probably couldn’t read. Baby was humming under his breath, bopping his head to music only he could hear, and Romance… well, Romance had wandered off. Probably to make another pretty girl uncomfortable with his eyes.
Abby couldn’t care less about human food.
All this fuss—these variety show segments where they made gagging faces at fermented skate or fake orgasm noises over instant tteokbokki—it was all nonsense.
Demons didn’t eat for pleasure. Not really. They fed on energy, souls, sin.
But still. Jinu insisted they “relate to fans.” Hence, weekly demon bonding trip to the supermarket.
He sighed, pretending to compare gochugaru brands, when really, he was watching her.
Mira.
He hadn’t known she’d be here. Not really. He didn’t plan it. But he’d sensed it—that strange electric tension in the air when she was near. Her energy tasted like static and iron and cherry blossoms. Sweet and dangerous and unmistakably hers.
And then he’d seen her.
A flash of pink hair barely hidden beneath a hoodie, a pair of dark sunglasses shielding those siren eyes—oh, those eyes. Angry, startled, calculating.
She’d been glaring at him like she might explode if he even dared to breathe too close. And God, Abby had wanted to. Just to see what she would do. What it would take to crack that polished idol exterior and unleash the demon hunter underneath.
She was all tightly wound fury and discipline. The kind of girl who could kill you with a glance and then write an apology letter to your manager for the inconvenience. He adored that. Worshipped it.
Abby could still feel the heat of her gaze boring into him when Zoey’s hand had accidentally brushed his while reaching for the gochujang. That had been incidental. Irrelevant.
Mira was the one he was watching.
The flare of emotion in her—blazing like a wildfire beneath layers of idol etiquette. She thought she was subtle. She wasn’t.
And yet, that restraint—her refusal to make a scene, her composure in the face of all four of them standing right there—made his pulse spike with something unholy. Desire, maybe. Hunger. It was hard to tell the difference when you were born from sin.
He could picture it too clearly: her mask slipping, her body crashing into his like an avalanche of fury. A punch to the chest. Maybe a slash of a blade. He wouldn’t even fight back.
He’d take it.
And smile.
She’d look good in blood.
His or hers.
He caught a glimpse of her as she turned the corner—her shoulders tense, jaw clenched, scanning items at self-checkout with mechanical precision. She looked like she wanted to set the entire aisle on fire.
Beautiful.
She was the only thing that made this joke of an idol life bearable. Not the screaming fans, not the stages, not the interviews about skincare or MBTIs or what breakfast cereal made them feel nostalgic.
It was her.
Knowing she was somewhere in this twisted ecosystem, breathing the same air, scowling at the same reporters. It gave him something to hold onto.
The irony wasn’t lost on him, of course. That he, a demon, had fallen fast and hard for a hunter sworn to exterminate him.
That she was the ace of Huntri/x, the sworn rivals of Saja Boys. That she would probably gut him if she knew how deep this obsession ran.
But Abby had never been good at resisting temptation.
He wasn’t wired for self-control. Demons weren’t built that way.
So, he leaned into it. Indulged it in quiet moments like this. Watched from afar. Imagined things he shouldn’t. Wondered if she ever thought about him. Hoped—craved—that maybe, someday, she’d slip. Just a little.
Just enough.
He smiled faintly, eyes following the pink blur until it vanished beyond the aisle.
Cherry on top of a blood-soaked cake.
He licked his teeth behind closed lips.
If only she knew.
He would devour her whole.
If she let him.
And if she didn’t?
Well…
That would just make it all the more fun.
…..
Abby moved toward the counter, grocery basket dangling from one arm with the lazy confidence of someone who didn’t actually care whether the eggs broke or not.
Mystery and Baby trailed behind him, shoulder to shoulder, their heads bowed over Baby’s phone. Whatever video they were watching had Baby snickering under his breath while Mystery just stared, lips set in that faint, unreadable line he wore like armor.
Abby didn’t even ask what it was—they’d share if they wanted to.
The cashier scanned items one by one: a pack of instant noodles, three bottles of Sprite, a tub of gochujang, bags of chips, six bottles of hot sauce for Baby and something Baby had insisted on that was half candy, half chemical experiment.
The beeps from the register came slow and steady, and Abby’s eyes, restless as ever, wandered toward the large glass storefront.
Beyond the transparent doors, the late afternoon light spilled in, tinting the world in soft gold. And there they were—Mira and Zoey—standing just outside, silhouettes sharp against the brightness.
Mira was angled slightly away, her posture taut, head tilted as she spoke to someone out of sight. The way her shoulders were set told Abby she wasn’t exactly relaxed.
But Zoey—Zoey wasn’t even pretending to be occupied.
Her head was turned just enough for Abby to see the intent behind her gaze. He followed it like a thread, tracing the invisible line from her eyes back toward the store. And that was when it clicked.
She was staring at Mystery.
Not just looking—staring. Mouth parted, eyes wide in a mix of fascination and disbelief, like she was trying to memorize him before the moment slipped away.
And there—just there—her lips glistened in a way that made Abby smirk.
Drooling? Really?
He shook his head slowly, biting back a laugh.
“Such a silly goose,” he murmured under his breath, the words lost beneath the cashier’s mechanical beeps.
Zoey’s fixation was almost endearing in its recklessness. Almost. But Abby had lived long enough—been hunted long enough—to know what that look meant.
Attraction. Curiosity.
The same dangerous pull a moth feels toward a flame. Except in this case, the flame wore a hood low over violet hair and didn’t even bother to acknowledge her existence.
Still, Abby’s amusement curled warm in his chest. He let his gaze linger on her, letting the smirk deepen just enough for her to notice—an unspoken I see you.
And she did.
Her eyes flicked to him, startled, and the realization hit her like a cold wave. The faintest color bloomed across her cheeks—quick, defensive—and she jerked her head back toward Mira, as if that would erase what he’d just witnessed. It didn’t. Her embarrassment was sealed in that split second, and Abby filed it away for later.
“Surely a silly goose…”
He turned his head slightly, glancing toward Mystery, who was still watching Baby’s phone like it contained the secrets of the universe. Not a flicker of awareness crossed his face. No acknowledgment. No sly glances. Just that wall of perfect indifference he wore so naturally.
If Mystery had noticed Zoey’s attention, he didn’t care. Or maybe he did, but he’d never show it. That was the thing about him—his silence made people want to dig deeper, to see.
And Zoey, poor little hunter girl, was clearly halfway down that dangerous road already.
Abby didn’t bother warning her. Not his job. Besides, watching her squirm was far more entertaining.
The cashier bagged the last of the groceries, the plastic rustling sharply in the quiet. Abby took the bags in one hand and jerked his chin at Mystery and Baby.
“Let’s go,” he said casually, pushing through the sliding doors. The warm air hit his face, and he caught, just for a second, Zoey’s eyes darting toward Mystery again before she caught herself. Mira didn’t notice.
But Abby did. And the corner of his mouth twitched upward.
This was going to be interesting.
…..
Abby pushed through the sliding doors, the warm evening air licking at his face. His gaze swept over the parking lot—and then he saw it.
Of course.
Romance.
Leaning with one shoulder against the wall as if it were a throne, posture languid, eyes half-lidded in that practiced predator’s gaze of his.
And of course, Mira was standing right there, angled toward him, her body tense yet… not moving away.
Abby exhaled sharply through his nose. What a time to bump into them.
Still, if life handed you such opportunities, you didn’t let them go to waste. His smile flickered into place—wide, warm, the kind that made reporters call him “charming” even when his words were sharpened steel—and he strolled toward the Huntr/x girls like they were old friends meeting at a coffee shop.
Notes:
Thank you for reading this far!
P.S.: To all the people who were wanting to see how "His Heart That Forgot Mine" ends, there's a good news. I'm going to release into a full-length fic in the next week. To be honest, it got too long to be considered a "short story", and the storyline was so good that I couldn't fathom the courage to shorten it or cut down important information/heartwarming moments. So yes, it's going to be quite a ride for as I'm planning it now. A few more editing and a bit more brushing details here and there, and it'll be good to go <3
Chapter Text
“Hey, girls!” he called, voice full of brightness he didn’t feel. “Didn’t expect to run into you again. Is it destiny… or your wish to meet us?”
Mira’s head snapped toward him, sunglasses sliding a fraction down her nose, her mouth curving into a scowl. “Shut up, you double-door fridge.”
Abby froze in mock injury, staggering a step back as though her words had pierced him straight through. One hand clutched dramatically at his chest. “Ouch, Mira, it hurt so bad!” he drawled, making sure the grin never left his face.
Behind him, Baby let out a sharp bark of laughter, the sound unrestrained and loud enough to draw a couple of glances from passersby.
Even Mystery, still hovering behind, tilted his head just enough for Abby to catch the faintest curve of a smile at the corner of his lips.
“Gosh, you Saja Boys,” Zoey muttered, voice sharp with disdain, supporting her friend’s protests, “Why can’t you mind your own business?”
Abby stepped closer, his shadow brushing hers as he looked down—not at Mira, but at Zoey standing slightly to the side. His eyes flared gold for half a heartbeat, demon slipping past the human mask, before snapping back to their usual, perfectly ordinary brown.
“Unfortunately for you,” he said smoothly, “Romance is our business. He’s one of us, remember?”
Mira’s scoff was pure contempt, but the set of her shoulders betrayed something tighter—something more volatile—beneath it. “At least he’s better than you,” she shot back.
Abby’s smirk faltered for just a fraction of a second, before reshaping itself into something darker, sharper. “And what exactly did he do to make you say so?”
His gaze slid to Romance now, voice dripping with deliberate provocation. “Did he kiss you so hard you lost your mind? Or is it those hearts he throws at people like candies?”
Romance didn’t flinch. He just straightened from the wall in one smooth motion, a slow smile spreading across his face, teeth catching on his bottom lip before his tongue swept over it.
“Former,” he said simply. His voice was low, velvet and sin, designed to curl in the ear and linger. “She liked it a lot.”
Heat surged to Mira’s cheeks, visible even under the afternoon light. It wasn’t the soft warmth of shyness—it was a vivid, angry flush that crept up to the tips of her ears. “You—”
Her fist shot forward, burying itself in Romance’s stomach with enough force to make the air crack with the impact. Any other man would’ve doubled over. But Romance didn’t even flinch. His eyes didn’t leave hers.
“You just had to go and spell it out loud!” she snapped, voice breaking between outrage and something more fragile. “We agreed on keeping it a secret!”
Romance’s smirk deepened, as if her reaction were worth every ounce of the punch. “Oh, we agreed,” he murmured, leaning forward until the space between them was charged enough to taste. “But I never promised I wouldn’t enjoy watching you blush.”
Mira’s breath hitched—only for a second, but enough for Abby, standing off to the side, to catch it.
And he wishfully smiled to himself.
Because for all of Mira’s righteous fury, for all the knives in her glare… she wasn’t walking away.
Zoey’s breath hitched so sharply it almost made her choke. Her eyes went wide—wide enough that if she blinked too hard, they might tumble right out of her head.
“What?!” she blurted, the word slicing through the humid air like a blade. Her gaze snapped between Mira and Romance as though trying to confirm if her ears were playing tricks on her. “You kissed him?!”
Mira groaned, dragging a hand down her face, her voice heavy with exasperation. “It was an accident! I didn’t mean to!”
The defensive edge in her tone didn’t completely mask the faint pink blooming across her cheeks—betraying something even she might not have wanted to admit.
Romance, leaning casually against the wall with that infuriating smirk, immediately seized the moment. He let his voice drop into a mock hurt drawl, each word soaked in lazy confidence.
“Accident, huh? But you kissed me again today. Does your little friend here not know you came to the store only for our meeting?” His eyes glittered knowingly, the way a predator watches prey squirm.
Zoey’s gasp this time was louder—bordering on a yell—as the hurt crashed over her face like a tidal wave. “What??!! And you didn’t feel the need to tell me?!” Her voice cracked under the strain, raw with disbelief.
Mira’s shoulders slumped, her earlier fiery stance faltering into something softer, almost wounded. Her lips pressed together before she finally exhaled.
“Zoey…” she began, her voice trembling just slightly. “I… I thought about telling you tonight…” The apology sat between them like a fragile thing, not nearly enough to bridge the sting of betrayal etched in Zoey’s eyes.
But before Zoey could summon a reply—before she could even breathe through the tight knot in her chest—Romance pushed off the wall, his expression shifting.
The smirk faded into a cooler, sharper focus, his eyes locking on Zoey like he’d decided enough was enough.
“Zoey… I think that’s what your name is,” he said slowly, deliberately, voice edged with warning but polished enough to pass as calm. “Mira doesn’t need to be apologetic about being with me. And about telling you earlier…” He tilted his head slightly, his gaze narrowing just enough to make the air feel heavier. “That’s her choice. So, dear—loosen up a little.”
He didn’t wait for the retort already forming on Zoey’s lips. In one smooth, deliberate motion, his long fingers slid into Mira’s hand, the contact firm and possessive.
The suddenness stole Mira’s breath, but she didn’t pull away—her eyes darting once at Zoey, guilt and helplessness clashing in their depths.
And then, without so much as a second glance at the girl still standing frozen in the supermarket entrance, Romance stepped back into a swirl of deep, inky pantone mist. The haze swallowed him and Mira whole, leaving nothing but a faint trace of warmth where they’d stood—and Zoey, staring into the empty space, her chest aching with the weight of unspoken words.
…..
Zoey stood there as if her feet had sunk into wet cement, her mind replaying the last few minutes over and over in a dizzying loop.
The pantone mist still lingered faintly in the air, like an unwanted reminder of Romance’s casual claim over Mira. Her ears rang, her throat tightened, and her chest felt hollow yet painfully heavy at the same time.
It wasn’t just the kiss—no, it was the fact that Mira, the one she trusted to share everything with, had kept this from her. That secrecy, that choice to hide, burned sharper than the act itself.
She stared ahead blankly, but her peripheral vision caught the other Saja boys shifting on their feet. Their expressions said enough—none of them liked what had just happened. None of them knew how to handle it either.
Baby was the first to break the silence, though not with words. He let out a long, exhausted sigh that seemed to carry months of pent-up irritation.
In his mind, this was becoming a pattern—first Jinu and that Rumi girl, now Romance and Mira. Huntr/x girls were supposed to be the enemy, or at least off-limits, yet here they were again, tangled up in unnecessary drama.
He bit back the thought before it could leave his lips; voicing it now would only fan flames. Instead, his eyes flicked away, scanning the parking lot as if it might offer an escape from all this nonsense.
Mystery, however, stood slightly behind the others, his stance deceptively calm but the twitch in his lips betraying the truth.
He looked like a man standing in a room full of smoke, wanting nothing more than fresh air. The back-and-forth between Mira, Zoey, and Romance had dragged too long for his patience. His shoulders were loose, but the slight downturn of his mouth gave away his discomfort.
He didn’t want to pick sides—he didn’t even want to be here.
Abby, though… Abby’s reaction was the most complicated. On the surface, his smirk still played across his lips, the same trademark curve he used when he wanted to seem unbothered.
But his eyes—if anyone had looked close enough—told a different story. There was a sharp edge there, a flicker of hurt buried so deep he was determined no one would notice.
He’d known about his own attraction to Mira for a while now. Maybe Romance knew, maybe he didn’t—but either way, Romance had staked his claim first.
Abby told himself it didn’t matter. He’d already lost before he’d even begun, so what was there to be upset about? And yet, the ache was there, dull but unrelenting.
Masking it with the only weapon he had left—mockery—he glanced at Zoey.
She was standing there, her eyes glassy with tears that hadn’t yet fallen, her jaw trembling as she clenched it to keep her voice in check. That, oddly enough, mirrored exactly how he felt.
And so, Abby’s voice broke through her silence like a slap, sharp and cutting, a harsh derision that he hid behind the smirk he always wore.
“So, Zoey,” Abby drawled, his tone deliberately cruel, “how does betrayal feel like? Must be tasty, right?”
Zoey’s eyes snapped to him, brimming with angry tears that made her vision blur. The barb landed, sharp and deliberate.
She wanted to throw something back at him, something equally cutting, but her voice felt trapped in her throat, lodged like a shard of glass that would tear her apart if she forced it out.
She swallowed hard and blinked rapidly, fighting to keep the tears from spilling, but the pressure in her chest made her want to crumble.
Instead, she turned her gaze away from Abby, toward Mystery, silently begging for him to intervene—just one word, one deflection, anything to take the sting out of Abby’s words.
But Mystery didn’t bite. His expression didn’t change; his eyes slid past Zoey without lingering.
He stood, a stoic figure in the middle of all of this, his expression still a mask of indifference. His eyes still flickered briefly to Zoey, but there was no warmth there. No support. No sympathy.
He was just... uncomfortable.
If anything, the tension made him retreat further into himself. Without a word, he stepped forward, reached for the grocery bags in Abby’s hands, and took them with quiet finality.
Then, without looking back, he started walking in the opposite direction, his long strides a silent declaration that this scene was over for him.
Baby, after a quick glance between Zoey and Abby, followed immediately, his own tolerance for the drama long since depleted. He didn’t offer comfort or commentary—he simply fell into step beside Mystery, leaving Zoey and Abby in the thick of their unresolved emotions, the air between them heavy and unyielding.
She felt her body sag, the weight of it all pulling her down. She stood there, her thoughts swirling, too many emotions crashing into her all at once.
The hurt. The confusion. The overwhelming sense of betrayal.
She was alone in a crowd of people who should have cared, but didn’t.
Zoey didn’t even try to hide it anymore. The tears, hot and stinging, rolled down her cheeks in heavy streams, soaking into the edge of her hoodie before dripping onto the cracked pavement beneath her.
They came without sound at first, just a trembling in her shoulders and a shallow hitch in her breath—but the longer she stood there, the more her chest started to tighten, until she was shuddering, breath coming in small broken gasps.
Her hands went slack at her sides, and the plastic handles of her grocery bags slid from her fingers. The bags landed on the pavement with a dull thud, cans and boxes shifting inside, the faint rustle of plastic swallowed by the hum of the street.
The betrayal sat heavy in her gut, like a stone she couldn’t spit out. Mira—her Mira—hadn’t just kept a secret, she’d chosen Romance over her.
Romance, who had looked her in the eye and dismissed her like she was some stranger meddling in his affairs. Baby’s earlier sigh of disgust, Mystery’s cold avoidance, and Abby’s cutting jab—it all pressed in at once, an echo of abandonment from every direction.
And Abby’s words... they replayed in her mind like a cruel recording, “Must be tasty, right?”
Abby stood a few feet away, his smirk long gone. At first, he just stared, as if his brain couldn’t compute what he was seeing—Zoey breaking down in the middle of the street like this.
He’d expected her to snap back, maybe glare and storm off, not to crumple in silence and let her emotions pour out so openly. The guilt hit him like a sucker punch to the ribs, his earlier barb feeling heavier and sharper now, lodged somewhere in his throat.
He swallowed, fighting the instinctive discomfort that came with displays of raw human emotion.
Demons weren’t bred for softness—they weren’t supposed to be the shoulder someone cried on.
But watching her stand there, so small, so crushed, did something to him.
Against the ingrained pride that told him not to lower himself, he stepped forward.
His boots clicked against the pavement as he closed the distance, his movements tentative. When he finally reached her, he hesitated—hands halfway lifted—before gently touching her shoulder.
She didn’t flinch, just stood there, head bowed, tears dripping freely. Slowly, almost awkwardly, he guided her forward until her forehead rested lightly against his chest.
He could feel the tremor in her frame, the way her breath caught unevenly as if she was trying not to sob outright.
His demon instincts screamed at him to back away, to not make himself this vulnerable, but the guilt was louder. “...I’m sorry,” he said, voice low and rough, as if the words themselves were heavy to push out. “I’m... I didn’t mean that. I was being an ass.”
The apology came again, and then again, until it turned into a quiet repetition, almost like he was trying to wash away the sting of what he’d said.
He wasn’t sure if she even heard all of them—her face was still pressed into his shirt, dampening the fabric—but he kept saying it anyway.
After a moment, he cleared his throat, glancing around at the passersby whose curious eyes were starting to linger. His tone softened, carrying a rare note of uncertainty.
“Come on... Let me make it up to you. There’s a café around the corner. Or a restaurant. Whatever you want. My treat.”
It was part apology, part distraction, but entirely genuine.
And though his posture still carried that faint stiffness of someone unused to comforting, his hand stayed lightly on her shoulder, grounding her, as if silently telling her he wasn’t walking away.
…..
The bell above the restaurant door chimed softly as Abby held it open for her.
Warm air wrapped around them, carrying the unmistakable scent of simmering broth, sizzling scallion pancakes, and something deep and peppery that burned pleasantly at the back of the nose.
The interior was cozy but authentic—low wooden tables, paper lanterns casting a honeyed glow, and a wall adorned with faded photographs of families smiling over steaming dishes.
Somewhere in the kitchen, a wok hissed and clanged in rhythm with muffled Korean chatter.
Zoey shuffled inside with her hood still half-drawn, eyes red and puffy from crying, though the streaks of tears had mostly dried into faint salty lines along her cheeks.
She sniffled hard, shoulders slumped, but there was a flicker—just a flicker—of life in her gaze as the spicy scent of the food hit her. Her stomach betrayed her before she could even pretend otherwise, letting out an audible growl.
Abby noticed. Of course he noticed. And it tugged at the corner of his mouth—not quite a smile, but something close. He gestured toward a table tucked near the back. “Sit. I’ll order.”
When the waiter approached, Abby didn’t need to ask what she wanted. “Extra spicy ramen. Double the chili paste. And water. Ice.”
His voice was matter-of-fact, but his eyes flickered briefly to her, catching the way she perked up at the sound of the order. For himself, he didn’t order anything, just waved off the waiter’s polite insistence.
When the steaming bowl arrived, it was a spectacle. The broth gleamed a dangerous crimson, bobbing with thick noodles, slices of pork belly, half-moons of soft-boiled egg, and an unruly crown of bean sprouts and scallions. The surface shimmered with oil, the kind that left your lips tingling.
Zoey didn’t even bother with ceremony.
She picked up the chopsticks, twisted them into the nest of noodles, and slurped like a woman possessed. The broth splattered faintly against her hoodie, a strand of noodle sticking briefly to her chin before she wiped it away with the back of her hand.
Her eyes watered—not from sadness this time, but from the sheer spice—and she alternated between sniffling and gulping down water, only to dive right back in.
“I just—” she began between bites, voice trembling but gaining strength with each mouthful. “I thought Mira trusted me, you know? I’ve never—ever—betrayed her in my life. We’ve been through everything together. And she just—” She bit into a piece of pork belly, the words momentarily muffled, “—goes and chooses him over me. Like I’m some… some outsider meddling in her business.”
Abby didn’t say a word. He just sat across from her, hands folded loosely on the table, watching her with a stillness that wasn’t cold, exactly, but measured.
He could have told her he knew exactly how it felt—how once, not too long ago, he’d found himself watching someone he cared for choose another without hesitation. But he didn’t. She didn’t need his story right now; she needed her own to be heard.
And he was listening. Really listening.
The more she talked, the more her expressions shifted—a flash of anger, a flare of hurt, the occasional shaky laugh at her own misfortune.
She was a mess—tears clinging to her lashes, nose pink from both crying and chili heat, stray noodles threatening to escape her bowl—but she was also… something else.
Cute. That was the word that crept in before he could stop it.
He tilted his head slightly, leaning back in his chair.
What kind of silly goose cries her eyes out in the middle of the street and then immediately inhales ramen like it’s the cure to all life’s problems? he thought, watching her wrestle another bite of noodles into her mouth.
Her focus was absolute, like nothing existed but the food and the injustice she was unloading.
She wiped at her eyes with the napkin—more for the spice than the tears now—and he noticed how her lips curved just slightly when she talked about a good memory of Mira, as if she couldn’t help herself.
Even in this wrecked state, there was a stubborn warmth to her, a refusal to let bitterness fully consume her.
And there it was again—that quiet tug in his chest. The part of him that, minutes ago, had been awkward and stiff now found itself softening.
He caught himself smiling—not wide, not obvious, but enough that if she looked up, she might have noticed the faint shift in his expression.
Ridiculous, he told himself. Absolutely ridiculous. But the thought stayed anyway. This sobbing, slurping, utterly chaotic woman sitting across from him… was kind of adorable.
Even if he wouldn’t admit to it out loud.
Before stepping away, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out a neatly folded handkerchief.
It was a dark navy blue, embroidered at the corner with an intricate silver design. Without a word, he held it out to her.
Zoey hesitated—her fingers almost brushing his—but eventually took it, pressing it to her face. The soft fabric absorbed the last traces of broth clinging to the corners of her lips, as well as the faint stickiness of her tears. She mumbled, “Thanks,” her voice quiet, almost shy now.
Abby just gave her a small nod, taking the slightly damp cloth back without flinching, tucking it into his pocket like it was nothing.
He stood then, sliding his chair in with a quiet scrape, and moved to the counter to settle the bill.
Zoey watched him from her seat for a moment, taking in the way he stood—broad-shouldered yet casual, his movements deliberate, like he wasn’t in a hurry for anything or anyone.
She hadn’t noticed it before, but there was something oddly grounding about him in this moment, his broad back steady and reassuring to her.
When he came back, she followed him out into the street.
The night air outside the restaurant was cooler than Zoey expected, carrying with it the faint scent of sesame oil and charred meat from the kitchen vents behind them.
She stepped out with Abby at her side, her lips still tingling faintly from the ramen’s spice and her eyes faintly red from all the crying earlier.
She clutched her grocery bags a little tighter, unsure if the warmth she still felt was from the broth or from the strange, unexpected comfort of Abby’s silent company.
Abby, tall and composed despite the fact that his stomach hadn’t seen a single bite, held the door for her without saying much. His silence wasn’t awkward now—it felt intentional, like he was giving her room to breathe.
The glow from the restaurant’s neon sign painted their faces in a soft blue hue. She took a half-step closer and bent forward at the waist, her voice carrying a genuine weight of gratitude.
“Thanks… for listening. And for feeding me,” she said, her gaze flicking up at him.
Abby’s mouth curved into the faintest of smiles, the kind that was over before you could decide if you’d actually seen it.
“It’s what I should’ve done,” he replied casually, brushing it off like it was no big deal. “And… I’m sorry. For what I said earlier.”
She nodded slowly, her lips pressing into a small smile. It was subtle, barely there, but to Abby it was… dangerous.
Dangerous because it made something flutter in his chest—a reflex that shouldn’t exist in him. If he even had a heart.
In his head, though, the words slipped through before he could stop them, which did annoy him a bit.
Silly goose. That’s what she was. A ridiculous, stubborn, reckless little thing who didn’t know when to stay away from trouble—and apparently, trouble was him.
And yet… he found himself not wanting to look away.
He turned and began walking toward the far end of the street, hands shoved into his pockets. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to stay—it was that if he didn’t leave now, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to keep whatever this was from turning into something messier.
Behind him, Zoey lingered at the restaurant’s entrance, watching his figure retreat into the distance. She told herself to just turn around, go back to her penthouse, forget this whole bizarre night.
But something in her chest pulled taut, stinging as she watched him grow smaller in the distance. It wasn’t logic—it wasn’t even desire in its obvious form—it was a pull. Like there was an invisible thread between them, tugging her forward.
She took a step. Then another. Then she was moving faster, the sound of her boots tapping against the pavement.
“Abby!” she called out before she could overthink it.
He stopped mid-step, turning his head over his shoulder. The sight of her hurrying toward him, hair bouncing lightly with each step, her cheeks flushed from both the cold and the spice, hit him harder than he expected.
And then—there it was. That spark.
It wasn’t dramatic like in the movies, no blinding light or rush of heat. It was subtler—an unspoken click, like two puzzle pieces brushing together for the first time.
Abby didn’t move toward her, not yet. He stayed where he was, letting her close the distance herself. Letting her come at her own pace.
He couldn’t believe he was thinking this, couldn’t believe he was seeing her as anything more than an opponent in a rival band or a hunter who should keep her distance.
What are you doing running toward me like that? Don’t you know I’m the last person you should be chasing?
But even as he thought it, the corner of his mouth betrayed him again, tugging upward. Because deep down, maybe—just maybe—he wanted her to keep chasing.
And for the first time that night, he let the faintest smile touch his lips, quiet but genuine this time, as he thought again.
My silly goose.
…..
Notes:
Thank you for reading this far!
I hope you like how this is going so far <3
Chapter Text
Zoey jogged the last few steps toward him, her breath hitching, chest rising and falling from the sudden burst of movement.
The cool night air nipped at her cheeks, but the real heat came when his head turned toward her, those sharp, dark eyes locking on to hers with an intensity that made her spine straighten and her heart stumble.
He stood there, waiting, the faint streetlamp glow catching in his eyes. That piercing gaze locked onto hers, and whatever scraps of bravado she’d gathered during her dash evaporated in an instant.
Her lips parted, but the words tangled somewhere between her throat and her brain.
“I — uh — hi, I… uh… I was just — well, I thought maybe — uh, you know — ” she stammered, hands flailing in the space between them as if she could pluck the right words from the air.
“I, uh… wanted to — well, I mean — not exactly wanted, but more like — I wondered — well — ”
Abby’s head tilted slightly, his expression unreadable save for the barest twitch of amusement tugging at one corner of his mouth.
His mouth curved, just slightly, into something that wasn’t quite a smile but carried the warmth of one. The smallest chuckle escaped him, low and unhurried, as though he’d been expecting this tumble of syllables from her.
“Calm down, silly goose,” he said softly, the nickname slipping out before he could stop it. “Take a deep breath. Then try again.”
The sound of that quiet laugh and the last two — made her blink hard. Her chest tightened — not with irritation, but with the fluttery, infuriating feeling she refused to name.
Zoey inhaled deeply, then exhaled, cheeks flushed crimson — part embarrassment, part… something else entirely.
She kept her gaze somewhere near his collarbone, unwilling to meet his eyes again until she could control the way her stomach kept doing flips.
“I… I was wondering…” She cleared her throat, trying for nonchalance and failing miserably. “If maybe you’d like to… uh… take a stroll? In the park nearby? Or just on the road? Or I can work you to home… yeah that works! You know, as a — uh — as a way to, um, repay you for dinner. Or — uh — ramen. Which, technically, was dinner but — ”
She stopped herself before she started spiraling into another avalanche of words.
Abby raised one eyebrow, almost imperceptibly, that faint smirk ghosting over his lips again.
“You don’t have to think of it as a repayment,” he replied casually, tucking his hands into his pockets. I already told you, I was apologising for… being less than pleasant earlier.”
He started to turn slightly, the movement subtle but enough to send a jolt of panic through her. She waved her hands quickly, stepping forward before he could put any more space between them.
“No! I mean — not no to you apologising — well, yes to that, but no to you leaving — I mean — no, no, no — it’s not like that — well, it is, but not exactly — I just thought, you know, it’s the least I can do, since you — uh — ”
Her words stumbled out in a rush, the kind of unfiltered plea she would never admit was a plea.
Abby tilted his head slightly, watching her as if she were a curious little creature performing an elaborate, nonsensical dance just for him.
His gaze softened without him meaning it to, an ache curling deep inside him at the sight of her fumbling to keep him there.
In his head, he was already berating himself.
What are you doing, standing here letting her flail like an overexcited bird? She’s trouble. She’s a demon hunter. She should be the last person you let within arm’s reach, let alone invite herself along for a walk.
But there she was — eyes wide, cheeks pink, hands still half-lifted in some frantic attempt to convince him she wasn’t just making a fool of herself. And somehow, the more ridiculous she got, the more he wanted to see what she would do next.
My silly goose, he thought, the words stubbornly refusing to leave his mind this time.
He didn’t say it again out loud, though the corners of his mouth betrayed him with another tiny twitch.
He couldn’t quite believe it — he was there for a task — to steal human souls for Gwi-ma to feast on and get stronger, not to fall in love or something.
And here he was, standing in the glow of a streetlamp, finding a human girl’s nervous babbling adorable.
Zoey, still unaware of the exact thoughts running through his head, felt the pause stretch between them.
Every second he didn’t answer sent another small pang of worry through her — worry she refused to admit had anything to do with the possibility of him walking away. She wasn’t supposed to care this much. She shouldn’t.
And yet… she did.
Her eyes darted up to his face, searching. “So…?” she asked, trying to sound casual, but the slight quiver in her voice gave her away.
Abby held her gaze for a long moment, deliberately letting the silence linger just enough to make her fidget. Then, finally, he inclined his head. “Alright. A stroll it is.”
Her face lit up with something she tried to mask, but failed, and it caught him square in the chest. He fell into step beside her without another word, letting her set the pace, letting her think this was her idea, letting her come to him in her own stumbling, endearing way.
He said nothing for a while, and she didn’t push. Abby liked silence; she was learning that. But every so often, she caught the faintest sideways glance from him, as if he were checking to make sure she was still there.
And with each one, she felt herself falling just a little further — swiftly, silently, dangerously — toward something she wasn’t sure she’d survive.
And as they walked, his thoughts whispered again, almost fondly —
Silly goose. What are you doing to me?
…..
The night was too still for them to pretend this was just a walk.
Zoey could hear her own heartbeat in the silence, quick and uneven, matching the rhythm of her steps against the gravel path.
Abby was close enough that the faint swing of his coat brushed her arm now and then, a tiny, electric contact that should have meant nothing.
But each time it happened, it was like a spark lit beneath her skin. She fought the urge to step away, not because she didn’t want the contact, but because she wanted it too much.
Stop it, she told herself, eyes trained forward. This isn’t what you came here for. You’re not supposed to…
The thought refused to finish itself. Not when he was walking like that — slow, measured, as if he wanted her to keep pace forever.
Abby’s gaze drifted over her profile when she wasn’t looking. Her lips, pressed together as if holding back a hundred unsaid words.
The slight wrinkle between her brows. The little hitches in her breath whenever his sleeve grazed hers. He noticed everything. He always noticed everything.
And yet, he didn’t stop.
If anything, his steps edged just the tiniest bit closer until their arms weren’t just brushing — they were gliding against each other with each stride. Warmth pooled low in his chest, curling into something heavier, something he shouldn’t let take root.
Silly Goose. The nickname tasted different in his mind now. Sweeter. Darker.
They crossed into the park without a word, only the occasional sound of distant traffic and the low hum of cicadas in the grass.
The air smelled faintly of damp grass and night flowers, cool enough to make her fingers itch for warmth — and dangerously aware of the heat radiating from him.
Streetlamps painted long shadows over the path, but here and there, the light caught the edge of his jaw, his mouth. She forced her eyes forward.
The silence wasn’t awkward anymore — it was something else. Something taut and slow, like a bowstring drawn back to breaking point. One word would be enough to snap it. Neither dared to speak.
Her shoulder brushed his again. This time, he didn’t shift away. And neither did she.
Zoey’s fingers curled at her sides, restless. Say something. Anything. Make it normal again. But her lips wouldn’t move. Not with the weight of his presence soaking into her like this.
A bench waited under the low sweep of a willow tree, shadows hiding it from the rest of the path. “Maybe we could…” Her voice faltered before she could soften it. “…sit for a bit?”
Abby’s answer was a slow incline of his head. He let her lead the way, watching how she smoothed her sweatpants before sitting.
The willow’s branches swayed gently in the breeze, trailing shadows across her knees. She looked up at him, and he thought — just for a second — that she might bolt.
He didn’t give her the chance.
Stepping forward, he planted his hands on the bench at either side of her hips, leaning in until his coat hem brushed her knees.
Her breath caught, the sound tiny but sharp in the quiet.
His body wasn’t touching hers — yet — but the heat from him was unmistakable, inching into her space until it felt like she couldn’t take a full breath without drawing him in.
“You know…” His voice was low, smooth, but threaded with something that made her stomach dip. “…you really are a Silly Goose.”
Her lips parted, but no words came. The nickname — usually a tease — landed differently this time, heavier, intimate.
Abby tilted his head slightly, eyes locked on hers. “And you’re lucky…” His voice dropped to almost nothing, forcing her to lean the slightest bit forward to hear him. “…that I like Silly Geese.”
The smallest shift of his weight brought his knee between hers — not touching, but close enough that her skin prickled as if he had. His scent was warm in the cool air, his shadow draping over her, and the space between them felt thin enough to tear.
Zoey’s pulse thundered. She could move away. She could push him back. But her fingers, resting on the bench, curled into the wood instead, holding her exactly where she was.
And Abby noticed. Of course he did.
He let the silence stretch until it was unbearable, then leaned in — just enough for his breath to ghost over her cheek, for his lips to hover maddeningly near her ear.
“Careful, Silly Goose,” he murmured, slow, deliberate. “You stay this close… and I might not let you go.”
She swallowed hard, eyes darting anywhere but his. “I’m… always careful.”
A quiet laugh slipped from him, low and unhurried, the sound curling down her spine. “That’s the problem.”
He moved his left hand — slow, deliberate — resting it on the bench closer to her knee. Not touching. Just near enough that her skin tingled from the heat. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the seat as if anchoring herself.
Abby’s gaze swept over her, lingering too long on her mouth before meeting her eyes again. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. The weight of his attention was enough to unravel her.
The breeze shifted, carrying the faint scent of his cologne — something warm, spiced, with an edge she couldn’t quite name. It settled into her lungs like a warning and an invitation all at once.
Without thinking, she let her knee drift outward, letting his knee ease in the space between them. The movement was small. Barely noticeable. But Abby noticed.
His right hand lifted, slow enough for her to see every shift of his tendons in the dim light. He reached past her, brushing the edge of her hair as he caught a willow leaf that had slipped into her space.
The touch was so light it could have been an accident, but her skin burned where it grazed her temple.
He let the leaf sway free again, but his hand didn’t retreat all the way — it hovered beside her cheek, his thumb suspended just shy of touching her skin.
“Zoey,” he said quietly, as if tasting the name.
Her breath caught. The sound of it filled the small space between them.
If she leaned forward — just an inch — her mouth would be on his.
If he dropped his hand the tiniest fraction, his thumb would trace her jaw.
But neither moved.
The stillness throbbed between them, not fragile anymore but molten, like something that had been waiting far too long to break.
Abby’s lips curved — half-smirk, half-promise. “You’re going to make me do something reckless.”
And then, without warning, he let the space collapse — not with a kiss, but by brushing the side of his knee against hers. A deliberate, claiming touch. Warm. Solid.
It was nothing.
It was everything.
Zoey’s breath shivered out of her, her grip on the bench tightening so hard her knuckles ached.
Abby pulled back just enough to keep them on the edge, his eyes locked on hers like he’d memorized every flicker of hesitation, every unspoken yes.
The willow branches swayed again, and the world felt too small for both of them to walk away unchanged.
But she couldn’t do this anymore. Couldn’t sit in this furnace of almosts and stolen inches.
Before she could think, Zoey reached up, fingers curling into the lapel of his coat, tugging him down in one smooth, reckless pull.
Her mouth found his — urgent, decisive, but not sloppy — heat meeting heat as her restraint shattered completely.
Abby froze for the barest fraction of a second, stunned, and then he was kissing her back with that same molten patience that had been killing both of them all evening, his hands sliding to grip the bench tighter, as if keeping himself from dragging her fully against him.
She tasted warmth and something darker, something uniquely him. Her other hand slid to his jaw, thumb brushing the sharp edge of his cheekbone.
Abby moved in closer, his thigh pressing to hers, the rough catch of sweatpants fabric adding grit to the heat.
He deepened the kiss slowly, deliberately, as though he wanted her to feel every fraction of movement.
His hand skimmed down the bench’s backrest before hovering just above her hip, close enough to make her skin tense under layers of fabric.
Zoey shifted forward without breaking the kiss, her knees brushing his legs, the press of their bodies feeding a quiet frenzy.
Abby responded by tilting his head, changing the angle so his mouth could claim hers more fully, his tongue brushing hers in a teasing sweep that made her toes curl inside her shoes.
She gasped softly against him, and he caught that sound like a secret, pulling back just enough for his breath to ghost over her lips.
“You’re burning up, Silly Goose,” he said low, and the rough edge to his voice undid her all over again.
Zoey’s answer was to pull him back down, their mouths colliding harder this time. Her hand gripped the front of his coat, anchoring him in place while his fingers finally — finally — rested on her hip, thumb drawing slow circles that sent shivers straight down her spine.
The kiss stretched, softened, then flared again, a push and pull that neither seemed willing to end. When they finally broke apart, both were breathing hard, foreheads touching in the quiet beneath the willow’s shade.
Abby’s lips curved into a low, dangerous smile that looked a little too satisfied. “Guess careful was never your thing after all.”
Zoey groaned, already missing the feel of his lips around hers.
So, she didn’t just pull Abby down this time — she dragged him. Her fingers clawed at his coat, bunching the thick fabric until the seams protested, her breath ragged before their lips even met. When they did, the kiss was a mess of heat and need — fast, hungry, reckless.
Abby groaned low in his chest, the sound vibrating against her mouth as if he’d been waiting for her to snap like this.
He let her take the lead, let her devour him, standing perfectly still except for the subtle flex of his jaw against her lips. That sound — his satisfaction — only made her kiss harder, her teeth scraping his bottom lip before her tongue followed to soothe the sting.
She didn’t care how sloppy it was, didn’t care if anyone saw them. Her hands slid under his coat, palms flattening over his chest before tracing downward, mapping the hard ridges of his abs through his shirt.
His muscle shifted beneath her touch, and she could feel the faint tremor in him when her nails grazed lower.
Abby’s patience snapped like a taut string.
In a single shift of weight, he pressed her back into the bench, his hands bracketing her hips so firmly she felt the imprint of his fingers through her sweatpants.
His mouth moved on hers with deliberate, crushing precision — no longer letting her lead, but stealing the pace entirely.
Zoey gasped into him, her chest rising sharply, but he didn’t give her room to think. One hand slid up her side, tracing the dip of her waist, the flare of her ribs, and higher — his thumb brushing the underside of her breast in a touch that was both feather-light and devastating.
Her own breath broke on a whimper she hadn’t meant to let out, and that seemed to please him. His lips curved against hers — dark, knowing — before deepening the kiss again, slower this time, more dangerous. Every movement told her exactly who was in control now.
Zoey’s nails bit into his shirt at his sides, desperate for more, trying to drag him closer, to feel him without the frustrating barrier of clothes. She kissed him like drowning, like the taste of him was the only oxygen she had left.
Abby’s other hand ghosted over her hip, squeezing lightly before sliding upward, dragging the heat of his palm along the curve of her body. The subtle friction of his thumb against her side made her knees press together, tension coiling tight in her belly.
When he finally pulled back, his breath was uneven, but his eyes — darker now, almost dangerous — held her in place as surely as his hands had.
“You’re trouble, Silly Goose,” he murmured, voice a low threat that sent a shiver crawling up her spine. His thumb stroked lazily against her hip, a promise rather than a comfort.
And before she could catch her breath enough to answer, he kissed her again — hard enough to erase the last scrap of her restraint.
Abby shifted closer, the bench creaking under their weight as he slid both knees forward, prying her legs open with deliberate force until he was fully between them.
The pressure of his thighs against hers made Zoey’s breath hitch, and a quiet, shaky moan slipped past her lips before she could bite it back.
Her hands clenched around his shirt, gripping so tightly the fabric strained — then with one desperate pull, she tore the buttons loose, the sharp sound scattering into the air between their ragged breaths.
She didn’t bother pushing his coat or shirt off; instead, she pressed her palms straight to his bare skin where the gaping fabric allowed, roaming over the heat and solid muscle of his chest and torso. Her lips followed the path of her hands, feverish and uneven, tasting every inch she could reach.
Abby’s groan rumbled from deep in his chest, vibrating against her mouth when she kissed across it.
One hand slid up into her hair, fisting lightly as if he couldn’t decide whether to guide her or just hold her there. The other hand traveled with unhurried purpose, gliding from her waist upward until his palm cupped her breast through the fabric of her shirt and bra. He squeezed — light but unyielding — fingers flexing in a way that made her spine arch toward him.
Zoey’s lips brushed over his collarbone, then lower, pressing hot, scattered kisses against the planes of his torso. Her nails traced the lines of his abs before splaying wide against his skin, clinging to him like she couldn’t stand the idea of space between them.
Abby bent over her slightly, his breath rough against her hair. His hand in her hair tightened just enough to make her pause, his thumb stroking slowly over her clothed breast in a silent, dangerous sort of praise.
The weight of him between her legs, the steady pressure of his touch, and the low, satisfied sound in his throat all pressed against her until she was dizzy from it.
The air between them was thick with need, the kind that made Zoey’s skin prickle with anticipation.
Abby’s patience — once a carefully maintained facade — had worn thin, frayed by every teasing brush of her lips, every lingering touch she had pressed against him until now.
Enough.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he pushed her back, his hands firm against her shoulders until she was forced to stop and look up at him. His fingers slid beneath the hem of her shirt, the fabric riding up as his palms glided over the warm, smooth skin of her stomach.
She shivered at the contact, her hips jerking forward instinctively, but he ignored the silent plea, taking his time instead.
Her breath came in shallow, needy gasps, her body arching toward him, silently begging for more.
But Abby had always been patient — too patient — and now, with his control slipping, he intended to savor every second of her unraveling.
The shirt and bra were obstacles, but not the ones he bothered to unclasp. Instead, he pushed it up with deliberate roughness, the fabric and her shirt bunching messily just above her collarbone, exposing her breasts to the humid air.
Zoey gasped, her back arching instinctively, pressing herself harder against the unforgiving wood of the bench’s backrest. Her fingers dug into the armrest, knuckles whitening as she fought for balance — both physical and mental.
Abby didn’t give her time to adjust.
He bent down, pressing feather-light kisses along the swell of her right breast — everywhere except where she wanted him most.
His lips traced slow, sensual circles, teasing the sensitive skin just beside her nipple, feeling the way her breath hitched each time he got close — only to pull away again.
“Abby — ” she whined, her fingers tangling in his hair, trying to guide him where she needed him.
But he ignored her his hands now tracing the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips, before finally — finally — settling at the waistband of her trousers.
The groan that escaped her was delicious while her hips shifted restlessly, a sound of frustration and want that sent a thrill through him.
She cried out, her back arching sharply as pleasure shot through her. His tongue swirled around the stiff peak before he nipped at it lightly, just enough to make her gasp.
Just as quickly, he replaced the heat of his tongue with the light scrape of teeth, nipping just hard enough to make her jolt. His other hand kneaded her other breast possessively, just shy of pain, his fingers toying with the neglected nipple, rolling it between his fingertips until she was trembling.
All the while, his other hand trailed lower, fingers dipping beneath the fabric of her trousers, shoving them down along with her panties in one swift motion, the material pooling at her knees, trapping her legs just enough to keep her from spreading them fully.
Abby sucked harder, alternating between deep pulls and kittenish bites, each one drawing another desperate moan from her lips. His free hand slid down her inner thigh, fingers pressing into the soft flesh there, possessive and demanding.
The cool air against her damp skin should have been a shock, but all she could focus on was the slow, deliberate drag of his fingers along her inner thigh, teasing, taunting, before finally —
A sharp pinch.
She cried out, back bowing off the bench, her earlier self-consciousness obliterated by the sheer desperation clawing at her.
They were outside, that anyone could stumble upon them, but the thought barely registered — not when Abby’s mouth was working her nipple with relentless precision, not when his fingers were so close to where she needed them.
Abby’s fingers were relentless, tracing slow, maddening circles around Zoey’s soaked pussy, his touch just light enough to make her hips jerk forward in silent demand. But he denied her, his smirk deepening as he watched her thighs tremble, her body arching uselessly against his hand.
“Abby — ” she groaned, her voice thick with frustration.
“Hmm?” he hummed, feigning innocence, his fingertips brushing over her clit just to pinch it lightly — enough to make her gasp, but not enough to give her what she truly wanted. His other hand palmed his own cock through his pants, stroking lazily as he enjoyed the sight of her falling apart.
Zoey’s teeth gritted. “You’re such a fucking tease.”
He chuckled, low and satisfied, his thumb pressing down her labia in a slow, torturous drag. “And you’re so fucking pretty when you’re desperate.”
She whined, her hips bucking again, but he kept his fingers just outside her entrance, teasing the swollen, sensitive flesh. Every so often, he’d let a fingertip ‘slip’ — just barely breaching her, just enough to make her moan — before pulling back again, leaving her clenching around nothing.
“Abby, I swear to god — ”
“You’ll what?” he murmured, leaning in to nip at her earlobe. “Gonna bite me?”
She did. Her teeth sank into his cheek, sharp and punishing, but he only laughed, the sound vibrating against her skin as his fingers continued their torment.
Then, with a growl of frustration, Zoey suddenly slapped his hand away from himself, replacing it with her own. Abby’s breath hitched as her fingers wrapped around his cock, her grip firm, her strokes deliberate.
“Oh?” he breathed, arching into her touch. “Taking matters into your own hands, are we?”
“Well, someone has to!” she snapped, but her defiance was undercut by the way her own arousal dripped onto the bench beneath her, proof of just how much his teasing had wrecked her.
Abby let her take control, his head falling back as she worked him, her thumb swiping over his tip through his pants, smearing the precum in slow, slick circles.
He ran one of his hands through his hair, while his other hand still nestled into her plump thigh. His belt clinked as she unbuckled it, her fingers making quick work of his zipper before finally freeing his thick, veiny cock.
Her lips parted at the sight, her breath stuttering.
Abby smirked. “Like what you see?”
Zoey’s cheeks flushed, but she glared up at him. “I wouldn’t know until I have it inside me, but you — ” she squeezed him, making him groan, “ — are only teasing me!”
His grin turned wolfish. In one swift motion, he flipped her onto her stomach, bending her over the backrest with a firm hand between her shoulder blades. She gasped, fingers scrambling against the wood as he leaned down, his breath hot against her ear.
His gaze darkened as he took in the sight of her — her plump ass raised for him, her pussy glistening with arousal, untouched and tight. His cock throbbed at the sight, thick and heavy against his thigh, pre-cum beading at the tip.
She gasped, fingers scrambling against the wood as he leaned down, his breath hot against her ear.
“Let me grant your wish, then.”
And with that, he finally — finally — gave her what she’d been begging for.
With one swift, brutal motion, he sheathed himself inside her to the hilt.
Zoey’s breath hitched, then shattered into a sharp, broken cry as her body stretched around him.
Abby groaned, deep and guttural, his hands immediately gripping her hips hard enough to bruise. "Fuck — why is your cunt so tight?" he growled, his voice rough with lust.
Zoey clenched around him instinctively, her walls fluttering in protest at the sudden intrusion. "Y-You didn’t — ah! — finger me earlier, you Hulk!" she gasped, her cheeks burning at her own admission.
Abby barked out a laugh, the sound rich and dark, before delivering a sharp spank to her ass. The slap echoed through the trees, her flesh jiggling under his palm, already turning a delicious shade of red.
He bent over her, his chest pressing against her back, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he whispered, "I didn’t know we were in the stage of giving nicknames to each other."
Before she could retort, he thrusted — hard, deep, punishing — forcing a wanton moan from her lips as her back arched further, her body bowing under his dominance. "No complaints though," he murmured, nipping at her earlobe, "Silly Goose."
And then he picked up the rhythm.
No gentle build-up. No mercy. Just hard, relentless strokes, his hips pistoning against her ass with enough force to shake her entire body. The wet, obscene slap of skin on skin filled the air, Zoey’s pussy squelching around him, her arousal dripping down her thighs.
Zoey’s back arched, her spine a delicate curve pressing into Abby’s chest as his powerful arms wrapped around her, holding her flush against him. Every thrust of his hips sent shockwaves through her, her body trembling with the relentless rhythm of their coupling.
Her fingers twitched against his abdomen, her palm splayed over the hard ridges of his demon-marked abs, the heat of his skin searing into her touch.
The pads of her fingers traced the faint outlines of his pink and purple sigils, their glow intensifying as his power surged — each intricate pattern writhing beneath her fingertips like living ink.
She clung to him, grounding herself in the solidity of his form, in the way his muscles tensed and flexed with every deep, unforgiving stroke.
Abby’s breath was hot against her ear, ragged and heavy, his lips brushing the shell of it before trailing down to the sensitive column of her throat. His yellow-slit eyes burned in the darkness, pupils dilated with hunger, the demonic glow casting an eerie, seductive light over her flushed skin.
He watched her — watched the way her lashes fluttered, the way her lips parted around breathy, broken moans of his name — each syllable dripping with desperation.
His grip on her tightened — one large hand sliding up to palm her breast, his fingers kneading the soft flesh roughly before pinching her nipple between his thumb and forefinger.
She gasped, her head falling back against his shoulder, her mouth open in a silent cry as pleasure-pain lanced through her.
The other hand continued its assault on her ass, altering between spanking her again and again and gripping her hip, his claws — just barely retracted — digging crescent marks into her skin, branding her with the evidence of his possession.
The sharp stings only fueling her pleasure. Her skin burned, her body ached, but she loved it — loved the way he manhandled her, the way he took exactly what he wanted, as if she were his to claim.
“You take me so well,” he growled against her throat, his voice a dark rumble that vibrated through her very bones.
"Abby — !" she moaned, shameless, loud, not caring if the entire park heard her.
He growled in response, his thrusts growing even more brutal, his cock spearing into her with precision, hitting that sweet spot inside her with every snap of his hips. "You like this, don’t you?" he rasped, his breath hot against her neck. "Being fucked like this? Taking my cock like you were made for it?"
Zoey couldn’t even form words — just gasped, nodded, one hand tangling in his hair, the other pressing back against his thigh, her nails biting into his skin as if she could pull him even deeper.
Her thighs trembled, her toes curling as the coil in her belly wound tighter, her breath coming in short, frantic gasps, “F-faster — please, I need — I need more — ”
Abby snarled, his demonic instincts surging at her pleas. He obliged without hesitation, his thrusts turning punishing, his hips snapping forward with enough force to jolt her entire body. The bench beneath them creaked in protest.
His other hand moved between her legs with practiced precision, his fingertips tracing tight, maddening circles over her clit. Not fast, not slow — just relentless, the pressure just shy of unbearable, until her thighs trembled and her breath came in ragged, whimpering pants.
“Fuck — fuck — ” she choked out, her nails scraping down his abdomen before her fingers finally found his balls, cupping them with a possessive greed.
She rolled them gently in her palm, then squeezed — just enough to make his hips buck against her, his cock twitching in response.
A deep, guttural sigh escaped him — pure male satisfaction, raw and unfiltered.
His lips crashed against hers in a sloppy, open-mouthed kiss, their tongues tangling, their saliva mixing in a filthy, wet slide that left both their faces slick with it. She could taste herself on his tongue, could feel the way his breath hitched when she sucked lightly on his lower lip.
His hand drifted lower now, fingers finding her swollen clit, rubbing tight, insistent circles that had her thighs quivering. The dual stimulation was maddening — his cock filling her to the hilt, his fingers teasing her most sensitive spot — and she could feel the coil of her orgasm winding tighter, tighter —
Then it tore through her with a force that left her seeing stars, her walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses, milking his cock as she cried out his name. The intensity of it had her writhing, her legs locking around his thighs as if to keep him buried inside her forever.
He wasn’t far behind. With a guttural groan, he buried himself to the hilt, his release spilling into her in thick, hot spurts. His fingers dug into her hips hard enough to leave bruises, his demon markings flaring brighter as pleasure overtook him.
When it was over, Zoey collapsed against the park bench’s backrest, limp, her chest heaving, her skin flushed and gleaming with sweat. Her eyes — half-lidded, utterly sated — met his, and he smirked, his own gaze darkened with lingering lust.
Slowly, almost reverently, he dragged his fingers over her body — trailing along the reddened marks he’d left on her hips, the faint bruises blooming on her inner thighs, the sticky mess between her legs. Every touch was a claim. A memory.
A slow, possessive smile curled his lips as he leaned down, capturing her mouth in a deep, languid kiss. Their tongues tangled lazily, tasting each other, savoring the aftermath of their shared ecstasy.
And when his thumb brushed over her swollen clit one last time, just to watch her jolt and whimper, he knew —
This wouldn’t be the last time.
"Next time, Silly Goose," he murmured, "I’ll remember to finger you first."
…..
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! I hope you liked how it turned out <3
P.S.: Wdym I got a nasty eye infection AND writer's block at the same time XD?! But yeah I did, and doctor asked me to lay off my screen for at least a week. So that's what I'm gonna do, unfortunately so. But dw, I'll be right back! And also there may be some teensy mistakes here and there, so let me know if I made any (although I checked it a lot of times even in my woozy state). But yeah, that's all.
Enjoy!
Chapter Text
Rumi screamed in fear, her voice piercing through the thick air of the arena. Mira and Zoey’s figures loomed over her, their movements synchronized, almost theatrical, as they circled her on the stage, shoving her back and forth with practiced cruelty. Their voices rang sharp, unwavering, as they sang “Takedown” — their tones slicing into her like blades, every lyric feeling like an accusation hurled at her deepest fears. Rumi’s chest tightened as her heartbeat rose to a painful thrum.
Her mind spiraled. Do they know? Did they find out? The way their eyes seemed to bore into her, the way the song suddenly felt like it was meant for her — it was too much. Her fear erupted into a raw scream that cracked the performance in half.
And then, as if summoned by her panic, the stage-lights above exploded with a burst of sound and sparks, shattering into darkness. The audience gasped — sharp intakes of breath, murmurs that carried confusion and disgust, and then rising waves of screams. Rumi’s bloodshot eyes darted into the shadowed crowd, her vision blurred by both fear and the hot sting of tears. Every sound reached her like daggers — mockery, rejection, the collapse of everything she had worked to hide.
She could no longer stand it. Her body, trembling and cold, lurched into motion. Without thought, she ran. She bolted offstage, nearly tripping down the back stairs in her frantic rush. Her lungs burned, dragging in shallow, panicked breaths, her mind screaming with a storm of thoughts — They know. They must know. They saw. They’ll never forgive me. The sense of loneliness pressed like an iron weight against her ribs, suffocating, unrelenting.
But then — two shadows waited at the bottom of the stairs. Mira. Zoey.
Rumi stumbled to a halt, her breath catching in her throat. The heat of panic and the cold sweat clashed on her skin, leaving her shaking all over. “What?... How are you here? You were just on stage...” Her voice cracked under the confusion, words spilling like broken glass.
Mira and Zoey froze, their bodies taut, eyes wide.
“That wasn’t you? Oh, thank goodness.” Rumi exhaled a trembling laugh of relief, her chest sagging as though her weight had momentarily been lifted. For a fleeting second, her fear broke open into hope. She stepped forward, reaching instinctively towards them — but they stepped back.
That tiny retreat crushed her. Their posture was guarded, shoulders closed in, their eyes staring at her not with the warmth of friendship but with disbelief, pain, betrayal. Rumi’s stomach churned, the ground tilting beneath her.
And then she saw it — the faint glow. She glanced down. Her hands. The pink and purple patterns, etched across her skin like cruel confessions, stood vivid and undeniable under the dim backstage lights. Her heart sank.
“No, no... no, no...” She whispered in horror, her arms wrapping around herself, desperate to shield the truth that no longer could be hidden. She rubbed at the marks, frantic, as if sheer will could erase them. Her whole body shook with the futility of it.
Zoey’s voice came, low and breaking, a tremor buried in her skepticism. “How... do you have patterns?”
Rumi froze, her lips trembling. The sound of Zoey’s pain cut through her, more vicious than any blade.
“These were supposed to be gone... You were not supposed to see!” Rumi murmured, her voice unraveling, her throat thick with the weight of shame. Her hands trembled harder, clawing at her own skin, as though she could strip the truth from her flesh.
“You were hiding this from us. this whole time?” Mira’s voice hit harder — disbelief laced with sharp edges of anger, of hurt. Her eyes were wide, trembling with the fracture of trust, and still hardening into a mask of cold betrayal. The disbelief was not just at Rumi’s secret, but at the audacity that their bond had been built on a lie.
“No, I have a plan to erase these... Jinu was supposed to... I... he was...” Rumi stammered, her words spiraling out, fragments of desperation. The name slipped past her lips before she could hold it back.
Mira stiffened. Zoey’s brows furrowed, her heart pounding at the name she had always suspected. “Jinu? You’re working with him?”
Her voice sharpened with realization, but beneath it lay the raw wound of betrayal. The threads tied between them — their battles, their trust, their secrets whispered in the dark — all trembled at the brink of collapse.
“No, no, no!” Rumi cried, her arms flailing in panicked denial. “I was using him to fix all this! To fix me! So we could all do our duty!” Her words poured out rapid, frantic, her body bending, hands outstretched as if to physically hold onto the fraying bond between them. Her voice cracked, her desperation naked. “We could all be strong... Be together!”
But Zoey cut through her pleading with trembling steel. “How can we be together if we can’t tell your lies from your truth, Rumi?” Her voice broke at the edges, her chest heaving as tears burned in her eyes. Her trust in Rumi — once unshakable — had been fractured into a thousand unfixable shards.
“I knew it.” Mira’s voice fell, heavy and grim, like a door slamming shut. She looked down, her jaw tight, her eyes glistening though she refused to let them spill. “I knew it was too good to be true.”
“Mira, no! Didn’t you see? See the gold? We’re so close!” Rumi’s voice trembled, clawing for hope. She lifted her marked hands, pointing desperately to the memory of the honmoon, the night when the blue had shimmered on the edge of gold. Her belief bled through every syllable, raw and furious, but it only bounced against the wall of disbelief surrounding them.
Both Mira and Zoey stepped back again, retreating not just with their feet but with their hearts. Their heads bowed, heavy with the agony of duty, the inevitability of what they must choose.
“No... don’t leave...” Rumi’s plea cracked, her tears threatening to spill. She stepped forward, reaching for them as though they might still turn back. Her chest heaved, her voice shrill with despair. “Don’t leave! I can still fix this!”
But her words dissolved into a shudder as the demonic voice beneath her own bled through. It tore from her throat unbidden, wrapping around her desperation like venom, sending pink waves pulsing through the honmoon. The energy rippled and twisted, betraying the human she clung to, unveiling the demon clawing for control.
Rumi froze, realization slicing through her. Her eyes lifted, wide and wet, pleading like a child cornered. Her knees buckled beneath her, palms pressed against them as though the weight of exposure, of shame, had finally crushed her.
Mira and Zoey looked at her with broken hearts. Not just as hunters sworn to duty, but as sisters torn apart by betrayal. Their pain was raw, heavy, etched across their faces — every ounce of love for her colliding with the burden of what must be done.
Mira’s hand trembled as she lifted her Gok-Do, the blade gleaming with deadly intent. The finality of the gesture carved through Rumi. She looked at Mira in disbelief, her tears burning hot as she realized there was no longer room for forgiveness.
Her eyes darted to Zoey, desperate. The last thread, the last hope. Zoey stood frozen, her Shin-kal heavy in her hands, her chest rising and falling with violent hesitation. Rumi’s eyes locked onto hers, wide, pleading, earnest. She begged silently, begged with everything she had left.
“Zoey, please...” Her voice cracked open, bare and raw, a sob spilling into the words. Tears streaked down her cheeks, unrestrained, her heart breaking in front of them both.
Zoey closed her eyes, her entire body quivering with the torment of choice. She could not look at Rumi’s devastation and still raise her blade — but duty screamed louder. Slowly, painfully, she opened her eyes again, now dulled with grim surrender. Without looking at Rumi, she lifted her Shin-kal, her arms steady though her heart was breaking apart.
Rumi’s breath shattered. Her last hope extinguished before her eyes. She saw it — the end in their resolve, the death of trust, the death of love.
She turned, body trembling, and ran. Ran with the weight of despair crushing her lungs, the sting of betrayal cutting into her back, the unbearable loneliness flooding her veins. She fled to the only one left — the one who could still face her, still give her answers.
The one who hadn’t abandoned her. At least not yet.
…..
“Jinu! Jinu!”
Her voice echoed, desperate and ragged, as she stumbled through the labyrinth of the backstage corridors. The air was heavy with dust, faint wires buzzing above her, the sound of her shoes slapping against the floor lost in the pounding of her frantic heartbeat. Her throat burned, every cry of his name carrying the weight of terror and need. “Jinu! Where are you?!”
The world had shrunk to her desperation, her vision blurred with tears that refused to stop spilling. She turned sharply to the left, down a narrow, dim-lit pathway that led into a shadowed opening, dark and uncertain. She did not care where it led — her body, her soul dragged her toward it, screaming for the one person who could still tether her. “Jinu!”
And there he was.
She froze mid-step. Jinu stood in the gloom, his tall frame composed, his expression unreadable. By his side — two figures. Her stomach twisted as recognition clawed her chest. Mira. Zoey. The ones who had danced Takedown with her, who had pushed her, shamed her, twisted her into fear. But something was wrong — terribly wrong. Their presence here, beside Jinu, shattered the ground beneath her.
Her breath grew jagged, her hands trembling as she advanced toward him. Anger laced with betrayal burned in her veins. Her steps were steady now, purposeful, but her voice — her voice was a low snarl, edged with hurt so deep it made her body quake.
“Say you didn’t do this.”
The words cut the silence, and her glare could have pierced through steel.
Jinu did not flinch. He simply raised his hand, flicking his fingers with a detached ease. The air shimmered, and the forms of Mira and Zoey dissolved like smoke unraveling into nothing. In their place, grotesque shapes emerged — twisted demons with hollowed faces and snarling jaws. Their deception lingered only a second before they, too, dissipated, vanishing into the pantone hollow with a hiss that stank of endings.
Rumi’s heart clenched. She turned her fury back on him, her hands shaking violently. “How could you do this?” Her voice broke, nearly giving way to another scream. She slammed her hands against his chest, pushing hard. But his body did not budge. He stood solid, unyielding, like a wall that would not crumble no matter how much she threw herself against it.
“It was all a lie.”
Jinu’s words dropped like stones into an abyss. His eyes held nothing — no warmth, no kindness. His voice, once the one that had reached her in her darkest hours, now sounded hollow, drained of all but coldness.
Rumi staggered back a step, her face twisting with disbelief, denial clawing up her throat. “It was real, what we had was real, I know it was!” she growled, her voice vibrating with desperation. Her chest heaved with every breath, her fists trembling at her sides. She needed him to take it back. Needed him to tell her she wasn’t losing the last piece of herself.
“The things I said? I just needed you to trust me, that’s all.”
The words, so casual, so dismissive, ripped through her. He turned, already shifting to leave her standing in the ruin of her faith.
“No,” she whispered, almost choking on her tears, and reached out. Her hand seized his wrist, her grip iron despite her shaking fingers. “No, I know your story... You were a good person, and you still are... You just made a mistake!”
Her voice cracked, every syllable breaking under the weight of her pleading. Her eyes searched his face, frantic, clinging to the fragments of the boy she had once believed in.
“I left them!”
The words tore out of him in a guttural growl, his deep, husky demonic voice shaking the walls. His eyes — once soft and human — flared with yellow slits, glowing, dangerous. For a moment it seemed he would let the demon within consume him entirely. But he restrained it, holding it back with a shudder.
“That’s right, I lied to you.”
He moved closer, his glare sharp as blades. Rumi instinctively stepped back, her breath catching. His voice thundered with fury, with shame that had rotted for years. “I only made a deal with Gwi-ma to get myself out of that miserable life!”
His words came like fire, searing her ears, his chest heaving with fury and despair. His memories crashed down on him — on both of them. He saw them in flashes, violent and merciless. His mother, worn and frantic, dragging his little sister by the arm, the girl crying and reaching desperately toward him. Her hands stretched wide, her little body writhing in her mother’s grip, screaming his name as the palace gates slammed shut, barring her from him forever.
And then — another memory. Himself, seated at the palace banquet table, laughter spilling from his lips, his hands full of food. He had drunk, laughed, reveled in the luxury bought with betrayal. In the golden plates, in the laughter of his new companions, he had seen his reflection — the face of someone who had abandoned everything.
“I left my sister, my mother, alone, while I slept in silk sheets in the palace with my belly full every night!” Jinu’s voice cracked, rising into a roar, but beneath it — so deep beneath — it bled with grief.
The images suffocated him, drowning him in the weight of what he had done. He staggered, his eyes wet, his body trembling as if the memories themselves tore into him. His lips quivered, his voice lowering into broken repetition.
“I left them... I left them...” His face crumpled, tired, his strength draining with the admission. Warm tears spilled down his cheeks, slipping into the hollows of a face carved by agony.
Rumi’s own tears blurred her sight, her heart breaking with him, for him. “But that’s not all you are... This is just your demon talking... You have to fight it!” she cried, her voice rising, grasping, desperate to salvage him — and herself.
“That's not how it works!”
His voice cracked the air, a violent snap of finality.
“Yes, it is!” she screamed back, her voice splitting, the sound raw and jagged. The honmoon pulsed again, pink waves rippling through it, each one a brutal testimony that the demon inside her was no longer silent. Her human voice was slipping, her demon side bleeding into her every word.
Even her left eye seem to have given up on her humanity, instead seeping into the sickening yellow hue with the demonic slit.
Jinu’s gaze softened only slightly, his head lowering as he watched her unravel. His shoulders slumped, his face tightening in an expression caught between a grimace and a bitter smile. His next words were a whisper, but they struck her harder than any scream.
“Listen to yourself. Is it working?”
The air went still. His whisper curled in her ears, cruel and tender all at once.
He lifted his gaze, resignation etched deep in the lines of his face. “You are a demon, just like me. All we get to do is live with our pain, our misery. That’s all we deserve.”
Final. Absolute.
Rumi’s throat closed, her eyes fixed on him, wide and broken. She shook her head, staring down as her tears streamed unchecked. She couldn’t believe it — not this, not now. That everything, everything she had clung to, could vanish in a span of moments.
Jinu’s form shimmered, the air around him quaking as the pantone hollow opened, its eerie light swallowing him whole. His eyes lingered on her — sad, resigned, apologetic and cold all at once.
And then, he was gone.
The hollow sealed, the silence deafening. Rumi stood there, trembling, hollowed out, her arms limp at her sides. She stared at the space he had vanished into, unable to breathe, unable to believe.
Her tears fell freely now. Every breath hurt. Every second stretched into eternity.
She had lost everything.
Rumi walked slowly, each step heavier than the last. The honmoon behind her cracked and splintered, its once-brilliant light bleeding into darkness with every movement she made. The fractures spread like veins across the sky, the sacred shield unravelling in response to her turmoil. She did not look back — she could not. Every piece of her felt hollow, drained, as though the weight of her own existence pressed down to bury her.
Her path led her to Celine.
Celine stood with her back turned, gazing at the towering trunk of a tree that stretched into the shadows above. Its roots, thick and gnarled, twisted out of the soil like scars of time. There was a stillness to her posture, but when she sensed movement behind her, she was quick as ever. Her hand darted, clutching her sickle, and with a sharp growl she whirled around — feral, defensive.
Her eyes widened.
“Rumi?”
The weapon trembled in her grip, her voice colored with disbelief. Her eyes narrowed, trying to make sense of what she saw. The patterns on Rumi’s skin glowed, pink and purple, sharp and undeniable in the dim light. Her face betrayed confusion, but not horror — not grief. Only the recognition of a truth she had feared would come to pass.
Rumi’s head hung low, her hair shadowing her tear-streaked cheeks. Her voice was brittle, emptied of hope. “I thought I could fix it all... Fix me... But I ran out of time...”
The sickle slipped from Celine’s hands, falling soundlessly to the earth. She stood frozen, her mouth parted in silence, as if the words had stolen the air from her.
Rumi stepped closer, hesitant, her feet dragging, each movement like the cautious tread of a wounded child. “They saw, they know, there’s no denying it now... This... is what I am...”
Her murmurs were soft, broken, as she drifted forward.
“Rumi, no...” Celine began, her voice rising defensively, but Rumi’s pain cut sharper.
“You knew I was a mistake from the very start...”
Her words trembled as she collapsed to her knees before Celine. The force of her anguish bent her, broke her, until she could do nothing but bow her head. Her hands, shaking violently, raised her Sa-in-geom — the very blade she had sworn to wield in defense of their world — and she offered it up.
Her voice cracked, pleading, desperate. “Do what you should have done a long time ago... before I destroy what I swore to protect.”
Her chest heaved as her voice twisted, the demonic tone swelling out of her throat. “Please, do it!”
The pink waves shuddered outward again, visible, undeniable, bleeding into the already fragile honmoon.
“Rumi!” Celine gasped. She surged forward, knocking the sword from Rumi’s hands with a sharp motion. Her body dropped low, crouching in front of her, hands grasping Rumi’s shoulders — not with violence, but with a forced gentleness that carried the same weight as shackles. “I can’t! When we lost your mother, I swore to protect all that was left of her.”
Her breath faltered, tears forming at the edges of her eyes, glistening but refusing to fall. She let them linger like props, a performance on the verge of collapse. Her lips quivered as she whispered, “But I never thought that... that would be a child like you...”
Her hand lifted, hovering near Rumi’s cheek, yet it hesitated, recoiling as if the glowing patterns were poison. Her disgust, carefully hidden beneath the veil of pity, slipped through in the way her fingers trembled but never touched.
“Everything I was taught, told me you were wrong,” Celine continued, her voice softer now, heavy with practiced sorrow. “But I made a promise. So I did my best to accept you and help you.”
Her eyes searched Rumi’s face with an expression that begged for sympathy, for understanding. But to Rumi, the words struck like knives.
“Accept me?” Rumi’s voice rose, trembling with fury. “You told me to cover up, to hide!”
“Yes! Until we can fix everything... And we still can!” Celine pressed on quickly, desperate to smother the fire before it spread. She reached for her shawl, pulling it around Rumi with brisk movements, covering the glowing scars with a false tenderness. “We can cover those up and put everything right again. I’ll tell Mira and Zoey that it was all a lie, an illusion by Gwi-ma to break us apart.”
“No! No more hiding! No more lies!” Rumi roared, her voice shattering into both rage and despair. She ripped the shawl from her body, throwing it to the ground as though it burned her.
Celine flinched, raising her hands in mock surrender, her tone dipping into pleading once again. “Rumi, we can still fix this...”
“Don’t you get it? This, is what I am!” Rumi’s scream shook the air. Her hands flared open, motioning to herself — her glowing scars, her marked skin, her real self exposed. Her voice cracked as tears streaked her face. “Look at me... Why can’t you look at me?! Why couldn’t you love me?!”
The words tore out of her, begging for an answer she already knew.
“I do!” Celine snapped, eyes squeezed shut, her voice loud but trembling. She took a step backward, as though distance could protect her from the truth radiating off Rumi.
“All of me!” Rumi cried, her voice splitting with anguish. The honmoon groaned again as pink waves erupted outward, louder, stronger, undeniable.
Celine’s face paled as her voice broke into a near-yell, brittle and desperate. “This is why we have to hide it... Our faults and fears must never be seen. It’s the only way to protect the honmoon!”
Rumi stared at her, her breath ragged, her eyes hollow with defeat. Her tears dripped freely now, her last fragments of strength dissolving into the dirt beneath her knees. Her hands trembled as she reached for her Sa-in-geom, lifting it slowly from the ground. She clenched it tightly, her voice cold and final, shaking with determination.
“If this is the honmoon I’m supposed to protect, I’m glad to see it destroyed.”
Her words struck like thunder, her gaze steady and unflinching.
Celine gasped, her eyes wide, horror painted across her face. For once, her mask cracked — raw shock shining through as she realized Rumi would not be bound by her manipulations, her empty promises, her conditional love.
And then Rumi was gone.
The pink hollow opened, engulfing her completely, swallowing her trembling body into its void. The space around them collapsed into silence, the honmoon trembling violently in response to her departure.
Celine fell to the ground, her knees striking the earth. Her hands pressed weakly against the dirt, her lips parted in disbelief. Her entire body trembled, not with grief — but with the crushing realization that her control had slipped away.
Her eyes were wide, unblinking, as if the world itself had betrayed her. For years, her words had chained Rumi, had bent her into silence, had forced her into shame. For years, she had believed her voice was enough to bind her.
But this time — it hadn’t worked.
And the silence left in Rumi’s absence rang louder than any scream.
.....
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! Hope you enjoyed it <3
P.S.: No I'm not dead, and no I didn't forget y'all lol. Life just as a way of making things super different and if you have a luck like me, you better start wearing lucky charms XD
Chapter 8: Where The Monster Bloomed Softly
Summary:
There's a new song waiting for you to sing along ≽^˵-⩊-˵^≼
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The night air was thick with the pulse of honmoon, its pink ripples scattering like cracks through the sky, weakening the barrier that once kept demons at bay. The shadows breathed, heavy and waiting, as though the whole world held its breath before the feast.
“Well done, ready to forget it all?” Gwi-ma’s voice roared from the back, shaking the already fragile silence. His tone was both mocking and commanding, sharp as the flames that crowned his head, greed curling in every word.
Jinu stood tall, draped in the full black hanbok set, every thread marked with demonic sigils that glowed pink and purple. His transformation was complete now, his eyes no longer human but slitted yellow, burning like two blades in the dark.
On the surface, he looked unshaken—composed, detached, the very image of a demon who had surrendered everything to power. But the stillness around him was not peace; it was the silence of resignation, the quiet of someone who had accepted damnation with no turning back.
He lowered his gaze, not to Gwi-ma but to the memories that gnawed inside him. His mind betrayed him, replaying scenes like cruel theatre: his mother’s voice crying out as the palace gates slammed shut, his sister’s small arms outstretched, clawing for him as soldiers dragged her away. He remembered his laughter with his noble companions, silk sheets and fine wine drowning out the echo of his family’s hunger.
And then—Rumi. Her voice calling his name backstage, raw with desperation. Her hand gripping his wrist, refusing to let him go. Her tears as she begged him to fight the demon within. Her pain when he told her all they had was a lie.
It should have been easy to forget. That was the deal. Yet the ache inside him only deepened, pressing against the armor of his new self.
“Good. I’m ready to feast,” Gwi-ma continued, flames swelling higher as his monstrous form stirred. He sounded eager, restless, like a beast at the brink of slaughter. But he stopped when he realized Jinu had not moved, had not spoken.
Instead, a soft shuffle of steps broke the tension. Derpy, the tiger, padded forward silently, golden eyes solemn. The beast nudged Jinu’s hand with its head, as though sensing the hesitation in him. Jinu stiffened as he felt something press into his palm—Rumi’s bracelet, caught gently between Derpy’s teeth.
The cool metal sat in his hand like a ghost of her touch. He stared down at it, silent, his lips curving into the faintest, most bitter of smiles. A snicker escaped him—not of joy, but of disbelief at the irony. Even now, even after betrayal, after severing himself from her, she still reached him in ways that broke him.
He could feel the honmoon’s pulse through the air, weakening more with each passing second. His betrayal had fueled it. He had given the demons exactly what they needed. And yet, the thought that she had been part of this collapse—still fighting, still tied to him—lodged itself in his chest like a thorn.
He had betrayed her, yes. But perhaps in doing so, he had betrayed himself more.
The stillness cracked. His voice, when it came, was low, heavy, carved from the very pit of his chest. “Wait…”
The word rolled out like a stone dropped into silence.
Gwi-ma groaned, his flames flaring in impatience. “What now? Your demands never end, do they?” His frustration simmered into something darker—fear masked as irritation. He had thought Jinu was molded, finished, unshakable. Yet here he was, stalling again. Always stalling. Always resisting in ways Gwi-ma had not anticipated.
Jinu’s eyes lifted, sharp and unblinking, though his voice remained measured, steady as a blade resting against skin. “I refuse to forget… her.”
And with deliberate slowness, he took the bracelet from Derpy and slid it onto his wrist. The threads felt like fire against his skin, branding him not with weakness, but with memory. With choice.
Gwi-ma clicked his tongue, the flames rising higher in mocking arcs. “Her? Oh Jinu, Jinu, you’re so gone. Gone in love, no less. How pathetic.” The mockery bit deep, but beneath it lay unease. Gwi-ma knew love was a dangerous thing—it made mortals defy gods, and demons claw against their chains.
But Jinu did not rise to the taunt. He stood silent, still, letting the word pathetic hang in the air without flinching. His silence was not surrender. It was defiance of another kind—refusing to let Gwi-ma strip Rumi from him.
Gwi-ma hissed, the sound like fire lashing against stone. Still, begrudgingly, he yielded. “Fine. I’m granting you the wish. But get me the souls first.”
The words dripped with disdain, with a reluctant concession.
Jinu nodded, his face expressionless, yet his eyes—those burning slits—shifted toward the horizon. He could see the masses gathering at Namsan Tower, lights flickering against the night sky, their laughter and anticipation ignorant of what awaited them. Thousands of souls. The feast he was to deliver.
On the surface, he was the perfect demon: detached, cold, efficient. But deep beneath, love and longing twisted within him, a quiet war he refused to let die. He would serve the feast, perhaps. He would carry out the mission. But he would not forget her. Not her voice. Not her touch. Not her.
And in that choice lay the ember of rebellion—the kind that could burn empires from the inside out.
…..
In stark contrast to the bustling crowd at Namsan Tower—lights flickering, laughter threading into the dark sky, and thousands of voices carrying the bliss of ignorance—Rumi stood alone.
The earth beneath her was damp with summer dew, but it might as well have been ashes. The graveyard was silent, except for the rustling of wind through tall grass, and the single name carved into the weathered stone before her: her mother’s. Rumi’s knees pressed into the dirt, her hands trembling as she placed them against the cold surface of the grave. She had been here countless times before, but tonight felt different. Tonight she was unraveling.
Her chest heaved as the scream tore out of her throat, raw and guttural, a sound more demonic than human. It split through the quiet graveyard, shattering the calm like glass. The air around her quivered, and the honmoon rippled violently in response, weakening further under the weight of her grief. She didn’t care. She couldn’t care.
“Why?” Her voice cracked as the question ripped out of her. “Why did you even have me? Why did you bring me into this world if you were just going to leave?”
Her fingers clawed at the gravestone, nails scraping against stone until they bled. Tears streamed down her cheeks, hot and unrelenting, burning her skin as though even her sorrow was corrosive.
“You left me with nothing!” she shouted, her voice breaking into an ugly sob. “No father, no family, no one who even looks at me like I belong!”
She fell forward, pressing her forehead to the gravestone, the cold seeping into her skin. Her body shook with the force of her sobs.
“Was I a mistake?” she whispered hoarsely. “Did you regret me that much? Was I just something you couldn’t love, something you had to abandon?”
The words tumbled out like stones she had been carrying her entire life. For so long she had wanted to scream them, but had swallowed them instead, locked them deep inside the pit of her chest where shame festered. Tonight, she could no longer hold it back.
Her voice rose again, louder, more desperate, each word cutting through the air like blades.
“Do you know what it’s like?” she cried, pounding her fists into the dirt. “Do you know what it’s like to live every single day hiding what you are? Pretending you’re not a monster, when every glance, every whisper tells you you are? Do you know what it’s like to be hated for existing?”
Her scream fractured the honmoon further, the sky trembling as cracks of pink spread wider across the horizon. She could feel the barrier unraveling with her own pain, but the thought barely brushed against her consciousness. The world could burn. The heavens could split. None of it mattered compared to the weight inside her chest.
She dragged herself upward, gasping for air between ragged sobs, her voice ragged, torn to shreds.
“Jinu was right…” she whispered, her throat raw. “Demons like me… we don’t belong. All we know is shame, distrust, misery. That’s all people see in us. That’s all we are.”
Her legs gave out, and she fell back to the ground, her hands curling into fists, nails digging into her palms until blood welled up. She didn’t stop. Pain felt like the only anchor she had left, the only thing reminding her she was still here.
“I tried,” she choked. “I tried so hard to be… normal. To smile, to laugh, to make people think I was one of them. But I never was, was I? I was never going to be.”
Her words dissolved into sobs, her voice dissolving to hoarse whispers. She tilted her head back, staring at the sky above, at the widening fractures of the honmoon. The cracks glowed pink, trembling like wounds across the heavens.
Her heart clenched, aching with the unbearable weight of solitude. Even here, crying to her mother’s grave, she felt unheard. Her grief fell into silence, swallowed by the earth, by a woman who would never answer her.
Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself to her feet. Her body shook, weak and drained, but she stood anyway, wiping at her tear-streaked face with trembling hands.
She looked at the gravestone one last time, her eyes burning with grief and defiance. “You left me. The world hates me. But there’s still one person… one person who ever made me feel like I wasn’t wrong to exist.” Her voice was thin, but steady now, carrying a fragile resolve.
She turned, her body heavy but her steps dragging forward, one after another.
“Jinu…” she whispered into the night, her voice cracking on his name. “You’re all I have left. I don’t know if you’ll even take me in anymore. I don’t know if you’ll spit me out like the rest of them. But I have to try. I have to…”
The wind swept across the graveyard, carrying her words into the dark.
And with her heart raw and her throat torn, Rumi began to walk—to the only person who had ever truly accepted her, even if he had betrayed her, even if she had betrayed herself.
…..
The crowd at Namsan Tower pulsed with restless energy. Thousands gathered, their cheers rising high above the city lights, unaware that their laughter and awe were about to be carved from their very souls. The Saja Boys took the stage, shimmering in their pristine, black hanboks, movements precise, every note a weapon. Their performance of “Your Idol” wasn’t just art—it was enchantment, laced with the sigils Jinu had etched into existence hours ago.
Their voices reverberated into the night—perfect pitch, intoxicating harmony. To the humans below, it was everything they’d ever dreamed of, the kind of performance that lived in fantasies. To anyone who could see deeper, it was horror disguised as beauty. Each high note coiled like a noose around the crowd’s essence. Each beat of the bass pounded another nail into their spiritual cages.
And as the chorus swelled, the first of the human souls lifted from the bodies, invisible threads pulled loose from their owners and swallowed into the waiting void. The air shimmered with their silent cries, but the audience only clapped louder, entranced, unseeing.
The audience saw none of it. They screamed with joy, eyes shining, phones raised to capture the spectacle, not realizing their hands already trembled without strength.
Mira’s soul ripped free with a violent snap, her body collapsing against another fan who didn’t notice she was gone. Zoey’s smile turned to a hollow gape as her essence shrieked into the pink ripples above. Bobby stumbled forward, eyes glazed, his soul writhing as it was dragged skyward into Gwi-ma’s waiting maw.
Gwi-ma fed on them with gluttonous delight. His flames swelled, colors shifting from deep violet to mocking yellow, devouring every spark the boys harvested. The grotesque feast made the night air thick, choking, but the humans only waved their lightsticks higher, mistaking suffocation for ecstasy.
And still, Jinu stood apart. His hanbok whispered against the stone platform, black fabric catching the violet glow. His yellow-slit eyes swept the crowd with an aloofness carved from iron, as though he felt nothing at all. To the demons, he looked every inch the commander. To Gwi-ma, he looked like a weapon finally fulfilling its purpose.
But beneath the calm veneer, Jinu’s heart hammered. Each soul’s cry resonated against his chest like an echo of his own betrayals. His mother. His sister. Now Mira, Zoey, Bobby—faces of innocence he had condemned. He touched the bracelet, feeling the sting of its weight. It was Rumi’s gift, her last tether to him, and wearing it now was hypocrisy of the highest order. And yet—he could not remove it. He would not.
…..
Far from the dazzling cruelty of Namsan Tower, Rumi stumbled through the graveyard’s silence. Her screams had drained her throat raw, her pleas to her mother buried beneath dirt that would never answer. Each step she took was heavy with loneliness, the kind that no scream could empty.
She could have opened the hollow. She could have torn through the air and landed at Jinu’s side in seconds. But her heart refused to let her. To appear so quickly, so desperately—it terrified her. Because when she faced him, she would need words. And what could she possibly say after blaming him for everything?
Her feet dragged through the wet earth, her hands clutching at the gravestones for balance. The honmoon’s cracking sky painted her face in pink fissures, the fractures mirrored in her eyes.
…..
The ritual ended in thunder and applause. Human bodies littered the plaza in collapsed heaps of ecstasy, their eyes rolled back, their lips still parted as if singing along to their beloved idols. Above them, souls shrieked soundlessly as they disappeared into the blaze of Gwi-ma’s maw.
The echo of it sat in Jinu’s chest like iron, unshakable.
He stood at the edge of the stage, hands still trembling beneath the wide sleeves of his hanbok. He could not bear it anymore.
He stepped off the stage. The platform’s lights dimmed behind him, still pulsing in rhythm with the Saja Boys’ encore, but he wanted none of it. His lungs burned for air untainted by the sulphur stench of feeding. He slipped through the curtain and pushed open the exit door. Cold air rushed over him, heavy with dew and faintly metallic. He closed his eyes and let the night breathe into him.
For the first time in hours, he exhaled.
The mountain air carried the faintest bite of autumn—earthy, dry, honest. He lifted his face into the wind, as though it could strip the weight from his chest, though he knew no air could ever cleanse him of what he had done.
And then—he felt it. A presence.
When he opened his eyes, he already knew. She was walking toward him, her figure cutting through the fractured glow of the honmoon overhead. The cracks in the sky made her look like she was born from them, a shard of sorrow given flesh.
Jinu stayed rooted in place, his hands curled into fists inside his sleeves, until the moment her figure emerged from the shadows.
Rumi.
She didn’t hurry. Her steps were slow, reluctant, as though each pace was a negotiation with herself. Her shoulders sagged under invisible weight, but she kept moving, until she was there—close enough that he could hear her breath.
They stared.
The flickering remnants of the ritual light painted Rumi’s face in fractured hues—half bathed in warmth, half swallowed in shadow. Her eyes glistened, rimmed red, cheeks still streaked with the trails of dried tears. The weight of solitude clung to her like a second skin.
And Jinu… his composure cracked when he met her gaze. The aloof mask he had carried onstage faltered in the presence of the one person who had seen through it all. His chest rose sharply, as though her nearness made breathing harder instead of easier.
The silence wasn’t empty; it was thick, swollen with everything they hadn’t said. The distance between them felt alive, pulsing with resentment, guilt, longing. The kind of silence that dared one of them to break first.
It was Rumi.
Her lips trembled, her voice barely a rasp. “Jinu… I—” Her words tangled in her throat. She looked down, then back up, her lips trembling. “I blamed you. For everything. Even when I knew… it wasn’t all you. I just—I didn’t know where else to put it. My pain. My shame. And you—” Her voice cracked, “—you stood there and took it. You didn’t even fight back. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”
Jinu’s lips parted, his breath unsteady. For an instant, he searched for words, but when he finally spoke, his voice came low, certain.
“You don’t need to be.”
Her chest hitched, disbelief flickering across her expression. “How can you say that? After everything I said to you, everything I threw on you—”
“Because I understand,” he interrupted gently. His eyes softened, the hardness in them melting into something infinitely more dangerous, tenderness.
“You think I haven’t blamed myself a thousand times over already? For everything? For you? For them?” His hand twitched at his side. He wanted to reach for her, but didn’t. Not yet. “There’s nothing you could say that I wouldn’t forgive.”
Rumi’s eyes shimmered, but not with joy—no, it was too tangled for that. Guilt, grief, relief, and fear warred inside her, carving cracks into her composure. She lowered her gaze, unable to meet his piercing yellow eyes any longer.
Silence stretched again, but it wasn’t suffocating now. It was strange—calming, yet confusing. As if the world had paused around them, holding its breath, while these two demons simply stood in the weight of each other’s presence.
Then, Rumi closed her eyes. Her lips parted, and when she opened her mouth, the sound that came out was not speech but song—her heavy demon voice carrying through the mountain air like a lamentation, haunting and raw with the honmoon flickering at the resonance.
The tune was familiar—one that Jinu knew—but the words were new, her own.
“I tried to hide, tore myself in two
Covered the marks, muffled the truth.
I kept my shadow locked in,
Smiled for their sake, but it burned me away…”
Her voice cracked, each syllable dragging years of self-loathing into sound. Each line was both confession and indictment, each note shattering against the air like glass. She lifted her head to him, her gaze locking with his as she pushed forward.
“But here with you, I can finally breathe.
You call me whole, when no one else believed.
I’ve been broken in shame, now I’m breaking their chains…
And I’m done if I’m losing you again.”
Jinu’s chest tightened. He didn’t move. He didn’t breathe. Each lyric clawed into him, tearing open wounds he’d buried under centuries of silence.
Rumi’s voice dropped, husky, trembling:
“Why does it feel right when you call me what I am?
Why does it feel right to see you hold my trembling hands?
All the secrets I buried in pain…
All the hatred that scared me to stay—”
Her voice faltered. She closed her eyes, pushing through the tremor in her throat.
“We got a dark side, guess we’re not the only ones.
Maybe together, we will always stay as one.
I can’t heal it if I never face it,
I can’t love if I forever fake it.”
Jinu’s hands curled into fists, fighting the urge to reach for her. He wanted to tear the words out of her throat, not to silence them but to hold them, to keep them safe where no one else could wound her with them.
Rumi stepped closer, her voice breaking into a plea, raw and desperate.
“So let me be free, free.
I can’t heal it if I never face it.
With your hand in mine… I won’t erase it.”
Her last note shook the air. The honmoon quivered above, its cracks stuttering, its glow unstable. The silence that followed was not calm but sharp, ringing with the weight of her confession.
Jinu finally let himself move. He reached out, not to embrace her—no, that would have been too easy, too simple—but to take her hand, trembling and bloodied from her earlier grief. His fingers wrapped around hers, cool and unyielding.
Rumi looked at him, eyes wet, lips trembling. She wanted to speak, but no words came. None were needed.
They stood like that—two broken demons, bound by silence and song, their pain unhealed but, for the first time, shared.
Rumi’s last note still lingered in the night air, quivering against the fractured glow of the honmoon. The silence that followed felt alive, heavy, trembling like a held breath. Jinu hadn’t realized his chest hurt until he drew in a sharp inhale, her words still burning through him.
And then—he sang.
His voice was lower, steadier, but it carried the same crack of pain she had laid bare. It wasn’t just an answer; it was a vow, a confession he had buried for too long.
“Oh, time’s been cruel, it tried to divide us,
Left you hiding scars as if they could define us.
You’re breaking free from the chains they tied,
And I’ll hold the truth you can’t hide.
You’re awakening the fire in you…
The scars you hid turn to light.”
The words struck her like a blade wrapped in tenderness. Rumi’s lips parted as if to protest, to deny his faith in her, but the sound never came. His voice pressed forward, unwavering, his eyes fixed on her as if she were the only thing anchoring him.
“Between the ghosts and all the hurt, I was chained inside my past.
But your hand pulled me from the dark—now I know our love can last.
It feels easy when I’m with you.
No one heals me the way you do.
I was lost that day… till I found you.
Now I’ll always hold to—”
He faltered, but not because he forgot the words. He faltered because her eyes, wet with unshed tears, were on him. Her breath caught as though each lyric struck her heart too close.
Jinu swallowed, his voice softer now, almost trembling with the weight of truth:
“Why does it feel right every time you let me near?
Why does it feel like I was meant to keep you here?
All your pain, your love—just let me face them.
All your scars… will you let me erase them?”
Rumi’s throat closed. Her breath shuddered out of her lungs, and she clenched her fists at her sides, trembling under the force of him seeing her so completely.
And then, together with a force that seemed to ripple through the very night, he ended:
“So we will be free, free.
We can face it, there’s no need to fake it.
With your soul in mine… I won’t escape it.”
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! Hope you enjoyed it <3
P.S.: I may have gone a... bit overboard with the lyrics but damn! I couldn't pass on the chance to write my own version of Free. It was tempting af! But one thing's for sure, I'm never doing this again lol. It was super hard to tune in with the music while retaining the original connection with the fic and all, but it came out to be awesome nonetheless. Enjoy!
Chapter Text
The silence that followed was unbearable. His last note still hummed faintly in the air, like an echo in the bones. But all that mattered was his gaze — unflinching, searing, filled with something she both feared and craved.
He stepped closer. Just one step, but it made the world tilt.
His voice was raw, stripped of every layer of armor he’d worn. “Rumi… I love you.”
Her breath hitched. The words struck her like fire — dangerous, consuming, yet achingly needed.
“You… you still do?” Her whisper cracked, as though she barely trusted herself to believe it. “After everything I said? After the blame, the anger — after I pushed you away?”
“Always,” he answered, instantly, as though it had never been in question. His hand hovered just near her face, trembling with restraint. “Even when you hated me, I couldn’t stop. Even when I hated myself, it was you I thought of.” His voice broke on the last word. “I don’t know how to not love you.”
Tears slipped hot down Rumi’s cheeks, and she shook her head, trying to find words that wouldn’t sound feeble. “I thought I lost you. I thought I ruined everything. I thought — ” Her voice crumbled into a sob. “But you’re here. You’re still here.”
Finally, she let go of her fists and reached for him, trembling hands grazing his jaw as if to confirm he was real. “Jinu… I love you too. I always did. I was just too broken, too angry, too — ”
He cut her off — not with words, but by closing the last inch between them.
The kiss wasn’t gentle at first. It was desperate, bruising, the clash of two souls who had been torn apart and stitched back together by fire and grief. Her tears salted his lips, and his trembling exhale shook against her mouth. Their bodies pressed close, every line of him telling her without words that he would never let her drift away again.
But then — slower. Softer. The urgency gave way to something deeper, something aching and reverent. His lips moved against hers as though he were memorizing her, grounding himself in the truth of her presence. She answered with the same rawness, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as if anchoring herself to him.
When they finally pulled apart, their foreheads leaned together, breaths ragged, lips still brushing.
“I don’t know what comes next,” Rumi whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I don’t know if we’ll survive Gwi-ma, or the war, or… us.”
Jinu’s hand slid behind her neck, his thumb stroking her damp cheek. “We don’t need to know,” he murmured. “All I know is… wherever there’s you, I’ll walk through it. Even if it kills me.”
Her chest heaved. She wanted to argue, to scold him for promising what he shouldn’t, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, she pressed her lips to his again, tender this time, a seal on a vow neither of them dared to speak aloud.
And the cracked honmoon above flickered faintly brighter, as though even the heavens acknowledged the union of two broken demons who had found each other in the dark.
Jinu didn’t waste another heartbeat. His fingers locked around Rumi’s hand, grip so sure and desperate it left no room for hesitation. With one powerful pull, he tore them both through the pantone hollow — light bending and warping, shadows dragging across their forms until the world twisted into the quiet stillness of Huntr/x headquarters.
The moment their feet touched the marble floor of Rumi’s penthouse, Jinu’s restraint broke. He spun her toward him, his chest heaving with the storm inside, and crushed his lips against hers. The kiss was fierce, searing, like fire catching dry wood. Rumi gasped against him, her back colliding with the wall before he pressed closer, caging her in.
Her heart thundered as his hands cupped her jaw, tilting her face so he could deepen the kiss, his lips moving with desperate precision. It was raw, unguarded — a collision of everything they had buried in silence. She clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, losing herself in the intoxicating taste of him.
With a growl low in his throat, Jinu tore his mouth away only long enough to breathe out, hoarse and ragged, “Rumi… I can’t stop.” His forehead pressed against hers, his eyes blazing, before he seized her mouth again, hungrier this time.
In one fluid motion, he lifted her from the wall and carried her across the room, never letting their lips part for long. The world blurred around her until he lowered her onto the wide expanse of her bed. The mattress caught her fall, her body arching instinctively as he followed, settling above her like he belonged there.
Their kiss deepened — teeth clashing, breaths mingling — until her lips trembled beneath his. His hands trailed down, restless, possessive, before finding the long braid that trailed across the sheets. With deliberate slowness, he began undoing it, his fingers weaving through the strands, loosening the intricate plaits until her lavender locks cascaded free.
He scattered them across the pillow, fanning like a halo around her flushed face. His lips broke from hers only to brush down her jaw, across the line of her throat, each kiss feather-light but burning. She shivered, her fingers curling into his shoulders, her breath catching every time his mouth moved lower.
“Jinu…” she whispered, her voice unsteady, torn between surrender and the need to hold onto something real.
He lifted his head, eyes dark and intense, their foreheads nearly touching. “Say my name again,” he demanded softly, his tone both plea and command.
Her lips parted, her voice trembling as she obeyed, “Jinu.”
The sound tore through him, igniting something primal. He kissed her again, slower now, tasting every corner of her lips, as though carving her into memory. His fingers tangled deeper into her hair, spreading it across the bed until it was a sea of lavender beneath them both.
The world had narrowed to the space of the bed, to the charged silence between breaths, to the profound darkness of each other’s eyes. The last whisper of fabric had slithered away, a forgotten dream at the edge of reality. Now, there was only skin against skin, a seamless, electric current of warmth and yearning. Jinu’s gaze, heavy with a reverence so deep it bordered on pain, held Rumi’s. In that look, a thousand unspoken promises were exchanged, a silent covenant of what was to come.
He began his worship not as a conquest, but as an exploration. It was a slow, sensual dance where his lips were the lead and her body was the willing, responsive partner. He started at the delicate hollow of her throat, a kiss so soft it was little more than the brush of a petal, yet it sent a visible tremor through her. His mouth traced a languid path along the elegant line of her collarbone, his tongue dipping into the shallow basin there, tasting the salt of her skin, the faint, intoxicating perfume that was uniquely her.
His journey was a map of devotion. He moved to the graceful slope of her shoulder, his teeth grazing the skin with a possessive gentleness that made her gasp. That sound, a tiny, broken sigh, was fuel to his fire. He answered with a soothing lap of his tongue over the same spot, a silent apology and a promise of more. His hands were not idle; they followed the path his mouth blazed, palms skimming the subtle curve of her waist, the dramatic flare of her hips, memorizing her topography.
He took one taut, pebbled nipple into the warm, wet cavern of his mouth, and Rumi’s back arched off the bed, a silent, beautiful offering. He suckled deeply, his tongue flicking and circling the hardened peak while his hand cupped the fullness of her breast, his thumb mirroring the rhythm on its twin. A low, throaty moan escaped her, a sound she seemed to try to catch in her throat but failed. He moved to the other breast, bestowing the same attentive, devastating pleasure, painting her skin with a sheen of heat and need.
His lips blazed a trail down the quivering plane of her stomach, each kiss a brand, each flick of his tongue a spark. He nuzzled the sensitive skin of her inner thighs, his stubble a delicious, rough contrast to the incredible softness he found there. He breathed her in, the musky, primal scent of her arousal, and a guttural sound of pure want rumbled in his chest. He bit down, ever so carefully, on the plush flesh of her thigh, and her resulting cry was a mix of shock and sheer bliss, her fingers tangling in his hair not to push him away, but to hold him closer.
He was an artist and she was his masterpiece, and he was savoring every moment of his creation.
Finally, he reached the very core of her. He did not lunge, but paused, his breath washing over her in a hot, damp wave. He carefully stared at her pussy with a gnawing hunger that was palpable, his own cock achingly hard and pressed against the sheets. In the dim light, she was glistening, a dewy, rose-hued flower blooming just for him. The sight was the most exquisite torture and the most profound beauty he had ever witnessed.
He leaned in, his eyes never leaving hers, and pressed a single, impossibly soft kiss directly on her swollen, aching clit.
It was not a kiss of passion, but of greeting. Of acknowledgement.
Rumi jolted as if struck by lightning, a sharp, ragged inhale tearing through her. A high, thin mewl followed, a sound of pure, undiluted sensation. Emboldened, Jinu brought his hand to her. He ran his middle finger through her slit, a slow, deliberate stroke from her entrance to her clit, gathering her wetness, painting her with her own desire. He circled her entrance, applying the faintest, most maddening pressure, teasing her — testing her.
Her body, betraying her mind’s desire for composure, began to move of its own volition. Her hips made tiny, desperate circles on the bed, seeking more pressure, more friction, something to alleviate the sweet, coiling tension he was building. She was shaking, her thighs trembling on either side of his head, a silent, physical plea.
He complied.
Keeping his gaze locked with hers, he slipped his middle finger deep inside her in one smooth, unwavering motion.
Her eyes fluttered shut, a long, guttural moan ripped from the depths of her soul as he filled her. She was so hot, so impossibly tight and wet around that single digit.
He held it there for a moment, buried to the knuckle, letting her adjust to the delicious intrusion. Then, he began to move. His pumping was slow at first, a deep, measured rhythm that was both a claiming and a question. The heel of his palm pressed against her clit with every inward stroke, creating a dual sensation that had her writhing beneath him, her hips now meeting his thrusts in a primitive, perfect syncopation.
The room was filled with the soft, wet sound of his movement inside her, a lewd, beautiful music that underscored her escalating moans. He was playing her body like a finest instrument, and she was singing for him, and him alone.
Jinu’s eyes, dark pools of smoldering intent, remained locked with Rumi’s as he pumped his finger with a slow, deliberate rhythm that made her nerves sing. Each withdrawal was a sweet agony, each deep, curling return a jolt of pure pleasure that had her hips lifting from the mattress to meet his hand, a silent, desperate plea for more.
With a patience that was its own form of torture, he brought his index finger to join the first. He paused at her entrance, applying a gentle, persistent pressure that made her gasp. Then, with infinite slowness, he sank the second finger into her breathtaking heat.
The stretch was exquisite, a filling, burning sensation that walked the perfect line between pleasure and pain. A sharp, guttural cry was torn from Rumi’s throat, her head pressing back into the pillows. Jinu’s response was a low, approving groan, his own body tensing with the effort of his control. He began to move his fingers in a gentle scissoring motion, a slow, stretching dance designed to prepare her, to worship every straining, sensitive inch of her inner walls. The wet, slick sounds that filled the air were a lewd symphony, conducting the ragged rhythm of their breathing.
He could feel her body clenching and fluttering around his digits, a telltale sign of her escalating pleasure. When he was certain she was teetering on the edge, her core molten and yielding, he slowly, regretfully, withdrew his fingers. They glistened in the low light, coated entirely with her essence. He never broke eye contact as he brought his hand to his mouth and languidly drew both fingers past his lips, tasting her. A deep, primal shudder racked his frame, and his eyes rolled back for a fraction of a second at her flavor — musky, sweet, and utterly intoxicating.
The act was so primal, so intimately possessive, that a fresh wave of heat flooded her core. He gave his own aching length a few, slow pumps, smearing the beads of pre-cum that had gathered at his tip. The groan that left him was one of pure, animalistic need. He shifted his body, the muscles of his abdomen and thighs coiling with tension as he positioned himself between her splayed thighs.
He leaned forward, not to enter her, but to anoint them both. With a hand that trembled slightly, he guided the swollen, velvet head of his cock. He rubbed it slowly, deliberately, through her soaked folds, coating himself in her arousal. The sensation was electric, a jolt of pure heat that made them him hiss and her gasp. He painted her swollen outer lips with his own pre-cum, mingling their essences in a slick, intimate ritual. He paused there, at the very threshold, simply feeling the incredible heat of her against the most sensitive part of him, a groan of pure anticipation rattling in his chest.
Then, the control shattered.
With a single, rattling thrust of his hips, he sheathed himself inside her to the hilt in one devastating, seamless thrust.
The world exploded into sensation. A sharp, searing cry was ripped from Rumi’s lungs — a sound of pure, unadulterated pleasure-pain at the sudden, complete intrusion. Her body arched violently off the bed, her eyes flying open wide. Her fingers, which had been gripping the sheets, flew to his chest, her nails digging into the hard planes of his muscles. They scraped down his skin, not in rejection, but in a primal need to anchor herself against the overwhelming force of his possession, leaving faint, red trails in their wake — a raw, visceral art etched onto his skin with her passion.
He had ceased moving the moment he was fully buried, his own body trembling with the effort of holding still, giving her a moment to adjust to the feel of him, to the incredible, stretching fullness. She looked up at him, her eyes glaring, her lips forming a delicious, breathless pout. "You couldn't manage it without hurting me?" The words were a whisper, laced more with awe than true accusation.
A sheepish, utterly unrepentant grin spread across his face. He lowered his head, nuzzling the sweat-dampened column of her neck, his voice a rough whisper against her skin. "Sorry," he murmured, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "It's been a while." To emphasize his point, he gave a single, sharp, experimental thrust that made her gasp and clutch him tighter.
Her eyes, still hazy with the aftershock, narrowed playfully. She shifted her hips, a tiny, experimental movement that made them both suck in a sharp breath. "How long?"
He clicked his tongue, a low, wicked sound. He lifted his head, his gaze burning into hers with a new, terrifying intensity. One broad palm came to rest on her lower stomach, a possessive, heated weight. Then, with a guttural growl, he gave a single, sharp, testing thrust deep into her core that stole the breath from both their lungs.
"Never, actually."
The words, his confession, echoed in the dizzy, pleasure-soaked haze of her mind. The meaning crashed into her with more force than his physical thrusts.
What did he mean by never? Has he never... had sex?
The thought was staggering, a paradox that unraveled her understanding of the experienced, commanding man moving over her. It was a fleeting, coherent thought before it was utterly obliterated by sensation.
She tried to form the question, to grasp the mystery even as he was dismantling her piece by piece. "What do you mean never... fuck—!"
Her inquiry was cut short, transformed into a sharp, breathless cry as he chose that exact moment to shift his angle and drive into her with a new, devastating depth.
A low, dark chuckle rumbled in his chest, a sound of pure, male satisfaction. He watched her, mesmerized as her head fell back, her lips parted in a silent cry, her body arching to take more of him, all of him, while the question died on her lips.
He lowered his mouth to her ear, his breath a hot, damp wave against her sensitive skin. "Shh..." he soothed, the sound a velvet command that was somehow more intimate than a kiss. In one fluid, devastating motion, he buried himself to the hilt inside her, a deep, perfect thrust that stretched her, filled her, and touched the very core of her being.
And then he moved again, a long, slow withdrawal that made her whimper at the loss, followed by a thrust that was not brutal, but impossibly complete. It was a stroke that seemed to touch her very soul, filling her so perfectly that all questions, all thoughts, were finally, utterly silenced.
There was only this; the slick, hot friction, the crushing weight of him, the scent of their joining, and the relentless, sensual rhythm that promised answers would come not in words, but in the shared, breathless language of ecstasy.
The ruthless pounding followed like a storm, and Rumi was the heart of it. Her world had narrowed to the primal rhythm of their joining, to the slap of skin on skin, the guttural sounds tearing from Jinu's throat, and the high, breathless cries that were her own.
Her innocence wasn't a lack of experience, but a radiant openness; she gave herself over to the sensation with a trust that was both touching and, to a mind like Jinu's, utterly tantalizing. She was modern in her lack of pretense, moaning his name without shame, her body arching and twisting beneath his in a candid display of pleasure.
But Jinu… Jinu was a study in dark patience even amidst the frenzy.
His pace was relentless, a punishing rhythm that stole the air from her lungs, yet his eyes never lost their focused, almost analytical gleam. He watched her. He devoured every flicker of emotion on her face — the wide-eyed shock of a particularly deep thrust, the way her lips parted in a silent 'O' of pleasure, the faint crease of overwhelmed sensation on her brow. He was mapping her responses, cataloging them. This wasn't just fucking; it was a conquest, and he was learning the terrain of his newest territory.
He shifted his weight, ever so slightly, altering the angle, and was rewarded instantly. Rumi's eyes flew open, a sharp, broken scream ripped from her throat as he struck a place inside her that sent white-hot lightning through her veins. "There?" he growled, his voice a rough, dark caress against her ear. "You like that?"
She could only nod frantically, her fingers digging into the sweat-slicked muscles of his back, her nails leaving half-moon impressions. She was drowning in the sheer physicality of it, completely oblivious to the possessive, calculating satisfaction that flashed in his gaze. Her pleasure was his achievement. Her loss of control was his gain.
"Tell me," he commanded, his thrusts becoming deeper, more deliberate, each one aimed with precision at that newfound, sensitive spot. His voice was a low, hypnotic thread woven through the fabric of her ecstasy. "Tell me how it feels, Rumi."
"It's... it's too much," she gasped, her head thrashing on the pillow. "Jinu, I can't — "
"You can," he interrupted, his tone leaving no room for argument. It was gentle, yet utterly inflexible. He slowed his hips, not ceasing his movement but drawing it out into long, torturous strokes that made her whimper. "You will take everything I give you. Now, tell me."
The shift from brutal pounding to this exquisite, slow torture shattered her. Her modernity, her confidence, melted under the heat of his dark command. A tear of overwhelming sensation escaped the corner of her eye. "It feels... like you're everywhere," she confessed, her voice a breathy, broken thing. "Like I'm full of you. Only you."
A slow, predatory smile touched his lips, a expression she was too far gone to see. He caught her tear with his thumb, his touch oddly tender against the violence of their coupling. "Good girl," he murmured, the praise laced with a ownership that went straight to her core, coiling the tension there even tighter.
He began to move again, rebuilding the rhythm with a controlled power that was more intimidating than his initial abandon. This was the dark patience — the ability to bring them both to the brink, to feel her inner muscles fluttering wildly around him, signaling her impending climax, and to exert iron-clad control to hold them both there, teetering on the edge.
He leaned down, capturing her mouth in a searing kiss that stole what little breath she had left. His tongue mimicked the thrust of his hips, claiming her, dominating her. He could feel her climax building like a wave, and he was the one controlling the tide, letting it swell but not break.
"Look at me," he breathed against her lips, pulling back just enough to lock his dark, intense eyes with her hazy, unfocused ones. "I want to see you. I want to watch you fall apart just for me."
And she did. With her eyes wide open and locked on his, her innocence completely laid bare before his shadowy possessiveness, Rumi shattered. Her orgasm crashed over her with a force that was almost terrifying, a silent scream on her lips as her body convulsed around his, milking him with violent, rhythmic pulses.
Only then, watching her completely unravel, did Jinu allow his own control to break. With a final, deep, grinding thrust that buried him to the hilt, he followed her over, his own release a hot, claiming rush as he groaned her name into the sweat-dampened skin of her neck, a sound of pure, dark triumph. He held himself there, pulsing within her, his body a heavy, possessive weight atop hers, as the last tremors of their joined climax slowly, slowly subsided.
The silence that followed in the room was a living thing, thick and heavy with the scent of sex and spent passion. Jinu rolled onto his side, the movement fluid and unnervingly silent for a man who had just exerted himself so completely. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Rumi, in her profound exhaustion, murmured something incoherent and shifted toward his warmth, seeking him even in the depths of slumber.
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. So trusting. Even now.
With a tenderness that was a stark, chilling contrast to the thoughts swirling in his mind, he lifted a hand and began to run his fingers through her hair. The strands were silken, damp with sweat at her temples.
He traced the shell of her ear, the line of her jaw, his touch feather-light, a master’s hand gentling a prized but ultimately disposable creature. Her breathing deepened, evening out into the slow, rhythmic pattern of true sleep. She was beautiful in her vulnerability, a masterpiece of human fragility.
And so perfectly, usefully oblivious, he thought, the words a silken whisper in the caverns of his mind.
He remained utterly still, watching her. The faint pantone glow of the city — a sickly, artificial pink-purple from the new demonic infrastructure — filtered through the blinds, painting stripes across the bed and her naked, sated body. It was a light that no longer felt human. It was the world’s new hue.
And in that light, his eyes changed.
The warm brown that had gazed upon her with feigned reverence melted away, replaced by a luminous, hellish gold. Vertical slits narrowed in the darkness, absorbing the low light and reflecting it back with a faint, predatory glow. The demonic takeover wasn’t a future event; it was a present, insidious reality. And he was no mere foot soldier. He was a player in the highest echelons of this new, emerging hell.
His slitted gaze traveled over Rumi’s form, from the delicate curve of her shoulder to the gentle rise and fall of her breasts, down to the junction of her thighs, still glistening with the evidence of their union. A faint, cold smirk twisted his lips, an expression that held no warmth, only a calculating satisfaction.
The plan is already in motion. It began the moment she looked at him and saw a man, not a monster. A protector, not a predator.
And his ambitions? They were a river of ice beneath a placid surface.
Gwi-ma. Arrogant, brutish fool. He thinks his strength alone will secure him the King’s throne. He believes this human world is already his petting zoo.
Jinu’s fingers stilled in Rumi’s hair, his claws — usually so carefully retracted — threatening to extend, to scrape against her scalp.
But he has a weakness. A sentimental, disgusting fondness for his little human pet. After all… this one is his favorite.
He looked at Rumi, and for a fleeting second, something complicated and unwelcome flickered in the depths of his demonic eyes — a shred of something that wasn't entirely malice.
She is… refreshing. Her fire, her trust. It’s a vintage I haven’t tasted in centuries.
The feeling was instantly crushed, analyzed, and filed away as a data point of her usefulness. And in his mind, he knew Gwi-ma will never see the dagger coming if it’s wielded by the hand he most wants to caress.
I will be the one to hand it to her. I will be the whisper in her ear, the shoulder she cries on when the "big, bad" Gwi-ma frightens her. I will be her savior, and she will be my weapon.
The throne of the Demon King materialized in his mind’s eye, not as a seat of power, but as the only logical conclusion to his existence. A throne of obsidian and bone, and at its feet, the broken body of his rival, delivered by the very innocence Gwi-ma sought to corrupt.
And her? His eyes narrowed, the yellow light within them intensifying as they traced the pulse beating softly at the base of Rumi’s throat. What to do with the weapon once the war is won?
A long, silent moment passed. The city’s hum was a demon’s lullaby.
He leaned down, his lips hovering just above her skin, feeling the radiant heat of her life force. It was intoxicating.
I’ll think of something later, he decided, the finality of the thought absolute. He continued to stroke her hair, a demon watching over his human prize, the gentle caress a lie that masked a heart plotting absolute betrayal, all while the hellish glow of the new world shone in his unwavering, monstrous eyes.
After the throne is mine. After you have served your purpose. Perhaps a place in my reign? A pet? Or perhaps…
He didn’t finish the thought. There was no need. The future was a chessboard, and Rumi was his most valuable pawn. For now, that was all that mattered.
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! I hope you liked it <3
P.S.: Honestly, a voice kept ringing in my head, "What if Jinu was truly evil" What if he was a demon in every sense? How would the story progress then?" And thus, here it is hehehe!
And wdym I'm working on making my own server now, which is for ALL the readers and writers to bond together and share their works and thoughts? (Shocking noises in the bg)
Yes, yes! All of this is true ~ Hopefully I'll be able to finish working on it by the end of this week and I'll positively share the link with you guys <3
Chapter 10: The Bait I Fell For
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
Abby sprawled across the faded leather couch in the boys’ shared apartment, limbs hanging over the edges like he owned not just the couch but the entire room, if not the entire human world. His phone was tilted inches from his face, screen glaring against his dark irises as his thumb scrolled with practiced apathy.
Post after post flashed by—fan edits of Mira, fanarts that distorted her into fantasy versions of herself, glossy posters made by strangers who somehow seemed to worship her more ferociously than her own bandmates ever could. He lingered on each, not out of duty, not even out of amusement, but out of something that clawed restlessly inside him every time her face appeared.
His finger hovered over the like button. He pressed it. Again. And again. Every Mira post that landed on his feed, he marked silently with his anonymous seal of approval. The anonymity was Jinu’s idea, of course. Jinu always had ideas.
“Stay relevant,” Jinu had said, pacing like an old hen in their practice room. “Engage with the community. Don’t just exist, Abby—connect.”
Abby snorted out loud at the memory, a short, sharp sound that startled even himself. He shoved his phone aside on his chest and muttered at the ceiling, “Connect? I’m not here to babysit a feed.” His voice was rough, tired of being pulled into games he had no interest in.
To Abby, the world had never been about likes, followers, or algorithms. They were demons. They harvested souls through their music and dance—the applause, the obsession, the devotion from their audience—it was power enough. It was real. Why twist themselves into the same human contortions of validation?
He picked up his phone again, scrolling without much thought until Mira’s face reappeared. She was smiling in a fan edit—too bright, too alive—and his jaw tensed. Without realizing, he whispered under his breath, “That’s the only reason I even bother with this.” He double-tapped, liking the reel.
It wasn’t the platform that held him, it wasn’t Jinu’s so-called relevance strategies—it was Mira. Mira laughing, Mira dancing, Mira captured through ten thousand strangers’ lenses. She was the only thread tying him to this ridiculous charade of pretending to be human.
Jinu’s voice echoed in his mind again—firm, calculated, always too careful, “Keep your main accounts clean. Never slip. One wrong tap, Abby, and it’ll cost us all.”
Abby grimaced and dragged a hand over his face. “What’s the point of a main account if we’re not even using it?” His irritation was audible now, rolling through the room though no one else was there to hear him. “You tie our hands, mother Jinu, then tell us to flap like birds. What nonsense.”
Rules. Always rules. Jinu clung to them like lifelines, but to Abby they were shackles, dull weights dragging him into boredom. The human world was already colorless enough—smoggy cities, crowded trains, bland food that tasted like ash compared to the raw energy of a harvested soul. And yet here they were, playing the part of pretty idols, bowing, smiling, and now scrolling endlessly like fools.
His phone buzzed again—a notification, more content Mira-related. He exhaled slowly, irritation giving way to something quieter, something he would never admit out loud. His thumb tapped instantly.
“Pathetic,” he whispered to himself, though he didn’t stop.
The apartment felt stifling. Even stretched wide across the couch, Abby felt the walls pressing in, the weight of Jinu’s rules pressing harder. The need to rebel surged hot in his chest. Without another thought, he shoved the phone in his pocket, stood, and grabbed the mask Jinu had so painstakingly insisted he wear.
The fabric itched against his skin the moment he slipped it on, and he could almost hear Jinu lecturing about discretion, anonymity, safety. Abby scoffed, tugging the mask down just enough to mutter, “If one scandal can burn this whole place down, maybe it deserves to burn.”
The portal opened with a hiss, the familiar darkness swallowing him before spitting him out into a damp alleyway. He adjusted the oversized T-shirt Jinu had shoved at him earlier—baggy, shapeless, suffocating—and groaned audibly. Sweat clung to his back already, the air refusing to move through the fabric.
“Fantastic,” Abby muttered, peeling the collar from his neck. “No aeration. No shape. Just one giant sweat sack.” His voice was low, bitter, but there was a spark of amusement under it. If Jinu could hear him now, the lecture would last hours.
He stepped out of the alley, the sunlight casting him in a bright yellow glow. Humans bustled past, none giving him more than a glance. Abby’s lips curved faintly, not in a smile but in something sharper—an internal sneer. All of them, so obsessed with their tiny lives, their screens, their rules. He had no interest in playing their games. He only had interest in her.
And so he walked, aimless, his mind circling back to the same face it always did. Mira, Mira, Mira.
The day stretched wide and tasteless, city lights pulsing like tired veins against the horizon. Abby had no destination. He walked because standing still felt like suffocating under Jinu’s baggy-shirt decree. His hands shoved into his pockets, his mask tugged low over his mouth, he moved without purpose, watching the humans swirl and chatter, their laughter light, meaningless.
It was in that aimless drift that he caught it—her voice.
A sound he would have recognized even if centuries passed without hearing it. Mira’s voice was sharp in its calmness, cool even when dressed in casual conversation. It slid through the air like flint against steel.
“…she won’t come because she thinks bathhouses are just steaming pots of bacteria,” Mira was saying, her tone flat, dismissive. “You know Rumi.”
Beside her, Zoey laughed—high, bright, like a sun breaking through fog. She clutched Mira’s arm as though the entire story needed her whole body to react. “Oh my god, Mira, don’t say it like that! You make it sound like she’s some germaphobe queen.”
“Am I wrong?” Mira quirked a brow, tilting her head as if daring Zoey to argue. “You heard her last time. She gave us a ten-minute monologue about ‘moist heat as an incubator for fungi.’ That’s not a germaphobe queen, that’s just… Rumi.”
Zoey giggled again, clapping her hands together as they stepped onto the main street. Both were dressed simply, hair damp and clean from the bathhouse steam, cheeks glowing. They looked untouched by the grime of the city, like they had walked out of another world.
Abby stopped in his tracks, shadows clinging to him as though the corner he leaned into had been waiting for him all along. His eyes locked on Mira first—her damp hair falling naturally, sticking a little to her temple, her hands shoved lazily into her hoodie pocket. She looked unimpressed even in the middle of Zoey’s radiant enthusiasm.
His jaw tightened, expression hard. He didn’t move. Just watched.
Zoey bounced a little as they walked, practically humming with energy. “Okay, but I swear next week we’ll drag her. If I have to bribe her with dumplings afterward, I will. She needs to chill out sometimes. She’s wound up like a… like a—”
“A malfunctioning clock?” Mira offered dryly.
Zoey gasped dramatically, shoving her shoulder. “That’s mean! You’re mean!”
“And you’re still going to invite her anyway,” Mira deadpanned.
Abby’s lips tugged faintly. Not a smile—something sharper, private, shaded with amusement. Her sarcasm was a blade she wielded carelessly, and he loved watching her slice through Zoey’s cheerfulness, only for Zoey to stitch it back together with more laughter. It was a rhythm between them, so familiar, so unguarded, that Abby almost hated how easily they walked the world while he stood apart.
Still hidden, he shifted, leaning one shoulder against the wall, eyes following every flick of Mira’s hand, every curve of her mouth as she spoke.
“Okay, listen,” Zoey said, lowering her voice like the street itself was a stage. “You know what I think? I think Rumi just doesn’t want to be around us when we’re, like, all naked and bonding.”
Mira’s expression didn’t budge, but her voice carried the faintest curl of humor. “Yeah, because obviously we’re out here trying to bond over soap and steam.”
Zoey burst into giggles again, drawing a look from a passing couple. Mira just rolled her eyes, unbothered.
Abby’s amusement deepened. The urge to step out from the shadows pulsed inside him—accidentally bump into them, drop some careless line like, ‘Oh, what a coincidence,’ and watch Mira’s entire face twist in irritation. He could picture it so clearly—her sharp glare, her clipped words, Zoey nervously smoothing things over while secretly curious. The discomfort would be delicious, and Mira’s anger sweeter than any applause he had ever fed on.
But another part of him, darker, steadier, wanted the opposite—to keep watching, silent, unseen. To follow them from a distance all the way to their penthouse, to linger on the edges of their safety until Mira felt the chill of being observed, until she knew without proof that something trailed her.
He weighed the choices in silence.
Zoey stretched her arms above her head, still glowing from the bathhouse warmth. “Ugh, I feel alive again. We have to make this a weekly ritual. I don’t care if Rumi sulks, I’ll carry her in if I have to.”
“You’d better train first,” Mira murmured, voice dry as ever. “She’d kill you before you even got her through the front door.”
Zoey squealed with laughter, leaning harder against Mira as if she were the only anchor in her playful storm. Mira tolerated it with the faintest sigh, eyes rolling but lips twitching almost imperceptibly.
Abby’s gaze sharpened. The way Mira’s expression barely moved, the way her humor curled under her deadpan delivery, the way Zoey kept trying to crack her open—it all kept him locked there, still, like prey waiting for a predator that was in no rush to pounce.
He tilted his head, murmuring under his breath, “Should I spoil your afternoon, Mira?” His voice was low, lost under the hum of passing cars. “Or should I keep you wondering, just out of sight?”
The thought alone—her discomfort either way—was enough to curl something wicked in his chest.
And so, step by step, with the patience only a demon could afford, Abby pushed off the wall and followed, silent, shadow to their laughter, predator to their light.
The decision crystallized in him like instinct. Abby’s lips curved faintly as he stepped out from the shadows, his long strides too casual for someone who had been stalking. The air cooled the heat in his veins, but the sight of Mira—her damp hair brushing her shoulders, her irritation already simmering beneath her relaxed façade—fueled the grin tugging at his mouth.
He didn’t announce himself. He never did. Instead, with infuriating ease, he slid up behind her and draped an arm across her neck, heavy, possessive, casual as if they were old friends reunited on a morning walk.
“Miss me, Mira?” His tone was velvet dipped in venom, low enough to sting, loud enough to rankle.
Mira jolted, fury flashing across her face like a switch flipped. She immediately shoved his arm off, her movements sharp, unhesitating. “Are you kidding me?” Her voice cut the night air, raw with irritation. “What the hell are you doing here, Abby?”
He smirked, brushing imaginary dust off his shoulder as if her anger barely grazed him. “Relax. Don’t flatter yourself. I was just taking a stroll. Imagine my luck—running into you.”
“Luck?” Mira scoffed, eyes narrowing into blades. “More like a curse. You’re a walking headache.”
Zoey’s gaze darted nervously around the street, her hand coming up as though to shield them from invisible eyes. “Guys—guys, please, not here. Someone might hear you.” Her voice was bright, nervous, bubbling with forced cheer.
Abby leaned down suddenly, close enough that Mira stiffened at the brush of his breath against her ear. His words were slow, deliberate. “I was wondering… how does it feel, Mira? Knowing that Saja Boys are already polishing their trophy cabinet for the Idol Awards, while Huntr/x will just be—what—clapping politely in the audience?”
Mira’s entire expression darkened in a snap. Her jaw locked, her eyes narrowing to slits of fury. “Keep dreaming. If you think your soulless prancing counts as talent, then sure—maybe in your little demon head.”
Abby chuckled, leaning back just enough to meet her glare head-on, the smugness painted across his face like it belonged there. “Soulless prancing? That ‘soulless prancing’ gets us standing ovations. You should try it sometime instead of… whatever it is you do with your group. Brooding in sequins?”
Zoey’s laughter bubbled nervously, thin and desperate. “Okay, okay! Both of you are amazing, alright? We don’t have to do this—like, right here on the street.” She tugged Mira’s sleeve lightly, her smile too wide, too fragile. “Let’s just—keep walking, yeah?”
But Mira’s eyes were blazing, her hands balled tight at her sides. “You think this is funny, don’t you?” she hissed at Abby.
“Oh, I know it’s funny,” Abby drawled, tilting his head, watching her boil. “Watching you unravel is practically entertainment.”
Mira’s nostrils flared, and without another word, she snatched Zoey’s hand, gripping it tight. “We’re leaving.” Her voice was final, clipped, like slamming a door.
She tugged hard, dragging Zoey down the sidewalk with long, furious strides. But before they could escape, Abby’s hand shot out. His fingers clamped around Zoey’s free wrist, halting her mid-step.
Zoey gasped, stumbling, and the momentum threw her forward. Mira’s grip slipped as Zoey crashed into Abby’s chest, face pressed against the fabric of his baggy shirt.
“Zoey!” Mira barked, whirling, but Abby was faster. His free hand slid down Zoey’s side with deliberate slowness, settling just above her waist. His touch was light, taunting, his fingertips tapping a rhythm against her skin as if playing her like an instrument.
Zoey froze, color flooding her cheeks, her words stammering out in a rush. “A-Abby—c’mon, this isn’t—don’t—”
Abby bent low, lips brushing dangerously close to Zoey’s ear, his voice a whisper that curled like smoke. “Tell me, Zoey… is your friend always this constipated?” The words dripped with mockery, his breath warm against her skin.
Zoey’s entire body stiffened, her mouth opening and closing like she couldn’t decide if she should laugh nervously or scream. “Wh-what? No! She’s not—she’s just—”
Mira’s hand fell loose at her side for one stunned second before snapping back with rage. Her entire body vibrated with fury, every word spat like acid. “Get your hands off her, Abby!”
Abby tilted his head, smug grin widening as he held Zoey just a little tighter, his eyes never leaving Mira’s burning glare. “Why so tense, Mira? Afraid I’ll steal your little sunshine away?”
Zoey squeaked, wriggling uselessly against his grip, her voice cracking with desperation. “Guys, please, stop! Someone’s going to see!”
The street buzzed with faint noise in the background—cars, footsteps, the city moving along uncaring. But in that little circle, the tension thrummed like a live wire, Mira’s fury, Zoey’s panic, and Abby’s merciless amusement tangling into a dangerous knot.
Mira’s hand snapped forward like a whip, but Abby was quicker, tightening his grip on Zoey’s wrist as she wriggled against him. His other hand slid lower, trailing deliberately across her side, fingers tracing the curve of her waist, skating over the fabric as though memorizing every line.
Zoey shuddered involuntarily, breath catching in her throat. “A-Abby—s-stop…” she stammered, her words breaking apart as though her own voice betrayed her. She turned her head slightly, cheeks flaming, trying to wriggle free without making a scene.
Abby’s smirk deepened, his eyes flicking lazily from Zoey’s flustered expression to Mira’s storming glare. He dragged his hand slowly, deliberately up Zoey’s arm to her shoulder, down again to her waist, then along her spine. His touch was light, taunting, like a puppeteer testing strings.
“Look at that,” he drawled, his voice low, silk smeared with malice. “Your friend’s trembling. What do you suppose that means, Mira?”
“It means get your filthy hands off her!” Mira exploded, lunging forward. Her fingers clamped around Zoey’s other arm, yanking with enough force to nearly tear Zoey free.
But Abby held on, tugging Zoey back against him with a jerk, the collision knocking a soft gasp out of her. His laughter was quiet, vibrating against her back as he leaned close, lips brushing the air by her ear. “Careful, Mira. You’ll rip her in half. Is that how Huntr/x treats their precious members?”
Zoey’s eyes darted everywhere but the two of them, her pulse thudding visibly at her throat. “P-please—stop fighting—people will see—” Her voice cracked, desperate but fragile, her free hand half-lifted as if to push Abby away, yet frozen in indecision.
Mira’s fury only sharpened. She dropped Zoey’s hand long enough to shove at Abby’s chest with all her weight. “You smug, revolting—”
Abby staggered back half a step, though his grip on Zoey lingered for a moment longer than necessary, his fingertips trailing her waist as if reluctant to let her go. He released her at last, laughing under his breath, the sound dark and edgy.
“Sheesh, Mira.” His grin was infuriating, too calm in the face of her rage. “Anyone watching would think you’re jealous.”
Mira’s breath hitched like she’d been struck, her fists tightening at her sides. “Jealous? Of you? Don’t make me laugh. The only thing you’re good at is making everyone around you miserable.”
Abby tilted his head, his gaze sliding back to Zoey, whose cheeks were still crimson, her hands pressed to her chest as if to steady her racing heart. “Funny,” he murmured, smugness dripping from every syllable, “she didn’t seem miserable.”
Zoey’s head jerked up, eyes wide, stuttering in panic. “Th-that’s not—I didn’t—I—”
Abby’s grin widened, savoring her flustered denial, savoring Mira’s barely contained explosion. He leaned closer again, hands slipping casually back into his pockets as if nothing had happened. “So tense, Mira. You should really do something about that. Before it eats you alive.”
Mira’s shove had already drawn attention—two passersby slowed, eyes darting toward the trio as the echo of Mira’s raised voice cut through the street. Abby caught the shift immediately. The weight of onlookers made the game sweeter. He thrived on an audience.
And so, instead of stepping back, he did the opposite.
His hand found Zoey again, sliding across her shoulder, down her arm, settling with a languid slowness at her waist. His thumb pressed lightly, dragging over the fabric as if testing how thin the barrier was between him and her skin. He angled her subtly toward him, pulling her closer into his orbit.
Zoey froze, her breath shuddering out of her chest. “A-Abby—stop, please,” she whispered, her voice trembling. She could feel the eyes of strangers on them now, her own nerves sparking like live wires.
Abby lowered his head until his lips hovered near her temple, his tone deliberately louder, meant for Mira’s ears. “You know,” he purred, fingers flexing lightly at Zoey’s side, “she’s softer than she looks.”
Mira surged forward like a storm breaking, her teeth bared. “Don’t you dare touch her like that!” she spat, her hand darting to grab Zoey’s other arm, tugging hard to pull her away.
The struggle between them pulled Zoey back and forth like a rope in a cruel game, her face burning under the stares gathering around them. A couple on the sidewalk whispered hurriedly, a man pulling out his phone to record. Zoey’s heart plummeted—panic thick in her throat.
“P-please—both of you—stop, people are watching!” Her voice cracked, too high, too desperate, her wide eyes flicking between Mira’s fury and Abby’s unrelenting smirk.
Abby didn’t let go. Instead, he slid his palm upward, tracing Zoey’s side until his hand hovered just under the curve of her ribs. His fingers lingered there, pressing gently, the heat of her body searing through the thin fabric.
He meant it to sting Mira further, to mock her loss of control. But as his hand moved, he felt it—a flicker of something uninvited. Her shiver wasn’t just fear, her breath hitched too sharply, too real. The warmth under his palm was not just a tool for taunting. For one dangerous second, he noticed her—the quick flutter of her pulse, the softness beneath his fingers—and his grin faltered, shifting from practiced cruelty into something he didn’t recognize.
Mira yanked harder, fury blazing. “Let her go!” Her voice cracked through the night, loud enough to silence some of the whispers around them.
Abby held Zoey tighter, almost instinctively. His smirk returned, though there was a crack in it now, an edge of something unsettled. “Why, Mira? Afraid she might not want to be rescued?”
Zoey’s eyes widened, her lips parting, words caught in her throat. She couldn’t answer. Her body betrayed her with another shiver, her fingers clutching uselessly at his shirt for balance.
The bystanders murmured louder now, phones raised, the glow of recording screens painting their faces. Mira’s panic spiked with her rage—if this spread, if anyone recognized them, their covers would be shattered for good.
“Let. Her. Go.” Mira’s voice was razor-sharp, vibrating with a fury that could shred skin.
For the first time that evening, Abby hesitated. His hand still pressed against Zoey’s ribs, her heat soaking into him. And something in his chest twisted—not amusement, not cruelty, but something unfamiliar and deeply unwanted.
He leaned close, his mouth brushing the shell of Zoey’s ear, his whisper lower, harsher, but no longer purely for Mira. “Careful, sunshine. Keep looking at me like that, and I might forget this is just a game.”
The noise of the street pressed in: whispers, the glow of recording phones, the weight of too many eyes. Mira’s glare was molten, Zoey’s shiver too real against him. Abby’s hand lingered at her ribs a moment longer—too long—before he forced himself to release her.
Zoey stumbled backward into Mira’s hold, clutching her arm, breath coming fast and uneven. Mira caught her firmly, eyes never leaving Abby’s face. Her fury was a living thing, hot enough to blister.
“You’re disgusting,” Mira spat, her voice low and venomous.
Abby only smiled faintly, but it didn’t reach his eyes this time. He let his hands slide back into his pockets, deliberately casual as though nothing at all had just happened. “You’ll thank me one day, Mira,” he murmured, the words empty of conviction.
Mira curled an arm protectively around Zoey, pulling her close. “Come on, Zoey.” Her tone was sharp but quieter now, for Zoey’s sake. She dragged her away with brisk, furious strides, muttering under her breath about scandals, consequences, and Abby being the worst mistake the industry had ever made.
Zoey clung to her, still flushed, still shaky, casting one last uncertain glance back at him before they disappeared into the crowd.
And this time, Abby didn’t follow.
Notes:
Thank you for reading so far! Hope you enjoyed it <3
Chapter 11: Author
Chapter Text
Hi everyone,
This is something I honestly didn’t see coming, but I need to let you know that I’ll be taking a short break because of some serious family matters.
I’d like to explain more, but the situation is one of those “typical yet difficult” ones, so I’ll just say that I’ll probably be away for about 1–2 weeks. During that time, updates will be slower than usual. I’ll still try my best to keep things going when I can, but only if life allows.
One thing I want to make clear, though: I’m not abandoning my stories, and I’m certainly not giving up on writing. I just need to move at my own pace for a little while, even if it’s slower than I’d like.
Thank you so much for all the love and support you’ve shown me—through comments, kudos, or even just silently following along. It truly means more than I can put into words, and it’s what keeps me going.
I’m sorry that this update comes to you as an author’s note instead of a new chapter, but I didn’t want to stay silent and leave you wondering.
Thank you again for your patience and kindness—it means the world.
With warm regards,
Marianne
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